Part 22

Edouard’s wife was pacing the floor excitedly, while little Ermance was lying in an armchair. The entrance of Monsieur Gerval and Dupré caused Adeline a moment’s terror; she ran to her daughter and seemed to be afraid that it was their intention to take her away from her.

“Don’t be alarmed, madame,” said the old man gently, as he approached her; “it is a friend who has come to comfort you. Tell me your troubles; I shall be able to lighten them, I hope.”

“What a crowd there is about me!” said Adeline, glancing wildly about; “what a multitude of people! Why this gathering? Ah! I will not, no, I will not stop on this square. They have come here to gaze on those poor wretches. Let me go! But I cannot; the cruel crowd forces me back. Ah! I must close my eyes, and not look! He is there, close to me!”

She fell upon a chair and put her hands before her face.

“Poor woman!” said Dupré; “some horrible thing must have happened to her. Do you know, monsieur, that it seems to me that this unfortunate creature belongs to a good family? Her clothes are very simple, almost like a peasant’s; but for all that, I will bet that this woman is no peasant.”

“Why, of course not; I can see that as well as you. But how are we to find out who she is? If this child could talk better----”

“The little girl is waking up, monsieur; give her some bonbons and try to make out the name she mentions.”

Gerval went to Ermance and kissed her; the child recognized him and went to him of her own accord. He gave her bonbons, danced her on his knees, and she lisped the name of Jacques; for it was Jacques who played with her and danced with her every evening.

“One would say that she knows you, monsieur,” said Dupré to his master; “I believe it is Jacques she says; just listen.”

“Poor child; it is true. Perhaps that is her father’s name. Let us try to find out if that is really the name she is lisping; if it is, her mother knows it without any question.”

The old man walked toward Adeline, uttering the name of Jacques in a loud voice. The young woman instantly arose and repeated the name.

“Good! she understood us,” whispered Dupré.

“You are looking for Jacques,” said Adeline to Monsieur Gerval; “oh! in pity’s name, do not tell him this horrible secret; let him always remain ignorant of his shame! Poor Jacques! he would die of grief. Oh! promise me that you will say nothing to him.”

Honest Gerval promised, and Dupré sadly shook his head.

“It is of no use,” he said to his master, “there is no hope.--But what is your plan?”

“We must make all possible investigations. You, Dupré, will go to Villeneuve-Saint-Georges, and inquire about all the Jacqueses there are in the village; in short, you will try to find out something. If we cannot discover anything then, I will see what----”

“Ah! I am very sure, my dear master, that you won’t abandon this young woman and this poor child.”

“No, Dupré, no, I shall not abandon them. But it is late and I am tired. I am going to bed, and to-morrow we will begin our search.”

Having once more commended Adeline and her daughter to the people of the house, honest Gerval retired.

During the night as during the day, Adeline was intensely excited at times, talking incoherently, and sometimes in a state of the most complete prostration, seeming to see nothing of what took place about her. They observed, however, that any noise, the sound of a loud voice, or the faintest cry, made her jump, and threw her into the wildest delirium.

The next day a doctor summoned by Monsieur Gerval came to see the unhappy young woman, but all his skill could accomplish nothing more than to calm her a little; he thought that a tranquil existence would make the alarming outbursts of her mania less frequent. But he gave little hope of the restoration of her reason, as he knew nothing of the cause which had led to its being unseated.

Dupré went to Villeneuve-Saint-Georges and inquired concerning all the Jacqueses in the neighborhood. Only two peasants bore that name, and they had no idea what he meant by his questions about the young woman and her daughter. Dupré was unable to learn anything, and he returned to his master.

Monsieur Gerval had made no further progress in his investigations in Paris; the newspapers did not mention the disappearance of a young woman and her daughter from their home, and he could obtain no information concerning the name and family of his protégées.

Ten days passed, and Adeline was still in the same condition. Her prostration was less frequently disturbed by violent outbreaks; but when by chance a cry reached her ear, her delirium became terrible to see, and her condition was horrifying. Only her daughter’s voice never acted unfavorably upon her; that voice always went to the heart of the poor mother, who never mistook her child’s accents.

“My dear Dupré,” said Monsieur Gerval to his servant, at the end of those ten days, “I see that we must abandon the hope of ever finding out who this interesting young woman is. I have made up my mind what to do, my friend: I have determined to take these unfortunate creatures with me. As you know, I am going to retire to my estate in the Vosges. That solitary place, surrounded by woods, is best suited to our poor invalid. That is the doctor’s opinion, and we must be guided by it; and at all events nothing will disturb the tranquillity which the poor creature requires. We will look to it that she hears no cries there. We will bring up her daughter; Catherine, who is so fond of children, will look after the poor child, and the innocent darling’s caresses will pay me for what I do for her mother.--Well, what do you think of my plan, Dupré?”

“It delights me, monsieur, and I recognize yourself in it. Always kind and always doing good! You give all you have to the unfortunate.”

“That is my pleasure; I have no family, the unfortunate are my children. As you know, I came to Paris with the hope of learning something of a certain little boy whom I loved in his infancy, and who besides is entitled to my protection. But faith, as I can’t find him, this little girl shall take his place. From this moment I adopt her; I take charge of her mother, and I thank Providence for selecting me to be their protector.”

The next day honest Gerval put his plan into execution: he bought a large and commodious berlin, placed in it everything that the young woman and her daughter would need on the journey; and then, having left his address with the landlady, so that she might write to him in case she should learn anything concerning the strangers, the protector of Adeline and Ermance left Paris with them and his old servant, for the country residence where he proposed to end his days in peace.

XXXI

JACQUES AND SANS-SOUCI

While honest Gerval’s carriage bore Adeline and her daughter toward the north of France, what were Jacques’s thoughts concerning the sudden disappearance of the two persons whom he loved best? In order to ascertain, let us return to the farm.

On his return from the fields, surprised to find that Adeline and her daughter, who were always the first to reward his labors with a caress, did not come to meet him, Jacques looked about for his sister. Disturbed to find that she was not in the living room, he asked Louise if she were not well.

“I hope nothing’s the matter with her,” said the farmer’s wife, “but I haven’t seen her all day; you know sometimes she likes to stay by herself in her room, and I don’t dare to disturb her. But she ought to be with us before this.”

“I will go and look for her,” said Jacques; and he hurried up to Adeline’s room.

The peasants also began to fear that Adeline was ill. Sans-Souci said nothing, but he was more anxious than the rest, for he remembered what he had told Adeline that morning, and he suspected that she had done something on impulse. They all impatiently awaited Jacques’s return. He came down at last, but grief and melancholy were expressed on his features, his eyes were moist and his brow was dark.

“What has happened?” cried the peasants.

“She has gone, she has left us,” said Jacques, pacing the floor, raising his eyes to the ceiling, clenching his fists, and pausing now and then to stamp the floor violently.

“She has gone!” repeated the whole family sadly.

“Oh! that ain’t possible,” said Guillot.

“Here, read this;” and Jacques threw down in front of the farmer the paper that Adeline had left. Guillot took it and gazed at it earnestly for some moments.

“Well!” said Sans-Souci, walking toward him, “what does she say?”

“You see, I don’t know how to read,” replied Guillot, still staring at the paper. Sans-Souci snatched it from his hands and read it aloud.

“You see she tells us not to be worried about her absence,” said Louise; “she will come back soon, I’m sure.”

“Oh! so far as that goes, I will answer for it too,” said Guillot; “she wouldn’t leave us without saying good-bye to us, that’s sure!”

Sans-Souci agreed with the peasants, and he tried to comfort his friend.

“But where has she gone?” said Jacques. “Why this sudden departure? She didn’t seem to have any idea of it yesterday; and for a young woman, weak as she is, to travel with a child that has to be carried--She will make herself sick. Ah! she must have had some news from Paris. Ten thousand bayonets! If I knew that anything had been kept from me----”

As he said this, Jacques’s eyes turned toward Sans-Souci, who looked at the floor, twisted his moustache and utterly failed to conceal his embarrassment.

“Come, come, Brother Jacques, let us wait before we lose hope,” said the farmer’s wife, urging the honest plowman to go to bed; “perhaps she will be back to-morrow.”

“Yes,” said Guillot, “and we will have a famous soup to celebrate, and we will drink some of last year’s wine, which is beginning to be just right.”

Sans-Souci dared not say anything; he was afraid of becoming confused and betraying himself; his comrade’s glances closed his mouth.

“I will wait a few days,” said Jacques; “but if she doesn’t come back, then I will go to find her, even if I have to go to the end of the world.”

They parted for the night sadly enough. Several days passed, and Adeline did not return. All pleasure and peace of mind had vanished from the farm; Jacques neglected his work, Guillot his fields, the farmer’s wife her household duties; Sans-Souci neglected the farmer’s wife, and everybody was unhappy. No more ballads, merry meals, amusing stories, or descriptions of battles. Sans-Souci was losing hope of Adeline’s return; he bitterly repented having told her of her husband, and he hovered about Jacques, but dared not confess the truth to him.

On the eighth day Jacques announced that he was going to start out in search of his sister. Sans-Souci decided then to speak; he took his comrade aside and began by tearing out a handful of hair, and heaving a profound sigh.

“What is the meaning of all this groaning?” asked Jacques; “speak, and stop your nonsense.”

“Look you, comrade, I am an infernal brute! I am corked up like the barrel of Guillot’s gun, and yet I did everything for the best.”

“What do you mean?”

“I am the cause of your dear sister’s leaving the farm.”

“You! you villain!”

“If you don’t forgive me, I’ll put five pounds of lead between my eyebrows.”

“Nonsense! Speak, I implore you.”

“I found out that your brother was in prison; I didn’t dare to tell you and I didn’t mean to tell his wife either; but she urged me so hard, and you know that women do whatever they want to with me, especially the ones that I respect; and then I thought that she might comfort her husband a little.”

“And do you think that I have an iron heart? My brother is unfortunate, that ends it; I forget the way he received me; I too must comfort him.”

“Poor Jacques! I was sure of it.”

“And yet you kept your mouth shut, you idiot, and you left me consumed with anxiety--Poor woman! Perhaps she is with him!”

“Parbleu! there’s no doubt of that!”

“Is he in prison in Paris?”

“Yes--wait--he is at the Conciergerie.”

“He must have spent and sold everything, and his creditors had him arrested!--Ah! if I were rich, brother, how happy I would be to be of some use to you! But fate has willed it otherwise.--No matter; I can at least prove to you that you still have a friend.--Sans-Souci, I am going to Paris.”

“So am I; morbleu! I will go with you; I don’t propose to leave you.”

“Very well. We won’t say anything to the peasants about my brother’s imprisonment; those excellent people would be quite capable of insisting upon doing still more to assist us, and we must not accept it; they have done enough for us already.”

“You are always right. I agree with you; let us go and say good-bye to them; forward!”

Jacques and Sans-Souci embraced the peasants and told them that they were going to look for Adeline; then they started for Paris, where they arrived that afternoon.

“You know the way,” said Jacques to his comrade; “take me to the prison. I will ask to speak to the commander, the captain, the governor; in fact, to speak to everybody, if necessary; this honorable decoration will serve as my safe-conduct.”

“Look you, I don’t know the prison any better than you do, but I’ll take you to my old friend, who is the messenger to the prisoners; he will tell us how we must go to work to see your brother.”

“Very well, let us speak to your friend; I trust that we may find him.”

“Yes,” said Sans-Souci; “I see him now, over yonder.”

They quickened their pace and accosted the messenger, who recognized his friend, and shook hands with him, asking him what brought him to Paris.

“Let us sit down on this stone bench and talk,” said Sans-Souci; “this is my comrade, a fine fellow----”

“He has some scars and a bit of ribbon which say enough.--Can I help you in any way, messieurs?”

“Yes, we have come on important business--we want to see a prisoner. You know, that Edouard Murville, whom you mentioned to me the last time I saw you; well, my comrade is his brother.”

“You are his brother?” said the messenger, looking at Jacques with compassion. “I am sorry for you.”

“I am not the one to be sorry for,” said Jacques; “he is the one, since he is unfortunate; for he has not been guilty of any dishonorable act, I trust?”

“What have you come here for?” said the messenger, without answering Jacques’s question.

“Morbleu! we have come to see my brother; his wife and child have been here already to console him.”

“No woman has been here to see him, I assure you; in fact, no woman has attempted to see him.”

“Is it possible?”

“It would be useless now to try to see him, for--he is no longer at the Conciergerie.”

“He isn’t there? Where is he then?”

“Why, why--I cannot--tell you exactly.”

“What! Damnation! Can’t I find out where my brother is?”

“Come, come, my poor Jacques, don’t be discouraged,” said Sans-Souci; “my friend isn’t well posted; we will try to find out something more.”

“I tell you again, messieurs, that Edouard Murville is no longer in this prison, and that he must have left Paris before this. Adieu, my good Jacques, take my advice and return to your village; do not try to learn anything more, and forget a brother who is altogether unworthy of you.”

The messenger, deeply moved, pressed Jacques’s hand, and turned away from the friends, after saying this.

Jacques stood in deep thought; his brow darkened, his glance became more stern. Sans-Souci also was silent; he began to fear that it was not simply for debt that his comrade’s brother had been arrested. The two honest fellows dared not communicate their thoughts to each other, and the darkness surprised them seated on the stone bench and lost in their reflections.

“What are we going to do now?” asked Sans-Souci at last; “we are sitting here like two lost sentinels; but we must make up our minds to something.”

“Let us hunt for Adeline and her child,” said Jacques, in a gloomy voice, “and forget Edouard. I am beginning to fear that the wretch--let us look for Adeline; she will never make me blush.”

“Oh! for her I would rush into the hottest fire.”

“Poor woman! poor little Ermance! Where are they now? Perhaps her grief at learning that her husband--oh! why did you tell her that, Sans-Souci?”

“Don’t mention it. I would to God that you would use my tongue for a cartridge.”

“There is no rest for me until I know what has become of them. Let us search Paris and enquire at every house if necessary; and if we don’t find them in this city, let us search the whole of France, towns, hamlets, villages.”

“Corbleu! yes, we will go to the devil if necessary! But we will find them, comrade, we will find them, I tell you that.”

Jacques and his companion took rooms at a poor inn; they were on foot with the dawn, and scoured every quarter of the city, enquiring everywhere for Adeline and her child; but no one could give them any information concerning the young woman whom they sought. The sight of unfortunate people is so common that little attention is paid to them. However, sometimes the abode of some poor mother was pointed out to them; they would visit her, and find that she was not the object of their search.

On the eleventh day after their arrival in Paris, Jacques and Sans-Souci were walking on the boulevard, always thinking of Adeline and cudgeling their brains to divine what could have become of her.

Suddenly the people on the sidewalk pressed toward the driveway, seemingly awaiting some curious sight.

“What is going by?” Sans-Souci asked a workman who had stopped near him.

“It’s the chain of convicts, starting from Bicêtre to go to the galleys at Toulon,” was the reply. “See, here, here’s the wagon coming now; we shall see them in a minute.”

“It is hardly worth while to crowd so to see a parcel of villains,” said Sans-Souci.

“They ask for alms on the road.”

“If they had any pluck, they would ask to be shot.--Come, Jacques, let’s not stay here; I haven’t any pity for those fellows.”

“I want to stay,” said Jacques with emotion; “I want to see them.”

The vehicle came forward slowly, and Jacques, impelled by a secret presentiment, drew very near, and took a few sous from his pocket. Soon the convicts were before him; they held out their crime-stained hands, imploring the pity of the passers-by. Jacques scrutinized them closely, and noticed one who did not imitate his companions in infamy, but who tried on the contrary to avoid the eyes of the crowd; but the villain with whom he was shackled was one of those who displayed the most effrontery; he jerked him violently, and that movement afforded Jacques an opportunity to see the poor wretch’s features; it seemed to him that he recognized his brother. The cold sweat stood on his forehead; and with a movement swifter than thought, he put his hand to his buttonhole and removed his decoration, which he instantly thrust into his breast.

The wagon had gone on, and Jacques followed it with his eyes. Sans-Souci pulled his arm.

“Come,” he said to him; “how in the devil can you take any pleasure in looking at those beggars?--But what’s the matter with you? Your face is all distorted.”

“Ah! I am ruined, Sans-Souci! dishonored!”

“You, dishonored! that is impossible; do be reasonable.”

“My brother----”

“Well?”

Jacques dared not utter the fatal words; but with his hand he pointed to the chain of convicts, who could still be seen in the distance.

“It wasn’t he, my friend, you made a mistake.”

“Ah! would to God I had! But no, it was no mistake; and the words of that kindhearted messenger, his compassionate air as he spoke to me and shook my hand.--There is no more doubt; I understand everything now.”

“Well! even if your brother is a miserable villain, is it your fault? Did you fight for your country any the less, and thrash its enemies? And have the scars vanished from your face and your breast? Ten thousand million citadels! Who could ever blush for having known you? I will make the man swallow ten inches of my sword!”

“Ah! my name is sullied, my friend. O father! if you knew!”

“Your father is dead; if he was alive, your glory would console him for your brother’s shame.”

“No, Sans-Souci, consolation for such a calamity is impossible. There is but one thing left for me to do, and that is to overtake those wretched creatures, to find some way to approach the man whom I can no longer call my brother, and to blow his brains out, and then do the same by myself.”

“That’s a very pretty scheme of yours. But you won’t carry it out. You will remember that you have a sister, for that dear Adeline loves you like a brother; you will remember little Ermance, whom you danced on your knees; you will not deprive those poor creatures of the last friend who is left to them; you will forget your grief in order to allay theirs, and with them you will feel that you have not lost everything.--But we shall find them, comrade; we will search every corner of the earth; how do you know that they are not at the farm now, or in some poor cabin where they need our help? and you would leave this world when there are unfortunate mortals here who rely upon you? No, sacrebleu! that shall not be! You surrender, you are touched. Come, Jacques, be brave in grief as you were under fire, and forward march!”

Jacques allowed himself to be persuaded by his comrade, who took advantage of that circumstance to induce him to leave a city where they had lost all hope of discovering Adeline; and they returned to the farm, still flattering themselves that they would find the young fugitive there.

But that last hope was soon destroyed; the sadness of the peasants left them in no doubt. Jacques insisted upon starting off again at once in search of Adeline and her child, and only with great difficulty did they persuade him to remain one night at the farm. They saw that Brother Jacques was gloomy and melancholy since he had been in Paris; but the peasants attributed his gloom to the non-success of his search.

Sans-Souci made all their preparations for a journey which he thought with good reason would be likely to last a long while. Louise was greatly grieved to have her cousin go away, but she realized that he ought not to abandon his friend. The farmer’s wife thrust a well-filled purse into the bag of each of the travellers. It was simply their wages for all the time that they had worked at the farm; but she dared not offer it to them, for she knew that the method that she employed was the best one to avoid a refusal. Kindhearted folk are always shrewd and clever, when it is a question of doing a kind act.

At dawn Jacques was up. Sans-Souci soon joined him. He appeared with his bag over his shoulder, and a stout staff in his hand, and said to his comrade:

“Whenever you are ready, forward march!”

The two friends were about to start. The farmer and his family came forward weeping, to bid them adieu. The children, who had long been accustomed to play with Jacques’s moustaches and to roll on the grass with Sans-Souci, clung to the legs of both travellers, and would not let them go. Louise held a corner of her apron to her eyes, and her sighs said much more than her words. Guillot was no less sorrowful than the rest.

“I say! I’m going to be left alone with my wife, am I?” he said; “what a stupid time I shall have!--Here, comrade Jacques, let me give you a little present for your journey; it may be of some use to you; for you don’t know where you may be.”

As he spoke, Guillot handed Jacques a pair of small pocket pistols.

“I bought them second-hand in the village not long ago, of an old soldier; my idea was to give ’em to you on your birthday, but so long as you’re going away, why take ’em now.”

Jacques thanked the honest farmer and accepted his present; then, after embracing everybody, he set forth with Sans-Souci, swearing not to return to the farm without Adeline, and to take no rest until he had found her.

XXXII

THE GALLEY SLAVES