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."