Agricola, like his father, had the patience which force and courage give to the truly brave; but he was extremely quick when it became necessary to avenge an insult.Irritated at the vulgarity of this man, Agricola left his mother's arm to inflict on the brute, who was of his own age, size, and force, two vigorous blows, such as the powerful arm and huge fist of a blacksmith never before inflicted on human face.The villain attempted to return it, and Agricola repeated the correction, to the amusement of the crowd, and the fellow slunk away amidst a deluge of hisses.This adventure made Mother Bunch say she would not go out with Agricola again, in order to save him any occasion of quarrel.We may conceive the blacksmith's regret at having thus unwittingly revived the memory of this circumstance,--more painful, alas! for Mother Bunch than Agricola could imagine, for she loved him passionately, and her infirmity had been the cause of that quarrel.Notwithstanding his strength and resolution, Agricola was childishly sensitive; and, thinking how painful that thought must be to the poor girl, a large tear filled his eyes, and, holding out his hands, he said, in a brotherly tone, "Forgive my heedlessness! Come, kiss me." And he gave her thin, pale cheeks two hearty kisses.
The poor girl's lips turned pale at this cordial caress; and her heart beat so violently that she was obliged to lean against the corner of the table.
"Come, you forgive me, do you not?" said Agricola.
"Yes! yes!" she said, trying to subdue her emotion; "but the recollection of that quarrel pains me--I was so alarmed on your account; if the crowd had sided with that man!"
"Alas!" said Frances, coming to the sewing-girl's relief, without knowing it, "I was never so afraid in all my life!"
"Oh, mother," rejoined Agricola, trying to change a conversation which had now become disagreeable for the sempstress, "for the wife of a horse grenadier of the Imperial Guard, you have not much courage.Oh, my brave father; I can't believe he is really coming! The very thought turns me topsy-turvy!"
"Heaven grant he may come," said Frances, with a sigh.
"God grant it, mother.He will grant it, I should think.Lord knows, you have had masses enough said for his return."
"Agricola, my child," said Frances, interrupting her son, and shaking her head sadly, "do not speak in that way.Besides, you are talking of your father."
"Well, I'm in for it this evening.'Tis your turn now; positively, I am growing stupid, or going crazy.Forgive me, mother! forgive! That's the only word I can get out to-night.You know that, when I do let out on certain subjects, it is because I can't help it; for I know well the pain it gives you."
"You do not offend me, my poor, dear, misguided boy."
"It comes to the same thing; and there is nothing so bad as to offend one's mother; and, with respect to what I said about father's return, I do not see that we have any cause to doubt it."
"But we have not heard from him for four months."
"You know, mother, in his letter--that is, in the letter which he dictated (for you remember that, with the candor of an old soldier, he told us that, if he could read tolerably well, he could not write); well, in that letter he said we were not to be anxious about him; that he expected to be in Paris about the end of January, and would send us word, three or four days before, by what road he expected to arrive, that I might go and meet him."
"True, my child; and February is come, and no news yet."
"The greater reason why we should wait patiently.But I'll tell you more: I should not be surprised if our good Gabriel were to come back about the same time.His last letter from America makes me hope so.
What pleasure, mother, should all the family be together!"
"Oh, yes, my child! It would be a happy day for me."
"And that day will soon come, trust me."
"Do you remember your father, Agricola?" inquired Mother Bunch.
"To tell the truth, I remember most his great grenadier's shako and moustache, which used to frighten me so, that nothing but the red ribbon of his cross of honor, on the white facings of his uniform, and the shining handle of his sabre, could pacify me; could it, mother? But what is the matter? You are weeping!"
"Alas! poor Baudoin! What he must suffer at being separated from us at his age--sixty and past! Alas! my child, my heart breaks, when I think that he comes home only to change one kind of poverty for another."
"What do you mean?"
"Alas! I earn nothing now."
"Why, what's become of me? Isn't there a room here for you and for him;
and a table for you too? Only, my good mother, since we are talking of domestic affairs," added the blacksmith, imparting increased tenderness to his tone, that he might not shock his mother, "when he and Gabriel come home, you won't want to have any more masses said, and tapers burned for them, will you? Well, that saving will enable father to have tobacco to smoke, and his bottle of wine every day.Then, on Sundays, we will take a nice dinner at the eating-house."
A knocking at the door disturbed Agricola.
"Come in," said he.Instead of doing so, some one half-opened the door, and, thrusting in an arm of a pea-green color, made signs to the blacksmith.
"'Tis old Loriot, the pattern of dyers," said Agricola; "come in, Daddy, no ceremony."
"Impossible, my lad; I am dripping with dye from head to foot; I should cover missus's floor with green."
"So much the better.It will remind me of the fields I like so much."
"Without joking, Agricola, I must speak to you immediately."
"About the spy, eh? Oh, be easy; what's he to us?"
"No; I think he's gone; at any rate, the fog is so thick I can't see him.
But that's not it--come, come quickly! It is very important," said the dyer, with a mysterious look; "and only concerns you."
"Me, only?" said Agricola, with surprise."What can it be.
"Go and see, my child," said Frances.
"Yes, mother; but the deuce take me if I can make it out."
And the blacksmith left the room, leaving his mother with Mother Bunch.
