The Galley Slave's Ring; or, The Family of Lebrenn

"Oh, monsieur, how surprised and happy I am at what you tell me!"

"Still surprised! Poor George! And why so? Because there are bourgeois– or, to use the full, big term, republican Socialist bourgeois? Come, now, George, speaking seriously, is not the cause of the bourgeois that of the proletariat? Is there any doubt but that I, for instance, yesterday a proletarian, whom good luck has so far favored, might, through some stroke of bad luck, become again a proletarian to-morrow; and, if not I, my son? Am not I – and my case is that of all other small traders – at the mercy of the barons of high finance, of the strong iron safes, just as our forefathers were at the mercy of the barons of the strong forts? Are not the small holders as much enslaved and plundered by the Dukes of Mortgage, by the Marquises of Usury, by the Counts of Speculation? Are we, the merchants, not daily, despite all our probity, despite all our labors, despite all our economy, despite all our intelligence – are not we, despite all that, ever on the brink of ruin through any crisis that may hap to come upon us, whenever, either through the fear, the cupidity or the whim of the satraps, it pleases those autocrats of capital to stop credit and to reject our signature, however honorable the same may be? Would we, were credit, instead of being the monopoly of the few that it is to-day, democratically organized by the state, as it ought to be, – would we be then exposed to ruin by the sudden withdrawal of capital, by usurious extortion, of discount, or as the consequence of a merciless competition? Are not we to-day, we old men, on the eve of finding ourselves in as precarious a position as was that of your grandfather, that brave invalid of toil, who, after thirty years of work and probity, would have died of want but for your devotion to him, my dear George? Have I, already once ruined like so many other merchants, the certainty that my son will always find the means of earning his daily bread, that he will not be forced to experience, like you, George, like all other proletarians, the trials of being laid-off – that homicidal manoeuvre which causes you to die a little every day for want of sufficient food? And my daughter – but no! I know her too well! She would sooner die! But how many young girls, brought up in comfort, and whose fathers were, like myself, modest merchants, have not been plunged into atrocious misery – and, not infrequently, from such misery hurled into the abyss of vice, like the wretched working girl whom you would have married! No, no, George! The intelligent bourgeois, and they are numerous, do not separate their cause from that of their brothers of the common people. Proletarians and bourgeois have for centuries fought side by side, heart by heart, in order to regain their freedom. Their blood has mingled in order to cement the holy union of the conquered against the conquerors! of the vanquished against the vanquishers! of the weak and the disinherited against force and privilege! How, then, should the interests of the bourgeois and the proletarians not be common? They have ever had the same enemy to contend with. But, enough of politics, George. Let us talk of yourself and my daughter. The commotion in Paris began last evening, it is at its height this morning. Our sections have been notified to hold themselves in readiness. We expect a call to arms from one moment to another. Are you aware of that?"

"Yes, monsieur; I have been notified."

"This evening, or to-night, we shall have to descend into the street. My wife and daughter do not know this. Not that I mistrust them," added the merchant with a smile, "they are true Gallic women, worthy of our mothers, the valiant women, who, with act and voice, encouraged their fathers, brothers, sons and husbands in battle. But you know our by-laws. They impose upon us absolute silence towards outsiders. George, within three days either the throne of Louis Philippe will be overthrown, or our party will have been once more vanquished. But not discouraged. To it belongs the future. At this appeal to arms, you or I, you and I, my friend, may be laid low upon the barricade."

"Such is the chance of war, monsieur; may you be spared!"

"To inform my daughter in advance that I consent to her marriage with you, and that you love her, would be only to increase her sorrow in case you succumb in the fray."

"It would, monsieur."

"I, therefore, request you, George, to await the issue of this crisis before speaking to my daughter. Should I be killed, my wife will be apprised of my last wishes, that you marry Velleda."

"Monsieur," replied George, profoundly moved, "what I feel at this moment can not be expressed. All I can say to you is – I shall approve myself worthy of your daughter – worthy of you; I am not overcome by the magnitude of the obligation that you put me under – my heart and my life will prove equal to it, I assure you, monsieur."

"I believe you, my brave George," said the linendraper, affectionately pressing the young man's hands in his own. "One word more. Have you arms?"

"I have a carbine hidden here, and fifty cartridges that I manufactured last night."

"Should the insurrection explode this evening, a very likely occurrence, we shall barricade the street up to my house. The post is excellent. We have several stacks of arms and ample powder. I went out this morning to inspect the deposits of ammunition that it was feared the police spies had discovered. I found the rumor false. At the first commotion, return to your apartment, George. I shall communicate with you – and then, 'sdeath! Firm on the barricades! Tell me, is your grandfather discreet?"

"I answer for him, as for myself, monsieur."

"Is he there in the next room?"

"Yes, monsieur."

"Very well, grant me the favor of allowing me to impart to him news that will give him joy."

Monsieur Lebrenn stepped into the room of the old man, who was still smoking his pipe "like a Pacha," as he expressed it.

"Good father," said the linendraper to him, "your grandson has so good and so generous a heart that I give him my daughter, with whom he is crazily in love. All I ask of you is to keep the secret for a few days, after which you are entitled to the expectation of soon seeing yourself promoted to the dignity of great-grandfather. George will explain the whole thing to you. Adieu, my good old man. And you George – so long!"

Leaving George alone with his grandfather, Lebrenn proceeded to the residence of the Count of Plouernel, the colonel of dragoons who was waiting for the linendraper, to consider the purchase of a large supply of linen.

CHAPTER IV.

PRADELINE

Gonthram Neroweg, Count of Plouernel, occupied a cosy little house on Paradis-Poissonniere Street, built by his own grandfather. The somewhat rococo elegance of the establishment suggested it must have been constructed about the middle of the last century, and had done service as a city residence. The quarter of the Poissonnieres, or Fish-markets, as the neighborhood was called in the days of the Regency, but now almost deserted, was perfectly appropriate for those mysterious retreats that are devoted to the cult of Venus Aphrodite.

The Count of Plouernel was breakfasting tête-a-tête with a pretty girl of about twenty years – a brunette, lively and laughterful, who had been surnamed Pradeline because of her readiness, at the suppers of which she always was the soul and often the queen also, in improvising upon all imaginable subjects, ditties that the celebrated improviser, whose name she bore with a feminine termination, would surely not have cared to father, but which had at least the redeeming feature of lacking neither in point nor in mirthfulness.

The Count of Plouernel, having heard speak of Pradeline, invited her to sup the previous night with him and some of his friends. After the supper, which was prolonged until three in the morning, the right of hospitality for the night had been earned by the girl. After the hospitality came breakfast the following morning. The two companions were, accordingly, at table in a little boudoir fitted out in Louis XV style, and contiguous to the bed chamber. A good fire blazed in the marble-tipped hearth. Thick curtains of light blue damask, covered with roses, softened the glare of the daylight. Flowers filled large porcelain vases. The atmosphere was warm and perfumed. The wines were choice, the dishes toothsome. Pradeline and the Count of Plouernel were doing honor to both.

The colonel was a man of about thirty-eight years of age – tall, and at once lithe and robust. His face, though rather haggard, on that morning, was of a species of bold beauty, and strongly betrayed his German or Frankish stock, the characteristic traits of which Tacitus and Caesar frequently described. His hair was light blonde, his moustache long and reddish, his eyes light grey, and his nose hooked like an eagle's beak.

Wrapped in a costly morning gown, the Count of Plouernel seemed no less hilarious than the young girl.

"Come, Pradeline," said he, pouring out to her a glass of generous old Burgundy wine, "to the health of your lover."

"Nonsense! Do you think I keep a lover?"

"You are right. To the health of your lovers!"

"You don't seem to be jealous, darling!"

"And you?"

At this question Pradeline nonchalantly opened her red corsage, and clinking her glass with the blade of her knife she answered the Count of Plouernel with an improvisation to the tune then in vogue of La Rifla:

"For ague-cheeked Sir Fidelity
I only have duplicity.
When some gay lover pleases me,
'Tis quickly done! He pleases me —
La rifla-fla-fla-fla, la rifla-fla-fla-fla,
La rifla-fla-fla-fla-fla-fla-fla."

"Bravo, my dear!" cried the colonel, laughing boisterously.

And joining in chorus with Pradeline, he sang, also clinking his glass with the edge of his knife:

"When some gay lover pleases me,
'Tis quickly done! He pleases me.
La rifla-fla-fla-fla, la rifla-fla-fla-fla,
La rifla-fla-fla-fla-fla-fla-fla."

"And now, my little girl," he proceeded to say at the close of the refrain, "since you are not jealous, give me some advice – some friendly advice. I am in love – desperately in love."

"Is it possible!"

"If she were a woman of the world I would not ask your advice, but – "

"Well! Well! Am I, perchance, not a woman? and of the world, too?"

"Of all the world, not true, my dear?"

"Naturally, seeing I'm here – which is little to your credit, my dear, and less creditable to me. But that matters not. Proceed, and don't be rude again – if you can avoid it."

"Oh! The little one gives me a lesson in politeness!"

"You want my advice; you see I can give you lessons. Proceed, what have you to say?"

"You must know I am in love with a shop-girl, that is to say, her father and mother keep a shop. You surely know the ways of such folks, their customs and habits. What means would you advise me to employ in order to succeed?"

"Make yourself beloved."