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—”