THE DIARY CONTINUED.
Returned into her own room, some hours after she had concealed there the manuscript abstracted from Mother Bunch's apartment, Florine yielded to her curiosity, and determined to look through it.She soon felt a growing interest, an involuntary emotion, as she read more of these private 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 the author's deformity--among many pieces of verse, we say, were divers other fragments, thoughts, and narratives, relating to a variety of facts.We shall quote some of them, in order to explain the profound impression that their perusal made upon Florine.
Fragments from the Diary.
"This is my birthday.Until this evening, I had cherished a foolish hope.Yesterday, I went down to Mrs.Baudoin's, to dress a little wound she had on her leg.When I entered the room, Agricola was there.No doubt he was talking of me to his mother, for they stopped when I came in, and exchanged a meaning smile.In passing by the drawers, I saw a pasteboard box, with a pincushion-lid, and I felt myself blushing with joy, as I thought this little present was destined for me, but I 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 that morning.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 enjoy the surprise Agricola has prepared for me.' How my heart beat, as I ran fast, very fast, up to my closet! I stopped a moment before opening the door, that my happiness might last the longer.At last I entered the room, my eyes swimming with tears of joy.I looked upon my table, my chair, my bed--there was nothing.The little box was not to be found.My heart sank within me.Then I said to myself: `It will be to-morrow--this is 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.It was 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 connected with Agricola's wishing me many happy returns of the day.I am ashamed to confess it; but it might have proved to me, that he has not forgotten I have another name besides that of Mother Bunch, which they always apply to me.My susceptibility on this head is unfortunately so stubborn, that I cannot help feeling a momentary pang of mingled shame and sorrow, every time that I am called by that fairy-tale name, and yet I have had no other from infancy.It is for that very reason that I should have been so happy if Agricola had taken this opportunity to call me for once by my own humble name--Magdalen.Happily, he will never know these wishes and regrets!"
Deeper and deeper touched by this page of simple grief, Florine turned over several leaves, and continued:
"I have just been to the funeral of poor little Victorine Herbin, our neighbor.Her father, a journeyman upholsterer, is gone to work by the month, far from Paris.She died at nineteen, without a relation near her.Her agony was not long.The good woman who attended her to the last, told us that she only pronounced these words: `At last, oh at last!' and that with an air of satisfaction, added the nurse.Dear child! she had become so pitiful.At fifteen, she was a rosebud--so pretty, so fresh-looking, with her light hair as soft as silk; but she wasted away by degrees--her trade of renovating mattresses killed her.
She was slowly poisoned by the emanations from the wool.[26] They were all the worse, that she worked almost entirely for the poor, who have cheap stuff to lie upon.
"She had the courage of a lion, and an angel's resignation, She always said 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 day long.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 would answer; `and it is now too late.I feel that I am done for.It is not my fault,' 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, you see, when one is dead, one cares for nothing, and has no fear of "slop wages.'"
"Victorine uttered that sad, common phrase very sincerely, and with a sort of satisfaction.Therefore she died repeating: `At last!'
"It is painful to think that the labor by which the poor man earns his daily bread, often becomes a long suicide! I said this the other day to Agricola; he answered me that there were many other fatal employments;
those who prepare aquafortis, white lead, or minium, for instance, are sure to take incurable maladies of which they die.
"`Do you know,' added Agricola, `what they say when they start for those fatal 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 aching heart; `and it is well-known.And, out of so many of the rich and powerful, 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 are to be incorporated, that they may get killed in war, all pains are taken with 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 to us? that is not politics.' `They are wrong,' added Agricola; `IT IS MORE
THAN POLITICS.'
