第370章

"As Victorine had not left anything to pay for the church service, there was only the presentation of the body under the porch; for there is not even a plain mass for the poor.Besides, as they could not give eighteen francs to the curate, no priest accompanied the pauper's coffin to the common grave.If funerals, thus abridged and cut short, are sufficient in a religious point of view, why invent other and longer forms? Is it from cupidity?--If, on the other hand, they are not sufficient, why make the poor man the only victim of this insufficiency? But why trouble ourselves about the pomp, the incense, the chants, of which they are either too sparing or too liberal? Of what use? and for what purpose?

They are vain, terrestrial things, for which the soul recks nothing, when, radiant, it ascends towards its Creator.Yesterday, Agricola made me read an article in a newspaper, in which violent blame and bitter irony are by turns employed, to attack what they call the baneful tendencies of some of the lower orders, to improve themselves, to write, to read the poets, and sometimes to make verses.Material enjoyments are forbidden us by poverty.Is it humane to reproach us for seeking the enjoyments of the mind? What harm can it do any one if every evening, after a day's toil, remote from all pleasure, I amuse myself, unknown to all, in making a few verses, or in writing in this journal the good or bad impressions I have received? Is Agricola the worse workman, because, on returning home to his mother, he employs Sunday in composing some of those popular songs, which glorify the fruitful labors of the artisan, and say to all, Hope and brotherhood! Does he not make a more worthy use of his time than if he spent it in a tavern? Ah! those who blame us for these innocent and noble diversions, which relieve our painful toils and sufferings, deceive themselves when they think, that, in proportion as the intellect is raised and refined, it is more difficult to bear with privations and misery, and that so the irritation increases against the luckier few.

"Admitting even this to be the case--and it is not so--is it not better to have an intelligent, enlightened enemy, to whose heart and reason you may address yourself, than a stupid, ferocious, implacable foe? But no;

enmities disappear as the mind becomes enlightened, and the horizon of compassion extends itself.We thus learn to understand moral afflictions.We discover that the rich also have to suffer intense pains, and that brotherhood in misfortune is already a link of sympathy.

Alas! they also have to mourn bitterly for idolized children, beloved mistresses, reverend mothers; with them, also, especially amongst the women, there are, in the height of luxury and grandeur, many broken hearts, many suffering souls, many tears shed in secret.Let them not be alarmed.By becoming their equals in intelligence, the people will learn to pity the rich, if good and unhappy--and to pity them still more if rejoicing in wickedness.

"What happiness! what a joyful day! I am giddy with delight.Oh, truly, man is good, humane, charitable.Oh, yes! the Creator has implanted within him every generous instinct--and, unless he be a monstrous exception, he never does evil willingly.Here is what I saw just now.I will not wait for the evening to write it down, for my heart would, as it were, have time to cool.I had gone to carry home some work that was wanted in a hurry.I was passing the Place du Temple.A few steps from me I saw a child, about twelve years old at most, with bare head, and feet, in spite of the severe weather, dressed in a shabby, ragged smock-

frock and trousers, leading by the bridle a large cart-horse, with his harness still on.From time to time the horse stopped short, and refused to advance.The child, who had no whip, tugged in vain at the bridle.

The horse remained motionless.Then the poor little fellow cried out: `O

dear, O dear!' and began to weep bitterly, looking round him as if to implore the assistance of the passers-by.His dear little face was impressed with so heart piercing a sorrow, that, without reflecting, I made an attempt at which I can now only smile, I must have presented so grotesque a figure.I am horribly afraid of horses, and I am still more afraid of exposing myself to public gaze.Nevertheless, I took courage, and, having an umbrella in my hand, I approached the horse, and with the impetuosity of an ant that strives to move a large stone with a little piece of straw, I struck with all my strength on the croup of the rebellious animal.`Oh, thanks, my good lady!' exclaimed the child, drying his eyes: `hit him again, if you please.Perhaps he will get up.'

"I began again, heroically; but, alas! either from obstinacy or laziness, the horse bent his knees, and stretched himself out upon the ground;

then, getting entangled with his harness, he tore it, and broke his great wooden collar.I had drawn back quickly, for fear of receiving a kick.

Upon this new disaster, the child could only throw himself on his knees in the middle of the street, clasping his hands and sobbing, and exclaiming in a voice of despair: 'Help! help!'

"The call was heard; several of the passers-by gathered round, and a more efficacious correction than mine was administered to the restive horse, who rose in a vile state, and without harness.

"`My master will beat me,' cried the poor child, as his tears redoubled;

`I am already two hours after time, for the horse would not go, and now he has broken his harness.My master will beat me, and turn me away.Oh dear! what will become of me! I have no father nor mother.'