Chapter XXXVIII: The Small Gate in the Garden Once More

Sans-Souci rode beside the postilion, despite Monsieur Gerval’s request that he should take a seat in the carriage; but he was fully determined to act as scout, fearing mishaps on account of the deep ruts and the wretched roads. His joy was so great at the thought of returning to the farm with Madame Murville, that he was unwilling to depend upon any other than himself to avert such accidents as might happen to them on the way.

During the journey, Jacques told his old godfather of the adventures of his youth; the story of the philters and the magnetism amused honest Gerval and extorted a smile from Adeline.

“What happy chance brought you to our house so opportunely, with your brave companion, to save us from the knives of the robbers?” old Catherine asked Jacques.

“A few days after my dear Adeline’s departure,” said Jacques, “as she did not return to the farm, and as I feared, with good reason, that some unfortunate accident must have happened to her, I started off with Sans-Souci, determined to travel all over France if necessary, to find the mother and child. We went to Paris and stayed there several days, but all to no purpose; I could not learn anything as to the fate of those whom I sought. After going back to the farm to bid honest Guillot and his wife good-bye, we started off again, and we visited one after another all the provinces of France, stopping in the smallest towns, in the most modest hamlets, making the most minute inquiries everywhere, and always disappointed in our hopes. More than a year passed and our search had come to nothing. But Sans-Souci, whose good spirits never fail, sustained my courage and revived my hopes when he saw that my grief and my sadness increased. We at last turned our steps toward this province, with no expectation of being more fortunate here. After travelling through part of Franche-Comté, we entered the Vosges. As we were not afraid of robbers, we often travelled at night, and even more often slept on the ground, as we did not always find shelter on our road. Yesterday, however, the weather was so bad, and the snow had blocked the roads so completely, that we lost ourselves in the woods. I was numb with cold and almost exhausted, when Sans-Souci spied near at hand a fine looking house. I dared not ask hospitality, but Sans-Souci insisted upon stopping; and we were still disputing, when we heard shrieks inside the house; then we no longer hesitated, but I rang violently at the gate. Sans-Souci discovered an open window on the ground floor, from which the bars had been removed, and we jumped into the room. Imagine my surprise and my joy when I found there the woman whom I had been looking for so long, and whom I should have left behind forever, if your cry had not drawn me into the house.”

“My dear Jacques, it was surely Providence that sent you to our help,” said Monsieur Gerval; “but the greatest miracle of all is that that event has restored our dear Adeline’s reason.”

“Well, monsieur, didn’t I tell you so?” said Catherine; “all that was needed was a violent shock, a crisis; and that is just what has happened.”

The journey was made without accident, and they arrived at Guillot’s farm. Jacques was conscious of a pleasant thrill of emotion as he passed the fields in which he had worked.

“Yonder,” he said to good Monsieur Gerval, “is the plow with which I turned up this ground, so often wet with my sweat.”

“My friend,” replied the old man, “never forget it even in the lap of prosperity, and the unfortunate will never apply to you in vain.”

A carriage drawn by four horses is a great event in a country town. The villagers, the farm hands, left their work, and the people from the farm drew near with curiosity to look at the travellers; but Sans-Souci’s joy had made itself heard already; he cracked his whip in such a way as to make the chickens fly a league, while the pigeons took refuge on the tallest chimneys.

“It’s us, it’s him, it’s her!” he shouted, as soon as he caught sight of Louise and Guillot; “give us a big feast, my friends,--cabbage soup and the light white wine! death to the rabbits and chickens!”

The villagers surrounded the carriage; Jacques, Adeline and Ermance were embraced, caressed, and made much of by everybody. Louise wept, Guillot swore aloud in his joy, and the old man was deeply moved by the sincere affection which they all manifested for his children; for that was what he called Jacques, Adeline and her daughter; and they escorted him in triumph to the farm, where everything was soon turned topsy-turvy to celebrate the return of those whom they had not expected to see again.

Amid the joy, the confusion, and the preparations for the feast, Sans-Souci ran from one to another, tried to help everybody, broke plates, upset saucepans, and exclaimed at every instant:

“You don’t know all; Jacques is rich now, and this excellent old man is his godfather; we saved his life; we killed the rascals! I will tell you all about it.”

“I see,” said Guillot, “things seem to be going pretty well; but what about our friend Jacques’s brother?”

“Hush!” said Sans-Souci, putting his finger to his lips; “if you have the misfortune to speak of him, gayety will disappear, tears will come back, and your supper will be for the great Turk; so take my advice, and turn your tongue over for an hour in your mouth, rather than say another stupid word on that subject.”

“All right,” said Guillot, “I’ll chew my cud at the table before I speak.”

Life at the farm delighted Monsieur Gerval; he drove all about the neighborhood, admiring the charming sites and the fertile fields which surrounded him.

“Morgué, monsieur,” said Guillot, “if you knew how pretty it all is in summer! Bless my soul, you don’t see anything now! but if our fields are worth more, if our farm brings in more, we owe it all to our friend Jacques; in two years he did more and thought of more things than I could ever do in six; he’s worth three hands all by himself. It is a pity he’s rich now, for it robs me of a fine workman.”

“My dear Jacques,” said the old man, “you must love this country, these fields, which have witnessed your labors, and it would be cruel in me to take you away from here. We will settle in this neighborhood, my friend, and I leave it to you to purchase some suitable estate here-about; arrange it to suit yourself; I am too old to attend to business matters, and I rely upon you to make a wise choice.”

Jacques joyfully accepted the commission entrusted to him. He already had a plan in his head, and on the day following his arrival at the farm, impelled by a secret hope, he went early in the morning to Villeneuve-Saint-Georges. Trembling with emotion, he approached his father’s house, that spot for which he had always sighed. His dearest wish was to pass the rest of his life in that house, which recalled memories which were both pleasant and painful.

When he reached the gate, he saw a placard pasted on the wall; he read: “This house for sale or rent.”

“It’s ours!” he cried. “I am going to live again in the house where I passed my childhood; I ran away from it at fifteen years of age, I shall return to it at thirty; God grant that I may never leave it again! Adeline, I am sure, will be delighted to return to it; it was here, she told me, that she passed the happiest days of her life; even if this place does remind her of a man she loved too well, at all events when they lived here he was still worthy of her.”

Jacques rang at the gate; no one answered, but a neighbor advised him to go to the notary’s, which was almost opposite. The notary was the same man who had made the deeds for Edouard Murville four years before. The house, having fallen into the hands of creditors, had belonged to several owners in succession. The present owner almost never lived in it and was very desirous to get rid of it. Jacques inquired the price and promised to return the next day to conclude the bargain; he dared not do it without consulting Monsieur Gerval. He hastened back to the farm, and the old man saw by his pleased expression that he had found a house which suited him.

“You will recognize it,” said Jacques, “for you often went there in the old days; it is the house that belonged to my father.”

“And you didn’t conclude the bargain? Well! well! I see that I must go myself and settle the business.”

And the next morning the old man set out in his carriage with his dear godson. He drove to the notary’s and purchased the estate in the name of Jacques, knowing that he did not intend to bear any other name; but honest Gerval asked no explanation of that resolution, because he guessed a part of Edouard’s misconduct.

“Here, my boy,” he said to Jacques, as he handed him the deed; “it is high time that I should make you a present, to recompense you for having given you such a wretched name. This estate is yours, and my little Jacques is at home in the house from which his name caused him to run away long ago.”

Jacques embraced the old man, and they returned to the farm for Adeline and her daughter.

“Did I misjudge your heart,” Jacques asked his sister-in-law, “in thinking that you would be glad to find yourself back in the dear old house at Villeneuve-Saint-Georges?”

“No, my friend,” replied Adeline; “I have been too happy there not to wish to pass the rest of my life there; happy memories will sometimes mingle with my sad thoughts; I will banish from my mind all that he has done elsewhere than there, and I will try to remember only the days of his affection for me; then I shall at least be able to weep for him without blushing.”

The Guillot family learned with delight that their friends were not to leave the country; for the road from Villeneuve-Saint-Georges to the farm was a pleasant walk, and they promised one another to take it often in the fine weather.

Four days after their arrival, our travellers started for the new abode in which they proposed to establish themselves. Adeline’s eyes were wet with tears when she stood once more in that house, when she saw again those gardens which had witnessed the first months of her married life--such pleasant months, which passed so quickly, never to return!

Catherine took possession of the kitchen, Lucas of the garden and of the post of concierge. Monsieur Gerval chose a room between Jacques and Adeline, whom he liked to have near him; and little Ermance remained with her mother, to cheer her by her prattle, to charm away her melancholy by her caresses, and to mingle some hopes with her memories.

Sans-Souci wished to resume his labors at the farm, but Monsieur Gerval and Jacques remonstrated.

“You saved my life,” said the old man, “and I don’t want you to leave me.”

“You shared my trials and my adversity,” said Jacques, “and you must share my fortune; everything is common between us.”

“Sacrebleu!” said Sans-Souci, passing his hand over his eyes, “these people do whatever they please with me. I will stay with you, that’s all right, but only on condition that I shall be at liberty to go to walk when you have company, and that I shan’t sit at table with Madame Adeline; for a man should be respectful to his superiors, and I am as stupid as a goose in society.”

“You shall go to walk as much as you please,” said the old man; “you shall hunt and fish, and smoke if that will give you pleasure; but you are going to sit at table with us, because a brave man is out of place nowhere.”

“All right, ten thousand cartridges! I see I must submit to that too.”

No more misadventures, no more storms, no more misfortunes; tranquil days had dawned at last for the family at Villeneuve-Saint-Georges. Adeline’s unhappiness had become a gentle melancholy, which the graces and caresses of her daughter beguiled and made endurable. Little Ermance grew and improved; her features became sweet and attractive; her voice was as soft as her mother’s, and her sensitive and kindly heart never turned away the unfortunate. Jacques, proud of his niece, had lost a little of his brusque manner since he had lived in the bosom of his family. Sans-Souci still swore, and would have thrown himself into the fire for any of his friends. Old Gerval was made doubly happy at the sight of the good that he himself did, and that Jacques did. In short, one and all enjoyed a peaceable life, and the people at the farm were often visited by their friends from the village.

A single thing marred Sans-Souci’s happiness; it was that Jacques no longer wore the decoration that he had won on the battle-field.

“Why don’t you wear it any more?” he would say to him, when they were alone; “what can prevent you? Morbleu! you act like a fool with your resolutions.”

“My brother disgraced our name.”

“Well! was it to you or your name that they gave the cross?”

“It’s out of respect for that honorable reward, that I deprive myself of the pleasure of wearing it.”

“But when you go by the name of Jacques simply----”

“That doesn’t matter; I know none the less that Edouard was a--Why, I tell you, that ghastly thought would make me blush for that symbol of honor; I shall never wear it again.”

“You are wrong.”

“That may be; I am and I shall always be a man of honor; but I have no pride left when I think of my brother’s shame.”

The tranquillity enjoyed by the family at Villeneuve-Saint-Georges was disturbed by a melancholy event which they still believed to be far away: honest Gerval fell sick and died, and the zealous care of all those who surrounded him was unavailing to save him.

“My children,” he said to them in his last moments, “I am sorry to leave you, but at all events my mind is at rest concerning your future. I hoped to live longer among you, but fate wills otherwise and I must submit. Think of me, but don’t weep.”

The old man left his whole fortune to Jacques and Adeline. He had thirty thousand francs a year, a large part of which was used in assisting the unfortunate. Old Catherine survived her master only a few months, and those two events caused deep sadness among the occupants of Jacques’s house for a long while.

But time is always successful in calming the bitterest regrets; it triumphs over everything; it is the Lethe wherein the memories of our troubles and our pleasures alike are drowned.

Years passed. Ermance was nine years old; she was Jacques’s delight, and her mother’s consolation. In order not to part with her, they caused teachers to come to the village to begin her education.

“Ten thousand carbines!” said Sans-Souci as he looked at the little girl; “that little face will turn a devilish lot of heads! Wit, beauty, charm, talent, a kind heart,--she will have everything, sacrebleu!”

“Yes,” said Jacques, “but she will never be able to mention her father.”

“Oh! mon Dieu! there are many people in the same plight; that won’t prevent your niece from rousing passions.”

“Morbleu! those same passions are what cause most of the unhappiness of life; I would much prefer that she should not rouse any.”

“She won’t ask your permission for that, comrade.”

Adeline was proud of her daughter, who, being blest with the most happy disposition, also made rapid progress in everything that she was taught.

“Dear Ermance!” her mother would say as she gazed at her, “may you be happier than your parents!”

At such times, Adeline would devote a moment’s thought to Edouard, whom she believed to have died long since in destitution and despair. “Ah!” she would say sometimes to Jacques, when their eyes expressed the same thought, “if only I could think that he died repentant, I feel that I should have some slight consolation.”

Jacques would make no reply, but he would call Ermance and take her to Adeline, that the sight of her might dispel a painful memory. Jacques did not know that a mother always sees in her child the image of the man she has loved.

One lovely summer evening, Jacques was walking to and fro pensively at the end of the garden; Ermance, not very far from her uncle, was amusing herself by plucking flowers, and Adeline, seated a few steps away on the turf, looked on in silence at the graceful movements of her daughter. Suddenly Ermance, as she ran toward a clump of rose bushes, uttered a cry of alarm and stopped abruptly. Adeline ran to her daughter; Jacques also drew near, and they both inquired what had frightened her.

“Look, look!” replied the child, pointing to the end of the garden, “look, it is still there; that face frightened me.”

Jacques and Adeline looked in the direction indicated by Ermance, and saw behind the small gate covered with boards, in the same spot where the face with moustaches had appeared long ago, a man’s face gazing into the garden.

“What a strange coincidence!” said Adeline, looking at Jacques; “do you remember, my friend, that at that same spot, ten years ago, you appeared before us?”

“That is true,” said Jacques; “yes, I remember very well.”

“We must excuse Ermance’s alarm, for I remember that then you frightened me terribly! That man seems to be in trouble; come, my daughter, let us go and offer help to him, and don’t be afraid any more; the unfortunate should inspire pity and not fear.”

As she spoke, Adeline and Ermance approached the gate. The features of the man who stood on the other side seemed to become animated; he gazed at the young woman and her daughter, then he turned his eyes upon Jacques, passed an arm through the gate, and seemed to implore their pity. Adeline had drawn near; she scrutinized the beggar, then uttered a piteous cry, and returned to Jacques, pale, distressed, trembling, and hardly able to speak.

“I don’t know whether it is a delusion,” she said, “but that man--it seems to me--yes--look--it is he, it is----”

She could say no more. Jacques ran to the little gate, he recognized his brother, and threw the gate open. Edouard entered the garden, clad in rags and tatters, overdone by fatigue and suffering, and presenting a perfect image of misery and desperation.

“Help me, save me!” he said, dragging himself toward Jacques, who scarcely dared believe his eyes; “for God’s sake, do not turn me away!”

“Oh! let’s go away, mamma, that man frightens me!” said Ermance, clinging to her mother. Adeline, standing as still as a statue, gazed at Edouard, while tears flowed from her eyes and fell on the child’s face.

“Unhappy wretch,” said Jacques at last, “why have you come here? Do you propose to pursue us everywhere? Must your infamy inevitably follow your family and make this child blush?”

“Ah!” said Edouard, throwing himself at Jacques’s feet, “I am a miserable wretch indeed! she even hides my child from me, she shields her from her father’s glance!”

Jacques no longer had the strength to spurn him; Edouard approached Adeline and threw himself at her feet, placing his head against the ground, and sobbing piteously. When she heard the unhappy man’s groans, Ermance turned and looked at him; terror yielded to pity.

“Oh! that poor man looks very unhappy, mamma,” she said to Adeline; “he causes me pain; let me help him to get up; I don’t feel afraid of him any more.”

Thereupon Edouard seized his daughter’s hand and pressed it affectionately in his, looking up at Adeline with an expression of which she understood the meaning.

“I forgive you,” she said to him; “oh! if you had offended no one but me! but your child, my daughter, she can never mention your name.”

Jacques checked Adeline, by putting a finger to his lips. At that moment Sans-Souci ran toward them, and manifested great surprise at finding a stranger in the garden.

“What do you want of us?” said Jacques; “why do you come upon us so suddenly? what has happened?”

“Faith! comrade, I came to tell you that some gendarmes are searching the village; they are looking for a vagabond whom they recognized only a league from here, and they propose to search this house soon. I confess that I told them that it wouldn’t be any use, but sacrebleu! I didn’t know that----”

“Hush! hold your tongue,” said Jacques, “and don’t say a word about what you see here. Go back to the house with the child and my sister.--Go, have no fear, I will answer for everything.--Sans-Souci, take my sister to the house; and above all, the most absolute silence.”

Sans-Souci promised, and walked a few steps away, tremendously surprised by all that he saw. Adeline was terrified by the risks that Edouard ran, but he himself implored her to abandon him to his unhappy fate. He pressed her hand to his heart, kissed his daughter’s hand, and turned away from them, while, at a sign from his comrade, Sans-Souci led Adeline and Ermance toward the house.

“They have gone and we are alone,” said Jacques to his brother, when Adeline was out of sight; “are you the man they are looking for?”

“Yes; a little way from here, in a wine shop I had entered to ask for help, a man who used to be a keeper at the galleys at Toulon, happened to be drinking at a table; he examined me closely, and I went out, afraid of being recognized; but I see now that it was too late; my fate is sealed; but I am less unhappy than I was; I have seen my daughter, my wife has forgiven me, and you--oh! I entreat you, brother, forgive me too!”

“Yes,” said Jacques, “I will forgive you; but you must--wretched man! do you know what the punishment is that awaits you? You must die upon the scaffold; and the scandal of your infamous death will make our shame eternal! Will you never have the courage to do anything but commit crimes? will you never be able to do what the honor of your wife and your child has made it your duty to do for a long while? You shudder, weak man! you await the executioner; remember that you cannot avoid falling into the hands of the law again! Great God! and you are not weary of a life dragged out in infamy and misery!”

“I understand you,” said Edouard; “be sure that death will be a blessing to me; but before going down into the grave, I wanted to let you know that I repent; now give me the means of escaping my punishment; I will hesitate no longer.”

Jacques motioned to Edouard to wait for him; he hurried to his study, took his pistols and returned to the garden. He saw his brother kneeling beside the small barred gate. He handed him the weapons with a firm hand and Edouard took them.

“Now,” said Jacques, “come, unhappy man! let us embrace for the last time. Your brother pardons your crimes, and he will come every day to pray to Heaven on your grave.”

Edouard threw himself into his brother’s arms; they embraced a long while; but at last, Edouard walked a few steps away, a report rang out,--the miserable wretch had ceased to live.

Jacques went to his brother’s body, and summoning all his courage, although his tears fell rapidly, he hastily dug a grave at the foot of a willow tree near the little gate. Sans-Souci arrived and surprised his comrade in that melancholy occupation.

“Help me,” said Jacques, “it’s my brother.”

Sans-Souci tried to send his friend away and to perform that painful task alone; but Jacques would not consent; he was determined to pay the last duties to his brother. And not until the earth had concealed him from his sight did he consent to return to Adeline.

“Well,” she said, “what has become of him?”

“Have no further fear for him,” said Jacques; “he has escaped; and I give you my word that the law can never lay hold of him now.”

Adeline had faith in Jacques’s promise and looked on without apprehension when the gendarmes, a few hours later, searched the house, where of course they did not find Edouard.

After some time, Adeline noticed with surprise a tombstone which Jacques had caused to be erected under the willow at the end of the garden.

“For whom is this stone?” she asked him.

“For my unhappy brother,” Jacques replied.

“Is he dead?”

“Yes, he is no more; I am absolutely certain of it.”

“Alas! in what part of the earth did he end his days?”

“He is there,” said Jacques at last, pointing to the end of the garden, at the foot of the willow.

Adeline shuddered and dared to ask no more; but every day she took her daughter to pray over the poor beggar’s grave, and Ermance never knew that she was praying for her father.

And it was at the foot of the willow that Jacques buried his cross also.