The Galley Slave's Ring; or, The Family of Lebrenn. Эжен Сю

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СКАЧАТЬ 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?"

      "I'll tell you. But really, I feel bashful, at my age, to presume to hold a lecture to you."

      "Why bashful? Why that? Instead of going out on Sundays for a walk where people congregate near the fortifications, you read, you learn, you instruct yourself. You may well hold a lecture to your grandfather – there is no harm in that!"

      "Well – the warrior with a helmet, that Brennus, was a Gaul, one of our ancestors, the chieftain of the army which, two thousand years and how much more ago I do not know, marched into Italy to attack Rome in order to punish the city for some act of treachery. The city surrendered to the Gauls and was spared in consideration of a ransom in gold. But, not considering the ransom large enough, Brennus threw his sword into the scale that held the weights."

      "In order to secure a larger ransom, the shrewd old fellow! He did the opposite of what the fruit-venders do who help the scales in their interest with their thumbs. I understand that part of it. But there are yet two things I do not understand at all. In the first place you said that that warrior, who lived more than two thousand years ago, was one of our ancestors!"

      "Yes, that Brennus and the Gauls of his army belonged to the race from which we descend – almost all of us in this country of France."

      "One moment – you say they were Gauls?"

      "Yes, grandfather."

      "Then we are descendants of the Gallic race?"

      "Certainly."

      "But we are Frenchmen. How do you account for that, my boy?"

      "Simply this way – our country, our mother country, was not always called France."

      "Hold on! Hold on! Hold on!" exclaimed the old man, taking the pipe out of his mouth. "How is that? France was not always called France?"

      "No, grandfather. During ages immemorial our country was called Gaul, and was a republic, as glorious, as powerful, but happier, and twice as large as France during the Empire."

      "The devil you say!"

      "Unfortunately, about two thousand years ago – "

      "Is that all? Two thousand years! How you do fling around the years, my boy!"

      "Dissensions broke out in Gaul; the several provinces rose against one another – "

      "Ah! That's ever the trouble! That was the very trick of the clergy СКАЧАТЬ