When her heart was overflowing with emotion, sometimes mild and sad, sometimes harsh and bitter, the poor workgirl, finding a melancholy charm in these dumb and solitary outpourings of the soul, now clothed in the form of simple and touching poetry, and now in unaffected prose, had accustomed herself by degrees not to confine her confidences to what immediately related to Agricola, for though he might be mixed up with all her thoughts, for reflections, which the sight of beauty, of happy love, of maternity, of wealth, of misfortune, called up within her, were so impressed with the influence of her unfortunate personal position, that she would not even have dared to communicate them to him.  Such, then, was this journal of a poor daughter of the people, weak, deformed, and miserable, but endowed with an angelic soul, and a fine intellect, improved by reading, meditation, and solitude; pages quite unknown, which yet contained many deep and striking views, both as regard men and things, taken from the peculiar standpoint in which fate had placed this unfortunate creature.  The following lines, here and there abruptly interrupted or stained with tears, according to the current of her various emotions, on hearing of Agricola’s deep love for Angela, formed the last pages of this journal: 

“Friday, March 3d, 1832.

“I spent the night without any painful dreams.  This morning, I rose with no sorrowful presentiment.  I was calm and tranquil when Agricola came.  He did not appear to me agitated.  He was simple and affectionate as he always is.  He spoke to me of events relating to M. Hardy, and then, without transition, without hesitation, he said to me:  ’The last four days I have been desperately in love.  The sentiment is so serious, that I think of marriage.  I have come to consult you about it.’  That was how this overwhelming revelation was made to me—­naturally and cordially—­I on one side of the hearth, and Agricola an the other, as if we had talked of indifferent things.  And yet no more is needed to break one’s heart.  Some one enters, embraces you like a brother, sits down, talks—­and then—­Oh!  Merciful heaven! my head wanders.

“I feel calmer now.  Courage, my poor heart, courage!—­Should a day of misfortune again overwhelm me, I will read these lines written under the impression of the most cruel grief I can ever feel, and I will say to myself:  ‘What is the present woe compared to that past?’ My grief is indeed cruel! it is illegitimate, ridiculous, shameful:  I should not dare to confess it, even to the most indulgent of mothers.  Alas! there are some fearful sorrows, which yet rightly make men shrug their shoulders in pity or contempt.  Alas! these are forbidden misfortunes.  Agricola has asked me to go to-morrow, to see this young girl to whom he is so passionately attached, and whom he will marry, if the instinct of my heart should approve the marriage.  This thought is the most painful of all those which have tortured me since he so pitilessly announced this love.  Pitilessly?  No, Agricola—­no, my brother—­forgive me this unjust cry of pain!  Is it that you know, can even suspect, that I love you better than you love, better than you can ever love, this charming creature?