“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—­”

She could not finish.  She buried her face in her hands, and shuddered.

“Well, I did as so many other hapless women have done when work fails or wages do not suffice, and hunger becomes too pressing,” replied Cephyse, in a broken voice; “only that, unlike so many others, instead of living on my shame, I shall die of it.”

“Alas! this terrible shame which kills you, my poor Cephyse, because you have a heart, would have been averted, had I seen Mdlle. de Cardoville, or had she but answered the letter which I asked leave to write to her at the porter’s lodge.  But her silence proves to me that she is justly hurt at my abrupt departure from her house.  I can understand it; she believes me guilty of the blackest ingratitude—­for she must have been greatly offended not to have deigned to answer me—­and therefore I had not the courage to write a second time.  It would have been useless, I am sure; for, good and just as she is, her refusals are inexorable when she believes them deserved.  And besides, for what good?  It was too late; you had resolved to die!”