onsoling--like the thoughts
that death is nothing, because it must come at last--to those who are
in love with life! I have been always preserved from suicide--the last
resource of the unfortunate, who prefer trusting in God to remaining
amongst his creatures--by the sense of duty. One must not only think
of self. And I reflected also'God is good--always good--since the most
wretched beings find opportunities for love and devotion.' How is it
that I, so weak and poor, have always found means to be helpful and
useful to some one?

"This very day I felt tempted to make an end with life--Agricola and
his mother had no longer need of me.--Yes, but the unfortunate creatures
whom Mdlle. de Cardoville has commissioned me to watch over?--but my
benefactress herself, though she has affectionately reproached me with
the tenacity of my suspicions in regard to that man? I am more than ever
alarmed for her--I feel that she is more than ever in danger--more than
ever--I have faith in the value of my presence near her. Hence, I must
live. Live--to go to-morrow to see this girl, whom Agricola passionately
loves? Good heaven! why have I always known grief, and never hate? There
must be a bitter pleasure in hating. So many people hate!--Perhaps I
may hate this girl--Angela, as he called her, when he said, with so much
simplicity: 'A charming name, is it not, Mother Bunch?' Compare this
name, which recalls an idea so full of grace, with the ironical symbol
of my witch's deformity! Poor Agricola! poor brother! goodness
is sometimes as blind as malice, I see. Should I hate this young
girl?--Why? Did she deprive me of the beauty which charms Agricola? Can
I find fault with her for being beautiful? When I was not yet accustomed
to the consequences of my ugliness, I asked myself, with bitter
curiosity, why the Creator had endowed his creatures so unequally. The
habit of pain has allowed me to reflect calmly, and I have finished by
persuading myself, that to beauty and ugliness are attached the two most
noble emotions of the soul--admiration and compassion. Those who are
like me admire beautiful persons--such as Angela, such as Agricola--and
these in their turn feel a couching pity for such as I am. Sometimes, in
spite of one's self, one has very foolish hopes. Because Agricola, from
a feeling of propriety had never spoken to me of his love affairs, I
sometimes persuaded myself that he had none--that he loved me, and that
the fear of ridicule a