CHAPTER XLIX. THE TRYSTING-PLACE OF THE WOLVES.
Original
It was a Sunday morning the very day on which Mdlle. de Cardoville had received Rodin’s letter with regard to Mother Bunch’s disappearance. Two men were talking to together, seated at a table in one of the public houses in the little village of Villiers, situated at no great distance from Hardy’s factory. The village was for the most part inhabited by quarrymen and stonecutters, employed in working the neighboring quarries. Nothing can be ruder and more laborious, and at the same time less adequately paid, than the work of this class of people. Therefore, as Agricola had told Mother Bunch, they drew painful comparisons between their condition, almost always miserable, and the comfort and comparative ease enjoyed by M. Hardy’s workmen, thanks to his generous and intelligent management, and to the principles of association and community which he had put in practice amongst them. Misery and ignorance are always the cause of great evils. Misery is easily excited to anger, and ignorance soon yields to perfidious counsels. For a long time, the happiness of M. Hardy’s workmen had been naturally envied, but not with a jealousy amounting to hatred. As soon, however, as the secret enemies of the manufacturer, uniting with his rival Baron Tripeaud, had an interest in changing this peaceful state of things—it changed accordingly.
With diabolical skill and perseverance they succeeded in kindling the most evil passions. By means of chosen emissaries, they applied to those quarrymen and stonecutters of the neighborhood, whose bad conduct had aggravated their misery. Notorious for their turbulence, audacity, and energy, these men might exercise a dangerous influence on the majority of their companions, who were peaceful, laborious, and honest, but easily intimidated by violence. These turbulent leaders, previously embittered by misfortune, were soon impressed with an exaggerated idea of the happiness of M. Hardy’s workmen, and excited to a jealous hatred of them. They went still further; the incendiary sermons of an abbe, a member of the Jesuits, who had come expressly from Paris to preach during Lent against M. Hardy, acted powerfully on the minds of the women, who filled the church, whilst their husbands were haunting the taverns. Profiting by the growing fear, which the approach of the Cholera then inspired, the preacher struck with terror these weak and credulous imaginations by pointing to M. Hardy’s factory as a centre of corruption and damnation, capable of drawing down the vengeance of Heaven, and bringing the fatal scourge upon the country. Thus the men, already inflamed with envy, were still more excited by the incessant urgency of their wives, who, maddened by the abbe’s sermons, poured their curses on that band of atheists, who might bring down so many misfortunes upon them and their children. Some bad characters, belonging to the factory of Baron Tripeaud, and paid by him (for it was a great interest the honorable manufacturer had in the ruin of M. Hardy), came to augment the general irritation, and to complete it by raising one of those alarming union-questions, which in our day have unfortunately caused so much bloodshed. Many of M. Hardy’s workmen, before they entered his employ, had belonged to a society or union, called the Devourers; while many of the stonecutters in the neighboring quarries belonged to a society called the Wolves. Now, for a long time, an implacable rivalry had existed between the Wolves and Devourers, and brought about many sanguinary struggles, which are the more to be deplored, as, in some respects, the idea of these unions is excellent, being founded on the fruitful and mighty principle of association. But unfortunately, instead of embracing all trades in one fraternal communion, these unions break up the working-class into distinct and hostile societies, whose rivalry often leads to bloody collisions.(27) For the last week, the Wolves, excited by so many different importunities, burned to discover an occasion or a pretext to come to blows with the Devourers; but the latter, not frequenting the public-houses, and hardly leaving the factory during the week, had hitherto rendered such a meeting impossible, and the Wolves had been forced to wait for the Sunday with ferocious impatience.
Original
Moreover, a great number of the quarrymen and stonecutters, being peaceable and hard-working people, had refused, though Wolves themselves to join this hostile manifestation against the Devourers of M. Hardy’s factory; the leaders had been obliged to recruit their forces from the vagabonds and idlers of the barriers, whom the attraction of tumult and disorder had easily enlisted under the flag of the warlike Wolves. Such then was the dull fermentation, which agitated the little village of Villiers, whilst the two men of whom we have spoken were at table in the public-house.
These men had asked for a private room, that they might be alone. One of them was still young, and pretty well dressed. But the disorder in his clothes, his loose cravat, his shirt spotted with wine, his dishevelled hair, his look of fatigue, his marble complexion, his bloodshot eyes, announced that a night of debauch had preceded this morning; whilst his abrupt and heavy gesture, his hoarse voice, his look, sometimes brilliant, and sometimes stupid, proved that to the last fumes of the intoxication of the night before, were joined the first attacks of a new state of drunkenness. The companion of this man said to him, as he touched his glass with his own: “Your health, my boy!”
“Yours!” answered the young man; “though you look to me like the devil.”
“I!—the devil?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“How did you come to know me?”
“Do you repent that you ever knew me?”
“Who told you that I was a prisoner at Sainte-Pelagie?”
“Didn’t I take you out of prison?”
“Why did you take me out?”
“Because I have a good heart.”
“You are very fond of me, perhaps—just as the butcher likes the ox that he drives to the slaughter-house.”
“Are you mad?”
“A man does not pay a hundred thousand francs for another without a motive.”
“I have a motive.”
“What is it? what do you want to do with me?”
“A jolly companion that will spend his money like a man, and pass every night like the last. Good wine, good cheer, pretty girls, and gay songs. Is that such a bad trade?”
After he had remained a moment without answering, the young man replied with a gloomy air: “Why, on the eve of my leaving prison, did you attach this condition to my freedom, that I should write to my mistress to tell her that I would never see her again! Why did you exact this letter from me?”
“A sigh! what, are you still thinking of her?”
“Always.”
“You are wrong. Your mistress is far from Paris by this time. I saw her get into the stage-coach, before I came to take you out of Sainte Pelagie.”
“Yes, I was stifled in that prison. To get out, I would have given my soul to the devil. You thought so, and therefore you came to me; only, instead of my soul, you took Cephyse from me. Poor Bacchanal-Queen! And why did you do it? Thousand thunders! Will you tell me!”
“A man as much attached to his mistress as you are is no longer a man. He wants energy, when the occasion requires.”
“What occasion?”
“Let us drink!”
“You make me drink too much brandy.”
“Bah! look at me!”
“That’s what frightens me. It seems something devilish. A bottle of brandy does not even make you wink. You must have a stomach of iron and a head of marble.”
“I have long travelled in Russia. There we drink to roast ourselves.”
“And here to only warm. So—let’s drink—but wine.”
“Nonsense! wine is fit for children. Brandy for men like us!”
“Well, then, brandy; but it burns, and sets the head on fire, and then we see all the flames of hell!”
“That’s how I like to see you, hang it!”
“But when you told me that I was too much attached to my mistress, and that I should want energy when the occasion required, of what occasion did you speak?”
“Let us drink!”
“Stop a moment, comrade. I am no more of a fool than others. Your half words have taught me something.
“Well, what?”
“You know that I have been a workman, that I have many companions, and that, being a good fellow, I am much liked amongst them. You want me for a catspaw, to catch other chestnuts?”
“What then?”
“You must be some getter-up of riots—some speculator in revolts.”
“What next?”
“You are travelling for some anonymous society, that trades in musket shots.”
“Are you a coward?”
“I burned powder in July, I can tell you—make no mistakes!”
“You would not mind burning some again?”
“Just as well that sort of fireworks as any other. Only I find revolutions more agreeable than useful; all that I got from the barricades of the three days was burnt breeches and a lost jacket. All the cause won by me, with its ‘Forward! March!’ says.”
“You know many of Hardy’s workmen?”
“Oh! that’s why you have brought me down here?”
“Yes—you will meet with many of the workmen from the factory.”
“Men from Hardy’s take part in a row? No, no; they are too well off for that. You have been sold.”
“You will see presently.”
“I tell you they are well off. What have they to complain of?”
“What of their brethren—those who have not so good a master, and die of hunger and misery, and call on them for assistance? Do you think they will remain deaf to such a summons? Hardy is only an exception. Let the people but give a good pull all together, and the exception will become the rule, and all the world be happy.”
“What you say there is true, but it would be a devil of a pull that would make an honest man out of my old master, Baron Tripeaud, who made me what I am—an out-and-out rip.”
“Hardy’s workmen are coming; you are their comrade, and have no interest in deceiving them. They will believe you. Join with me in persuading them—”
“To what?”
“To leave this factory, in which they grow effeminate and selfish, and forget their brothers.”
“But if they leave the factory, how are they to live?”
“We will provide for that—on the great day.”
“And what’s to be done till then?”
“What you have done last night—drink, laugh, sing, and, by way of work, exercise themselves privately in the use of arms.’
“Who will bring these workmen here?”
“Some one has already spoken to them. They have had printed papers, reproaching them with indifference to their brothers. Come, will you support me?”
“I’ll support you—the more readily as I cannot very well support myself. I only cared for Cephyse in the world; I know that I am on a bad road; you are pushing me on further; let the ball roll!—Whether we go to the devil one way or the other is not of much consequence. Let’s drink.”
“Drink to our next night’s fun; the last was only apprenticeship.”
“Of what then are you made? I looked at you, and never saw you either blush or smile, or change countenance. You are like a man of iron.”
“I am not a lad of fifteen. It would take something more to make me laugh. I shall laugh to-night.”
“I don’t know if it’s the brandy; but, devil take me, if you don’t frighten me when you say you shall laugh tonight!”
So saying, the young man rose, staggering; he began to be once more intoxicated.
There was a knock at the door. “Come in!” The host made his appearance.
“What’s the matter?”
“There’s a young man below, who calls himself Olivier. He asks for M. Morok.”
“That’s right. Let him came up.” The host went out.
“It is one of our men, but he is alone,” said Morok, whose savage countenance expressed disappointment. “It astonishes me, for I expected a good number. Do you know him?”
“Olivier? Yes—a fair chap, I think.”
“We shall see him directly. Here he is.” A young man, with an open, bold, intelligent countenance, at this moment entered the room.
“What! old Sleepinbuff!” he exclaimed, at sight of Morok’s companion.
“Myself. I have not seen you for an age, Olivier.”
“Simple enough, my boy. We do not work at the same place.”
“But you are alone!” cried Morok; and pointing to Sleepinbuff, he added: “You may speak before him—he is one of us. But why are you alone?”
“I come alone, but in the name of my comrades.”
“Oh!” said Morok, with a sigh of satisfaction, “they consent.”
“They refuse—just as I do!”
“What, the devil! they refuse? Have they no more courage than women?” cried Morok, grinding his teeth with rage.
“Hark ye,” answered Olivier, coolly. “We have received your letters, and seen your agent. We have had proof that he is really connected with great societies, many members of which are known to us.”
“Well! why do you hesitate?”
“First of all, nothing proves that these societies are ready to make a movement.”
“I tell you they are.”
“He—tells you—they are,” said Sleepinbuff, stammering “and I (hic!) affirm it. Forward! March!”
“That’s not enough,” replied Olivier. “Besides, we have reflected upon it. For a week the factory was divided. Even yesterday the discussion was too warm to be pleasant. But this morning Father Simon called to him; we explained ourselves fully before him, and he brought us all to one mind. We mean to wait, and if any disturbance breaks out, we shall see.”
“Is that your final word?”
“It is our last word.”
“Silence!” cried Sleepinbuff, suddenly, as he listened, balancing himself on his tottering legs. “It is like the noise of a crowd not far off.” A dull sound was indeed audible, which became every moment more and more distinct, and at length grew formidable.
“What is that?” said Olivier, in surprise.
“Now,” replied Morok, smiling with a sinister air, “I remember the host told me there was a great ferment in the village against the factory. If you and your other comrades had separated from Hardy’s other workmen, as I hoped, these people who are beginning to howl would have been for you, instead of against you.”
“This was a trap, then, to set one half of M. Hardy’s workmen against the other!” cried Olivier; “you hoped that we should make common cause with these people against the factory, and that—”
The young man had not time to finish. A terrible outburst of shouts, howls, and hisses shook the tavern. At the same instant the door was abruptly opened, and the host, pale and trembling, hurried into the chamber, exclaiming: “Gentlemen! do any of you work at M. Hardy’s factory?”
“I do,” said Olivier.
“Then you are lost. Here are the Wolves in a body, saying there are Devourers here from M. Hardy’s, and offering them battle—unless the Devourers will give up the factory, and range themselves on their side.”
“It was a trap, there can be no doubt of it!” cried Olivier, looking at Morok and Sleepinbuff, with a threatening air; “if my mates had come, we were all to be let in.”
“I lay a trap, Olivier?” stammered Jacques Rennepont. “Never!”
“Battle to the Devourers! or let them join the Wolves!” cried the angry crowd with one voice, as they appeared to invade the house.
“Come!” exclaimed the host. Without giving Olivier time to answer, he seized him by the arm, and opening a window which led to a roof at no very great height from the ground, he said to him: “Make your escape by this window, let yourself slide down, and gain the fields; it is time.”
Original
As the young workman hesitated, the host added, with a look of terror:
“Alone, against a couple of hundred, what can you do? A minute more, and you are lost. Do you not hear them? They have entered the yard; they are coming up.”
Indeed, at this moment, the groans, the hisses, and cheers redoubled in violence; the wooden staircase which led to the first story shook beneath the quick steps of many persons, and the shout arose, loud and piercing: “Battle to the Devourers!”
“Fly, Olivier!” cried Sleepinbuff, almost sobered by the danger.
Hardly had he pronounced the words when the door of the large room, which communicated with the small one in which they were, was burst open with a frightful crash.
“Here they are!” cried the host, clasping his hands in alarm. Then, running to Olivier, he pushed him, as it were, out of the window; for, with one foot on the sill, the workman still hesitated.
The window once closed, the publican returned towards Morok the instant the latter entered the large room, into which the leaders of the Wolves had just forced an entry, whilst their companions were vociferating in the yard and on the staircase. Eight or ten of these madmen, urged by others to take part in these scenes of disorder, had rushed first into the room, with countenances inflamed by wine and anger; most of them were armed with long sticks. A blaster, of Herculean strength and stature, with an old red handkerchief about his head, its ragged ends streaming over his shoulders, miserably dressed in a half-worn goat-skin, brandished an iron drilling-rod, and appeared to direct the movements. With bloodshot eyes, threatening and ferocious countenance, he advanced towards the small room, as if to drive back Morok, and exclaimed, in a voice of thunder:
“Where are the Devourers?—the Wolves will eat ‘em up!”
The host hastened to open the door of the small room, saying: “There is no one here, my friends—no one. Look for yourselves.”
“It is true,” said the quarryman, surprised, after peeping into the room; “where are they, then? We were told there were a dozen of them here. They should have marched with us against the factory, or there’d ‘a been a battle, and the Wolves would have tried their teeth!”
“If they have not come,” said another, “they will come. Let’s wait.”
“Yes, yes; we will wait for them.”
“We will look close at each other.”
“If the Wolves want to see the Devourers,” said Morok, “why not go and howl round the factory of the miscreant atheists? At the first howl of the Wolves they will come out, and give you battle.”
“They will give you—battle,” repeated Sleepinbuff, mechanically.
“Unless the Wolves are afraid of the Devourers,” added Morok.
“Since you talk of fear, you shall go with us, and see who’s afraid!” cried the formidable blaster, and in a thundering voice, he advanced towards Morok.
A number of voices joined in with, “Who says the Wolves are afraid of the Devourers?”
“It would be the first time!”
“Battle! battle! and make an end of it!”
“We are tired of all this. Why should we be so miserable, and they so well off?”
“They have said that quarrymen are brutes, only fit to torn wheels in a shaft, like dogs to turn spits,” cried an emissary of Baron Tripeaud’s.
“And that the Devourers would make themselves caps with wolf-skin,” added another.
“Neither they nor their wives ever go to mass. They are pagans and dogs!” cried an emissary of the preaching abbe.
“The men might keep their Sunday as they pleased; but their wives not to go to mass!—it is abominable.
“And, therefore, the curate has said that their factory, because of its abominations, might bring down the cholera to the country.”
“True? he said that in his sermon.”
“Our wives heard it.”
“Yes, yes; down with the Devourers, who want to bring the cholera on the country!”
“Hooray, for a fight!” cried the crowd in chorus.
“To the factory, my brave Wolves!” cried Morok, with the voice of a Stentor; “on to the factory!”
“Yes! to the factory! to the factory!” repeated the crowd, with furious stamping; for, little by little, all who could force their way into the room, or up the stairs, had there collected together.
These furious cries recalling Jacques for a moment to his senses, he whispered to Morok: “It is slaughter you would provoke? I wash my hands of it.”
“We shall have time to let them know at the factory. We can give these fellows the slip on the road,” answered Morok. Then he cried aloud, addressing the host, who was terrified at this disorder: “Brandy!—let us drink to the health of the brave Wolves! I will stand treat.” He threw some money to the host, who disappeared, and soon returned with several bottles of brandy, and some glasses.
“What! glasses?” cried Morok. “Do jolly companions, like we are, drink out of glasses?” So saying, he forced out one of the corks, raised the neck of the bottle to his lips, and, having drunk a deep draught, passed it to the gigantic quarryman.
“That’s the thing!” said the latter. “Here’s in honor of the treat!—None but a sneak will refuse, for this stuff will sharpen the Wolves’ teeth!”
“Here’s to your health, mates!” said Morok, distributing the bottles.
“There will be blood at the end of all this,” muttered Sleepinbuff, who, in spite of his intoxication, perceived all the danger of these fatal incitements. Indeed, a large portion of the crowd was already quitting the yard of the public-house, and advancing rapidly towards M. Hardy’s factory.
Those of the workmen and inhabitants of the village, who had not chosen to take any part in this movement of hostility (they were the majority), did not make their appearance, as this threatening troop passed along the principal street; but a good number of women, excited to fanaticism by the sermons of the abbe, encouraged the warlike assemblage with their cries. At the head of the troop advanced the gigantic blaster, brandishing his formidable bar, followed by a motley mass, armed with sticks and stones. Their heads still warmed by their recent libations of brandy, they had now attained a frightful state of frenzy. Their countenances were ferocious, inflamed, terrible. This unchaining of the worst passions seemed to forbode the most deplorable consequences. Holding each other arm-in-arm, and walking four or five together, the Wolves gave vent to their excitement in war-songs, which closed with the following verse:
“Forward! full of assurance! Let us try our vigorous arms! They have wearied out our prudence; Let us show we’ve no alarms. Sprung from a monarch glorious,(28) To-day we’ll not grow pale, Whether we win the fight, or fail, Whether we die, or are victorious! Children of Solomon, mighty king, All your efforts together bring, Till in triumph we shall sing!”
Morok and Jacques had disappeared whilst the tumultuous troop were leaving the tavern to hasten to the factory.
(27) Let it be noted, to the working-man’s credit, that such outrageous scenes become more and more rare as he is enlightened to the full consciousness of his worth. Such better tendencies are to be attributed to the just influence of an excellent tract on trades’ union written by M. Agricole Perdignier, and published in 1841, Paris. This author, a joiner, founded at his own expense an establishment in the Faubourg St. Antoine, where some forty or fifty of his trade lodged, and were given, after the day’s work, a course of geometry, etc., applied to wood carving. We went to one of the lectures, and found as much clearness in the professor as attention and intelligence in the audience. At ten, after reading selections, all the lodgers retire, forced by their scanty wages to sleep, perhaps, four in a room. M. Perdignier informed us that study and instruction were such powerful ameliorators, that, during six years, he had only one of his lodgers to expel. “In a few days,” he remarked, “the bad eggs find out, this is no place for them to addle sound ones!” We are happy to hear, reader, public homage to a learned and upright man, devoted to his fellow-workmen.
(28) The Wolves (among others) ascribe the institution of their company to King Solomon. See the curious work by M. Agricole Perdignier, from which the war-song is extracted.
CHAPTER L. THE COMMON DWELLING-HOUSE
Whilst the Wolves, as we have just seen, prepared a savage attack on the Devourers, the factory of M. Hardy had that morning a festal air, perfectly in accordance with the serenity of the sky; for the wind was from the north, and pretty sharp for a fine day in March. The clock had just struck nine in the Common Dwelling-house of the workmen, separated from the workshops by a broad path planted with trees. The rising sun bathed in light this imposing mass of buildings, situated a league from Paris, in a gay and salubrious locality, from which were visible the woody and picturesque hills, that on this side overlook the great city. Nothing could be plainer, and yet more cheerful than the aspect of the Common Dwelling-house of the workmen. Its slanting roof of red tiles projected over white walls, divided here and there by broad rows of bricks, which contrasted agreeably with the green color of the blinds on the first and second stories.
These buildings, open to the south and east, were surrounded by a large garden of about ten acres, partly planted with trees, and partly laid out in fruit and kitchen-garden. Before continuing this description, which perhaps will appear a little like a fairy-tale, let us begin by saying, that the wonders, of which we are about to present the sketch, must not to be considered Utopian dreams; nothing, on the contrary, could be of a more positive character, and we are able to assert, and even to prove (what in our time is of great weight and interest), that these wonders were the result of an excellent speculation, and represented an investment as lucrative as it was secure. To undertake a vast, noble, and most useful enterprise; to bestow on a considerable number of human creatures an ideal prosperity, compared with the frightful, almost homicidal doom, to which they are generally condemned; to instruct them, and elevate them in their own esteem; to make them prefer to the coarse pleasures of the tavern, or rather to the fatal oblivion which they find there, as an escape from the consciousness of their deplorable destiny, the pleasures, of the intellect and the enjoyments of art; in a word, to make men moral by making them happy, and finally, thanks to this generous example, so easy of imitation, to take a place amongst the benefactors of humanity—and yet, at the same time to do, as it were, without knowing it, an excellent stroke of business—may appear fabulous. And yet this was the secret of the wonders of which we speak.
Let us enter the interior of the factory. Ignorant of Mother Bunch’s cruel disappearance, Agricola gave himself up to the most happy, thoughts as he recalled Angela’s image, and, having finished dressing with unusual care, went in search of his betrothed.
Let us say two words on the subject of the lodging, which the smith occupied in the Common Dwelling-house, at the incredibly low rate of seventy-five francs per annum like the other bachelors on the establishment. This lodging, situated on the second story, was comprised of a capital chamber and bedroom, with a southern aspect, and looking on the garden; the pine floor was perfectly white and clean; the iron bedstead was supplied with a good mattress and warm coverings; a gas burner and a warm-air pipe were also introduced into the rooms, to furnish light and heat as required; the walls were hung with pretty fancy papering, and had curtains to match; a chest of drawers, a walnut table, a few chairs, a small library, comprised Agricola’s furniture. Finally, in the large and light closet, was a place for his clothes, a dressing table, and large zinc basin, with an ample supply of water. If we compare this agreeable, salubrious, comfortable lodging, with the dark, icy, dilapidated garret, for which the worthy fellow paid ninety francs at his mother’s, and to get to which he had more than a league and a half to go every evening, we shall understand the sacrifice he made to his affection for that excellent woman.
Agricola, after casting a last glance of tolerable satisfaction at his looking-glass, while he combed his moustache and imperial, quitted his chamber, to go and join Angela in the women’s workroom. The corridor, along which he had to pass, was broad, well-lighted from above, floored with pine, and extremely clean. Notwithstanding some seeds of discord which had been lately sown by M. Hardy’s enemies amongst his workmen, until now so fraternally united, joyous songs were heard in almost all the apartments which skirted the corridor, and, as Agricola passed before several open doors, he exchanged a cordial good-morrow with many of his comrades. The smith hastily descended the stairs, crossed the court yard, in which was a grass-plot planted with trees, with a fountain in the centre, and gained the other wing of the building. There was the workroom, in which a portion of the wives and daughters of the associated artisans, who happened not to be employed in the factory, occupied themselves in making up the linen. This labor, joined to the enormous saving effected by the purchase of the materials wholesale, reduced to an incredible extent the price of each article. After passing through this workroom, a vast apartment looking on the garden, well-aired in summer,(29) and well-warmed in winter, Agricola knocked at the door of the rooms occupied by Angela’s mother.
If we say a few words with regard to this lodging, situated on the first story, with an eastern aspect, and also looking on the garden, it is that we may tape it as a specimen of the habitation of a family in this association, supplied at the incredibly small price of one hundred and twenty-five francs per annum.
A small entrance, opening on the corridor, led to a large room, on each side of which was a smaller chamber, destined for the family, when the boys and girls were too big to continue to sleep in the two dormitories, arranged after the fashion of a large school, and reserved for the children of both sexes. Every night the superintendence of these dormitories was entrusted to a father and mother of a family, belonging to the association. The lodging of which we speak, being, like all the others, disencumbered of the paraphernalia of a kitchen—for the cooking was done in common, and on a large scale, in another part of the building—was kept extremely clean. A pretty large piece of carpet, a comfortable arm-chair, some pretty-looking china on a stand of well polished wood, some prints hung against the walls, a clock of gilt bronze, a bed, a chest of drawers, and a mahogany secretary, announced that the inhabitants of this apartment enjoyed not only the necessaries, but some of the luxuries of life. Angela, who, from this time, might be called Agricola’s betrothed, justified in every point the flattering portrait which the smith had drawn of her in his interview with poor Mother Bunch. The charming girl, seventeen years of age at most, dressed with as much simplicity as neatness, was seated by the side of her mother. When Agricola entered, she blushed slightly at seeing him.
“Mademoiselle,” said Agricola, “I have come to keep my promise, if your mother has no objection.”
“Certainly, M. Agricola,” answered the mother of the young girl cordially. “She would not go over the Common Dwelling-house with her father, her brother, or me, because she wished to have that pleasure with you today. It is quite right that you, who can talk so well, should do the honors of the house to the new-comer. She has been waiting for you an hour, and with such impatience!”
“Pray excuse me, mademoiselle,” said Agricola, gayly; “in thinking of the pleasure of seeing you, I forgot the hour. That is my only excuse.”
“Oh, mother!” said the young girl, in a tone of mild reproach, and becoming red as a cherry, “why did you say that?”
“Is it true, yes or no? I do not blame you for it; on the contrary. Go with M. Agricola, child, and he will tell you, better than I can, what all the workmen of the factory owe to M, Hardy.”
“M. Agricola,” said Angela, tying the ribbons of her pretty cap, “what a pity that your good little adopted sister is not with us.”
“Mother Bunch?—yes, you are right, mademoiselle; but that is only a pleasure put off, and the visit she paid us yesterday will not be the last.”
Having embraced her mother, the girl took Agricola’s arm, and they went out together.
“Dear me, M. Agricola,” said Angela; “if you knew how much I was surprised on entering this fine house, after being accustomed to see so much misery amongst the poor workmen in our country, and in which I too have had my share, whilst here everybody seems happy and contented. It is really like fairy-land; I think I am in a dream, and when I ask my mother the explanation of these wonders, she tells me, ‘M. Agricola will explain it all to you.’”
“Do you know why I am so happy to undertake that delightful task, mademoiselle?” said Agricola, with an accent at once grave and tender. “Nothing could be more in season.”
“Why so, M. Agricola?”
“Because, to show you this house, to make you acquainted with all the resources of our association, is to be able to say to you: ‘Here, the workman, sure of the present, sure of the future, is not, like so many of his poor brothers, obliged to renounce the sweetest want of the heart—the desire of choosing a companion for life—in the fear of uniting misery to misery.”’
Angela cast down her eyes, and blushed.
“Here the workman may safely yield to the hope of knowing the sweet joys of a family, sure of not having his heart torn hereafter by the sight of the horrible privations of those who are dear to him; here, thanks to order and industry, and the wise employment of the strength of all, men, women, and children live happy and contented. In a ward, to explain all this to you, mademoiselle,” added Agricola, smiling with a still more tender air, “is to prove, that here we can do nothing more reasonable than love, nothing wiser than marry.”
“M. Agricola,” answered Angela, in a slightly agitated voice, and blushing still more as she spoke, “suppose we were to begin our walk.”
“Directly, mademoiselle,” replied the smith, pleased at the trouble he had excited in that ingenuous soul. “But, come; we are near the dormitory of the little girls. The chirping birds have long left their nests. Let us go there.”
“Willingly, M. Agricola.”
Original
The young smith and Angela soon entered a spacious dormitory, resembling that of a first-rate boarding school. The little iron bedsteads were arranged in symmetrical order; at each end were the beds of the two mothers of families, who took the superintendence by turns.
“Dear me! how well it is arranged, M. Agricola, and how neat and clean! Who is it that takes such good care of it?”
“The children themselves; we have no servants here. There is an extraordinary emulation between these urchins—as to who shall make her bed most neatly, and it amuses them quite as much as making a bed for their dolls. Little girls, you know, delight in playing at keeping house. Well, here they play at it in good earnest, and the house is admirably kept in consequence.”
“Oh! I understand. They turn to account their natural taste for all such kinds of amusement.”
“That is the whole secret. You will see them everywhere usefully occupied, and delighted at the importance of the employments given them.”
“Oh, M. Agricola!” said Angela, timidly, “only compare these fine dormitories, so warm and healthy, with the horrible icy garrets, where children are heaped pell-mell on a wretched straw-mattress, shivering with cold, as in the case with almost all the workmen’s families in our country!”
“And in Paris, mademoiselle, it is even worse.”
“Oh! how kind, generous, and rich must M. Hardy be, to spend so much money in doing good!”
“I am going to astonish you, mademoiselle!” said Agricola, with a smile; “to astonish you so much, that perhaps you will not believe me.”
“Why so, M. Agricola?”
“There is not certainly in the world a man with a better and more generous heart than M. Hardy; he does good for its own sake and without thinking of his personal interest. And yet, Mdlle. Angela, were he the most selfish and avaricious of men, he would still find it greatly to his advantage to put us in a position to be as comfortable as we are.”
“Is it possible, M. Agricola? You tell me so, and I believe it; but if good can so easily be done, if there is even an advantage in doing it, why is it not more commonly attempted?”
“Ah! mademoiselle, it requires three gifts very rarely met with in the same person—knowledge, power and will.”
“Alas! yes. Those who have the knowledge, have not the power.”
“And those who have the power, have neither the knowledge nor the will.”
“But how does M. Hardy find any advantage in the good he does for you?”
“I will explain that presently, mademoiselle.”
“Oh, what a nice, sweet smell of fruit!” said Angela, suddenly.
“Our common fruit-store is close at hand. I wager we shall find there some of the little birds from the dormitory—not occupied in picking and stealing, but hard at work.”
Opening a door, Agricola led Angela into a large room, furnished with shelves, on which the winter fruits were arranged in order. A number of children, from seven to eight years old, neatly and warmly clad, and glowing with health, exerted themselves cheerfully, under the superintendence of a woman, in separating and sorting the spoiled fruit.
“You see,” said Agricola, “wherever it is possible, we make use of the children. These occupations are amusements for them, answering to the need of movement and activity natural to their age; and, in this way, we can employ the grown girls and the women to much better advantage.”
“True, M. Agricola; how well it is all arranged.”
“And if you saw what services the urchins in the kitchen render! Directed by one or two women, they do the work of eight or ten servants.”
“In fact,” said Angela, smiling, “at their age, we like so much to play at cooking dinner. They must be delighted.”
“And, in the same way, under pretext of playing at gardening, they weed the ground, gather the fruit and vegetables, water the flowers, roll the paths, and so on. In a word, this army of infant-workers, who generally remain till ten or twelve years of age without being of any service, are here very useful. Except three hours of school, which is quite sufficient for them, from the age of six or seven their recreations are turned to good account, and the dear little creatures, by the saving of full-grown arms which they effect, actually gain more than they cost; and then, mademoiselle, do you not think there is something in the presence of childhood thus mixed up with every labor—something mild, pure, almost sacred, which has its influence on our words and actions, and imposes a salutary reserve? The coarsest man will respect the presence of children.”
“The more one reflects, the more one sees that everything here is really designed for the happiness of all!” said Angela, in admiration.
“It has not been done without trouble. It was necessary to conquer prejudices, and break through customs. But see, Mdlle. Angela! here we are at the kitchen,” added the smith, smiling; “is it not as imposing as that of a barrack or a public school?”
Indeed, the culinary department of the Common Dwelling-house was immense. All its utensils were bright and clean; and thanks to the marvellous and economical inventions of modern science (which are always beyond the reach of the poorer classes, to whom they are most necessary, because they can only be practised on a large scale), not only the fire on the hearth, and in the stoves, was fed with half the quantity of fuel that would have been consumed by each family individually, but the excess of the caloric sufficed, with the aid of well-constructed tubes, to spread a mild and equal warmth through all parts of the house. And here also children, under the direction of two women, rendered numerous services. Nothing could be more comic than the serious manner in which they performed their culinary functions; it was the same with the assistance they gave in the bakehouse, where, at an extraordinary saving in the price (for they bought flour wholesale), they made an excellent household bread, composed of pure wheat and rye, so preferable to that whiter bread, which too often owes its apparent qualities to some deleterious substance.
“Good-day, Dame Bertrand,” said Agricola, gayly, to a worthy matron, who was gravely contemplating the slow evolution of several spits, worthy of Gamache’s Wedding so heavily were they laden with pieces of beef, mutton, and veal, which began to assume a fine golden brown color of the most attractive kind; “good-day, Dame Bertrand. According to the rule, I do not pass the threshold of the kitchen. I only wish it to be admired by this young lady, who is a new-comer amongst us.”
“Admire, my lad, pray admire—and above all take notice, how good these brats are, and how well they work!” So saying, the matron pointed with the long ladle, which served her as a sceptre, to some fifteen children of both sexes, seated round a table, and deeply absorbed in the exercise of their functions, which consisted in peeling potatoes and picking herbs.
“We are, I see, to have a downright Belshazzar’s feast, Dame Bertrand?” said Agricola, laughing.
“Faith, a feast like we have always, my lad. Here is our bill of fare for to-day. A good vegetable soup, roast beef with potatoes, salad, fruit, cheese; and for extras, it being Sunday, some currant tarts made by Mother Denis at the bakehouse, where the oven is heating now.”
“What you tell me, Dame Bertrand, gives me a furious appetite,” said Agricola, gayly. “One soon knows when it is your turn in the kitchen,” added he, with a flattering air.
“Get along, do!” said the female Soyer on service, merrily.
“What astonishes me, so much, M. Agricola,” said Angela, as they continued their walk, “is the comparison of the insufficient, unwholesome food of the workmen in our country, with that which is provided here.”
“And yet we do not spend more than twenty-five sous a day, for much better food than we should get for three francs in Paris.”
“But really it is hard to believe, M. Agricola. How is it possible?”
“It is thanks to the magic wand of M. Hardy. I will explain it all presently.”
“Oh! how impatient I am to see M. Hardy!”
“You will soon see him—perhaps to-day; for he is expected every moment. But here is the refectory, which you do not yet know, as your family, like many others, prefer dining at home. See what a fine room, looking out on the garden, just opposite the fountain!”
It was indeed a vast hall, built in the form of a gallery, with ten windows opening on the garden. Tables, covered with shining oil-cloth, were ranged along the walls, so that, in winter, this apartment served in the evening, after work, as a place of meeting for those who preferred to pass an hour together, instead of remaining alone or with their families. Then, in this large hall, well warmed and brilliantly lighted with gas, some read, some played cards, some talked, and some occupied themselves with easy work.
“That is not all,” said Agricola to the young girl; “I am sure you will like this apartment still better when I tell you, that on Thursdays and Sundays we make a ball-room of it, and on Tuesdays and Saturdays a concert-room.”
“Really!”
“Yes,” continued the smith, proudly, “we have amongst us musicians, quite capable of tempting us to dance. Moreover, twice a week, nearly all of us sing in chorus—men, women, and children. Unfortunately, this week, some disputes that have arisen in the factory have prevented our concerts.”
“So many voices! that must be superb.”
“It is very fine, I assure you. M. Hardy has always encouraged this amusement amongst us, which has, he says—and he is right—so powerful an effect on the mind and the manners. One winter, he sent for two pupils of the celebrated Wilhelm, and, since then, our school has made great progress. I assure you, Mdlle. Angela, that, without flattering ourselves, there is something truly exciting in the sound of two hundred voices, singing in chorus some hymn to Labor or Freedom. You shall hear it, and you will, I think, acknowledge that there is something great and elevating in the heart of man, in this fraternal harmony of voices, blending in one grave, sonorous, imposing sound.”
“Oh! I believe it. But what happiness to inhabit here. It is a life of joy; for labor, mixed with recreation, becomes itself a pleasure.”
“Alas! here, as everywhere, there are tears and sorrows,” replied Agricola, sadly. “Do you see that isolated building, in a very exposed situation?”
“Yes; what is it?”
“That is our hospital for the sick. Happily, thanks to our healthy mode of life, it is not often full; an annual subscription enables us to have a good doctor. Moreover, a mutual benefit society is arranged in such a manner amongst us, that any one of us, in case of illness, receives two thirds of what he would have gained in health.”
“How well it is all managed! And there, M. Agricola, on the other side of the grass-plot?”
“That is the wash-house, with water laid on, cold and hot; and under yonder shed is the drying-place: further on, you see the stables, and the lofts and granaries for the provender of the factory horses.”
“But M. Agricola, will you tell me the secret of all these wonders?”
“In ten minutes you shall understand it all, mademoiselle.”
Unfortunately, Angela’s curiosity was for a while disappointed. The girl was now standing with Agricola close to the iron gate, which shut in the garden from the broad avenue that separated the factory from the Common Dwelling-house. Suddenly, the wind brought from the distance the sound of trumpets and military music; then was heard the gallop of two horses, approaching rapidly, and soon after a general officer made his appearance, mounted on a fine black charger, with a long flowing tail and crimson housings; he wore cavalry boots and white breeches, after the fashion of the empire; his uniform glittered with gold embroidery, the red ribbon of the Legion of Honor was passed over his right epaulet, with its four silver stars, and his hat had a broad gold border, and was crowned with a white plume, the distinctive sign reserved for the marshals of France. No warrior could have had a more martial and chivalrous air, or have sat more proudly on his war-horse. At the moment Marshal Simon (for it was he) arrived opposite the place where Angela and Agricola were standing, he drew up his horse suddenly, sprang lightly to the ground, and threw the golden reins to a servant in livery, who followed also on horseback.
“Where shall I wait for your grace?” asked the groom.
“At the end of the avenue,” said the marshal.
And, uncovering his head respectfully, he advanced hastily with his hat in his hand, to meet a person whom Angela and Agricola had not previously perceived. This person soon appeared at a turn of the avenue; he was an old man, with an energetic, intelligent countenance. He wore a very neat blouse, and a cloth cap over his long, white hair. With his hands in his pocket, he was quietly smoking an old meerschaum pipe.
“Good-morning, father,” said the marshal, respectfully, as he affectionately embraced the old workman, who, having tenderly returned the pressure, said to him: “Put on your hat, my boy. But how gay we are!” added he, with a smile.
“I have just been to a review, father, close by; and I took the opportunity to call on you as soon as possible.”
“But shall I then not see my granddaughters to-day, as I do every Sunday?”
“They are coming in a carriage, father, and Dagobert accompanies them.”
“But what is the matter? you appear full of thought.”
“Indeed, father,” said the marshal, with a somewhat agitated air, “I have serious things to talk about.”
“Come in, then,” said the old man, with some anxiety. The marshal and his father disappeared at the turn of the avenue.
Angela had been struck with amazement at seeing this brilliant General, who was entitled “your grace,” salute an old workman in a blouse as his father; and, looking at Agricola with a confused air she said to him: “What, M. Agricola! this old workman—”
“Is the father of Marshal Duke de Ligny—the friend—yes, I may say the friend,” added Agricola, with emotion, “of my father, who for twenty years served under him in war.’
“To be placed so high, and yet to be so respectful and tender to his father!” said Angela. “The marshal must have a very noble heart; but why does he let his father remain a workman?”
“Because Father Simon will not quit his trade and the factory for anything in the world. He was born a workman, and he will die a workman, though he is the father of a duke and marshal of France.”
(29) See Adolphe Bobierre “On Air and Health,” Paris, 1844.