by Eugène Sue
“It is not all, it is not all,” said Cephyse, as she continued to search with an unquiet air.
At last she perceived near the stove a little tin box, containing flint, steel and matches. She placed these articles on the top of the basket, and took it in one hand, and the earthen pot in the other. As she passed near the corpse of the poor charcoal-dealer, Cephyse said, with a strange smile: “I rob you, poor Mother Arsene, but my theft will not do me much good.”
Cephyse left the shop, reclosed the door as well as she could, went up the passage, and crossed the little court-yard which separated the front of the building from that part in which Rodin had lodged. With the exception of the windows of Philemon’s apartment, where Rose-Pompon had so often sat perched like a bird, warbling Beranger, the other windows of the house were open. There had been deaths on the first and second floors, and, like many others, they were waiting for the cart piled up with coffins.
The Bacchanal Queen gained the stairs, which led to the chambers formerly occupied by Rodin. Arrived at the landing-place she ascended another ruinous staircase, steep as a ladder, and with nothing but an old rope for a rail. She at length reached the half-rotten door of a garret, situated in the roof. The house was in such a state of dilapidation, that, in many places the roof gave admission to the rain, and allowed it to penetrate into this cell, which was not above ten feet square, and lighted by an attic window. All the furniture consisted of an old straw mattress, laid upon the ground, with the straw peeping out from a rent in its ticking; a small earthenware pitcher, with the spout broken, and containing a little water, stood by the side of this couch. Dressed in rags, Mother Bunch was seated on the side of the mattress, with her elbows on her knees, and her face concealed in her thin, white hands. When Cephyse entered the room, the adopted sister of Agricola raised her head; her pale, mild face seemed thinner than ever, hollow with suffering, grief, misery; her eyes, red with weeping, were fixed on her sister with an expression of mournful tenderness.
“I have what we want, sister,” said Cephyse, in a low, deep voice; “in this basket there is wherewith to finish our misery.”
Then, showing to Mother Bunch the articles she had just placed on the floor, she added: “For the first time in my life, I have been a thief. It made me ashamed and frightened; I was never intended for that or worse. It is a pity.” added she, with a sardonic smile.
After a moment’s silence, the hunchback said to her sister, in a heart rending tone: “Cephyse — my dear Cephyse — are you quite determined to die?”
“How should I hesitate?” answered Cephyse, in a firm voice. “Come, sister, let us once more make our reckoning. If even I could forget my shame, and Jacques’ contempt in his last moments, what would remain to me? Two courses only: first, to be honest, and work for my living. But you know that, in spite of the best will in the world, work will often fail, as it has failed for the last few days, and, even when I got it, I would have to live on four to five francs a week. Live? that is to say, die by inches. I know that already, and I prefer dying at once. The other course would be to live a life of infamy — and that I will not do. Frankly, sister, between frightful misery, infamy, or death, can the choice be doubtful? Answer me!”
Then, without giving Mother Bunch time to speak, Cephyse added, in an abrupt tone: “Besides, what is the good of discussing it? I have made up my mind, and nothing shall prevent my purpose, since all that you, dear sister, could obtain from me, was a delay of a few days, to see if the cholera would not save us the trouble. To please you I consented; the cholera has come, killed every one else in the house, but left us. You see, it is better to do one’s own business,” added she, again smiling bitterly. Then she resumed: “Besides, dear sister, you also wish to finish with life.”
“It is true, Cephyse,” answered the sempstress, who seemed very much depressed; “but alone — one has only to answer for one’s self — and to die with you,” added she, shuddering, “appears like being an accomplice in your death.”
“Do you wish, then, to make an end of it, I in one place, you in another? — that would be agreeable!” said Cephyse, displaying in that terrible moment the sort of bitter and despairing irony which is more frequent than may be imagined in the midst of mortal anguish.
“Oh, no, no!” said the other in alarm, “not alone — I will not die alone!”
“Do you not see, dear sister, we are right not to part? And yet,” added Cephyse, in a voice of emotion, “my heart almost breaks sometimes, to think that you will die like me.”
“How selfish!” said the hunchback, with a faint smile. “What reasons have I to love life? What void shall I leave behind me?”
“But you are a martyr, sister,” resumed Cephyse. “The priests talk of saints! Is there one of them so good as you? And yet you are about to die like me, who have always been idle, careless, sinful — while you were so hardworking, so devoted to all who suffered. What should I say? You were an angel on the earth; and yet you will die like me, who have fallen as low as a woman can fall,” added the unfortunate, casting down her eyes.
“It is strange,” answered Mother Bunch, thoughtfully. “Starting from the same point, we have followed different roads, and yet we have reached the same goal — disgust of life. For you, my poor sister, but a few days ago, life was so fair, so full of pleasure and of youth; and now it is equally heavy with us both. After all, I have followed to the end what was my duty,” added she, mildly. “Agricola no longer needs me. He is married; he loves, and is beloved; his happiness is secured. Mdlle. de Cardoville wants for nothing. Fair, rich, prosperous — what could a poor creature like myself do for her? Those who have been kind to me are happy. What prevents my going now to my rest? I am so weary!”
“Poor sister!” said Cephyse, with touching emotion, which seemed to expand her contracted features; “when I think that, without informing me, and in spite of your resolution never to see that generous young lady, who protected you, you yet had the courage to drag yourself to her house, dying with fatigue and want, to try to interest her in my fate — yes, dying, for your strength failed on the Champs-Elysees.”
“And when I was able to reach the mansion, Mdlle. de Cardoville was unfortunately absent — very unfortunately!” repeated the hunchback, as she looked at Cephyse with anguish; “for the next day, seeing that our last resource had failed us, thinking more of me than of yourself, and determined at any price to procure us bread—”
She could not finish. She buried her face in her hands, and shuddered.
“Well, I did as so many other hapless women have done when work fails or wages do not suffice, and hunger becomes too pressing,” replied Cephyse, in a broken voice; “only that, unlike so many others, instead of living on my shame, I shall die of it.”
“Alas! this terrible shame which kills you, my poor Cephyse, because you have a heart, would have been averted, had I seen Mdlle. de Cardoville, or had she but answered the letter which I asked leave to write to her at the porter’s lodge. But her silence proves to me that she is justly hurt at my abrupt departure from her house. I can understand it; she believes me guilty of the blackest ingratitude — for she must have been greatly offended not to have deigned to answer me — and therefore I had not the courage to write a second time. It would have been useless, I am sure; for, good and just as she is, her refusals are inexorable when she believes them deserved. And besides, for what good? It was too late; you had resolved to die!”
“Oh, yes, quite resolved: for my infamy was gnawing at my heart. Jacques had died in my arms despising me; and I loved him — mark me, sister,” added Cephyse, with passionate enthusiasm, “I loved him as we love only once in life!”
“Let our fate be accomplished, then!” said Mother Bunch with a pensive air.
“But you have never told me, sister, the cause of your departure from Mdlle. de Cardoville’s,” resumed Cephyse, after a moment’s silence.
“It will be the only secret that I shall take with me, dear Cephys
e,” said the other, casting down her eyes. And she thought, with bitter joy, that she would soon be delivered from the fear which had poisoned the last days of her sad life — the fear of meeting Agricola, informed of the fatal and ridiculous love she felt for him.
For, it must be said, this fatal and despairing love was one of the causes of the suicide of the unfortunate creature. Since the disappearance of her journal, she believed that the blacksmith knew the melancholy secret contained in its sad pages. She doubted not the generosity and good heart of Agricola; but she had such doubts of herself, she was so ashamed of this passion, however pure and noble, that, even in the extremity to which Cephyse and herself were reduced — wanting work, wanting bread — no power on earth could have induced her to meet Agricola, in an attempt to ask him for assistance. Doubtless, she would have taken another view of the subject if her mind had not been obscured by that sort of dizziness to which the firmest characters are exposed when their misfortunes surpass all bounds. Misery, hunger, the influence, almost contagious in such a moment, of the suicidal ideas of Cephyse, and weariness of a life so long devoted to pain and mortification, gave the last blow to the sewing-girl’s reason. After long struggling against the fatal design of her sister, the poor, dejected, broken-hearted creature finished by determining to share Cephyse’s fate, and seek in death the end of so many evils.
“Of what are you thinking, sister?” said Cephyse, astonished at the long silence. The other replied, trembling: “I think of that which made me leave Mdlle. de Cardoville so abruptly, and appear so ungrateful in her eyes. May the fatality which drove me from her house have made no other victims! may my devoted service, however obscure and powerless, never be missed by her, who extended her noble hand to the poor sempstress, and deigned to call me sister! May she be happy — oh, ever happy!” said Mother Bunch, clasping her hands with the ardor of a sincere invocation.
“That is noble, sister — such a wish in such a moment!” said Cephyse.
“Oh,” said her sister, with energy, “I loved, I admired that marvel of genius, and heart, and ideal beauty — I viewed her with pious respect — for never was the power of the Divinity revealed in a more adorable and purer creation. At least one of my last thoughts will have been of her.”
“Yes, you will have loved and respected your generous patroness to the last.”
“To the last!” said the poor girl, after a moment’s silence. “It is true — you are right — it will soon be the last! — in a few moments, all will be finished. See how calmly we can talk of that which frightens so many others!”
“Sister, we are calm because we are resolved.”
“Quite resolved, Cephyse,” said the hunchback, casting once more a deep and penetrating glance upon her sister.
“Oh, yes, if you are only as determined as I am.”
“Be satisfied; if I put off from day to day the final moment,” answered the sempstress, “it was because I wished to give you time to reflect. As for me—”
She did not finish, but she shook her head with an air of the utmost despondency.
“Well, sister, let us kiss each other,” said Cephyse; “and, courage!”
The hunchback rose, and threw herself into her sister’s arms. They held one another fast in a long embrace. There followed a few seconds of deep and solemn silence, only interrupted by the sobs of the sisters, for now they had begun to weep.
“Oh, heaven! to love each other so, and to part forever!” said Cephyse. “It is a cruel fate.”
“To part?” cried Mother Bunch, and her pale, mild countenance, bathed in tears, was suddenly illumined with a ray of divine hope; “to part, sister? oh, no! What makes me so calm is the deep and certain expectation, which I feel here at my heart, of that better world where a better life awaits us. God, so great, so merciful, so prodigal of good, cannot destine His creatures to be forever miserable. Selfish men may pervert His benevolent designs, and reduce their brethren to a state of suffering and despair. Let us pity the wicked and leave them! Come up on high, sister; men are nothing there, where God is all. We shall do well there. Let us depart, for it is late.”
So saying, she pointed to the ruddy beams of the setting sun, which began to shine upon the window.
Carried away by the religious enthusiasm of her sister, whose countenance, transfigured, as it were, by the hope of an approaching deliverance, gleamed brightly in the reflected sunset, Cephyse took her hands, and, looking at her with deep emotion, exclaimed, “Oh, sister! how beautiful you look now!”
“Then my beauty comes rather late in the day,” said Mother Bunch, with a sad smile.
“No, sister; for you appear so happy, that the last scruples I had upon your account are quite gone.”
“Then let us make haste,” said the hunchback, as she pointed to the chafing-dish.
“Be satisfied, sister — it will not be long,” said Cephyse. And she took the chafing-dish full of charcoal, which she had placed in a corner of the garret, and brought it out into the middle of the room.
“Do you know how to manage it?” asked the sewing-girl approaching.
“Oh! it is very simple,” answered Cephyse; “we have only to close the door and window, and light the charcoal.”
“Yes, sister; but I think I have heard that every opening must be well stopped, so as to admit no current of air.”
“You are right, and the door shuts so badly.”
“And look at the holes in the roof.”
“What is to be done, sister?”
“I will tell you,” said Mother Bunch. “The straw of our mattress, well twisted, will answer every purpose.”
“Certainly,” replied Cephyse. “We will keep a little to light our fire, and with the rest we will stop up all the crevices in the roof, and make filling for our doors and windows.”
Then, smiling with that bitter irony, so frequent, we repeat, in the most gloomy moments, Cephyse added, “I say, sister, weather-boards at our doors and windows, to prevent the air from getting in — what a luxury! we are as delicate as rich people.”
“At such a time, we may as well try to make ourselves a little comfortable,” said Mother Bunch, trying to jest like the Bacchanal Queen.
And with incredible coolness, the two began to twist the straw into lengths of braid, small enough to be stuffed into the cracks of the door, and also constructed large plugs, destined to stop up the crevices in the roof. While this mournful occupation lasted, there was no departure from the calm and sad resignation of the two unfortunate creatures.
CHAPTER XXXII. SUICIDE.
CEPHYSE AND HER sister continued with calmness the preparations for their death.
Alas! how many poor young girls, like these sisters, have been, and still will be, fatally driven to seek in suicide a refuge from despair, from infamy, or from a too miserable existence! And upon society will rest the terrible responsibility of these sad deaths, so long as thousands of human creatures, unable to live upon the mockery of wages granted to their labor, have to choose between these three gulfs of shame and woe; a life of enervating toil and mortal privations, causes of premature death; prostitution, which kills also, but slowly — by contempt, brutality, and uncleanness; suicide — which kills at once.
In a few minutes, the two sisters had constructed, with the straw of their couch, the calkings necessary to intercept the air, and to render suffocation more expeditious and certain.
The hunchback said to her sister, “You are the taller, Cephyse, and must look to the ceiling; I will take care of the window and door.”
“Be satisfied, sister; I shall have finished before you,” answered Cephyse.
And the two began carefully to stop up every crevice through which a current of air could penetrate into the ruined garret. Thanks to her tall stature, Cephyse was able to reach the holes in the roof, and to close them up entirely. When they had finished this sad work, the sisters again approached, and looked at each other in silence.
The fatal moment drew near
; their faces, though still calm, seemed slightly agitated by that strange excitement which always accompanies a double suicide.
“Now,” said Mother Bunch, “now for the fire!”
She knelt down before the little chafing-dish, filled with charcoal. But Cephyse took hold of her under the arm, and obliged her to rise again, saying to her, “Let me light the fire — that is my business.”
“But, Cephyse—”
“You know, poor sister, that the smell of charcoal gives you the headache!”
At the simplicity of this speech, for the Bacchanal Queen had spoken seriously, the sisters could not forbear smiling sadly.
“Never mind,” resumed Cephyse; “why suffer more and sooner than is necessary?”
Then, pointing to the mattress, which still contained a little straw, Cephyse added, “Lie down there, good little sister; when our fire is alight, I will come and sit down by you.”
“Do not be long, Cephyse.”
“In five minutes it will be done.”
The tall building, which faced the street, was separated by a narrow court from that which contained the retreat of the two sisters, and was so much higher, that when the sun had once disappeared behind its lofty roof, the garret soon became dark. The light, passing through the dirty panes of the small window, fell faintly on the blue and white patchwork of the old mattress, on which Mother Bunch was now stretched, covered with rags. Leaning on her left arm, with her chin resting in the palm of her hand, she looked after her sister with an expression of heart-rending grief. Cephyse, kneeling over the chafing-dish, with her face close to the black charcoal, above which already played a little bluish flame, exerted herself to blow the newly-kindled fire, which was reflected on the pale countenance of the unhappy girl.
