This hospitable mansion, where she had found a sure refuge after so many misfortunes, must be left for ever.  The trembling timidity and sensitive delicacy of the poor creature did not permit her to remain a minute more in this dwelling, where the most secret recesses of her soul had been laid open, profaned, and exposed no doubt to sarcasm and contempt.  She did not think of demanding justice and revenge from Mdlle. de Cardoville.  To cause a ferment of trouble and irritation in this house, at the moment of quitting it, would have appeared to her ingratitude towards her benefactress.  She did not seek to discover the author or the motive of this odious robbery and insulting letter.  Why should she, resolved, as she was, to fly from the humiliations with which she was threatened?  She had a vague notion (as indeed was intended), that this infamy might be the work of some of the servants, jealous of the affectionate deference shown her by Mdlle. de Cardoville—­and this thought filled her with despair.  Those pages—­so painfully confidential, which she would not have ventured to impart to the most tender and indulgent mother, because, written as it were with her heart’s blood, they painted with too cruel a fidelity the thousand secret wounds of her soul—­those pages were to serve, perhaps served even now, for the jest and laughing-stock of the lackeys of the mansion.

The money which accompanied this letter, and the insulting way in which it was offered, rather tended to confirm her suspicions.  It was intended that the fear of misery should not be the obstacle of her leaving the house.  The workgirl’s resolution was soon taken, with that calm and firm resignation which was familiar to her.  She rose, with somewhat bright and haggard eyes, but without a tear in them.  Since the day before, she had wept too much.  With a trembling, icy hand, she wrote these words on a paper, which she left by the side of the bank-note:  “May Mdlle. de Cardoville be blessed for all that she has done for me, and forgive me for having left her house, where I can remain no longer.”

Having written this, Mother Bunch threw into the fire the infamous letter, which seemed to burn her hands.  Then, taking a last look at her chamber, furnished so comfortably, she shuddered involuntarily as she thought of the misery that awaited her—­a misery more frightful than that of which she had already been the victim, for Agricola’s mother had departed with Gabriel, and the unfortunate girl could no longer, as formerly, be consoled in her distress by the almost maternal affection of Dagobert’s wife.  To live alone—­quite alone—­with the thought that her fatal passion for Agricola was laughed at by everybody, perhaps even by himself—­such were the future prospects of the hunchback.  This future terrified her—­a dark desire crossed her mind—­she shuddered, and an expression of bitter joy contracted her features.  Resolved to go, she made some steps towards the door, when, in passing before the fireplace, she saw her own image in the glass, pale as death, and clothed in black; then it struck her that she wore a dress which did not belong to her, and she remembered a passage in the letter, which alluded to the rags she had on before she entered that house.  “True!” said she, with a heart breaking smile, as she looked at her black garments; “they would call me a thief.”