The Wandering Jew — Complete
and the hunchback's black dress, increased her apparent paleness. Seated
in an arm-chair by the side of the fire, with her head resting upon her
bosom, her hands crossed upon her knees, the work-girl's countenance
was melancholy and resigned; on it was visible the austere satisfaction
which is felt by the consciousness of a duty well performed.
Like all those who, brought up in the merciless school of misfortune, no
longer exaggerate the sentiment of sorrow, too familiar and assiduous
a guest to be treated as a stranger, Mother Bunch was incapable of
long yielding to idle regrets and vain despair, with regard to what
was already past. Beyond doubt, the blow had been sudden, dreadful;
doubtless it must leave a long and painful remembrance in the sufferer's
soul; but it was soon to pass, as it were, into that chronic state of
pain-durance, which had become almost an integral part of her life.
And then this noble creature, so indulgent to fate, found still some
consolations in the intensity of her bitter pain. She had been deeply
touched by the marks of affection shown her by Angela, Agricola's
intended: and she had felt a species of pride of the heart, in
perceiving with what blind confidence, with what ineffable joy, the
smith accepted the favorable presentiments which seemed to consecrate
his happiness. Mother Bunch also said to herself: "At least, henceforth
I shall not be agitated by hopes, or rather by suppositions as
ridiculous as they were senseless. Agricola's marriage puts a term to
all the miserable reveries of my poor head."
Finally, she found a real and deep consolation in the certainty that
she had been able to go through this terrible trial, and conceal from
Agricola the love she felt for him. We know how formidable to this
unfortunate being were those ideas of ridicule and shame, which she
believed would attach to the discovery of her mad passion. After having
remained for some time absorbed in thought, Mother Bunch rose, and
advanced slowly towards the desk.
"My only recompense," said she, as she prepared the materials for
writing, "will be to entrust the mute witness of my pains with this new
grief. I shall at least have kept the promise that I made to myself.
Believing, from the bottom of my soul, that this girl is able to make
Agricola happy, I told him so with the utmost sincerity. One day, a long
time hence, when I shall read over these pages, I shall perhaps find in
that a compensation for all that I now suffer."
So saying, she drew the box from the pigeon-hole. Not finding her
manuscript, she uttered a cry of surprise; but, what was her alarm, when
she perceived a letter to her address in the place of the journal! She
became deadly pale; her knees trembled; she almost fainted away. But her
increasing terror gave her a fictitious energy, and she had the strength
to break the seal. A bank-note for five hundred francs fell from the
letter on the table, and Mother Bunch read as follows:
"Mademoiselle,--There is something so original and amusing in reading in
your memoirs the story of your love for Agricola, that it is impossible
to resist the pleasure of acquainting him with the extent of it, of
which he is doubtless ignorant, but to which he cannot fail to show
himself sensible. Advantage will be taken to forward it to a multitude
of other persons, who might, perhaps, otherwise be unfortunately
deprived of the amusing contents of your diary. Should copies and
extracts not be sufficient, we will have it printed, as one cannot
too much diffuse such things. Some will weep--others will laugh--what
appears superb to one set of people, will seem ridiculous to another,
such is life--but your journal will surely make a great sensation. As
you are capable of wishing to avoid your triumph, and as you were only
covered with rags when you were received, out of charity into this
house, where you wish to figure as the great lady, which does not suit
your shape for more reasons than one, we enclose in the present five
hundred francs to pay for your day-book, and prevent your being without
resources, in case you should be modest enough to shrink from the
congratulations which await you, certain to overwhelm you by to-morrow,
for, at this hour, your journal is already in circulation.
"One of your brethren,
"A REAL MOTHER BUNCH."
The vulgar, mocking, and insolent tone of this letter, which was
purposely written in the character of a jealous lackey, dissatisfied
with the admission of the unfortunate creature into the house, had
been calculated with infernal skill and was sure to produce the effect
intended.
"Oh, good heaven!" were the only words the unfortunate girl could
pronounce, in her stupor and alarm.
Now, if we remember in what passionate terms she had expressed her love
for her adopted brother, if we recall many passages of this manuscript,
in which she revealed the painful wounds often inflicted on her by
Agricola without knowing it, and if we consider how great was her
terror of ridicule, we shall understand her mad despair on reading this
infamous letter. Mother Bunch did not think for a moment of all the
noble words and touching narratives contained in her journal. The one
horrible idea which weighed down the troubled spirit of the unfortunate
creature, was, that on the morrow Agricola, Mdlle. de Cardoville, and an
insolent and mocking crowd, would be informed of this ridiculous love,
which would, she imagined, crush her with shame and confusion. This new
blow was so stunning, that the recipient staggered a moment beneath the
unexpected shock. For some minutes, she remained completely inert
and helpless; then, upon reflection, she suddenly felt conscious of a
terrible necessity.
This hospitable mansion, where she had found a sure refuge after so many
misfortunes, must be left for ever. The trembling timidity and sensitive
delicacy of the poor creature did not permit her to remain a minute more
in this dwelling, where the most secret recesses of her soul had been
laid open, profaned, and exposed no doubt to sarcasm and contempt.
She did not think of demanding justice and revenge from Mdlle. de
Cardoville. To cause a ferment of trouble and irritation in this house,
at the moment of quitting it, would have appeared to her ingratitude
towards her benefactress. She did not seek to discover the author or
the motive of this odious robbery and insulting letter. Why should she,
resolved, as she was, to fly from the humiliations with which she was
threatened? She had a vague notion (as indeed was intended), that
this infamy might be the work of some of the servants, jealous of the
affectionate deference shown her by Mdlle. de Cardoville--and this
thought filled her with despair. Those pages--so painfully confidential,
which she would not have ventured to impart to the most tender and
indulgent mother, because, written as it were with her heart's blood,
they painted with too cruel a fidelity the thousand secret wounds of her
soul--those pages were to serve, perhaps served even now, for the jest
and laughing-stock of the lackeys of the mansion.
The money which accompanied this letter, and the insulting way in which
it was offered, rather tended to confirm her suspicions. It was intended
that the fear of misery should not be the obstacle of her leaving the
house. The workgirl's resolution was soon taken, with that calm and firm
resignation which was familiar to her. She rose, with somewhat bright
and haggard eyes, but without a tear in them. Since the day before, she
had wept too much. With a trembling, icy hand, she wrote these words
on a paper, which she left by the side of the bank-note: "May Mdlle. de
Cardoville be blessed for all that she has done for me, and forgive me
for having left her house, where I can remain no longer."
Having written this, Mother Bunch threw into the fire the infamous
letter, which seemed to burn her hands. Then, taking a last look at her
chamber, furnished so comfortably, she shuddered involuntarily as she
thought of the misery that awaited her--a misery more frightful than
that of which she had already been the victim, for Agricola's mother
had departed with Gabriel, and the unfortunate girl could no longer, as
formerly, be consoled in her distress by the almost maternal affection
of Dagobert's wife. To live alone--quite alone--with the thought that
her fatal passion for Agricola was laughed at by everybody, perhaps even
by himself--such were the future prospects of the hunchback. This future
terrified her--a dark desire crossed her mind--she shuddered, and an
expression of bitter joy contracted her features. Resolved to go, she
made some steps towards the door, when, in passing before the fireplace,
she saw her own image in the glass, pale as death, and clothed in black;
then it struck her that she wore a dress which did not belong to her,
and she remembered a passage in the letter, which alluded to the rags
she had on before she entered that house. "True!" said she, with a heart
breaking smile, as she looked at her black garments; "they would call me
a thief."
And, taking her candle, she entered the little dressing room, and put on
again the poor, old clothes, which she had preserved as a sort of pious
remembrance of her misfortunes. Only at this instant did her tears flow
abundantly. She wept--not in sorrow at resuming the garb of misery, but
in gratitude; for all the comforts around her, to which she was about
to bid an eternal adieu, recalled to her mind at every step the delicacy
and goodness of Mdlle. de Cardoville: therefore, yielding to an almost
involuntary impulse, after she had put on her poor, old clothes, she
fell on her knees in the middle of the room, and, addressing herself
in thought to Mdlle. de Cardoville, she exclaimed, in a voice broken by
convulsive sobs: "Adieu! oh, for ever, adieu!--You, that deigned to call
me friend--and sister!"
Suddenly, she rose in alarm; she heard steps in the corridor, which led
from the garden to one of the doors of her apartment, the other door
opening into the parlor. It was Florine, who (alas! too late) was
bringing back the manuscript. Alarmed at this noise of footsteps, and
believing herself already the laughing-stock of the house. Mother Bunch
rushed from the room, hastened across the parlor, gained the court-yard,
and knocked at the window of the porter's lodge. The house-door opened,
and immediately closed upon her. And so the workgirl left Cardoville
House.
Adrienne was thus deprived of a devoted, faithful, and vigilant
guardian. Rodin was delivered from an active and sagacious antagonist,
whom he had always, with good reason, feared. Having, as we have seen,
guessed Mother Bunch's love for Agricola, and knowing her to be a
poet, the Jesuit supposed, logically enough that she must have written
secretly some verses inspired by this fatal and concealed passion. Hence
the order given to Florine, to try and discover some written evidence
of this love; hence this letter, so horribly effective in its coarse
ribaldry, of which, it must be observed, Florine did not know the
contents, having received it after communicating a summary of the
contents of the manuscript, which, the first time, she had only glanced
through without taking it away. We have said, that Florine, yielding
too late to a generous repentance, had reached Mother Bunch's apartment,
just as the latter quitted the house in consternation.
Perceiving a light in the dressing-room, the waiting-maid hastened
thither. She saw upon a chair the black dress that Mother Bunch had just
taken off, and, a few steps further, the shabby little trunk, open and
empty, in which she had hitherto preserved her poor garments. Florine's
heart sank within her; she ran to the secretary; the disorder of the