Will you so degrade the dignity of man, as to treat this proposition as an impossible and Utopian dream? We ask, how many prisoners of war have ever broken their parole, and if officers and soldiers are not brothers of the workingman?
Without exaggerating the virtue of promise-keeping in the honest and laborious poor, we feel certain, that an engagement taken by the accused to appear on the day of trial would be always fulfilled, not only with fidelity, but with the warmest gratitude—for his family would not have suffered 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) are generally wise, upright, humane, and independent; they have the true feeling of their own useful and sacred mission; they know how to appreciate the wants and distresses of the working classes, with whom they are so often brought in contact; to them might be safely granted the power of fixing those cases in which a moral security, the only one that can be given by the honest and necessitous man, should be received as sufficient.(10)
Finally, if those who make the laws have so low an opinion of the people as to reject with disdain the suggestions we have ventured to throw out, let them at least so reduce the minimum of bail, as to render it available for those who have most need to escape the fruitless rigors of imprisonment. Let them take as their lowest limit, the month's wages of an artisan—say eighty francs.
This sum would still be exorbitant; but, with the aid of friends, the pawnbroker's, and some little advances, eighty francs might perhaps be found—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 to an almost hopeless state.
The anguish of Dagobert's wife increased, the more she reflected on her situation, for, including the marshal's daughters, four persons were left absolutely without resource. It must be confessed, however, that the excellent mother thought less of herself, than of the grief which her 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 the door of the room. This time, his arms were no longer of a bright apple green, but of a magnificent violet.
'Mrs. Baudoin,' said Father Loriot, 'here is a letter that the giver of holy water at Saint Merely's has just brought from Abbe Dubois, with a request that I would bring it up to you immediately, as it is very pressing.'
'A letter from my confessor?' said Frances, in astonishment; and, as she took 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, anxious to 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 and Saturday, but I shall not be at liberty either to-morrow or the last day of the week; you must then come to me this morning, unless you wish to remain a whole week without approaching the tribunal of penance.''
'Good heavens! a week!' cried Dagobert's wife. 'Alas! I am only too conscious of the necessity of going there today, notwithstanding the trouble and grief in which I am plunged.'
Then, addressing herself to the orphans, she continued: 'Heaven has heard the prayers that I made for you, my dear young ladies; this very day I shall be able to consult a good and holy man with regard to the great dangers to which you are exposed. Poor dear souls, that are so innocent, and yet so guilty, without any fault of your own! Heaven is my witness, that my heart bleeds for you as much as for my son.'
Rose and Blanche looked at each other in confusion; they could not understand the fears with which the state of their souls inspired the wife of Dagobert. The latter soon resumed, addressing the young sempstress:
'My good girl, will you render me yet another service?'
'Certainly.'
'My husband took Agricola's week's wages with him to pay his journey to Chartres. It was all the money I had in the house; I am sure that my poor 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 sheets that remain over, and my wadded silk shawl, that Agricola gave me on my birthday, and carry them all to the pawnbroker's. I will try and find out in which prison my son is confined, and will send him half of the little sum we get upon the things; the rest will serve us till my husband comes home. And then, what shall we do? What a blow for him—and only more misery in prospect—since my son is in prison, and I have lost my sight. Almighty Father!' cried the unfortunate mother, with an expression of impatient and bitter grief, 'why am I thus afflicted? Have I not done enough to deserve some pity, if not for myself, at least for those belonging to me?' But immediately reproaching herself for this outburst, she added, 'No, no! I ought to accept with thankfulness all that Thou sandiest me. Forgive me for these complaints, or punish only myself!'
'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 the pawnbroker'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 the very best creature in the world.' So saying, she hastened cut of the room.
Rose and Blanche were left alone with Mother Bunch; at length had arrived the moment for which they had waited with so much impatience. Dagobert's wife proceeded to St. Merely Church, where her confessor was expecting to see her.
CHAPTER XLVIII. THE CONFESSIONAL
Nothing could be more gloomy than the appearance of St. Merely Church, on this dark and snowy winter's day. Frances stopped a moment beneath the porch, to behold a lugubrious spectacle.
While a priest was mumbling some words in a low voice, two or three dirty choristers, in soiled surplices, were charting the prayers for the dead, with an absent and sullen air, round a plain deal coffin, followed only by a sobbing old man and a child, miserably clad. The beadle and the sacristan, very much displeased at being disturbed for so wretched a funeral, had not deigned to put on their liveries, but, yawning with impatience, waited for the end of the ceremony, so useless to the interests of the establishment. At length, a few drops of holy water being sprinkled on the coffin, the priest handed the brush to the beadle, and retired.
Then took place one of those shameful scenes, the necessary consequence of an ignoble and sacrilegious traffic, so frequent with regard to the burials of the poor, who cannot afford to pay for tapers, high mass, or violins—for now St. Thomas Aquinas' Church has violins even for the dead.
The old man stretched forth his hand to the sacristan to receive the brush. 'Come, look sharp!' said that official, blowing on his fingers.
The emotion of the old man was profound, and his weakness extreme; he remained for a moment without stirring, while the brush was clasped tightly in his trembling hand. In that coffin was his daughter, the mother of the ragged child who wept by his side—his heart was breaking at the thought of that last farewell; he stood motionless, and his bosom heaved with convulsive sobs.
'Now, will you make haste?' said the brutal beadle. 'Do you think we are going to sleep here?'
The old man quickened his movements. He made the sign of the cross over the corpse, and, stooping down,
