CHAPTER XIII.
THEY THREE BREAKFAST TOGETHER.
The two women, suffering as they were from the pangs of hunger, scarcely looked at each other, but sat rapidly feasting their eyes on the food yet untasted, with a wild, eager craving which made them forgetful of everything else.
All at once, Marguerite started up in absolute dismay.
“Oh, mamma! we have forgotten the good Monsieur Jacques, who all this time has no breakfast.”
“True, my child! and he so thoughtful of us!”
Marguerite went to Monsieur Jacques’ room, and knocked eagerly.
“It is ready; we have a delicious omelet, my friend. Come, come! there is enough for three!”
Jacques came to the door and opened it a little. His face was flushed, his eyes sparkled.
“Do you really invite me?” he questioned.
“Invite you! Why our little feast is yours.”
“Wait a minute, then, while I wash my hands; perhaps madame will excuse the dress, as I have no other.”
“Come in any dress. We are waiting, and the breakfast gets cold.”
Marguerite came back to her mother, and they placed the omelet near the fire, that it might be kept warm for their guest. He came in soon after, with his face shining, and his hair smooth, as if he had spent some time in brushing it. His blouse was clean, and he looked more respectable than they had seen him the night before. But the good man partook sparingly of madame’s omelet, and sat gazing upon Marguerite when he should have been eating.
The sweet girl knew that he was half-famished, and tempted him to eat, until the animal instinct in him became ravenous, and for the moment, he forgot that she was near him. Then the noble fellow grew ashamed of himself, and drew back abashed.
Without appearing to heed this, Madame Gosner began to talk, and told Jacques of Dame Doudel’s generous visit, and of the proposal she had made for Marguerite.
Jacques received the intelligence calmly, but cast anxious glances at the young girl, who looked from him to her mother with affright.
“I fear she will not consent,” he said, seized with compunction for the part he had taken, when he saw the color driven from Marguerite’s face.
“Yes, yes,” gasped the girl. “It is work, it is food! Who am I to put such blessings aside? Heaven forgive me if, for one moment, I hesitate!”
“Heaven has nothing to forgive its angels,” muttered Jacques, in a voice so faint and deep that no one heard him.
Madame Gosner leaned over the table, and, her heart being full of the subject, began questioning Jacques very closely about the state of things in the city. She was earnest, clear, and searching in her interrogatories. He saw that some grand idea was in her brain, and answered her without comment.
All this was not wonderful to him. Such mental excitements were sure to follow Mirabeau whenever he condescended to converse. Indeed, his most subtle power lay among the women of Paris. But eloquent as Mirabeau was, Jacques had more telling powers, for he had the merit of honest conviction. There was truth in all this man said, for he possessed that to which his foster-brother often pretended—a thorough knowledge of the people, of their wants and aspirations. Even in the chaotic state into which society was at this time thrown, Monsieur Jacques had wonderful influence, of which his foster-brother took the credit.
When madame and Marguerite were left alone, the mother began to pace the room to and fro in great excitement.
“Marguerite,” she said, laying a firm hand on each of her daughter’s shoulders, “up to this day we have been cold and selfish.”
“Selfish! Oh, mamma!”
“Yes; cold, selfish, egotistical—and for this God has not prospered us.”
“Oh, mamma! have we not given up all? Have we saved anything, or spared anything to win liberty for my father?”
“It is for this that I blush, Marguerite. Our poor martyr is but one of many. The Bastille is crowded full. You are not the only child who pines for her father’s liberty.”
“Alas, no!”
“Yet it is of him, and him alone, we have been thinking.”
“But what else could we do?”
“Open our arms, and embrace all humanity.”
“But we are only women—helpless and suffering women.”
“So much the better; our sister sufferers will have faith in us.”
“But what is it you intend? Something grand and strange—I can see it in your eyes.”
“No, there is nothing grand in my object; it is simply to perform a duty to others as well as to ourselves. To-day I am going among the market-people. I know some of them, from whom we have made our meagre purchases. They are brave and ardent, ready to act if they only had a leader. The good dame who was here this morning will aid me in my first step.”
“And that leader? Not my mother, surely! I see a power of command in your gestures. All this terrifies me—what does this mean?”
“It means that our poor prisoner shall yet feel the grim walls of the Bastille tremble around him like an earthquake. It means liberty for him and for all. It means that while a woman loves the husband of her youth, she should never forget the country of her birth.”
“But how can you, a lonely woman, without money or friends, accomplish this?”
“I will make friends of my fellow-sufferers. I will make friends of famine and want. Starvation shall be made powerful. Elements of great strength are running to waste. I will gather them up, and hurl them against the walls of the Bastille—hurl them against the throne itself.”
“Mother, you have been dreaming; the fatigue of yesterday has made you ill.”
“No, I have not been dreaming. Last night I never closed my eyes; but I thought, while you slept, thought of him, thought of France, till my brain burned, and my heart grew large.”
“Mother, dear mother! sit down, I pray you! Want of food, and that long, long journey yesterday, have made you wild.”
“No, my child, they have made me wise.”
“But you will not go out?”
Madame had taken a bonnet and shawl in her hand. Marguerite forced them from her gently, but with firmness.
“It is the fever, which is said to rage when plenty of food is taken after a long fast,” she said. “Let me put the things away.”
Madame smiled, but held firmly to her garments.
“You cannot comprehend,” she said; “but I will explain.”
“Not now, mamma, but when you are better. The disappointment of not seeing the king, after so many efforts, is preying upon you; but do not despair—I am young and strong. The next time I will go to the king or to the queen. Perhaps I shall be more successful.”
“Well, what then?”
“I will kneel to him, and beseech him to set my father free.”
“And then, ‘he is but one man!’”
“But he is all the world to us!” said Marguerite, clasping her hands with pathetic earnestness.
“I thought so once. God forgive me!”
“Mother, there is something on your mind that I cannot understand. Put it aside, I pray you; or wait till Monsieur Jacques, or his friend comes, that you may counsel with them.”
Madame sat down and drew a hand wearily across her eyes. It was true; great fatigue, want of food, and intense wakefulness, were telling fearfully upon her system, vigorous as it was. It is, sometimes, out of such insanity, that great actions are wrought.
“Sit down and rest, mamma, after that I will listen to all you can say.”
“And help me?” asked the woman, fastening her large, eager eyes on the girl’s face.
“With all my power and strength. Only rest awhile, and take full time for thought.”
“Ah! if I rest, this resolve may pass from me. I have had such dreams before,—that was in my sleep; but now, but now——”
“Now you will lie down and sleep sweetly, while I take your place.”
Madame sat down on the bed, releasing her hold on the shawl.
“You are right, my child,” she said, gently. “I must have rest and strength before this great work begins; then you will understand it better, and we both have our task, yours not less difficult than mine.”
“But you will rest first?” pleaded Marguerite, who looked upon this sudden outbreak as the result of over exertion, and was troubled by it. “Perhaps Our Lady will bless my poor efforts for your sake.”
“Yes—I can wait,” said the mother, sinking back upon the bed, and closing her eyes. “To-day for rest, to-morrow for action.”
Marguerite sat down by her mother, took one of her hands and smoothed it tenderly between her own palms, striving her best to induce the sleep which would, she trusted, restore the tone of her mother’s mind, which she believed to have been disturbed by great fatigue, and long fasting. But she was not the less resolved to assume some portion of the work to which that mother had almost given up her life.