CHAPTER II.
GEORGE DUCHENE

While the events narrated in the preceding chapter were happening in the shop of Monsieur Lebrenn the linendraper, another scene was taking place at almost the same hour on the fifth story of an old house, opposite the one which the Breton merchant occupied.

I shall take my reader into a modest little room that is fitted out with extreme neatness; an iron bedstead, a wardrobe, two chairs and a table above which stood a shelf filled with books – such was its furniture. At the head of the bed hung from the wall a species of trophy, consisting of a military cap and two light infantry under-officer's epaulettes, above which, spread in a black frame, was an honorable discharge from service. In a corner of the chamber, and disposed upon a board, were several carpenter's tools.

Upon the bed lay a freshly furbished carbine, and upon a little table a little heap of balls, a gunpowder pouch, and a mold to prepare cartridges in, a number of which had already been gotten ready.

The tenant of the apartment, a young man of about twenty-six, with a virile and handsome face, and wearing a mechanic's blouse, was already up. With his elbows leaning on the sill of his attic window, he seemed to be looking intently at the house of Monsieur Lebrenn, especially at one of the four windows, between two of which the famous sign of The Sword of Brennus was fastened.

That one particular window, furnished with very white curtains closely drawn together, presented nothing remarkable to the sight, except for a wooden box, painted green and daintily wrought with ovolos and other carvings, that filled the full width of the outer sill and contained several winter heliotropes besides some crocuses in full bloom.

The features of the tenant of the attic as he contemplated the window in question, bore an expression of such profound melancholy that it was almost painful to behold. After a while a tear, that fell from the young man's eyes, rolled down upon his brown moustache.

The sound of a clock that struck half past six drew George Duchene – that was the young man's name – from his revery. He passed his hand over his moist eyes, and left the window murmuring bitterly:

"Bah! To-day, or to-morrow, a bullet through my breast will deliver me from this insane love. Thanks to God, there will soon be a serious engagement. My death will at least serve the cause of freedom."

George remained pensive for a while, and then added:

"But grandfather – I forgot him!"

He then proceeded to a corner of the room where stood a little stove half filled with burning coals, and which he had been using to found his bullets. He placed on the fire a small earthen dish filled with milk, crumbled into it some slices of white bread, and in a few minutes had ready for use a toothsome bowl of milk soup that the expertest housekeeper might have been jealous of.

After concealing the carbine and munitions of war under his mattress, George took up the bowl, opened a door that was cut in the board partition of his apartment, and passed into a contiguous room, where a man of advanced age and with a kind and venerable face framed in long white hair, lay on a much better bed than George's. The old man seemed exceedingly weak; his thin and wrinkled hands were agitated by a continuous tremor.

"Good morning, grandfather," said George, tenderly embracing the old man. "Did you rest well during the night?"

"Quite well, my boy."

"Here is your milk soup. I'm afraid I kept you waiting."

"Not at all. It is only just day. I heard you rise and open your window – about an hour ago."

"That's so, grandfather. I felt my head heavy – I wanted to breathe the early air."

"I also heard you during the night walk up and down your room."

"Poor grandfather! Did I keep you awake?"

"No, I was not sleepy. But, George, be frank with me. There's something troubling you."

"Me? Nothing at all."

"For several months you have looked depressed; you have grown pale; you have changed so much as not to be recognizable. You are no longer as light of heart as you were when you returned from your regiment."

"I assure you, grandfather – "

"You assure me – you assure me! I know perfectly well what I see. As far as that is concerned I can not be deceived. I have a mother's eyes – come, now – "

"That's true," replied George smiling. "I think it is grandmother I should call you – because you are good, tender and uneasy about me, like a true grandma. But believe me, you alarm yourself unnecessarily. Here, hold your spoon; wait a minute till I place the table on your bed. You will be more at ease."

George took from a corner a pretty little shining walnut table of the shape of the trays used by patients for eating on in their beds. After placing upon it the bowl of soup, he gently pushed it in front of the old man.

"There is none like you, my boy, for such thoughtfulness," observed the grandfather.

"It would have been a devilish thing, grandfather, if, with all my carpenter's skill, I had failed to put together this little table that is so handy for you."

"Oh! You have an answer for everything – I know that," observed the old man, smiling.

And with a shaky hand he began his meal. So tremulous were his motions that several times the spoon struck against his teeth.

"Oh, my poor boy!" exclaimed the old man sadly. "Just see how my hands tremble. It seems to me they grow worse every day."

"Nonsense, grandfather! To me, on the contrary, your hands seem to be growing steadier – "

"Oh, no! 'Tis all over – all over. There is no remedy can bring me help in my infirmity."

"Why, do you prefer me to take your hopeless view of the case – "

"That's just what I should have done since this affliction began. And, yet, I can not accustom myself to the idea of being an invalid, and a burden to others unto the end of my life."

"Grandfather! Grandfather! If you talk that way we shall have to fall out."

"I wonder what made me commit the stupidity of taking to the trade of gilder of metals. At the end of twenty years, often before that, one-half of those artisans shake like myself; but, differently from myself, they have no grandchildren who spoil them – "

"Grandfather!"

"Yes, you spoil me; I repeat it – you spoil me – "

"Let it be so! Now, then, I shall give you tit for tat; it is the only way to spike your guns, as we were taught in the regiment. Well, I knew a fine man; his name was father Morin; he was a widower with a daughter of about eighteen. The worthy man married his daughter to a gallant young fellow, but over-much given to resent wrong, and one day he received an ugly blow in a fight, so ugly that two years after his marriage he died, leaving his young wife with a boy in her arms."

"George! George!"

"The poor young mother nursed her child. Her husband's death was such a shock to her that she followed him shortly after – and her little boy remained upon the hands of his grandfather."

"Good God, George! How merciless you are! What is the sense in ever coming back to all that?"

"He loved the boy so much that he would not part with him. During the day, when he had to work in the shop, a good neighbor kept the urchin with her. But, the instant the grandfather returned home, he had but one thought on his mind, but one cry on his lips – 'My little George.' He looked after him as lovingly as the best and tenderest of mothers. He ruined himself getting pretty clothes and pretty hats for the chap. He rigged the little fellow up to his own taste, and the grandfather was very proud of his grandchild. And so it came about that all the people in the neighborhood, who loved the worthy man greatly, began to call him the nurse-father."

"But, George!"

"In that way he brought up the boy, cared for him night and day, attended to all his needs, sent him to school, then to his apprenticeship, until – "

"So much the worse!" cried out the old man, unable any longer to contain himself. "Seeing we are to tell the truth to each other, I shall have my turn, and we shall see! First of all, you were the son of my daughter Georgiana, whom I doted upon. I only did my duty – take that, to begin with – "

"Neither have I done any more than my duty."

"You? Don't tell me that!" cried the old man, vehemently brandishing his spoon. "You! This is what you did: Good luck saved you from drawing the lot of going into the army – "

"Grandfather! Take care!"

"Oh, you can not frighten me!"

"You will upset your bowl of soup if you go on in that way."

"I 'go on'! The devil take it! Do you think I have no blood left in my veins? Yes, answer, you who are always speaking of other people! When my infirmity began, what is it that you did, unhappy boy? You went in search of a merchant of men."

"Grandfather, your soup will grow cold; for heaven's sake take it while it is warm."

"Ta, ta, ta! You want to shut my mouth. I am not your dupe. Yes! And what did you say to the merchant of men? 'My grandfather is ailing; he can hardly any longer earn his living; I am his only support; I may fail him, either through sickness, or through lack of work; he is old; secure to him a little life annuity, and I shall sell myself to you.' And you did it!" cried the old man with tears in his eyes, and raising his spoon to the ceiling with such vehemence that, if George had not quickly seized the table it would have tumbled down to the floor with the bowl of soup and all.

The young man exclaimed:

"'Sdeath, grandfather! Keep quiet! You are carrying on like the devil in a sacristy. You will upset everything."

"I don't care! It will not keep me from telling you why and how it came about that you became a soldier, and how you sold yourself for me – to a merchant of men – "

"All that talk is a pretext to keep you from eating your soup. I see, you think it is not well made."

"Just listen to him! I, find his soup bad! Well, well!" exclaimed the old man in pitiful accents, "That devil of a boy has made up his mind to break my heart!"

Father Morin furiously dipped his spoon into the bowl, and precipitately carrying it to his mouth said while eating: "You see – you see – how bad I find your soup – see-see – Oh! it is bad – see – see – Oh, I don't like it at all!"

"For heaven's sake, now you are going too fast," cried George, holding back his grandfather's arm. "You will choke yourself."

"That's also your fault! To tell me I find your soup bad, while it tastes delicious!" complained the old man, moderating his pace and smacking his lips with great gusto. "It is the gods' own nectar!"

"Without vainglory," replied George, smiling, "I enjoyed a great reputation in the regiment for my leek soup. Good, I shall now fill your pipe."

George then leaned over to the old man and said to him as he patted him on the back:

"That's right – my good old grandfather loves to pull at his little pipe in his bed, do you not?"

"What shall I say, George? You turn me into a Pacha; aye, a Pacha!" answered the old man, while his grandson went for the pipe that lay on a table, filled it with tobacco, lighted it, and presented it to old father Morin. The old man was thereupon propped up well in his bed, and began to smoke his delicious pipe.

George sat down at the foot of the bed, and said:

"What do you propose to do to-day?"

"I shall take my little stroll on the boulevard, where, if the weather is good, I shall sit down for a while on a bench."

"Hem! Grandfather, I think you would better postpone your promenade. You must have noticed yesterday how large the crowds were that gathered at several places. They almost came to blows with the municipalists and city sergeants. It may be even worse to-day."

"I know it, my boy. Are you taking a hand in these tussles? I know full well how tempting it is to do so when one's rights are invaded. It is unworthy of the government to forbid the banquets. But I shall feel very uneasy on your score."

"You need not feel uneasy about me, grandfather. There is nothing to fear, as far as I am concerned. But take my advice. Do not go out to-day."

"Very well, my boy, I shall stay indoors. I shall entertain myself a little reading your books, and shall look at the passers-by from the window, smoking my pipe the while."

"Poor grandfather," observed George with a smile. "From our high floor you see hardly more than moving hats."

"That's all one. It will be enough to entertain me. Besides, I can look at the opposite houses. Our neighbors often sit at their windows. But – hold! It strikes me now – by the way of the houses on the other side of the street, there is a thing I have meant to ask you, and always forgot. Tell me what that sign means which I see before the linendraper's house. What is the meaning of that helmeted warrior throwing his sword into the scales? You who did the carpentering work in the shop, when it was recently renovated, you should know the why and wherefore of its sign."

"I did not know it either until my master detailed me to work in Monsieur Lebrenn's shop."

"All over the quarter people speak of him as a straight-forward man. All the same, what devil of a notion is that of choosing such a looking sign —The Sword of Brennus! If he were an armorer, the thing might pass. True enough, there are scales in the picture, and scales suggest commerce – but why does the warrior with his helmet on and the air of an Artaban throw his sword into the scale?"