Читать книгу The Galley Slave's Ring; or, The Family of Lebrenn - Эжен Сю - Страница 4

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While the events narrated in the preceding chapter were happening in the shop of Monsieur Lebrenn the linendraper, another scene was taking place at almost the same hour on the fifth story of an old house, opposite the one which the Breton merchant occupied.

I shall take my reader into a modest little room that is fitted out with extreme neatness; an iron bedstead, a wardrobe, two chairs and a table above which stood a shelf filled with books—such was its furniture. At the head of the bed hung from the wall a species of trophy, consisting of a military cap and two light infantry under-officer's epaulettes, above which, spread in a black frame, was an honorable discharge from service. In a corner of the chamber, and disposed upon a board, were several carpenter's tools.

Upon the bed lay a freshly furbished carbine, and upon a little table a little heap of balls, a gunpowder pouch, and a mold to prepare cartridges in, a number of which had already been gotten ready.

The tenant of the apartment, a young man of about twenty-six, with a virile and handsome face, and wearing a mechanic's blouse, was already up. With his elbows leaning on the sill of his attic window, he seemed to be looking intently at the house of Monsieur Lebrenn, especially at one of the four windows, between two of which the famous sign of The Sword of Brennus was fastened.

That one particular window, furnished with very white curtains closely drawn together, presented nothing remarkable to the sight, except for a wooden box, painted green and daintily wrought with ovolos and other carvings, that filled the full width of the outer sill and contained several winter heliotropes besides some crocuses in full bloom.

The features of the tenant of the attic as he contemplated the window in question, bore an expression of such profound melancholy that it was almost painful to behold. After a while a tear, that fell from the young man's eyes, rolled down upon his brown moustache.

The sound of a clock that struck half past six drew George Duchene—that was the young man's name—from his revery. He passed his hand over his moist eyes, and left the window murmuring bitterly:

"Bah! To-day, or to-morrow, a bullet through my breast will deliver me from this insane love. Thanks to God, there will soon be a serious engagement. My death will at least serve the cause of freedom."

George remained pensive for a while, and then added:

"But grandfather—I forgot him!"

He then proceeded to a corner of the room where stood a little stove half filled with burning coals, and which he had been using to found his bullets. He placed on the fire a small earthen dish filled with milk, crumbled into it some slices of white bread, and in a few minutes had ready for use a toothsome bowl of milk soup that the expertest housekeeper might have been jealous of.

After concealing the carbine and munitions of war under his mattress, George took up the bowl, opened a door that was cut in the board partition of his apartment, and passed into a contiguous room, where a man of advanced age and with a kind and venerable face framed in long white hair, lay on a much better bed than George's. The old man seemed exceedingly weak; his thin and wrinkled hands were agitated by a continuous tremor.

"Good morning, grandfather," said George, tenderly embracing the old man. "Did you rest well during the night?"

"Quite well, my boy."

"Here is your milk soup. I'm afraid I kept you waiting."

"Not at all. It is only just day. I heard you rise and open your window—about an hour ago."

"That's so, grandfather. I felt my head heavy—I wanted to breathe the early air."

"I also heard you during the night walk up and down your room."

"Poor grandfather! Did I keep you awake?"

"No, I was not sleepy. But, George, be frank with me. There's something troubling you."

"Me? Nothing at all."

"For several months you have looked depressed; you have grown pale; you have changed so much as not to be recognizable. You are no longer as light of heart as you were when you returned from your regiment."

"I assure you, grandfather—"

"You assure me—you assure me! I know perfectly well what I see. As far as that is concerned I can not be deceived. I have a mother's eyes—come, now—"

"That's true," replied George smiling. "I think it is grandmother I should call you—because you are good, tender and uneasy about me, like a true grandma. But believe me, you alarm yourself unnecessarily. Here, hold your spoon; wait a minute till I place the table on your bed. You will be more at ease."

George took from a corner a pretty little shining walnut table of the shape of the trays used by patients for eating on in their beds. After placing upon it the bowl of soup, he gently pushed it in front of the old man.

"There is none like you, my boy, for such thoughtfulness," observed the grandfather.

"It would have been a devilish thing, grandfather, if, with all my carpenter's skill, I had failed to put together this little table that is so handy for you."

"Oh! You have an answer for everything—I know that," observed the old man, smiling.

And with a shaky hand he began his meal. So tremulous were his motions that several times the spoon struck against his teeth.

"Oh, my poor boy!" exclaimed the old man sadly. "Just see how my hands tremble. It seems to me they grow worse every day."

"Nonsense, grandfather! To me, on the contrary, your hands seem to be growing steadier—"

"Oh, no! 'Tis all over—all over. There is no remedy can bring me help in my infirmity."

"Why, do you prefer me to take your hopeless view of the case—"

"That's just what I should have done since this affliction began. And, yet, I can not accustom myself to the idea of being an invalid, and a burden to others unto the end of my life."

"Grandfather! Grandfather! If you talk that way we shall have to fall out."

"I wonder what made me commit the stupidity of taking to the trade of gilder of metals. At the end of twenty years, often before that, one-half of those artisans shake like myself; but, differently from myself, they have no grandchildren who spoil them—"

"Grandfather!"

"Yes, you spoil me; I repeat it—you spoil me—"

"Let it be so! Now, then, I shall give you tit for tat; it is the only way to spike your guns, as we were taught in the regiment. Well, I knew a fine man; his name was father Morin; he was a widower with a daughter of about eighteen. The worthy man married his daughter to a gallant young fellow, but over-much given to resent wrong, and one day he received an ugly blow in a fight, so ugly that two years after his marriage he died, leaving his young wife with a boy in her arms."

"George! George!"

"The poor young mother nursed her child. Her husband's death was such a shock to her that she followed him shortly after—and her little boy remained upon the hands of his grandfather."

"Good God, George! How merciless you are! What is the sense in ever coming back to all that?"

"He loved the boy so much that he would not part with him. During the day, when he had to work in the shop, a good neighbor kept the urchin with her. But, the instant the grandfather returned home, he had but one thought on his mind, but one cry on his lips—'My little George.' He looked after him as lovingly as the best and tenderest of mothers. He ruined himself getting pretty clothes and pretty hats for the chap. He rigged the little fellow up to his own taste, and the grandfather was very proud of his grandchild. And so it came about that all the people in the neighborhood, who loved the worthy man greatly, began to call him the nurse-father."

"But, George!"

"In that way he brought up the boy, cared for him night and day, attended to all his needs, sent him to school, then to his apprenticeship, until—"

"So much the worse!" cried out the old man, unable any longer to contain himself. "Seeing we are to tell the truth to each other, I shall have my turn, and we shall see! First of all, you were the son of my daughter Georgiana, whom I doted upon. I only did my duty—take that, to begin with—"

"Neither have I done any more than my duty."

"You? Don't tell me that!" cried the old man, vehemently brandishing his spoon. "You! This is what you did: Good luck saved you from drawing the lot of going into the army—"

"Grandfather! Take care!"

"Oh, you can not frighten me!"

"You will upset your bowl of soup if you go on in that way."

"I 'go on'! The devil take it! Do you think I have no blood left in my veins? Yes, answer, you who are always speaking of other people! When my infirmity began, what is it that you did, unhappy boy? You went in search of a merchant of men."

"Grandfather, your soup will grow cold; for heaven's sake take it while it is warm."

"Ta, ta, ta! You want to shut my mouth. I am not your dupe. Yes! And what did you say to the merchant of men? 'My grandfather is ailing; he can hardly any longer earn his living; I am his only support; I may fail him, either through sickness, or through lack of work; he is old; secure to him a little life annuity, and I shall sell myself to you.' And you did it!" cried the old man with tears in his eyes, and raising his spoon to the ceiling with such vehemence that, if George had not quickly seized the table it would have tumbled down to the floor with the bowl of soup and all.

The young man exclaimed:

"'Sdeath, grandfather! Keep quiet! You are carrying on like the devil in a sacristy. You will upset everything."

"I don't care! It will not keep me from telling you why and how it came about that you became a soldier, and how you sold yourself for me—to a merchant of men—"

"All that talk is a pretext to keep you from eating your soup. I see, you think it is not well made."

"Just listen to him! I, find his soup bad! Well, well!" exclaimed the old man in pitiful accents, "That devil of a boy has made up his mind to break my heart!"

Father Morin furiously dipped his spoon into the bowl, and precipitately carrying it to his mouth said while eating: "You see—you see—how bad I find your soup—see-see—Oh! it is bad—see—see—Oh, I don't like it at all!"

"For heaven's sake, now you are going too fast," cried George, holding back his grandfather's arm. "You will choke yourself."

"That's also your fault! To tell me I find your soup bad, while it tastes delicious!" complained the old man, moderating his pace and smacking his lips with great gusto. "It is the gods' own nectar!"

"Without vainglory," replied George, smiling, "I enjoyed a great reputation in the regiment for my leek soup. Good, I shall now fill your pipe."

George then leaned over to the old man and said to him as he patted him on the back:

"That's right—my good old grandfather loves to pull at his little pipe in his bed, do you not?"

"What shall I say, George? You turn me into a Pacha; aye, a Pacha!" answered the old man, while his grandson went for the pipe that lay on a table, filled it with tobacco, lighted it, and presented it to old father Morin. The old man was thereupon propped up well in his bed, and began to smoke his delicious pipe.

George sat down at the foot of the bed, and said:

"What do you propose to do to-day?"

"I shall take my little stroll on the boulevard, where, if the weather is good, I shall sit down for a while on a bench."

"Hem! Grandfather, I think you would better postpone your promenade. You must have noticed yesterday how large the crowds were that gathered at several places. They almost came to blows with the municipalists and city sergeants. It may be even worse to-day."

"I know it, my boy. Are you taking a hand in these tussles? I know full well how tempting it is to do so when one's rights are invaded. It is unworthy of the government to forbid the banquets. But I shall feel very uneasy on your score."

"You need not feel uneasy about me, grandfather. There is nothing to fear, as far as I am concerned. But take my advice. Do not go out to-day."

"Very well, my boy, I shall stay indoors. I shall entertain myself a little reading your books, and shall look at the passers-by from the window, smoking my pipe the while."

"Poor grandfather," observed George with a smile. "From our high floor you see hardly more than moving hats."

"That's all one. It will be enough to entertain me. Besides, I can look at the opposite houses. Our neighbors often sit at their windows. But—hold! It strikes me now—by the way of the houses on the other side of the street, there is a thing I have meant to ask you, and always forgot. Tell me what that sign means which I see before the linendraper's house. What is the meaning of that helmeted warrior throwing his sword into the scales? You who did the carpentering work in the shop, when it was recently renovated, you should know the why and wherefore of its sign."

"I did not know it either until my master detailed me to work in Monsieur Lebrenn's shop."

"All over the quarter people speak of him as a straight-forward man. All the same, what devil of a notion is that of choosing such a looking sign—The Sword of Brennus! If he were an armorer, the thing might pass. True enough, there are scales in the picture, and scales suggest commerce—but why does the warrior with his helmet on and the air of an Artaban throw his sword into the scale?"

"I'll tell you. But really, I feel bashful, at my age, to presume to hold a lecture to you."

"Why bashful? Why that? Instead of going out on Sundays for a walk where people congregate near the fortifications, you read, you learn, you instruct yourself. You may well hold a lecture to your grandfather—there is no harm in that!"

"Well—the warrior with a helmet, that Brennus, was a Gaul, one of our ancestors, the chieftain of the army which, two thousand years and how much more ago I do not know, marched into Italy to attack Rome in order to punish the city for some act of treachery. The city surrendered to the Gauls and was spared in consideration of a ransom in gold. But, not considering the ransom large enough, Brennus threw his sword into the scale that held the weights."

"In order to secure a larger ransom, the shrewd old fellow! He did the opposite of what the fruit-venders do who help the scales in their interest with their thumbs. I understand that part of it. But there are yet two things I do not understand at all. In the first place you said that that warrior, who lived more than two thousand years ago, was one of our ancestors!"

"Yes, that Brennus and the Gauls of his army belonged to the race from which we descend—almost all of us in this country of France."

"One moment—you say they were Gauls?"

"Yes, grandfather."

"Then we are descendants of the Gallic race?"

"Certainly."

"But we are Frenchmen. How do you account for that, my boy?"

"Simply this way—our country, our mother country, was not always called France."

"Hold on! Hold on! Hold on!" exclaimed the old man, taking the pipe out of his mouth. "How is that? France was not always called France?"

"No, grandfather. During ages immemorial our country was called Gaul, and was a republic, as glorious, as powerful, but happier, and twice as large as France during the Empire."

"The devil you say!"

"Unfortunately, about two thousand years ago—"

"Is that all? Two thousand years! How you do fling around the years, my boy!"

"Dissensions broke out in Gaul; the several provinces rose against one another—"

"Ah! That's ever the trouble! That was the very trick of the clergy and the royalists during the Revolution—"

"And so, grandfather, that befell to Gaul, centuries ago, that befell to France in 1814 and 1815."

"A foreign invasion!"

"Exactly. The Romans, once vanquished by Brennus, had in the meantime become powerful. They profited by the divisions among our fathers; and they invaded the land—"

"Exactly as the Cossacks and the Prussians invaded us!"

"Exactly so. But what the Cossack and Prussian Kings, the good friends of the Bourbons, did not dare to do—not that they lacked the wish—the Romans did. Despite a heroic resistance, our ancestors, ever brave as lions, but unfortunately divided, were reduced to slavery, as the Negroes are to-day in some colonies."

"Is such a thing possible!"

"Yes. They wore iron collars, bearing the initials of their masters, when those initials were not branded on their foreheads with a hot iron."

"Our fathers!" cried the old man, joining his hands with pain and indignation. "Our fathers!"

"And when they tried to run away, their masters had their noses and ears cropped, if not their hands and feet."

"Our fathers!"

"Other times their masters would cast them to wild beasts for amusement, or cause them to be put to death under frightful tortures if they refused to cultivate, under the conqueror's lash, the very lands that had belonged to them—"

"But listen," interposed the old man, gathering his recollections; "that puts me in mind of a song of our old friend, the friend of us poor folks—"

"The song of our Beranger, not so, grandfather—The Gallic Slaves?"

"Yes, my boy. It begins—let me see—yes—this is it:

"Some ancient Gauls, the wretched slaves,

One night, when all around were sleeping—

And the refrain ran:

"Poor Gauls, 'fore whom the world once trembled,

Let us drink to intoxication!"

Then it was our own fathers, the Gauls, that Beranger was referring to? Alas! Poor fellows, like so many others, no doubt, they took to drunkenness in order to forget their misfortunes."

"Yes, grandfather; but soon they realized that to forget one's sorrows does not deliver one therefrom; that to break the yoke is better."

"Right they were!"

"Accordingly, the Gauls, after innumerable insurrectionary efforts—"

"Well, my boy, meseems the method is not new, but ever is the right one. Ha! Ha!" added the old man, striking the bowl of his pipe with his nail. "Ha! Ha! Do you notice, George, sooner or later, it has to come to a Revolution—so it was in '89—so it was in 1830—so it may be to-morrow, perhaps!"

"Poor grandfather!" thought George to himself. "He little knows how near the truth he is."

And he proceeded aloud:

"Right you are! When it comes to the matter of freedom, the people must help themselves, and stick their own fingers into the dish—otherwise there will be only crumbs to pick, and the people will be robbed, as they were robbed eighteen years ago."

"And brazenly were they robbed, my poor boy! I saw it done, myself. I was there."

"Fortunately you know the proverb, grandfather—The scalded cat—enough said. The lesson will have been a good one. But to return to our Gauls. They did as you say—resorted to Revolution. She never leaves her children in the lurch. The latter, by dint of perseverance, of energy and of their own blood copiously poured out, succeeded in re-conquering a portion of their former freedom from the mailed hand of the Romans, who, moreover, had not un-christened Gaul, but only called her 'Roman' Gaul."

"Just as we to-day speak of French Algeria, I suppose?"

"Exactly so, grandfather."

"Well, thanks to God, our brave Gauls did, with the help of Insurrection, get back a little into the saddle! That soothes my blood somewhat."

"Oh, grandfather, wait, only wait!"

"Why?"

"What our fathers suffered was as nothing to what they were still to suffer."

"Think of it! And I thought they were out of the woods. What's it that happened to them?"

"Figure to yourself a horde of barbarians, semi-savages, named Franks. Thirteen or fourteen hundred years ago they emerged from the recesses of the forests of Germany. Genuine Cossacks they were, in their way. They fell upon the Roman armies. These, enervated by their conquest of Gaul, were rolled in the dust and driven out, and then the Frankish conquerors, in turn, took possession of our poor country. They stripped her even of her name. They called her France, after themselves, in token of possession."

"The brigands!" cried the old man. "I like the Romans better, by my faith! At least they left us our name."

"That's so. Besides, the Romans were, at least, the most civilized people then living, except for the barbarity of their system of slavery. They covered Gaul with magnificent structures, and will ye nil ye, they restored to our ancestors a part of their pristine freedom. The Franks, on the contrary, were, as I said, genuine Cossacks. Under their domination the Gauls had to start all over again."

"Good God! Good God!"

"Those hordes of Frankish bandits—"

"Call them Cossacks! Give their true name!"

"They were even worse, if possible, grandfather! Those Frankish bandits, those Cossacks, if you prefer, called their chiefs Kings. The kingly leaven perpetuated itself in our country, whence it happens that for so many years we have tasted the sweets of Kings of Frankish origin, whom the royalists call Kings by divine right."

"Say by Cossack right! A fine present!"

"The chiefs of lower category were called dukes, and counts. Their seed likewise perpetuated itself upon our soil, whence it happens that for so long a time we have enjoyed the luxury of a nobility of Frankish origin, who treated us as a conquered race."

"What's that you are telling me!" ejaculated the perplexed-looking old man. "If I grasp the meaning of what you say, my boy, the Frankish bandits, those Cossacks, Kings and chieftains, once masters of Gaul, parceled out among themselves the lands that the Gauls had partly reconquered from the Romans?"

"Yes, grandfather. The Frankish Kings and seigneurs robbed the Gauls of their property, and divided among themselves the soil and the people upon it, just as a domain and its live stock are divided."

"And our fathers, despoiled of their goods by those Cossacks—"

"Our fathers were anew reduced to slavery, as they were under the Romans, and were forced to cultivate for the benefit of the Frankish Kings and seigneurs the land that had belonged to themselves, to them the Gauls since Gaul was Gaul."

"Accordingly, my boy, the Frankish Kings and seigneurs, after having robbed our fathers of their property, started to live on their sweat—"

"Just so, grandfather. They sold them—men, women, children, girls—in open market. If they resisted at work, their masters whipped them as recalcitrant animals are whipped, if they did not kill them in their anger, or out of pure cruelty, as often happened, just as one might kill his dog or horse. The theory was that our fathers and mothers belonged to the Frankish Kings and seigneurs neither more nor less than cattle belong to their owner. All this by virtue of the Frankish conquest of Gaul[6]. This state of things lasted until the revolution of 1789, which you witnessed, grandfather. You will remember the enormous difference there still existed at that time between a nobleman and a workingman, between a seigneur and a peasant."

"'Sdeath! It was the difference between master and slave."

"Or, if you prefer the term, between Frank and Gaul, grandfather."

"But, my little man, how did it happen that our forefathers the Gauls allowed themselves to be martyrized in that fashion by a handful of Franks—no, Cossacks, I mean, for so many centuries?"

"Oh, grandfather! The Franks possessed the soil which they had stolen; hence they possessed the fullness thereof. Their army, a numerous body, consisted of pitiless recruits from their own country. Besides, almost exhausted by their long struggle against the Romans, a frightful affliction was furthermore in store for our fathers—the priests."

"That's all that was wanting to finish them up!"

"To their eternal shame, the larger portion of the Gallic bishops, immediately upon the Frankish invasion, betrayed their own country, and made common cause with the Frankish Kings and seigneurs, whom they speedily dominated through cunning and flattery, and from whom they wheedled all the lands and money possible. Accordingly, just as with the conquerors themselves, a large number of holy priests held serfs whom they either sold or exploited, and lived amidst shocking debauchery, degrading, tyrannizing and brutifying at their own sweet pleasure the Gallic masses to whom they preached resignation, and respect for, and obedience to the Franks, threatening with the devil and his horns whatever wretched being might attempt a revolt for the independence of his country from the foreign Kings and seigneurs, the only source of whose power and wealth was violence, rapine and murder."[7]

"I see it all! But, my little man, did our forefathers allow themselves to be shorn without kicking—all that time, from the conquest down to the Revolution, when we turned upon those Frankish Kings and seigneurs, and, along with them, their clergy, who stuck to the habit of gathering fat upon their ribs?"

"It is not likely that everything went on without numerous revolts on the part of the serfs against the Kings, the seigneurs and the priests. But, grandfather, I have told you the little that I know, and even that little I learned only while carpentering in the shop of Monsieur Lebrenn, the linendraper opposite us."

"How did it happen, my boy?"

"While I was at work, Monsieur Lebrenn, who is the best man I know, used to chat with me. He would talk about the history of our fathers, of which I knew as little as you. Once my curiosity was pricked—and it was not slight—"

"I can well imagine that."

"I put a thousand questions to Monsieur Lebrenn, all the while hammering and joining. He answered me with truly paternal kindness. In that way I came to know the little that I have told you. But," added George with a sigh that he was unable to suppress, "my job being done, the history lessons were interrupted. Accordingly, I have told you all I know, grandfather."

"So, then, the linendraper who lives opposite is as learned as all that?"

"He is as learned as he is a true patriot. He is an old Gaul, as he loves to style himself. And sometimes," added George, unable to avoid blushing slightly, "I heard him say to his daughter, as he proudly embraced her on account of some clever answer or other that she made, 'Oh, as to you—you are a true Gallic girl!'"

At this moment father Morin and George heard someone rapping at the door of the first chamber.

"Walk in!" cried George.

Someone stepped into the front room that connected with the one occupied by the old man.

"Who is there?" George asked.

"I—Lebrenn," answered a voice.

"What! The worthy linendraper that we have been speaking about? The old Gaul?" whispered the venerable grandfather. "Go quick and see what he wants, my boy, and shut the door after you."