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The Sword of Honor; or, The Foundation of the French Republic
CHAPTER XXIII
TO THE WORKMAN THE TOOL
The factory of implements of war, established by John Lebrenn in his iron works, took the toil of twenty workmen. All – apprentices, old men, young men – vied with one another in patriotic ardor in the accomplishment of their task. They felt that this was no ordinary labor. They were conscious of serving the Republic, and lavished their skill on the arms destined for the patriots at the front. Accordingly, with what eagerness did not these artisans forge, beat, or file the iron, lighted here by a smoky lamp against the wall, there by the reverberating glow of the furnace. The ringing cadence of the hammers on the anvils was often accompanied by the popular songs of the period chanted in chorus by the workmen's sturdy voices. Most oft it was the Marseillaise, the Carmagnole, or the famous Ça Ira, whose brief and rapid rythm seemed to beat the "Charge!"
Songs and labors both stopped short at the entrance of John Lebrenn. Castillon had notified the shop a few minutes before that 'friend John,' as they cordially called him, was coming to post them on the events of the coming day, and to supply the information of which they had for some time been deprived.
"Citizens," said Castillon when he saw Lebrenn, "I rise to a motion! In order to lose as little time as possible, and in order to hear friend John without halting the work, let us set aside for an hour our hammers and files, and put in the time fitting or polishing our pieces. That will make practically no noise, and in this way we shall not be idling, and still can hear friend John in comfort."
"The motion is carried!" cried the workmen. In a few moments the bustle, consequent on the change of occupations, was over, and silence fell on the shop. John Lebrenn took his accustomed place, and speaking to several by name, thus addressed his companions:
"Brothers, we are on the eve of a great day, as beautiful, as decisive, as those of July 14 and August 10. This day will save, I hope, the Revolution, the Republic, and France, now more seriously threatened than ever. And moreover, it is also my firm hope that not a drop of blood will be shed. The law and the national Representatives will be respected, the people will know how to rise to the grandeur of its mission and overcome its adversaries no longer by force of arms, but by its moral influence. My language surprises you, men of action that you are."
"My faith, yes, friend John. But after all, if one can win without a fight, that is so much gained. It makes for peace."
"The victory will only be the purer for it. But, in order that you may understand the significance of the events now on the threshold, we must first take up those which have preceded. You know, my friends, and it is one of the greatest misfortunes of the times, that the Convention chosen by the people to proclaim the Republic and to arraign and judge Louis Capet has been, from the beginning of its existence, divided by party rivalries. The party leaders, the Mountainists, the Moderates, or the Girondins, are all more or less guilty of the same fault, I ought to say the same crime; for, forgetting the public weal, or confounding it with their own personalities, they have lost precious time reciprocally accusing one another of treason. Thus Capet's trial was dragged out over four months. The new Constitution is hardly drafted. National education is as yet but a project. Finally, if they have accepted the compulsory tax of a thousand million on the rich, and have established a maximum of wealth, we still await the laws to complete the emancipation of the proletariat by decreeing the right to the common possession of the instruments of production, for all citizens, male and female."
"We agree with you, friend John. The bourgeoisie has gotten its part of the Revolution, namely, justice; but Jacques Bonhomme has still the half of his to get. He has won political rights, universal suffrage, and the Republic – that is good, it is something, but it is not all. One must eat to live, and in order to eat one must have at his disposal either work or the tool with which to produce the necessaries of life. To the peasant the land, to the workman the tool. To each his part in the common property."
"Whose the fault, my friends, if our legitimate hopes have not been fulfilled?"
"By my pipe, friend John, the fault is in the delays of the Convention; that is clear as day."
"Whence it follows, that if we had chosen better Representatives we would never have had to suffer the delays which now bear so harmfully upon us. If the Convention has not up to now completed the emancipation of us proletarians, the fault lies with our lack of discernment in choosing our Representatives. You follow my reasoning? Now let us come to the conclusion."
"In fact, that is true enough, friend John. But, after all, if we made a bad choice, on whom can it be blamed?"
"On our inexperience, my friends; an inexperience entirely natural, for we are still apprentices in the exercise of our political rights. But experience will teach us how to serve ourselves better with the sovereign instrument over which we dispose; we shall obtain by the votes of our Representatives everything that we can legitimately claim and demand. Are we proletarians not, after all, the vast majority of the country? Let us then know how to make a better choice for the Assembly which will succeed the Convention, and our freedom will be complete. Does that mean, however, that the Convention does not count within its ranks some true friends of the people? That would be a slander on it; but these, Robespierre, St. Just, Danton and the other Jacobins, are unfortunately in the minority. The Girondins, who control the majority, are incapable of dissipating the perils which now stare the Republic in the face."
"An idea, friend John! How if we invited the Girondins to take a little visit down there to see how their friends Pitt and Coburg were getting along? If they don't accept, we march in force upon the Convention, sort the goats from the sheep, purge the flock of the goats, and then – . Stern diseases need stern remedies!"
"Then, my friend Castillon, the sovereignty of the people one and indivisible would be violated in the person of its Girondist Representatives. For these, no less than the Mountainists, are sacred by virtue of their popular election. Their inviolability covers them so long as there exists against them no proof of overt treason. We shall not step out of the just path. What must be done to save the Republic without violence, without illegality, without an assault on the sovereignty of the people, is to obtain from the Girondins, voluntarily, an abandonment of their power to the Jacobins."
"But how can that be done?"
"By using our right of assemblage and petition, by making the Convention hear the voice of the people, of Paris, and of all France. And, I call God to witness, that voice will be heard! The most refractory of our Representatives will be forced to obey."
"Bravo! Tell us some more!"
"Here, comrades, is what occurred yesterday, May 29. The Section of the Cité, through the organ of its president Dobsen, issued an appeal to the other forty-seven Sections of Paris, inviting them each to send two delegates to the electoral club sitting at the Bishopric. These delegates, clad by the Sections with full power for the common safety, are to act in concert. The call of the Cité has been heeded, and to-day these ninety-six commissioners of the Sections have named a superior committee of nine. This committee has resolved as follows:
"To-morrow, in order to establish the legality of the power with which the Sections have invested it, the committee will repair to the City Hall, declare its powers, and dismiss (but only for form's sake) the Municipal Council, whose authority exists only at the will of the Sections. This done, the Municipal Council will be reinstated in its functions, as it is composed of good patriots. The directorate of the department, on its part, being with the Sections, will call upon the officers of the Commune to assemble at the City Hall to-morrow and meet with the Municipal Council to the end of consulting, if need be, on matters of general security. Thus, to-morrow, at daybreak, all the Sections will assemble, with their cannon; that is to say, all Paris will be afoot, armed, not to fight, but to demonstrate, calm and dignifiedly, garbed imposingly in its power and sovereignty."
"I understand, friend John, that the ex-nobles still carry, even in tranquil times, their rapiers at their sides. It is 'part of their costume,' they say. Well, by my pipe, on these grand occasions, and without meaning to fight, the people shall put on its Sunday best, and march with pike-staves and cannon! That will be its ceremonial costume!"
"You have said it, friend Castillon. The ex-gentleman is not complete without his sword beside him – it is his symbol of oppression. The patriot is not complete without the pike in his hand, his symbol of resistance to oppression. To-morrow, then, when the Sections are peacefully assembled, in their ceremonial costume, as you said, Castillon, Citizen Rousselin, the spokesman of the deputation of the forty-eight Sections of Paris, and L'Huillier, in the name of the directorate of the department of Paris, will read at the bar of the Convention the petitions borne by the delegates of the Sections."
"Now, friend John, I understand the affair," returned Castillon. "We go say to the Girondins: 'Look you, citizens, we are here, a hundred thousand good patriots of Paris; and down there, in the country, other hundreds of thousands of good patriots, all convinced, like us, that you have not enough hair on your eyebrows to save the Republic. That is settled! We have the numbers, the force and the cannon for you, but these numbers, this force, these cannon we do not want to use. Only we say to you, in the name of the country: Citizen Girondins, when your loins are not strong enough to bear the burden, leave it to others more robust. Come, make yourselves scarce!'"
"You speak words of gold, my good Castillon. Yes, in all probability, such will be the consequences of to-morrow's program. The majority of the Convention – a majority which is often vacillating and undecided, but which has so far supported the Girondins – will, struck with this imposing manifestation, this calm, dignified, legal attitude of the people, and yielding to the pressure of public opinion, throw off the Girondin influence which dominates it, and join forces with the Jacobins, who will thus become masters of the situation. Then, my friends, be sure of it, whatever the allied monarchs of Europe may do, whatever the plots of the royalists and priests, the Republic, the Revolution, France, will be saved without the sovereignty of the people having been violated in the person of a single one of its Representatives in the Commune or the Convention, even of those most opposed to new ideas; and without the stigma of bloodshed."
All at once John Lebrenn's wife dashed into the workshop. She was pale and trembling, and called in tones of terror:
"John, my friend, come at once! What a misfortune!"
"Charlotte, you frighten me," cried Lebrenn, hastening to his wife's side. "Heavens, what has happened?"
"Come, come, in haste."
"Citizeness Lebrenn, do you need us?" called Castillon, as much moved as his comrades at the anxiety depicted on the young woman's face. "Speak – here we are, at your service."
"Thank you all, my friends, thank you. Alas! There is no remedy for the grief which has smitten us," replied Charlotte. And taking the arm of her husband, who grew every instant more uneasy, she dragged him out of the shop and towards their dwelling.
CHAPTER XXIV
LOST AGAIN
While John Lebrenn was enlightening his companions on the probable events of the coming day, Victoria, returning home close on half past nine, had gone up to her room. Setting the lamp on the table, she took off her street cloak and sat down, sad and weary. Her head fell between her hands. Suddenly her glance rested on a sheet of paper, placed conspicuously in the center of the table, and the young woman read, almost mechanically, these lines, traced in Oliver's still inexpert hand:
In daring to write you this letter, I put to use the little that I know, and which I owe to your generosity. You had pity on me, a poor orphan, you had compassion upon my ignorance. Thanks to you I can read, and form the letters. Thanks be to God, for at least I am able to write you what I would never have dared to tell you, for fear of incurring your anger or contempt. But at this hour what have I to fear?
What a change has come over me! A moment ago my hand trembled that I could not write, at the mere thought of acknowledging that I love you passionately. Now it seems to me that this acknowledgment will cause you neither contempt nor anger, for it is a sincere one.
You will not love me, you can never love me, because I am not worthy of you, and for that I am too young – I am a child, as you so often told me. I can not hope to win your affection.
This evening, about eight, I saw you go out. I was glad of it. I preferred to know that you were not here, and that I could thus in your absence place this letter on your table, to be read by you on your return.
I double-locked myself in. I looked at the roof gutter. The passage seemed practicable. To assure myself, I went as far as your window. It was open. I saw your table, your work-basket, your books. Ah, how I wept.
On returning to my chamber I began writing you this letter. I went at once to place it on your table, and then, thanks to some charcoal I have procured, I shall – put an end – to my existence —
"The poor child!" exclaimed Victoria, throwing the letter far from her; and rising, pale with apprehension, she ran to Oliver's door, crying aloud for help as she went. But in vain she beat on the panels and sought to force an entrance. Gertrude, Madam Lebrenn and her mother hastened up at Victoria's summons. The latter's presence of mind was only increased by the impending danger; failing in all her attempts to break down the door, she returned to her own room, adventured the narrow gutter which had served Oliver for a pathway, and arrived thus before the window of his garret chamber. There it was but the work of a minute to break one of the little panes, snap back the catch, leap into the room, and unfasten the locked door from within. Immediately, assisted by Madam Desmarais, Charlotte and Gertrude, she hastened to take the first steps for the resuscitation of the unfortunate boy stretched on the couch. The apprentice no longer gave any signs of life. But soon the pure air, rushing in by the now opened door and window, dispelled the deadly fumes of the charcoal. Oliver's breast heaved; he drew a faint breath. Victoria and Madam Desmarais carried the almost suffocated lad to the window. There he was propped up in a chair; his ashen features, covered with icy sweat, slowly regained a slight color, and little by little life returned to his bosom.
Two hours later he had quite come to, and found himself in John Lebrenn's parlor, alone with Victoria. One would have difficulty to frame in his imagination a countenance of more rare perfection than that of the youth, who possessed a physiognomy of charming candor. On her part, the young woman was grave. Her eyes, reddened with tears, and the feverish color which replaced the habitual pallor of her beautiful features, both bore witness to the painful emotions under which she was laboring. After a few seconds' hesitation, she thus addressed the youth in a sweet and solemn voice:
"Oliver, you are now, I believe, in condition to listen to me. I have requested my brother and his family to leave us to ourselves a while. Our interview will, I trust, exert a happy influence over your future, and give you complete satisfaction."
"I listen, Mademoiselle Victoria."
"I have read your letter," resumed the young woman, drawing Oliver's missive from her corsage. "Frightened at your resolve of suicide, and thinking only of snatching you from death while there was yet time, I was not at first able to finish it. But now I have just read it through."
"What do I hear!" exclaimed the youth, clasping his hands in a transport of joy. "My letter caused you neither contempt nor anger?"
"Why should it? You yielded to the promptings of gratitude toward me, and sympathy for my character. So, I am not irritated, but touched, by your affection."
"You are touched by my affection, Mademoiselle Victoria? My heaven, what do you say!"
"Now, my friend, answer me sincerely. The fear of seeing me insensible to an avowal which timidity has for so long kept trembling on your lips, drove you to think of suicide – am I right?"
"Helas, yes, mademoiselle!"
"Now speak true, Oliver. Was it as a mistress, or a wife, that you dreamt of me?"
"Good heavens! Do you think – ?"
"You thought of me as the future companion of your life? Ah, me, I declare that I am unworthy to become your wife. Cruelly as this avowal wounds my heart, Oliver, I must make it to you, in order that you retain no illusion, and no hope. But I offer you in their place a devoted attachment, the affection of a mother for her child. That is all I can give you."
Oliver, who so far had held his hands clasped over his face, now let them drop upon his knees. He replied with not a single word, but fixing upon Victoria a dark and foreboding look, rose with difficulty from his seat, and with a step that still wavered, moved towards the door.
The apprentice's silence and the expression on his face bore evidence to so profound a despair that Victoria presaged some new misfortune. She hastened to Oliver's side, took his hand, and asked:
"Where are you going?"
"To my room. I need rest."
"You shall not stay alone in your room. Gertrude and I will watch over you. We will remain there all night."
"Good night, Mademoiselle Victoria," returned the apprentice, moving anew towards the door. But Victoria, still holding him by the hand, replied:
"Oliver, I know what you are thinking of. You are not in your right mind."
"I beg your pardon, Mademoiselle Victoria; I am fully in possession of my senses; and if you have read my thoughts, you ought to realize that no power in the world can balk my resolution."
"You would have the cruelty to leave me under the weight of the horrible thought that I – I who love you as a son – was the cause of your death?"
"Your heart is compassionate, Mademoiselle Victoria, and your character generous. I wish to leave this world because you do not wish, or are not able, to love me."
"Unhappy child, even were I not sufficiently old to be your mother, I repeat to you with a blushing forehead, I am not worthy of being your wife. You can not be my husband. Such a union would be the shame of your life and the eternal remorse of mine."
"In your eyes, perhaps, but not in mine, Mademoiselle Victoria. Whatever a past of which I am ignorant may hold, a past in which I am in no way concerned, you are now for me the one creature in the world most worthy of respect and love. Life without you will be insupportable. I have resolved to die – "
"What a crazy thought! I do not love you with a lover's love. Why do you persist thus in a struggle for the impossible, poor foolish lad?"
"I have no thought of a struggle. I am resigned – and shall put myself out of the way."
These final words of Oliver's, pronounced without emphasis or bitterness, could not but remove from Victoria's mind her last doubts as to the unfortunate boy's resolution. She had been used long enough to read to the bottom of his open and childlike soul, to recognize there a blending of gentleness and strength of will. Hardly escaped from one almost certain death, the apprentice was all the more determined to seek in self-destruction the end of his torments. Victoria communed long with herself, and after an extended silence, began again:
"Oliver, you are resolved to die. I do not wish at any price to reawaken your hopes by entering into any engagement with you whatsoever. I do not wish to revive your illusions – they must be destroyed, and forever. But in the name of the interest I have always borne you, in the name even of your attachment for me, I ask of you only to promise me not to attempt to destroy your life until to-morrow at midnight. At that hour, you will meet me here again, or if not you will receive a letter from me. If the interview I shall then have with you, or if the reading of my letter does not change your sad designs, you may put them into execution, as you please. Let your destiny then run its course."
"To die twenty-four hours later, or twenty-four hours earlier, it matters little. I promise not to go before the hour you have set," replied the apprentice with such marked indifference that it was clear the poor boy entertained no hope of his suicide's being obviated. Again turning to the door, he added:
"Mademoiselle Victoria, to-morrow, then, shall decide my fate."
"Oliver, we have a full day to reflect on the grave matter which thus links both our existences."
Hardly had Oliver left the parlor when Victoria rose, and running to the door of an ante-room where John Lebrenn and his wife were concealed, said to them in a shaking voice:
"You heard everything?"
"Ah, the unfortunate boy," exclaimed John. "He is out of his mind. It is certain to me that he will carry out his fatal threat."
"Oh, heaven," added Madam Lebrenn, drying her eyes, "to think that to-day we saved him from death, and that to-morrow – oh, it is horrible! But what can one do in such an extremity? What can we make up our minds on? What is your idea?"
"We can and ought at least to put to profit the twenty-four hours and over which you have succeeded in winning from him, dear sister," replied Lebrenn. "I have before now not wished to intrude in this painful affair. But Oliver has a great affection for me. I have some influence over him; his heart is good, his spirit unblemished, his character open. I can appeal to his good parts, I can endeavor to exalt his already so ardent patriotism, which even his mad passion has not been able to cool. I shall prove to Oliver that he would commit a crime against the Republic, against his mother country, in sacrificing his life instead of devoting it to her protection when she is menaced by foreign invasion."
"Ah, brother, do you then believe that I have not thought of resurrecting that soul, now crushed and disheartened? Alas, my efforts were unavailing. I know the child better than you, my friends. Listen to me – this is the hour of a cruel confession, brother. You know what part Maurice, the sergeant in the French Guards, the unfortunate victim of Monsieur Plouernel, played in my life."
"Aye, and I know further, or I believe I know, that Oliver is Maurice's brother." Then, in answer to a gesture of surprise on Victoria's part, "It is to Charlotte's penetration that I owe the discovery."
"Oliver is, indeed, the brother of Maurice, and by one of those inexplicable mysteries of nature, the physical resemblance between the two is even perhaps less remarkable than their mental resemblance. My knowledge of Maurice's nature has given me the key to Oliver's. Woe is me!" cried Victoria in heartrending tones. "In seeing, in hearing the one, I thought I saw and heard the other! The same voice, the same look! How many times, entranced in memories, have I surprised myself moved, my heart beating for this living phantom of the only man I ever loved in my sad life!"
"You love Oliver – or rather in him you continue to love Maurice. Unhappy sister!"
"Sister, dear," said Charlotte, warmly seizing the two hands of Victoria, who stood mute and overcome, bowing her face which was empurpled with shame and flooded with tears, "do you suppose that we could breathe one word of censure against you? Your new agonies inspire but the tenderest compassion. Ah, if our sisterly affection were capable of any growth, it would increase before this touching proof of the persistence of the single love of your life. Do we not know, alas, that for you to love Oliver is but for you to continue faithful to Maurice?"
"And still this love, although as pure as the former one, would be shameful, revolting," murmured Victoria.
"Victoria," interposed John, unable to restrain his tears, "do not abandon yourself to despair. Let us face the reality coolly, and regulate our conduct accordingly."
"Helas, the reality!" broke from Victoria. "This it is: No human power can prevent the suicide of Oliver, if I do not promise to be his wife – or his mistress. The only alternatives are my shame or his death."
Victoria's words were followed by silence for several minutes.
"Woe is us," at length resumed John, the first to speak. "Aye, fate has shut us in an iron circle. And still, despite myself, some dim hope supports me. Some inspiration will come to us."
"Yes," replied Charlotte, "I also hope, because our sister Victoria is a noble creature; because Oliver is gifted with generous qualities. I believe it will be possible to discover a solution honorable for all of us."
"Oh, dear wife," exclaimed John, "how your words do comfort me. Aye, aye, every situation, desperate as it may seem, is capable of an honorable solution. Beloved sister, raise that bowed forehead. Let us have faith in the unison of noble hearts."
Suddenly Victoria lifted her head, transfigured, radiant; and passionately embracing her brother's wife, she cried:
"You spoke sooth, Charlotte. We shall come out of this situation with honor." Then, clasping John with redoubled ardor, she continued: "Ah, brother, what a weight of fear has been lifted from my heart! To-morrow you shall know all. To-morrow that circle of iron shall be broken which now hems us in. A happy path opens itself before me."
The following morning, as John Lebrenn was leaving his house for the shop, he was met in the courtyard by the servant Gertrude, who drew from her pocket an addressed envelope.
"Mademoiselle Victoria gave me this letter for you, Monsieur John."
"My sister has gone out, then?"
"Yes, sir. She left at daybreak with Oliver. He had a traveling-case on his shoulder."
"My sister has left us!" stammered John, in amazement. Then he hastily broke the envelope he had just received from Gertrude, and read as follows:
Adieu, brother! Embrace your wife tenderly for me.
I have taken Oliver away. I may not at present let you into my plans; but of one thing be assured, the solution is honorable for all. I am and shall remain worthy of your esteem and affection. Do not seek for the present to fathom what has become of me, and have no uneasiness over my fate. You shall receive a letter from me every week, until the day, close at hand, it may be, or perhaps far away, when I can return to you, dear brother, dear sister, never to leave you again.
While awaiting that day so much to be desired, continue, both of you, to love me – for never shall I have so much needed your affection.
VICTORIA.
