With this story, The Galley Slave's Ring; or, The Family of Lebrenn, closes the series of the nineteen historic novels comprised in Eugene Sue's monumental work The Mysteries of the People; or, History of a Proletarian Family Across the Ages.

They who have read the preceding eighteen stories will agree that from the moment they began the first volume of the series, The Gold Sickle; or, Hena the Virgin of the Isle of Sen, down to the eighteenth, The Sword of Honor; or, The Foundation of the French Republic, they enjoyed a matchless promenade as they followed Sue through the Ages of History, from the time of the invasion of Gaul by Julius Caesar, shortly before Christ, down to the great epoch marked by the French Revolution. Nor will their expectations concerning this closing story be disappointed.

On February 23, 1848, the epoch when, for several days previous, all France, and especially Paris, was profoundly stirred by the question of the reform banquets, there was to be seen on St. Denis Street, a short distance from the boulevard, a rather large shop surmounted by the sign

LEBRENN, LINEN DRAPER.

THE SWORD OF BRENNUS.

In fact, a picture, pretty well drawn and painted, represented the well known historic incident of Brennus, the chief of the Gallic army, throwing with savage and haughty mien his sword into one of the scales of the balance that held the ransom of Rome, vanquished by our Gallic ancestors, about two thousand and odd years ago.

While the events narrated in the preceding chapter were happening in the shop of Monsieur Lebrenn the linendraper, another scene was taking place at almost the same hour on the fifth story of an old house, opposite the one which the Breton merchant occupied.

I shall take my reader into a modest little room that is fitted out with extreme neatness; an iron bedstead, a wardrobe, two chairs and a table above which stood a shelf filled with books—such was its furniture. At the head of the bed hung from the wall a species of trophy, consisting of a military cap and two light infantry under-officer's epaulettes, above which, spread in a black frame, was an honorable discharge from service. In a corner of the chamber, and disposed upon a board, were several carpenter's tools.

Upon the bed lay a freshly furbished carbine, and upon a little table a little heap of balls, a gunpowder pouch, and a mold to prepare cartridges in, a number of which had already been gotten ready.

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.

Gonthram Neroweg, Count of Plouernel, occupied a cosy little house on Paradis-Poissonniere Street, built by his own grandfather. The somewhat rococo elegance of the establishment suggested it must have been constructed about the middle of the last century, and had done service as a city residence. The quarter of the Poissonnieres, or Fish-markets, as the neighborhood was called in the days of the Regency, but now almost deserted, was perfectly appropriate for those mysterious retreats that are devoted to the cult of Venus Aphrodite.

Cardinal Plouernel was a man of sixty-five years of age, lean, lank and leathery of skin. Except for the difference in age, he was possessed of the identical type of face as his nephew. His long neck, bald head, large and crooked nose like the beak of a bird of prey, and wide-set, round and penetrating eyes, imparted to his physiognomy, if analyzed and the high grade of intelligence that they denoted left out of consideration, a singular resemblance to that of a vulture.

To sum up, the priest, if clad in his red robes of Prince of the Church, could not choose but present a fear-inspiring aspect. On a visit to his nephew, he was clad simply in a long black coat, strictly buttoned up to his throat.

"Pardon, dear uncle," said the Count, smiling. "Not being aware of your return to town, I did not expect this matitudinal call."

The Cardinal was not the man to be astonished at a colonel of dragoons keeping a mistress. He made answer in his brief manner:

Marik Lebrenn had been taken by order of the Count of Plouernel into a richly furnished salon. From the walls hung a number of family portraits.

Some wore the cuirass of knights, others the white cross and red cloak of the Templars, others the civilian dress of noblemen, still others the ermine of a peer of France, or the purple of the Princes of the Church.

"No, it is not at all frequent; that's true, monsieur. But you mentioned some other orders."

"Zounds, my good man! You do not take your eyes from the cards. Your thoughts run to solid business."

"Eh! Eh! monsieur, one is a merchant in order to sell—"

"And are you selling much these days?"

"Hem—hem—so so, indifferently—"

"Indeed? Only so so? Well, so much the worse, my dear Monsieur Lebrenn! That must go against your grain—because I presume you have a family to maintain?"

"You are very considerate, monsieur. I have a son."

"And are you bringing him up to be your successor?"

"That's it, monsieur! He attends the Central School of Commerce."

"How old is the fine fellow? You have only one son, my dear Monsieur Lebrenn?"

While Marik Lebrenn was holding the conversation, just reported, with the Count of Plouernel, the merchant's wife and daughter were, as was their custom, busy in the shop, over which hung the sign—The Sword of Brennus.

While her daughter was engaged with her needle, Madam Lebrenn saw to the books of the establishment. She was a tall woman of forty. Her face, at once serious and kind, preserved the traces of extraordinary beauty. In the cadence of her voice, her carriage, and her countenance there was a certain calmness and firmness that conveyed a high opinion of her nature. A glance at her was enough to remind one that our mothers, the Gallic women, took part in the councils of the nation on critical occasions, and that such was the valor of those matrons that Diodorus Siculus expresses himself in these terms:

"The women of Gaul vie with the men not in tallness only, they also match them by their moral strength."

And Strabo adds these significant words:

"The Gallic women are fertile and good teachers."

Madam Lebrenn was agreeably surprised at seeing her son, whom she did not expect, thinking he was at the College. Velleda tenderly embraced her brother, while the merchant himself pressed the hand of his wife.

The resolute carriage of Sacrovir Lebrenn suggested the thought that he was worthy of bearing the glorious name of the hero of ancient Gaul, one of the greatest patriots of the land recorded in history.

Marik Lebrenn's son was a strapping lad of slightly over nineteen years. He had an open, kind and bold countenance. A sprouting beard shaded his lip and chin. His full cheeks were rosy, and looked bright with animation. He very much resembled his father.

Madam Lebrenn embraced her son, saying:

"I did not expect the pleasure, son, of seeing you here to-day."

"I went to the College for him," explained the merchant. "You will presently know the reason, my dear Henory."

When, attracted by the growing tumult, Monsieur Lebrenn, his son and Gildas reached the door of the shop, the street was already filled with a large crowd.

Windows were flying open and inquisitive heads appeared at them. Presently a flickering reddish glare lighted the house fronts. A vast and swelling flood of people was rushing by. Some preceded, others accompanied the sinister illumination. The uproar grew more and more violent. Now and then, rising above the din, the angry cries could be heard:

"To arms!" "Vengeance!"

Exclamations of horror kept chorus with the cries. Women, who, attracted by the noise, looked out of their windows, recoiled with horror as if anxious to escape the sight of some frightful vision.

Their hearts gripped with apprehension, and drops of sweat standing out upon their foreheads, the linendraper and his son realized that some horrible spectacle was approaching, and remained motionless upon their threshold.

"You need not fear, father Bribri," put in Flameche; "you need not fear—I shall never need to steal. I help you and other traders in old duds to pack your sacks and dispose of your pickings. I treat myself to the best that the dogs have left over. I make my burrow in your bundle of old clothes, and sleep there like a dormouse. No fear, I tell you, father Bribri, I need not steal. As to me, when I insurrect, by the honor of my name! it is because it finally rasps upon me not to be allowed to angle for red fish in the large pond of the Tuileries—and I have made up my mind, in case we come out victors, to fish myself to death. Each one after his own fancy. Long live the Reform! Down with Louis Philippe!"

And turning to the thief who, seeing the five or six armed workingmen coming back, made an effort to slip away:

"Do not budge, mister! Or, if you do, I shall let Azor loose upon you." Saying which he tightened his finger again on the trigger of his pistol.

Shortly after the execution of the thief day began to dawn.

Presently the men who were stationed on the lookout at the corners of the streets in the neighborhood of the barricade, that now reached almost as high as the first story windows of the linendraper's house, were seen falling back; after firing their pieces, they cried out "To arms!"

Almost immediately after, the drums, silent until then, were heard to beat the charge, and two companies of the Municipal Guards turned in from a side street and marched resolutely upon the barricade. Instantaneously the interior of the improvised fortress was filled with defenders.

Monsieur Lebrenn, his son, George Duchene and their friends took their posts and held their guns in readiness.

After the battle, after the victory, the inauguration of the triumph, and the glorification of the ashes of the victims.

A few days after the overthrow of the throne of Louis Philippe, a large crowd gathered towards ten in the morning around the Madeleine Church, the facade of which was completely draped in black and silver. The front of the edifice bore the inscription:

THE FRENCH REPUBLIC.
LIBERTY—EQUALITY—FRATERNITY.

An immense multitude crowded the boulevards, where, from the site of the Bastille clear to the square of the Madeleine, there rose two long lines of lofty funeral tripods. On that day homage was rendered to the shades of the citizens who died in February in defense of freedom. A double cordon of National Guards under the command of General Courtais, with the old republican soldier Guinard as his lieutenant, lined the road.

About eighteen months have elapsed since the memorable day of the imposing ceremonies described in the previous chapter, that were so rich with splendid promises to France—and all the world. It is after the lapse of that period that we are now to meet again Marik Lebrenn and his family.

The following scene was taking place in the early part of the month of September, in 1849, at the convict-prison of Rochefort.

The meal hour had sounded. The convicts were eating.

One of the galley-slaves, attired like all the others in the regulation red vest and red cap, with the manille, or iron ring fastened to a heavy chain, on his feet, sat on a stone, and was biting into a chunk of black bread.

The galley-slave was Marik Lebrenn.

He had been sentenced to hard labor by a council of war after the June insurrection of 1848.

On the 10th of September, 1849, two days after General Plouernel brought to Marik Lebrenn his pardon and complete restitution to civic and political rights, the merchant's family was gathered in a modest apartment on the second floor of their house.

The shop had been closed two hours before. A lamp, placed upon a large round center table, lighted the several personages who sat around it.

Madam Lebrenn was busy with the mercantile books of the establishment; her daughter, dressed in mourning, gently rocked on her knees a babe asleep; while George, also in mourning, like his wife, on account of the death of his grandfather Morin a few months previous, sketched on a sheet of paper the draft of a wainscot. Immediately upon his marriage, and agreeable to the wishes of Lebrenn, George had established upon the profit-sharing principle a large joiner's shop on the ground floor of a house contiguous to that of his father-in-law.

"Do you see, mother, do you see!" cried the children, trembling with joy and clasping their hands as if in prayer.

"Good God! Good God! Is it possible! We are to see him soon again!" exclaimed Madam Lebrenn, wiping from her eyes the tears that darkened them, and she proceeded reading:

"Why, mother," broke in George interrupting the reading of the letter, "Monsieur Lebrenn must be in Paris!"

No sooner were these last words read than Madam Lebrenn and her children precipitated themselves upon the door.

It opened.

Indeed, Monsieur Lebrenn was there.

The family of Marik Lebrenn were assembled in their little parlor on the day after the merchant's arrival. It was the birthday of his son, who on that day completed his twenty-first year.

"My son," Lebrenn said to Sacrovir, "to-day you are twenty-one years of age. The time has come to introduce you to the chamber with the closed window that has so often excited your curiosity. You are about to become acquainted with its contents. I wish first to explain to you the reason for and the cause of this mystery. The moment you are initiated, my son, I know your curiosity will turn to pious respect. Accident has so willed it that the day of your initiation into this family mystery should be providentially chosen. Since my arrival yesterday, we have given ourselves over to tokens of love, and have had little time to consider public matters. Nevertheless, a few words that escaped you—as well as you, my dear George," added the merchant addressing his daughter's husband, "cause me to apprehend that you feel discouraged—that you may even despair."

The mysterious chamber into which Marik Lebrenn now for the first time introduced his son, his daughter and George Duchene, presented, as far as exterior appearance went, nothing extraordinary, except that it was kept always lighted by a pendant lamp of antique workmanship, after the fashion of certain consecrated sanctuaries. And was not that spot the sanctuary of pious reminiscences, of the traditions, often heroic, of that plebeian family? Under the lamp the merchant's children saw a large cloth-covered table, on which stood a casket of bronze. Around the casket and musty with centuries, lay a number of articles, some of which dated back to the very furthest antiquity, and the most recent of which were the galley-slave's ring, which the merchant had brought with him from Rochefort, and the casque of the Count of Plouernel.

"Armand BarbÈs then proceeds to tell how, instinctively inspired, and led by the approach of his last hour to a plane of lofty thought, he recalled with thrilling gratitude the source from which he drew his supreme tranquility in the face of death. He then says further:

"So you see, my children, what fortitude of soul the dogma of the perpetuity of life is able to impart. Let us, then, follow the example of our forefathers; let us follow in the footsteps of their belief; and let us, like them, preserve our name, our tongue and our faith."

"We shall not fail in that pledge, father," answered Velleda.

I request my reader to leap over the space of time that elapsed since we left the family of Lebrenn assembled in the room, held to be so mysterious by Gildas, and which contained the archives or narratives of the family, which they began to read successively.

It is now Sunday, December 1, 1851. The same personages—Marik Lebrenn, Henory his wife, Sacrovir, his sister Velleda, and her husband—are assembled on the evening of that Sunday in the modest upper parlor connected with the linendraper's shop.

Answering a question put to him by his father, Sacrovir was saying:

Changes made in the text (note of etext transcriber):
I know a fine man=>I knew a fine man
George's counteance=>George's countenance