“Do not fail! And now you will call, for
me, on Frances Baudoin’s confessor, late as
it is; you will tell him that I am waiting for him
at Rue du Milieu des Ursins—he must not
lose a moment. Do you come with him. Should
I not be returned, he will wait for me. You will
tell him it is on a matter of great moment.”
“All shall be faithfully executed,” said
the ceremonious man, cringing to Rodin, as the coach
drove quickly away.
Agricola and mother bunch.
Within one hour after the different scenes which have
just been described the most profound silence reigned
in the soldier’s humble dwelling. A flickering
light, which played through two panes of glass in a
door, betrayed that Mother Bunch had not yet gone
to sleep; for her gloomy recess, without air or light,
was impenetrable to the rays of day, except by this
door, opening upon a narrow and obscure passage, connected
with the roof. A sorry bed, a table, an old portmanteau,
and a chair, so nearly filled this chilling abode,
that two persons could not possibly be seated within
it, unless one of them sat upon the side of the bed.
The magnificent and precious flower that Agricola
had given to the girl was carefully stood up in a
vessel of water, placed upon the table on a linen
cloth, diffusing its sweet odor around, and expanding
its purple calix in the very closet, whose plastered
walls, gray and damp, were feebly lighted by the rays
of an attenuated candle. The sempstress, who
had taken off no part of her dress, was seated upon
her bed—her looks were downcast, and her
eyes full of tears. She supported herself with
one hand resting on the bolster; and, inclining towards
the door, listened with painful eagerness, every instant
hoping to hear the footsteps of Agricola. The
heart of the young sempstress beat violently; her face,
usually very pale, was now partially flushed—so
exciting was the emotion by which she was agitated.
Sometimes she cast her eyes with terror upon a letter
which she held in her hand, a letter that had been
delivered by post in the course of the evening, and
which had been placed by the housekeeper (the dyer)
upon the table, while she was rendering some trivial
domestic services during the recognitions of Dagobert
and his family.
After some seconds, Mother Bunch heard a door, very
near her own, softly opened.
“There he is at last!” she exclaimed,
and Agricola immediately entered.
“I waited till my father went to sleep,”
said the blacksmith, in a low voice, his physiognomy
evincing much more curiosity than uneasiness.
“But what is the matter, my good sister?
How your countenance is changed! You weep!
What has happened? About what danger would you
speak to me?”
“Hush! Read this!” said she, her
voice trembling with emotion, while she hastily presented
to him the open letter. Agricola held it towards
the light, and read what follows:
