His marriage with Charlotte achieved, John Lebrenn, his sister, his wife and Madam Desmarais took up their abode in the modest dwelling on Anjou Street. Here also was Lebrenn's smithy, now for two months transformed into an armorer's shop, for he had received an order for guns for the volunteers, and, with his companions, set about the work with a will.
On the evening of May the 30th, in the year of his marriage, Lebrenn was looking over the newspapers while he rested from the heavy labors of the day, when his wife, sad and engrossed, came to him, saying to herself:
"No—painful though the confidence be, my last talk with the poor child, and my tender attachment for Victoria, will not permit me to postpone it—" Then, aloud to her husband, she began:
"I have for long hesitated, my friend, over the communication I am about to make to you. But the interest I feel in Victoria compels me to-day to speak. Closer knowledge of your sister's character has shown me, my friend, that you do not over-state when you say that, despite the youthful degradation she perforce underwent, her heart has remained pure. And yet I very wrongly harbored an evil thought against her. Now I have the proof of my mistake. I attributed to jealousy the change we noticed coming over her. I thought to myself that Victoria, used to concentrate upon you all her tenderness, to share your life, might feel toward me that sort of sisterly jealousy which the best and bravest of sisters feel in spite of themselves toward the wife of an idolized brother. I blush for my error, my friend, but still it was pardonable. Do you recall that shortly after our wedding we began to remark in your sister a growing sadness and taciturnity? Did she not seem by turns happy and saddened at our intimacy? Has she not appeared almost continuously under the empire of some secret brooding?"
"True; for long I have noticed in Victoria a sort of capricious changefulness of spirit which contrasted strongly with her ordinary equability. Thus, after having taken upon herself the task of evening lessons for our three apprentice boys and little Oliver, the orphan lad whom we took in, who, in spite of his eighteen years, knows no more than the younger boys, my sister suddenly declared she was going to stop the lessons and leave Paris; and without a word of explanation, at that."
"You remember, John, how bitter were her farewells at leaving us?"
"Happily, at the end of barely a week, Victoria returned, and—strange contradiction—insisted upon resuming her functions as school mistress."
"But her sadness, her sighs, the decline of her health proved only too well the persistence of her secret anguish. I said to myself, 'The courageous woman is fighting with all her might against her sisterly jealousy. In vain she tried to flee. Drawn again to us by her tenderness for John, she prefers to live with us and suffer.' But no, my friend, I was in error. I am now positive of it."
"To what cause, then, do you attribute Victoria's deep dejection and chagrin?"
"I shall surprise you, my friend, in revealing the burden—it is love!"
Mute with astonishment, John looked at his wife at first without answering her. Then, sadly smiling, and shaking his head incredulously, he said:
"Charlotte, you mistake. Victoria has had but one love in her life. He whom she loved to distraction is dead. She will be faithful to that flame to the tomb."
"You related to me the sad story of Victoria and Maurice, the young sergeant in the French Guards, killed by his disgraceful punishment. But, recall to mind that two or three days after our marriage, when you presented Oliver and the three apprentices, whom she wished to teach to read, to her, she suddenly shuddered, and cried as in great bewilderment—'Good God! Is it a vision, or is it a specter? 'Tis he, 'tis Maurice I see again!'"
"I remember the circumstance. And instantly coming to herself, Victoria told us she had had a spell of dizziness; but said no more on the subject."
"So, noticing her embarrassment, her downheartedness, we did not insist on knowing from her the real cause of so strange an incident; but a few days after this first meeting with Oliver, a remarkable change began to manifest itself in your sister's manner."
"That is all true; but what do you conclude from it?"
"I conclude, my friend, that it was in amazement at something in Oliver's appearance that your sister uttered the wandering words which startled us. I now believe the words expressed the surprise, mingled with affright, into which she was thrown by the striking resemblance between Oliver and Sergeant Maurice. And finally, the resemblance is explained by what I have discovered;—Oliver is Maurice's brother!"
"Strange, strange indeed!" muttered John. "But tell me, how did you come by the discovery?"
"As you know, we had to bring Oliver into the house, so as to have him close by us, as he is suffering from some languorous malady which renders him unable, despite his courage and willingness, to work in the shop. The unhappy boy, undermined by a slow fever, is in a deplorable state of weakness."
"The physician attributes it to his rapid growth. Oliver is, in fact, hardly eighteen. He has grown fast lately; this would explain his temporary lassitude."
"The physician, it seems to me, is deceived there. I shall tell you why, my friend. Just now, in coming from the shop, I crossed the garden. I saw Oliver seated under the yoke-elm bower, apparently sunk in mournful revery. His eye was fixed, his face bathed in tears. On seeing me he furtively tried to wipe his eyes. His features revealed mental suffering; it was easy to see that all was not physical in his malady. 'Oliver,' I said, seating myself close beside him, 'the cause of your illness is not the one the doctor gives. You feel some great disappointment, you hide it from us—that is wrong. My husband cares for you like a father, why do you not confide your trouble to him?' He seemed as much pained as surprised at my penetration; the embarrassed answers he gave were not sincere. He attributed his sorrow to the loneliness he felt in being left an orphan, without any relatives."
"Such a reply from Oliver surprises me. Has he not often shown by his manner the most touching recognition of our kindnesses toward him? We make him forget, he says, the unhappiness of his orphanhood; we surround him with a family's attention."
"No doubt he was hiding the truth from me, my friend. Then I spoke to him of the family he mourned. He eagerly seized upon the topic, as if glad of an avenue of escape from the new questions he feared I would put to him. He gave me many details of his parents. I learned that his furthest memories went back only ten or twelve years, when he was a boy of six or seven. He remembered that his brother Maurice wore the uniform of the French Guards, and came often to see their mother, a poor lace-weaver."
"There can no longer be any doubt!" cried Lebrenn, greatly amazed. "And indeed, by dint of much turning about of my early memories, which are greatly confused as I was then only a child, meseems that Sergeant Maurice, whom I saw often at the house as my sister's betrothed, did, in fact, resemble Oliver."
"So, my friend, what is there astonishing in the fact that Victoria, finding again, so to speak, Maurice in his younger brother, should yield despite herself to the reawakening of a sentiment which always ruled her so strongly? A strange sentiment, against which Victoria rebels, although in vain, for a thousand reasons, among them the difference in years between herself and Oliver. Victoria, although still young and in the ripeness of her beauty, might be his mother. The slow malady which is gnawing at Oliver's heart has no other cause than a secret and mad love for our sister Victoria."
These last words of Charlotte's, recalling to him many circumstances previously insignificant, forced conviction upon Lebrenn. He felt as one crushed, under the weight of the revelation, and presaging its sad consequences, cried, "Charlotte, Charlotte, what sorrows I foresee—if your suspicions are well founded! And what is worse, I believe you speak sooth."
"My friend, my suspicions are but too well founded. They explain the sadness of our poor sister; they explain her heart's anguish, the cause of which has eluded us. Alas, her grief arises from the conflict between her reason and this strange passion, so incomprehensible at first glance. And still, one can see how her love for Maurice, lasting beyond the grave, would predispose her toward a similar sentiment for his brother, who reflects so perfect an image of the departed. On the other hand, no more is it really strange that Oliver, drawn to your sister by her many proofs of interest in him, by her beauty, by the loftiness of her spirit and the nobility of her character, should end in becoming seriously enamored of her. His love, which seeks to hide itself from all eyes, and which hardly dares acknowledge itself, thinking it could never be returned, will consume him, and perhaps carry him to the grave."
John was silent for some moments. "The affair is so delicate," he said at length, "that I would not venture upon taking it up with Victoria, confident though I am of her attachment to me. We must, then, see to Oliver, and seek to snatch him from his wild passion. I shall have to hasten into execution a project I had already formed for his future. Everything about the boy seems to indicate military inclinations. A long time before his illness I observed during the Section drills not only his aptitude in the handling of arms, but with what insight he seemed to anticipate, as it were, the manoeuvres, and with what precision he executed them."
"Indeed, you have often told me of it, my friend. There are in Oliver, you say, the makings of an officer."
"I wished to wait, before proposing to him to enrol, until his health was completely restored. But, although his convalescence must, indeed, be allowed time for, I think I shall now push forward his engagement in whatever corps of the army is most to his liking. The distractions of the trip to join his regiment, the change of scene, the soldier's life, will, I doubt not, by awakening in Oliver his martial talents, exercise a salutary influence over his health. He will feel his mind grow gradually calmer in the measure that he finds himself further and further removed from Victoria. And lastly, she, no longer having Oliver daily before her, will succeed, I hope, in mastering this fatal love. 'Twould be a happy solution."
The conversation of John and his wife was broken in upon by the entrance of Madam Desmarais. The lady seemed quite uneasy, and said to her son-in-law in alarm:
"My God! What is going on in Paris to-night? They are beating the assembly! The streets are all excitement and hubbub. I was hardly able to get back home, for the crowds. Have we another day to fear?"
"According to what you say, dear mother, there probably will be a day to-morrow," replied John, smiling. "But it will be as peaceful as it will be imposing, and will, I hope, insure the safety of the Republic."
"May God hear you, my dear John. I know what faith one can place in your words. Nevertheless, I can not help but tremble when I think of your being engaged in these struggles, which may at any time end in massacre."
Gertrude, the old servant of the family, who had followed Madam Desmarais and her daughter to their new dwelling, just then entered and said to John: "Monsieur, your foreman Castillon is in the entry. He wishes me to tell you he would like to speak with you."
"Go and tell him he may come in, my good Gertrude."
"Charlotte and I will leave you," said Madam Desmarais. "If you go out, John, come and see us before you leave."
"Certainly, dear mother." Then addressing his wife, John added, significantly, "If you see Victoria before I do, keep silence on the subject of our talk."
"Speaking of Victoria, my children, I must say that the change in her health seems serious."
"We share your fears, good mother. Without a doubt, Victoria is suffering from some secret sorrow. But you know what reserve we must proceed with if we wish to win our sister's confidence. Depend upon us, mother, and until John or I have seen you, say nothing to Victoria which could lead her to suppose that we have remarked the change which afflicts us—alas, with all too much cause."
"You may count upon my discretion," replied Madam Desmarais. She and her daughter then left the room, and soon Castillon, foreman to John Lebrenn, was engaged in conversation with his master.
The foreman of John Lebrenn's iron works, a stalwart smith of about the same age as his master, was splendidly typical of the republican workingman of the time. Like most of the proletarians of his day, Castillon had embraced revolutionary ideas more by instinct than by reason. In common with his brother workmen, he desired equality before the law, and common possession of the tools of production as a means of escape from bourgeois exploitation. A high-minded patriot, conscious of his rights and still more conscious of his civic duties; an honest man in the fullest sense of the word, rigorous of conduct, and despite his complete lack of education, endowed with a lively intelligence; an excellent workman at his trade, Castillon often regretted not being able to go to war. He was a true child of Paris, open, joyous and determined of character, joining to solid qualities of heart a spirit full of go and vivacity, and often of an original turn. Much attached to the young artisan, who had worked more than ten years at the forge beside him, John Lebrenn appreciated his foreman as he deserved, and exercised over him a command founded on rectitude of principle, mature judgment, and a degree of education only too rare among his brothers of the people. Master and foreman thee-and-thoued each other like old friends, less in obedience to the general habit of the time than as the result of old reciprocal affection, and long community of labor.
"Ah, John, I would not have disturbed you," said Castillon, as he entered the room. "You were in conversation with your wife and her mother—perhaps I come at the wrong time?"
"You are always welcome, my good Castillon. Be seated. What's afoot?"
"Such as you see me, my friend, I come as an ambassador—but without emoluments. I shall not break the treasury of the Republic."
"The ambassador of our comrades, no doubt; and what is the text of your embassy?"
"This: For a fortnight we have none of us had the time to go to our Section meetings, we had to finish the order of guns and muskets for the nation; for that is sacred, it comes first before everything. To forge arms for our brothers at the front! Ah! by my pipe, they will be proud and happy, down there, to be able to slap the Prussians!"
"Patience, Castillon, our day will come."
"Patience let it be. But it is beggarly hard to be able only to assemble and polish up for others these fine five-foot clarinets, on which one would so love to play the Ça Ira, while we spat our lead at the Prussians; and It will come, by my pipe, It will! But what would you? We are like the poor workpeople of the silk factories of Lyons and Tours, who see the holy bourgeois sporting the beautiful goods they themselves have woven! So you see, we could not go to our Section meetings, since we worked from six in the morning till twelve at night, without stopping. And in this labor for the country you set us the example, for if you were before us in the shop, old fellow, you left it after us."
"That was my duty; I demanded great efforts of you in the name of the Republic, I should share your fatigues."
"Hold, John. You are what we may call a man; a worthy man."
"Come, we are too old friends to be bandying compliments."
"Call it what you like, I repeat that you are a worthy man. Look—what did you say to us when you bought the place of our old master, Goodman Gervais? 'Here we are, a score of good fellows, working as one family like good republicans. Let us take count: The shop brings in, or should bring in, in income, so much. Good. From this income we must first take out the sum I must annually pay to Master Gervais, and at the end of ten years the establishment will belong to us. Up till then, we shall share the proceeds proportionately to the hours of labor put in by each of us. My wife, who keeps our books and manages the treasury, will have her share of the proceeds, like us.' It was in this fashion that you spoke to us, John. It was in your power, on becoming our employer, to exploit us, as the bourgeois do. But you, you shared with us as brothers, as good comrades. Ah, and now, to return to the purpose of my mission, for I have traveled far from it, here is the business. It is, as you see, a fortnight since we have been able to go either to our Sections or to the Jacobins or the Cordeliers, to keep track of events. Then, to-night, they beat the assembly. We knew vaguely, from one side and another, that something was simmering; but what it was that was simmering, and what it was simmering for—that was the rub! We could have learned by going to our Sections, but we were sworn, due to the urgency of our task, never to leave the shop before midnight, when work was stopped. Nevertheless, we were restless over what was taking place this evening in Paris. We asked ourselves whether we ought not to drop work anyhow, and go and lend a hand to our brothers, when they beat the assembly. So that finally my comrades sent me to you, John, to ask whether we should stick to the shop, or go to our Sections. Decide the question; we shall follow your advice."
"My advice is that we should work still more diligently to-night, for to-morrow and perhaps day after to-morrow we may have to go out in the street to hold a demonstration, a great demonstration."
"Let's get busy!" exclaimed Castillon, his face shining with ardor. "We have perhaps to exterminate a new intrigue of Pitt and Coburg, or a little scheme of the ex-nobles and the skull-caps? By my pipe, that's fine. And, ça ira; I have just finished a love of a musket; maybe I can test it on the blacks or the whites, on the Jesuits, their laymen, and the nobles! What an opportunity!"
"You will not have that sad chance."
"What, to mow down the enemies of the Republic, you call that a sad chance? You, my old fellow?"
"Civil war is always a sad thing, my friend. And it is death to the soul when it must resign itself to take up arms against our brothers, against the sons of our common mother, the nation."
"Ah, but tell me, friend John, did not these brigands pull sweet faces and send the blue-bonnets to ambush and cannonade the patriots on the 14th of July, on the 5th and 6th of October, on the day of the Field of Mars, on the 10th of August, and everywhere, and all the time? The aristocrats are our enemies."
"If our adversaries are strangers to the sentiment of brotherhood, must we then imitate them, my friend? In civil war either chance is cause for mourning—victory or defeat."
"Come, John, we shall never agree on that. As to me, I know but one motto—'To a good cat, a good rat,' or if you like it better, 'An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth,' as they said of old. That's why, in September, we did jolly well to purge the prisons, I'm thinking."
"If you are set on recalling dates, my good comrade, speak of the great days of July 14 and August 10. Let us combat abuse, and be indulgent toward individuals. We are on the eve of a very grave crisis. To-morrow the whole people will be in the public place in arms, not to fight—God be thanked!—but to demonstrate in the name of its rights, in its fullness and power and sovereign might. All must bow before the people."
"Good! I know it, old friend. A manifestation is afoot like that of the 20th of June of last year, when we went to say to Capet, full in his face, 'Here, my man, you are the hereditary guardian of the nation! It has given you for your pains forty million pledges. Excuse yourself! you betray the nation, in place of serving it. Attention to the command, my man. If you do not walk straight, we shall sack you, if we don't do worse!' Capet didn't walk straight; on the contrary; accordingly, we both sacked him and did worse besides, as was just; we shaved him."
"To-morrow's manifestation should be as peaceable as that of the 20th of June."
"And for what purpose is the demonstration? It is good to know the reasons for it."
"I shall tell you, along with your comrades. Let us go down to the shop. It is nine o'clock, and while we work we shall talk. I shall bring with me certain papers which will be necessary to give you the full lay of the land," added John, taking several written sheets in a portfolio from the bureau. "Return to our comrades, I shall soon join you."
"So be it, my old friend, we await you, big and little, journeymen and apprentices. Speaking of apprentices, how is Oliver? We have not seen him to-day. Poor boy, do you know he seems to be in a bad way? He is so weak he can hardly drag himself along. And yet he does not lack courage! He haunts the workshop like a lost soul, so great is his chagrin at seeing us at work while he remains idle against his will. Day before yesterday he tried to fit in a gunlock, a girl's work, but, bah! almost at once his weakness seized him, and we had barely time to open our arms to catch him and carry him out to the garden. He had fainted outright."
"We shall talk again of the good boy. Perhaps I shall have to beg you to do him a service."
"You have but to speak. We all love Oliver in the shop, and I am like the rest."
"Thanks, Castillon. I knew I could count on you." And ringing the bell, John added: "I have two words to say to Gertrude before joining our friends in the smithy; you shall not have long to await me."
Castillon left, and Gertrude having come in in response to the bell, John said to her:
"Is my sister in her room?"
"No, monsieur, she went out two hours ago, saying that perhaps she might not be back for supper. Poor mademoiselle! You really ought, Monsieur John, to consult Oliver's physician about her."
"Do you know where the boy is?"
"He went up to his room at sundown; he was very tired, he said, complained of a fever, and shivered with the cold. He asked me to give him some coals in a chafing dish to keep his medicine warm, which I did immediately."
"Go, Gertrude, please, and see how he is, and whether he wants for anything," replied Lebrenn; and to himself he continued, "Ah, what sorrows I foresee if, as Charlotte supposes and as I have every reason to fear, Victoria loves Oliver, and he feels for her a mad passion, a fatal love barren of hope. My sister's past, her betrothal to the poor boy's brother, condemn her never to marry him. The difference of age would not in itself constitute any obstacle, but my sister is of too dignified and firm a mold not to resign herself to the cruel position in which the memory of Maurice has placed her, even should the resignation carry her to the grave." And thoughtfully John mused on: "The departure of Oliver can alone prevent these woes; the matter must be hastened through."
At that moment Gertrude broke in, saying to John in a mysterious, almost frightened air:
"Ah! monsieur, something strange—"
"On the way up to poor Oliver, I had to pass by Mademoiselle Victoria's door, and I heard the sound of footsteps within."
"My sister did not go out, then?"
"Pardon me, monsieur; I saw mademoiselle leave the house, with my own eyes, and she gave me the key of her room."
"That is truly strange! Who then can be there?"
"No one, monsieur, for your sister does not receive a soul. That is why the sound of steps astonished me so!"
"Explain yourself more clearly!"
"I mean I heard, or thought I heard, someone walking in mademoiselle's chamber. It could not be you, monsieur, because you are here. It could be neither madam nor her mother, for I had just seen them on the first floor as I went up to mademoiselle's; so I said to myself, 'Perhaps it is some rogue who has broken in!' Then I rapped at the door and called, 'Mademoiselle, are you there?' No answer. I rapped again; no answer. I said to myself, 'It surely must be some rascal or other!' I came down in haste to get the key; risking whatever might come, I opened the door, and, 'pon my faith——"
"That is what you should have done first thing. The mystery would have been solved at once. Whom did you find?"
"No one—absolutely no one. Everything was in good order, as it always is in mademoiselle's room. Her work table and her other little writing table were in their accustomed place, near the dormer window that looks on the garden, and as it was open I peeped out. I saw neither ladder nor cord which could have served anyone either for entry or escape. I looked under the bed, I opened the door of the closet—no one! Then I said to myself—"
"Whence it follows, my good Gertrude, that you thought you heard footsteps in my sister's room and that you were mistaken, that's all. Now tell me, how did you find Oliver?"
"When I knocked at his door, the young man was sound asleep, for he did not hear me at first."
"So much the better. If he sleeps deep it is a happy symptom. His fever has gone."
"I asked him through the door how he was, and whether he needed anything. He told me he had lain down after taking his hot drink, and that he had slept till I woke him; that he felt better, and that he hoped to pass a good night. Thereupon he wished me good-even."
"Poor boy—may his hope of rest be realized. Tell my wife, Gertrude, that I am going out to the shop, and not to be worried at my absence. I shall come in for supper at ten o'clock as usual."
So saying, John passed out of the parlor and went to join his comrades in the smithy.
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.
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?"
"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: