CHAPTER XII.

EARLY IN THE MORNING.

All night long, Madame Gosner lay awake, thinking of what she had suffered, and of what she had heard. She was a woman of powerful mind and corresponding physique; all her faculties were in vigorous harmony. In peaceful times she might have been a court dame, leading a throng of triflers into something like intelligent pleasures—for that woman could never have contented herself with mediocrity in anything. As it was, one great object had occupied her for years. The wrongs of a husband, whom she had loved with all the force and tenderness of a great soul, occupied every idea of her life. Even when she believed him dead, this great love clung around him as a memory, which threw her whole being into mourning. The scrap of paper, which seemed to have come to her by a miracle, changed all this in a moment. Her husband lived. There was something for her to do. The sleeping energies of her nature awoke with a rebound. She determined to save her husband, or perish in the attempt.

Save her husband, rescue him from the Bastille, with walls twenty feet thick between him and daylight; with green mould forming itself out of the stagnant waters, which oozed through the very stones, and clung, like an unwholesome sweat, to the sides of his dungeon. Was it in the power of woman to free this unhappy man from the living grave that inclosed him?

Against all the despairing replies, which came back to her from these questions, the indomitable spirit of the woman answered, “I will free him,” and her action corresponded with her words. She took her only child, gathered up the fragments of property left to them, and came into France, her own native country, resolved on obtaining freedom for her husband. We have seen how she succeeded. Her money was all exhausted. She had used it unsparingly, but with no avail up to this time—nothing that she had done could win her even access to the king. Now she was suffering for food; want had sapped the foundations of her strength, and the energies of her soul were giving out.

That night, when she was ready to give up all hope and die, this man, half-demagogue, half-patriot; this singular being, who, born of the nobility, was still the idol of the people, came suddenly into her life, and opened a broader and more sublime road by which her object might be obtained. From that moment, the struggling wife became, what soon was no uncommon thing among the women of France—a patriot; more than that, love that burned in her bosom for the one man languishing in his dungeon, made her an enthusiast; and out of her very womanliness this wronged being was thinking how she might become a leader of that great element which, for a time, ruled the very mobs of Paris.

When it became day, Madame Gosner arose and dressed herself with more than usual care. The reflections of that night had resolved themselves into a vague plan of action. Other women suffered like herself; other husbands and fathers lay chained, like wild beasts, in those reeking dungeons. How narrow and selfish her efforts had hitherto been. No wonder God had not helped her when she asked his aid only for herself and the man she loved, forgetting thousands and thousands of sister women who suffered with her.

But little preparation for breakfast was needed in that poor room. Indeed, when she awoke, Madame Gosner knew that there was not a fragment of food at her command; but she was hardly dressed when a knock came to the door.

Madame Gosner opened the door, and found a little old woman standing on the threshold. She had seen that genial face before, going up and down the stair-case, but it looked peculiarly bland and kind that morning, and the dainty cap, tied around the head with a black ribbon, betrayed an unusual toilet before the visit was made.

“If madame will excuse the liberty, we are neighbors, only one floor between us, and, hearing that madame had been ill, I ventured to bring her a little breakfast, nothing worthy of notice; still if madame will accept the basket, in which she will find a tiny bouquet of violets for mademoiselle, whom I am happy to find sleeping so sweetly. Indeed, it is a part of my business to make a proposal about mademoiselle, whom I have observed to be very fond of flowers. Might I be permitted to step in and explain myself?”

The little woman was courteously invited to take a seat, and Madame Gosner received the basket with a glow of thanks that went to her heart at once. In a few words she explained the object of her visit.

Had an angel dropped from Heaven with hope and succor, it would not have been more welcome. Here was employment, hopes of food, an opening through which this brave woman could move toward the great object of her life, untrammeled by the wants of humanity. She considered no occupation mean for her child which promised to secure so much, and accepted it with ardent thankfulness, which sent Dame Doudel away supremely content.

As for Madame Gosner, she accepted this visit as a blessing from Heaven itself. It renewed her waning strength, and helped to kindle the new idea born to her in the night. Just as the grander design of aiding others was formed, God has sent the food necessary to her life, and she accepted it as a token and an encouragement.

In the basket she found a little milk, some eggs, and a sprig of green parsley, all promised to her the night before, though Jacques scarcely knew then how the breakfast was to be provided. With these was a loaf of white bread, and some charcoal for cooking.

In a few minutes, Madame Gosner was on her knees, kindling the fire with her own breath. When the charcoal ignited and began to crackle, she went to the bed, and looked tenderly down upon her daughter, who slept soundly. How pale and delicate she was! Not a trace of color remained on those cheeks; and want had almost quenched it from the exquisitely-formed mouth, in which the white gleam of her teeth was just visible as she breathed. No wonder the mother thanked God for the food that had been brought to her when she saw all this; but she would not awake her child then, that delicious breakfast should give her a surprise. It would be, indeed, the beginning of a _fete_ day with them.

So the now hopeful woman fell to beating her eggs and chopping up her parsley, with as little noise as possible. At length, when her omelet was on the fire, she went to the bed and aroused Marguerite.

“Come, my daughter, breakfast is ready!”

“Breakfast!” It was a strange word in that room, where no regular meal had been served for a month. Marguerite started up in her bed, looked around in bewilderment, and murmured,

“Let me sleep—I was dreaming so sweetly.”

“Dreaming of what, Marguerite?”

“Oh! it is you, mother! Nothing. Only it seemed as if you and I were eating such a delicious meal together.”

“Indeed! Such as an omelet and white bread, perhaps.”

“An omelet! Oh, yes! and—and—— Why, mamma, there is a smell of it in the room yet. I suppose it is Monsieur Jacques who is cooking. He said something about a _fete_ day. Why, what is that? The table out, a cloth on; and, oh, mamma! an omelet—a real, plump omelet. Where did you get it? and parsley. Why, mamma, darling, have you been among the fairies?”

“Our fairy was a little market woman, who came with all these things in a basket early this morning.”

“A little market woman, how good; how strange.”

“Come, come, child, everything is ready.”

Marguerite, who had been making a hasty toilet, twisted her hair in a coil around her head, and sat down by the table, where both mother and daughter commenced a delicious meal, thanking God for it in their hearts.