CHAPTER III.
MARIK LEBRENN

Marik Lebrenn was a man of about fifty years of age, although looking rather younger. His high stature; his nervy, muscular neck, arms and shoulders; the proud and resolute carriage of his head; his open and strikingly strong countenance; his sea-blue eyes with their firm and penetrating glance; his thick, heavy and light auburn hair, slightly streaked with grey and starting rather low upon a forehead that seemed to partake of the hardness of marble; – all these features betrayed the characteristic type of the Breton race, among which the Gallic tongue and blood have pre-eminently preserved themselves unalloyed down to our own days. Upon the ruddy and thick lips of Monsieur Lebrenn sat a perpetual smile that one time betokened kindheartedness, other times bore the impress of that wit and satire, which our old books term salty, when they describe the racy jokes, or the old Gallic character, that ever is inclined to teasing. I shall close the description of the merchant, by clothing him in a large olive overcoat and trousers of a grey material.

Astonished, almost speechless at the unexpected visit, George Duchene waited in silence for Lebrenn to speak. The latter said:

"Monsieur George, about six months ago you were assigned by your employer to attend to some repairs in my shop. I was very much pleased with your intelligence and skill."

"You proved as much to me, monsieur, by your kindness."

"You were entitled to it. I noticed that you were industrious, and anxious to learn. I was aware, besides, as all our neighbors are, of your worthy conduct towards your grandfather, who occupies these lodgings for the last fifteen years."

"Monsieur," remarked George, not a little embarrassed by these praises, "my conduct – "

"Is perfectly simple, is it not? Very well. Your job in my shop kept you three months. Very well pleased with our relations to each other, I said to you, and did so in all frankness: 'Monsieur George, we are neighbors; call and see me, either Sundays, or any other day after your work hours; I shall be pleased, very pleased.'"

"Indeed, monsieur, you said so."

"And yet, Monsieur George, you never set your foot in my house."

"I beg you, monsieur, do not attribute my reserve to either ingratitude or forgetfulness."

"What, then, should I attribute it to?"

"Monsieur – "

"Come, Monsieur George, be frank – you love my daughter."

The young man trembled from head to foot. His color left his cheeks, paleness and blushes alternated with each other. Finally he answered Lebrenn with a tremulous and moved voice:

"It is true, monsieur. I love mademoiselle, your daughter."

"So that, your work in my shop being done, you did not return to my house out of fear that your love might carry you away?"

"Yes, monsieur."

"And you never mentioned your love to anyone, even to my daughter?"

"Never, monsieur."

"I knew it. But why did you refuse to place confidence in me, Monsieur George?"

"Monsieur," answered the embarrassed young man, "I – did – not dare – "

"Why not! Perchance because I am what is called a bourgeois– a rich man compared to you, who live from day to day by the wages that you earn?"

"Yes, monsieur."

After a moment's silence the merchant proceeded:

"Permit me, Monsieur George, to put a question to you. You may answer it, if you think proper."

"I listen, monsieur."

"About fifteen months ago, shortly after your discharge from the army, you expected to marry?"

"Yes, monsieur."

"A young flower girl, an orphan named Josephine Eloi?"

"Yes, monsieur; it is all so."

"Will you tell me the reason why the marriage did not take place?"

The young man colored; an expression of pain contracted his countenance; he hesitated to answer.

Lebrenn watched him attentively. Pained and surprised at George's silence, he could not withhold a bitter and severe cry:

"I see – seduction, then abandonment and oblivion. Your embarrassment proclaims it all but too loudly."

"You are mistaken, monsieur," George quickly answered. "My embarrassment and emotion are caused by cruel recollections. I shall tell you what happened. I never lie – "

"I know you do not, Monsieur George."

"Josephine dwelt in the same house with my employer. In that way I became acquainted with her. She was very pretty, and, although illiterate, highly gifted. I knew she was inured to work and poverty. I believed her wise. A bachelor's life weighed upon me. I also thought of my grandfather. A wife would have assisted me in taking better care of him. I proposed marriage to Josephine. She seemed delighted, and she herself named the date of our wedding. They lied to you, monsieur, who spoke of seduction and abandonment!"

"I believe you," said Lebrenn, cordially extending his hand to the young man. "I am happy to be able to believe you. But how did your marriage fall through?"

"A week before the day for our wedding Josephine disappeared, leaving a letter for me saying that all was broken off. I subsequently learned that, yielding to the evil advice of one of her girl friends, a lost woman, she followed her example. Having lived in misery all her life, enduring grievous privations despite her long hours, twelve and fifteen of work a day, Josephine recoiled before the life that I offered her – a life of toil and poverty like her own."

"And like so many others," interjected Lebrenn, "she succumbed to the temptations of a less toilsome life. Oh! Poverty! Poverty!"

"I have never seen Josephine again, monsieur. She is now, I am told, a coryphee in one of the public dancing halls. She dropped her old name for one that I do not know, coined according to her habit of improvising upon all manner of subjects some of the wildest of songs. In short, she is lost forever. And yet, the girl had excellent qualities of heart. You now understand, monsieur, the cause of the sad emotion that came over me when you mentioned Josephine's name a minute ago."

"Your emotion testifies in favor of your heart, Monsieur George. You have been calumniated. I doubted the truth of what I was told; I am now certain. Let us say no more upon that subject. I now wish to tell you what happened at my house three days ago. I was, in the evening, in my wife's room, together with my daughter. The girl had sat silent and meditative for a while. Suddenly, taking my hand and her mother's, she said to us: 'I have a secret to confide to you. I have long put off speaking, because I have long been reflecting, lest I speak hastily. I love Monsieur George Duchene' – "

"Great God! monsieur," cried George, clasping his hands, and seized with inexpressible ecstasy. "Is it possible! Mademoiselle, your daughter!"

"That was the language of my daughter to us," proceeded Lebrenn with deliberation. "'I am pleased, my child, at your frankness,' I answered her; 'but how came this love about?' 'First, father, through learning of George's conduct towards his grandfather; then through hearing you often praise his character, his industrious habits, and his efforts to cultivate his mind. Finally, he won his way to my heart with his gentle and refined manners, with his frankness, and his conversation, as I heard him talk with you. I never said to him a word that could make him suspect my sentiments for him. On his part, he never dropped his extreme reserve towards me. I would be happy were he to share the sentiments I entertain for him, and if you, father and mother, think such a marriage proper. If you think otherwise I shall respect your wishes, knowing that you respect my freedom. If I can not marry Monsieur George I shall remain single. You have often told me, father, that I had a will of my own. You will not doubt my resolution. If this marriage be out of the question, you will not find me either sulky or dejected. Your affection will console me. Ever happy, as in the past, I shall ever care for you, for mother and for brother. I have told you the truth. Now, I wish you to decide. I shall wait.'"

George listened to Lebrenn with ever increasing astonishment. He could not believe his own ears. Finally he cried in broken accents:

"Monsieur, is this a dream?"

"Not in the least. My daughter never was more wide awake, I assure you. I know the openness of her nature, also her firmness. Both my wife and I are certain of that – if this union can not be effected, Velleda's affection for us will not change, but neither will she marry anyone else. Now, then, seeing it is quite natural that a young and handsome girl of eighteen should marry, and seeing, furthermore, that Velleda's choice is worthy of herself and us, my wife and I, after mature reflection, might gladly decide to accept you as our son-in-law."

Impossible to describe the look of glad surprise, of intoxication, that was stamped upon George's features at these words of the merchant's. He remained mute, he seemed stupefied.

"Come, Monsieur George," the linendraper proceeded with a smile, "what is there so very extraordinary, so incredible, in what I have been telling you? For three whole months you were at work in my shop. I already knew that, in order to insure your grandfather's existence, you turned soldier. Your rank of under-officer, besides two wounds, proves that you served with honor. During your three months with me I was able – my eyes are sufficiently keen – to gauge your worth in point of heart, intelligence and skill at your trade. Delighted with our acquaintance, I invited you to call upon us. Your reserve in this instance is an additional proof of the delicacy of your character. On top of all that, my daughter loves you and you love her. You are twenty-seven years old, she eighteen. She is a charming being; you a handsome fellow. You are poor; I have enough for two. You are a mechanic, so was my father. What in the devil's name is there to amaze you so much? You look as if you had been treated to a fairy tale."

These kind words failed to put an end to George's stupor. He really believed himself treading on enchanted ground, as the merchant had indicated. With moist eyes and a throbbing heart the young man could barely mutter:

"Oh, monsieur! Excuse my embarrassment – I feel so dazed with joy at all I have heard – at your saying that you consent to my marrying – "

"One moment!" quickly interposed the linendraper. "One moment! Take note that, with all the good opinion I entertain for you, what I said was we might decide to accept you as our son-in-law. It was conditional. The conditions were these: first, that you were not guilty of the unworthy act of seduction, that you were charged with – "

"Monsieur, did I not swear to you?"

"You did. I believe you. I mention that first condition simply because I had it on my mind when I came in. As to the second – there is a second – "

"What is it, monsieur?" asked George with inexpressible anxiety, and beginning to apprehend he had too readily indulged in an insensate hope.

"Listen to me, Monsieur George. We have talked very little politics together. During the time that you worked at my place, our conversation always turned upon the history of our forefathers. Nevertheless, I know you entertain very liberal ideas. Let us be short about it – you are a Socialist republican."

"I have heard you say, monsieur, that all opinion, sincerely held, was honorable."

"And I do not take that back. I do not blame you. But between the desire to cause one's opinion to prevail by peaceful means, and schemes to bring about its triumph by violence, by the force of arms – between the two there yawns a deep abyss. Not true, Monsieur George?"

"Yes, monsieur," answered the young man, looking at the linendraper with surprise mingled with uneasiness.

"Now, then, never is an armed demonstration attempted single-handed. Is not that also true, Monsieur George?"

"Monsieur," the young man answered with a feeling of increasing uneasiness, "I do not know – "

"Yes, you are bound to know that people ordinarily associate with others of their own opinion. In short, people affiliate in secret societies– and, on the day of battle, turn up boldly upon the street. Is that not true, Monsieur George?"

"I know, monsieur, that the revolution of 1830 was accomplished in that manner," answered George in a high state of anxiety, while his heart felt more and more wrung with pain.