SOOTHING WORDS.
During the interview of Adrienne with Rose-Pompon a touching scene took
place between Agricola and Mother Bunch, who had been much surprised at
Mdlle. de Cardoville's condescension with regard to the grisette.
Immediately after the departure of Adrienne, Agricola had knelt down
beside Mother Bunch, and said to her, with profound emotion: "We are
alone, and I can at length tell you what weighs upon my heart. This act
is too cruel--to die of misery and despair, and not to send to me for
assistance."
"Listen to me, Agricola--"
"No, there is no excuse for this. What! we called each other by the names
of brother and sister, and for fifteen years gave every proof of sincere
affection--and, when the day of misfortune comes, you quit life without
caring for those you must leave behind--without considering that to kill
yourself is to tell them they are indifferent to you!"
"Forgive me, Agricola! it is true. I had never thought of that," said the
workgirl, casting down her eyes; "but poverty--want of work--"
"Misery! want of work! and was I not here?"
"And despair!"
"But why despair? This generous young lady had received you in her house;
she knew your worth, and treated you as her friend--and just at the
moment when you had every chance of happiness, you leave the house
abruptly, and we remain in the most horrible anxiety on your account."
"I feared--to be--to be a burden to my benefactress," stammered she.
"You a burden to Mdlle. de Cardoville, that is so rich and good!"
"I feared to be indiscreet," said the sewing-girl, more and more
embarrassed.
Instead of answering his adopted sister, Agricola remained silent, and
contemplated her for some moments with an undefinable expression; then he
exclaimed suddenly, as if replying to a question put by himself: "She
will forgive me for disobeying her.--I am sure of it."
He next turned towards Mother Bunch, who was looking at him in
astonishment, and said to her in a voice of emotion: "I am too frank to
keep up this deception. I am reproaching you--blaming you--and my
thoughts are quite different."
"How so, Agricola?"
"My heart aches, when I think of the evil I have done you."
"I do not understand you, my friend; you have never done me any evil."
"What! never? even in little things? when, for instance, yielding to a
detestable habit, I, who loved and respected you as my sister, insulted
you a hundred times a day?"
"Insulted me!"
"Yes--when I gave you an odious and ridiculous nickname, instead of
calling you properly."
At these words, Mother Bunch looked at the smith in the utmost alarm,
trembling lest he had discovered her painful secret, notwithstanding the
assurance she had received from Mdlle. de Cardoville. Yet she calmed
herself a little when she reflected, that Agricola might of himself have
thought of the humiliation inflicted on her by calling her Mother Bunch,
and she answered him with a forced smile. "Can you be grieved at so small
a thing? It was a habit, Agricola, from childhood. When did your good and
affectionate mother, who nevertheless loved me as her daughter, ever call
me anything else?"
"And did my mother consult you about my marriage, speak to you of the
rare beauty of my bride, beg you to come and see her, and study her
character, in the hope that the instinct of your affection for me would
warn you--if I made a bad choice? Did my mother have this cruelty?--No;
it was I, who thus pierced your heart!"
The fears of the hearer were again aroused; there could be but little
doubt that Agricola knew her secret. She felt herself sinking with
confusion; yet, making a last effort not to believe the discovery, she
murmured in a feeble voice: "True, Agricola! It was not your mother, but
yourself, who made me that request--and I was grateful to you for such a
mark of confidence."
"Grateful, my poor girl!" cried the smith, whilst his eyes filled with
tears; "no, it is not true. I pained you fearfully--I was
merciless--heaven knows, without being aware of it!"
"But," said the other, in a voice now almost unintelligible, "what makes
you think so?"
"Your love for me!" cried the smith, trembling with emotion, as he
clasped Mother Bunch in a brotherly embrace.
"Oh heaven!" murmured the unfortunate creature, as she covered her face
with her hands, "he knows all."
"Yes, I know all," resumed Agricola, with an expression of ineffable
tenderness and respect: "yes, I know all, and I will not have you blush
for a sentiment, which honors me, and of which I feel so justly proud.
Yes, I know all; and I say to myself with joy and pride, that the best,
the most noble heart in the world is mine--will be mine always. Come,
Magdalen; let us leave shame to evil passions. Raise your eyes, and look
at me! You know, if my countenance was ever false--if it ever reflected a
feigned emotion. Then look and tell me, if you cannot read in my
features, how proud I am, Magdalen, how justly proud of your love!"
Overwhelmed with grief and confusion, Mother Bunch had not dared to look
on Agricola; but his words expressed so deep a conviction, the tones of
his voice revealed so tender an emotion, that the poor creature felt her
shame gradually diminish, particularly when Agricola added, with rising
animation: "Be satisfied, my sweet, my noble Magdalen; I will be worthy
of this love. Believe me, it shall yet cause you as much happiness as it
has occasioned tears. Why should this love be a motive for estrangement,
confusion, fear? For what is love, in the sense in which it is held by
your generous heart? Is it not a continual exchange of devotion,
tenderness, esteem, of mutual and blind confidence?--Why, Magdalen! we
may have all this for one another--devotion, tenderness, confidence--even
more than in times past; for, on a thousand occasions, your secret
inspired you with fear and suspicion--while, for the future, on the
contrary, you will see me take such delight in the place I fill in your
good and valiant heart, that you will be happy in the happiness you
bestow. What I have just said may seem very selfish and conceited; so
much the worse! I do not know how to lie."
The longer the smith spoke, the less troubled became Mother Bunch. What
she had above all feared in the discovery of her secret was to see it
received with raillery, contempt, or humiliating compassion; far from
this, joy and happiness were distinctly visible on the manly and honest
face of Agricola. The hunchback knew him incapable of deception;
therefore she exclaimed, this time without shame or confusion, but rather
with a sort of pride.
"Every sincere and pure passion is so far good and con soling as to end
by deserving interest and sympathy, when it has triumphed over its first
excess! It is alike honorable to the heart which feels and that which
inspires it!--Thanks to you, Agricola--thanks to the kind words, which
have raised me in my own esteem--I feel that, instead of blushing, I
ought to be proud of this love. My benefactress is right--you are right:
why should I be ashamed of it? Is it not a true and sacred love? To be
near you, to love you, to tell you so, to prove it by constant devotion,
what did I ever desire more? And yet shame and fear, joined with that
dizziness of the brain which extreme misery produces, drove me to
suicide!--But then some allowance must be made for the suspicions of a
poor creature, who has been the subject of ridicule from her cradle. So
my secret was to die with me, unless some unforeseen accident should
reveal it to you; and, in that case, you are right--sure of myself, sure
of you, I ought to have feared nothing. But I may claim some indulgence;
mistrust, cruel mistrust of one's self makes one doubt others also. Let
us forget all that. Agricola, my generous brother, I will say to you, as
you said to me just now, 'Look at me; you know my countenance cannot lie.
Look at me: see if I shun your gaze; see if, ever in my life, I looked so
happy'--and yet, even now, I was about to die!"
She spoke the truth. Agricola himself could not have hoped so prompt an
effect from his words. In spite of the deep traces which misery, grief,
and sickness had imprinted on the girl's features, they now shone with
radiant happiness and serenity, whilst her blue eyes, gentle and pure as
her soul, were fixed, without embarrassment, on those of Agricola.
"Oh! thanks, thanks!" cried the smith, in a rapture of delight: "when I
see you so calm, and so happy, Magdalen, I am indeed grateful."
"Yes, I am calm, I am happy," replied she; "and happy I shall be, for I
can now tell you my most secret thoughts. Yes, happy; for this day, which
began so fatally, ends like a divine dream. Far from being afraid, I now
look at you with hope and joy. I have again found my generous
benefactress, and I am tranquil as to the fate of my poor sister. Oh!
shall we not soon see her? I should like her to take part in this
happiness."
She seemed so happy, that the smith did not dare to inform her of the
death of Cephyse, and reserved himself to communicate the same at a more
fitting opportunity. Therefore he answered: "Cephyse, being the stronger,
has been the more shaken; it will not be prudent, I am told, to see her
to-day."
"I will wait then. I can repress my impatience, I have so much to say to
you."
"Dear, gentle Magdalen!"
"Oh, my friend!" cried the girl, interrupting Agricola, with tears of
joy: "I cannot tell you what I feel, when I hear you call me Magdalen. It
is so sweet, so soothing, that my heart expands with delight."
"Poor girl! how dreadfully she must have suffered!" cried the smith, with
inexpressible emotion, "when she displays so much happiness, so much
gratitude, at being called by her own poor name!"
"But consider, my friend; that word in your mouth contains a new life for
me. If you only knew what hopes, what pleasures I can now see gleaming in
the future! If you knew all the cherished longings of my tenderness! Your
wife, the charming Angela, with her angel face and angel-soul--oh! in my
turn, I can say to, you, 'Look at me, and see how sweet that name is to
my lips and heart!' Yes, your charming, your good Angela will call me
Magdalen--and your children, Agricola, your children!--dear little
creatures!--to them also I shall be Magdalen--their good Magdalen--and
the love I shall bear them will make them mine, as well as their
mother's--and I shall have my part in every maternal care--and they will
belong to us three; will they not, Agricola?--Oh! let me, let me weep!
These tears without bitterness do me so much good; they are tears that
need not be concealed. Thank heaven! thank you, my friend! those other
tears are I trust dried forever."
For some seconds, this affecting scene had been overlooked by an
invisible witness. The smith and Mother Bunch had not perceived Mdlle. de
Cardoville standing on the threshold of the door. As Mother Bunch had
said, this day, which dawned with all under such fatal auspices, had
become for all a day of ineffable felicity. Adrienne, too, was full of
joy, for Djalma had been faithful to her, Djalma loved her with passion.
The odious appearances, of which she had been the dupe and victim,
evidently formed part of a new plot of Rodin, and it only remained for
Mdlle. de Cardoville to discover the end of these machinations.
Another joy was reserved for her. The happy are quick in detecting
happiness in others, and Adrienne guessed, by the hunchback's last words,
that there was no longer any secret between the smith and the sempstress.
She could not therefore help exclaiming, as she entered: "Oh! this will
be the brightest day of my life, for I shall not be happy alone!"
Agricola and Mother Bunch turned round hastily. "Lady," said the smith,
"in spite of the promise I made you, I could not conceal from Magdalen
that I knew she loved me!"
"Now that I no longer blush for this love before Agricola, why should I
blush for it before you, lady, that told me to be proud of it, because it
is noble and pure?" said Mother Bunch, to whom her happiness gave
strength enough to rise, and to lean upon Agricola's arm.
"It is well, my friend," said Adrienne, as she threw her arms round her
to support her; "only one word, to excuse the indiscretion with which you
will perhaps reproach me. If I told your secret to M. Agricola--"
"Do you know why it was, Magdalen?" cried the smith, interrupting
Adrienne. "It was only another proof of the lady's delicate generosity.
'I long hesitate to confide to you this secret,' said she to me this
morning, 'but I have at length made up my mind to it. We shall probably
find your adopted sister; you have been to her the best of brothers: but
many times, without knowing it, you have wounded her feelings
cruelly--and now that you know her secret, I trust in your kind heart to
keep it faithfully, and so spare the poor child a thousand pangs--pangs
the more bitter, because they come from you, and are suffered in silence.
Hence, when you speak to her of your wife, your domestic happiness, take
care not to gall that noble and tender heart.'--Yes, Magdalen, these were
the reasons that led the lady to commit what she called an indiscretion."
"I want words to thank you now and ever," said Mother Bunch.
"See, my friend," replied Adrienne, "how often the designs of the wicked
turn against themselves. They feared your devotion to me, and therefore
employed that unhappy Florine to steal your journal--"
"So as to drive me from your house with shame, lady, When I supposed my
most secret thoughts an object of ridicule to all. There can be no doubt
such was their plan," said Mother Bunch.
"None, my child. Well! this horrible wickedness, which nearly caused your
death, now turns to the confusion of the criminals. Their plot is
discovered--and, luckily, many other of their designs," said Adrienne, as
she thought of Rose-Pompon.
Then she resumed, with heartfelt joy: "At last, we are again united,
happier than ever, and in our very happiness we shall find new resources
to combat our enemies. I say our enemies--for all that love me are odious
to these wretches. But courage, the hour is come, and the good people
will have their turn."
"Thank heaven, lady," said the smith; "or my part, I shall not be wanting
in zeal. What delight to strip them of their mask!"
"Let me remind you, M. Baudoin, that you have an appointment for to
morrow with M. Hardy."
"I have not forgotten it, lady, any more than the generous offers I am to
convey to him."
"That is nothing. He belongs to my family. Tell him (what indeed I shall
write to him this evening), that the funds necessary to reopen his
factory are at his disposal; I do not say so for his sake only, but for
that of a hundred families reduced to want. Beg him to quit immediately
the fatal abode to which they have taken him: for a thousand reasons he
should be on his guard against all that surround him."
"Be satisfied, lady. The letter he wrote to me in reply to the one I got
secretly delivered to him, was short, affectionate, sad--but he grants me
the interview I had asked for, and I am sure I shall be able to persuade
him to leave that melancholy dwelling, and perhaps to depart with me, he
has always had so much confidence in my attachment."
"Well, M. Baudoin, courage!" said Adrienne, as she threw her cloak over
the workgirl's shoulders, and wrapped her round with care. "Let us be
gone, for it is late. As soon as we get home, I will give you a letter
for M. Hardy, and to-morrow you will come and tell me the result of your
visit. No, not to-morrow," she added, blushing slightly. "Write to me
to-morrow, and the day after, about twelve, come to me."
Some minutes later, the young sempstress, supported by Agricola and
Adrienne, had descended the stairs of that gloomy house, and, being
placed in the carriage by the side of Mdlle. de Cardoville, she earnestly
entreated to be allowed to see Cephyse; it was in vain that Agricola
assured her it was impossible, and that she should see her the next day.
Thanks to the information derived from Rose-Pompon, Mdlle. de Cardoville
was reasonably suspicious of all those who surrounded Djalma, and she
therefore took measures, that, very evening, to have a letter delivered
to the prince by what she considered a sure hand.