by Eugène Sue
CHAPTER III. THE ATTACK.
On M. Hardy's learning from the confidential go-between of the lovers,that his mistress had been taken away by her mother, he turned fromRodin and dashed away in a post carriage. At the same moment, as loudas the rattle of the wheels, there arose the shouts of a band of workmenand rioters, hired by the Jesuit's emissaries, coming to attack Hardy'soperatives. An old grudge long existing between them and a rivalmanufacturer's--Baron Tripeaud--laborers, fanned the flames. When M.Hardy had left the factory, Rodin, who was not prepared for thissudden departure, returned slowly to his hackney-coach; but he stoppedsuddenly, and started with pleasure and surprise, when he saw, at somedistance, Marshall Simon and his father advancing towards one of thewings of the Common Dwelling-house; for an accidental circumstance hadso far delayed the interview of the father and son.
"Very well!" said Rodin. "Better and better! Now, only let my man havefound out and persuaded little Rose-Pompon!"
And Rodin hastened towards his hackney-coach. At this moment, the wind,which continued to rise, brought to the ear of the Jesuit the war songof the approaching Wolves.
The workman was in the garden. The marshal said to him, in a voice ofsuch deep emotion that the old man started; "Father, I am very unhappy."
A painful expression, until then concealed, suddenly darkened thecountenance of the marshal.
"You unhappy?" cried father Simon, anxiously, as he pressed nearer tothe marshal.
"For some days, my daughters have appeared constrained in manner, andlost in thought. During the first moments of our re-union, they weremad with joy and happiness. Suddenly, all has changed; they are becomingmore and more sad. Yesterday, I detected tears in their eyes; thendeeply moved, I clasped them in my arms, and implored them to tell methe cause of their sorrow. Without answering, they threw themselves onmy neck, and covered my face with their tears."
"It is strange. To what do you attribute this alteration?"
"Sometimes, I think I have not sufficiently concealed from them thegrief occasioned me by the loss of their mother, and they areperhaps miserable that they do not suffice for my happiness. And yet(inexplicable as it is) they seem not only to understand, but to sharemy sorrow. Yesterday, Blanche said to me: 'How much happier still shouldwe be, if our mother were with us!--'"
"Sharing your sorrow, they cannot reproach you with it. There must besome other cause for their grief."
"Yes," said the marshal, looking fixedly at his father; "yes--but topenetrate this secret--it would be necessary not to leave them."
"What do you mean?"
"First learn, father, what are the duties which would keep me here; thenyou shall know those which may take me away from you, from my daughters,and from my other child."
"What other child?"
"The son of my old friend, the Indian Prince."
"Djalma? Is there anything the matter with him?"
"Father, he frightens me. I told you, father, of his mad and unhappypassion for Mdlle. de Cardoville."
"Does that frighten you, my son?" said the old man, looking at themarshal with surprise. "Djalma is only eighteen, and, at that age, onelove drives away another."
"You have no idea of the ravages which the passion has already made inthe ardent, indomitable boy; sometimes, fits of savage ferocity followthe most painful dejection. Yesterday, I came suddenly upon him; hiseyes were bloodshot, his features contracted with rage; yielding to animpulse of mad furry, he was piercing with his poinard a cushion of redcloth, whilst he exclaimed, panting for breath, 'Ha blood!--I will haveblood!' 'Unhappy boy!' I said to him, 'what means this insane passion?''I'm killing the man!' replied he, in a hollow and savage voice: it isthus he designates his supposed rival."
"There is indeed something terrible," said the old man, "in such apassion, in such a heart."
"At other times," resumed the marshal, "it is against Mdlle. deCardoville that his rage bursts forth; and at others, against himself.I have been obliged to remove his weapons, for a man who came with himfrom Java, and who appears much attached to him, has informed me that hesuspected him of entertaining some thoughts of suicide."
"Unfortunate boy!"
"Well, father," said Marshal Simon, with profound bitterness; "it isat the moment when my daughters and my adopted son require all mysolicitude, that I am perhaps on the eve of quitting them."
"Of quitting them?"
"Yes, to fulfil a still more sacred duty than that imposed by friendshipor family," said the marshal, in so grave and solemn a tone, that hisfather exclaimed, with deep emotion: "What can this duty be?"
"Father," said the marshal, after remaining a moment in thoughtfulsilence, "who made me what I am? Who gave me the ducal title, and themarshal's baton?"
"Napoleon."
"For you, the stern republican, I know that he lost all his value, whenfrom the first citizen of a Republic he became an emperor.
"I cursed his weakness," said Father Simon, sadly; "the demi-god sankinto a man."
"But for me, father--for me, the soldier, who have always fought besidehim, or under his eye--for me, whom he raised from the lowest rank inthe army to the highest--for me, whom he loaded with benefits and marksof affection--for me, he was more than a hero, he was a friend--andthere was as much gratitude as admiration in my idolatry for him. Whenhe was exiled, I would fain have shared his exile; they refused me thatfavor; then I conspired, then I drew my sword against those who hadrobbed his son of the crown which France had given him."
"And, in your position, you did well, Pierre; without sharing youradmiration, I understood your gratitude. The projects of exile, theconspiracies--I approved them all--you know it."
"Well, then, that disinherited child, in whose name I conspiredseventeen years ago, is now of an age to wield his father's sword."
"Napoleon II!" exclaimed the old man, looking at his son with surpriseand extreme anxiety; "the king of Rome!"
"King? no; he is no longer king. Napoleon? no; he is no longer Napoleon.They have given him some Austrian name, because the other frightenedthem. Everything frightens them. Do you know what they are doing withthe son of the Emperor?" resumed the marshal, with painful excitement."They are torturing him--killing him by inches!"
"Who told you this?"
"Somebody who knows, whose words are but too true. Yes; the son of theEmperor struggles with all his strength against a premature death. Withhis eyes turned towards France, he waits--he waits--and no one comes--noone--out of all the men that his father made as great as they once werelittle, not one thinks of that crowned child, whom they are stifling,till he dies."
"But you think of him?"
"Yes; but I had first to learn--oh! there is no doubt of it, for I havenot derived all my information from the same source--I had first tolearn the cruel fate of this youth, to whom I also swore allegiance; forone day, as I have told you, the Emperor, proud and loving father as hewas, showed him to me in his cradle, and said: 'My old friend, you willbe to the son what you have been to the father; who loves us, loves ourFrance.'"
"Yes, I know it. Many times you have repeated those words to me, and,like yourself, I have been moved by them."
"Well, father! suppose, informed of the sufferings of the son ofthe Emperor, I had seen--with the positive certainty that I was notdeceived--a letter from a person of high rank in the court of Vienna,offering to a man that was still faithful to the Emperor's memory, themeans of communicating with the king of Rome, and perhaps of saving himfrom his tormentors--"
"What next?" said the workman, looking fixedly at his son. "SupposeNapoleon II. once at liberty--"
"What next?" exclaimed the marshal. Then he added, in a suppressedvoice: "Do you think, father, that France is insensible to thehumiliations she endures? Do you think that the memory of the Emperoris extinct? No, no; it is, above all, in the days of our country'sdegredation, that she whispers that sacred name. How would it be, then,were that name to rise glorious on the frontier, reviving in his son? Doyou not think t
hat the heart of all France would beat for him?"
"This implies a conspiracy--against the present government--withNapoleon II. for a watchword," said the workman. "This is very serious."
"I told you, father, that I was very unhappy; judge if it be not so,"cried the marshal. "Not only I ask myself, if I ought to abandon mychildren and you, to run the risk of so daring an enterprise, but Iask myself if I am not bound to the present government, which, inacknowledging my rank and title, if it bestowed no favor, at least didme an act of justice. How shall I decide?--abandon all that I love, orremain insensible to the tortures of Emperor--of that Emperor to theson of the whom I owe everything--to whom I have sworn fidelity, bothto himself and child? Shall I lose this only opportunity, perhaps, ofsaving him, or shall I conspire in his favor? Tell me, if I exaggeratewhat I owe to the memory of the Emperor? Decide for me, father! During awhole sleepless night, I strove to discover, in the midst of this chaos,the line prescribed by honor; but I only wandered from indecision toindecision. You alone, father--you alone, I repeat, can direct me."
After remaining for some moments in deep thought, the old man was aboutto answer, when some person, running across the little garden, openedthe door hastily, and entered the room in which were the marshal and hisfather. It was Olivier, the young workman, who had been able to effecthis escape from the village in which the Wolves had assembled.
"M. Simon! M. Simon!" cried he, pale, and panting for breath. "They arehere--close at hand. They have come to attack the factory."
"Who?" cried the old man, rising hastily.
"The Wolves, quarrymen, and stone-cutters, joined on the road by a crowdof people from the neighborhood, and vagabonds from town. Do you nothear them? They are shouting, 'Death to the Devourers!'"
The clamor was indeed approaching, and grew more and more distinct.
"It is the same noise that I heard just now," said the marshal, risingin his turn.
"There are more than two hundred of them, M. Simon," said Olivier; "theyare armed with clubs and stones, and unfortunately the greater part ofour workmen are in Paris. We are not above forty here in all; the womenand children are already flying to their chambers, screaming for terror.Do you not hear them?"
The ceiling shook beneath the tread of many hasty feet.
"Will this attack be a serious one?" said the marshal to his father, whoappeared more and more dejected.
"Very serious," said the old man; "there is nothing more fierce thanthese combats between different unions; and everything has been donelately to excite the people of the neighborhood against the factory."
"If you are so inferior in number," said the marshal, "you must begin bybarricading all the doors--and then--"
He was unable to conclude. A burst of ferocious cries shook the windowsof the room, and seemed so near and loud, that the marshal, his father,and the young workman, rushed out into the little garden, which wasbounded on one side by a wall that separated it from the fields.Suddenly whilst the shouts redoubled in violence, a shower of largestones, intended to break the windows of the house, smashed some of thepanes on the first story, struck against the wall, and fell into thegarden, all around the marshal and his father. By a fatal chance, oneof these large stones struck the old man on the head. He staggered, bentforward, and fell bleeding into the arms of Marshal Simon, just as arosefrom without, with increased fury, the savage cries of, "Death to theDevourers!"