by Eugène Sue
“Be satisfied! I was told just now that she was recovering her senses.”
“And they told her I was living, did they not, lady? Otherwise, she would perhaps regret having survived me.”
“Be quite easy, my dear girl!” said Adrienne, pressing the poor hands in her own, and gazing on her with eyes full of tears; “they have told her all that was proper. Do not trouble yourself about anything; only think of recovering — and I hope you will yet enjoy that happiness of which you have known so little, my poor child.”
“How kind you are, lady! After flying from your house — and when you must think me so ungrateful!”
“Presently, when you are not so weak, I have a great deal to tell you. Just now, it would fatigue you too much. But how do you feel?”
“Better, lady. This fresh air — and then the thought, that, since you are come — my poor sister will no more be reduced to despair; for I will tell you all, and I am sure you will have pity on Cephyse — will you not, lady?”
“Rely upon me, my child,” answered Adrienne, forced to dissemble her painful embarrassment; “you know I am interested in all that interests you. But tell me,” added Mdlle. de Cardoville, in a voice of emotion, “before taking this desperate resolution, did you not write to me?”
“Yes, lady.”
“Alas!” resumed Adrienne, sorrowfully; “and when you received no answer — how cruel, how ungrateful you must have thought me!”
“Oh! never, lady, did I accuse you of such feelings; my poor sister will tell you so. You had my gratitude to the last.”
“I believe you — for I knew your heart. But how then did you explain my silence?”
“I had justly offended you by my sudden departure, lady.”
“Offended! — Alas! I never received your letter.”
“And yet you know that I wrote to you, lady.”
“Yes, my poor girl; I know, also, that you wrote to me at my porter’s lodge. Unfortunately, he delivered your letter to one of my women, named Florine, telling her it came from you.”
“Florine! the young woman that was so kind to me!”
“Florine deceived me shamefully; she was sold to my enemies, and acted as a spy on my actions.”
“She! — Good Heavens!” cried Mother Bunch. “Is it possible?”
“She herself,” answered Adrienne, bitterly; “but, after all, we must pity as well as blame her. She was forced to obey by a terrible necessity, and her confession and repentance secured my pardon before her death.”
“Then she is dead — so young! so fair!”
“In spite of her faults, I was greatly moved by her end. She confessed what she had done, with such heart-rending regrets. Amongst her avowals, she told me she had intercepted a letter, in which you asked for an interview that might save your sister’s life.”
“It is true, lady; such were the terms of my letter. What interest had they to keep it from you?”
“They feared to see you return to me, my good guardian angel. You loved me so tenderly, and my enemies dreaded your faithful affection, so wonderfully aided by the admirable instinct of your heart. Ah! I shall never forget how well-deserved was the horror with which you were inspired by a wretch whom I defended against your suspicions.”
“M. Rodin?” said Mother Bunch, with a shudder.
“Yes,” replied Adrienne; “but we will not talk of these people now. Their odious remembrance would spoil the joy I feel in seeing you restored to life — for your voice is less feeble, your cheeks are beginning to regain a little color. Thank God! I am so happy to have found you once more; — if you knew all that I hope, all that I expect from our reunion — for we will not part again — promise me that, in the name of our friendship.”
“I — your friend!” said Mother Bunch, timidly casting down her eyes.
“A few days before your departure from my house, did I not call you my friend, my sister? What is there changed? Nothing, nothing,” added Mdlle. de Cardoville, with deep emotion. “One might say, on the contrary, that a fatal resemblance in our positions renders your friendship even dearer to me. And I shall have it, shall I not. Oh, do not refuse it me — I am so much in want of a friend!”
“You, lady? you in want of the friendship of a poor creature like me?”
“Yes,” answered Adrienne, as she gazed on the other with an expression of intense grief; “nay, more, you are perhaps the only person, to whom I could venture to confide my bitter sorrows.” So saying, Mdlle. de Cardoville colored deeply.
“And how do I deserve such marks of confidence?” asked Mother Bunch, more and more surprised.
“You deserve it by the delicacy of your heart, by the steadiness of your character,” answered Adrienne, with some hesitation; “then — you are a woman — and I am certain you will understand what I suffer, and pity me.”
“Pity you, lady?” said the other, whose astonishment continued to increase. “You, a great lady, and so much envied — I, so humble and despised, pity you?”
“Tell me, my poor friend,” resumed Adrienne, after some moments of silence, “are not the worst griefs those which we dare not avow to any one, for fear of raillery and contempt? How can we venture to ask interest or pity, for sufferings that we hardly dare avow to ourselves, because they make us blush?”
The sewing-girl could hardly believe what she heard. Had her benefactress felt, like her, the effects of an unfortunate passion, she could not have held any other language. But the sempstress could not admit such a supposition; so, attributing to some other cause the sorrows of Adrienne, she answered mournfully, whilst she thought of her own fatal love for Agricola, “Oh! yes, lady. A secret grief, of which we are ashamed, must be frightful — very frightful!”
“But then what happiness to meet, not only a heart noble enough to inspire complete confidence, but one which has itself been tried by a thousand sorrows, and is capable of affording you pity, support and counsel! — Tell me, my dear child,” added Mdlle. de Cardoville, as she looked attentively at Mother Bunch, “if you were weighed down by one of those sorrows, at which one blushes, would you not be happy, very happy, to find a kindred soul, to whom you might entrust your griefs, and half relieve them by entire and merited confidence?”
For the first time in her life, Mother Bunch regarded Mdlle. de Cardoville with a feeling of suspicion and sadness.
The last words of the young lady seemed to her full of meaning “Doubtless, she knows my secret,” said Mother Bunch to herself; “doubtless, my journal has fallen into her hands. — She knows my love for Agricola, or at least suspects it. What she has been saying to me is intended to provoke my confidence, and to assure herself if she has been rightly informed.”
These thoughts excited in the workgirl’s mind no bitter or ungrateful feeling towards her benefactress; but the heart of the unfortunate girl was so delicately susceptible on the subject of her fatal passion, that, in spite of her deep and tender affection for Mdlle. de Cardoville, she suffered cruelly at the thought of Adrienne’s being mistress of her secret.
CHAPTER XXXIV. MORE CONFESSIONS.
THE FANCY, AT first so painful, that Mdlle. de Cardoville was informed of her love for Agricola was soon exchanged in the hunchbacks heart, thanks to the generous instincts of that rare and excellent creature, for a touching regret, which showed all her attachment and veneration for Adrienne.
“Perhaps,” said Mother Bunch to herself, “conquered by the influence of the adorable kindness of my protectress, I might have made to her a confession which I could make to none other, and revealed a secret which I thought to carry with me to my grave. It would, at least, have been a mark of gratitude to Mdlle. de Cardoville; but, unfortunately, I am now deprived of the sad comfort of confiding my only secret to my benefactress. And then — however generous may be her pity for me, however intelligent her affection, she cannot — she, that is so fair and so much admired — she cannot understand how frightful is the position of a creature like myself, hiding in the depth
of a wounded heart, a love at once hopeless and ridiculous. No, no — in spite of the delicacy of her attachment, my benefactress must unconsciously hurt my feelings, even whilst she pities me — for only sympathetic sorrows can console each other. Alas! why did she not leave me to die?”
These reflections presented themselves to the thinker’s mind as rapidly as thought could travel. Adrienne observed her attentively; she remarked that the sewing-girl’s countenance, which had lately brightened up, was again clouded, and expressed a feeling of painful humiliation. Terrified at this relapse into gloomy dejection, the consequences of which might be serious, for Mother Bunch was still very weak, and, as it were, hovering on the brink of the grave, Mdlle. de Cardoville resumed hastily: “My friend, do not you think with me, that the most cruel and humiliating grief admits of consolation, when it can be entrusted to a faithful and devoted heart?”
“Yes, lady,” said the young sempstress, bitterly; “but the heart which suffers in silence, should be the only judge of the moment for making so painful a confession. Until then, it would perhaps be more humane to respect its fatal secret, even if one had by chance discovered it.”
“You are right, my child,” said Adrienne, sorrowfully, “if I choose this solemn moment to entrust you with a very painful secret, it is that, when you have heard me, I am sure you will set more value on your life, as knowing how much I need your tenderness, consolation, and pity.”
At these words, the other half raised herself on the mattress, and looked at Mdlle. de Cardoville in amazement. She could scarcely believe what she heard; far from designing to intrude upon her confidence, it was her protectress who was to make the painful confession, and who came to implore pity and consolation from her!
“What!” stammered she; “you, lady!”
“I come to tell you that I suffer, and am ashamed of my sufferings. Yes,” added the young lady, with a touching expression, “yes — of all confessions, I am about to make the most painful — I love — and I blush for my love.”
“Like myself!” cried Mother Bunch, involuntarily, clasping her hands together.
“I love,” resumed Adrienne, with a long-pent-up grief; “I love, and am not beloved — and my love is miserable, is impossible — it consumes me — it kills me — and I dare not confide to any one the fatal secret!”
“Like me,” repeated the other, with a fixed look. “She — a queen in beauty, rank, wealth, intelligence — suffers like me. Like me, poor unfortunate creature! she loves, and is not loved again.”
“Well, yes! like you, I love and am not loved again,” cried Mdlle. de Cardoville; “was I wrong in saying, that to you alone I could confide my secret — because, having suffered the same pangs, you alone can pity them?”
“Then, lady,” said Mother Bunch, casting down her eyes, and recovering from her first amazement, “you knew—”
“I knew all, my poor child — but never should I have mentioned your secret, had I not had one to entrust you with, of a still more painful nature. Yours is cruel, but mine is humiliating. Oh, my sister!” added Mdlle. de Cardoville, in a tone impossible to describe, “misfortune, you, see, blends and confounds together what are called distinctions of rank and fortune — and often those whom the world envies are reduced by suffering far below the poorest and most humble, and have to seek from the latter pity and consolation.”
Then, drying her tears, which nosy flowed abundantly, Mdlle. de Cardoville resumed, in a voice of emotion: “Come, sister! courage, courage! let us love and sustain each other. Let this sad and mysterious bond unite us forever.”
“Oh, lady! forgive me. But now that you know the secret of my life,” said the workgirl, casting down her eyes, and unable to vanquish her confusion, “it seems to me, that I can never look at you without blushing.”
“And why? because you love Agricola?” said Adrienne. “Then I must die of shame before you, since, less courageous than you, I had not the strength to suffer and be resigned, and so conceal my love in the depths of my heart. He that I love, with a love henceforth deprived of hope, knew of that love and despised it — preferring to me a woman, the very choice of whom was a new and grievous insult, if I am not much deceived by appearances. I sometimes hope that I am deceived on this point. Now tell me — is it for you to blush?”
“Alas, lady! who could tell you all this?”
“Which you only entrusted to your journal? Well, then — it was the dying Florine who confessed her misdeeds. She had been base enough to steal your papers, forced to this odious act, by the people who had dominion over her. But she had read your journal — and as every good feeling was not dead within her, your admirable resignation, your melancholy and pious love, had left such an impression on her mind, that she was able to repeat whole passages to me on her death bed, and thus to explain the cause of your sudden disappearance — for she had no doubt that the fear of seeing your love for Agricola divulged had been the cause of your flight.”
“Alas! it is but too true, lady.”
“Oh, yes!” answered Adrienne, bitterly; “those who employed the wretched girl to act as she did, well knew the effect of the blow. It was not their first attempt. They reduced you to despair, they would have killed you, because you were devoted to me, and because you had guessed their intentions. Oh! these black-gowns are implacable, and their power is great!” said Adrienne, shuddering.
“It is fearful, lady.”
“But do not be alarmed, dear child; you see, that the arms of the wicked have turned against themselves; for the moment I knew the cause of your flight, you became dearer to me than ever. From that time I made every exertion to find out where you were; after long efforts, it was only this morning that the person I had employed succeeded in discovering that you inhabited this house. Agricola was with me when I heard it, and instantly asked to accompany me.”
“Agricola!” said Mother Bunch, clasping her hands; “he came—”
“Yes, my child — be calm. Whilst I attended to you, he was busy with your poor sister. You will soon see him.”
“Alas, lady!” resumed the hunchback, in alarm. “He doubtless knows—”
“Your love! No, no; be satisfied. Only think of the happiness of again seeing your good and worthy brother.”
“Ah, lady! may he never know what caused me so much shame, that I was like to die of it. Thank God, he is not aware of it!”
“Then let us have no more sad thoughts, my child. Only remember, that this worthy brother came here in time to save us from everlasting regrets — and you from a great fault. Oh! I do not speak of the prejudices of the world, with regard to the right of every creature to return to heaven a life that has become too burdensome! — I only say that you ought not to have died, because those who love you, and whom you love, were still in need of your assistance.”
“I thought you happy; Agricola was married to the girl of his choice, who will, I am sure, make him happy. To whom could I be useful?”
“First, to myself, as you see — and then, who tells you that Agricola will never have need of you? Who tells you, that his happiness, or that of his family, will last forever, and will not be tried by cruel shocks? And even if those you love had been destined to be always happy, could their happiness be complete without you? And would not your death, with which they would perhaps have reproached themselves, have left behind it endless regrets?”
“It is true, lady,” answered the other, “I was wrong — the dizziness of despair had seized me — frightful misery weighed upon us — we had not been able to find work for some days — we lived on the charity of a poor woman, and her the cholera carried off. To-morrow or next day, we must have died of hunger.”
“Die of hunger! — and you knew where I lived!”
“I had written to you, lady, and receiving no answer, I thought you offended at my abrupt departure.”
“Poor, dear child! you must have been, as you say, seized with dizziness in that terrible moment; so that I have not the courage to r
eproach you for doubting me a single instant. How can I blame you? Did I not myself think of terminating my life?”
“You, lady!” cried the hunchback.
“Yes, I thought of it — when they came to tell me, that Florine, dying, wished to speak to me. I heard what she had to say; her revelations changed my projects. This dark and mournful life which had become insupportable to me, was suddenly lighted up. The sense of duty woke within me. You were no doubt a prey to horrible misery; it was my duty to seek and save you. Florine’s confessions unveiled to me the new plots of the enemies of my scattered family, dispersed by sorrows and cruel losses; it was my duty to warn them of their danger, and to unite them against the common enemy. I had been the victim of odious manoeuvres: it was my duty to punish their authors, for fear that, encouraged by impunity, these black-gowns should make other victims. Then the sense of duty gave me strength, and I was able to rouse myself from my lethargy. With the help of Abbe Gabriel, a sublime, oh! a sublime priest — the ideal of a true Christian — the worthy brother of Agricola — I courageously entered on the struggle. What shall I say to you, my child? The performance of these duties, the hope of finding you again, have been some relief to me in my trouble. If I was not consoled, I was at least occupied. Your tender friendship, the example of your resignation, will do the rest — I think so — I am sure so — and I shall forget this fatal love.”
At the moment Adrienne pronounced these words, rapid footsteps were heard upon the stairs, and a young, clear voice exclaimed: “Oh! dear me, poor Mother Bunch! How lucky I have come just now! If only I could be of some use to her!”
Almost immediately, Rose-Pompon entered the garret with precipitation. Agricola soon followed the grisette, and pointing to the open window, tried to make Adrienne understand by signs, that she was not to mention to the girl the deplorable end of the Bacchanal Queen. This pantomime was lost on Mdlle. de Cardoville. Adrienne’s heart swelled with grief, indignation, pride, as she recognized the girl she had seen at the Porte Saint-Martin in company with Djalma, and who alone was the cause of the dreadful sufferings she endured since that fatal evening. And, strange irony of fate! it was at the very moment when Adrienne had just made the humiliating and cruel confession of her despised love, that the woman, to whom she believed herself sacrificed, appeared before her.
