fifteen years gave every proof of sincere affection—and, when the day of misfortune comes, you quit life without caring for those you must leave behind—without considering that to kill yourself is to tell them they are indifferent to you!'
'Forgive me, Agricola! it is true. I had never thought of that,' said the workgirl, casting down her eyes; 'but poverty—want of work—'
'Misery! want of work! and was I not here?'
'And despair!'
'But why despair? This generous young lady had received you in her house; she knew your worth, and treated you as her friend—and just at the moment when you had every chance of happiness, you leave the house abruptly, and we remain in the most horrible anxiety on your account.'
'I feared—to be—to be a burden to my benefactress,' stammered she.
'You a burden to Mdlle. de Cardoville, that is so rich and good!'
'I feared to be indiscreet,' said the sewing-girl, more and more embarrassed.
Instead of answering his adopted sister, Agricola remained silent, and contemplated her for some moments with an undefinable expression; then he exclaimed suddenly, as if replying to a question put by himself: 'She will forgive me for disobeying her.—I am sure of it.'
He next turned towards Mother Bunch, who was looking at him in astonishment, and said to her in a voice of emotion: 'I am too frank to keep up this deception. I am reproaching you—blaming you—and my thoughts are quite different.'
'How so, Agricola?'
'My heart aches, when I think of the evil I have done you.'
'I do not understand you, my friend; you have never done me any evil.'
'What! never? even in little things? when, for instance, yielding to a detestable habit, I, who loved and respected you as my sister, insulted you a hundred times a day?'
'Insulted me!'
'Yes—when I gave you an odious and ridiculous nickname, instead of calling you properly.'
At these words, Mother Bunch looked at the smith in the utmost alarm, trembling lest he had discovered her painful secret, notwithstanding the assurance she had received from Mdlle. de Cardoville. Yet she calmed herself a little when she reflected, that Agricola might of himself have thought of the humiliation inflicted on her by calling her Mother Bunch, and she answered him with a forced smile. 'Can you be grieved at so small a thing? It was a habit, Agricola, from childhood. When did your good and affectionate mother, who nevertheless loved me as her daughter, ever call me anything else?'
'And did my mother consult you about my marriage, speak to you of the rare beauty of my bride, beg you to come and see her, and study her character, in the hope that the instinct of your affection for me would warn you—if I made a bad choice? Did my mother have this cruelty?—No; it was I, who thus pierced your heart!'
The fears of the hearer were again aroused; there could be but little doubt that Agricola knew her secret. She felt herself sinking with confusion; yet, making a last effort not to believe the discovery, she murmured in a feeble voice: 'True, Agricola! It was not your mother, but yourself, who made me that request—and I was grateful to you for such a mark of confidence.'
'Grateful, my poor girl!' cried the smith, whilst his eyes filled with tears; 'no, it is not true. I pained you fearfully—I was merciless—heaven knows, without being aware of it!'
'But,' said the other, in a voice now almost unintelligible, 'what makes you think so?'
'Your love for me!' cried the smith, trembling with emotion, as he clasped Mother Bunch in a brotherly embrace.
'Oh heaven!' murmured the unfortunate creature, as she covered her face with her hands, 'he knows all.'
'Yes, I know all,' resumed Agricola, with an expression of ineffable tenderness and respect: 'yes, I know all, and I will not have you blush for a sentiment, which honors me, and of which I feel so justly proud. Yes, I know all; and I say to myself with joy and pride, that the best, the most noble heart in the world is mine—will be mine always. Come, Magdalen; let us leave shame to evil passions. Raise your eyes, and look at me! You know, if my countenance was ever false—if it ever reflected a feigned emotion. Then look and tell me, if you cannot read in my features, how proud I am, Magdalen, how justly proud of your love!'
Overwhelmed with grief and confusion, Mother Bunch had not dared to look on Agricola; but his words expressed so deep a conviction, the tones of his voice revealed so tender an emotion, that the poor creature felt her shame gradually diminish, particularly when Agricola added, with rising animation: 'Be satisfied, my sweet, my noble Magdalen; I will be worthy of this love. Believe me, it shall yet cause you as much happiness as it has occasioned tears. Why should this love be a motive for estrangement, confusion, fear? For what is love, in the sense in which it is held by your generous heart? Is it not a continual exchange of devotion, tenderness, esteem, of mutual and blind confidence?—Why, Magdalen! we may have all this for one another—devotion, tenderness, confidence— even more than in times past; for, on a thousand occasions, your secret inspired you with fear and suspicion—while, for the future, on the contrary, you will see me take such delight in the place I fill in your good and valiant heart, that you will be happy in the happiness you bestow. What I have just said may seem very selfish and conceited; so much the worse! I do not know how to lie.'
The longer the smith spoke, the less troubled became Mother Bunch. What she had above all feared in the discovery of her secret was to see it received with raillery, contempt, or humiliating compassion; far from this, joy and happiness were distinctly visible on the manly and honest face of Agricola. The hunchback knew him incapable of deception; therefore she exclaimed, this time without shame or confusion, but rather with a sort of pride.
'Every sincere and pure passion is so far good and con soling as to end by deserving interest and sympathy, when it has triumphed over its first excess! It is alike honorable to the heart which feels and that which inspires it!—Thanks to you, Agricola—thanks to the kind words, which have raised me in my own esteem—I feel that, instead of blushing, I ought to be proud of this love. My benefactress is right—you are right: why should I be ashamed of it? Is it not a true and sacred love? To be near you, to love you, to tell you so, to prove it by constant devotion, what did I ever desire more? And yet shame and fear, joined with that dizziness of the brain which extreme misery produces, drove me to suicide!—But then some allowance must be made for the suspicions of a poor creature, who has been the subject of ridicule from her cradle. So my secret was to die with me, unless some unforeseen accident should reveal it to you; and, in that case, you are right—sure of myself, sure of you, I ought to have feared nothing. But I may claim some indulgence; mistrust, cruel mistrust of one's self makes one doubt others also. Let us forget all that. Agricola, my generous brother, I will say to you, as you said to me just now, 'Look at me; you know my countenance cannot lie. Look at me: see if I shun your gaze; see if, ever in my life, I looked so happy'—and yet, even now, I was about to die!'
She spoke the truth. Agricola himself could not have hoped so prompt an effect from his words. In spite of the deep traces which misery, grief, and sickness had imprinted on the girl's features, they now shone with radiant happiness and serenity, whilst her blue eyes, gentle and pure as her soul, were fixed, without embarrassment, on those of Agricola.
'Oh! thanks, thanks!' cried the smith, in a rapture of delight: 'when I see you so calm, and so happy, Magdalen, I am indeed grateful.'
'Yes, I am calm, I am happy,' replied she; 'and happy I shall be, for I can now tell you my most secret thoughts. Yes, happy; for this day, which began so fatally, ends like a divine dream. Far from being afraid, I now look at you with hope and joy. I have again found my generous benefactress, and I am tranquil as to the fate of my poor sister. Oh! shall we not soon see her? I should like her to take part in this happiness.'
She seemed so happy, that the smith did not dare to inform her of the death of Cephyse, and reserved himself to communicate the same at a more fitting opportunity. Therefore he answered: 'Cephyse, being the stronger, has been the more shaken; it will not be prudent, I am told, to see her to-day.'
'I will wait then. I can repress my impatience, I have so much to say to you.'
'Dear, gentle Magdalen!'
'Oh, my friend!' cried the girl, interrupting Agricola, with tears of joy: 'I cannot tell you what I feel, when I hear you call me Magdalen. It is so sweet, so soothing, that my heart expands with delight.'
'Poor girl! how dreadfully she must have suffered!' cried the smith, with inexpressible emotion, 'when she displays so much happiness, so much gratitude, at being called by her own poor name!'
