by Eugène Sue
CHAPTER XLVI. MOTHER BUNCH'S DIARY.
We have said that the hunchback wrote during a portion of the night,in the book discovered the previous evening by Florine, who had notventured to take it away, until she had informed the persons whoemployed her of its contents, and until she had received their finalorders on the subject. Let us explain the existence of this manuscript,before opening it to the reader. The day on which Mother Bunch firstbecame aware of her love for Agricola, the first word of this manuscripthad been written. Endowed with an essentially trusting character, yetalways feeling herself restrained by the dread of ridicule--a dreadwhich, in its painful exaggeration, was the workgirl's only weakness--towhom could the unfortunate creature have confided the secret of thatfatal passion, if not to paper--that mute confidant of timid andsuffering souls, that patient friend, silent and cold, who, if it makesno reply to heart rending complaints, at least always listens, and neverforgets?
When her heart was overflowing with emotion, sometimes mild and sad,sometimes harsh and bitter, the poor workgirl, finding a melancholycharm in these dumb and solitary outpourings of the soul, now clothed inthe form of simple and touching poetry, and now in unaffected prose,had accustomed herself by degrees not to confine her confidences to whatimmediately related to Agricola, for though he might be mixed up withall her thoughts, for reflections, which the sight of beauty, of happylove, of maternity, of wealth, of misfortune, called up within her, wereso impressed with the influence of her unfortunate personal position,that she would not even have dared to communicate them to him. Such,then, was this journal of a poor daughter of the people, weak, deformed,and miserable, but endowed with an angelic soul, and a fine intellect,improved by reading, meditation, and solitude; pages quite unknown,which yet contained many deep and striking views, both as regard men andthings, taken from the peculiar standpoint in which fate had placedthis unfortunate creature. The following lines, here and there abruptlyinterrupted or stained with tears, according to the current of hervarious emotions, on hearing of Agricola's deep love for Angela, formedthe last pages of this journal:
"Friday, March 3d, 1832.
"I spent the night without any painful dreams. This morning, I rose withno sorrowful presentiment. I was calm and tranquil when Agricola came.He did not appear to me agitated. He was simple and affectionate ashe always is. He spoke to me of events relating to M. Hardy, and then,without transition, without hesitation, he said to me: 'The last fourdays I have been desperately in love. The sentiment is so serious, thatI think of marriage. I have come to consult you about it.' That was howthis overwhelming revelation was made to me--naturally and cordially--Ion one side of the hearth, and Agricola an the other, as if we hadtalked of indifferent things. And yet no more is needed to breakone's heart. Some one enters, embraces you like a brother, sits down,talks--and then--Oh! Merciful heaven! my head wanders.
"I feel calmer now. Courage, my poor heart, courage!--Should a day ofmisfortune again overwhelm me, I will read these lines written under theimpression of the most cruel grief I can ever feel, and I will say tomyself: 'What is the present woe compared to that past?' My grief isindeed cruel! it is illegitimate, ridiculous, shameful: I should notdare to confess it, even to the most indulgent of mothers. Alas!there are some fearful sorrows, which yet rightly make men shrug theirshoulders in pity or contempt. Alas! these are forbidden misfortunes.Agricola has asked me to go to-morrow, to see this young girl to whom heis so passionately attached, and whom he will marry, if the instinct ofmy heart should approve the marriage. This thought is the most painfulof all those which have tortured me since he so pitilessly announcedthis love. Pitilessly? No, Agricola--no, my brother--forgive me thisunjust cry of pain! Is it that you know, can even suspect, that I loveyou better than you love, better than you can ever love, this charmingcreature?
"'Dark-haired--the figure of a nymph--fair as a lily--with blue eyes--aslarge as that--and almost as mild as your own.'
"That is the portrait he drew of her. Poor Agricola! how would he havesuffered, had he known that every one of his words was tearing my heart.Never did I so strongly feel the deep commiseration and tender pity,inspired by a good, affectionate being, who, in the sincerity of hisignorance, gives you your death-wound with a smile. We do not blamehim--no--we pity him to the full extent of the grief that he would feelon learning the pain he had caused me. It is strange! but never didAgricola appear to me more handsome than this morning. His manlycountenance was slightly agitated, as he spoke of the uneasiness of thatpretty young lady. As I listened to him describing the agony of a womanwho runs the risk of ruin for the man she loves, I felt my heartbeat violently, my hands were burning, a soft languor floated overme--Ridiculous folly! As if I had any right to feel thus!
"I remember that, while he spoke, I cast a rapid glance at the glass. Ifelt proud that I was so well dressed; he had not even remarked it; butno matter--it seemed to me that my cap became me, that my hair shonefinely, my gaze beamed mild--I found Agricola so handsome, that I almostbegan to think myself less ugly--no doubt, to excuse myself in my owneyes for daring to love him. After all, what happened to-day would havehappened one day or another! Yes, that is consoling--like the thoughtsthat death is nothing, because it must come at last--to those who arein love with life! I have been always preserved from suicide--the lastresource of the unfortunate, who prefer trusting in God to remainingamongst his creatures--by the sense of duty. One must not only thinkof self. And I reflected also'God is good--always good--since the mostwretched beings find opportunities for love and devotion.' How is itthat I, so weak and poor, have always found means to be helpful anduseful to some one?
"This very day I felt tempted to make an end with life--Agricola andhis mother had no longer need of me.--Yes, but the unfortunate creatureswhom Mdlle. de Cardoville has commissioned me to watch over?--but mybenefactress herself, though she has affectionately reproached me withthe tenacity of my suspicions in regard to that man? I am more than everalarmed for her--I feel that she is more than ever in danger--more thanever--I have faith in the value of my presence near her. Hence, I mustlive. Live--to go to-morrow to see this girl, whom Agricola passionatelyloves? Good heaven! why have I always known grief, and never hate? Theremust be a bitter pleasure in hating. So many people hate!--Perhaps Imay hate this girl--Angela, as he called her, when he said, with so muchsimplicity: 'A charming name, is it not, Mother Bunch?' Compare thisname, which recalls an idea so full of grace, with the ironical symbolof my witch's deformity! Poor Agricola! poor brother! goodnessis sometimes as blind as malice, I see. Should I hate this younggirl?--Why? Did she deprive me of the beauty which charms Agricola? CanI find fault with her for being beautiful? When I was not yet accustomedto the consequences of my ugliness, I asked myself, with bittercuriosity, why the Creator had endowed his creatures so unequally. Thehabit of pain has allowed me to reflect calmly, and I have finished bypersuading myself, that to beauty and ugliness are attached the two mostnoble emotions of the soul--admiration and compassion. Those who arelike me admire beautiful persons--such as Angela, such as Agricola--andthese in their turn feel a couching pity for such as I am. Sometimes, inspite of one's self, one has very foolish hopes. Because Agricola, froma feeling of propriety had never spoken to me of his love affairs, Isometimes persuaded myself that he had none--that he loved me, and thatthe fear of ridicule alone was with him, as with me, an obstacle in theway of confessing it. Yes, I have even made verses on that subject--andthose, I think, not the worst I have written.
"Mine is a singular position! If I love, I am ridiculous; if any loveme, he is still more ridiculous. How did I come so to forget that, as tohave suffered and to suffer what I do?--But blessed be that suffering,since it has not engendered hate--no; for I will not hate this girl--Iwill Perform a sister's part to the last; I will follow the guidance ofmy heart; I have the instinct of preserving others--my heart will leadand enlighten me. My only fear is, that I shall burst into tears whenI see her, and not be able to conquer my emotion. Oh, then! whata
revelation to Agricola--a discovery of the mad love he hasinspired!--Oh, never! the day in which he knew that would be the last ofmy life. There would then be within me something stronger than duty--thelonging to escape from shame--that incurable shame, that burns me like ahot iron. No, no; I will be calm. Besides, did I not just now, whenwith him bear courageously a terrible trial? I will be calm. My personalfeelings must not darken the second sight, so clear for those I love.Oh! painful--painful task! for the fear of yielding involuntarily toevil sentiments must not render me too indulgent toward this girl. Imight compromise Agricola's happiness, since my decision is to guide hischoice. Poor creature that I am. How I deceive myself! Agricola asks myadvice, because he thinks that I shall have not the melancholy courageto oppose his passion; or else he would say to me: 'No matter--I love;and I brave the future!'
"But then, if my advice, if the instincts of my heart, are not to guidehim--if his resolution is taken beforehand--of what use will beto morrow's painful mission? Of what use? To obey him. Did he notsay--'Come!' In thinking of my devotion for him, how many times, in thesecret depths of my heart, I have asked myself if the thought had everoccurred to him to love me otherwise than as a sister; if it had everstruck him, what a devoted wife he would have in me! And why shouldit have occurred to him? As long as he wished, as long as he may stillwish, I have been, and I shall be, as devoted to him, as if I were hiswife, sister, or mother. Why should he desire what he already possesses?
"Married to him--oh, God!--the dream is mad as ineffable. Are not suchthoughts of celestial sweetness--which include all sentiments fromsisterly to maternal love--forbidden to me, on pain of ridicule asdistressing as if I wore dresses and ornaments, that my ugliness anddeformity would render absurd? I wonder, if I were now plunged into themost cruel distress, whether I should suffer as much as I do, on hearingof Agricola's intended marriage? Would hunger, cold, or misery diminishthis dreadful dolor?--or is it the dread pain that would make me forgethunger, cold, and misery?
"No, no; this irony is bitter. It is not well in me to speak thus. Whysuch deep grief? In what way have the affection, the esteem, the respectof Agricola, changed towards me? I complain--but how would it be, kindheaven! if, as, alas! too often happens, I were beautiful, loving,devoted, and he had chosen another, less beautiful, less loving, lessdevoted?--Should I not be a thousand times more unhappy? for then Imight, I would have to blame him--whilst now I can find no fault withhim, for never having thought of a union which was impossible, becauseridiculous. And had he wished it, could I ever have had the selfishnessto consent to it? I began to write the first pages of this diary as Ibegan these last, with my heart steeped in bitterness--and as I went on,committing to paper what I could have intrusted to no one, my soul grewcalm, till resignation came--Resignation, my chosen saint, who, smilingthrough her tears, suffers and loves, but hopes--never!"
These word's were the last in the journal. It was clear, from the blotsof abundant tears, that the unfortunate creature had often paused toweep.
In truth, worn out by so many emotions, Mother Bunch late in the night,had replaced the book behind the cardboard box, not that she thought itsafer there than elsewhere (she had no suspicion of the slightest needfor such precaution), but because it was more out of the way there thanin any of the drawers, which she frequently opened in presence of otherpeople. Determined to perform her courageous promise, and worthilyaccomplish her task to the end, she waited the next day for Agricola,and firm in her heroic resolution, went with the smith to M. Hardy'sfactory. Florine, informed of her departure, but detained a portionof the day in attendance on Mdlle. de Cardoville preferred waiting fornight to perform the new orders she had asked and received, since shehad communicated by letter the contents of Mother Bunch's journal.Certain not to be surprised, she entered the workgirls' chamber, as soonas the night was come.
Knowing the place where she should find the manuscript, she wentstraight to the desk, took out the box, and then, drawing from herpocket a sealed letter, prepared to leave it in the place of themanuscript, which she was to carry away with her. So doing, she trembledso much, that she was obliged to support herself an instant by thetable. Every good sentiment was not extinct in Florine's heart; sheobeyed passively the orders she received, but she felt painfullyhow horrible and infamous was her conduct. If only herself had beenconcerned, she would no doubt have had the courage to risk all, ratherthan submit to this odious despotism; but unfortunately, it was not so,and her ruin would have caused the mortal despair of another person whomshe loved better than life itself. She resigned herself, therefore, notwithout cruel anguish, to abominable treachery.
Though she hardly ever knew for what end she acted, and this wasparticularly the case with regard to the abstraction of the journal,she foresaw vaguely, that the substitution of this sealed letter forthe manuscript would have fatal consequences for Mother Bunch, for sheremembered Rodin's declaration, that "it was time to finish with theyoung sempstress."
What did he mean by those words? How would the letter that she wascharged to put in the place of the diary, contribute to bring aboutthis result? she did not know--but she understood that the clear-sighteddevotion of the hunchback justly alarmed the enemies of Mdlle. deCardoville, and that she (Florine) herself daily risked having herperfidy detected by the young needlewoman. This last fear put an end tothe hesitations of Florine; she placed the letter behind the box, and,hiding the manuscript under her apron, cautiously withdrew from thechamber.
