Idols; or, the secret of the rue Chaussée d'Antin. Translated from the French ... by Anna T. Sadlier

Front matter

IDOLS OR, THE SECRET OF THE RUE CHAUSSEE D'ANTIN IDOLS OR, THE SECRET OF THE RUE CHAUSSEE D'ANTIN ©tanjstatcct fvom the -fvrnrh of RAOUL DE NAVERY BV ANNA T. SADLIER DUBLIN M. H. GILL AND SON o'CONNELL STREET CONTENTS. CHAPTER PAGE I. The Pomereul Household 5 II. A Prodigal Son 18 III. The Knights of the Black Cap 34 IV. The Crime 47 V. The Secret of God 60 VI. The Accusation 73 VII. Heart Trials go VIII. The Inviolable Secret 105 IX. A New Misfortune 120 X. The Trial 137 XL The Dream Ended 154 XII. An Artist Supper 169 XIII. The Golden Calf. 187 XIV. The War 206 XV. The Two Brothers 229 XVI. Jean Machu 248 XVII. The Barricades of Death 265 XVIII. Lipp-Lapp 280 XIX. The Dwarf's Secret 299 XX. The Broken Idol IDOLS; OR, The Secret of the Rue Chausee d'Antin.

Chapter I

The Pomereul Household. Two men, who in age and appearance were widely different, sat conversing in a spacious study. The room was luxurious, though somewhat severe in its arrange ment. It contained many fine representations in bronze of masterpieces of antique art. Antoine Pomereul, the elder of the two men, seemed upwards of sixty years of age. His hair, which looked as if a gale of wind might have passed through it, fell over his massive temples. His florid complexion, the smile on his lips and the frank expression of the face betokened a straightforward and generous disposition, and much business ability. His grey eye was wonderfully penetrating; the very position of his hand upon the desk marked the energetic man of business. His companion, on the contrary, was scarcely twenty five. His broad forehead bore the impress of genius upon it, and genius of a solid and somewhat serious character; his expression was earnest, with a tinge of mingled asceticism and ideality.

His figure was lithe and graceful, his hair black, his complexion pale, his whole appearance most attractive. A voice true in tone and IDOLS. musical in quality completed the charm, and added no little to the confidence which his countenance inspired. Nor did it belie a nature at once ardent and sensitive. " So, Benedict," said Antoine Pomereul, " you refuse to draw aside the envious veil which covers your statue. Your apprentice, Cleomene, has just brought it here, and I am longing to see it. But I assure you I respected its folds, as if they were those of the ancient Isis." " O my dear master," said Benedict, seizing the old man's hand impulsively, " if I have kept it veiled, it is because I would fain see for myself the impression it produced upon you, and hear with my own lips the de cree which will make me happy or miserable.

I want to consult your heart and mind alike in the two-fold deci sion you are about to give." " On my honor," laughed Antoine Pomereul, " the affair is more serious than I supposed." "It concerns my whole life," cried the young man eagerly. " You mean your future as an artist, I suppose," said Pomereul, " and as to that, my boy, many find them selves deceived who follow art. Yes, those who seek her most often go farthest astray. Unwilling to follow the beaten path, they take new and unknown ones; some times they lose the guiding thread; their mind gropes in darkness; they fail to realize the grandeur of their first conception. However, Benedict, it is better even to miss a lofty ideal, than to remain forever satisfied with what is mediocre and trivial." "Judge for yourself," cried the artist, suddenly raising the veil which covered the statue.

It was about three feet in height, of the purest Car rara marble. It represented a young girl modestly clad in a flowing robe, such as is seen on fauns of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. The eyes were raised to Heaven, in her hand she held a chisel and hammer; she seemed the very personification of the sculpture of that period, a celestial daughter of prayer, offering her sub limest work to the God who inspired it. The old man regarded the statue for some moments in silence, after which he grasped the young sculptor's hand with an air of conviction, saying, " Good, my boy, good." "Ah," said Benedict, "how happy you make me." " This figure represents — " "The daughter of Steinbach," answered Benedict, "architect of the Cathedral of Strasburg. She assisted her father in that mighty work, and the pillar des Anges, of the Angels, bear her name, Sabine."

" Ah, Steinbach's daughter was named Sabine, like mine," said Pomereul, smiling. "Well, you are satisfied now, I suppose. Your statue is charming. The style and conception of it are good. You have kept your ideal, and the skill of your chisel has not interfered with the purity of your inspiration. Bravo! yes, I say honestly and in all sincerity, bravo! Keep up your heart. If the figure is small, the execution is great." "Master," said Benedict, "your praise confuses me." " It need not," said Pomereul. " I am stating facts. I trust you do not suspect me of flattering. You remember when, as a mere child, you worked with my sculptors, how exacting I was. Exacting enough to dis courage any one but you. Perhaps you thought me severe or even hard. I feared so myself, yet I continued in the same way.

It is by the patience of the pupil that the reality of his vocation is determined. Those cowards who are overcome by the difficulties of the task, and the severity of the master, are not worth a regret. It is doing them a service to keep them tradesmen, rather than raise them to the dignity of artists. You blushed, IDOLS, indeed, at my reproofs, but less with anger than with grief at your own mistakes; indefatigable you began again; every day you made new progress, and were not vain of it; you looked rather at what you had yet to learn than at the facility already acquired. At last I was forced to turn you out of the workshop, for you were too modest to see that sculpture was calling you to her service, and that with me you were making merely models for industry." "Yes," said Benedict, "you are right; it was necessary indeed to drive me from your house, as I would never have left it.

You were anxious for my welfare; I was more anxious to keep my happiness. You aspired for me to artistic heights; I would have sacrificed every thing at that time to continue making your pendulums and candelabras. You were right, but my heart sought to persuade me that you were wrong. I begin to be known, I may become famous; but who will assure me that I have as of old — " " The friendship of your old master? But you are still part of the family, Benedict. I love you almost as much as Sulpice more perhaps than Xavier." " Really?" " Really." " Then, if I should ask you a favor?" " I am almost sure I would grant it." " Even if it were something of importance?" " Even is not the word, say especially." "Well," said Benedict, plucking up courage, " will you allow me to offer this statue to Mile.

Sabine? To-morrow is her birthday, and — " "You dear, big boy," said Pomereul, "you were afraid to finish the sentence. Yet you have lived ten years in my house. My severity towards you was only a proof of my attachment. When the big tears rolled down your cheeks on the day of your departure, it was because you left behind you a happy past, and your youthful dreams and ambition. But I wished you to have such a trial. It was needed to temper your soul. Sheltered by my care and forethought, you knew nothing of the dangers of the world. You thought that each one lived there in the dignity of his own purity, and the strength of his own convictions, without either struggle or effort. I wanted you to pass through that fiery furnace, and come forth tempered for the battle of life. The boy bade me fare well with swelling heart and tearful eyes; I hoped that the man would return to me.

He is come. You have made no false steps upon your way. Your gaze has remained fixed upon one star, your heart was true to one attachment. It was well done; it is rare and beautiful. Artists of your age often drag their inspiring muse in the mud. But you begged her to raise you upon her wings, and she has kept you there. You have often called me your benefactor, to-day you called me master, there is but one more title you can give me." "One title," cried Benedict, "then you understand, you do not despise my — " "Your father gives you his hand," said Pomereul. Benedict grasped it, with large tears standing in his eyes, and thus the two men stood face to face for some moments, emotion keeping them silent. It was with regret they both heard Baptiste's voice at the door, asking, "Can you receive M. Andre Nicois, sir?' "Of course," said M. Pomereul advancing towards the door.

" Then, my statue — " said Benedict. "Is Sabine's property now," said Pomereul, "and by the way, we must let her have this surprise as soon as possible." IDOLS As he spoke M. Pomereul turned to the darkest corner of the room, calling, "Lipp-Lapp!" Hearing its name, a strange creature came out of the shadow where it had been hidden. It stood upright and firmly on its feet, letting its arms hang down beside its lean body, and came towards its master. It was a chimpanzee of the larger species, with intel ligent face, mild dark eyes, and a broad wide-open mouth, which seemed about to speak. Lipp-Lapp's eyes gleamed with intelligence. He wore a robe of brocade, ornamented with pearls and gold, such as is seen in pic tures of blacks by Italian masters. He had a bright colored turban on his head, and seemed very proud of his fine clothes.

He had been brought from Java to M. Pomereul by a friend, and had soon learned, as many of his race have done, to perform various little domestic services. He could carry a tray of fruit, liqueur, or coffee with perfect safety, distribute the letters, and could besides understand almost any order given to him. " Lipp-Lapp," said M. Pomereul, " take this statue and put it on Mile. Sabine's mantelpiece." The chimpanzee showed all his teeth in a broad grin; he seized the figure in his strong and dextrous arms, and went off in the direction of Mile. Pomereul's apartments. "My daughter is out," said Pomereul; "on her return she will find the statue, and can thank you this evening. You must dine with us, my boy." Benedict only wrung M. Pomereul's hand, exchanged salutes with M. Nicois, who was coming in, and left the house radiant with joy.

M. Pomereul perceived at once that the countenance pf his visitor was anxious and troubled. Unlike many people, who seeing their friends in distress, begin an account of their own difficulties, for fear of being called on for assistance, M. Pomereul took a chair opposite Nicois, and said to him bluntly, "What has gone wrong with you?" " Everything has gone wrong," said Nicois. " I came on purpose to tell you, and now — " "You hesitate," said Pomereul; "but I say, what is the use of having friends if you cannot ask a favor of them? It was just the same with that fine, clever boy who has gone out. He came to open his heart to me, and I was obliged to offer him Sabine in marriage. You need money." "Who told you so?" cried Nicois excitedly. " No one," answered his friend. "Can you assure me of this," said Nicois, "there are no rumors at the Bourse?"* " On the contrary," said Pomereul, " the talk there yesterday was how solid you were.

If you are in diffi culties, no hint of it has got about. But I simply judge from this. Nothing else but financial embarrassment could make you look so down in the mouth, and what else could have brought you here just before the end of the month, if it were not to say, Friend Pomereul, open your money-chest wide. I want to put in both hands." " You are right," said Nicois, " you are as clear-sighted as generous. I need money, a large sum." "How much ?" "A hundred thousand francs," said the banker with much embarrassment. "I have not that much in the house," said Pomereul quietly, " but I can get it for you. Come here the day after to-morrow, and it will be ready." * Exchange. IDOLS. 12 " You will save my life," said Nicois. " Ah, it is too much to put life in the scale with money," said Pomereul.

"I simply do you a service, which in like circumstances I should ask of you. If friendship does not go as far as the purse, and a little beyond, there is not much use in making a parade of it." "Pomereul," said Nicois, "you know what true friendship is, though you do not make a parade of it. But who could be more noble, more unselfish than you are, to your very workmen, to all who surround you?" "Stop there," said Pomereul; "I object. What you call unselfishness, generosity, liberality, and soon, is only a knowledge of business. If I have laid a foundation of benevolence to others, it is only making a profitable in vestment. I am rich, and it gives me the very great happiness of being loved by those around me, respected without being feared, and the possessor of four millions, without having any enemies or being envied.

Looking back upon my life, it seems that in all its circumstances I was blessed by Providence. There is one cloud upon the blue horizon, but that I trust will in time disappear. My father was a blacksmith, pursuing his humble trade, and gaining a scanty sustenance. I resolved to aid him by my earnings. As a mere boy I got a situation in a bronze factory. I was employed only to run errands, and to sweep the store. But I never loitered upon the way, nor left a speck of dust where my broom had been. So I won my employer's confidence. He made me an ap prentice. I astonished the workmen by my facility in learning. My master began to take a special interest in me. He had me taught the intricacies of the trade, instead of leaving me to spend my life toiling at its lower branches. I attempted first the casting, then the setting or the carving of large pieces.

At twenty, few workmen could equal me. If my education was not classical, it was at least sound and practical. From that time my lot was cast. The proprietor had a daughter. He gave her to me in marriage. The firm name became 'Bernard et Pomereul.' It continued so for three years. Then Bernard died, and my name alone was on books or invoices. I succeeded him. I had three children, and our happiness was, indeed, enviable, when the greatest grief of my life came upon me. My wife died. I thought at first I should never be consoled for her loss, but though I have never forgotten her, time has softened my sorrow. My children remain to me — Sul pice, whose intellect is far in advance of his age, Xavier, whose good heart redeems his folly, and Sabine, the angel of our house." "Ah, yes," said Nicois, "you are a happy father."

Pomereul sighed, and resumed. " What was done for me, the poor child of Paris, with out any other recommendation than his own desire to do right, I have always tried to do for others. I have striven to be rather the father than the master of my workmen. If I do all that is necessary in paying them their salary, I love to do more for my own satisfaction. You must see some time how I have organized their dwellings at Charenton, near the factory. Each family has its own house, which is simple and comfortable. There is water to purify and take away the bad proper ties of the gas, which gives it warmth and light; a little plot of ground to supply it with vegetables and to grow flowers; the children can likewise raise rabbits there, and the good wife, chickens. I have, besides, a hospital for the sick, a crib for nursing infants, a workroom for girls, an infant school for the little ones.

My factory really in cludes a complete city, of which I am chief magistrate." "And of which your son Sulpice is the apostle," said Nicois, IDOLS, 14 " Yes," replied Pomereul, in a voice of considerable emotion, "you may well say Sulpice is an apostle. What I do through philanthropy, he does from pure charity. I bring to one corner of the earth comforts, improve ments, worldly goods, but he brings Heaven there. He teaches catechism to the children, guides the family, is the adviser of the father, and is beloved and respected by every one. He has made my workmen doubly honest and faithful in the discharge of their duties. There is perfect harmony between their principles and conduct. Seeing the son of their master, the millionaire, Sulpice Pomereul, working among them in his poor cassock and coarse shoes, they cannot doubt the divine char acter of a religion which inspires such sacrifices.

Sul pice translates the Bible into action, and he might say, with the noble pride of an apostle, Be ye also my imi tators, as I am the imitator of Christ Jesus. Truly I love Sulpice as a living part of my own heart. But at times the veneration I feel for his virtues is even greater than my affection. There could not be a finer spectacle than that of a young man endowed with every gift of mind and fortune, renouncing the privileges of the upper few to devote his life to the education of poor children, the consolation of the wretched, and the relief of human misery. Therefore Sulpice is beloved and vener ated by all who know him. They knock much oftenerat the door of the humble room which he keeps for himself in the attic, than at that of the rich merchant, member of the Municipal Council, and Judge in the Tribunal de Commerce.

Every one in the house feels the influence of his gentleness and piety. I do not speak of Sabine, she is an angel, but customers, friends, servants, all, except Xavier." " You exaggerate these youthful follies of Xavier," said Nicois; "why the deuce take it, Pomereul, a boy must sow his wild oats." "What they sow they must reap," said Pomereul. "Ah, well, he will come out right," said Nicois; " per haps he needed a friend and adviser of his own age in whom he could confide. Sulpice is rather too austere for your youngest son, and Sabine's very innocence pre vents her being of service to him." " And what of me ?" asked Pomereul. " You, why confound it, man, you are his father. Be sides you are of that disposition which difficulties to be overcome in early life naturally make a man, and whose character forbids Xavier to confide in him.

Things will improve when Benedict Fougerais is your son-in-law, for you said, did you not, that you meant to give him Sabine?" "Gladly, my friend," said Pomereul. "Benedict is one of those young men who left my workshop to be come masters in their turn. For I have the deep satis faction of knowing that my house has produced men who will be an honor to their country. One reason why I love my calling is that it enables me to aid deserving talent. Once a boy gains the special interest of his pro fessor in drawing or modelling I keep my eye on him. I inquire as to the condition of his family. If they are poor I give the boy a pension, stipulating that he will pay me back, by yearly sums, till he has paid all I have advanced. This, in turn, is used to open a future to some other boy. It has another advantage, for it teaches them the proper value of money; that they must regard it, not as an idol, but as a power; that it must be used less for our pleasures than our necessities ; that its worth may be increased a hundred-fold by the use made of it.

Many artists owe their future to this plan of mine: Luc Aubry, the landscape painter, Jean Leroux, who painted the interior, which you bought last year, Benedict Fougerais, who is likely to take a front rank among our sculptors if he does not degenerate." IDOLS, " Degenerate, when he is Sabine's husband ?" " I do not mean degeneracy of hand or of intellect." "What then?" "A moral degeneracy." " That will be impossible when he is surrounded by such an atmosphere as this." " I hope so, but who can tell ? You know how fatally easy and insidious is the descent of an artist. Benedict only knows the great art, pure, religious, Christian, the art which is the softened shade of religious feeling. He is of the school of Fra Bartolomeo and Fra Angelico, w7ho painted their Madonnas on their knees. But the current of fashion and of popular taste does not run upon that side.

Art has become pagan. It has descended from the sacred heights. The Muse has become a Bac chante and dances with satyrs; a modest statue or a decent picture loses half its chance of success. The churches are no longer endowed with works of a religious inspiration, but rather the drawing-rooms are decorated with profane or indecent figures. Therefore, woe to the artist, however gifted, who sacrifices his power of inspiration to every passing whim, who says to himself, not, I am going to create something great, but, I am going to make a group which will sell. First, he tries to succeed, then to succeed again, then to be talked of in the papers. So far Benedict has escaped these perils. God grant he may continue so." "Rest easy," said Nicois; "not only will he do that, but he will bring back your prodigal son."

"You believe so?" said Pomereul. " Most sincerely; we were all foolish at his age, except you perhaps." " And you too, I hope," said Pomereul, looking fixedly at his friend. A dark shade passed over the banker's face. " My friend," said he, in a troubled voice, " I paid to folly one tribute, which though brief cost me dear. My hair has been always white since you knew me, has it not?" "It is true." " It grew white in a single night. " In consequence of some terrible misfortune ?' " Yes, you name it right, a terrible misfortune," said Nicois. Seeing his friend's astonishment at this unexpected confidence he continued: "It is since that, I have had such a passion for money. Till then I only thought of it as a means of obtaining an independent position; now, I want it to gratify my pride, my wife's follies, to excite the envy of others, and plunge myself into such a whirlpool of business and of pleasure that I forget, or at least for an hour lose that one recol lection."

" Will you not confide to me the cause of your suffer ing?" "Ah," said Nicois, "if you knew all. But some day the friend will come to your fireside and open his heart to you. To-day, the banker alone has told you his mis fortune." Pomereul took his friend's outstretched hand. Nicois rose to go. " You say that the money will be ready for me the day after to-morrow?" "The day after to-morrow," said Pomereul, "a hun dred thousand francs will be in this portfolio for you." As Nicois passed out, Lipp-Lapp brought him his overcoat and cane. t IDOLS.

Chapter II

A Prodigal Son In the Pomereul household everything, even to the smallest details, was as orderly as possible. The merchant himself fully appreciating the value of time never permitted it to be wasted in idleness. Many people by delaying lose a few minutes now and a few minutes again, which at the end of the week amounts to several hours. The clocks always went to perfection, and the manufacturer of bronze daily found that rare phenomenon so eagerly sought by Charles V., all the clocks struck at the same moment. At six precisely the family sat down to dinner. Pomereul never waited for anybody. He considered want of punctuality a breach of good man ners, towards which people are usually too indulgent. When Xavier dined out he generally let his father know. But on this particular occasion, when the butler an nounced dinner, Pomereul, Sulpice, Sabine and Benedict were in the drawing-room, but no Xavier.

Sabine's face was bright and joyful. She sat at a window talking to her betrothed, and a ray of the setting sun falling on her golden hair formed of it an aureola. Her only ornament was a white rose, which she had added to her simple toilet from the bouquet Benedict had brought her. Pomereul and Sulpice were conversing in a low voice of Sabine's betrothal, and the young priest seemed very much pleased about it. " It is one of those unions," said he to his father "which are too seldom seen nowadays. On the one hand is Sabine with all the virtues which form the high est charm and special strength of a woman; on the other, Benedict, with his energy, love of work and law ful ambition. You know Benedict's talents, his moral character, his strong religious principles, and you do well to place my sister's hand in his.

They both know full well, despite the illusions of their age, that the future will have many trials for them, but they know also that they can overcome these trials. The blessing of heaven must surely rest on such a marriage, and I shall gladly perform the ceremony which unites them." "You remind me," said M. Pomereul smiling, "that Benedict and I have not yet spoken of Sabine's dowry." "Your lawyer will attend to that," said Sulpice. "No," said M. Pomereul, "when you want a thing well done do it yourself." As he spoke he turned to the young people. "Come here a moment, Benedict," said he. The young man came. " My good son-in-law," said Pomereul, " you acted somewhat thoughtlessly yesterday about a certain mat ter. I must say it did not give me a very high opinion of your business ability.

How can you possibly sign contracts for your work, or make agreements if you know so little of the value of money, that you did not ask me what dowry I would give Sabine?" " A dowry to Sabine ?" cried Benedict. " I do not want any." "You do not want any?" said Pomereul. " Most assuredly not," said Benedict. " Is it not enough that I am to become the husband of such a girl as that without receiving a large sum of money? Do you think that while you live I would ever take a penny of your fortune from you ? By doing so I would offend Sabine and degrade myself. I am only twenty-five. I am will ing to work and I may add I have talents. I can easily supply our little wants. No, dear father. I refuse to IDOLS, accept her dowry, and I am sure Sabine thinks as I do." "Yes," said Sabine, in a voice full of emotion, "you are right, perfectly right."

Pomereul shook his head incredulously. " Believe me," said Benedict earnestly, " it is better that young people should not have too much money at first. Sometimes their future is marred rather than made by premature good fortune. Money is rather an incentive to idleness than to work. The rich are more apt to gather round them a crowd of parasites and flat terers. For an artist, wealth is a positive misfortune. It induces him to waste his time, and the very praise be stowed on him is often given less to the artist than to the rich man, so that it blinds him to the real value of his work." " You are right," said Sulpice, pressing Benedict's hand. " It seems to me, too," said Sabine, blushing, " that it robs the wife of half her merit; it condemns her to idleness, by making her rich all at once.

A wealthy bride seems to owe everything to her family, and nothing to her husband. What will it matter, dear father, if the daughter of the millionaire Pomereul be without horses or diamonds? I can use your carriage at need, and Benedict shall see that I know how to dispense with these things cheerfully. My surroundings will be hum ble; so much the better. I shall go out of my world in marrying an artist, and yet I will remain myself. I do not need large means, which would render work useless, lead me to love the world, and to rival other women in dress and extravagance. We will live upon my husband's earnings as my mother was content to live upon yours." Pomereul opened his arms to Sabine. "Dear daughter," he said, "and dear son, more touched than I can express, I yield to your youthful wisdom.