"Ungrateful son! I will never leave you! if you persist, you shall pass over my body before you enter the fatal house. A wife, then, is all-in-all—a mother nothing! Oh! miserable that I am!" Tears flowed from every eye.—"Marcel," said the bridegroom, "love masters me; should evil befal me, take charge of my mother."
"This is too much!" cried the soldier; "I cannot bear your mother's grief. Oh, Pascal! be blest—be content—be fearless—Françonnette is free! she is not sold to the evil one. It is a falsehood—a mere tale made for a purpose. But had not your mother overcome me by her tears, perhaps we should both have perished. You know—you can feel—how much I love her; like you, I would give my life for her. I thought she loved me, for she had my very soul—all! Yet she rejected me, though she knows we were betrothed. I saw there was no way—I devised a plan—I hired the sorcerer to raise a terror amongst all; he forged a fearful tale, chance did the rest. I thought her then securely my own; but when we both demanded her—when for you she braved everything—when she at once confessed how dear you were, it was beyond my power to bear. I resolved that we should both die; I would have conducted you to the bridal chamber—a train is laid there: all three were to have been victims; I would have bid you cease to fear the demon, but behold in me your foe!—but it is past, the crime I had meditated is arrested. Your mother has disarmed me; she reminds me of my own. Live, Pascal, for your mother! you have no more to fear for me. I have now no one; I will return to the wars; it were better for me that, instead of perishing with a great crime on my conscience, a bullet should end my life."
He spoke no more, and rushed from their presence: the air resounded with shouts, and the happy lovers fell into each other's arms: the stars at that moment shone out. Oh! I must cast down my pencil—I had colours for sorrow—I have none for such happiness as theirs!
Lines by Jasmin
addressed to m. dumon, deputy, who had condemned our old language.
There's not a deeper grief to man
Than when his mother, faint with years,
Decrepit, old, and weak, and wan,
Beyond the leech's art appears;
When by her couch her son may stay,
And press her hand and watch her eyes,
And feel, though she revive to-day,
Perchance his hope to-morrow dies.
It is not thus, believe me, sir,
With this enchantress—she we call
Our second mother: Frenchmen err,
Who, cent'ries since, proclaim'd her fall!
Our mother-tongue—all melody—
While music lives, can never die.
Yes!—she still lives, her words still ring;
Her children yet her carols sing:
And thousand years may roll away,
Before her magic notes decay.
The people love their ancient songs, and will,
While yet a people, love and keep them still:
These lays are as their mother; they recal,
Fond thoughts of mother, sister, friends, and all
The many little things that please the heart—
The dreams, the hopes, from which we cannot part:
These songs are as sweet waters, where we find,
Health in the sparkling wave that nerves the mind.
In ev'ry home, at ev'ry cottage door,
By ev'ry fireside, when our toil is o'er,
These songs are round us, near our cradles sigh,
And to the grave attend us when we die.
Oh! think, cold critics! 'twill be late and long,
Ere time shall sweep away this flood of song!