by Eugène Sue
CHAPTER XLVII. THE DIARY CONTINUED.
Returned into her own room, some hours after she had concealed there themanuscript abstracted from Mother Bunch's apartment, Florine yieldedto her curiosity, and determined to look through it. She soon felt agrowing interest, an involuntary emotion, as she read more of theseprivate thoughts of the young sempstress. Among many pieces of verse,which all breathed a passionate love for Agricola--a love so deep,simple, and sincere, that Florine was touched by it, and forgot theauthor's deformity--among many pieces of verse, we say, were diversother fragments, thoughts, and narratives, relating to a variety offacts. We shall quote some of them, in order to explain the profoundimpression that their perusal made upon Florine.
Fragments from the Diary.
"This is my birthday. Until this evening, I had cherished a foolishhope. Yesterday, I went down to Mrs. Baudoin's, to dress a little woundshe had on her leg. When I entered the room, Agricola was there. Nodoubt he was talking of me to his mother, for they stopped when I camein, and exchanged a meaning smile. In passing by the drawers, I saw apasteboard box, with a pincushion-lid, and I felt myself blushingwith joy, as I thought this little present was destined for me, butI pretended not to see it. While I was on my knees before his mother,Agricola went out. I remarked that he took the little box with him.Never has Mrs. Baudoin been more tender and motherly than she was thatmorning. It appeared to me that she went to bed earlier than usual.'It is to send me away sooner,' said I to myself, 'that I may enjoythe surprise Agricola has prepared for me.' How my heart beat, as I ranfast, very fast, up to my closet! I stopped a moment before opening thedoor, that my happiness might last the longer. At last I entered theroom, my eyes swimming with tears of joy. I looked upon my table, mychair, my bed--there was nothing. The little box was not to be found. Myheart sank within me. Then I said to myself: 'It will be to-morrow--thisis only the eve of my birthday.' The day is gone. Evening is come.Nothing. The pretty box was not for me. It had a pincushion-cover. Itwas only suited for a woman. To whom has Agricola given it?
"I suffer a good deal just now. It was a childish idea that I connectedwith Agricola's wishing me many happy returns of the day. I am ashamedto confess it; but it might have proved to me, that he has not forgottenI have another name besides that of Mother Bunch, which they alwaysapply to me. My susceptibility on this head is unfortunately sostubborn, that I cannot help feeling a momentary pang of mingled shameand sorrow, every time that I am called by that fairy-tale name, andyet I have had no other from infancy. It is for that very reason that Ishould have been so happy if Agricola had taken this opportunity to callme for once by my own humble name--Magdalen. Happily, he will never knowthese wishes and regrets!"
Deeper and deeper touched by this page of simple grief, Florine turnedover several leaves, and continued:
"I have just been to the funeral of poor little Victorine Herbin, ourneighbor. Her father, a journeyman upholsterer, is gone to work by themonth, far from Paris. She died at nineteen, without a relation nearher. Her agony was not long. The good woman who attended her to thelast, told us that she only pronounced these words: 'At last, oh atlast!' and that with an air of satisfaction, added the nurse. Dearchild! she had become so pitiful. At fifteen, she was a rosebud--sopretty, so fresh-looking, with her light hair as soft as silk; but shewasted away by degrees--her trade of renovating mattresses killed her.She was slowly poisoned by the emanations from the wool.(26) They wereall the worse, that she worked almost entirely for the poor, who havecheap stuff to lie upon.
"She had the courage of a lion, and an angel's resignation, She alwayssaid to me, in her low, faint voice, broken by a dry and frequent cough:'I have not long to live, breathing, as I do, lime and vitriol all daylong. I spit blood, and have spasms that make me faint.'
"'Why not change your trade?' have I said to her.
"'Where will I find the time to make another apprenticeship?' she wouldanswer; 'and it is now too late. I feel that I am done for. It is not myfault,' added the good creature, 'for I did not choose my employment.My father would have it so; luckily he can do without me. And then, yousee, when one is dead, one cares for nothing, and has no fear of "slopwages."'
"Victorine uttered that sad, common phrase very sincerely, and with asort of satisfaction. Therefore she died repeating: 'At last!'
"It is painful to think that the labor by which the poor man earns hisdaily bread, often becomes a long suicide! I said this the other day toAgricola; he answered me that there were many other fatal employments;those who prepare aquafortis, white lead, or minium, for instance, aresure to take incurable maladies of which they die.
"'Do you know,' added Agricola, 'what they say when they start for thosefatal works?'--Why, 'We are going to the slaughter-house.'
"That made me tremble with its terrible truth.
"'And all this takes place in our day,' said I to him, with an achingheart; 'and it is well-known. And, out of so many of the rich andpowerful, no one thinks of the mortality which decimates his brothers,thus forced to eat homicidal bread!'
"'What can you expect, my poor sister,' answered Agricola. 'When men areto be incorporated, that they may get killed in war, all pains are takenwith them. But when they are to be organized, so as to live in peace,no one cares about it, except M. Hardy, my master. People say, 'Pooh!hunger, misery, and suffering of the laboring classes--what is that tous? that is not politics.' 'They are wrong,' added Agricola; 'IT IS MORETHAN POLITICS.'
"As Victorine had not left anything to pay for the church service, therewas only the presentation of the body under the porch; for there is noteven a plain mass for the poor. Besides, as they could not give eighteenfrancs to the curate, no priest accompanied the pauper's coffin to thecommon grave. If funerals, thus abridged and cut short, are sufficientin a religious point of view, why invent other and longer forms? Is itfrom cupidity?--If, on the other hand, they are not sufficient, whymake the poor man the only victim of this insufficiency? But why troubleourselves about the pomp, the incense, the chants, of which they areeither too sparing or too liberal? Of what use? and for what purpose?They are vain, terrestrial things, for which the soul recks nothing,when, radiant, it ascends towards its Creator. Yesterday, Agricola mademe read an article in a newspaper, in which violent blame and bitterirony are by turns employed, to attack what they call the banefultendencies of some of the lower orders, to improve themselves, to write,to read the poets, and sometimes to make verses. Material enjoymentsare forbidden us by poverty. Is it humane to reproach us for seeking theenjoyments of the mind? What harm can it do any one if every evening,after a day's toil, remote from all pleasure, I amuse myself, unknown toall, in making a few verses, or in writing in this journal the good orbad impressions I have received? Is Agricola the worse workman, because,on returning home to his mother, he employs Sunday in composing some ofthose popular songs, which glorify the fruitful labors of the artisan,and say to all, Hope and brotherhood! Does he not make a more worthy useof his time than if he spent it in a tavern? Ah! those who blame us forthese innocent and noble diversions, which relieve our painful toils andsufferings, deceive themselves when they think, that, in proportion asthe intellect is raised and refined, it is more difficult to bear withprivations and misery, and that so the irritation increases against theluckier few.
"Admitting even this to be the case--and it is not so--is it not betterto have an intelligent, enlightened enemy, to whose heart and reason youmay address yourself, than a stupid, ferocious, implacable foe? But no;enmities disappear as the mind becomes enlightened, and the horizonof compassion extends itself. We thus learn to understand moralafflictions. We discover that the rich also have to suffer intensepains, and that brotherhood in misfortune is already a link of sympathy.Alas! they also have to mourn bitterly for idolized children, belovedmistresses, reverend mothers; with them, also, especially amongst thewomen, there are, in the height of luxury and grandeur, many brokenhearts, many suffering souls, many tears shed in secret. Let them not bealarmed. By beco
ming their equals in intelligence, the people will learnto pity the rich, if good and unhappy--and to pity them still more ifrejoicing in wickedness.
"What happiness! what a joyful day! I am giddy with delight. Oh, truly,man is good, humane, charitable. Oh, yes! the Creator has implantedwithin him every generous instinct--and, unless he be a monstrousexception, he never does evil willingly. Here is what I saw just now. Iwill not wait for the evening to write it down, for my heart would, asit were, have time to cool. I had gone to carry home some work that waswanted in a hurry. I was passing the Place du Temple. A few steps fromme I saw a child, about twelve years old at most, with bare head, andfeet, in spite of the severe weather, dressed in a shabby, ragged smockfrock and trousers, leading by the bridle a large cart-horse, with hisharness still on. From time to time the horse stopped short, and refusedto advance. The child, who had no whip, tugged in vain at the bridle.The horse remained motionless. Then the poor little fellow cried out:'O dear, O dear!' and began to weep bitterly, looking round him as ifto implore the assistance of the passers-by. His dear little face wasimpressed with so heart piercing a sorrow, that, without reflecting, Imade an attempt at which I can now only smile, I must have presented sogrotesque a figure. I am horribly afraid of horses, and I am still moreafraid of exposing myself to public gaze. Nevertheless, I took courage,and, having an umbrella in my hand, I approached the horse, and with theimpetuosity of an ant that strives to move a large stone with a littlepiece of straw, I struck with all my strength on the croup of therebellious animal. 'Oh, thanks, my good lady!' exclaimed the child,drying his eyes: 'hit him again, if you please. Perhaps he will get up.'
"I began again, heroically; but, alas! either from obstinacy orlaziness, the horse bent his knees, and stretched himself out upon theground; then, getting entangled with his harness, he tore it, and brokehis great wooden collar. I had drawn back quickly, for fear of receivinga kick. Upon this new disaster, the child could only throw himself onhis knees in the middle of the street, clasping his hands and sobbing,and exclaiming in a voice of despair: 'Help! help!'
"The call was heard; several of the passers-by gathered round, and amore efficacious correction than mine was administered to the restivehorse, who rose in a vile state, and without harness.
"'My master will beat me,' cried the poor child, as his tears redoubled;'I am already two hours after time, for the horse would not go, and nowhe has broken his harness. My master will beat me, and turn me away. Ohdear! what will become of me! I have no father nor mother.'
"At these words, uttered with a heart-rending accent, a worthy oldclothes-dealer of the Temple, who was amongst the spectators, exclaimed,with a kindly air: 'No father nor mother! Do not grieve so, my poorlittle fellow; the Temple can supply everything. We will mend theharness, and, if my gossips are like me, you shall not go awaybareheaded or barefooted in such weather as this.'
"This proposition was greeted with acclamation; they led away both horseand child; some were occupied in mending the harness, then one supplieda cap, another a pair of stockings, another some shoes, and anothera good jacket; in a quarter of an hour the child was warmly clad, theharness repaired, and a tall lad of eighteen, brandishing a whip, whichhe cracked close to the horse's ears, by way of warning, said to thelittle boy, who, gazing first at his new clothes, and then at the goodwoman, believed himself the hero of a fairy-tale. 'Where does yourgovernor live, little 'un?'
"'On the Quai du Canal-Saint-Martin, sir,' answered he, in a voicetrembling with joy.
"'Very good,' said the young man, 'I will help you take home the horse,who will go well enough with me, and I will tell the master that thedelay was no fault of your'n. A balky horse ought not to be trusted to achild of your age.'
"At the moment of setting out, the poor little fellow said timidly tothe good dame, as he took off his cap to her: 'Will you let me kiss you,ma'am?'
"His eyes were full of tears of gratitude. There was heart in thatchild. This scene of popular charity gave me delightful emotions. Aslong as I could, I followed with my eyes the tall young man and thechild, who now could hardly keep up with the pace of the horse, renderedsuddenly docile by fear of the whip.
"Yes! I repeat it with pride; man is naturally good and helpful.Nothing could have been more spontaneous than this movement of pity andtenderness in the crowd, when the poor little fellow exclaimed: 'Whatwill become of me? I have no father or mother!'
"'Unfortunate child!' said I to myself. 'No father nor mother. In thehands of a brutal master, who hardly covers him with a few rags, andill treats him into the bargain. Sleeping, no doubt in the corner ofa stable. Poor little, fellow! and yet so mild and good, in spite ofmisery and misfortune. I saw it--he was even more grateful than pleasedat the service done him. But perhaps this good natural disposition,abandoned without support or counsel, or help, and exasperated by badtreatment, may become changed and embittered--and then will come the ageof the passions--the bad temptations--'
"Oh! in the deserted poor, virtue is doubly saintly and respectable!
"This morning, after having (as usual) gently reproached me for notgoing to mass, Agricola's mother said to me these words, so touching inher simple and believing mouth, 'Luckily, I pray for you and myself too,my poor girl; the good God will hear me, and you will only go, I hope,to Purgatory.'
"Good mother; angelic soul! she spoke those words in so grave and milda tone, with so strong a faith in the happy result of her piousintercession, that I felt my eyes become moist, and I threw myself onher neck, as sincerely grateful as if I had believed in Purgatory. Thisday has been a lucky one for me. I hope I have found work, which luck Ishall owe to a young person full of heart and goodness, she is to takeme to-morrow to St. Mary's Convent, where she thinks she can find meemployment."
Florine, already much moved by the reading, started at this passage inwhich Mother Bunch alluded to her, ere she continued as follows:
"Never shall I forget with what touching interest, what delicatebenevolence, this handsome young girl received me, so poor, and sounfortunate. It does not astonish me, for she is attached to the personof Mdlle. de Cardoville. She must be worthy to reside with Agricola'sbenefactress. It will always be dear and pleasant to me to rememberher name. It is graceful and pretty as her face; it is Florine. I amnothing, I have nothing--but if the fervent prayers of a grateful heartmight be heard, Mdlle. Florine would be happy, very happy. Alas! I amreduced to say prayers for her--only prayers--for I can do nothing butremember and love her!"
These lines, expressing so simply the sincere gratitude of thehunchback, gave the last blow to Florine's hesitations. She could nolonger resist the generous temptation she felt. As she read these lastfragments of the journal, her affection and respect for Mother Bunchmade new progress. More than ever she felt how infamous it was in herto expose to sarcasms and contempt the most secret thoughts of thisunfortunate creature. Happily, good is often as contagious as evil.Electrified by all that was warm, noble, and magnanimous in the pagesshe had just read, Florine bathed her failing virtue in that pure andvivifying source, and, yielding, at last to one of those good impulseswhich sometimes carried her away, she left the room with the manuscriptin her hand, determined, if Mother Bunch had not yet returned, toreplace it--resolved to tell Rodin that, this second time, her searchfor the journal had been vain, the sempstress having no doubt discoveredthe first attempt.
(26) In the Ruche Populaire, a working man's organ, are the followingparticulars:
"Carding Mattresses.--The dust which flies out of the wool makes cardingdestructive to health in any case, but trade adulterations enhance thedanger. In sticking sheep, the skin gets blood-spotted; it has to bebleached to make it salable. Lime is the main whitener, and some of itclings to the wool after the process. The dresser (female, most often)breathes in the fine dust, and, by lung and other complaints, is farfrom seldom deplorably situated; the majority sicken of it and give upthe trade, while those who keep to it, at the very least, suffer with acatarrh or asthma that torments
them until death.
"As for horsehair, the very best is not pure. You can judge what theinferior quality is, from the workgirls calling it vitriol hair, becauseit is the refuse or clippings from goats and swine, washed in vitriol,boiled in dyes, etc., to burn and disguise such foreign bodies as straw.thorns, splinters, and even bits of skin, not worth picking out. Thedust rising when a mass of this is beaten, makes as many ravages as thelime-wool."
