by Eugène Sue
“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.”
