CHAPTER XLVII. THE LETTER.
Frances' agitation was so perceptible that Rose could not helpexclaiming: "Good gracious, what is the matter?"
"Alas, my dear young ladies! I can no longer conceal it from you," saidFrances, bursting into tears. "Since yesterday I have not seen him. Iexpected my son to supper as usual, and he never came; but I would notlet you see how much I suffered. I continued to expect him, minute afterminute; for ten years he has never gone up to bed without coming to kissme; so I spent a good part of the night close to the door, listening ifI could hear his step. But he did not come; and, at last, about threeo'clock in the morning, I threw myself down upon the mattress. I havejust been to see (for I still had a faint hope), if my son had come inthis morning--"
"Well, madame!"
"There is no sign of him!" said the poor mother, drying her eyes.
Rose and Blanche looked at each other with emotion; the same thoughtfilled the minds of both; if Agricola should not return, how would thisfamily live? would they not, in such an event, become doubly burdensome?
"But, perhaps, madame," said Blanche, "M. Agricola remained too late athis work to return home last night."
"Oh! no, no! he would have returned in the middle of the night, becausehe knew what uneasiness he would cause me by stopping out. Alas! somemisfortune must have happened to him! Perhaps he has been injured at theforge, he is so persevering at his work. Oh, my poor boy! and, as if Idid not feel enough anxiety about him, I am also uneasy about the pooryoung woman who lives upstairs."
"Why so, madame?"
"When I left my son's room, I went into hers, to tell her my grief, forshe is almost a daughter to me; but I did not find her in the littlecloset where she lives, and the bed had not even been slept in. Wherecan she have gone so early--she, that never goes out?"
Rose and Blanche looked at each other with fresh uneasiness, for theycounted much upon Mother Bunch to help them in the resolution they hadtaken. Fortunately, both they and Frances were soon to be satisfiedon this head, for they heard two low knocks at the door, and thesempstress's voice, saying: "Can I come in, Mrs. Baudoin?"
By a spontaneous impulse, Rose and Blanche ran to the door, and openedit to the young girl. Sleet and snow had been falling incessantly sincethe evening before; the gingham dress of the young sempstress, herscanty cotton shawl, and the black net cap, which, leaving uncoveredtwo thick bands of chestnut hair, encircled her pale and interestingcountenance, were all dripping wet; the cold had given a lividappearance to her thin, white hands; it was only in the fire of her blueeyes, generally so soft and timid, that one perceived the extraordinaryenergy which this frail and fearful creature had gathered from theemergency of the occasion.
"Dear me! where do you come from, my good Mother Bunch?" said Frances."Just now, in going to see if my son had returned, I opened your door,and was quite astonished to find you gone out so early."
"I bring you news of Agricola."
"Of my son!" cried Frances, trembling all over. "What has happened tohim? Did you see him?--Did you speak to him?--Where is he?"
"I did not see him, but I know where he is." Then, perceiving thatFrances grew very pale, the girl added: "He is well; he is in nodanger."
"Blessed be God, who has pity on a poor sinner!--who yesterday restoredme my husband, and to-day, after a night of cruel anguish, assures me ofthe safety of my child!" So saying, Frances knelt down upon the floor,and crossed herself with fervor.
During the moment of silence, caused by this pious action, Rose andBlanche approached Mother Bunch, and said to her in a low voice, withan expression of touching interest: "How wet you are! you must be verycold. Take care you do not get ill. We did not venture to ask MadameFrances to light the fire in the stove, but now we will do so."
Surprised and affected by the kindness of Marshal Simon's daughters,the hunchback, who was more sensible than others to the least mark ofkindness, answered them with a look of ineffable gratitude: "I am muchobliged to you, young ladies; but I am accustomed to the cold, and ammoreover so anxious that I do not feel it."
"And my son?" said Frances, rising after she had remained some momentson her knees; "why did he stay out all night? And could you tell mewhere to find him, my good girl? Will he soon come? why is he so long?"
"I assure you, Agricola is well; but I must inform you, that for sometime--"
"Well?"
"You must have courage, mother."
"Oh! the blood runs cold in my veins. What has happened? why shall I notsee him?"
"Alas, he is arrested."
"Arrested!" cried Rose and Blanche, with affright.
"Father! Thy will be done!" said Frances; "but it is a great misfortune.Arrested! for what? He is so good and honest, that there must be somemistake."
"The day before yesterday," resumed Mother Bunch, "I received ananonymous letter, by which I was informed that Agricola might bearrested at any moment, on account of his song. We agreed together thathe should go to the rich young lady in the Rue de Babylone, who hadoffered him her services, and ask her to procure bail for him; toprevent his going to prison. Yesterday morning he set out to go to theyoung lady's."
"And neither of you told me anything of all this--why did you hide itfrom me?"
"That we might not make you uneasy, mother; for, counting on thegenerosity of that young lady, I expected Agricola back every moment.When he did not come yesterday evening. I said to myself: 'Perhaps thenecessary formalities with regard to the bail have detained him.' Butthe time passed on, and he did not make his appearance. So, I watchedall night, expecting him."
"So you did not go to bed either, my good girl?"
"No, I was too uneasy. This morning, not being able to conquer my fears,I went out before dawn. I remembered the address of the young lady inthe Rue de Babylone, and I ran thither."
"Oh, well!" said Frances, with anxiety; "you were in the right.According to what my son told us, that young lady appeared very good andgenerous."
Mother Bunch shook her head sorrowfully; a tear glittered in her eyes,as she continued: "It was still dark when I arrived at the Rue deBabylone; I waited till daylight was come."
"Poor child! you, who are so weak and timid," said Frances, with deepfeeling, "to go so far, and in this dreadful weather!--Oh, you have beena real daughter to me!"
"Has not Agricola been like a brother to me!" said Mother Bunch, softly,with a slight blush.
"When it was daylight," she resumed: "I ventured to ring at the doorof the little summer-house; a charming young girl, but with a sad,pale countenance, opened the door to me. 'I come in the name of anunfortunate mother in despair,' said I to her immediately, for I was sopoorly dressed that I feared to be sent away as a beggar; but seeing, onthe contrary, that the young girl listened to me with kindness, I askedher if, the day before, a young workman had not come to solicit agreat favor of her mistress. 'Alas! yes,' answered the young girl; 'mymistress was going to interest herself for him, and, hearing that he wasin danger of being arrested, she concealed him here; unfortunately, hisretreat was discovered, and yesterday afternoon, at four o'clock, he wasarrested and taken to prison.'"
Though the orphans took no part in this melancholy conversation, thesorrow and anxiety depicted in their countenances, showed how much theyfelt for the sufferings of Dagobert's wife.
"But the young lady?" cried Frances. "You should have tried to see her,my good Mother Bunch, and begged her not to abandon my son. She is sorich that she must have influence, and her protection might save us fromgreat calamities."
"Alas!" said Mother Bunch, with bitter grief, "we must renounce thislast hope."
"Why?" said Frances. "If this young lady is so good, she will havepity upon us, when she knows that my son is the only support of a wholefamily, and that for him to go to prison is worse than for another,because it will reduce us all to the greatest misery."
"But this young lady," replied the girl, "according to what I learnedfrom her weeping maid, was taken last evening
to a lunatic asylum: itappears she is mad."
"Mad! Oh! it is horrible for her, and for us also--for now there is nohope. What will become of us without my son? Oh, merciful heaven!" Theunfortunate woman hid her face in her hands.
A profound silence followed this heart-rending outburst. Rose andBlanche exchanged mournful glances, for they perceived that theirpresence augmented the weighty embarrassments of this family. MotherBunch, worn out with fatigue, a prey to painful emotions, and tremblingwith cold in her wet clothes, sank exhausted on a chair, and reflectedon their desperate position.
That position was indeed a cruel one!
Often, in times of political disturbances, or of agitation amongst thelaboring classes, caused by want of work, or by the unjust reduction ofwages (the result of the powerful coalition of the capitalists)--oftenare whole families reduced, by a measure of preventive imprisonment, toas deplorable a position as that of Dagobert's household by Agricola'sarrest--an arrest, which, as will afterwards appear, was entirely owingto Rodin's arts.
Now, with regard to this "precautionary imprisonment," of which thevictims are almost always honest and industrious mechanics, driven tothe necessity of combining together by the In organization of Labor andthe Insufficiency of Wages, it is painful to see the law, which ought tobe equal for all, refuse to strikers what it grants to masters--becausethe latter can dispose of a certain sum of money. Thus, under manycircumstances, the rich man, by giving bail, can escape the annoyanceand inconveniences of a preventive incarceration; he deposits a sum ofmoney, pledges his word to appear on a certain day, and goes back tohis pleasures, his occupations, and the sweet delights of his family.Nothing can be better; an accused person is innocent till he is provedguilty; we cannot be too much impressed with that indulgent maxim. It iswell for the rich man that he can avail himself of the mercy of the law.But how is it with the poor?
Not only has he no bail to give, for his whole capital consists of hisdaily labor; but it is upon him chiefly that the rigors of preventivemeasures must fall with a terrible and fatal force.
For the rich man, imprisonment is merely the privation of easeand comfort, tedious hours, and the pain of separation from hisfamily--distresses not unworthy of interest, for all suffering deservespity, and the tears of the rich man separated from his children are asbitter as those of the poor. But the absence of the rich man does notcondemn his family to hunger and cold, and the incurable maladies causedby exhaustion and misery.
For the workman, on the contrary, imprisonment means want, misery,sometimes death, to those most dear to him. Possessing nothing, he isunable to find bail, and he goes to prison. But if he have, as it oftenhappens, an old, infirm father or mother, a sick wife, or children inthe cradle? What will become of this unfortunate family? They couldhardly manage to live from day to day upon the wages of this man, wagesalmost always insufficient, and suddenly this only resource will bewanting for three or four months together.
What will this family do? To whom will they have recourse?
What will become of these infirm old men, these sickly wives, theselittle children, unable to gain their daily bread? If they chance tohave a little linen and a few spare clothes, these will be carriedto the pawnbroker's, and thus they will exist for a week or so--butafterwards?
And if winter adds the rigors of the season to this frightful andinevitable misery?
Then will the imprisoned artisan see in his mind's eyes, during the longand sleepless nights, those who are dear to him, wan, gaunt, haggard,exhausted, stretched almost naked upon filthy straw, or huddled closetogether to warm their frozen limbs. And, should he afterwards beacquitted, it is ruin and desolation that he finds on his return to hispoor dwelling.
And then, after that long cessation from labor, he will find itdifficult to return to his old employers. How many days will be lost inseeking for work! and a day without employment is a day without bread!
Let us repeat our opinion, that if, under various circumstances, the lawdid not afford to the rich the facility of giving bail, we could onlylament over all such victims of individual and inevitable misfortune.But since the law does provide the means of setting provisionally atliberty those who possess a certain sum of money, why should it depriveof this advantage those very persons, for whom liberty is indeedindispensable, as it involves the existence of themselves and families?
Is there any remedy for this deplorable state of things? We believethere is.
The law has fixed the minimum of bail at five hundred francs. Now fivehundred francs represent, upon the average, six months' labor of anindustrious workman.
If he have a wife and two children (which is also about the average), itis evidently quite impossible for him to have saved any such sum.
So, to ask of such a man five hundred francs, to enable him to continueto support his family, is in fact to put him beyond the pale of the law,though, more than any one else, he requires its protection, because ofthe disastrous consequences which his imprisonment entails upon others.
Would it not be equitable and humane, a noble and salutary example,to accept, in every case where bail is allowed (and where the goodcharacter of the accused could be honorably established), moralguarantees, in the absence of material ones, from those who have nocapital but their labor and their integrity--to accept the word of anhonest man to appear upon the day of trial? Would it not be great andmoral, in these days to raise the value of the lighted word, and exaltman in his own eyes, by showing him that his promise was held to besufficient security?
Will you so degrade the dignity of man, as to treat this proposition asan impossible and Utopian dream? We ask, how many prisoners of war haveever broken their parole, and if officers and soldiers are not brothersof the workingman?
Without exaggerating the virtue of promise-keeping in the honest andlaborious poor, we feel certain, that an engagement taken by the accusedto appear on the day of trial would be always fulfilled, not only withfidelity, but with the warmest gratitude--for his family would not havesuffered by his absence, thanks to the indulgence of the law.
There is also another fact, of which France may well be proud. It is,that her magistrates (although miserably paid as the army itself) aregenerally wise, upright, humane, and independent; they have the truefeeling of their own useful and sacred mission; they know how toappreciate the wants and distresses of the working classes, with whomthey are so often brought in contact; to them might be safely grantedthe power of fixing those cases in which a moral security, the only onethat can be given by the honest and necessitous man, should be receivedas sufficient.(10)
Finally, if those who make the laws have so low an opinion of the peopleas to reject with disdain the suggestions we have ventured to throwout, let them at least so reduce the minimum of bail, as to render itavailable for those who have most need to escape the fruitless rigors ofimprisonment. Let them take as their lowest limit, the month's wages ofan artisan--say eighty francs.
This sum would still be exorbitant; but, with the aid of friends, thepawnbroker's, and some little advances, eighty francs might perhaps befound--not always, it is true--but still sometimes--and, at all events,many families would be rescued from frightful misery.
Having made these observations, let us return to Dagobert's family, who,in consequence of the preventive arrest of Agricola, were now reduced toan almost hopeless state.
The anguish of Dagobert's wife increased, the more she reflected on hersituation, for, including the marshal's daughters, four persons wereleft absolutely without resource. It must be confessed, however, thatthe excellent mother thought less of herself, than of the grief whichher son must feel in thinking over her deplorable position.
At this moment there was a knock at the door.
"Who is there?" said Frances.
"It is me--Father Loriot."
"Come in," said Dagobert's wife.
The dyer, who also performed the functions of a porter, appeared at thedoor of the room. This time, his arms were no longer of a
bright applegreen, but of a magnificent violet.
"Mrs. Baudoin," said Father Loriot, "here is a letter that the giver ofholy water at Saint Merely's has just brought from Abbe Dubois, witha request that I would bring it up to you immediately, as it is verypressing."
"A letter from my confessor?" said Frances, in astonishment; and, as shetook it, added: "Thank you, Father Loriot."
"You do not want anything?"
"No, Father Loriot."
"My respects to the ladies!" and the dyer went out.
"Mother Bunch, will you read this letter for me?" said Frances, anxiousto learn the contents of the missive in question.
"Yes, mother,"--and the young girl read as follows:
"'MY DEAR MADAME BAUDOIN,--I am in the habit of hearing you Tuesday andSaturday, but I shall not be at liberty either to-morrow or the last dayof the week; you must then come to me this morning, unless you wish toremain a whole week without approaching the tribunal of penance.'"
"Good heavens! a week!" cried Dagobert's wife. "Alas! I am only tooconscious of the necessity of going there today, notwithstanding thetrouble and grief in which I am plunged."
Then, addressing herself to the orphans, she continued: "Heaven hasheard the prayers that I made for you, my dear young ladies; this veryday I shall be able to consult a good and holy man with regard to thegreat dangers to which you are exposed. Poor dear souls, that are soinnocent, and yet so guilty, without any fault of your own! Heaven is mywitness, that my heart bleeds for you as much as for my son."
Rose and Blanche looked at each other in confusion; they could notunderstand the fears with which the state of their souls inspiredthe wife of Dagobert. The latter soon resumed, addressing the youngsempstress:
"My good girl, will you render me yet another service?"
"Certainly."
"My husband took Agricola's week's wages with him to pay his journeyto Chartres. It was all the money I had in the house; I am sure that mypoor child had none about him, and in prison he will perhaps want some.Therefore take my silver cup, fork, and spoon, the two pair of sheetsthat remain over, and my wadded silk shawl, that Agricola gave me on mybirthday, and carry them all to the pawnbroker's. I will try and findout in which prison my son is confined, and will send him half ofthe little sum we get upon the things; the rest will serve us till myhusband comes home. And then, what shall we do? What a blow for him--andonly more misery in prospect--since my son is in prison, and I havelost my sight. Almighty Father!" cried the unfortunate mother, with anexpression of impatient and bitter grief, "why am I thus afflicted? HaveI not done enough to deserve some pity, if not for myself, at least forthose belonging to me?" But immediately reproaching herself for thisoutburst, she added, "No, no! I ought to accept with thankfulness allthat Thou sandiest me. Forgive me for these complaints, or punish onlymyself!"
"Be of good courage, mother!" said Mother Bunch. "Agricola is innocent,and will not remain long in prison."
"But now I think of it," resumed Dagobert's wife, "to go to thepawnbroker's will make you lose much time, my poor girl."
"I can make up that in the night, Madame Frances; I could not sleep,knowing you in such trouble. Work will amuse me."
"Yes, but the candles--"
"Never mind, I am a little beforehand with my work," said the poor girl,telling a falsehood.
"Kiss me, at least," said Frances, with moist eyes, "for you are thevery best creature in the world." So saying, she hastened cut of theroom.
Rose and Blanche were left alone with Mother Bunch; at length hadarrived the moment for which they had waited with so much impatience.Dagobert's wife proceeded to St. Merely Church, where her confessor wasexpecting to see her.