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.