by Eugène Sue
CHAPTER XLV. THE CONSULTATION.
It is night. It has just struck nine. It is the evening of that dayon which Mdlle. de Cardoville first found herself in the presence ofDjalma. Florine, pale, agitated, trembling, with a candle in her hand,had just entered a bedroom, plainly but comfortably furnished. This roomwas one of the apartments occupied by Mother Bunch, in Adrienne's house.They were situated on the ground-floor, and had two entrances. Oneopened on the garden, and the other on the court-yard. From this sidecame the persons who applied to the workgirl for succor; an ante-chamberin which they waited, a parlor in which they were received, constitutedMother Bunch's apartments, along with the bedroom, which Florinehad just entered, looking about her with an anxious and alarmed air,scarcely touching the carpet with the tips of her satin shoes, holdingher breath, and listening at the least noise.
Placing the candle upon the chimney-piece, she took a rapid surveyof the chamber, and approached the mahogany desk, surmounted by awell-filled bookcase. The key had been left in the drawers of thispiece of furniture, and they were all three examined by Florine. Theycontained different petitions from persons in distress, and various,notes in the girl's handwriting. This was not what Florine wanted. Threecardboard boxes were placed in pigeon-holes beneath the bookcase. Thesealso were vainly explored, and Florine, with a gesture of vexation,looked and listened anxiously; then, seeing a chest of drawers, shemade therein a fresh and useless search. Near the foot of the bed wasa little door, leading to a dressing-room. Florine entered it, andlooked--at first without success--into a large wardrobe, in which weresuspended several black dresses, recently made for Mother Bunch,by order of Mdlle. de Cardoville. Perceiving, at the bottom of thiswardrobe, half hidden beneath a cloak, a very shabby little trunk,Florine opened it hastily, and found there, carefully folded up, thepoor old garments in which the work-girl had been clad when she firstentered this opulent mansion.
Florine started--an involuntary emotion contracted her features; butconsidering that she had not liberty to indulge her feelings, but onlyto obey Rodin's implacable orders, she hastily closed both trunk andwardrobe, and leaving the dressing-room, returned into the bed-chamber.After having again examined the writing-stand, a sudden idea occurred toher. Not content with once more searching the cardboard boxes, she drewout one of them from the pigeon-hole, hoping to find what she soughtbehind the box: her first attempt failed, but the second was moresuccessful. She found behind the middle box a copy-book of considerablethickness. She started in surprise, for she had expected something else;yet she took the manuscript, opened it, and rapidly turned overthe leaves. After having perused several pages, she manifested hersatisfaction, and seemed as if about to put the book in her pocket; butafter a moment's reflection, she replaced it where she had found it,arranged everything in order, took her candle, and quitted the apartmentwithout being discovered--of which, indeed, she had felt pretty sure,knowing that Mother Bunch would be occupied with Mdlle. de Cardovillefor some hours.
The day after Florine's researches, Mother Bunch, alone in her bedchamber, was seated in an arm-chair, close to a good fire. A thickcarpet covered the floor; through the window-curtains could be seen thelawn of a large garden; the deep silence was only interrupted by theregular ticking of a clock, and the crackling of the wood. Herhands resting on the arms of the chair, she gave way to a feeling ofhappiness, such as she had never so completely enjoyed since she tookup her residence at the hotel. For her, accustomed so long to cruelprivations, there was a kind of inexpressible charm in the calm silenceof this retreat--in the cheerful aspect of the garden, and above all, inthe consciousness that she was indebted for this comfortable position,to the resignation and energy she had displayed, in the thick of themany severe trials which now ended so happily. An old woman, with a mildand 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 inwhich was Agricola.
"Good-morning, dear sister," said the smith, cordially embracing theyoung girl, whose cheeks burned crimson beneath those fraternal kisses.
"Ah, me!" cried the sempstress on a sudden, as she looked anxiouslyat Agricola; "what is that black band on your forehead? You have beenwounded!"
"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 ofimportance to communicate."
"Come into my room, then; we shall be alone," Mother Bunch, as she wentbefore Agricola.
Notwithstanding the expression of uneasiness which was visible on thecountenance of Agricola, he could not forbear smiling with pleasure ashe 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! whata 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 (veryplain), which she said I need not hesitate to accept, as it had no othervalue but that of having been worn by her mother! You can't tell howmuch I was affected by the delicacy of this gift!"
"Nothing must astonish you from a heart like hers," answered thehunchback. "But the wound--the wound?"
"Presently, my good sister; I have so many things to tell you. Let usbegin by what is most pressing, for I want you to give me some goodadvice in a very serious case. You know how much confidence I have inyour excellent heart and judgment. And then, I have to ask of you aservice--oh! a great service," added the smith, in an earnest, andalmost solemn tone, which astonished his hearer. "Let us begin with whatis not personal to myself."
"Speak quickly."
"Since my mother went with Gabriel to the little country curacy he hasobtained, and since my father lodges with Marshal Simon and the youngladies, 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 tellyou that M. Hardy, who has lately returned from a journey, is againabsent for a few days on business. This morning, then, at the hour ofbreakfast, I remained at work a little after the last stroke of thebell; I was leaving the workshop to go to our eating-room, when I sawentering 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 hada mild and pretty countenance, and her dress was that of a fashionablelady. Struck with her paleness, and her anxious, frightened air, I askedher 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. Hardydid not come hither yesterday evening? Was he not dangerously wounded bysome of the machinery?' As she said these words, the poor young lady'slips trembled, and I saw large tears standing in her eyes. 'Thank God,madame! all this is entirely false,' said I, 'for M. Hardy hasnot returned, and indeed is only expected by to-morrow or the dayafter.'--'You are quite sure that he has not returned! quite sure thathe is not hurt?' resumed the pretty young lady, drying her eyes.--'Quitesure, madame; if M. Hardy were in danger, I should not be so quiet intalking to you about him.'--'Oh! thank God! thank God!' cried the younglady. Then she expressed to me her gratitude, with so happy, so feelingan air, that I was quite touched by it. But suddenly, as if then onlyshe felt ashamed of the step she had taken, she let down her veil, leftme precipitately, went out of the court-yard, and got once more into thehackney-coach that had brought her. I said to myself: 'This is a ladywho takes great interest in M. Hardy, and has been alarmed by a falsereport."'
"She loves him, doubtless," said Mother Bunch, much moved, "and, inher anxiety, she perhaps committed an act of imprudence, in coming toinquire after him."
"It is only t
oo true. I saw her get into the coach with interests, forher emotion had infected me. The coach started--and what did I see a fewseconds after? A cab, which the young lady could not have perceived, forit had been hidden by an angle of the wall; and, as it turned round thecorner, I distinguished perfectly a man seated by the driver's side, andmaking 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. Thecoach continued its course. The cab soon came up with me; I saw, bythe side of the driver, a great, fat, ruddy man, who, having watched merunning after the coach, no doubt suspected something, for he looked atme somewhat uneasily."
"And when does M. Hardy return?" asked the hunchback.
"To-morrow, or the day after. Now, my good sister, advise me. It isevident that this young lady loves M. Hardy. She is probably married,for she looked so embarrassed when she spoke to me, and she uttereda cry of terror on learning that she was followed. What shall I do? Iwished to ask advice of Father Simon, but he is so very strict in suchmatters--and then a love affair, at his age!--while you are so delicateand sensible, my good sister, that you will understand it all."
The girl started, and smiled bitterly; Agricola did not perceive it, andthus continued: "So I said to myself, 'There is only Mother Bunch, whocan give me good advice.' Suppose M. Hardy returns to-morrow, shall Itell him what has passed or not?"
"Wait a moment," cried the other, suddenly interrupting Agricola, andappearing to recollect something; "when I went to St. Mary's Convent, toask for work of the superior, she proposed that I should be employed bythe day, in a house in which I was to watch or, in other words, to actas a spy--"
"What a wretch!"
"And do you know," said the girl, "with whom I was to begin this odioustrade? Why, with a Madame de-Fremont, or de Bremont, I do not rememberwhich, 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 waspronounced by the superior. Since that day, so many other events havetaken place, that I had almost forgotten the circumstance. But it isprobable that this young lady is the one of whom I heard speak at theconvent."
"And what interest had the superior of the convent to set a spy uponher?" 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, isdiscovered and dishonored. Oh! it is dreadful!" Then, seeing Agricolastart suddenly, Mother Bunch added: "What, then, is the matter?"
"Yes--why not?" said the smith, speaking to himself; "why may not allthis be the work of the same hand? The superior of a convent may have aprivate understanding with an abbe--but, then, for what end?"
"Explain yourself, Agricola," said the girl. "And then,--where did youget your wound? Tell me that, I conjure you."
"It is of my wound that I am just going to speak; for in truth, themore I think of it, the more this adventure of the young lady seems toconnect itself with other facts."
"How so?"
"You must know that, for the last few days, singular things are passingin the neighborhood of our factory. First, as we are in Lent, an abbefrom Paris (a tall, fine-looking man, they say) has come to preach inthe little village of Villiers, which is only a quarter of a league fromour works. The abbe has found occasion to slander and attack M. Hardy inhis sermons."
"How is that?"
"M. Hardy has printed certain rules with regard to our work, and therights and benefits he grants us. These rules are followed by variousmaxims as noble as they are simple; with precepts of brotherly love suchas all the world can understand, extracted from different philosophiesand different religions. But because M. Hardy has chosen what is best inall 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 damnablecorruption, because, on Sundays, instead of going to listen to hissermons, or to drink at a tavern, our comrades, with their wives andchildren, pass their time in cultivating their little gardens, inreading, singing in chorus, or dancing together in the common dwellinghouse. The abbe has even gone so far as to say, that the neighborhoodof such an assemblage of atheists, as he calls us, might draw down theanger of Heaven upon the country--that the hovering of Cholera was muchtalked of, and that very possibly, thanks to our impious presence, theplague 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 otheragitators, show themselves hostile to the workmen of our factory. Theirhatred, or at least their envy, has been turned to account. Seeingus live all together, well lodged, well warmed, and comfortably clad,active, gay, and laborious, their jealousy has been embittered by thesermons, and by the secret manoeuvres of some depraved characters,who are known to be bad workmen, in the employment of M. Tripeaud, ouropposition. All this excitement is beginning to bear fruit; there havebeen already two or three fights between us and our neighbors. It was inone 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 notconfined themselves to preaching. They have brought into play somethingfar more dangerous."
"What is that?"
"I, and nearly all my comrades, did our part in the three Revolutionarydays of July; but we are not eager at present, for good reasons, to takeup arms again. That is not everybody's opinion; well, we do not blameothers, but we have our own ideas; and Father Simon, who is as brave ashis 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 thecourts, printed papers to this effect: 'You are selfish cowards; becausechance has given you a good master, you remain indifferent to themisfortunes of your brothers, and to the means of freeing them; materialcomforts have enervated your hearts.'"
"Dear me, Agricola! what frightful perseverance in wickedness!"
"Yes! and unfortunately these devices have their effect on some ofour younger mates. As the appeal was, after all, to proud and generoussentiments, it has had some influence. Already, seeds of division haveshown themselves in our workshops, where, before, all were united asbrothers. A secret agitation now reigns there. Cold suspicion takes theplace, with some, of our accustomed cordiality. Now, if I tell you thatI am nearly sure these printed papers, thrown over the walls of ourfactory, to raise these little sparks of discord amongst us, have beenscattered about by the emissaries of this same preaching abbe--wouldit not seem from all this, taken in conjunction with what happened thismorning to the young lady, that M. Hardy has of late numerous enemies?"
"Like you, I think it very fearful, Agricola," said the girl; "and itis so serious, that M. Hardy alone can take a proper decision on thesubject. As for what happened this morning to the young lady, it appearsto me, that, immediately on M. Hardy's return, you should ask for aninterview 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 hissecrets?"
"If the young lady had not been followed, I should have shared yourscruples. But she
was watched, and is evidently in danger. It istherefore, in my opinion, your duty to warn M. Hardy. Suppose (which isnot improbable) that the lady is married; would it not be better, for athousand reasons, that M. Hardy should know all?"
"You are right, my good sister; I will follow your advice. M. Hardyshall know everything. But now that we have spoken of others, I have tospeak of myself--yes, of myself--for it concerns a matter, on which maydepend the happiness of my whole life," added the smith, in a tone ofseriousness, which struck his hearer. "You know," proceeded Agricola,after a moment's silence, "that, from my childhood, I have neverconcealed anything from you--that I have told you everything--absolutelyeverything?"
"I know it, Agricola, I know it," said the hunchback, stretching out herwhite and slender hand to the smith, who grasped it cordially, and thuscontinued: "When I say everything, I am not quite exact--for I havealways concealed from you my little love-affairs--because, though we maytell almost anything to a sister, there are subjects of which we oughtnot 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 thegrief she felt; "I thank you."
"But for the very reason, that I made it a duty never to speak to youof such love affairs, I said to myself, if ever it should happen that Ihave 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, mygood 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 andears in love, and I think of marriage."
At these words of Agricola, poor Mother Bunch felt herself for aninstant paralyzed. It seemed as if all her blood was suddenly frozen inher veins. For some seconds, she thought she was going to die. Her heartceased to beat; she felt it, not breaking, but melting away to nothing.Then, the first blasting emotion over, like those martyrs who found, inthe very excitement of pain, the terrible power to smile in the midstof tortures, the unfortunate girl found, in the fear of betraying thesecret of her fatal and ridiculous love, almost incredible energy. Sheraised her head, looked at the smith calmly, almost serenely, and saidto him in a firm voice: "Ah! so, you truly love?"
"That is to say, my good sister, that, for the last four days, Iscarcely 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 largeas 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 prettyone! Is it not, my good Mother Bunch?"
"A charming name," said the poor girl, contrasting bitterly thatgraceful appellation with her own nickname, which the thoughtlessAgricola applied to her without thinking of it. Then she resumed, withfearful calmness: "Angela? yes, it is a charming name!"
"Well, then! imagine to yourself, that this name is not only suited toher face, but to her heart. In a word, I believe her heart to be almostequal to yours."
"She has my eyes--she has my heart," said Mother Bunch, smiling. "It issingular, 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 youthink, my good girl, that I could ever have fallen seriously in lovewith any one, who had not in character, heart, and mind, much of you?"
"Come, brother," said the girl, smiling--yes, the unfortunate creaturehad the strength to smile; "come, brother, you are in a gallant veinto day. Where did you make the acquaintance of this beautiful youngperson?"
"She is only the sister of one of my mates. Her mother is the headlaundress in our common dwelling, and as she was in want of assistance,and we always take in preference the relations of members of theassociation, Mrs. Bertin (that's the mother's name) sent for herdaughter 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 firstevening I saw her, I passed three hours, after work was over, in talkingwith her, and her mother and brother; and the next day, I felt that myheart was gone; the day after that, the feeling was only stronger--andnow I am quite mad about her, and resolved on marriage--according as youshall 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 yourheart. Many times, you have said to me: 'Agricola, love this person,love that person, have confidence in that other'--and never yet were youdeceived. Well! you must now render me the same service. You will askpermission of Mdlle. de Cardoville to absent yourself; I will take youto the factory: I have spoken of you to Mrs. Benin and her daughter,as of a beloved sister; and, according to your impression at sightof Angela, I will declare myself or not. This may be childishness, orsuperstition, on my part; but I am so made."
"Be it so," answered Mother Bunch, with heroic courage; "I will seeMdlle. 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 letyou know."
"Thanks, my good sister!" said Agricola warmly; then he added, with asmile: "Bring your best judgment with you--your full dress judgment."
"Do not make a jest of it, brother," said Mother Bunch, in a mild, sadvoice; "it is a serious matter, for it concerns the happiness of yourwhole life."
At this moment, a modest knock was heard at the door. "Come in," saidMother 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 amoment, Agricola. I will ask Mdlle. de Cardoville what day I can disposeof, and I will come and tell you." So saying, the girl went out, leavingAgricola 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 today. I am sure, that as soon as she is better, she will be quite pleasedto see you."
Here Mother Bunch returned, and said to Agricola: "If you can come forme to-morrow, about three o'clock, so as not to lose the whole day, wewill 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, MotherBunch, who had remained till ten o'clock with Mdlle. de Cardoville, reentered her bedchamber, locked the door after her, and finding herselfat length free and unrestrained, threw herself on her knees before achair, and burst into tears. She wept long--very long. When her tears atlength ceased to flow, she dried her eyes, approached the writing-desk,drew out one of the boxes from the pigeonhole, and, taking from thishiding-place the manuscript which Florine had so rapidly glanced overthe evening before, she wrote in it during a portion of the night.
