The Wandering Jew
Chapter 163 : "My lady is not quite well, sir," said Florine, "and receives no one to

"My lady is not quite well, sir," said Florine, "and receives no one to day. I am sure, that as soon as she is better, she will be quite pleased to see you."

Here Mother Bunch returned, and said to Agricola: "If you can come for me to-morrow, about three o'clock, so as not to lose the whole day, we will go to the factory, and you can bring me back in the evening."

"Then, at three o'clock to-morrow, my good sister."

"At three to-morrow, Agricola."

The evening of that same day, when all was quiet in the hotel, Mother Bunch, who had remained till ten o'clock with Mdlle. de Cardoville, re entered her bedchamber, locked the door after her, and finding herself at length free and unrestrained, threw herself on her knees before a chair, and burst into tears. She wept long--very long. When her tears at length ceased to flow, she dried her eyes, approached the writing-desk, drew out one of the boxes from the pigeonhole, and, taking from this hiding-place the ma.n.u.script which Florine had so rapidly glanced over the evening before, she wrote in it during a portion of the night.

CHAPTER XLVI. MOTHER BUNCH'S DIARY.

We have said that the hunchback wrote during a portion of the night, in the book discovered the previous evening by Florine, who had not ventured to take it away, until she had informed the persons who employed her of its contents, and until she had received their final orders on the subject. Let us explain the existence of this ma.n.u.script, before opening it to the reader. The day on which Mother Bunch first became aware of her love for Agricola, the first word of this ma.n.u.script had been written. Endowed with an essentially trusting character, yet always feeling herself restrained by the dread of ridicule--a dread which, in its painful exaggeration, was the workgirl's only weakness--to whom could the unfortunate creature have confided the secret of that fatal pa.s.sion, if not to paper--that mute confidant of timid and suffering souls, that patient friend, silent and cold, who, if it makes no reply to heart rending complaints, at least always listens, and never forgets?

When her heart was overflowing with emotion, sometimes mild and sad, sometimes harsh and bitter, the poor workgirl, finding a melancholy charm in these dumb and solitary outpourings of the soul, now clothed in the form of simple and touching poetry, and now in unaffected prose, had accustomed herself by degrees not to confine her confidences to what immediately related to Agricola, for though he might be mixed up with all her thoughts, for reflections, which the sight of beauty, of happy love, of maternity, of wealth, of misfortune, called up within her, were so impressed with the influence of her unfortunate personal position, that she would not even have dared to communicate them to him. Such, then, was this journal of a poor daughter of the people, weak, deformed, and miserable, but endowed with an angelic soul, and a fine intellect, improved by reading, meditation, and solitude; pages quite unknown, which yet contained many deep and striking views, both as regard men and things, taken from the peculiar standpoint in which fate had placed this unfortunate creature. The following lines, here and there abruptly interrupted or stained with tears, according to the current of her various emotions, on hearing of Agricola's deep love for Angela, formed the last pages of this journal:

"Friday, March 3d, 1832.

"I spent the night without any painful dreams. This morning, I rose with no sorrowful presentiment. I was calm and tranquil when Agricola came.

He did not appear to me agitated. He was simple and affectionate as he always is. He spoke to me of events relating to M. Hardy, and then, without transition, without hesitation, he said to me: 'The last four days I have been desperately in love. The sentiment is so serious, that I think of marriage. I have come to consult you about it.' That was how this overwhelming revelation was made to me--naturally and cordially--I on one side of the hearth, and Agricola an the other, as if we had talked of indifferent things. And yet no more is needed to break one's heart. Some one enters, embraces you like a brother, sits down, talks--and then--Oh! Merciful heaven! my head wanders.

"I feel calmer now. Courage, my poor heart, courage!--Should a day of misfortune again overwhelm me, I will read these lines written under the impression of the most cruel grief I can ever feel, and I will say to myself: 'What is the present woe compared to that past?' My grief is indeed cruel! it is illegitimate, ridiculous, shameful: I should not dare to confess it, even to the most indulgent of mothers. Alas!

there are some fearful sorrows, which yet rightly make men shrug their shoulders in pity or contempt. Alas! these are forbidden misfortunes.

Agricola has asked me to go to-morrow, to see this young girl to whom he is so pa.s.sionately attached, and whom he will marry, if the instinct of my heart should approve the marriage. This thought is the most painful of all those which have tortured me since he so pitilessly announced this love. Pitilessly? No, Agricola--no, my brother--forgive me this unjust cry of pain! Is it that you know, can even suspect, that I love you better than you love, better than you can ever love, this charming creature?

"'Dark-haired--the figure of a nymph--fair as a lily--with blue eyes--as large as that--and almost as mild as your own.'

"That is the portrait he drew of her. Poor Agricola! how would he have suffered, had he known that every one of his words was tearing my heart.

Never did I so strongly feel the deep commiseration and tender pity, inspired by a good, affectionate being, who, in the sincerity of his ignorance, gives you your death-wound with a smile. We do not blame him--no--we pity him to the full extent of the grief that he would feel on learning the pain he had caused me. It is strange! but never did Agricola appear to me more handsome than this morning. His manly countenance was slightly agitated, as he spoke of the uneasiness of that pretty young lady. As I listened to him describing the agony of a woman who runs the risk of ruin for the man she loves, I felt my heart beat violently, my hands were burning, a soft languor floated over me--Ridiculous folly! As if I had any right to feel thus!

"I remember that, while he spoke, I cast a rapid glance at the gla.s.s. I felt proud that I was so well dressed; he had not even remarked it; but no matter--it seemed to me that my cap became me, that my hair shone finely, my gaze beamed mild--I found Agricola so handsome, that I almost began to think myself less ugly--no doubt, to excuse myself in my own eyes for daring to love him. After all, what happened to-day would have happened one day or another! Yes, that is consoling--like the thoughts that death is nothing, because it must come at last--to those who are in love with life! I have been always preserved from suicide--the last resource of the unfortunate, who prefer trusting in G.o.d to remaining amongst his creatures--by the sense of duty. One must not only think of self. And I reflected also'G.o.d is good--always good--since the most wretched beings find opportunities for love and devotion.' How is it that I, so weak and poor, have always found means to be helpful and useful to some one?

"This very day I felt tempted to make an end with life--Agricola and his mother had no longer need of me.--Yes, but the unfortunate creatures whom Mdlle. de Cardoville has commissioned me to watch over?--but my benefactress herself, though she has affectionately reproached me with the tenacity of my suspicions in regard to that man? I am more than ever alarmed for her--I feel that she is more than ever in danger--more than ever--I have faith in the value of my presence near her. Hence, I must live. Live--to go to-morrow to see this girl, whom Agricola pa.s.sionately loves? Good heaven! why have I always known grief, and never hate? There must be a bitter pleasure in hating. So many people hate!--Perhaps I may hate this girl--Angela, as he called her, when he said, with so much simplicity: 'A charming name, is it not, Mother Bunch?' Compare this name, which recalls an idea so full of grace, with the ironical symbol of my witch's deformity! Poor Agricola! poor brother! goodness is sometimes as blind as malice, I see. Should I hate this young girl?--Why? Did she deprive me of the beauty which charms Agricola? Can I find fault with her for being beautiful? When I was not yet accustomed to the consequences of my ugliness, I asked myself, with bitter curiosity, why the Creator had endowed his creatures so unequally. The habit of pain has allowed me to reflect calmly, and I have finished by persuading myself, that to beauty and ugliness are attached the two most n.o.ble emotions of the soul--admiration and compa.s.sion. Those who are like me admire beautiful persons--such as Angela, such as Agricola--and these in their turn feel a couching pity for such as I am. Sometimes, in spite of one's self, one has very foolish hopes. Because Agricola, from a feeling of propriety had never spoken to me of his love affairs, I sometimes persuaded myself that he had none--that he loved me, and that the fear of ridicule alone was with him, as with me, an obstacle in the way of confessing it. Yes, I have even made verses on that subject--and those, I think, not the worst I have written.

"Mine is a singular position! If I love, I am ridiculous; if any love me, he is still more ridiculous. How did I come so to forget that, as to have suffered and to suffer what I do?--But blessed be that suffering, since it has not engendered hate--no; for I will not hate this girl--I will Perform a sister's part to the last; I will follow the guidance of my heart; I have the instinct of preserving others--my heart will lead and enlighten me. My only fear is, that I shall burst into tears when I see her, and not be able to conquer my emotion. Oh, then! what a revelation to Agricola--a discovery of the mad love he has inspired!--Oh, never! the day in which he knew that would be the last of my life. There would then be within me something stronger than duty--the longing to escape from shame--that incurable shame, that burns me like a hot iron. No, no; I will be calm. Besides, did I not just now, when with him bear courageously a terrible trial? I will be calm. My personal feelings must not darken the second sight, so clear for those I love.

Oh! painful--painful task! for the fear of yielding involuntarily to evil sentiments must not render me too indulgent toward this girl. I might compromise Agricola's happiness, since my decision is to guide his choice. Poor creature that I am. How I deceive myself! Agricola asks my advice, because he thinks that I shall have not the melancholy courage to oppose his pa.s.sion; or else he would say to me: 'No matter--I love; and I brave the future!'

"But then, if my advice, if the instincts of my heart, are not to guide him--if his resolution is taken beforehand--of what use will be to morrow's painful mission? Of what use? To obey him. Did he not say--'Come!' In thinking of my devotion for him, how many times, in the secret depths of my heart, I have asked myself if the thought had ever occurred to him to love me otherwise than as a sister; if it had ever struck him, what a devoted wife he would have in me! And why should it have occurred to him? As long as he wished, as long as he may still wish, I have been, and I shall be, as devoted to him, as if I were his wife, sister, or mother. Why should he desire what he already possesses?

"Married to him--oh, G.o.d!--the dream is mad as ineffable. Are not such thoughts of celestial sweetness--which include all sentiments from sisterly to maternal love--forbidden to me, on pain of ridicule as distressing as if I wore dresses and ornaments, that my ugliness and deformity would render absurd? I wonder, if I were now plunged into the most cruel distress, whether I should suffer as much as I do, on hearing of Agricola's intended marriage? Would hunger, cold, or misery diminish this dreadful dolor?--or is it the dread pain that would make me forget hunger, cold, and misery?

"No, no; this irony is bitter. It is not well in me to speak thus. Why such deep grief? In what way have the affection, the esteem, the respect of Agricola, changed towards me? I complain--but how would it be, kind heaven! if, as, alas! too often happens, I were beautiful, loving, devoted, and he had chosen another, less beautiful, less loving, less devoted?--Should I not be a thousand times more unhappy? for then I might, I would have to blame him--whilst now I can find no fault with him, for never having thought of a union which was impossible, because ridiculous. And had he wished it, could I ever have had the selfishness to consent to it? I began to write the first pages of this diary as I began these last, with my heart steeped in bitterness--and as I went on, committing to paper what I could have intrusted to no one, my soul grew calm, till resignation came--Resignation, my chosen saint, who, smiling through her tears, suffers and loves, but hopes--never!"

These word's were the last in the journal. It was clear, from the blots of abundant tears, that the unfortunate creature had often paused to weep.

In truth, worn out by so many emotions, Mother Bunch late in the night, had replaced the book behind the cardboard box, not that she thought it safer there than elsewhere (she had no suspicion of the slightest need for such precaution), but because it was more out of the way there than in any of the drawers, which she frequently opened in presence of other people. Determined to perform her courageous promise, and worthily accomplish her task to the end, she waited the next day for Agricola, and firm in her heroic resolution, went with the smith to M. Hardy's factory. Florine, informed of her departure, but detained a portion of the day in attendance on Mdlle. de Cardoville preferred waiting for night to perform the new orders she had asked and received, since she had communicated by letter the contents of Mother Bunch's journal.

Certain not to be surprised, she entered the workgirls' chamber, as soon as the night was come.

Knowing the place where she should find the ma.n.u.script, she went straight to the desk, took out the box, and then, drawing from her pocket a sealed letter, prepared to leave it in the place of the ma.n.u.script, which she was to carry away with her. So doing, she trembled so much, that she was obliged to support herself an instant by the table. Every good sentiment was not extinct in Florine's heart; she obeyed pa.s.sively the orders she received, but she felt painfully how horrible and infamous was her conduct. If only herself had been concerned, she would no doubt have had the courage to risk all, rather than submit to this odious despotism; but unfortunately, it was not so, and her ruin would have caused the mortal despair of another person whom she loved better than life itself. She resigned herself, therefore, not without cruel anguish, to abominable treachery.

Though she hardly ever knew for what end she acted, and this was particularly the case with regard to the abstraction of the journal, she foresaw vaguely, that the subst.i.tution of this sealed letter for the ma.n.u.script would have fatal consequences for Mother Bunch, for she remembered Rodin's declaration, that "it was time to finish with the young sempstress."

What did he mean by those words? How would the letter that she was charged to put in the place of the diary, contribute to bring about this result? she did not know--but she understood that the clear-sighted devotion of the hunchback justly alarmed the enemies of Mdlle. de Cardoville, and that she (Florine) herself daily risked having her perfidy detected by the young needlewoman. This last fear put an end to the hesitations of Florine; she placed the letter behind the box, and, hiding the ma.n.u.script under her ap.r.o.n, cautiously withdrew from the chamber.

CHAPTER XLVII. THE DIARY CONTINUED.

Returned into her own room, some hours after she had concealed there the ma.n.u.script abstracted from Mother Bunch's apartment, Florine yielded to her curiosity, and determined to look through it. She soon felt a growing interest, an involuntary emotion, as she read more of these private thoughts of the young sempstress. Among many pieces of verse, which all breathed a pa.s.sionate love for Agricola--a love so deep, simple, and sincere, that Florine was touched by it, and forgot the author's deformity--among many pieces of verse, we say, were divers other fragments, thoughts, and narratives, relating to a variety of facts. We shall quote some of them, in order to explain the profound impression that their perusal made upon Florine.

Fragments from the Diary.

"This is my birthday. Until this evening, I had cherished a foolish hope. Yesterday, I went down to Mrs. Baudoin's, to dress a little wound she had on her leg. When I entered the room, Agricola was there. No doubt he was talking of me to his mother, for they stopped when I came in, and exchanged a meaning smile. In pa.s.sing by the drawers, I saw a pasteboard box, with a pincus.h.i.+on-lid, and I felt myself blus.h.i.+ng with joy, as I thought this little present was destined for me, but I pretended not to see it. While I was on my knees before his mother, Agricola went out. I remarked that he took the little box with him.

Never has Mrs. Baudoin been more tender and motherly than she was that morning. It appeared to me that she went to bed earlier than usual.

'It is to send me away sooner,' said I to myself, 'that I may enjoy the surprise Agricola has prepared for me.' How my heart beat, as I ran fast, very fast, up to my closet! I stopped a moment before opening the door, that my happiness might last the longer. At last I entered the room, my eyes swimming with tears of joy. I looked upon my table, my chair, my bed--there was nothing. The little box was not to be found. My heart sank within me. Then I said to myself: 'It will be to-morrow--this is only the eve of my birthday.' The day is gone. Evening is come.

Nothing. The pretty box was not for me. It had a pincus.h.i.+on-cover. It was only suited for a woman. To whom has Agricola given it?

"I suffer a good deal just now. It was a childish idea that I connected with Agricola's wis.h.i.+ng me many happy returns of the day. I am ashamed to confess it; but it might have proved to me, that he has not forgotten I have another name besides that of Mother Bunch, which they always apply to me. My susceptibility on this head is unfortunately so stubborn, that I cannot help feeling a momentary pang of mingled shame and sorrow, every time that I am called by that fairy-tale name, and yet I have had no other from infancy. It is for that very reason that I should have been so happy if Agricola had taken this opportunity to call me for once by my own humble name--Magdalen. Happily, he will never know these wishes and regrets!"

Deeper and deeper touched by this page of simple grief, Florine turned over several leaves, and continued:

"I have just been to the funeral of poor little Victorine Herbin, our neighbor. Her father, a journeyman upholsterer, is gone to work by the month, far from Paris. She died at nineteen, without a relation near her. Her agony was not long. The good woman who attended her to the last, told us that she only p.r.o.nounced these words: 'At last, oh at last!' and that with an air of satisfaction, added the nurse. Dear child! she had become so pitiful. At fifteen, she was a rosebud--so pretty, so fresh-looking, with her light hair as soft as silk; but she wasted away by degrees--her trade of renovating mattresses killed her.

She was slowly poisoned by the emanations from the wool.(26) They were all the worse, that she worked almost entirely for the poor, who have cheap stuff to lie upon.

"She had the courage of a lion, and an angel's resignation, She always said to me, in her low, faint voice, broken by a dry and frequent cough: 'I have not long to live, breathing, as I do, lime and vitriol all day long. I spit blood, and have spasms that make me faint.'

"'Why not change your trade?' have I said to her.

"'Where will I find the time to make another apprentices.h.i.+p?' she would answer; 'and it is now too late. I feel that I am done for. It is not my fault,' added the good creature, 'for I did not choose my employment.

My father would have it so; luckily he can do without me. And then, you see, when one is dead, one cares for nothing, and has no fear of "slop wages."'

"Victorine uttered that sad, common phrase very sincerely, and with a sort of satisfaction. Therefore she died repeating: 'At last!'

"It is painful to think that the labor by which the poor man earns his daily bread, often becomes a long suicide! I said this the other day to Agricola; he answered me that there were many other fatal employments; those who prepare aquafortis, white lead, or minium, for instance, are sure to take incurable maladies of which they die.

"'Do you know,' added Agricola, 'what they say when they start for those fatal works?'--Why, 'We are going to the slaughter-house.'

"That made me tremble with its terrible truth.

"'And all this takes place in our day,' said I to him, with an aching heart; 'and it is well-known. And, out of so many of the rich and powerful, no one thinks of the mortality which decimates his brothers, thus forced to eat homicidal bread!'

"'What can you expect, my poor sister,' answered Agricola. 'When men are to be incorporated, that they may get killed in war, all pains are taken with them. But when they are to be organized, so as to live in peace, no one cares about it, except M. Hardy, my master. People say, 'Pooh!

hunger, misery, and suffering of the laboring cla.s.ses--what is that to us? that is not politics.' 'They are wrong,' added Agricola; 'IT IS MORE THAN POLITICS.'

"As Victorine had not left anything to pay for the church service, there was only the presentation of the body under the porch; for there is not even a plain ma.s.s for the poor. Besides, as they could not give eighteen francs to the curate, no priest accompanied the pauper's coffin to the common grave. If funerals, thus abridged and cut short, are sufficient in a religious point of view, why invent other and longer forms? Is it from cupidity?--If, on the other hand, they are not sufficient, why make the poor man the only victim of this insufficiency? But why trouble ourselves about the pomp, the incense, the chants, of which they are either too sparing or too liberal? Of what use? and for what purpose?