“What are you?”

“Well, then, you have two friends, my dear prince--myself, whom you

know, and one other, whom you do not know, and who desires to remain

unknown to you.”

“Why?”

“Why?” answered Rodin, after a moment’s embarrassment. “Because the

happiness he feels in giving you these proofs of his friendship and even

his own tranquillity, depend upon preserving this mystery.”

“Why should there be concealment when we do good?”

“Sometimes, to conceal the good we do, my dear prince.”

“I profit by this friendship; why should he conceal himself from one?”

These repeated questions of the young Indian appeared to puzzle Rodin,

who, however, replied: “I have told you, my dear prince, that your

secret friend would perhaps have his tranquillity compromised, if he

were known.”

“If he were known--as my friend?”

“Exactly so, dear prince.”

The countenance of Djalma immediately assumed an appearance of sorrowful

dignity; he raised his head proudly, and said in a stern and haughty

voice: “Since this friend hides himself from me, he must either be

ashamed of me, or there is reason for me to be ashamed of him. I only

accept hospitality from those who are worthy of me, and who think me

worthy of them. I leave this house.” So saying, Djalma rose with such

an air of determination, that Rodin exclaimed: “Listen to me, my dear

prince. Allow me to tell you, that your petulance and touchiness are

almost incredible. Though we have endeavored to remind you of your

beautiful country, we are here in Europe, in France, in the centre of

Paris. This consideration may perhaps a little modify your views. Listen

to me, I conjure you.”

Notwithstanding his complete ignorance of certain social

conventionalisms, Djalma had too much good sense and uprightness, not

to appreciate reason, when it appeared reasonable. The words of Rodin

calmed him. With that ingenuous modesty, with which natures full of

strength and generosity are almost always endowed, he answered mildly:

“You are right, father. I am no longer in my own country. Here the

customs are different. I will reflect upon it.”

Notwithstanding his craft and suppleness, Rodin sometimes found himself

perplexed by the wild and unforseen ideas of the young Indian. Thus he

saw, to his great surprise, that Djalma now remained pensive for some

minutes, after which he resumed in a calm but firm tone: “I have obeyed

you, father: I have reflected.”

“Well, my dear prince?”

“In no country in the world, under no pretext, should a man of honor

conceal his friendship for another man of honor.”

“But suppose there should be danger in avowing this friendship?” said

Rodin, very uneasy at the turn the conversation was taking. Djalma eyed

the Jesuit with contemptuous astonishment, and made no reply.

“I understand your silence, my dear prince: a brave man ought to defy

danger. True; but if it should be you that the danger threatens, in

case this friendship were discovered, would not your man of honor be

excusable, even praiseworthy, to persist in remaining unknown?”

“I accept nothing from a friend, who thinks me capable of denying him

from cowardice.”

“Dear prince--listen to me.”

“Adieu, father.”

“Yet reflect!”

“I have said it,” replied Djalma, in an abrupt and almost sovereign

tone, as he walked towards the door.

“But suppose a woman were concerned,” cried Rodin, driven to extremity,

and hastening after the young Indian, for he really feared that Djalma

might rush from the house, and thus overthrow all his projects.

At the last words of Rodin the Indian stopped abruptly. “A woman!” said

he, with a start, and turning red. “A woman is concerned?”

“Why, yes! suppose it were a woman,” resumed Rodin, “would you not then

understand her reserve, and the secrecy with which she is obliged to

surround the marks of affection she wishes to give you?”

“A woman!” repeated Djalma, in a trembling voice, clasping his hands in

adoration; and his beautiful countenance was expressive of the deepest

emotion. “A woman!” said he again. “A Parisian?”

“Yes, my dear prince, as you force me to this indiscretion, I will

confess to you that your friend is a real Parisian--a noble matron,

endowed with the highest virtues--whose age alone merits all your

respect.”

“She is very old, then?” cried poor Djalma, whose charming dream was

thus abruptly dispelled.

“She may be a few years older than I am,” answered Rodin, with an

ironical smile, expecting to see the young man express a sort of comical

disappointment or angry regret.

But it was not so. To the passionate enthusiasm of love, which had for

a moment lighted up the prince’s features, there now succeeded a

respectful and touching expression. He looked at Rodin with emotion, and

said to him in a broken voice: “This woman, is then, a mother to me?”

It is impossible to describe with what a pious, melancholy, and tender

charm the Indian uttered the word mother.

“You have it, my dear prince; this respectable lady wishes to be a

mother to you. But I may not reveal to you the cause of the affection

she feels for you. Only, believe me--this affection is sincere, and the

cause honorable. If I do not tell you her secret, it is that, with us,

the secrets of women, young or old, are equally sacred.”

“That is right, and I will respect it. Without seeing her, I will love

her--as I love God, without seeing Him.”

“And now, my dear prince, let me tell you what are the intentions of

your maternal friend. This house will remain at your disposal, as long

as you like it; French servants, a carriage, and horses, will be at your

orders; the charges of your housekeeping will be paid for you. Then, as

the son of a king should live royalty, I have left in the next room a

casket containing five hundred Louis; every month a similar sum will

be provided: if it should not be found sufficient for your little

amusements, you will tell me, and it shall be augmented.”

At a movement of Djalma, Rodin hastened to add: “I must tell you at

once, my dear prince, that your delicacy may be quite at ease. First

of all, you may accept anything from a mother; next, as in about three

months you will come into possession of an immense inheritance, it will

be easy for you, if you feel the obligation a burden--and the sum

cannot exceed, at the most, four or five thousand Louis--to repay these

advances. Spare nothing, then, but satisfy all your fancies. You are

expected to appear in the great world of Paris, in a style becoming the

son of a king who was called the Father of the Generous. So once again I

conjure you not to be restrained by a false delicacy; if this sum should

not be sufficient--”

“I will ask for more. My mother is right; the son of a monarch ought to

live royally.”

Such was the answer of the Indian, made with perfect simplicity, and

without any appearance of astonishment at these magnificent offers. This

was natural. Djalma would have done for others what they were doing

for him, for the traditions of the prodigal magnificence and splendid

hospitality of Indian princes are well known. Djalma had been as moved

as grateful, on hearing that a woman loved him with maternal affection.

As for the luxury with which she nought to surround him, he accepted

it without astonishment and without scruple. This resignation, again,

somewhat disconcerted Rodin, who had prepared many excellent arguments

to persuade the Indian to accept his offers.

“Well, then, it’s all agreed, my dear prince,” resumed the Jesuit. “Now,

as you must see the world, it’s just as well to enter by the best door,

as we say. One of the friends of your maternal protectress, the Count de

Montbron, an old nobleman of the greatest experience, and belonging

to the first society, will introduce you in some of the best houses in

Paris.”

“Will you not introduce me, father?”

“Alas! my dear prince, look at me. Tell me, if you think I am fitted

for such an office. No! no; I live alone and retired from the world.

And then,” added Rodin, after a short silence, fixing a penetrating,

attentive, and curious look upon the prince, as if he would have

subjected him to a sort of experiment by what follows; “and then, you

see, M. de Montbron will be better able than I should, in the world you

are about to enter, to enlighten you as to the snares that will be

laid for you. For if you have friends, you have also enemies--cowardly

enemies, as you know, who have abused your confidence in an infamous

manner, and have made sport of you. And as, unfortunately, their power

is equal to their wickedness, it would perhaps be more prudent in you to

try to avoid them--to fly, instead of resisting them openly.”

At the remembrance of his enemies, at the thought of flying from them,

Djalma trembled in every limb; his features became of a lurid paleness;

his eyes wide open, so that the pupil was encircled with white, sparkled

with lurid fire; never had scorn, hatred, and the desire of vengeance,

expressed themselves so terribly on a human face. His upper lip, blood

red, was curled convulsively, exposing a row of small, white, and close

set teeth, and giving to his countenance lately so charming, an air of

such animal ferocity, that Rodin started from his seat, and exclaimed:

“What is the matter, prince? You frighten me.”

Djalma did not answer. Half leaning forward, with his hands clinched in

rage, he seemed to cling to one of the arms of the chair, for fear

of yielding to a burst of terrific fury. At this moment, the amber

mouthpiece of his pipe rolled, by chance, under one of his feet; the

violent tension, which contracted all the muscles of the young Indian,

was so powerful, and notwithstanding his youth and his light figure, he

was endowed with such vigor, that with one abrupt stamp he powdered to

dust the piece of amber, in spite of its extreme hardness.

“In the name of heaven, what is the matter, prince?” cried Rodin.

“Thus would I crush my cowardly enemies!” exclaimed Djalma, with

menacing and excited look. Then, as if these words had brought his rage

to a climax, he bounded from his seat, and, with haggard eyes, strode

about the room for some seconds in all directions, as if he sought

for some weapon, and uttered from time to time a hoarse cry, which he

endeavored to stifle by thrusting his clinched fist against his mouth,

whilst his jaws moved convulsively. It was the impotent rage of a wild

beast, thirsting for blood. Yet, in all this, the young Indian preserved

a great and savage beauty; it was evident that these instincts of

sanguinary ardor and blind intrepidity, now excited to this pitch by

horror of treachery and cowardice, when applied to war, or to those

gigantic Indian hunts, which are even more bloody than a battle, must

make of Djalma what he really was a hero.

Rodin admired, with deep and ominous joy, the fiery impetuosity

of passion in the young Indian, for, under various conceivable

circumstances, the effect must be terrible. Suddenly, to the Jesuit’s

great surprise, the tempest was appeased. Djalma’s fury was calmed thus

instantaneously, because refection showed him how vain it was: ashamed

of his childish violence, he cast down his eyes. His countenance

remained pale and gloomy; and, with a cold tranquillity, far more

formidable than the violence to which he had yielded, he said to Rodin:

“Father, you will this day lead me to meet my enemies.”

“In what end, my dear prince? What would you do?”

“Kill the cowards!”

“Kill them! you must not think of it.”

“Faringhea will aid me.”

“Remember, you are not on the banks of the Ganges, and here one does not

kill an enemy like a hunted tiger.”

“One fights with a loyal enemy, but one kills a traitor like an accursed

dog,” replied Djalma, with as much conviction as tranquillity.

“Ah, prince, whose father was the Father of the Generous,” said Rodin,

in a grave voice; “what pleasure can you find in striking down creatures

as cowardly as they are wicked?”

“To destroy what is dangerous, is a duty.”

“So prince, you seek for revenge.”

“I do not revenge myself on a serpent,” said the Indian, with haughty

bitterness; “I crush it.”

“But, my dear prince, here we cannot get rid of our enemies in that

manner. If we have cause of complaint--”

“Women and children complain,” said Djalma, interrupting Rodin: “men

strike.”

“Still on the banks of the Ganges, my dear prince. Here society takes

your cause into its own hands, examines, judges, and if there be good

reason, punishes.”

“In my own quarrel, I am both judge and executioner.”

“Pray listen to me; you have escaped the odious snares of your enemies,

have you not?--Well! suppose it were thanks to the devotion of the

venerable woman who has for you the tenderness of a mother, and that

she were to ask you to forgive them--she, who saved you from their

hands--what would you do then?”

The Indian hung his head, and was silent. Profiting by his hesitation,

Rodin continued: “I might say to you that I know your enemies, but that

in the dread of seeing you commit some terrible imprudence, I would

conceal their names from you forever. But no! I swear to you, that if

the respectable person, who loves you as her son, should find it either

right or useful that I should tell you their names, I will do so--until

she has pronounced, I must be silent.”

Djalma looked at Rodin with a dark and wrathful air. At this moment,

Faringhea entered, and said to Rodin: “A man with a letter, not finding

you at home, has been sent on here. Am I to receive it? He says it comes

from the Abbe d’Aigrigny.

“Certainly,” answered Rodin. “That is,” he added, “with the prince’s

permission.”

Djalma nodded in reply; Faringhea went out.

“You will excuse what I have done, dear prince. I expected this morning

a very important letter. As it was late in coming to hand, I ordered it

to be sent on.”

A few minutes after, Faringhea returned with the letter, which he

delivered to Rodin--and the half-caste again withdrew.

CHAPTER XLIV. ADRIENNE AND DJALMA.

When Faringhea had quitted the room, Rodin took the letter from Abbe

d’Aigrigny with one hand, and with the other appeared to be looking

for something, first in the side pocket of his great-coat, then in the

pocket behind, then in that of his trousers; and, not finding what he

sought, he laid the letter on his knee, and felt himself all over with

both hands, with an air of regret and uneasiness. The divers movements

of this pantomime, performed in the most natural manner, were crowned by

the exclamations.

“Oh! dear me! how vexatious!”

“What is the matter?” asked Djalma, starting from the gloomy silence in

which he had been plunged for some minutes.

“Alas! my dear prince!” replied Rodin, “the most vulgar and puerile

accident may sometimes cause the greatest inconvenience. I have

forgotten or lost my spectacles. Now, in this twilight, with the very

poor eyesight that years of labor have left me, it will be absolutely

impossible for me to read this most important letter--and an immediate

answer is expected--most simple and categorical--a yes or a no. Times

presses; it is really most annoying. If,” added Rodin, laying great

stress on his words, without looking at Djalma, but so as the prince

might remark it; “if only some one would render me the service to read

it for me; but there is no one--no--one!”

“Father,” said Djalma, obligingly, “shall I read it for you. When I have

finished it, I shall forget what I have read.”

“You?” cried Rodin, as if the proposition of the Indian had appeared

to him extravagant and dangerous; “it is impossible, prince, for you to

read this letter.”

“Then excuse my having offered,” said Djalma mildly.

“And yet,” resumed Rodin, after a moment’s reflection, and as if

speaking to himself, “why not?”

And he added, addressing Djalma: “Would you really be so obliging, my

dear prince? I should not have ventured to ask you this service.”

So saying, Rodin delivered the letter to Djalma, who read aloud as

follows: “‘Your visit this morning to Saint-Dizier House can only be

considered, from what I hear, as a new act of aggression on your part.

“‘Here is the last proposition I have to make. It may be as fruitless as

the step I took yesterday, when I called upon you in the Rue Clovis.

“‘After that long and painful explanation, I told you that I would write

to you. I keep my promise, and here is my ultimatum.

“‘First of all, a piece of advice. Beware! If you are determined to

maintain so unequal a struggle, you will be exposed even to the hatred

of those whom you so foolishly seek to protect. There are a thousand

ways to ruin you with them, by enlightening them as to your protects. It

will be proved to them, that you have shared in the plat, which you

now pretend to reveal, not from generosity, but from cupidity.’” Though

Djalma had the delicacy to feel that the least question on the subject

of this letter would be a serious indiscretion, he could not forbear

turning his head suddenly towards the Jesuit, as he read the last

passage.

“Oh, yes! it relates to me. Such as you see me, my dear prince,” added

he, glancing at his shabby clothes, “I am accused of cupidity.”

“And who are these people that you protect?”

“Those I protect?” said Rodin feigning some hesitation, as if he

had been embarrassed to find an answer; “who are those I protect?

Hem--hem--I will tell you. They are poor devils without resources; good

people without a penny, having only a just cause on their side, in a

lawsuit in which they are engaged. They are threatened with destruction

by powerful parties--very powerful parties; but, happily, these latter

are known to me, and I am able to unmask them. What else could have

been? Being myself poor and weak, I range myself naturally on the side

of the poor and weak. But continue, I beg of you.”

Djalma resumed: “‘You have therefore every-thing to fear if you persist

in your hostility, and nothing to gain by taking the side of those whom

you call your friends. They might more justly be termed your dupes, for

your disinterestedness would be inexplicable, were it sincere. It must

therefore conceal some after-thought of cupidity.

“‘Well! in that view of the case, we can offer you ample

compensation--with this difference, that your hopes are now entirely

founded on the probable gratitude of your friends, a very doubtful

chance at the best, whereas our offers will be realized on the instant.

To speak clearly, this is what we ask, what we exact of you. This very

night, before twelve, you must have left Paris, and engage not to return

for six months.’” Djalma could not repress a movement of surprise, and

looked at Rodin.

“Quite natural,” said the latter; “the cause of my poor friends would be

judged by that time, and I should be unable to watch over them. You see

how it is, my dear prince,” added Rodin, with bitter indignation. “But

please continue, and excuse me for having interrupted you; though,

indeed, such impudence disgusts me.”

Djalma continued: “‘That we may be certain of your removal from Paris

for six months, you will go to the house of one of our friends in

Germany. You will there be received with generous hospitality, but

forcibly detained until the expiration of the term.’”

“Yes, yes! a voluntary prison,” said Rodin.

“‘On these conditions, you will receive a pension of one thousand francs

a month, to begin from your departure from Paris, ten thousand francs

down, and twenty thousand at the end of the six months--the whole to

be completely secured to you. Finally, at the end of the six months, we

will place you in a position both honorable and independent.’”

Djalma having stopped short, with involuntary indignation, Rodin said to

him: “Let me beg you to continue, my dear prince. Read to the end,

and it will give you some idea of what passes in the midst of our

civilization.”

Djalma resumed: “‘You know well enough the course of affairs, and what

we are, to feel that in providing for your absence, we only wish to get

rid of an enemy, not very dangerous, but rather troublesome. Do not be

blinded by your first success. The results of your denunciation will

be stifled, because they are calumnious. The judge who received your

evidence will soon repent his odious partiality. You may make what use

you please of this letter. We know what we write, to whom we write, and

how we write. You will receive this letter at three o’clock; if by four

o’clock we have not your full and complete acceptance, written with your

own hand at the bottom of this letter, war must commence between us--and

not from to-morrow, but on the instant.’”

Having finished reading the letter, Djalma looked at Rodin, who said to

him: “Permit me to summon Faringhea.”

He rang the bell, and the half-caste appeared. Rodin took the letter

from the hands of Djalma, tore it into halves, rubbed it between his

palms, so as to make a sort of a ball, and said to the half-caste, as

he returned it to him: “Give this palter to the person who waits for

it, and tell him that is my only answer to his shameless and insolent

letter; you understand me--this shameless and insolent letter.”

“I understand.” said the half-caste; and he went out.

“This will perhaps be a dangerous war for you, father, said the Indian,

with interest.

“Yes, dear prince, it may be dangerous, but I am not like you; I have no

wish to kill my enemies, because they are cowardly and wicked. I fight

them under the shield of the law. Imitate me in this.” Then, seeing that

the countenance of Djalma darkened, he added: “I am wrong. I will advise

you no more on this subject. Only, let us defer the decision to the

judgment of your noble and motherly protectress. I shall see her to

morrow; if she consents, I will tell you the names of your enemies. If

not--not.”

“And this woman, this second mother,” said Djalma, “is her character

such, that I can rely on her judgment?”

“She!” cried Rodin, clasping his hands, and speaking with increased

excitement. “Why, she is the most noble, the most generous, the most

valiant being upon earth!--why, if you were really her son, and she

loved you with all the strength of maternal affection, and a case arose

in which you had to choose between an act of baseness and death, she

would say to you: ‘Die!’ though she might herself die with you.”

“Oh, noble woman! so was my mother!” cried Djalma, with enthusiasm.

“Yes,” resumed Rodin, with growing energy, as he approached the window

concealed by the shade, towards which he threw an oblique and anxious

glance, “if you would imagine your protectress, think only of courage,

uprightness, and loyalty personified. Oh! she has the chivalrous

frankness of the brave man, joined with the high-souled dignity of the

woman, who not only never in her life told a falsehood, never concealed

a single thought, but who would rather die than give way to the least

of those sentiments of craft and dissimulation, which are almost forced

upon ordinary women by the situation in which they are placed.”

It is difficult to express the admiration which shone upon the

countenance of Djalma, as he listened to this description. His eyes

sparkled, his cheeks glowed, his heart palpitated with enthusiasm.

“That is well, noble heart!” said Rodin to him, drawing still nearer

to the blind; “I love to see your soul sparkle through your eyes, on

hearing me speak thus of your unknown protectress. Oh! but she is worthy

of the pious adoration which noble hearts and great characters inspire!”

“Oh! I believe you,” cried Djalma, with enthusiasm; “my heart is full of

admiration and also of astonishment, for my mother is no more, and yet

such a woman exists!”

“Yes, she exists. For the consolation of the afflicted, for the glory of

her sex, she exists. For the honor of truth, and the shame of falsehood,

she exists. No lie, no disguise, has ever tainted her loyalty, brilliant

and heroic as the sword of a knight. It is but a few days ago that this

noble woman spoke to me these admirable words, which, in all my life,

I shall not forget: ‘Sir,’ she said, ‘if ever I suspect any one that I

love or esteem--’”

Rodin did not finish. The shade, so violently shaken that the spring

broke, was drawn up abruptly, and, to the great astonishment of Djalma,

Mdlle. de Cardoville appeared before him. Adrienne’s cloak had fallen

from her shoulders, and in the violence of the movement with which she

had approached the blind, her bonnet, the strings of which were untied,

had also fallen. Having left home suddenly, with only just time to throw

a mantle over the picturesque and charming costume which she often chose

to wear when alone, she appeared so radiant with beauty to Djalma’s

dazzled eyes, in the centre of those leaves and flowers, that the Indian

believed himself under the influence of a dream.

With clasped hands, eyes wide open, the body slightly bent forward, as

if in the act of prayer, he stood petrified with admiration, Mdlle. de

Cardoville, much agitated, and her countenance glowing with emotion,

remained on the threshold of the greenhouse, without entering the room.

All this had passed in less time than it takes to describe it. Hardly

had the blind been raised, than Rodin, feigning surprise, exclaimed:

“You here, madame?”

“Oh, sir!” said Adrienne, in an agitated voice, “I come to terminate

the phrase which you have commenced. I told you, that when a suspicion

crossed my mind, I uttered it aloud to the person by whom it was

inspired. Well! I confess it: I have failed in this honesty. I came here

as a spy upon you, when your answer to the Abbe d’Aigrigny was giving me

a new pledge of your devotion and sincerity. I doubted your uprightness

at the moment when you were bearing testimony to my frankness. For

the first time in my life, I stooped to deceit; this weakness merits

punishment, and I submit to it--demands reparation, and I make it--calls

for apologies, and I tender them to you.” Then turning towards Djalma,

she added: “Now, prince, I am no longer mistress of my secret. I am your

relation, Mdlle. de Cardoville; and I hope you will accept from a sister

the hospitality that you did not refuse from a mother.”

Djalma made no reply. Plunged in ecstatic contemplation of this sudden

apparition, which surpassed his wildest and most dazzling visions, he

felt a sort of intoxication, which, paralyzing the power of thought,

concentrated all his faculties in the one sense of sight; and just as we

sometimes seek in vain to satisfy unquenchable thirst, the burning look

of the Indian sought, as it were, with devouring avidity, to take in

all the rare perfections of the young lady. Verily, never had two more

divine types of beauty met face to face. Adrienne and Djalma were the

very ideal of a handsome youth and maiden. There seemed to be something

providential in the meeting of these two natures, so young and so

vivacious, so generous and so full of passion, so heroic and so proud,

who, before coming into contact, had, singularly enough, each learned

the moral worth of the other; for if, at the words of Rodin, Djalma had

felt arise in his heart an admiration, as lively as it was sudden, for

the valiant and generous qualities of that unknown benefactress, whom

he now discovered in Mdlle. de Cardoville, the latter had, in her turn,

been moved, affected, almost terrified, by the interview she had just

overheard, in which Djalma had displayed the nobleness of his soul,

the delicate goodness of his heart, and the terrible transports of

his temper. Then she had not been able to repress a movement of

astonishment, almost admiration, at sight of the surprising beauty of

the prince; and soon after, a strange, painful sentiment, a sort

of electric shock, seemed to penetrate all her being, as her eyes

encountered Djalma’s.

Cruelly agitated, and suffering deeply from this agitation, she tried

to dissemble the impression she had received, by addressing Rodin, to

apologize for having suspected him. But the obstinate silence of the

Indian redoubled the lady’s painful embarrassment. Again raising her

eyes towards the prince, to invite him to respond to her fraternal

offer, she met his ardent gaze wildly fixed upon her, and she looked

once more with a mixture of fear, sadness, and wounded pride; then she

congratulated herself on having foreseen the inexorable necessity of

keeping Djalma at a distance from her, such apprehension did this ardent

and impetuous nature already inspire. Wishing to put an end to her

present painful situation, she said to Rodin, in a low and trembling

voice, “Pray, sir, speak to the prince; repeat to him my offers. I

cannot remain longer.” So saying, Adrienne turned, as if to rejoin

Florine. But, at the first step, Djalma sprang towards her with the

bound of a tiger, about to be deprived of his prey. Terrified by the

expression of wild excitement which inflamed the Indian’s countenance,

the young lady drew back with a loud scream.

At this, Djalma remembered himself, and all that had passed. Pale with

regret and shame, trembling, dismayed, his eyes streaming with tears,

and all his features marked with an expression of the most touching

despair, he fell at Adrienne’s feet, and lifting his clasped hands

towards her, said in a soft, supplicating, timid voice: “Oh, remain!

remain! do not leave me. I have waited for you so long!” To this prayer,

uttered with the timid simplicity of a child, and a resignation which

contrasted strangely with the savage violence that had so frightened

Adrienne, she replied, as she made a sign to Florine to prepare for

their departure: “Prince, it is impossible for me to remain longer

here.”

“But you will return?” said Djalma, striving to restrain his tears. “I

shall see you again?”

“Oh, no! never--never!” said Mdlle. de Cardoville, in a failing voice.

Then, profiting by the stupor into which her answer had thrown Djalma,

Adrienne disappeared rapidly behind the plants in the greenhouse.

Florine was hastening to rejoin her mistress, when, just at the

moment she passed before Rodin, he said to her in a low, quick voice:

“To-morrow we must finish with the hunchback.” Florine trembled in every

limb, and, without answering Rodin, disappeared, like her mistress,

behind the plants. Broken, overpowered, Djalma remained upon his knees,

with his head resting on his breast. His countenance expressed neither

rage nor excitement, but a painful stupor; he wept silently. Seeing

Rodin approach him, he rose, but with so tremulous a step, that he could

hardly reach the divan, on which he sank down, hiding his face in his

hands.

Then Rodin, advancing, said to him in a mild and insinuating tone:

“Alas! I feared what has happened. I did not wish you to see your

benefactress; and if I told you she was old, do you know why, dear

prince?”

Djalma, without answering, let his hands fall upon his knees, and turned

towards Rodin a countenance still bathed in tears.

“I knew that Mdlle. de Cardoville was charming, and at your age it is

so easy to fall in love,” continued Rodin; “I wished to spare you that

misfortune, my dear prince, for your beautiful protectress passionately

loves a handsome young man of this town.”

Upon these words, Djalma suddenly pressed both hands to his heart, as if

he felt a piercing stab, uttered a cry of savage grief, threw back his

head, and fell fainting upon the divan.

Rodin looked at him coldly for some seconds, and then said as he went

away, brushing his old hat with his elbow,

“Come! it works--it works!”

CHAPTER XLV. THE CONSULTATION.

It is night. It has just struck nine. It is the evening of that day

on which Mdlle. de Cardoville first found herself in the presence of

Djalma. Florine, pale, agitated, trembling, with a candle in her hand,

had just entered a bedroom, plainly but comfortably furnished. This room

was one of the apartments occupied by Mother Bunch, in Adrienne’s house.

They were situated on the ground-floor, and had two entrances. One

opened on the garden, and the other on the court-yard. From this side

came the persons who applied to the workgirl for succor; an ante-chamber

in which they waited, a parlor in which they were received, constituted

Mother Bunch’s apartments, along with the bedroom, which Florine

had just entered, looking about her with an anxious and alarmed air,

scarcely touching the carpet with the tips of her satin shoes, holding

her breath, and listening at the least noise.

Placing the candle upon the chimney-piece, she took a rapid survey

of the chamber, and approached the mahogany desk, surmounted by a

well-filled bookcase. The key had been left in the drawers of this

piece of furniture, and they were all three examined by Florine. They

contained different petitions from persons in distress, and various,

notes in the girl’s handwriting. This was not what Florine wanted. Three

cardboard boxes were placed in pigeon-holes beneath the bookcase. These

also were vainly explored, and Florine, with a gesture of vexation,

looked and listened anxiously; then, seeing a chest of drawers, she

made therein a fresh and useless search. Near the foot of the bed was

a little door, leading to a dressing-room. Florine entered it, and

looked--at first without success--into a large wardrobe, in which were

suspended several black dresses, recently made for Mother Bunch,

by order of Mdlle. de Cardoville. Perceiving, at the bottom of this

wardrobe, half hidden beneath a cloak, a very shabby little trunk,

Florine opened it hastily, and found there, carefully folded up, the

poor old garments in which the work-girl had been clad when she first

entered this opulent mansion.

Florine started--an involuntary emotion contracted her features; but

considering that she had not liberty to indulge her feelings, but only

to obey Rodin’s implacable orders, she hastily closed both trunk and

wardrobe, and leaving the dressing-room, returned into the bed-chamber.

After having again examined the writing-stand, a sudden idea occurred to

her. Not content with once more searching the cardboard boxes, she drew

out one of them from the pigeon-hole, hoping to find what she sought

behind the box: her first attempt failed, but the second was more

successful. She found behind the middle box a copy-book of considerable

thickness. She started in surprise, for she had expected something else;

yet she took the manuscript, opened it, and rapidly turned over

the leaves. After having perused several pages, she manifested her

satisfaction, and seemed as if about to put the book in her pocket; but

after a moment’s reflection, she replaced it where she had found it,

arranged everything in order, took her candle, and quitted the apartment

without being discovered--of which, indeed, she had felt pretty sure,

knowing that Mother Bunch would be occupied with Mdlle. de Cardoville

for some hours.

The day after Florine’s researches, Mother Bunch, alone in her bed

chamber, was seated in an arm-chair, close to a good fire. A thick

carpet covered the floor; through the window-curtains could be seen the

lawn of a large garden; the deep silence was only interrupted by the

regular ticking of a clock, and the crackling of the wood. Her

hands resting on the arms of the chair, she gave way to a feeling of

happiness, such as she had never so completely enjoyed since she took

up her residence at the hotel. For her, accustomed so long to cruel

privations, there was a kind of inexpressible charm in the calm silence

of this retreat--in the cheerful aspect of the garden, and above all, in

the consciousness that she was indebted for this comfortable position,

to the resignation and energy she had displayed, in the thick of the

many severe trials which now ended so happily. An old woman, with a mild

and friendly countenance, who had been, by express desire of Adrienne,

attached to the hunchback’s service, entered the room and said to her:

“Mademoiselle, a young man wishes to speak to you on pressing business.

He gives his name as Agricola Baudoin.”

At this name, Mother Bunch uttered an exclamation of surprise and joy,

blushed slightly, rose and ran to the door which led to the parlor in

which was Agricola.

“Good-morning, dear sister,” said the smith, cordially embracing the

young girl, whose cheeks burned crimson beneath those fraternal kisses.

“Ah, me!” cried the sempstress on a sudden, as she looked anxiously

at Agricola; “what is that black band on your forehead? You have been

wounded!”

“A mere nothing,” said the smith, “really nothing. Do not think of it.

I will tell you all about that presently. But first, I have things of

importance to communicate.”

“Come into my room, then; we shall be alone,” Mother Bunch, as she went

before Agricola.

Notwithstanding the expression of uneasiness which was visible on the

countenance of Agricola, he could not forbear smiling with pleasure as

he entered the room and looked around him.

“Excellent, my poor sister! this is how I would always have you lodged.

I recognize here the hand of Mdlle. de Cardoville. What a heart! what

a noble mind!--Dost know, she wrote to me the day before yesterday,

to thank me for what I had done for her, and sent me a gold pin (very

plain), which she said I need not hesitate to accept, as it had no other

value but that of having been worn by her mother! You can’t tell how

much I was affected by the delicacy of this gift!”

“Nothing must astonish you from a heart like hers,” answered the

hunchback. “But the wound--the wound?”

“Presently, my good sister; I have so many things to tell you. Let us

begin by what is most pressing, for I want you to give me some good

advice in a very serious case. You know how much confidence I have in

your excellent heart and judgment. And then, I have to ask of you a

service--oh! a great service,” added the smith, in an earnest, and

almost solemn tone, which astonished his hearer. “Let us begin with what

is not personal to myself.”

“Speak quickly.”

“Since my mother went with Gabriel to the little country curacy he has

obtained, and since my father lodges with Marshal Simon and the young

ladies, I have resided, you know, with my mates, at M. Hardy’s factory,

in the common dwelling-house. Now, this morning but first, I must tell

you that M. Hardy, who has lately returned from a journey, is again

absent for a few days on business. This morning, then, at the hour of

breakfast, I remained at work a little after the last stroke of the

bell; I was leaving the workshop to go to our eating-room, when I saw

entering the courtyard, a lady who had just got out of a hackney-coach.

I remarked that she was fair, though her veil was half down; she had

a mild and pretty countenance, and her dress was that of a fashionable

lady. Struck with her paleness, and her anxious, frightened air, I asked

her if she wanted anything. ‘Sir,’ said she to me, in a trembling voice,

and as if with a great effort, ‘do you belong to this factory?’--‘Yes,

madame.’--‘M. Hardy is then in clanger?’ she exclaimed.--‘M. Hardy,

madame? He has not yet returned home.’--‘What!’ she went on, ‘M. Hardy

did not come hither yesterday evening? Was he not dangerously wounded by

some of the machinery?’ As she said these words, the poor young lady’s

lips trembled, and I saw large tears standing in her eyes. ‘Thank God,

madame! all this is entirely false,’ said I, ‘for M. Hardy has

not returned, and indeed is only expected by to-morrow or the day

after.’--‘You are quite sure that he has not returned! quite sure that

he is not hurt?’ resumed the pretty young lady, drying her eyes.--‘Quite

sure, madame; if M. Hardy were in danger, I should not be so quiet in

talking to you about him.’--‘Oh! thank God! thank God!’ cried the young

lady. Then she expressed to me her gratitude, with so happy, so feeling

an air, that I was quite touched by it. But suddenly, as if then only

she felt ashamed of the step she had taken, she let down her veil, left

me precipitately, went out of the court-yard, and got once more into the

hackney-coach that had brought her. I said to myself: ‘This is a lady

who takes great interest in M. Hardy, and has been alarmed by a false

report.”’

“She loves him, doubtless,” said Mother Bunch, much moved, “and, in

her anxiety, she perhaps committed an act of imprudence, in coming to

inquire after him.”

“It is only too true. I saw her get into the coach with interests, for

her emotion had infected me. The coach started--and what did I see a few

seconds after? A cab, which the young lady could not have perceived, for

it had been hidden by an angle of the wall; and, as it turned round the

corner, I distinguished perfectly a man seated by the driver’s side, and

making signs to him to take the same road as the hackney-coach.”

“The poor young lady was followed,” said Mother Bunch, anxiously.

“No doubt of it; so I instantly hastened after the coach, reached it,

and through the blinds that were let down, I said to the young lady,

whilst I kept running by the side of the coach door: ‘Take care, madame;

you are followed by a cab.

“Well, Agricola! and what did she answer?”

“I heard her exclaim, ‘Great Heaven!’ with an accent of despair. The

coach continued its course. The cab soon came up with me; I saw, by

the side of the driver, a great, fat, ruddy man, who, having watched me

running after the coach, no doubt suspected something, for he looked at

me somewhat uneasily.”

“And when does M. Hardy return?” asked the hunchback.

“To-morrow, or the day after. Now, my good sister, advise me. It is

evident that this young lady loves M. Hardy. She is probably married,

for she looked so embarrassed when she spoke to me, and she uttered

a cry of terror on learning that she was followed. What shall I do? I

wished to ask advice of Father Simon, but he is so very strict in such

matters--and then a love affair, at his age!--while you are so delicate

and sensible, my good sister, that you will understand it all.”

The girl started, and smiled bitterly; Agricola did not perceive it, and

thus continued: “So I said to myself, ‘There is only Mother Bunch, who

can give me good advice.’ Suppose M. Hardy returns to-morrow, shall I

tell him what has passed or not?”

“Wait a moment,” cried the other, suddenly interrupting Agricola, and

appearing to recollect something; “when I went to St. Mary’s Convent, to

ask for work of the superior, she proposed that I should be employed by

the day, in a house in which I was to watch or, in other words, to act

as a spy--”

“What a wretch!”

“And do you know,” said the girl, “with whom I was to begin this odious

trade? Why, with a Madame de-Fremont, or de Bremont, I do not remember

which, a very religious woman, whose daughter, a young married lady,

received visits a great deal too frequent (according to the superior)

from a certain manufacturer.”

“What do you say?” cried Agricola. “This manufacturer must be--”

“M. Hardy. I had too many reasons to remember that name, when it was

pronounced by the superior. Since that day, so many other events have

taken place, that I had almost forgotten the circumstance. But it is

probable that this young lady is the one of whom I heard speak at the

convent.”

“And what interest had the superior of the convent to set a spy upon

her?” asked the smith.

“I do not know; but it is clear that the same interest still exists,

since the young lady was followed, and perhaps, at this hour, is

discovered and dishonored. Oh! it is dreadful!” Then, seeing Agricola

start suddenly, Mother Bunch added: “What, then, is the matter?”

“Yes--why not?” said the smith, speaking to himself; “why may not all

this be the work of the same hand? The superior of a convent may have a

private understanding with an abbe--but, then, for what end?”

“Explain yourself, Agricola,” said the girl. “And then,--where did you

get your wound? Tell me that, I conjure you.”

“It is of my wound that I am just going to speak; for in truth, the

more I think of it, the more this adventure of the young lady seems to

connect itself with other facts.”

“How so?”

“You must know that, for the last few days, singular things are passing

in the neighborhood of our factory. First, as we are in Lent, an abbe

from Paris (a tall, fine-looking man, they say) has come to preach in

the little village of Villiers, which is only a quarter of a league from

our works. The abbe has found occasion to slander and attack M. Hardy in

his sermons.”

“How is that?”

“M. Hardy has printed certain rules with regard to our work, and the

rights and benefits he grants us. These rules are followed by various

maxims as noble as they are simple; with precepts of brotherly love such

as all the world can understand, extracted from different philosophies

and different religions. But because M. Hardy has chosen what is best in

all religions, the abbe concludes that M. Hardy has no religion at all,

and he has therefore not only attacked him for this in the pulpit,

but has denounced our factory as a centre of perdition and damnable

corruption, because, on Sundays, instead of going to listen to his

sermons, or to drink at a tavern, our comrades, with their wives and

children, pass their time in cultivating their little gardens, in

reading, singing in chorus, or dancing together in the common dwelling

house. The abbe has even gone so far as to say, that the neighborhood

of such an assemblage of atheists, as he calls us, might draw down the

anger of Heaven upon the country--that the hovering of Cholera was much

talked of, and that very possibly, thanks to our impious presence, the

plague might fall upon all our neighborhood.”

“But to tell such things to ignorant people,” exclaimed Mother Bunch,

“is likely to excite them to fatal actions.”

“That is just what the abbe wants.”

“What do you tell me?”

“The people of the environs, still more excited, no doubt by other

agitators, show themselves hostile to the workmen of our factory. Their

hatred, or at least their envy, has been turned to account. Seeing

us live all together, well lodged, well warmed, and comfortably clad,

active, gay, and laborious, their jealousy has been embittered by the

sermons, and by the secret manoeuvres of some depraved characters,

who are known to be bad workmen, in the employment of M. Tripeaud, our

opposition. All this excitement is beginning to bear fruit; there have

been already two or three fights between us and our neighbors. It was in

one of these skirmishes that I received a blow with a stone on my head.”

“Is it not serious, Agricola?--are you quite sure?” said Mother Bunch,

anxiously.

“It is nothing at all, I tell you. But the enemies of M. Hardy have not

confined themselves to preaching. They have brought into play something

far more dangerous.”

“What is that?”

“I, and nearly all my comrades, did our part in the three Revolutionary

days of July; but we are not eager at present, for good reasons, to take

up arms again. That is not everybody’s opinion; well, we do not blame

others, but we have our own ideas; and Father Simon, who is as brave as

his son, and as good a patriot as any one, approves and directs us. Now,

for some days past, we find all about the factory, in the garden, in the

courts, printed papers to this effect: ‘You are selfish cowards; because

chance has given you a good master, you remain indifferent to the

misfortunes of your brothers, and to the means of freeing them; material

comforts have enervated your hearts.’”

“Dear me, Agricola! what frightful perseverance in wickedness!”

“Yes! and unfortunately these devices have their effect on some of

our younger mates. As the appeal was, after all, to proud and generous

sentiments, it has had some influence. Already, seeds of division have

shown themselves in our workshops, where, before, all were united as

brothers. A secret agitation now reigns there. Cold suspicion takes the

place, with some, of our accustomed cordiality. Now, if I tell you that

I am nearly sure these printed papers, thrown over the walls of our

factory, to raise these little sparks of discord amongst us, have been

scattered about by the emissaries of this same preaching abbe--would

it not seem from all this, taken in conjunction with what happened this

morning to the young lady, that M. Hardy has of late numerous enemies?”

“Like you, I think it very fearful, Agricola,” said the girl; “and it

is so serious, that M. Hardy alone can take a proper decision on the

subject. As for what happened this morning to the young lady, it appears

to me, that, immediately on M. Hardy’s return, you should ask for an

interview with him, and, however delicate such a communication may be,

tell him all that passed.”

“There is the difficulty. Shall I not seem as if wishing to pry into his

secrets?”

“If the young lady had not been followed, I should have shared your

scruples. But she was watched, and is evidently in danger. It is

therefore, in my opinion, your duty to warn M. Hardy. Suppose (which is

not improbable) that the lady is married; would it not be better, for a

thousand reasons, that M. Hardy should know all?”

“You are right, my good sister; I will follow your advice. M. Hardy

shall know everything. But now that we have spoken of others, I have to

speak of myself--yes, of myself--for it concerns a matter, on which may

depend the happiness of my whole life,” added the smith, in a tone of

seriousness, which struck his hearer. “You know,” proceeded Agricola,

after a moment’s silence, “that, from my childhood, I have never

concealed anything from you--that I have told you everything--absolutely

everything?”

“I know it, Agricola, I know it,” said the hunchback, stretching out her

white and slender hand to the smith, who grasped it cordially, and thus

continued: “When I say everything, I am not quite exact--for I have

always concealed from you my little love-affairs--because, though we may

tell almost anything to a sister, there are subjects of which we ought

not to speak to a good and virtuous girl, such as you are.”

“I thank you, Agricola. I had remarked this reserve on your part,”

observed the other, casting down her eyes, and heroically repressing the

grief she felt; “I thank you.”

“But for the very reason, that I made it a duty never to speak to you

of such love affairs, I said to myself, if ever it should happen that I

have a serious passion--such a love as makes one think of marriage--oh!

then, just as we tell our sister even before our father and mother, my

good sister shall be the first to be informed of it.”

“You are very kind, Agricola.”

“Well then! the serious passion has come at last. I am over head and

ears in love, and I think of marriage.”

At these words of Agricola, poor Mother Bunch felt herself for an

instant paralyzed. It seemed as if all her blood was suddenly frozen in

her veins. For some seconds, she thought she was going to die. Her heart

ceased to beat; she felt it, not breaking, but melting away to nothing.

Then, the first blasting emotion over, like those martyrs who found, in

the very excitement of pain, the terrible power to smile in the midst

of tortures, the unfortunate girl found, in the fear of betraying the

secret of her fatal and ridiculous love, almost incredible energy. She

raised her head, looked at the smith calmly, almost serenely, and said

to him in a firm voice: “Ah! so, you truly love?”

“That is to say, my good sister, that, for the last four days, I

scarcely live at all--or live only upon this passion.”

“It is only since four days that you have been in love?”

“Not more--but time has nothing to do with it.”

“And is she very pretty?”

“Dark hair--the figure of a nymph--fair as a lily--blue eyes, as large

as that--and as mild, as good as your own.”

“You flatter me, Agricola.”

“No, no, it is Angela that I flatter--for that’s her name. What a pretty

one! Is it not, my good Mother Bunch?”

“A charming name,” said the poor girl, contrasting bitterly that

graceful appellation with her own nickname, which the thoughtless

Agricola applied to her without thinking of it. Then she resumed, with

fearful calmness: “Angela? yes, it is a charming name!”

“Well, then! imagine to yourself, that this name is not only suited to

her face, but to her heart. In a word, I believe her heart to be almost

equal to yours.”

“She has my eyes--she has my heart,” said Mother Bunch, smiling. “It is

singular, how like we are.”

Agricola did not perceive the irony of despair contained in these words.

He resumed, with a tenderness as sincere as it was inexorable: “Do you

think, my good girl, that I could ever have fallen seriously in love

with any one, who had not in character, heart, and mind, much of you?”

“Come, brother,” said the girl, smiling--yes, the unfortunate creature

had the strength to smile; “come, brother, you are in a gallant vein

to day. Where did you make the acquaintance of this beautiful young

person?”

“She is only the sister of one of my mates. Her mother is the head

laundress in our common dwelling, and as she was in want of assistance,

and we always take in preference the relations of members of the

association, Mrs. Bertin (that’s the mother’s name) sent for her

daughter from Lille, where she had been stopping with one of her aunts,

and, for the last five days, she has been in the laundry. The first

evening I saw her, I passed three hours, after work was over, in talking

with her, and her mother and brother; and the next day, I felt that my

heart was gone; the day after that, the feeling was only stronger--and

now I am quite mad about her, and resolved on marriage--according as you

shall decide. Do not be surprised at this; everything depends upon you.

I shall only ask my father and mother’s leave, after I have yours.”

“I do not understand you, Agricola.”

“You know the utter confidence I have in the incredible instinct of your

heart. Many times, you have said to me: ‘Agricola, love this person,

love that person, have confidence in that other’--and never yet were you

deceived. Well! you must now render me the same service. You will ask

permission of Mdlle. de Cardoville to absent yourself; I will take you

to the factory: I have spoken of you to Mrs. Benin and her daughter,

as of a beloved sister; and, according to your impression at sight

of Angela, I will declare myself or not. This may be childishness, or

superstition, on my part; but I am so made.”

“Be it so,” answered Mother Bunch, with heroic courage; “I will see

Mdlle. Angela; I will tell you what I think of her--and that, mind you,

sincerely.”

“I know it. When will you come?”

“I must ask Mdlle. de Cardoville what day she can spare sue. I will let

you know.”

“Thanks, my good sister!” said Agricola warmly; then he added, with a

smile: “Bring your best judgment with you--your full dress judgment.”

“Do not make a jest of it, brother,” said Mother Bunch, in a mild, sad

voice; “it is a serious matter, for it concerns the happiness of your

whole life.”

At this moment, a modest knock was heard at the door. “Come in,” said

Mother Bunch. Florine appeared.

“My mistress begs that you will come to her, if you are not engaged,”

said Florine to Mother Bunch.

The latter rose, and, addressing the smith, said to him: “Please wait a

moment, Agricola. I will ask Mdlle. de Cardoville what day I can dispose

of, and I will come and tell you.” So saying, the girl went out, leaving

Agricola with Florine.

“I should have much wished to pay my respects to Mdlle. de Cardoville,”

said Agricola; “but I feared to intrude.”

“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 manuscript 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 manuscript,

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 manuscript

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 passion, 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 passionately 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 glass. 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 God to remaining

amongst his creatures--by the sense of duty. One must not only think

of self. And I reflected also’God 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 passionately

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

noble emotions of the soul--admiration and compassion. 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 passion; 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, God!--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 manuscript, 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

manuscript, 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 passively 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 substitution of this sealed letter for

the manuscript 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 manuscript under her apron, cautiously withdrew from the

chamber.

CHAPTER XLVII. THE DIARY CONTINUED.

Returned into her own room, some hours after she had concealed there the

manuscript 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 passionate 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 passing by the drawers, I saw a

pasteboard box, with a pincushion-lid, and I felt myself blushing

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 pincushion-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 wishing 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 pronounced 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 apprenticeship?’ 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 classes--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 mass 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?

They are vain, terrestrial things, for which the soul recks nothing,

when, radiant, it ascends towards its Creator. Yesterday, Agricola made

me read an article in a newspaper, in which violent blame and bitter

irony are by turns employed, to attack what they call the baneful

tendencies of some of the lower orders, to improve themselves, to write,

to read the poets, and sometimes to make verses. Material enjoyments

are forbidden us by poverty. Is it humane to reproach us for seeking the

enjoyments of the mind? What harm can it do any one if every evening,

after a day’s toil, remote from all pleasure, I amuse myself, unknown to

all, in making a few verses, or in writing in this journal the good or

bad impressions I have received? Is Agricola the worse workman, because,

on returning home to his mother, he employs Sunday in composing some of

those popular songs, which glorify the fruitful labors of the artisan,

and say to all, Hope and brotherhood! Does he not make a more worthy use

of his time than if he spent it in a tavern? Ah! those who blame us for

these innocent and noble diversions, which relieve our painful toils and

sufferings, deceive themselves when they think, that, in proportion as

the intellect is raised and refined, it is more difficult to bear with

privations and misery, and that so the irritation increases against the

luckier few.

“Admitting even this to be the case--and it is not so--is it not better

to have an intelligent, enlightened enemy, to whose heart and reason you

may address yourself, than a stupid, ferocious, implacable foe? But no;

enmities disappear as the mind becomes enlightened, and the horizon

of compassion extends itself. We thus learn to understand moral

afflictions. We discover that the rich also have to suffer intense

pains, and that brotherhood in misfortune is already a link of sympathy.

Alas! they also have to mourn bitterly for idolized children, beloved

mistresses, reverend mothers; with them, also, especially amongst the

women, there are, in the height of luxury and grandeur, many broken

hearts, many suffering souls, many tears shed in secret. Let them not be

alarmed. By becoming their equals in intelligence, the people will learn

to pity the rich, if good and unhappy--and to pity them still more if

rejoicing in wickedness.

“What happiness! what a joyful day! I am giddy with delight. Oh, truly,

man is good, humane, charitable. Oh, yes! the Creator has implanted

within him every generous instinct--and, unless he be a monstrous

exception, he never does evil willingly. Here is what I saw just now. I

will not wait for the evening to write it down, for my heart would, as

it were, have time to cool. I had gone to carry home some work that was

wanted in a hurry. I was passing the Place du Temple. A few steps from

me I saw a child, about twelve years old at most, with bare head, and

feet, in spite of the severe weather, dressed in a shabby, ragged smock

frock and trousers, leading by the bridle a large cart-horse, with his

harness still on. From time to time the horse stopped short, and refused

to advance. The child, who had no whip, tugged in vain at the bridle.

The horse remained motionless. Then the poor little fellow cried out:

‘O dear, O dear!’ and began to weep bitterly, looking round him as if

to implore the assistance of the passers-by. His dear little face was

impressed with so heart piercing a sorrow, that, without reflecting, I

made an attempt at which I can now only smile, I must have presented so

grotesque a figure. I am horribly afraid of horses, and I am still more

afraid of exposing myself to public gaze. Nevertheless, I took courage,

and, having an umbrella in my hand, I approached the horse, and with the

impetuosity of an ant that strives to move a large stone with a little

piece of straw, I struck with all my strength on the croup of the

rebellious animal. ‘Oh, thanks, my good lady!’ exclaimed the child,

drying his eyes: ‘hit him again, if you please. Perhaps he will get up.’

“I began again, heroically; but, alas! either from obstinacy or

laziness, the horse bent his knees, and stretched himself out upon the

ground; then, getting entangled with his harness, he tore it, and broke

his great wooden collar. I had drawn back quickly, for fear of receiving

a kick. Upon this new disaster, the child could only throw himself on

his knees in the middle of the street, clasping his hands and sobbing,

and exclaiming in a voice of despair: ‘Help! help!’

“The call was heard; several of the passers-by gathered round, and a

more efficacious correction than mine was administered to the restive

horse, who rose in a vile state, and without harness.

“‘My master will beat me,’ cried the poor child, as his tears redoubled;

‘I am already two hours after time, for the horse would not go, and now

he has broken his harness. My master will beat me, and turn me away. Oh

dear! what will become of me! I have no father nor mother.’

“At these words, uttered with a heart-rending accent, a worthy old

clothes-dealer of the Temple, who was amongst the spectators, exclaimed,

with a kindly air: ‘No father nor mother! Do not grieve so, my poor

little fellow; the Temple can supply everything. We will mend the

harness, and, if my gossips are like me, you shall not go away

bareheaded or barefooted in such weather as this.’

“This proposition was greeted with acclamation; they led away both horse

and child; some were occupied in mending the harness, then one supplied

a cap, another a pair of stockings, another some shoes, and another

a good jacket; in a quarter of an hour the child was warmly clad, the

harness repaired, and a tall lad of eighteen, brandishing a whip, which

he cracked close to the horse’s ears, by way of warning, said to the

little boy, who, gazing first at his new clothes, and then at the good

woman, believed himself the hero of a fairy-tale. ‘Where does your

governor live, little ‘un?’

“‘On the Quai du Canal-Saint-Martin, sir,’ answered he, in a voice

trembling with joy.

“‘Very good,’ said the young man, ‘I will help you take home the horse,

who will go well enough with me, and I will tell the master that the

delay was no fault of your’n. A balky horse ought not to be trusted to a

child of your age.’

“At the moment of setting out, the poor little fellow said timidly to

the good dame, as he took off his cap to her: ‘Will you let me kiss you,

ma’am?’

“His eyes were full of tears of gratitude. There was heart in that

child. This scene of popular charity gave me delightful emotions. As

long as I could, I followed with my eyes the tall young man and the

child, who now could hardly keep up with the pace of the horse, rendered

suddenly docile by fear of the whip.

“Yes! I repeat it with pride; man is naturally good and helpful.

Nothing could have been more spontaneous than this movement of pity and

tenderness in the crowd, when the poor little fellow exclaimed: ‘What

will become of me? I have no father or mother!’

“‘Unfortunate child!’ said I to myself. ‘No father nor mother. In the

hands of a brutal master, who hardly covers him with a few rags, and

ill treats him into the bargain. Sleeping, no doubt in the corner of

a stable. Poor little, fellow! and yet so mild and good, in spite of

misery and misfortune. I saw it--he was even more grateful than pleased

at the service done him. But perhaps this good natural disposition,

abandoned without support or counsel, or help, and exasperated by bad

treatment, may become changed and embittered--and then will come the age

of the passions--the bad temptations--’

“Oh! in the deserted poor, virtue is doubly saintly and respectable!

“This morning, after having (as usual) gently reproached me for not

going to mass, Agricola’s mother said to me these words, so touching in

her simple and believing mouth, ‘Luckily, I pray for you and myself too,

my poor girl; the good God will hear me, and you will only go, I hope,

to Purgatory.’

“Good mother; angelic soul! she spoke those words in so grave and mild

a tone, with so strong a faith in the happy result of her pious

intercession, that I felt my eyes become moist, and I threw myself on

her neck, as sincerely grateful as if I had believed in Purgatory. This

day has been a lucky one for me. I hope I have found work, which luck I

shall owe to a young person full of heart and goodness, she is to take

me to-morrow to St. Mary’s Convent, where she thinks she can find me

employment.”

Florine, already much moved by the reading, started at this passage in

which Mother Bunch alluded to her, ere she continued as follows:

“Never shall I forget with what touching interest, what delicate

benevolence, this handsome young girl received me, so poor, and so

unfortunate. It does not astonish me, for she is attached to the person

of Mdlle. de Cardoville. She must be worthy to reside with Agricola’s

benefactress. It will always be dear and pleasant to me to remember

her name. It is graceful and pretty as her face; it is Florine. I am

nothing, I have nothing--but if the fervent prayers of a grateful heart

might be heard, Mdlle. Florine would be happy, very happy. Alas! I am

reduced to say prayers for her--only prayers--for I can do nothing but

remember and love her!”

These lines, expressing so simply the sincere gratitude of the

hunchback, gave the last blow to Florine’s hesitations. She could no

longer resist the generous temptation she felt. As she read these last

fragments of the journal, her affection and respect for Mother Bunch

made new progress. More than ever she felt how infamous it was in her

to expose to sarcasms and contempt the most secret thoughts of this

unfortunate creature. Happily, good is often as contagious as evil.

Electrified by all that was warm, noble, and magnanimous in the pages

she had just read, Florine bathed her failing virtue in that pure and

vivifying source, and, yielding, at last to one of those good impulses

which sometimes carried her away, she left the room with the manuscript

in her hand, determined, if Mother Bunch had not yet returned, to

replace it--resolved to tell Rodin that, this second time, her search

for the journal had been vain, the sempstress having no doubt discovered

the first attempt.

(26) In the Ruche Populaire, a working man’s organ, are the following

particulars:

“Carding Mattresses.--The dust which flies out of the wool makes carding

destructive to health in any case, but trade adulterations enhance the

danger. In sticking sheep, the skin gets blood-spotted; it has to be

bleached to make it salable. Lime is the main whitener, and some of it

clings to the wool after the process. The dresser (female, most often)

breathes in the fine dust, and, by lung and other complaints, is far

from seldom deplorably situated; the majority sicken of it and give up

the trade, while those who keep to it, at the very least, suffer with a

catarrh or asthma that torments them until death.

“As for horsehair, the very best is not pure. You can judge what the

inferior quality is, from the workgirls calling it vitriol hair, because

it is the refuse or clippings from goats and swine, washed in vitriol,

boiled in dyes, etc., to burn and disguise such foreign bodies as straw.

thorns, splinters, and even bits of skin, not worth picking out. The

dust rising when a mass of this is beaten, makes as many ravages as the

lime-wool.”

CHAPTER XLVIII. THE DISCOVERY.

A little while before Florine made up her mind to atone for her shameful

breach of confidence, Mother Bunch had returned from the factory, after

accomplishing to the end her painful task. After a long interview with

Angela, struck, like Agricola, with the ingenuous grace, sense, and

goodness, with which the young girl was endowed, Mother Bunch had the

courageous frankness to advise the smith to enter into this marriage.

The following scene took place whilst Florine, still occupied in reading

the journal, had not yet taken the praiseworthy resolution of replacing

it. It was ten o’clock at night. The workgirl, returned to Cardoville

House, had just entered her chamber. Worn out by so many emotions, she

had thrown herself into a chair. The deepest silence reigned in the

house. It was now and then interrupted by the soughing of a high wind,

which raged without and shook the trees in the garden. A single candle

lighted the room, which was papered with dark green. That peculiar tint,

and the hunchback’s black dress, increased her apparent paleness. Seated

in an arm-chair by the side of the fire, with her head resting upon her

bosom, her hands crossed upon her knees, the work-girl’s countenance

was melancholy and resigned; on it was visible the austere satisfaction

which is felt by the consciousness of a duty well performed.

Like all those who, brought up in the merciless school of misfortune, no

longer exaggerate the sentiment of sorrow, too familiar and assiduous

a guest to be treated as a stranger, Mother Bunch was incapable of

long yielding to idle regrets and vain despair, with regard to what

was already past. Beyond doubt, the blow had been sudden, dreadful;

doubtless it must leave a long and painful remembrance in the sufferer’s

soul; but it was soon to pass, as it were, into that chronic state of

pain-durance, which had become almost an integral part of her life.

And then this noble creature, so indulgent to fate, found still some

consolations in the intensity of her bitter pain. She had been deeply

touched by the marks of affection shown her by Angela, Agricola’s

intended: and she had felt a species of pride of the heart, in

perceiving with what blind confidence, with what ineffable joy, the

smith accepted the favorable presentiments which seemed to consecrate

his happiness. Mother Bunch also said to herself: “At least, henceforth

I shall not be agitated by hopes, or rather by suppositions as

ridiculous as they were senseless. Agricola’s marriage puts a term to

all the miserable reveries of my poor head.”

Finally, she found a real and deep consolation in the certainty that

she had been able to go through this terrible trial, and conceal from

Agricola the love she felt for him. We know how formidable to this

unfortunate being were those ideas of ridicule and shame, which she

believed would attach to the discovery of her mad passion. After having

remained for some time absorbed in thought, Mother Bunch rose, and

advanced slowly towards the desk.

“My only recompense,” said she, as she prepared the materials for

writing, “will be to entrust the mute witness of my pains with this new

grief. I shall at least have kept the promise that I made to myself.

Believing, from the bottom of my soul, that this girl is able to make

Agricola happy, I told him so with the utmost sincerity. One day, a long

time hence, when I shall read over these pages, I shall perhaps find in

that a compensation for all that I now suffer.”

So saying, she drew the box from the pigeon-hole. Not finding her

manuscript, she uttered a cry of surprise; but, what was her alarm, when

she perceived a letter to her address in the place of the journal! She

became deadly pale; her knees trembled; she almost fainted away. But her

increasing terror gave her a fictitious energy, and she had the strength

to break the seal. A bank-note for five hundred francs fell from the

letter on the table, and Mother Bunch read as follows:

“Mademoiselle,--There is something so original and amusing in reading in

your memoirs the story of your love for Agricola, that it is impossible

to resist the pleasure of acquainting him with the extent of it, of

which he is doubtless ignorant, but to which he cannot fail to show

himself sensible. Advantage will be taken to forward it to a multitude

of other persons, who might, perhaps, otherwise be unfortunately

deprived of the amusing contents of your diary. Should copies and

extracts not be sufficient, we will have it printed, as one cannot

too much diffuse such things. Some will weep--others will laugh--what

appears superb to one set of people, will seem ridiculous to another,

such is life--but your journal will surely make a great sensation. As

you are capable of wishing to avoid your triumph, and as you were only

covered with rags when you were received, out of charity into this

house, where you wish to figure as the great lady, which does not suit

your shape for more reasons than one, we enclose in the present five

hundred francs to pay for your day-book, and prevent your being without

resources, in case you should be modest enough to shrink from the

congratulations which await you, certain to overwhelm you by to-morrow,

for, at this hour, your journal is already in circulation.

“One of your brethren,

“A REAL MOTHER BUNCH.”

The vulgar, mocking, and insolent tone of this letter, which was

purposely written in the character of a jealous lackey, dissatisfied

with the admission of the unfortunate creature into the house, had

been calculated with infernal skill and was sure to produce the effect

intended.

“Oh, good heaven!” were the only words the unfortunate girl could

pronounce, in her stupor and alarm.

Now, if we remember in what passionate terms she had expressed her love

for her adopted brother, if we recall many passages of this manuscript,

in which she revealed the painful wounds often inflicted on her by

Agricola without knowing it, and if we consider how great was her

terror of ridicule, we shall understand her mad despair on reading this

infamous letter. Mother Bunch did not think for a moment of all the

noble words and touching narratives contained in her journal. The one

horrible idea which weighed down the troubled spirit of the unfortunate

creature, was, that on the morrow Agricola, Mdlle. de Cardoville, and an

insolent and mocking crowd, would be informed of this ridiculous love,

which would, she imagined, crush her with shame and confusion. This new

blow was so stunning, that the recipient staggered a moment beneath the

unexpected shock. For some minutes, she remained completely inert

and helpless; then, upon reflection, she suddenly felt conscious of a

terrible necessity.

This hospitable mansion, where she had found a sure refuge after so many

misfortunes, must be left for ever. The trembling timidity and sensitive

delicacy of the poor creature did not permit her to remain a minute more

in this dwelling, where the most secret recesses of her soul had been

laid open, profaned, and exposed no doubt to sarcasm and contempt.

She did not think of demanding justice and revenge from Mdlle. de

Cardoville. To cause a ferment of trouble and irritation in this house,

at the moment of quitting it, would have appeared to her ingratitude

towards her benefactress. She did not seek to discover the author or

the motive of this odious robbery and insulting letter. Why should she,

resolved, as she was, to fly from the humiliations with which she was

threatened? She had a vague notion (as indeed was intended), that

this infamy might be the work of some of the servants, jealous of the

affectionate deference shown her by Mdlle. de Cardoville--and this

thought filled her with despair. Those pages--so painfully confidential,

which she would not have ventured to impart to the most tender and

indulgent mother, because, written as it were with her heart’s blood,

they painted with too cruel a fidelity the thousand secret wounds of her

soul--those pages were to serve, perhaps served even now, for the jest

and laughing-stock of the lackeys of the mansion.

The money which accompanied this letter, and the insulting way in which

it was offered, rather tended to confirm her suspicions. It was intended

that the fear of misery should not be the obstacle of her leaving the

house. The workgirl’s resolution was soon taken, with that calm and firm

resignation which was familiar to her. She rose, with somewhat bright

and haggard eyes, but without a tear in them. Since the day before, she

had wept too much. With a trembling, icy hand, she wrote these words

on a paper, which she left by the side of the bank-note: “May Mdlle. de

Cardoville be blessed for all that she has done for me, and forgive me

for having left her house, where I can remain no longer.”

Having written this, Mother Bunch threw into the fire the infamous

letter, which seemed to burn her hands. Then, taking a last look at her

chamber, furnished so comfortably, she shuddered involuntarily as she

thought of the misery that awaited her--a misery more frightful than

that of which she had already been the victim, for Agricola’s mother

had departed with Gabriel, and the unfortunate girl could no longer, as

formerly, be consoled in her distress by the almost maternal affection

of Dagobert’s wife. To live alone--quite alone--with the thought that

her fatal passion for Agricola was laughed at by everybody, perhaps even

by himself--such were the future prospects of the hunchback. This future

terrified her--a dark desire crossed her mind--she shuddered, and an

expression of bitter joy contracted her features. Resolved to go, she

made some steps towards the door, when, in passing before the fireplace,

she saw her own image in the glass, pale as death, and clothed in black;

then it struck her that she wore a dress which did not belong to her,

and she remembered a passage in the letter, which alluded to the rags

she had on before she entered that house. “True!” said she, with a heart

breaking smile, as she looked at her black garments; “they would call me

a thief.”

And, taking her candle, she entered the little dressing room, and put on

again the poor, old clothes, which she had preserved as a sort of pious

remembrance of her misfortunes. Only at this instant did her tears flow

abundantly. She wept--not in sorrow at resuming the garb of misery, but

in gratitude; for all the comforts around her, to which she was about

to bid an eternal adieu, recalled to her mind at every step the delicacy

and goodness of Mdlle. de Cardoville: therefore, yielding to an almost

involuntary impulse, after she had put on her poor, old clothes, she

fell on her knees in the middle of the room, and, addressing herself

in thought to Mdlle. de Cardoville, she exclaimed, in a voice broken by

convulsive sobs: “Adieu! oh, for ever, adieu!--You, that deigned to call

me friend--and sister!”

Suddenly, she rose in alarm; she heard steps in the corridor, which led

from the garden to one of the doors of her apartment, the other door

opening into the parlor. It was Florine, who (alas! too late) was

bringing back the manuscript. Alarmed at this noise of footsteps, and

believing herself already the laughing-stock of the house. Mother Bunch

rushed from the room, hastened across the parlor, gained the court-yard,

and knocked at the window of the porter’s lodge. The house-door opened,

and immediately closed upon her. And so the workgirl left Cardoville

House.

Adrienne was thus deprived of a devoted, faithful, and vigilant

guardian. Rodin was delivered from an active and sagacious antagonist,

whom he had always, with good reason, feared. Having, as we have seen,

guessed Mother Bunch’s love for Agricola, and knowing her to be a

poet, the Jesuit supposed, logically enough that she must have written

secretly some verses inspired by this fatal and concealed passion. Hence

the order given to Florine, to try and discover some written evidence

of this love; hence this letter, so horribly effective in its coarse

ribaldry, of which, it must be observed, Florine did not know the

contents, having received it after communicating a summary of the

contents of the manuscript, which, the first time, she had only glanced

through without taking it away. We have said, that Florine, yielding

too late to a generous repentance, had reached Mother Bunch’s apartment,

just as the latter quitted the house in consternation.

Perceiving a light in the dressing-room, the waiting-maid hastened

thither. She saw upon a chair the black dress that Mother Bunch had just

taken off, and, a few steps further, the shabby little trunk, open and

empty, in which she had hitherto preserved her poor garments. Florine’s

heart sank within her; she ran to the secretary; the disorder of the

card-board boxes, the note for five hundred francs left by the side

of the two lines written to Mdlle. de Cardoville, all proved that her

obedience to Rodin’s orders had borne fatal fruit, and that Mother Bunch

had quitted the house for ever. Finding the uselessness of her tardy

resolution, Florine resigned herself with a sigh to the necessity of

delivering the manuscript to Rodin. Then, forced by the fatality of her

miserable position to console herself for evil by evil, she considered

that the hunchback’s departure would at least make her treachery less

dangerous.

Two days after these events, Adrienne received the following note from

Rodin, in answer to a letter she had written him, to inform him of the

work-girl’s inexplicable departure:

“MY DEAR YOUNG LADY;--Obliged to set out this morning for the factory of

the excellent M. Hardy, whither I am called by an affair of importance,

it is impossible for me to pay you my humble respects. You ask me what I

think of the disappearance of this poor girl? I really do not know. The

future will, I doubt not, explain all to her advantage. Only, remember

what I told you at Dr. Baleinier’s, with regard to a certain society and

its secret emissaries, with whom it has the art of surrounding those

it wishes to keep a watch on. I accuse no one; but let us only recall

facts. This poor girl accused me; and I am, as you know, the most

faithful of your servants. She possessed nothing; and yet five hundred

francs were found in her secretary. You loaded her with favors; and

she leaves your house without even explaining the cause of this

extraordinary flight. I draw no conclusion, my dear young lady; I am

always unwilling to condemn without evidence; but reflect upon all this,

and be on your guard, for you have perhaps escaped a great danger.

Be more circumspect and suspicious than ever; such at least is the

respectful advice of your most obedient, humble servant,

“Rodin.”

CHAPTER XLIX. THE TRYSTING-PLACE OF THE WOLVES.

It was a Sunday morning the very day on which Mdlle. de Cardoville had

received Rodin’s letter with regard to Mother Bunch’s disappearance.

Two men were talking to together, seated at a table in one of the public

houses in the little village of Villiers, situated at no great distance

from Hardy’s factory. The village was for the most part inhabited

by quarrymen and stonecutters, employed in working the neighboring

quarries. Nothing can be ruder and more laborious, and at the same time

less adequately paid, than the work of this class of people. Therefore,

as Agricola had told Mother Bunch, they drew painful comparisons

between their condition, almost always miserable, and the comfort and

comparative ease enjoyed by M. Hardy’s workmen, thanks to his generous

and intelligent management, and to the principles of association

and community which he had put in practice amongst them. Misery and

ignorance are always the cause of great evils. Misery is easily excited

to anger, and ignorance soon yields to perfidious counsels. For a long

time, the happiness of M. Hardy’s workmen had been naturally envied, but

not with a jealousy amounting to hatred. As soon, however, as the secret

enemies of the manufacturer, uniting with his rival Baron Tripeaud,

had an interest in changing this peaceful state of things--it changed

accordingly.

With diabolical skill and perseverance they succeeded in kindling the

most evil passions. By means of chosen emissaries, they applied to those

quarrymen and stonecutters of the neighborhood, whose bad conduct had

aggravated their misery. Notorious for their turbulence, audacity, and

energy, these men might exercise a dangerous influence on the majority

of their companions, who were peaceful, laborious, and honest, but

easily intimidated by violence. These turbulent leaders, previously

embittered by misfortune, were soon impressed with an exaggerated idea

of the happiness of M. Hardy’s workmen, and excited to a jealous hatred

of them. They went still further; the incendiary sermons of an abbe,

a member of the Jesuits, who had come expressly from Paris to preach

during Lent against M. Hardy, acted powerfully on the minds of the

women, who filled the church, whilst their husbands were haunting

the taverns. Profiting by the growing fear, which the approach of the

Cholera then inspired, the preacher struck with terror these weak and

credulous imaginations by pointing to M. Hardy’s factory as a centre

of corruption and damnation, capable of drawing down the vengeance of

Heaven, and bringing the fatal scourge upon the country. Thus the men,

already inflamed with envy, were still more excited by the incessant

urgency of their wives, who, maddened by the abbe’s sermons, poured

their curses on that band of atheists, who might bring down so many

misfortunes upon them and their children. Some bad characters, belonging

to the factory of Baron Tripeaud, and paid by him (for it was a great

interest the honorable manufacturer had in the ruin of M. Hardy), came

to augment the general irritation, and to complete it by raising one

of those alarming union-questions, which in our day have unfortunately

caused so much bloodshed. Many of M. Hardy’s workmen, before they

entered his employ, had belonged to a society or union, called the

Devourers; while many of the stonecutters in the neighboring quarries

belonged to a society called the Wolves. Now, for a long time, an

implacable rivalry had existed between the Wolves and Devourers, and

brought about many sanguinary struggles, which are the more to be

deplored, as, in some respects, the idea of these unions is excellent,

being founded on the fruitful and mighty principle of association.

But unfortunately, instead of embracing all trades in one fraternal

communion, these unions break up the working-class into distinct and

hostile societies, whose rivalry often leads to bloody collisions.(27)

For the last week, the Wolves, excited by so many different

importunities, burned to discover an occasion or a pretext to come

to blows with the Devourers; but the latter, not frequenting the

public-houses, and hardly leaving the factory during the week, had

hitherto rendered such a meeting impossible, and the Wolves had been

forced to wait for the Sunday with ferocious impatience.

Moreover, a great number of the quarrymen and stonecutters, being

peaceable and hard-working people, had refused, though Wolves themselves

to join this hostile manifestation against the Devourers of M. Hardy’s

factory; the leaders had been obliged to recruit their forces from the

vagabonds and idlers of the barriers, whom the attraction of tumult and

disorder had easily enlisted under the flag of the warlike Wolves. Such

then was the dull fermentation, which agitated the little village of

Villiers, whilst the two men of whom we have spoken were at table in the

public-house.

These men had asked for a private room, that they might be alone. One of

them was still young, and pretty well dressed. But the disorder in his

clothes, his loose cravat, his shirt spotted with wine, his dishevelled

hair, his look of fatigue, his marble complexion, his bloodshot eyes,

announced that a night of debauch had preceded this morning; whilst

his abrupt and heavy gesture, his hoarse voice, his look, sometimes

brilliant, and sometimes stupid, proved that to the last fumes of the

intoxication of the night before, were joined the first attacks of a

new state of drunkenness. The companion of this man said to him, as he

touched his glass with his own: “Your health, my boy!”

“Yours!” answered the young man; “though you look to me like the devil.”

“I!--the devil?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“How did you come to know me?”

“Do you repent that you ever knew me?”

“Who told you that I was a prisoner at Sainte-Pelagie?”

“Didn’t I take you out of prison?”

“Why did you take me out?”

“Because I have a good heart.”

“You are very fond of me, perhaps--just as the butcher likes the ox that

he drives to the slaughter-house.”

“Are you mad?”

“A man does not pay a hundred thousand francs for another without a

motive.”

“I have a motive.”

“What is it? what do you want to do with me?”

“A jolly companion that will spend his money like a man, and pass every

night like the last. Good wine, good cheer, pretty girls, and gay songs.

Is that such a bad trade?”

After he had remained a moment without answering, the young man replied

with a gloomy air: “Why, on the eve of my leaving prison, did you attach

this condition to my freedom, that I should write to my mistress to tell

her that I would never see her again! Why did you exact this letter from

me?”

“A sigh! what, are you still thinking of her?”

“Always.”

“You are wrong. Your mistress is far from Paris by this time. I saw

her get into the stage-coach, before I came to take you out of Sainte

Pelagie.”

“Yes, I was stifled in that prison. To get out, I would have given my

soul to the devil. You thought so, and therefore you came to me; only,

instead of my soul, you took Cephyse from me. Poor Bacchanal-Queen! And

why did you do it? Thousand thunders! Will you tell me!”

“A man as much attached to his mistress as you are is no longer a man.

He wants energy, when the occasion requires.”

“What occasion?”

“Let us drink!”

“You make me drink too much brandy.”

“Bah! look at me!”

“That’s what frightens me. It seems something devilish. A bottle of

brandy does not even make you wink. You must have a stomach of iron and

a head of marble.”

“I have long travelled in Russia. There we drink to roast ourselves.”

“And here to only warm. So--let’s drink--but wine.”

“Nonsense! wine is fit for children. Brandy for men like us!”

“Well, then, brandy; but it burns, and sets the head on fire, and then

we see all the flames of hell!”

“That’s how I like to see you, hang it!”

“But when you told me that I was too much attached to my mistress, and

that I should want energy when the occasion required, of what occasion

did you speak?”

“Let us drink!”

“Stop a moment, comrade. I am no more of a fool than others. Your half

words have taught me something.

“Well, what?”

“You know that I have been a workman, that I have many companions, and

that, being a good fellow, I am much liked amongst them. You want me for

a catspaw, to catch other chestnuts?”

“What then?”

“You must be some getter-up of riots--some speculator in revolts.”

“What next?”

“You are travelling for some anonymous society, that trades in musket

shots.”

“Are you a coward?”

“I burned powder in July, I can tell you--make no mistakes!”

“You would not mind burning some again?”

“Just as well that sort of fireworks as any other. Only I find

revolutions more agreeable than useful; all that I got from the

barricades of the three days was burnt breeches and a lost jacket. All

the cause won by me, with its ‘Forward! March!’ says.”

“You know many of Hardy’s workmen?”

“Oh! that’s why you have brought me down here?”

“Yes--you will meet with many of the workmen from the factory.”

“Men from Hardy’s take part in a row? No, no; they are too well off for

that. You have been sold.”

“You will see presently.”

“I tell you they are well off. What have they to complain of?”

“What of their brethren--those who have not so good a master, and die

of hunger and misery, and call on them for assistance? Do you think they

will remain deaf to such a summons? Hardy is only an exception. Let the

people but give a good pull all together, and the exception will become

the rule, and all the world be happy.”

“What you say there is true, but it would be a devil of a pull that

would make an honest man out of my old master, Baron Tripeaud, who made

me what I am--an out-and-out rip.”

“Hardy’s workmen are coming; you are their comrade, and have no interest

in deceiving them. They will believe you. Join with me in persuading

them--”

“To what?”

“To leave this factory, in which they grow effeminate and selfish, and

forget their brothers.”

“But if they leave the factory, how are they to live?”

“We will provide for that--on the great day.”

“And what’s to be done till then?”

“What you have done last night--drink, laugh, sing, and, by way of work,

exercise themselves privately in the use of arms.’

“Who will bring these workmen here?”

“Some one has already spoken to them. They have had printed papers,

reproaching them with indifference to their brothers. Come, will you

support me?”

“I’ll support you--the more readily as I cannot very well support

myself. I only cared for Cephyse in the world; I know that I am on a bad

road; you are pushing me on further; let the ball roll!--Whether we

go to the devil one way or the other is not of much consequence. Let’s

drink.”

“Drink to our next night’s fun; the last was only apprenticeship.”

“Of what then are you made? I looked at you, and never saw you either

blush or smile, or change countenance. You are like a man of iron.”

“I am not a lad of fifteen. It would take something more to make me

laugh. I shall laugh to-night.”

“I don’t know if it’s the brandy; but, devil take me, if you don’t

frighten me when you say you shall laugh tonight!”

So saying, the young man rose, staggering; he began to be once more

intoxicated.

There was a knock at the door. “Come in!” The host made his appearance.

“What’s the matter?”

“There’s a young man below, who calls himself Olivier. He asks for M.

Morok.”

“That’s right. Let him came up.” The host went out.

“It is one of our men, but he is alone,” said Morok, whose savage

countenance expressed disappointment. “It astonishes me, for I expected

a good number. Do you know him?”

“Olivier? Yes--a fair chap, I think.”

“We shall see him directly. Here he is.” A young man, with an open,

bold, intelligent countenance, at this moment entered the room.

“What! old Sleepinbuff!” he exclaimed, at sight of Morok’s companion.

“Myself. I have not seen you for an age, Olivier.”

“Simple enough, my boy. We do not work at the same place.”

“But you are alone!” cried Morok; and pointing to Sleepinbuff, he added:

“You may speak before him--he is one of us. But why are you alone?”

“I come alone, but in the name of my comrades.”

“Oh!” said Morok, with a sigh of satisfaction, “they consent.”

“They refuse--just as I do!”

“What, the devil! they refuse? Have they no more courage than women?”

cried Morok, grinding his teeth with rage.

“Hark ye,” answered Olivier, coolly. “We have received your letters,

and seen your agent. We have had proof that he is really connected with

great societies, many members of which are known to us.”

“Well! why do you hesitate?”

“First of all, nothing proves that these societies are ready to make a

movement.”

“I tell you they are.”

“He--tells you--they are,” said Sleepinbuff, stammering “and I (hic!)

affirm it. Forward! March!”

“That’s not enough,” replied Olivier. “Besides, we have reflected upon

it. For a week the factory was divided. Even yesterday the discussion

was too warm to be pleasant. But this morning Father Simon called to

him; we explained ourselves fully before him, and he brought us all to

one mind. We mean to wait, and if any disturbance breaks out, we shall

see.”

“Is that your final word?”

“It is our last word.”

“Silence!” cried Sleepinbuff, suddenly, as he listened, balancing

himself on his tottering legs. “It is like the noise of a crowd not far

off.” A dull sound was indeed audible, which became every moment more

and more distinct, and at length grew formidable.

“What is that?” said Olivier, in surprise.

“Now,” replied Morok, smiling with a sinister air, “I remember the host

told me there was a great ferment in the village against the factory. If

you and your other comrades had separated from Hardy’s other workmen, as

I hoped, these people who are beginning to howl would have been for you,

instead of against you.”

“This was a trap, then, to set one half of M. Hardy’s workmen against

the other!” cried Olivier; “you hoped that we should make common cause

with these people against the factory, and that--”

The young man had not time to finish. A terrible outburst of shouts,

howls, and hisses shook the tavern. At the same instant the door was

abruptly opened, and the host, pale and trembling, hurried into the

chamber, exclaiming: “Gentlemen! do any of you work at M. Hardy’s

factory?”

“I do,” said Olivier.

“Then you are lost. Here are the Wolves in a body, saying there are

Devourers here from M. Hardy’s, and offering them battle--unless the

Devourers will give up the factory, and range themselves on their side.”

“It was a trap, there can be no doubt of it!” cried Olivier, looking at

Morok and Sleepinbuff, with a threatening air; “if my mates had come, we

were all to be let in.”

“I lay a trap, Olivier?” stammered Jacques Rennepont. “Never!”

“Battle to the Devourers! or let them join the Wolves!” cried the angry

crowd with one voice, as they appeared to invade the house.

“Come!” exclaimed the host. Without giving Olivier time to answer, he

seized him by the arm, and opening a window which led to a roof at no

very great height from the ground, he said to him: “Make your escape by

this window, let yourself slide down, and gain the fields; it is time.”

As the young workman hesitated, the host added, with a look of terror:

“Alone, against a couple of hundred, what can you do? A minute more, and

you are lost. Do you not hear them? They have entered the yard; they are

coming up.”

Indeed, at this moment, the groans, the hisses, and cheers redoubled

in violence; the wooden staircase which led to the first story shook

beneath the quick steps of many persons, and the shout arose, loud and

piercing: “Battle to the Devourers!”

“Fly, Olivier!” cried Sleepinbuff, almost sobered by the danger.

Hardly had he pronounced the words when the door of the large room,

which communicated with the small one in which they were, was burst open

with a frightful crash.

“Here they are!” cried the host, clasping his hands in alarm. Then,

running to Olivier, he pushed him, as it were, out of the window; for,

with one foot on the sill, the workman still hesitated.

The window once closed, the publican returned towards Morok the instant

the latter entered the large room, into which the leaders of the Wolves

had just forced an entry, whilst their companions were vociferating in

the yard and on the staircase. Eight or ten of these madmen, urged by

others to take part in these scenes of disorder, had rushed first into

the room, with countenances inflamed by wine and anger; most of them

were armed with long sticks. A blaster, of Herculean strength and

stature, with an old red handkerchief about his head, its ragged

ends streaming over his shoulders, miserably dressed in a half-worn

goat-skin, brandished an iron drilling-rod, and appeared to direct the

movements. With bloodshot eyes, threatening and ferocious countenance,

he advanced towards the small room, as if to drive back Morok, and

exclaimed, in a voice of thunder:

“Where are the Devourers?--the Wolves will eat ‘em up!”

The host hastened to open the door of the small room, saying: “There is

no one here, my friends--no one. Look for yourselves.”

“It is true,” said the quarryman, surprised, after peeping into the

room; “where are they, then? We were told there were a dozen of them

here. They should have marched with us against the factory, or there’d

‘a been a battle, and the Wolves would have tried their teeth!”

“If they have not come,” said another, “they will come. Let’s wait.”

“Yes, yes; we will wait for them.”

“We will look close at each other.”

“If the Wolves want to see the Devourers,” said Morok, “why not go and

howl round the factory of the miscreant atheists? At the first howl of

the Wolves they will come out, and give you battle.”

“They will give you--battle,” repeated Sleepinbuff, mechanically.

“Unless the Wolves are afraid of the Devourers,” added Morok.

“Since you talk of fear, you shall go with us, and see who’s afraid!”

cried the formidable blaster, and in a thundering voice, he advanced

towards Morok.

A number of voices joined in with, “Who says the Wolves are afraid of

the Devourers?”