by Eugène Sue
CHAPTER I. FOUR YEARS AFTER.
Four years had elapsed, since the events we have just related,when Gabriel de Rennepont wrote the following letter to Abbe JosephCharpentier, curate of the Parish of Saint-Aubin, a hamlet of Sologne:
"Springwater Farm, "June 2d, 1836.
"Intending to write to you yesterday, my bear Joseph, I seated myselfat the little old black table, that you will remember well. My windowlooks, you know, upon the farmyard, and I can see all that takes placethere. These are grave preliminaries, my friend, but I am coming to thepoint. I had just taken my seat at the table, when, looking from thewindow, this is what I saw. You, my dear Joseph, who can draw so well,should have been there to have sketched the charming scene. The sun wassinking, the sky serene, the air warm and balmy with the breath of thehawthorn, which, flowering by the side of a little rivulet, forms theedge which borders the yard. Under the large pear-tree, close to thewall of the barn, sat upon the stone bench my adopted father, Dagobert,that brave and honest soldier whom you love so much. He appearedthoughtful, his white head was bowed on his bosom; with absent mind,he patted old Spoil-sport, whose intelligent face was resting on hismaster's knees. By his side was his wife, my dear adopted mother,occupied with her sewing; and near them, on a stool, sat Angela,the wife of Agricola, nursing her last-born child, while the gentleMagdalen, with the eldest boy in her lap, was occupied in teaching himthe letters of the alphabet. Agricola had just returned from the fields,and was beginning to unyoke his cattle, when, struck, like me, no doubt,with this picture, he stood gazing on it for a moment, with his handstill leaning on the yoke, beneath which bent submissive the broadforeheads of his two large black oxen. I cannot express to you, myfriend, the enchanting repose of this picture, lighted by the last raysof the sun, here and there broken by the thick foliage. What variousand touching types! The venerable face of the soldier--the good, lovingcountenance of my adopted mother--the fresh beauty of Angela, smilingon her little child--the soft melancholy of the hunchback, now andthen pressing her lips to the fair, laughing cheek of Agricola's eldestson--and then Agricola himself, in his manly beauty, which seems toreflect so well the valor and honesty of his heart! Oh, my Friend!in contemplating this assemblage of good, devoted, noble, and lovingbeings, so dear to each other, living retired in a little farm of ourpoor Sologne, my heart rose towards heaven with a feeling of ineffablegratitude. This peace of the family circle--this clear evening, with theperfume of the woods and wild flowers wafted on the breeze--this deepsilence, only broken by the murmur of the neighboring rill--all affectedme with one of these passing fits of vague and sweet emotion, whichone feels but cannot express. You well know it, my friend, who, in yoursolitary walks, in the midst of your immense plains of flowering heath,surrounded by forests of fir trees, often feel your eyes grow moist,without being able to explain the cause of that sweet melancholy, whichI, too, have often felt, during those glorious nights passed in theprofound solitudes of America.
"But, alas! a painful incident disturbed the serenity of the picture.Suddenly I heard Dagobert's wife say to him: 'My dear--you are weeping!'
"At these words, Agricola, Angela, and Magdalen gathered round thesoldier. Anxiety was visible upon every face. Then, as he raised hishead abruptly, one could see two large tears trickle down his cheek tohis white moustache. 'It is nothing, my children,' said he, in a voiceof emotion 'it is nothing. Only, to-day is the first of June--and thisday four years--' He could not complete the sentence; and, as he raisedhis hands to his eyes, to brush away the tears, we saw that he heldbetween his fingers a little bronze chain, with a medal suspended to it.That is his dearest relic. Four years ago, almost dying with despair atthe loss of the two angels, of whom I have so often spoken to you, myfriend, he took from the neck of Marshal Simon, brought home dead from afatal duel, this chain and medal which his children had so long worn.I went down instantly, as you may suppose, to endeavor to soothe thepainful remembrances of this excellent man; gradually, he grew calmer,and the evening was passed in a pious and quiet sadness.
"You cannot imagine, my friend, when I returned to my chamber, whatcruel thoughts came to my mind, as I recalled those past events, fromwhich I generally turn away with fear and horror. Then I saw once morethe victims of those terrible and mysterious plots, the awful depths ofwhich have never been penetrated thanks to the death of Father d'A.and Father R., and the incurable madness of Madame de St.-D., the threeauthors or accomplices of the dreadful deeds. The calamities occasionedby them are irreparable; for those who were thus sacrificed to acriminal ambition, would have been the pride of humanity by the goodthey would have done. Ah, my friend! if you had known those noblehearts; if you had known the projects of splendid charity, formed bythat young lady, whose heart was so generous, whose mind so elevated,whose soul so great! On the eve of her death, as a kind of prelude toher magnificent designs, after a conversation, the subject of which Imust keep secret, even from you, she put into my hands a considerablesum, saying, with her usual grace and goodness: 'I have been threatenedwith ruin, and it might perhaps come. What I now confide to you will atleast be safe--safe--for those who suffer. Give much--give freely--makeas many happy hearts as you can. My happiness shall have a royalinauguration!!' I do not know whether I ever told you, my friend,that, after those fatal events, seeing Dagobert and his wife reduced tomisery, poor 'Mother Bunch' hardly able to earn a wretched subsistence,Agricola soon to become a father, and myself deprived of my curacy, andsuspended by my bishop, for having given religious consolations toa Protestant, and offered up prayers at the tomb of an unfortunatesuicide--I considered myself justified in employing a small portion ofthe sum intrusted to me by Mdlle. de Cardoville in the purchase of thisfarm in Dagobert's name.
"Yes, my friend, such is the origin of my fortune. The farmer towhom these few acres formerly belonged, gave us the rudiments of ouragricultural education, and common sense, and the study of a few goodpractical books, completed it. From an excellent workman, Agricola hasbecome an equally excellent husbandman; I have tried to imitate him, andhave put my hand also to the plough there is no derogation in it, forthe labor which provides food for man is thrice hallowed, and it istruly to serve and glorify God, to cultivate and enrich the earth He hascreated. Dagobert, when his first grief was a little appeased, seemed togather new vigor from this healthy life of the fields; and, during hisexile in Siberia, he had already learned to till the ground. Finally, mydear adopted mother and sister, and Agricola's good wife, have dividedbetween them the household cares; and God has blessed this little colonyof people, who, alas! have been sorely tried by misfortune, and who nowonly ask of toil and solitude, a quite, laborious, innocent life, andoblivion of great sorrows. Sometimes, in our winter evenings, you havebeen able to appreciate the delicate and charming mind of the gentle'Mother Bunch,' the rare poetical imagination of Agricola, thetenderness of his mother, the good sense of his father, the exquisitenatural grace of Angela. Tell me, my friend, was it possible to unitemore elements of domestic happiness? What long evenings have we passedround the fire of crackling wood, reading, or commenting on a fewimmortal works, which always warm the heart, and enlarge the soul!What sweet talk have we had, prolonged far into the night! And thenAgricola's pastorals, and the timid literary confidences of Magdalen!And the fresh, clear voice of Angela, joined to the deep manly tones ofAgricola, in songs of simple melody! And the old stories of Dagobert,so energetic and picturesque in their warlike spirit! And the adorablegayety of the children, in their sports with good old Spoil-sport,who rather lends himself to their play than takes part in it--for thefaithful, intelligent creature seems always to be looking for somebody,as Dagobert says--and he is right. Yes, the dog also regrets those twoangels, of whom he was the devoted guardian!
"Do not think, my friend, that our happiness makes us forgetful. No, no;not a day passes without our repeating, with pious and tender respect,those names so dear to our heart. And these painful memories, hoveringforever about us, give to our calm and happy existence t
hat shade ofmild seriousness which struck you so much. No doubt, my friend, thiskind of life, bounded by the family circle, and not extending beyond,for the happiness or improvement of our brethren, may be set down asselfish; but, alas! we have not the means--and though the poor manalways finds a place at our frugal table, and shelter beneath our roof,we must renounce all great projects of fraternal action. The littlerevenue of our farm just suffices to supply our wants. Alas! when Ithink over it, notwithstanding a momentary regret, I cannot blame myresolution to keep faithfully my sacred oath, and to renounce that greatinheritance, which, alas! had become immense by the death of my kindred.Yes, I believe I performed a duty, when I begged the guardian of thattreasure to reduce it to ashes, rather than let it fall into the handsof people, who would have made an execrable use of it, or to perjuremyself by disputing a donation which I had granted freely, voluntarily,sincerely. And yet, when I picture to myself the realization of themagnificent views of--my ancestor--an admirable Utopia, only possiblewith immense resources--and which Mdlle. de Cardoville hoped to carryinto execution, with the aid of M. Francois Hardy, of Prince Djalma,of Marshal Simon and his daughters, and of myself--when I think of thedazzling focus of living forces, which such an association would havebeen, and of the immense influence it might have had on the happiness ofthe whole human race--my indignation and horror, as an honest man anda Christian, are excited against that abominable Company, whose blackplots nipped in their bud all those great hopes, which promised so muchfor futurity. What remains now of all these splendid projects? Seventombs. For my grave also is dug in that mausoleum, which Samuel haserected on the site of the house in the Rue Neuve-Saint-Francois, and ofwhich he remains the keeper--faithful to the end!
"I had written thus far, my friend, when I received your letter. So,after having forbidden you to see me, your bishop now orders that youshall cease to correspond with me. Your touching, painful regretshave deeply moved me, my friend. Often have we talked together ofecclesiastical discipline, and of the absolute power of the bishopsover, us, the poor working clergy, left to their mercy without remedy.It is painful, but it is the law of the church, my friend, and you havesworn to observe it. Submit as I have submitted. Every engagement isbinding upon the man of honor! My poor, dear Joseph! would that you hadthe compensations which remained to me, after the rupture of ties that Iso much value. But I know too well what you must feel--I cannot go onI find it impossible to continue this letter, I might be bitter againstthose whose orders we are bound to respect. Since it must be so, thisletter shall be my last. Farewell, my friend! farewell forever. My heartis almost broken.
"GABRIEL DE RENNEPONT."