Brother Jacques Part 60

The peasants of the neighborhood, who had learned of the melancholy events that had happened in the house of their benefactor, hastened to see him; and the stone over Dupre's grave indicated the deplorable way in which the faithful servant had met his end.

Monsieur Gerval at last inquired the name of his preserver.

"My name is Jacques, monsieur," said he, "formerly a soldier, now a farm hand."

"Jacques," said the old man, "I bear the same name as you. I gave it also to my G.o.dson, a little rascal who would be about your age now, and whom I have sought in vain in Paris."

Jacques looked with more attention at him whose life he had saved; he seemed to recognize in his venerable face the features of a person who had always manifested the most affectionate interest in him in his youth. A thousand memories thronged his mind; he could hardly find strength to ask the good man his name, to which he had paid no attention in the excitement of the events of the night.

"My name is Gerval," said the old man, scrutinizing him in his turn with evident emotion; "I used to be in business, and I had a large factory in Paris."

"Is it possible? You are Jacques Gerval, my G.o.dfather, whom I used to love so dearly?"

Jacques leaped on the neck of the old man, who embraced him affectionately and shed tears of pleasure at finding his dear G.o.dson; while all the witnesses of the scene wept in sympathy.

"Ten thousand squadrons! how people keep finding each other!" said Sans-Souci; "this is a recognition that I didn't expect, by a long way, nor you either, comrade."

"My dear Jacques," said Monsieur Gerval, "I have looked for you in all directions; I was crazy with longing to see you again. Your escapade of long ago caused me much pain, for I was innocently the cause of it. The name of Jacques brought you ill luck, my poor G.o.dson; it had an influence over your whole life; your mother neglected you, your father dared not utter your name before her; I alone was kind to you, but that was not enough for your sensitive heart. You left your father's roof, and I swore to make up for the injustice of your parents if I could ever find you again. Here you are at last! I recognize you perfectly now!

These scars have not changed the expression of your features. We will not part again, Jacques; you must close my eyes; you are my child, my only heir; from this moment my fortune is yours; make use of it to confer blessings upon all those whom you love."

Jacques embraced his old G.o.dfather once more; he could not credit his good fortune.

"Dear Adeline," he said at last, "if I am rich, you shall never know want again; that is the sweetest pleasure that I shall owe to wealth."

Adeline and Ermance were wrapped in the old man's arms in turn.

"So they are your sister and your niece?" he said to Jacques; "are you married?"

"No," he replied with some embarra.s.sment; "they are my brother's wife and daughter."

"Your brother--why, that is so,--what has become of him?"

"He is no more. Alas! I no longer have a brother, and she has no husband."

"I see that your tears are flowing again, my friends; I have unintentionally renewed your grief; forgive me; perhaps the memory of Edouard is painful to you; but I know nothing about your misfortunes; tell me of them, and then I will try to make you forget them."

Jacques undertook to tell the old man a part of Adeline's sorrows, but he did not make known the whole of his brother's conduct, and Monsieur Gerval believed that Edouard had died at Paris in dest.i.tution, after abandoning his wife and child, and that it was the knowledge of her husband's unhappy end that had disturbed Adeline's reason.

The excellent old man felt more than ever inclined to love that young woman, a model for wives and mothers, and he was determined to become acquainted with the people at the farm, who had shown so much affection for Jacques and Adeline.

"That is very easy," said Sans-Souci; "if you want to make them all happy, you must go to the farm. Sacrebleu! when they see madame and my comrade again, I am sure that Louise and Guillot will be happier than they would if their house was a chateau."

"Let us go to the farm," said honest Gerval; "let us all go there; the journey will do us good; it will divert my dear Adeline's thoughts a little, and it will amuse her little Ermance. Jacques will be able to help in his turn the people who helped him in his need, and we, my poor Catherine, we will try, among the people at the farm, to think less of our old friend Dupre's death."

Monsieur Gerval's plan made them all happy. Catherine was delighted to leave a house which reminded her of melancholy events, and in which she felt that she could never again sleep peacefully. Lucas asked his master's permission to leave his garden, in order to be his servant; the old man consented and everybody prepared for departure.

The house in the Vosges was rented to peasants, who established an inn there, most acceptable to people who travelled through those mountains; Monsieur Gerval and his servants left the house, their hearts depressed by the memory of Dupre. Jacques and Adeline turned their eyes away from the spot which had witnessed Edouard's infamy, and Sans-Souci looked back with pride at the apartment where he had saved an old man's life and slain two villains.

x.x.xVIII

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 G.o.dfather 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 pa.s.sed 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-Comte, 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 pa.s.sed 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 G.o.dfather; 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.

"Morgue, 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 pa.s.s the rest of his life in that house, which recalled memories which were both pleasant and painful.