drew back, with a low cry of involuntary terror. The sheet moved with a rapid undulation, extending from the feet to the head of the corpse. But soon the sight of a rat, flying along the side of the worm-eaten bedstead, explained the movement of the shroud. Recovering from her fright, Cephyse began to look for several things, and collected them in haste, as though she dreaded being surprised in the miserable shop. First, she seized a basket, and filled it with charcoal; then, looking from side to side, she discovered in a corner an earthen pot, which she took with a burst of ominous joy.
'It is not all, it is not all,' said Cephyse, as she continued to search with an unquiet air.
At last she perceived near the stove a little tin box, containing flint, steel and matches. She placed these articles on the top of the basket, and took it in one hand, and the earthen pot in the other. As she passed near the corpse of the poor charcoal-dealer, Cephyse said, with a strange smile: 'I rob you, poor Mother Arsene, but my theft will not do me much good.'
Cephyse left the shop, reclosed the door as well as she could, went up the passage, and crossed the little court-yard which separated the front of the building from that part in which Rodin had lodged. With the exception of the windows of Philemon's apartment, where Rose-Pompon had so often sat perched like a bird, warbling Beranger, the other windows of the house were open. There had been deaths on the first and second floors, and, like many others, they were waiting for the cart piled up with coffins.
The Bacchanal Queen gained the stairs, which led to the chambers formerly occupied by Rodin. Arrived at the landing-place she ascended another ruinous staircase, steep as a ladder, and with nothing but an old rope for a rail. She at length reached the half-rotten door of a garret, situated in the roof. The house was in such a state of dilapidation, that, in many places the roof gave admission to the rain, and allowed it to penetrate into this cell, which was not above ten feet square, and lighted by an attic window. All the furniture consisted of an old straw mattress, laid upon the ground, with the straw peeping out from a rent in its ticking; a small earthenware pitcher, with the spout broken, and containing a little water, stood by the side of this couch. Dressed in rags, Mother Bunch was seated on the side of the mattress, with her elbows on her knees, and her face concealed in her thin, white hands. When Cephyse entered the room, the adopted sister of Agricola raised her head; her pale, mild face seemed thinner than ever, hollow with suffering, grief, misery; her eyes, red with weeping, were fixed on her sister with an expression of mournful tenderness.
'I have what we want, sister,' said Cephyse, in a low, deep voice; 'in this basket there is wherewith to finish our misery.'
Then, showing to Mother Bunch the articles she had just placed on the floor, she added: 'For the first time in my life, I have been a thief. It made me ashamed and frightened; I was never intended for that or worse. It is a pity.' added she, with a sardonic smile.
After a moment's silence, the hunchback said to her sister, in a heart rending tone: 'Cephyse—my dear Cephyse—are you quite determined to die?'
'How should I hesitate?' answered Cephyse, in a firm voice. 'Come, sister, let us once more make our reckoning. If even I could forget my shame, and Jacques' contempt in his last moments, what would remain to me? Two courses only: first, to be honest, and work for my living. But you know that, in spite of the best will in the world, work will often fail, as it has failed for the last few days, and, even when I got it, I would have to live on four to five francs a week. Live? that is to say, die by inches. I know that already, and I prefer dying at once. The other course would be to live a life of infamy—and that I will not do. Frankly, sister, between frightful misery, infamy, or death, can the choice be doubtful? Answer me!'
Then, without giving Mother Bunch time to speak, Cephyse added, in an abrupt tone: 'Besides, what is the good of discussing it? I have made up my mind, and nothing shall prevent my purpose, since all that you, dear sister, could obtain from me, was a delay of a few days, to see if the cholera would not save us the trouble. To please you I consented; the cholera has come, killed every one else in the house, but left us. You see, it is better to do one's own business,' added she, again smiling bitterly. Then she resumed: 'Besides, dear sister, you also wish to finish with life.'
'It is true, Cephyse,' answered the sempstress, who seemed very much depressed; 'but alone—one has only to answer for one's self—and to die with you,' added she, shuddering, 'appears like being an accomplice in your death.'
'Do you wish, then, to make an end of it, I in one place, you in another?—that would be agreeable!' said Cephyse, displaying in that terrible moment the sort of bitter and despairing irony which is more frequent than may be imagined in the midst of mortal anguish.
'Oh, no, no!' said the other in alarm, 'not alone—I will not die alone!'
'Do you not see, dear sister, we are right not to part? And yet,' added Cephyse, in a voice of emotion, 'my heart almost breaks sometimes, to think that you will die like me.'
'How selfish!' said the hunchback, with a faint smile. 'What reasons have I to love life? What void shall I leave behind me?'
'But you are a martyr, sister,' resumed Cephyse. 'The priests talk of saints! Is there one of them so good as you? And yet you are about to die like me, who have always been idle, careless, sinful—while you were so hardworking, so devoted to all who suffered. What should I say? You were an angel on the earth; and yet you will die like me, who have fallen as low as a woman can fall,' added the unfortunate, casting down her eyes.
'It is strange,' answered Mother Bunch, thoughtfully. 'Starting from the same point, we have followed different roads, and yet we have reached the same goal—disgust of life. For you, my poor sister, but a few days ago, life was so fair, so full of pleasure and of youth; and now it is equally heavy with us both. After all, I have followed to the end what was my duty,' added she, mildly. 'Agricola no longer needs me. He is married; he loves, and is beloved; his happiness is secured. Mdlle. de Cardoville wants for nothing. Fair, rich, prosperous—what could a poor creature like myself do for her? Those who have been kind to me are happy. What prevents my going now to my rest? I am so weary!'
'Poor sister!' said Cephyse, with touching emotion, which seemed to expand her contracted features; 'when I think that, without informing me, and in spite of your resolution never to see that generous young lady, who protected you, you yet had the courage to drag yourself to her house, dying with fatigue and want, to try to interest her in my fate—yes, dying, for your strength failed on the Champs-Elysees.'
'And when I was able to reach the mansion, Mdlle. de Cardoville was unfortunately absent—very unfortunately!' repeated the hunchback, as she looked at Cephyse with anguish; 'for the next day, seeing that our last resource had failed us, thinking more of me than of yourself, and determined at any price to procure us bread —'
She could not finish. She buried her face in her hands, and shuddered.
'Well, I did as so many other hapless women have done when work fails or wages do not suffice, and hunger becomes too pressing,' replied Cephyse, in a broken voice; 'only that, unlike so many others, instead of living on my shame, I shall die of it.'
'Alas! this terrible shame which kills you, my poor Cephyse, because you have a heart, would have been averted, had I seen Mdlle. de Cardoville, or had she but answered the letter which I asked leave to write to her at the porter's lodge. But her silence proves to me that she is justly hurt at my abrupt departure from her house. I can understand it; she believes me guilty of the blackest ingratitude—for she must have been greatly offended not to have deigned to answer me—and therefore I had not the courage to write a second time. It would have been useless, I am sure; for, good and just as she is, her refusals are inexorable when she believes them deserved. And besides, for what good? It was too late; you had resolved to die!'
'Oh, yes, quite resolved: for my infamy was gnawing at my heart. Jacques had died in my arms despising me; and I loved him—mark me, sister,' added Cephyse, with passionate enthusiasm, 'I loved him as we love only once in life!'
'Let our fate be accomplished, then!' said Mother Bunch with a pensive air.
'But you have never told me, sister, the cause of your departure from Mdlle. de Cardoville's,' resumed Cephyse, after a moment's silence.
'It will be the only secret that I shall take with me, dear Cephyse,' said the other, casting down her eyes. And she thought, with bitter joy, that she would soon be delivered from the fear which had poisoned the last days of her sad life—the fear of meeting Agricola, informed of the fatal and ridiculous love she felt for him.
For, it must be said, this fatal and despairing love was one of the causes of the suicide of the unfortunate creature. Since the disappearance of her journal, she believed that the blacksmith knew the melancholy secret
