Moral Tales

by Madame Guizot

M. LE CHEVALIER.

"Stop them! Stop them!" was re-echoed through the Rue St. Honoré. "Madame la Marquise is running down the street! This way! Madame la Vicomtesse is dragging her dress through the mud! Oh! M. le Baron has lost his wig! and M. le Chevalier?... William, where is M. le Chevalier?"

And William ran right and left, endeavouring to bring back a number of dressed-up dogs, such as are seen parading the streets, in little carriages. They had just escaped from their kennel, while their owners were occupied with their morning toilet. This toilet was a tedious and difficult affair, for whilst they were washing one, the one which had just gone through the operation, never failed to go and put his paws into the gutter. While M. le Baron was made to stand on his hind feet, in order to have his fore paws put through the sleeves of his coat, Madame la Marquise, seizing the first opportunity to make use of her legs, set off running all round the yard, in her petticoat, which being then much too long, and getting entangled between her legs, threw her down; and whilst they ran after her, all the others would make their escape, half-dressed in their finery. On the present occasion, the gate of the yard happened accidentally to be opened, while one of these scenes was enacted, and all the dogs made their escape into the street, troubling themselves very little as to the state in which they appeared before the eyes of the public.

However, William, the owner's son, had succeeded in catching almost all of them, and, saving the loss of M. le Baron's wig, and the unfortunate accident which had happened to the hat and feathers of Madame la Vicomtesse, when she rolled in a heap of rubbish, and the rent which Madame la Marquise had made in her blue petticoat, all would have been set to rights, if M. le Chevalier could have been found. M. le Chevalier was a very important personage. He was the only one who was able to waltz with Madame la Présidente. Everybody was delighted to see them take each other by the neck, with their fore paws, and dance in time on their hind feet. Now, Madame la Présidente could not waltz all alone; thus two talents were lost at the same time. The owner was in despair; he was to go that day to Clichi, to the fair of St. Médard, and he built his chief hopes of success upon the waltz. But it was in vain that William went to every house in the neighbourhood, asking whether any one had seen M. le Chevalier. "And who is M. le Chevalier?" he was everywhere asked; and William replied, "He has a yellow waistcoat, no trousers, pointed ears, a sword at his side, and his tail is bald at the end." Notwithstanding this luminous description, no one could give him any information respecting M. le Chevalier. At length, as it was growing late, the master decided on setting off with the rest of his troop, telling William to follow him with M. le Chevalier, if he succeeded in finding him.

William had a second time searched all the streets in the vicinity, and was returning home sorrowfully, when he met one of his neighbours coming from market. He asked her, as he had done every one else, whether she could give him any information about M. le Chevalier.

"Bah!" said she, "has he not returned? This morning, when your dogs ran away, I was just going to market, and I saw him enter the alley opposite, and go into M. Bucquet's, the linendraper. Has he really not come back, then? Oh, I'll wager that it is little Roussel who has kept him."

George Roussel lived with his father and mother in the house of M. Bucquet; he was a good boy, and very fond of his parents, and he also gave great satisfaction at school, where he regularly attended, as day-scholar: in other respects, however, he was the most mischief-loving urchin imaginable. As his father, who was employed at a banker's, and his mother, who gave lessons in writing, passed much of their time away from home, George was quite his own master out of school hours, and this time he employed in playing tricks on the neighbours; nor was it sufficient for him to spend in this manner the hours of daylight, the night also was often employed in similar practices. He slept at the back of the house, in a small room, the windows of which looked upon the roofs and leads. Through this window he passed to go and hunt the cats, and when he succeeded in catching two or three, he tied them together by their tails. Then when every one was asleep, he would throw them into the house, through a staircase window opening upon the same leads, and run with all speed to his own room as soon as he perceived that the neighbours were awakened by the frightful uproar which they made in their unavailing efforts to get loose. Immediately all the doors would open, every one rushing out to know what could be the matter. Then they would run after the cats, which, of course, did not suffer themselves to be easily caught, but kept crying and mewing, as if they had been burned, and scratching every one who attempted to separate them. Another time, a neighbour's dog would return to his mistress, covered with oil, from the ears to the tail, so that no one could touch him without being greased, nor could he approach anything without leaving on it a stain. On a cold winter's day, George would contrive to attach a piece of ice to the handle of a door-bell, and the first person who wanted to ring would snatch his hand away, struck with cold and surprise; or else he would cut the wire attached to the bell, so that people would pull for a quarter of an hour without producing any effect. He also hampered the locks, and hid the keys, if they happened to be left in the doors; and, in fact, every day brought fresh complaints; but they were of little use. George was an only child, born when his parents were already advanced in life, and after they had been married many years without having any children. M. and Madame Roussel loved him, therefore, with such a foolish fondness, that they overlooked all his faults. When complaints were made of him to M. Roussel, he would shrug his shoulders, and say, "Well, youth must have its day." Nevertheless, he scolded George a little, for the gratification of the neighbours, but afterwards he had the weakness to laugh at his tricks. Madame Roussel was still more unreasonable, for she became so angry when complaints were made of her son, that no one dared to speak to her on the subject. Had they not been very good tenants, and very punctual in their payments, though their rent was high, M. Bucquet would have given them notice to leave twenty times over, so disagreeable had George become to the whole house.

Besides, everything that happened was laid to his charge; if any one slipped on the stairs by treading on a cherrystone, it was always George who had scattered them through malice: not a pane of glass was broken in the hall or passages, but it was always George who had done it; in fact, his reputation was spread throughout the entire neighbourhood. William had heard him spoken of, and could not doubt that the conjecture of his acquaintance was well founded, and the more so as another neighbour asserted that he had heard George a few days before saying to little Bucquet, "Wouldn't it be nice, Joseph, to have a dog like that? We should get a famous price for it!"

In consequence of this information, William went to M. Bucquet's, and asked him in what part of the house M. Roussel lived, as he wanted to inquire for his dog, which had been taken by little Roussel.

"He would be likely enough to do so," said M. Bucquet; "but I think he went out with his father before your dogs took the liberty of walking off. Is it not so, Joseph?"

Joseph, who was occupied in arranging a box of gloves over the counter, answered "Yes," without raising his head, and William did not perceive that he blushed very much. As it was known that M. le Chevalier had really entered the house, William begged permission to go and inquire of all the lodgers. No one had seen him; but on passing by a door that was locked, and which he supposed to be that belonging to M. Roussel, he knocked very loudly, and then listened attentively. At the second knock, he thought he heard a bark, and fancied he recognised the voice of M. le Chevalier. Transported with joy, he hastened down again, and was astonished at seeing Joseph, who had softly followed him at some distance, endeavouring to make his escape the moment he was observed. William returned to the shop, exclaiming, "He is there; M. le Chevalier is there. I have heard him bark;" and seeing Joseph re-enter the shop, he added, "Yes, and I'll wager that M. Joseph knows very well that he is in M. Roussel's apartments."

"Indeed!" said M. Bucquet, "I should like to see him interfering with the tricks of that little rascal George. You may rest assured that he has not meddled with your dog. If he had, I should very soon settle him."

William inquired whether M. Roussel would be long away, and was informed that he was gone to Clichi for the fête, to pass the day with his brother, who was steward of the château, and that he would not return till the evening. William wanted to have the door forced; but M. Bucquet would not consent to such a thing. William therefore determined to carry the intelligence he had received to his father, purposing to return immediately, and place himself as sentinel at M. Roussel's door, in order to prevent anything being removed without his permission. Meanwhile he begged the neighbours to watch, in case M. Roussel returned during his absence; and they promised to do so.

His departure relieved Joseph from a heavy burden, for it was he who had taken the dog. He had long shared in George's mischievous tricks without any one being aware of it. As he stood in great awe of his father, who sometimes treated him very severely, he had been for a long time extremely quiet and orderly, but at length the example and the solicitations of George, who was dying to have a companion in his sports, had led him away, without rendering him any the more courageous. Younger and weaker than George, he preferred such tricks as were of a secret and underhand character, while George delighted in more daring exploits. If a falsehood was to be told, it was Joseph always who undertook to tell it, and George, who had never spoken anything but the truth to his own parents, did not consider how wrong it was to be continually leading Joseph to deceive his. He had shown him the way by the leads, in order that he might enter the room in which he slept without passing by the apartments occupied by M. and Madame Roussel. The morning that M. le Chevalier had entered the alley, Joseph met him at the foot of the stairs, and thinking it a capital opportunity, he took him up, and carried him by way of the leads into George's room, never doubting that the latter, like himself, would be enchanted at the prospect of having him to sell. He had felt very much alarmed while William was knocking; but George's room being separated from the outside door by three other rooms, all the doors of which were closed, William had heard but faintly the barking of M. le Chevalier. It had been his first intention to watch for George on his return from Clichi, and tell him what he had done, in order that he might prevent any one from entering his room until the dog had been disposed of; for he generally left George to extricate himself, as well as he could, out of the scrapes in which he not unfrequently placed him. However, after William's departure, thinking that the dog would most certainly be reclaimed, and that it would be impossible to conceal him, he determined to repass the leads, fetch him, and turn him out of the house. As soon, therefore, as he saw his father occupied, he ran up the stairs, and passing through the window, he reached M. Roussel's rooms, and thinking that perhaps he might only have taken the key without locking the door outside, he hoped to be able to open it from within and turn out the dog, without being suspected. But he found the door locked, so that it was necessary to return by the usual way. At this moment, he heard his father's voice, calling him at the foot of the stairs. M. le Chevalier had concealed himself under a bed, from which it was impossible for Joseph to make him move. Besides, how was he to return through the staircase window with the dog? His father might be coming up, and see him; it was quite hazardous enough to get back alone. Joseph decided, therefore, on taking this latter course, leaving M. le Chevalier in quiet possession of the post to which he had retreated. He found his father and mother waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs, and told them that he had been to listen at M. Roussel's door in order to ascertain whether the dog was there. As it was Sunday, they closed the shop, and went out to dine. Joseph accompanied them, somewhat uneasy as to what might be the result of this affair, but still hoping to return sufficiently early to tell George, and determined, at all events, to deny having the least share in the theft.

Meanwhile, George, who knew nothing of the matter, was amusing himself at Clichi to his heart's content. In the morning, he had rowed upon the Seine, in a boat belonging to the château. Afterwards, he had witnessed the target-shooting, had run at the ring, and balanced himself in the swing. After dinner, he returned to see the various exhibitions in the square. In one corner were the puppets; in another, William's dogs, notwithstanding the absence of M. le Chevalier, attracted round them a large concourse of spectators. George saw them from a distance and recognised them; he hastened immediately to the spot, called his father, mother, uncle, and all the company, to whom he was delighted to introduce his friends the dogs. He mingled with the spectators, explained everything, in fact did the honours. "I know them," he said, "they live opposite to us." He enumerated their various talents and expatiated upon their acquirements, calling each by his own name, as people do in speaking of persons with whom they are very anxious to appear particularly connected. "This is M. le Baron," said he, "do you see Madame la Vicomtesse? it is she who executes the lady's-chain with Madame la Présidente; and M. le Chevalier? Oh! where is M. le Chevalier?"

At this exclamation, which reawakened all William's regrets, he turned his head, recognised George, and pointed him out to his father. The latter approached George in a very rough manner. "Ah! ah!" said he, "it is you then who have stolen my dog?" "Ladies and gentlemen," he continued, "you would have been still more gratified if this thief had not stolen from me a new dog which I hoped to have had the honour of presenting to you. A most admirable dog! Ladies and gentlemen, had you beheld him, you would have said his equal was nowhere to be found."

At this epithet of thief, George, though he could not understand how it was applicable to himself, became red with anger. M. Roussel and the uncle looked at each other, and with great warmth commanded the owner of the dogs to explain himself. He recommenced his grievances and invectives, and swore that they should pay the value of what he had lost by M. le Chevalier, who assuredly would have tripled the receipts. George, his father, and his uncle replied, became warm, and at length got into a rage, whilst poor Madame Roussel, greatly agitated, wanted to get away. The master of the dogs, on his side, vociferated louder and louder, and began to gesticulate. In the heat of the dispute, William, who had finished his collection, came to his father's aid. "It is he," he exclaimed, pointing to George; "he stole him in order to sell him; I heard M. le Chevalier bark in his room."

"That's false," said George, accompanying his reply with a blow, which upset all the money that William had collected in his hat. The latter wanted both to pick up the money and return the blow at the same time, but George did not give him the opportunity, for he fell upon him with redoubled violence. William then seriously thought of defending himself.

D'Aumale est plus ardent, plus fort, plus furieux;

Turenne est plus adroit, et moins impétueux.

La Henriade.

D'Aumale is more ardent, stronger, more furious;

Turenne, less impetuous, displays more skill.

George gave most blows, but William was more skilful in parrying, and while his hands were employed against George, he endeavoured with his feet to keep off the little boys, who had rushed to pick up the money. One of these, in order to escape a kick which he perceived was likely to fall to his share, took hold of William by the leg, and thus threw him on the ground, while George, who was holding him by the hair, fell with him. They were picked up, and separated. The owner of the dogs now swore that they should not only pay for the loss of M. le Chevalier's day's work, but the amount of the collection also. M. Roussel insisted on knowing positively what it was they complained of. Madame Roussel, more dead than alive, wished to have the man paid, in order to get away; and her husband consented, provided the dog was found in their apartments, of which he showed the key, and which he also promised should not be opened, except in the presence of the owner of the dogs, whom he invited to return with him to Paris. "And we shall see," said George, doubling his fist at William, whom he promised himself to pay off in a very different manner.

They all returned, William dragging the dogs in their carriage; M. Roussel giving his arm to his wife, who could not support herself: the master of the dogs and M. Roussel at one moment talking angrily, at another more reasonably, and William and George, who were carefully kept apart, gesticulating at a distance, and often accompanying their gestures with words, for want of better means of annoyance. With them came many persons returning to Paris after the fête, who were curious to see the termination of this affair, while all the little boys of the village ran after them, trotting with their bare feet in the dust.

The troop reached Paris very much diminished, but sufficiently considerable to attract the attention of the passers by, and to be followed by a crowd of idle people. M. Bucquet, who beheld all this assemblage collected at his house, asked what it was all about; and while they were giving him an explanation, Joseph found an opportunity of taking George on one side, and relating to him the whole affair. George was furious, and commanded him to go at once and take the dog away, which Joseph refused to do for fear of being seen.

"I will say that it was you," exclaimed George.

"I will say that you tell a falsehood," replied Joseph.

George took him by the ears in order to force him up stairs.

"I'll scream," said Joseph.

George, notwithstanding his anger, saw that there was but one course to be pursued. He left Joseph, ran up stairs, attained the leads, entered his room and sought for the dog, determined, if requisite, to pass the night with him upon the roof; but he sought in vain. As Joseph had left the doors open, M. le Chevalier had had all the apartments at his disposal. Where could he be hidden? It was getting dusk, and the dog was small, George could not perceive him anywhere, and he was persuading himself that Joseph had been making game of him, and was about returning by the way that he had entered, when the animal scenting his master at the door, rushed from under a bed, howling most lamentably.

"Do you hear?" exclaimed the owner.

"It is impossible," exclaimed M. Roussel, precipitately opening the door. He stood perfectly stupified when he beheld his son and the dog in the middle of the room, without being able to understand in the least by what means they had got there.

"I knew it would be so," said William triumphantly.

George, stifled with shame and anger, and rendered furious by the invectives with which he was overwhelmed from all sides, protested that it was not he, but Joseph who did it. The neighbours, delighted at finding him in fault, were indignant that he should throw the blame upon another. M. Bucquet, who knew that if Joseph were the culprit, he should have to pay the damages, flew into a violent passion with George; and Madame Bucquet, terrified lest her husband should beat Joseph, became still louder and more violent in her invectives: M. Roussel thought that, right or wrong, he ought to take his son's part; William and his father were clamouring to be paid, and M. le Chevalier howled like a dog who had had no dinner.

In the midst of this fearful uproar, a venerable clergyman who lived in the house came up. Every one respected him, and he was the only person on whom George had not dared to play his tricks. He made every effort to restore peace, but when he had stilled the tumult for a moment, some voice was raised, every one replied, and the whole thing was renewed. At length he succeeded in persuading the people to disperse, with the exception of the owner of the dogs, who wanted to take M. Roussel before the magistrate to make him pay. M. Roussel did not desire anything better, and George was anxious to accompany them, in order to justify himself, but Madame Roussel wept and entreated her husband to pay: and the clergyman reminded him that he had promised to do so if the dog was discovered on his premises: he was therefore obliged to submit; and then the master of the dogs, perfectly satisfied, went away, holding M. le Chevalier under his arm, and saying, "Monsieur, Madame, very sorry to have troubled you."

M. and Madame Roussel retired to their own rooms, together with the clergyman, whom they had invited to accompany them. George sat in a corner, tearing his hair in despair. They asked him the truth of the story, which he explained, and M. Roussel and his wife were terribly enraged against Joseph.

"But," said the clergyman, "who taught him to pass by the leads?"

George agreed that it was he.

"And who accustomed him to do these mischievous tricks?"

George was compelled again to own that he had done so.

"Behold the effect of bad example!" continued the clergyman; "evil is done without very bad intentions, but he whom we instruct in committing it, learns the evil without heeding the intentions. Joseph has seen you keep dogs in your possession, in order to set their masters hunting for them, and he thought it quite as reasonable to conceal one in order to sell it: therefore, it is you who are answerable for all that he has done."

George had nothing to say. The clergyman lectured him for some time longer, and left him completely ashamed of himself, and determined to correct his faults: but his parents were obliged to leave the house and the neighbourhood, for George could never go into the streets, without hearing himself called a dog-stealer. For a time it was the same at school also, where some of the other boys had related the story; but as he was very much liked, and besides one of the strongest, his explanation and a few blows soon re-established him in the esteem of his companions.

In the end, the truth was discovered in the neighbourhood also, but it was long before the prejudices against him were quite overcome. As for Joseph, it is asserted that he was well beaten by his father, but this only corrected him of the desire of playing tricks on his neighbours. He continued all his life a coward from disposition, and a liar from the instructions of George; therefore, whenever George heard any evil of him, he felt pained, because he knew that he had increased the number of his bad habits.

---

EUDOXIA;
OR LEGITIMATE PRIDE.

Madame d'Aubonne beheld her daughter Eudoxia, who had attained the age of thirteen, increase every day in judgment, talent, and good dispositions of all kinds. It was with a feeling of intense happiness, that she discovered in her the germ and hope of every virtue. Nothing was wanting to Eudoxia, but the consciousness that virtues were given to us for our own practice, and not for the purpose of judging the conduct of others. Her own earnest love of all that was good, and her constant endeavour to do what she considered best, disposed her to blame others with severity, and to exact from them a rectitude, equal to that which she herself displayed in all her actions.

Though Eudoxia was too reserved, and even too timid to express her opinions to any one but her mother, to whom she confided everything, and who, on her part, had the most entire confidence in her daughter, nevertheless Madame d'Aubonne carefully opposed this tendency; for she knew that it was not sufficient to watch over words only, but that we must also regulate our thoughts; and those of Eudoxia appeared to her, in this respect, neither just nor reasonable. However, she had rarely occasion to reprimand her on this account, for with the exception of her cousin Constance, who was much younger than herself, and to whom, as she was very fond of her, she was, consequently, more indulgent, she saw scarcely any but older persons, and such as she would never have presumed to censure.

Madame d'Aubonne had resided many years in the country, attending to her invalid father; having had the misfortune to lose him, she returned, to Paris, which she again left, for the purpose of passing a couple of months at Romecourt, with Madame de Rivry, an old friend, who resided there with her daughter Julia, whom Eudoxia scarcely knew, not having seen her for six years.

Madame d'Aubonne found at Romecourt her aunt, Madame de Croissy, who was to spend there the same time as herself. Madame de Croissy was educating her two granddaughters, Adèle and Honorine, with whom Eudoxia was as little acquainted as with Julia, although they were her cousins. Her timidity, therefore, made her look with much terror on this new society, especially as the other three girls, though much about her own age, were very far from being as reasonable as herself.

Julia, though at heart a very good-dispositioned child, was very much spoiled by her mother, and sometimes answered her with a degree of impertinence which made every one present shrug their shoulders. Adèle regarded an untruth as the simplest thing in the world; she told falsehoods in sport; she told them in earnest; she even told them at the very moment in which she might have been convicted of the fallacy of her assertions.

As to Honorine, she was a perfect wild colt, without discipline, without reflection; never for a moment dreaming that her fancies could meet with the slightest opposition, nor that those things which gave her pleasure could be attended with any inconvenience. Madame de Croissy troubled herself very little about their education; provided they made no noise, and did not attempt to join in conversation, she always considered girls to be quite sufficiently well brought up; therefore she habitually left them with the servants, and felt annoyed, that at Romecourt they were almost always kept in the drawing-room, because Eudoxia and Julia were very little away from their mothers.

This plan was equally disagreeable to the two girls, but little accustomed to the society of their grandmamma, who, when at home, never concerned herself about them, any further than to tell them to hold themselves upright whenever she thought of it, or to be silent whenever their voices were heard above a whisper. They would have been much better pleased if left with their grandmother's servants, with whom they were accustomed to associate, provided, however, that they could have had Julia with them; for as to Eudoxia, they cared very little for her.

It is true that she had not been very amiable towards them, for she was quite horrified at their giddy manners, their want of obedience, and their tone of mockery, to which she was not accustomed. Astonished beyond measure, at their ignorance of almost every principle which, from her childhood, she had been taught to respect, she blushed to the eyes when she beheld Honorine reading without scruple a letter which she found open, playing tricks with the gardener's son, or standing at the park railing, in front of the high road, chatting with all the little boys and girls of the village. She trembled when she saw Adèle, even at her grandmamma's side, and under her very spectacles, cut the needleful with which she was embroidering, in order to shorten it, and be able to say that her task was finished. Nor, in fine, could she recover from her surprise, when she saw that the very moment in which Julia received an order from her mother to do anything, was precisely that which she selected for doing the opposite. At these times she imagined herself transported into a new world, where all was strange and incomprehensible to her: she avoided conversing with her companions, as she had nothing to say which would be agreeable to their tastes; and, besides, she would scarcely have known how to reply to them, had they spoken to her. She therefore left them as soon as she was able, and took refuge with her mother.

The others easily perceived, that though Eudoxia said nothing to them, she did not approve of their conduct; they were, therefore, very ill at ease in her society, and in no way pleased when Madame d'Aubonne, who was anxious that Eudoxia should accustom herself to live with others, adapt herself to their habits, and tolerate their defects, sent her to share in their amusements and conversation.

Neither was Eudoxia at all agreeable to Madame de Croissy, whose principles of education had so little affinity with those of Madame d'Aubonne, and whose grandchildren bore no resemblance to her daughter. As Madame de Croissy was the sister of Madame d'Aubonne's father, she had paid him a visit a short time before his death, but unaccompanied by her grandchildren. On that occasion she had seen Eudoxia, whose good qualities and happy dispositions were extolled by every one in the neighbourhood in which the family resided. As Madame de Croissy had never heard her grandchildren so praised, she felt annoyed; and, besides, she considered that Madame d'Aubonne conversed a great deal too much with her daughter, reasoned with her too much, and altogether occupied herself too much about her, though this was never at the expense of others. She therefore told every one, and was herself firmly persuaded that Madame d'Aubonne "would never make anything of this little prodigy but a little pedant."

Her annoyance had been redoubled since she had been in the country, by the striking contrast which the conduct of Eudoxia presented to that of her cousins; therefore, in her quality of grand-aunt, she perpetually contradicted her, either directly or by indirect allusions. Her looks were turned to her at every moment, as if she were watching her, and ready to seize instantly upon the slightest fault which might escape her. Nor did she ever call her anything but Mademoiselle Eudoxia. Eudoxia would, therefore, have found but very little enjoyment in the country, had it not been for the happiness she felt in conversing with her mother, who spoke to her as a reasonable person, and who, even when reprimanding her, concealed nothing of her affection, nor even, we may add, of her respect; for with the exception of this want of toleration, which marred a little her good qualities, Eudoxia merited all the respect that a child of her years could merit.

One morning the four girls were at work in the drawing-room. Eudoxia, at her mother's side, occupied herself diligently with what she was engaged upon; the other three, collected in a corner, talked, laughed in an under tone, dropped their work, forgot to pick it up, and never did three stitches successively; and even when told to go on, they did so for a moment only, and with every indication of languor and ennui. Eudoxia, from time to time, looked at them, and then at her mother, with an expression which sufficiently explained her sentiments. Madame de Croissy caught one of these glances, and was led to notice her granddaughters.

"Have the kindness to continue your work, young ladies," she said to them, very harshly. "Do you not see how much you shock Mademoiselle Eudoxia?"

Adèle and Honorine pretended to go on with their work, and Eudoxia, greatly confused, cast down her eyes, and did not dare to raise them again during the time they remained in the drawing-room. When they had retired to their own apartment, Madame d'Aubonne observed,

"You were very much occupied with those young ladies."

"Oh! mamma, they were so foolish."

"And do you derive pleasure from foolish things or persons?"

"Quite the reverse, mamma, I assure you."

"Think again, my child; it cannot be quite the reverse; for they made you raise your eyes from your work more than twenty times, and yet I know that your work interested you."

"Nevertheless, I assure you, mamma, it was not pleasure that I felt."

"It was at least a great interest; and did not this interest arise from the satisfaction you experienced at seeing them more unreasonable than yourself?"

"Oh, mamma!"

"Come, my dear Eudoxia, it is in the examination of our evil emotions that courage is required, the good ones are easily discovered. Ask your conscience what it thinks of the matter."

"Mamma," said Eudoxia, somewhat confused, "I assure you that I did not at first think it was that."

"I believe you, my child; it is a feeling which steals upon us unperceived. Many persons experience it as well as you, and imagine that the bad actions of others increase the merit of their own. But tell me, my dear Eudoxia, would there not be still greater pleasure in being superior to such persons, than in merely being superior to your companions in industry and attention?"

Eudoxia assented to this, and promised to attend to it. She was always happy when any duty was pointed out to her, so great was the pleasure she felt in endeavouring to accomplish it. Having gone down to fetch something from an apartment adjoining the drawing-room, the door of which was open, she heard Madame de Croissy observe to Madame de Rivry,—

"I have always said that Mademoiselle Eudoxia would never be anything but a little pedant."

Madame de Rivry, although she liked Eudoxia, agreed that she busied herself much more in finding fault with her companions, than in making herself agreeable to them.

"That would be compromising her dignity," replied Madame de Croissy.

From that moment Eudoxia endeavoured to overcome her dislike and timidity. She mingled more frequently in the amusements of her companions, and at last took pleasure in them. But being now more at her ease with her playfellows, she told them more freely what she thought, and when she could not make them listen to reason, she would leave them with emotions of impatience, which she was unable to control.

"But why do you get impatient?" said her mother to her one day; "do they fail in their duty towards you, by not being as reasonable as you are?"

"No, mamma, but they fail in their duty to themselves, when they are so unreasonable, and it is that which irritates me."

"Listen, Eudoxia," continued her mother, "do you remember how irritable you used to be with your cousin Constance, because she paid so little attention to what she did, and broke everything that came in her way? One day you happened, by a carelessness of the same kind, to upset the table on which my writing-desk was placed; and I remember that from that time you have never been impatient with her."

"Oh! no, mamma, I assure you."

"Did you consider the fault of less importance because you happened to commit it yourself?"

"Quite the reverse, mamma, but that showed me that it was more difficult to avoid it than I had at first imagined."

"This is what experience teaches us every day, my child, with regard to faults which we have not as yet committed. Thus," she added, laughing, "I do not despair of seeing you indulgent towards these young ladies, if one day you discover by the same means, that it is difficult not to be an arguer, like Julia; a story-teller, like Adèle; and a lover of mischief, like Honorine."

"As to that mamma," replied Eudoxia, warmly, "that is what I shall never learn."

"Are you quite sure, my child?"—"Oh! quite sure."

"Are you then so differently constituted, as to be able to persuade yourself, that what appears to them so easy, would be impossible to you?"

"It must be so," said Eudoxia, really piqued.

"How then, in that case," said her mother, smiling, "can you expect them to do the same things as yourself? You do not expect Julia, who is much smaller than you are, to reach as high as you do; you only expect this from Honorine, who is as tall as yourself."

"But, mamma," replied Eudoxia, after reflecting for a moment, "perhaps, then, as they are less reasonable, they are not obliged to do as much as other people."

"It would be very wrong for them to think so, my child, for every one ought to do as much good as lies in his power; but every one is likewise enjoined to inquire into his own duties, and not into those of others; therefore attend only to your own. Do you consider it just and reasonable to enjoy the pleasure of feeling that you are better than they are, and at the same time to get impatient with them, because they are not as good as yourself?"

"Mamma, are we then permitted to consider ourselves better than other people?"

"Yes, my child; for to think ourselves better than others is simply to feel that we possess more strength, more reason, more means of doing good, and consequently to consider ourselves bound to do more than them."

This conversation gave Eudoxia a feeling of satisfaction which rendered her more indulgent, and more patient with her companions; but in this indulgence there might perhaps be discovered a slight degree of pride; it had something of the kindness of a superior being always thinking of keeping herself sufficiently above others to avoid being hurt by their not acting with as much propriety as herself.

Eudoxia insensibly acquired the habit of considering her companions as children, and almost of treating them as such. One day when the four girls were working together, they compared their various performances, and Honorine's, which was like Eudoxia's, happened to be much worse done.

"That is a very difficult stitch," said she, with the same air as if she were making an excuse for a child of six years old.

It did not occur to her that the remark was equally applicable to herself. The others burst out laughing.

"Be quiet," said Honorine, "do you not see that Eudoxia has the kindness to protect me?"

Eudoxia felt so much hurt that the tears started to her eyes. She was satisfied with herself, and believed she had a right to be so, and yet she met with nothing but injustice and mockery. She again began to withdraw herself from her companions.

Her mother perceived this, and inquired the reason. Eudoxia felt some difficulty in confessing it, though she considered herself in the right. The ridicule that had been cast upon her had given rise to a species of shame. At last, however, she stated the cause.

"You were, then, very much hurt, were you not?" asked Madame d'Aubonne, "because Honorine appeared to think that you affected to protect her? It seems that you would have considered such a thing very ridiculous."

"Oh! mamma, it is not necessary that a thing should be ridiculous for them to laugh at it."

"But tell me, Eudoxia, if by chance they had ridiculed you because you love me, because you listen to me, because you do all that I desire, would that have given you pain?"

"No, indeed, mamma, I should have laughed at them then, in my turn."

"And why did you not pursue the same course when they laughed at the manner you assumed towards Honorine? If you thought that this patronizing manner was the most suitable, what did it matter to you that they should think otherwise? Are you not more reasonable than they are, consequently better able to judge of what is right?"

"Mamma," said Eudoxia, after a moment's silence, "I now think I was wrong in manifesting towards Honorine a manner which displeased her, but I only wished to show indulgence for the faults she had made in her work."

"My dear child, we ought to be indulgent towards the faults of every one, but we ought not to let this indulgence be manifest to those whose conduct does not concern us, unless they wish us to do so; for otherwise, as it is not our business to reprimand them, so neither is it to pardon them. This is an office which we have no right to assume without their permission."

"But what then is to be done, mamma, when they commit faults?"

"Try not to see them, if possible, and instead of pardoning, try to diminish them; endeavour to discover in Honorine's work all that is good, so that what is bad may be forgotten; but to do this you must not be very glad that your work has been found better than hers; your whole pride should consist in being superior to these trifling advantages."

Eudoxia profited by her mother's advice, and became every day more gentle and sociable. Madame de Croissy had scarcely anything to say against her, and her companions began to take pleasure in her society. She was completely in their confidence, at least as much as she desired to be; and when she saw the fears and vexations to which their inconsiderate conduct often exposed them, when she saw them blush at the least word that could have any reference to a fault which they had concealed, and even found them manifest towards herself a species of deference which they no longer refused to her good sense, when it was not exercised at their expense, she felt daily more and more, how great is the pleasure of self-respect.

"And yet," said her mother, "you are still very far from knowing its full value; this you will not ascertain until you have paid its price, until you have purchased it by painful sacrifices."

Eudoxia could not conceive that any sacrifices could be difficult which conferred such an advantage.

Madame de Rivry, who was extremely kind, and who took great interest in the amusements of young people, proposed to visit a very beautiful park, situated about four leagues from Romecourt; they were to spend the day there, and return home in the evening.

Eudoxia and her companions were delighted at the thought of this party; but on the evening before it was to take place, when they were thinking of the arrangement of the carriages, they found that Madame de Rivry's calèche would only hold four persons, therefore as it was necessary that she herself should be one of the four, the whole of the girls could not be with her; one of them must necessarily go in Madame de Croissy's carriage, with that lady and Madame d'Aubonne. This made a great difference in the pleasure of the journey.

Madame de Rivry, obliged to do the honours of her house, decided that it must be Julia who was to go in the carriage. Julia exclaimed loudly against this, and declared she would much prefer not going at all. She answered her mother in the disrespectful manner which she always assumed when anything displeased her, and said that it was very convenient for her mother, who was going in the calèche, to put her to be wearied to death in the carriage.

Madame de Rivry endeavoured in vain to induce her daughter to listen to reason; but as her indulgence did not extend so far as to make her forget what she owed to others, she resisted all her complaints.

Madame de Croissy offered to take one of her grandchildren with her, but this offer was not made with any emphasis, as she was desirous of seeing justice done, and would have been very sorry if, on this occasion, Madame de Rivry had yielded to her daughter. Madame d'Aubonne said nothing, for she saw that it would have been quite useless.

Julia sulked, and even cried, the whole afternoon. She was so much accustomed to have her own way, that the slightest contradiction was a violent grief to her. During their walk she was constantly wiping her eyes, while Madame de Rivry tried to console her, but to no purpose. This distressed Eudoxia so much, that she whispered to her mother, "If I dared, I would beg Madame de Rivry to give my place to Julia."

"It would do no good," said her mother; "but if you like, as you have a slight cold, I will say to-morrow that I should prefer your not going in the calèche, I think that will be better."

"Oh no, mamma," said Eudoxia quickly, "I assure you the calèche will not do my cold any harm."

"I agree with you, my child, that the inconvenience is not of sufficient importance to deprive you of this pleasure, neither should I have proposed it to you, had I not thought that you wished to give up your place to Julia."

"And I do wish to do so, mamma, but...."

"You would like perhaps to propose it in such a way that her mother would refuse it?"

"Oh! no, mamma, I do assure you."

"Or else you wish it to be known that it is you who give it up to her?"

"But, mamma, is it not natural to wish Julia to know that it is I who would give her this pleasure, and not any one else?"

"And even if that were possible, do you think that this mode of affording Julia pleasure would be agreeable to her? Suppose, for instance, that you had behaved in as childish a manner as she has done, and that any one of your age had offered to yield her place to you, and thus shown how very good she was, and how much the reverse you were, would you not have felt greatly humiliated by this kindness?"

"Oh! yes, mamma, that is very true."

"Nevertheless this is the humiliation you wish to impose on Julia, as the price of the pleasure you would afford her."

"I assure you, mamma, I have no wish whatever to humble her."

"No, but you wish to prove to her, as well as to every one else, that you are better than she is; for it does not seem to be sufficient for you to know this yourself."

"But, mamma, is it only allowable to be a little satisfied with ourselves, when we conceal from others what we do for them?"

"When the result of what we do for them is to cause ourselves to be esteemed much more than them, and at their expense, we only barter one advantage for another, and we have no reason to be very proud of ourselves, for we have made no great sacrifices for them."

"Mamma," said Eudoxia, after a moment's reflection, "if you like, you can tell Madame de Rivry that I have a cold."

"Just as you please, my child," and they said no more about the matter.

The following day the weather was superb, and Eudoxia beheld the calèche waiting in the yard, the horses pawing the ground, impatient to be off.

"My cold is almost gone," she said.

"I think, indeed," said Madame d'Aubonne, "that the calèche will do you no great harm."

"You know, mamma," said Eudoxia, with a sigh, "that it is not I who am going in it."

"You can still do as you like, my child, for I have not spoken on the subject to Madame de Rivry; you are not obliged, therefore, to make this sacrifice, if it be painful to you."

"But, mamma, I think it would be right to make it," said Eudoxia, with sadness.

"My dear child, when once the idea of performing a generous action has occurred to us, if we do not perform it we run the risk of having to reproach ourselves afterwards. It is possible that when you are in the calèche, the thought that Julia is moping in the carriage may greatly interfere with your pleasure: that is all; for I again repeat, that there is no duty which obliges you to yield your place to her."

"Unless it be, mamma, that I think I have more courage than she has to bear this contradiction."

"I agree with you, as we have before observed, that there are particular duties imposed upon those who feel themselves possessed of more strength and reason than others."

"Mamma, I will go in the carriage."

"Are you quite sure that you really wish to do so, my child?"

"I am quite sure, mamma, that I wish Julia to go in the calèche."

Madame d'Aubonne tenderly embraced her daughter, for she was extremely pleased with her conduct. They entered the drawing-room, and she expressed her desire of keeping Eudoxia in the carriage; the request was granted without difficulty.

The good-natured Madame de Rivry was very glad to be able to spare her daughter any annoyance, without being wanting in attention to her friends. Eudoxia said nothing, but this occasioned no surprise, as all were accustomed to her obedience. Julia, though delighted, nevertheless blushed a little, for it is very humiliating to find that one has had the weakness to grieve over a misfortune, which after all does not happen; but no one, however, was discontented with the arrangement except Madame de Croissy, who lost the pleasure of seeing a spoiled child contradicted at least once in her life.

"I should have imagined," said she, ironically, "that the education of Mademoiselle Eudoxia would have made her less afraid of catching cold."

Madame d'Aubonne looked at her daughter with a smile, and this smile prevented Eudoxia from being irritated by the remark.

When in the carriage, Madame de Croissy, feeling too warm, wished to put down one of the windows, "provided," she again said, "that it will not give Mademoiselle Eudoxia cold." Madame d'Aubonne and her daughter again glanced at each other, with a scarcely perceptible smile, and Eudoxia found that there is a great pleasure in feeling, in our own conscience, that we are better than others take us to be.

She enjoyed herself very much in the park. In the evening, she felt some regret at losing the drive home in the calèche, on a beautiful moonlight night; but at last she retired to rest, pleased with the day's amusement, pleased with herself, and pleased with the satisfaction she had given her mother, who, during the whole day, was more than usually attentive to her, calling her whenever she saw anything pretty, and experiencing no pleasure unless shared by her.

The following morning, a painter, with whom Madame de Rivry was acquainted, called en passant at Romecourt; he was on his way back to Paris, and had only half an hour to spend at the château.

Whilst the breakfast was preparing, he expressed a wish to see the drawings of the young ladies, and Adèle was ordered to show them. Eudoxia and herself had undertaken to copy from the antique a beautiful head of a vestal, and Adèle, though according to custom, she had scarcely worked at all, yet, according to custom also, she had told her grandmamma that her drawing was finished, and Madame de Croissy, who never looked at her work, made no further inquiries about it. However, as she could not exhibit this drawing, she determined to show as her own the one which Eudoxia had done. The artist was delighted with it, and it was, indeed, the best thing Eudoxia had ever done. While he was still examining it, Madame de Croissy called Adèle into the garden, and with her usual thoughtlessness she ran off without putting away the drawing; during this time Madame d'Aubonne and Eudoxia entered by another door.

"Here is a beautiful head drawn by Mademoiselle Adèle!" said the painter.

"By Adèle?" said Eudoxia, blushing, and looking at her mother.

"I do not think it can be Adèle's," said Madame d'Aubonne.

"Oh! I beg your pardon," said the painter, "she told me so herself;" and going to the door which led into the garden, where Adèle was standing on the step, talking to her grandmamma, he said to her, "Is not the drawing you have just shown me your work, mademoiselle?"

"Yes, sir," said Adèle, scarcely turning her head, for fear her grandmamma should notice it, and ask to see the drawing.

The painter then resumed his praise of it. Eudoxia waited for her mamma to speak, but she said nothing, and Eudoxia finding her silent, did not dare to speak herself.

The artist wished to see some of her drawings; she said that she had nothing to show; but perceiving a portfolio, inscribed with her name, he drew from it an old study, with which Eudoxia was not at all satisfied, and which she had brought into the country to correct. He pointed out its defects, coldly praised the talent it indicated, and again reverted to the head of the vestal.

Eudoxia's heart was bursting, and she looked at her mother as if to entreat her to speak; but the breakfast was announced. The painter being asked what he thought of the drawings, spoke courteously relative to the talents of the other three young ladies, but asserted that Adèle would be very successful.

"Ah! not so much so as Mademoiselle Eudoxia," said Madame de Croissy, casting upon Eudoxia a look of ironical satisfaction.

"I assure you, madame," said the painter, "that the head of the vestal which Mademoiselle Adèle showed me, displays the very highest promise."

Adèle's face became alternately pale and crimson, and she did not dare to raise her head.

"I assure you, nevertheless," said Madame de Croissy, in the same tone, "that if you had heard Mademoiselle Eudoxia, and the advice she gives, you could not doubt that she was the most skilful young lady of her age."

The painter looked at Eudoxia with astonishment. She felt indignant, but her mother, who was seated near her, pressed her hand beneath the table, in order to calm her. She could not eat, and immediately after breakfast, she went into the garden, where her mother followed her, and found her crying with vexation and impatience.

"What is the matter, my dearest Eudoxia?" said she, pressing her tenderly in her arms.

"Really, mamma," said Eudoxia, much agitated, "this is very hard, and Madame de Croissy again...."

"What does the injustice of Madame de Croissy matter to you? Which of us believes a word of what she says?"

"But the painter will believe it. Indeed I should have said nothing before her; but why must he think that my drawing was done by Adèle? Mamma, you have encouraged Adèle's falsehood," she added, in a tone of reproach.

"I have nothing to do with the education of Adèle," replied Madame d'Aubonne, "whereas I am responsible for yours; it is my duty to foster your virtues as I would my own, and to point out to you your duty, without thinking of that of other people."

"It was not my duty," replied Eudoxia, more mildly, "to allow it to be thought that my drawing was Adèle's."

"It was certainly not the duty of one who aspires to nothing more than to be able to draw well, but it was the duty of one who wishes to possess more strength and virtue than another, not to sacrifice the reputation of a companion to her own self-love. Tell me, my child, if in order to save yourself the slight vexation of being considered less clever than Adèle, you had in the presence of this artist covered her with the disgrace of having told a falsehood, would you not now feel very much embarrassed in her presence?"

"I think, indeed, I should, mamma."

"And it would be natural for you to feel so, for you would not have had the courage to make a trifling sacrifice, in order to save her from a great humiliation."

"That is true, mamma; but it is sometimes necessary to do very difficult things, in order to be always satisfied with one's self."

"And if this pleasure could be attained without difficulty, do you not suppose, my child, that every one would be as anxious as yourself to secure it?"

Although softened by this conversation with her mother, Eudoxia, nevertheless, could not help feeling some degree of bitterness against Adèle, and during a part of the day she avoided speaking to her. But she saw Adèle so ashamed when in her company, so occupied in endeavouring to give her pleasure without daring to approach her, or address her directly, that her anger was changed into compassion. She felt that the severest trial we can experience, is the having a serious fault to reproach ourselves with; and also that it is impossible to preserve any resentment against one who was suffering under so great an evil. She therefore spoke to Adèle as usual, and as soon as her irritation vanished, her grief also ceased.

But she had still to pass through a severe ordeal. Honorine, whom nothing ever restrained when once she took a fancy into her head, having one day found the park-gate open, thought it would be very pleasant to go and walk upon the high road. Eudoxia was alone with her at the time, and feeling how improper it was to act in this manner, she entreated her to return. Perceiving some one approaching, and trembling lest Honorine should be noticed, she ventured, in order to call her back, to pass the threshold of the gate herself, and standing quite close to the railing, she exclaimed,

"Honorine, my dear Honorine, come back! I entreat you to come back."

Just at this moment she fancied she heard the voice of Madame de Croissy, and rushed forward to hasten Honorine, who was not returning fast enough: her dress caught in the gate, she was thrown down, while the door was drawn forward and closed, and thus they were both outside, without any means of getting back. Eudoxia tried to open the gate, by passing her hand through the bars, but in vain; the lock was stiff; perhaps even it had a secret spring; she could not succeed. Greatly distressed, she wanted to call out for some one to open it for them, determined, without throwing any blame upon Honorine, to explain what had happened to herself: but Honorine, who had as little courage to encounter a slight reprimand, as she had sense to avoid meriting a great one, entreated her not to do so. She knew that her grandmamma was walking in the garden, and might hear them, and therefore thought it would be better to return to the château by the back entrance. To reach this, however, it was necessary to make a considerable circuit, and Eudoxia did not wish to leave the gate; but at last Honorine having taken her own course, she was obliged to follow her, as by calling after her, she would have led to a discovery of her imprudent conduct.

She followed her with trembling steps, keeping close to the park walls, and walking as quickly as possible, fearful of being seen, and constantly calling to Honorine, who, on the contrary, was much amused at her alarm, and kept running from side to side, and even into the fields. While still at a considerable distance from the yard of the château, they saw coming along the road, which crossed in front of them, a carriage filled with company, going to dine at Romecourt.

Eudoxia was now more than ever in despair, as she imagined that she had been recognised; she therefore redoubled her speed, while Honorine, who was beginning to be afraid, on the contrary slackened hers, in order to defer, as long as possible, the moment of danger.

Their fears were not groundless; they had been perceived. As soon as the carriage arrived at Romecourt, they were sought for, together with Adèle and Julia, in order to entertain a young lady, who had accompanied her mother and two other ladies; but they were not to be found.

"I think," said a gentleman, who had accompanied the carriage on horseback, "that I saw them on the road."

"On the road alone!" exclaimed Madame de Croissy.

"I thought it very strange," said one of the ladies, "nevertheless it was certainly them."

A new search was made everywhere; Adèle did not know where her sister was, neither could Madame d'Aubonne tell what had become of her daughter. She had gone down to the drawing-room, and was beginning to feel very uneasy, when a servant who observed them enter the yard, exclaimed, "Here they are!"

Every one ran out upon the step, and the two girls perceived, from a distance, the assembly that awaited them. Eudoxia, though almost ready to faint with fear and shame, was, nevertheless, obliged to drag Honorine, who would not advance. They had hardly reached the middle of the yard when they heard Madame de Croissy calling out to them, "Is it possible, young ladies! Is it to be believed!..." Madame d'Aubonne hastened to meet her daughter: "Eudoxia," said she, "what can have happened? How is it"....

Eudoxia did not dare to reply, on account of Honorine, who was by her side, but she pressed and kissed her mother's hand, looked at her, and then at Honorine, in such a way that Madame d'Aubonne was convinced that her daughter had done nothing wrong.

They reached the house at last, still accompanied by the reproofs and exclamations of Madame de Croissy, who while they were ascending the steps, turned towards the company and said, "I beg you at all events to believe, that Honorine is not so ill brought up, as to have thought of such an escapade as this, of her own accord. It was Mademoiselle Eudoxia who led her away, and almost by force too; I was a witness to this." Eudoxia was on the point of exclaiming—"Yes, Mademoiselle," continued Madame de Croissy, with an air of command, "I was walking in the shrubbery near the railings, when you said, 'Come, I entreat you.' I was not then aware of the nature of your request; I see it now, but should never have imagined it. Deny it if you dare."

Madame de Croissy had indeed heard, but misunderstood what Eudoxia had said, in order to induce Honorine to return. Eudoxia did not deny the charge, but cast down her eyes, and burst into tears. Madame d'Aubonne looked at her anxiously, and led her aside, when Eudoxia, weeping, related what had occurred.

"I do not know, my niece, what tale she may be fabricating," cried Madame de Croissy, "but I heard her with my own ears, and I hope I am to be believed, as much as Mademoiselle Eudoxia."

"Aunt," said Madame d'Aubonne, with firmness, "Eudoxia is not fabricating any tales; and if I am satisfied with her conduct, I beg to say, with all deference, that no one else shall interfere with her."

"Most assuredly, I shall not take that liberty," replied Madame de Croissy, very much irritated, "but she will have the kindness not to go near her cousins, and she may then make herself as ridiculous as she pleases; I shall trouble myself very little about it."

Eudoxia was no longer able to support herself; her mother led her away, embraced and consoled her. "Mamma," she said, weeping, "without you, I never should have had resolution enough."

"I am sure, my child, that you would. You would have borne everything rather than have exposed Honorine to the anger of her grandmamma; but we are both in the same predicament, and must mutually aid and support each other. Do you not imagine that they think me as much to blame as yourself?"

Eudoxia embraced her mother with transport; she was so happy and proud at being placed by her on the same level with herself. "But, mamma," she said, "although we say nothing to Madame de Croissy, we might at least explain the truth to the others."

"Would you then let them know that Honorine had the cowardice to allow you to bear the blame of a fault which she herself had committed? Would you wish to be weak in your turn? Your not accusing Honorine was an act of simple kindness merely; many others would have done as much; if you stop at this point, you have no right to consider yourself more generous than others."

"Mamma, this pleasure then must be very dearly purchased?"

"My child, it is only granted to those who have sufficient resolution to sacrifice every other pleasure to it."

Eudoxia, strengthened by her mother's words, returned with her resolutely to the drawing-room, where pardon had already been obtained for Honorine, whom Madame de Croissy would have sent to dine by herself in her own room. The modest but tranquil countenance of Eudoxia, and the tender but unaffected manner in which her mother treated her, imposed silence on Madame de Croissy, while the others began to suspect that she could not be so much in fault as Madame de Croissy had supposed; and Madame de Rivry, who knew her well, had already told them that the thing appeared to her quite impossible. Julia, by dint of questioning, at length extracted the truth from Honorine, and told her mother, on condition that nothing should be said to Madame de Croissy; but the company were informed of it, and from that moment treated Eudoxia with a degree of attention which proved to her that the approbation of others, although we ought not to calculate upon it, is still almost invariably accorded to those whose actions are performed solely from a sense of duty.

---

EDWARD AND EUGENIA;
OR THE EMBROIDERED BAG AND THE NEW COAT.

"Oh! I do love you so!" said Eugenia to little Agatha, her schoolfellow, to whom she had taken a violent fancy; and as she said this, she almost smothered her with kisses.

"And I love you very much too," said Agatha, disengaging herself from her arms. "But why do you not like me to play with Fanny?"

"Because you would love her more than me."

"Is Fanny then more amiable?" asked one of the governesses, who had overheard her.

"Certainly not," said Eugenia, whom this supposition very much displeased. "But I do not wish her to love Fanny even as much as she loves me."

"You do not then know how to be sufficiently amiable to make yourself more loved than another?"

"Oh! yes, I do," replied Eugenia, with increasing irritability, "but I do not wish her to play with Fanny." Thus saying, she took Agatha by the hand, and made her run with her in the walk before them. The governess allowed them to go, quite sure of finding an opportunity of renewing the conversation. After they had run about for some time, Eugenia, feeling fatigued, as it was a holiday, seated herself on a bench in the garden, with a book of tales, which had been given her on the previous evening, and which amused her very much. But Agatha, who was not fond of reading, wished to continue playing. She walked round and round Eugenia, trod upon her dress, and pulled the marker of her book, in order to prevent her from reading. At length she came behind her with a handful of grass, and holding it above her head, she let it fall before her eyes, upon her person, and upon the page with which she was occupied. Eugenia become angry, tore the grass from her hands, and told her to let her alone, for she annoyed her.

"Agatha, go and play with Fanny," said the governess, who was passing at the moment.

"Why do you wish her to go and play with Fanny," asked Eugenia, hastily rising, and ready to fly into a passion, had she dared to do so. At the same time, she threw down the book, in order to go and catch Agatha, who had already set off.

"You do not wish to play with her; probably Fanny might be more obliging...."

"But I have already been playing."

"It seems that it pleased you then, while it does not please you now. As you like to employ the time according to your own fancy, she has a right to employ it according to hers, and I advise her to go and look for Fanny."

Eugenia, who had nothing to urge, recommenced playing with Agatha, but in such ill humour, that she only tried to contradict her, making her run to the right and to the left against her inclination; pulling her arm sometimes forward, sometimes backward, sometimes upward, for she was taller than Agatha. Agatha got angry, tried in vain to stop her, and not being able to extricate herself from her hands, cried out with all her might to be let go. But Eugenia still went on, saying, "You wished to run, then let us run."

They were, however, stopped at the entrance of an arbour, by the governess, who was walking on this side. "If I were you," she said, addressing Agatha, "I should go and play with Fanny; she would not pull you so roughly by the arm."

"What does she want?" replied Eugenia. "I am doing what she wishes."

"But you do not do it in the manner that she wishes, and since you have no right over her, you can only retain her by doing whatever she pleases. Thus, the moment that you contradict her in the least thing, that you do not yield to all her whims, that you do not accommodate yourself to all her caprices, she will do quite right to go and play with Fanny if Fanny suits her better."

"Very well, let her go," replied Eugenia. "She shall not touch my great doll any more, nor look at my book of prints; and she shall not have the chaplet of horse-chestnuts that I was going to make for her."

"But I did not say that I would go and play with Fanny," replied Agatha, almost crying at the thought of not having the chaplet of horse-chestnuts, "only do not pull my arm so violently." Peace was made. It was now the time for going in; besides, Agatha, dreadfully frightened at the thought of losing the chaplet, did all day just whatever Eugenia pleased; so there were no more quarrels on that occasion.

But they soon recommenced. The mistress said to Eugenia, "Try to love Agatha a little more if you would not have her prefer Fanny."

"And do I not love her enough?" said Eugenia. "I am constantly making her presents, and only the day before yesterday, I gave her my prettiest work-box."

"Yes, after having refused it to her for three days, although you saw that she longed for it very much! But when she thought of telling you that Fanny had one quite as pretty, which she had almost promised her, then with a very bad grace you gave her yours. You did not care about giving her this pleasure, but you were afraid lest another should give it. If you took half the pains to make her love you, that you take to prevent her loving others, you would succeed much better."

But Eugenia did not understand this. She loved Agatha as a doll which amused her, and with which she did what she pleased. She carried her on her shoulders for her own sport, sent her to fetch her handkerchief, or her work, when she had forgotten it, made herself absolute mistress of the little garden which had been given to them in common, and carefully watched that she did not obey the wishes of others, as she would then have been less attentive to hers. Agatha liked Eugenia because she made her presents, and gave her little card-board carriages and other things which amused her, but above all because, being much older, cleverer, and more advanced than herself, she did almost all her work for her unknown to the mistresses. Eugenia never restrained on her account either her ill-humour or her caprices. She left her to weary herself when she was not disposed to amuse her, and when the others were too much occupied to do so in her place. She was especially jealous of Fanny, because she knew that Fanny, who was sensible, and manifested a friendship for Agatha, would have paid her more attention than she herself cared to be at the trouble of paying.

The holidays were at hand: Eugenia was going to pass three weeks in the country, at her home, but Agatha, whose parents resided at a great distance, could not go away. Eugenia felt sorry to leave her, but she was consoled by the thought that Fanny was going as well as herself. It so happened that Agatha after being completely ennuyée during the first few days, took it into her head to work, in order to amuse herself. As Eugenia was not there for her to depend upon, she endeavoured to succeed by herself. She was praised for her application; this encouraged her, and she became so fond of working, that she made, especially in embroidery, astonishing progress. She mentioned nothing of this in her letters to Eugenia, as she wished to surprise her; but when the latter returned, Agatha showed her a beautiful bag that she had commenced. "It is very well," said Eugenia coldly, for she never willingly gave praise; then taking the work out of her hands, she was going to do some of it; but Agatha no longer wished any one to touch her work, and therefore prevented her. Eugenia became angry, and when Agatha asked her advice on some point, she said, "Oh, you can do very well without it, you have become so clever." Afterwards wishing to know for whom the work was intended, and Agatha refusing to tell her, she asserted that it was for Fanny, or for some new friend which she had made during her absence. Agatha merely laughed, and continued her work. However, she performed many little acts of friendship for Eugenia, who repelled them because she saw her also kind to her other schoolfellows, whom she was very glad to see again. The ill-humour of Eugenia was still further increased by finding that Agatha, who was now more industrious and more tractable, and disturbed the other girls less in their work and in their games, was better received among them, while she on her part felt more pleasure in their society. Still she always preferred Eugenia; but as the latter passed her time in quarrelling with her, they frequently separated in anger.

One day when Agatha had just finished her work-bag, had lined it with rose-colour, and had put in the strings, the girls showed it to one another, and admired it, and all were astonished at the progress she had made. Agatha, greatly pleased, glanced at Eugenia, who ought to have guessed her intention, but her ill temper completely blinded her.

"It is very tiresome," she said, "to hear people constantly talking of the same thing."

"What!" replied Agatha, "are you sorry to hear them speak well of me?"

"What does it signify to me," said Eugenia, "since you no longer love me." Then, taking the bag from the hands of the girl who held it, "Let me see this beautiful bag," she continued, "I am the only one to whom you have not shown it!" then seizing it roughly, she crumpled it, soiled it, and rolling it up into a little ball, she began running about and tossing it up in her hands. She thought it was for Fanny, because for two days she and Agatha had held long consultations together respecting the manner of putting in the strings. Agatha ran after her crying, and quite in despair at seeing her work thus pulled about. All the other girls also pursued Eugenia, who seeing herself surrounded, wanted to put it under her feet, in order to be able to retain it, or perhaps to tear it to pieces. But just at the moment, when she was stooping down for this purpose, one of the girls pulled her by the dress and made her fall upon the grass. The bag was left free: Fanny picked it up and carried it in triumph to Agatha, who being the smallest had arrived the last. She threw herself upon Fanny's neck, exclaiming, "It was for Eugenia, it shall now be for you. It is you who shall be my friend." Eugenia, as she had only herself to blame, became all the more enraged, and declared that she would never have another friend.

Agatha, however, was grieved at having given her pain, and wished to be reconciled to her; even Fanny, who was kind and gentle, wanted to give up the bag to her; but Eugenia, still angry, declared that if she took it, it would only be to throw it over the garden walls; nor would she speak to Agatha, except to call her a little ungrateful thing.

"Did she owe you then much gratitude?" asked the governess.

"Certainly she did, for all that I have done for her?"

"And what did she owe you for all that you have refused her?"

"Was I then obliged to yield to all her whims?"

"It would appear so, since you wished her to yield to all yours."

"That would have been a difficult matter to settle," said Eugenia pettishly.

"And you see that it has not been settled. What motive could Agatha have to induce her to comply with your wishes?"

"I complied with hers often enough."

"Yes, but when your inclinations were opposed, why should it be hers that must yield? For myself I cannot see why."

"It was because she did not love me."

"And because you did not love her either, since you did not yield to her more."

"I certainly loved her much more than she loved me, for I always wished to be with her; but as for her, so long as she was amused, it was much the same to her whether she was with me or not."

"You should then have tried to become necessary to her."

"I do not know how I should have done that."

"Nothing would have been more easy, if you had shown yourself pleased whenever she expressed pleasure, no matter whence that pleasure came. If, for instance, when Louisa called her to look at her book of prints, instead of being angry at her leaving you, you had appeared glad that she was going to be amused, then as her joy would have been increased, by her seeing you pleased, she would never have looked at a picture without wishing to show it to you; for her pleasure could never be perfect unless you partook of it, and she would have ended quite naturally, by not desiring those enjoyments which you could not share; but for this you ought to have begun by interesting yourself in her pleasures rather than in your own."

"It was hardly worth the trouble of loving her," said Eugenia bitterly, "if it was to have been for her pleasure, and not for my own."

"Then it was yourself that you loved, and not her."

This conversation did not correct Eugenia. She perceived, indeed, the truth of what had been said to her, but she was deficient in that sentiment of friendship which leads us to think of others before ourselves. As her first impulse, always, was to consider what she wished others to do for her, her second was a feeling of annoyance at their not having acted sufficiently to her liking; in such a case, it was useless to hope that she would think of what she owed to them. Always commencing by imagining that they had acted wrongly towards her, she did not consider herself under any obligation to them; she was ignorant of the delight that is experienced, in making a sacrifice for those we love; and being constantly dissatisfied with others, she never enjoyed the pleasure of feeling satisfied with herself.

She did not endeavour to make new friends in the school. What had passed between her and Agatha, and the conversations of the governess, had convinced her, that in order to do so, she had too much to overcome in her own disposition. Besides, the adventure of the embroidered bag had caused her companions to form a worse opinion of her than she deserved. She was therefore passing her time very drearily, when a great misfortune befel her. She lost her father, and this loss was the more grievous, as her mother had been long dead, and she was now consequently left quite an orphan. Her companions displayed much concern for her affliction, and especially Fanny, who, grieved at having given her pain, on account of Agatha, was constantly seeking opportunities of being with her. For a time, as all were occupied about her, Eugenia was pleased with every one; and as this state of mind rendered her more gentle and considerate, they imagined that her character had altered, and again began to love her. But when, after having occupied themselves for some time with her griefs, her companions returned to their ordinary games and conversations, she was as much shocked at hearing them laugh, as if they had all lost their parents. The mistress one day found her in tears, and complaining that no one any longer took an interest in her misfortunes.

"Eugenia," said the governess, "who is there among your companions for whom, in a similar case, you would have interrupted for a longer period your ordinary occupations and amusements?"

Eugenia only replied by saying, "that no one loved her in that school, and that she wished she could leave it." This satisfaction was soon granted to her. Her father's life had been shortened by the grief occasioned by the bad state of his affairs. When he was dead, his creditors came together, and made a small annual allowance to his children; this, however, was not sufficient to defray the expenses of Eugenia's education, and that of her brother Edward, who was pursuing his studies in one of the colleges of Germany. It was therefore arranged that they should both be placed with a cousin, an elderly lady, who consented to be satisfied with the allowance made. Eugenia was transported with joy, at the thought of living with her brother, whom she had not seen for ten years, but who wrote her such charming letters, and who besides, as she was his only sister, ought certainly to love her better than any one else in the world.

She was still more enchanted when she saw him. She was then fourteen years of age, and her brother seventeen; he was tall and handsome, as well as mild, amiable, and intelligent. He was exceedingly kind to her, and promised to teach her all he knew himself; he told her that since they had no fortune, he must try to make one for them, and began by giving her half the little money he had brought with him from Germany. Eugenia wept for joy at the kindness of her brother. When he was gone, she could talk of nothing else. She asked all her companions, whether they had seen him, and whether they did not think him handsome; she related the slightest particular of their conversation, and all that he had done and all that he had seen: there was not a town through which he had passed the name of which she did not pronounce with some emphasis. If she forgot anything, she said, "I will ask him to-morrow when he comes." "Is he coming, then?" said the little ones, who, always inquisitive, had formed the project of putting themselves in ambuscade near the door, in order to see what Eugenia's brother was like. "Oh! he cannot fail," said Eugenia, with an air of importance; she already seemed to think that her brother lived only for her convenience, and had nothing to do but to come and see her.

The next day came, but Edward did not make his appearance. Eugenia, greatly agitated, watched the door and the clock. "He must have mistaken the hour," said she. But it was not the hour apparently, but the day that he had mistaken, for it passed and still he did not come. Neither did he make his appearance on the following day. Eugenia's heart was bursting with grief and vexation, and her annoyance was increased by the derision of the little girls, who incessantly repeated, "Oh! he cannot fail to come."

"I shall scold him well," said Eugenia, pretending to laugh. The following day she was sent for, as a person had come to take her to her cousin's house. She did not doubt that her brother had also come; but she only saw her cousin's old cook, who told her in a grumbling tone to make haste because the coach must only be kept an hour, and that it was already dear enough. But Eugenia did not understand her. Quite bewildered at not seeing Edward with her, she already thought herself forgotten and abandoned. She scarcely embraced her companions, who had surrounded her to bid her farewell, but throwing herself into the coach began to weep, while the cook kept grumbling between her teeth, "that it was well worth the trouble of coming to eat other people's bread only to complain under their very eyes." It was nevertheless certain that the small sum paid for the board of Eugenia and Edward was an advantage to their cousin, who was not rich; but the cook was avaricious, and out of humour, and did not reflect, so that thus she only saw the extra expense. Besides, she was accustomed to govern her mistress, who, provided she had every day a dinner which suited her dog and her cat, fresh chickweed for her birds, and nuts for her parrot, allowed the cook to do just as she pleased. The arrival of these two additional guests quite disconcerted her. Eugenia felt distressed and humiliated, but did not, however, dare to complain. She was no longer with persons to whom she had been accustomed to exhibit her ill humour, and her new position intimidated her. As to her cousin, with whom she was acquainted, she knew very well that she would not torment her, but she also knew that she would in no way trouble herself about her; and it was especially requisite to Eugenia's happiness that people should take an interest in her. Therefore it was of Edward alone that she thought. It was he whom she was anxious to see, in order to let the whole weight of her vexation fall upon him; it was on his account that she was careful on entering not to conceal her eyes too much under her bonnet, so that he might clearly see that she had been weeping.

She entered the room, but he was not there. The table was laid, but only for two: she saw that Edward would not come, would not dine with her on the day of her arrival. She did not inquire for him, for she could not speak. Her cousin wished her good morning, just as if she had seen her on the previous evening, and did not even perceive that her eyes were red with crying. But the moment she began to eat her bosom swelled, and a sob escaped her which made her cousin raise her eyes.

"You are sorry to leave your school, my dear," she said; "that is quite natural, but you will soon get over that." Then, without thinking any more about it, or even troubling herself to see whether Eugenia was eating or not, she began to give the cat and dog their dinners, and to talk to Catau, who, being very ill-mannered, either did not reply at all or gave wrong answers, so that she had to repeat the same question twenty times over. After dinner, an old lodger in the house came up to play a game at piquet, which lasted until the evening. Eugenia could therefore torment or comfort herself, or sulk at her leisure, without there being any one to call her to account for it. At last she heard Edward arrive; she was so greatly delighted, that she endeavoured to frown as much as possible on receiving him, and succeeded so well in giving a gloomy expression to her face, that Edward, who ran eagerly to embrace her, drew back a step or two to inquire what was the matter with her.

"Oh! nothing is the matter with me," she said drily.

He insisted upon knowing, and as she persisted in giving similar answers to his inquiries, he at last pretty well conjectured the cause of her annoyance, and explained to her that during the last three days he had been occupied in visiting some of his father's relations, whom he wished to conciliate, in order to see if they could obtain any employment for him; and on this day he had been to visit one of them who lived at a considerable distance, and who could not be seen until four o'clock, so that he had been unable to return by dinner-time. He then reminded her, that it was very unreasonable to be so vexed, and tried to joke with her; but seeing that she neither yielded to reason nor pleasantry, he went off singing, and seated himself for a moment beside the piquet-players. Presently after he went to his room, having first gaily kissed his sister, in order to prove to her, that for his part he was not out of humour.

Eugenia was very much annoyed that he took the matter so easily; and although she had a little recovered, she thought she ought to preserve her dignity as an offended person. Thus, when Edward, on the following morning, asked her whether she would like him to give her some lessons in drawing, she replied coldly, "that she did not know, that she would see." Edward, believing that she was indifferent about the matter, did not urge it further, and she was very much annoyed that he had taken quite literally what she had said. He went out, and she became angry with him for leaving her, although she had not accepted his proposition to remain. He returned to dinner, greatly delighted at having met one of his old companions. His friend had introduced him to his father, and the latter had invited him to spend a few days with them in the country during the summer. Eugenia observed drily, that he was in a great hurry to leave them.

"It is not just now, and it is only for a few days," replied Edward. "Would you not have taken advantage of a similar offer if it had presented itself to you?"

"Oh! as to that, no such offer would have been made to me."

"And is it then on this account that you are sorry I should profit by it?" said Edward, with still more gentleness than before.

Eugenia began to cry: she felt the injustice of that egotism, which could not endure that those she loved should enjoy any pleasure which she did not share; but it was in her heart, and she did not know how to conquer it. Edward kissed her, comforted her, and passed the whole evening with her, talking to her of their affairs, of his projects, and of a thousand other rational subjects. Eugenia, quite delighted, thought, when she went to bed, that no one could have a more amiable brother than herself. The following days passed off very well. He had proposed to her to employ a part of their mornings in reading English together, and this they had done; but as he was very anxious to gain information, he had been advised to attend some of the public lectures, and to visit the manufactories. The mornings being thus taken up, he proposed to defer the English until the evening; but Eugenia, who was displeased that the lesson did not take precedence of everything else, replied that she did not like studying at night. Edward said no more about the matter.

By degrees he ceased altogether to speak about his affairs. He would have had the greatest pleasure in giving her an account of his proceedings, but Eugenia was always annoyed at those occupations which took him away from home, and listened to his accounts of them in so cold and listless a manner, and sometimes even she was so much displeased, that, fancying she took no interest in his pleasures, he soon became silent, and did not again recur to them. Certain of not being able to speak a word without giving her pain, he became uncomfortable and constrained in her society. In the evening, after having spent some time behind the piquet-table of his cousin, in studying his words, he either retired to his room, or went out. As for Eugenia, she could never go out, for her cousin was subject to rheumatism, and would not have dared to expose herself to the air; and, besides, would not have put herself out of the way on Eugenia's account. Tears often started into Edward's eyes, when he looked upon his sister, and thought of the melancholy life she led; but if he wished to speak a kind word to her, she repulsed him with so much asperity, that he renounced the hope of ever being able to render her happy.

As he was extremely sensible for his age, his father's friends had introduced him into several families, where he had been well received, and was sometimes invited to spend the evening with them. The idea that he could amuse himself while she was wearied to death, threw Eugenia into despair. The house that he mostly frequented, was that of Fanny's aunt, with whom Fanny had resided since she left school, as her mother had been long dead. Eugenia was indignant that Fanny had not sought to renew their acquaintance, though Edward had assured her that she had the greatest wish to do so, but was not permitted by her aunt, on account of their old cousin, whom she did not like. Eugenia persuaded herself, however, that Fanny had not done as much as she could have done. She was angry with the aunt, with the niece, and with Edward, who took pleasure in their society, and who no longer dared to speak to her of Fanny's amiability and kindness, as on two or three occasions he had attempted to do.

Eugenia sometimes saw Mademoiselle Benoît. This lady was the governess who had so vainly endeavoured to make her more reasonable. Her griefs were the only topic of their conversation, and Edward was the text.

"Oh! my poor Eugenia," said Mademoiselle Benoît, with an air of compassion, "why do you not love him more? You would then take an interest in his pleasures."

"No," replied Eugenia warmly; "it is because I love him, that I cannot endure that he should abandon me, to go and amuse himself and forget me."

Her disposition became daily more and more morose: a profound melancholy seemed to take possession of her mind; she no longer took pleasure in anything, and even her health began to give way. Edward perceived all this with the deepest grief, but without knowing how to remedy it. On the other hand, a situation which he had hoped to obtain had been given to another; an office in which he had been promised an engagement was never established; the money he had brought with him from Germany was all gone, and he saw nothing before him but unhappiness for both. Their mutual friendship would have alleviated it, but Eugenia's disposition marred everything.

One morning, when she was in the hall, she heard Edward, in the passage, talking to the cook.

"Catherine," said he, in a low voice, "could you not occasionally look to my linen? Nothing has been done to it since I have been here, and soon I shall not have a shirt that is not torn."

"Indeed," cried Catherine, in a very loud voice, probably that Eugenia might hear her, "I have so much time to amuse myself in that way! Give them to Mademoiselle Eugenia; she might very well undertake to keep them in order, but she thinks of nothing but playing the fine lady."

"Catherine," replied Edward, in a very firm though low voice, "Eugenia gives you no trouble, she asks no favours of you; and consequently, what she does, or what she leaves undone, does not concern you in any manner."

Eugenia, who had approached the door, did not lose a word of this reply: her heart beat with a joy such as she had not experienced for a long time. She would gladly have gone and embraced her brother, but she did not dare to do so; some undefinable feeling restrained her. However, she opened the door, when a servant came from Fanny's aunt, to invite Edward to pass the evening with them. He said that he would go. The heart of Eugenia was again oppressed: she closed the door. "That does not prevent him from going out to enjoy himself," she said. And she threw herself into a chair weeping, and thinking herself more unhappy than ever. The bare idea of what the cook had said, threw her into a violent passion, without, however, leading her to regret her negligence, so much did the thought of her own wrongs prevent her from thinking of those which she inflicted upon others.

At dinner she was more than usually sad, and Edward appeared sad too. A short time after they had left the table, he said that he was going to his own room to study; "And then to spend the evening out?" said Eugenia, with that tone of bitterness which had become habitual to her.

"No," said Edward, "I shall not go."

"And by what wonderful chance?"

Edward told her, that when he was going to dress, he had found his coat so much torn, that he was obliged to resolve on remaining at home.

"That," said Eugenia, "is what happens to me every day."

"Well, Eugenia," he replied, "if that can console you, it will henceforward also happen to me every day." With these words, he went out of the room. Eugenia saw that she had grieved him, and, for the first time in her life, she thought she might be in the wrong. It was, also, the first time she had seen Edward sad and unhappy, and this circumstance so occupied her mind, that she was prevented from thinking so much of herself. Nevertheless, she was not very sorry that he was obliged to remain in the house. When she returned to her room, she heard Catherine, who was very cross with him, crying out, that Madame did not understand having so many candles burnt, that there were none in the house, and that she would not give him any. Until that time, both Edward and Eugenia had bought candles for themselves, in order to avoid Catherine's ill temper; but now Edward had no money left. Whilst Catherine went away grumbling, Edward remained leaning against the wall, with his arms folded, and his head bent down. He was pale from the effort he had made to prevent himself from answering Catherine. Although it was beginning to get dark, Eugenia was so struck with the pallid and melancholy expression of his usually animated countenance, that at that moment she would have given the world to prevent his wanting anything. She timidly proposed to him to come and sit in her room, as she had still some candle left. He took his book, and commenced reading. Eugenia was careful not to interrupt him; it seemed as if she were afraid, that by hearing him speak, she should discover the extent of his melancholy; and, besides, what she most wished at this time, was to have Edward to do as he pleased. Two notes of invitation were brought to him, one to a concert, which was to take place the following day, and to which he had a great wish to go, the other to a ball, where he was to have danced with Fanny. He threw them into the fire. "All that is past;" he said, "I must think no more of it."

Oh, how these words pierced the heart of Eugenia! How she reproached herself for what she had said, and for the joy she had at first experienced. Edward went to bed early. As for herself, she could not sleep all night; she thought how wrong she had been in neglecting Edward's wardrobe, and she remembered that he had never even reproached her. She determined not to lose a moment in putting it in order. If she could also mend his coat! If he could go to the concert! She waited with great impatience until it was daylight, and until Edward had gone out in his morning wrapper. She then ran and took his coat, sought among her wools for one to match it, found one, and full of zeal, began her work; but the hole was so large, that she tried in vain to cover it. A dozen times she unpicked what she had done, and did it over again; but this kind of work upon a worn-out material only increased the evil. Greatly excited, all flushed and heated, the more she tried to get on, the less she advanced. At length, when she had almost lost all hope of success, she heard Edward return. She began to cry, and when he entered, he saw her with the coat upon her knees, and her eyes filled with tears.

"Here," said she, "I had hoped you might have been able to go to the concert, and I have only made the hole larger." Edward embraced her tenderly; he was delighted to find her attentive, and occupied about him; he called her his dear, his good Eugenia, but all these marks of affection only increased her tears. She could not reconcile herself to the thought of Edward's passing the whole winter without going out.

"I shall be like you then, my dear Eugenia," said Edward.

"Oh, don't think about me."

This was the first time she had made use of such an expression. It was the first time such a sentiment had entered her heart; but she had at length discovered that the griefs of those we love are much more distressing than our own.

As soon as Edward had left her room, she ran to her drawers, gathered together her few trinkets, and a louis that still remained of the money that Edward had given her, and wrote to Mademoiselle Benoît, telling her that she wanted most urgently to see her. Mademoiselle Benoît came that very evening. Eugenia told her everything, and said that with her trinkets and this money she must buy a coat for Edward; but the trinkets were of too little value to answer the purpose. Eugenia was in despair. Mademoiselle Benoît proposed a plan to her.

"I have taught you to make flowers," she said; "buy some materials, and I will lend you some instruments, and also assist you. The winter is coming on, ornaments will be required, we shall sell cheap, and shall have as many customers as we desire."

Eugenia embraced Mademoiselle Benoît in a transport of joy. All the vivacity she had formerly employed in making Agatha and her companions angry, now returned, and she determined to commence on the following day. She sometimes worked while Edward was present, but the greater part of her work was executed in his absence. She would not lose an instant. All her cheerfulness and bloom returned, and Edward was astonished at the change. He thought it arose from her being no longer jealous at seeing him go out without her; and notwithstanding his kindness, he would sometimes have been tempted to be a little vexed, if the uneasiness she manifested when she saw him sad, and the industry with which she occupied herself, when not busy with her flowers, in putting his linen in order, had not led him to forgive what he regarded as a weakness.

At length, after two months' work, the necessary sum was completed. The coat was ordered, made, brought home, and placed upon Edward's bed. Eugenia had learned from Mademoiselle Benoît, that Fanny's aunt was to give a ball, and she got Edward invited. He came home; she saw him pass, and trembled for joy. He beheld the coat, and could not conceive where it came from. Eugenia had no wish to conceal herself.

"It is I!" she exclaimed. "It is from my work—from my flowers; and here is a note inviting you to a ball at Fanny's this evening."

"What!" said Edward, "are you occupying yourself about my pleasures, while leading so dreary a life?"

"Oh! do not make yourself uneasy; I have discovered a plan of amusing myself; I shall work for you."

Edward was deeply moved; he could not express to his sister all the tenderness he felt for her, nor the esteem with which her conduct inspired him. She would let him have no peace, however, until he was dressed; until he had cast aside his old soiled coat, for the beautiful new one. She was never tired of looking at him, so much did she think him improved. She arranged his cravat and his hair. She was anxious that everything should be in order, and she hurried him to the ball, where she imagined that every one must be delighted to see him, and she felt inexpressible joy at beholding him depart. Mademoiselle Benoît, who came that evening to see her, found her as much animated as if she had been at the ball herself.

"Do you think you love your brother as much now," she said, smiling, "as when you were annoyed at his leaving you?"

"Oh! a great deal more."

"And have you had to complain of him during these two months?"

"I have never even thought of such a thing."

"I think, indeed, my dear child," said Mademoiselle Benoît, "that an excellent plan to avoid complaining of people is to endeavour to render them pleased with us."

Edward returned home early. Eugenia scolded him for doing so; but he came because he had good news to tell her. Although, from a feeling of proper pride, he did not like to speak of his happiness, he, nevertheless, was not proud with Fanny, who was so kind and sensible; besides, he wanted to tell her what Eugenia had done for him. Whilst he was relating the affair, one of Fanny's relations, who was behind them, heard a part of what was said, and wished to learn the remainder. As he was Fanny's guardian, and a person in whom she had great confidence, she related the circumstance to him, and spoke, moreover, of Edward's position. This guardian was an excellent man; he conversed with Edward, and found that he possessed both intelligence and good feelings: he was a banker, and he told him that he would take him into his counting-house and give him a salary: and, indeed, Edward entered on his new duties the following day. His first month's salary was partly employed in purchasing a dress for Eugenia. She was sorry for it, though not excessively so, for the dress was so pretty, and it was so long since she had a new one. But the following month he bought her a bonnet to match the dress. This time, she scolded him seriously.

"Very well," said he, "take my money, and let us spend it in common."

Eugenia became his manager; she bought nothing for herself, but she was delighted when she could put in order or mend any of Edward's clothes. She purchased, bargained, and economised for him, and was so careful of his money, that she would not always let him have some when he asked for it, so that he sometimes tried to steal a part of it from her, in order to make her presents.

Edward related to her every evening, what he had seen and what he had done. If sometimes she felt disposed to be a little vexed because he returned home rather later than usual, she took one of his shirts to mend, and thought no more of her ill humour. Mademoiselle Benoît, finding her once thus occupied, said to her, "You must allow, that when we make our happiness consist in the attentions which others bestow upon us, we may often be disappointed, because they are not always disposed to grant these attentions; whereas, when we make it consist in what we do for them, we have it always at our own command."

The banker's wife, who was as kind as her husband, had just returned from a journey; Edward soon spoke to her of Eugenia. She wished to see her: called on her, took her to her house, where Eugenia even passed some days with her, while their cousin, delighted at having saved her favourite canary from a violent attack of the cramp, troubled herself as little at seeing her go out as she had done at seeing her stay within, wasting away with ennui. The banker's wife also introduced her to Fanny's aunt, and the two girls were soon united in the most tender friendship.

The affairs of Edward and Eugenia were arranged, they succeeded to a small inheritance, and are now in easy circumstances. A marriage is spoken of between Edward and Fanny, and it is also possible that Eugenia may marry the banker's son. She is very happy, since affection has conquered the defects of her character. She still finds them starting up occasionally, but when she feels disposed to be irritable, jealous, or exacting, she always succeeds, by dint of reasoning, in convincing herself that her ill humour is unjust; and if it be directed against any one she loves, she says, "I suppose I do not yet love them sufficiently."

---

MARIE;
OR THE FEAST OF CORPUS CHRISTI.

At the commencement of the revolution, Madame d'Aubecourt had followed her husband into a foreign country. In 1796, she returned to France, with her two children, Alphonse and Lucie, for, as her name did not stand on the list of emigrants, she was able to appear there without danger, and to exert herself to obtain permission for her husband's return. She remained two years in Paris with this intent; but at length, having failed in her efforts, and being assured by her friends that the time was not propitious for her purpose, she determined to quit the capital and proceed to the seat of her father-in-law, old M. d'Aubecourt, with whom her husband wished her to reside, until he was able to rejoin her: besides, having no resources but the money sent her by her father-in-law, she was glad to diminish his expenses by residing with him. Every letter which she received from him, was filled with complaints of the hardness of the times, and with reflections on her obstinacy, in persevering in such useless efforts; and to all this he never failed to add, that as for himself, it would be altogether impossible for him to live in Paris, since it was difficult enough for him to manage in the country, where he could eat his own cabbages and potatoes. These complaints were not suggested by poverty, for M. d'Aubecourt was tolerably rich, but like the majority of old people, he was disposed to torment himself on the score of expense, and his daughter-in-law perceived that however economically she might live in Paris, her only means of tranquillizing him, was to go and live under his own eyes.

She therefore set out with her children, in the month of January, 1799, for Guicheville, the estate of M. d'Aubecourt. Alphonse was then fourteen years of age, and Lucie nearly twelve: shut up for two years in Paris, where her mother, overwhelmed with business, had but little time to devote to them, they were delighted to go into the country, and were but little troubled about what she told them, respecting the great care they would have to take not to teaze and irritate their grandpapa, whom age and the gout had rendered habitually discontented and melancholy. They mounted the diligence full of joy; but as the cold gained upon them, their ideas sobered down. A night passed in the carriage served to depress them completely; and when, on the following evening, they reached the place where they were to leave the diligence, they felt their hearts as sad as if some terrible misfortune had just befallen them. Guicheville was still a league distant, and this they must travel on foot, across a country covered with snow, as M. d'Aubecourt had only sent a peasant to meet them with an ass to carry their luggage. When the man proposed starting, Lucie looked at her mother with a frightened air, as if to ask her if that were possible. Madame d'Aubecourt observed that as their conductor had managed to come from Guicheville to the place where they were, there was nothing to prevent them from going from that place to Guicheville.

As to Alphonse, the moment he regained the freedom of his limbs, he recovered all his gaiety. He walked on before them, to clear their way as he said, and to sound the ruts, which he called precipices. He talked to the ass, and endeavoured to make him bray, and in fact made such a noise, with his cries of, "Take care of yourselves, take care of the bogs!" that he might have been mistaken for a whole caravan; he even succeeded so well in cheering Lucie, that, on arriving at their destination, she had forgotten the cold, the night, and the snow. Their merry laugh as they crossed the court-yard of the château, called forth two or three old servants, who, from time immemorial, had not heard a laugh at Guicheville, and the great dog barked loudly at it, as at a sound quite unknown to him. They waited in the hall for some time, when presently M. d'Aubecourt appeared at the dining-room door, exclaiming, "What a racket!" These words restored quiet; and seeing all three of them wet and muddy, from head to foot, he said to Madame d'Aubecourt, "If you had only come six months ago, as I continually pressed you to do ... but there was no getting you to listen to reason." Madame d'Aubecourt gently excused herself, and her father-in-law ushered them into a large room with yellow wainscoting and red furniture, where, by the side of a small fire, and a single candle, her children had time to resume all their sadness. They presently heard Miss Raymond, the housekeeper, scolding the peasant, who had conducted them, because, he had put their packages upon a chair instead of upon the table. "See," she said, in a tone of ill temper, "they have already begun to put my house into disorder." The instant after, Alphonse, rendered thirsty by the exercise he had given his legs, went out to get a glass of water, and perhaps also to obtain a moment's recreation by leaving the room; he had the misfortune to drink out of his grandfather's glass, and Mademoiselle Raymond, perceiving it, ran to him, as if the house had been on fire.

"No one is allowed to drink out of M. d'Aubecourt's glass," she exclaimed: Alphonse excused himself by saying that he did not know it was M. d'Aubecourt's glass. Mademoiselle Raymond wished to prove to him that he ought to have known it; Alphonse replied; Mademoiselle Raymond became more and more vexed, and Alphonse getting angry in his turn, answered her in no very polite terms, and then returned to the dining-room, slamming the door after him with considerable violence. Mademoiselle Raymond immediately followed him, and shutting the door with marked precaution, said to M. d'Aubecourt, in a voice still trembling with passion, "As you dislike any noise with the door, you will have the kindness to mention it yourself to your grandson; for, as to me, he will not allow me to speak to him." "What do you say, Mademoiselle?" replied M. d'Aubecourt, "is this the style in which children are brought up in the present day? must we bow to them?"

Fortunately Madame d'Aubecourt was by the side of her son; she pressed his arm to prevent him from answering his grandfather, but he stamped his feet impatiently, and did not speak a word until supper-time. At table they ate but little, and spoke still less, and immediately after Madame d'Aubecourt asked permission to retire. When they were in the room which she and her daughter were to occupy, Lucie, who had until then restrained herself, began to cry, and Alphonse, walking about the room, in great agitation, exclaimed, "This is a pretty beginning!" then he continued, "Mademoiselle Raymond had better take care how she speaks to me again in that style."

"Alphonse," said his mother with some little severity, "remember that you are in your grandfather's house."

"Yes, but not in Mademoiselle Raymond's."

"You are where it is your grandfather's will that she should be treated with respect."

"Certainly, when she does not clamour in my ears."

"I believe, indeed, that you would not be guilty of any want of respect towards her, did she treat you as she ought to do."

"And if she does not, I owe her nothing."

"You owe her all that you owe to the wishes of your grandfather, to whom you would be greatly wanting in respect, were you capable of misconducting yourself towards a person who possesses his confidence. There are persons, Alphonse, whose very caprices we are bound to respect, for we ought to spare them even their unjust displeasure." Then she added, with more tenderness, "My dear children, you do not yet understand what caprice and injustice are; you have never been accustomed to them, either from your father or me; but you will do wrong to imagine that you will be able to pass your lives, as you have hitherto done, without having your rights infringed, or your actions restrained, when they are proper in themselves. You must now begin to learn,—you, Alphonse, to repress your hastiness, which may lead you into many serious faults, and you, Lucie, to overcome your weakness, which may render you unhappy." Then she added, smiling, "We will serve together our apprenticeship in patience and courage." Her children embraced her affectionately; they had unbounded confidence in her, and besides, there was so much sweetness in her disposition, that it was impossible to resist her. Lucie was quite consoled by her mother's words, and Alphonse went to bed, assuring her, however, that he was so much excited, that he should not be able to sleep the whole night. Nevertheless, he no sooner laid his head upon his pillow, than he fell into a sound sleep, which lasted until the following morning.

When he awoke, he was astonished to hear the warbling of the birds, for he had persuaded himself, since the previous evening, that they would not dare to sing at Guicheville. As for them, however, deceived by the warm sun and mild atmosphere, which melted the snow, they seemed to fancy that the spring was commencing. This idea rendered them quite joyous, and Alphonse began to be joyous also. He ran about the park in the sabots which his mother had bought for him on the previous evening: then he returned for his sister, whom, somewhat against her inclination, he dragged through the mud of the park, from which she did not so easily extricate herself as he did. At first she found her sabots very heavy, and very inconvenient: one of them she nearly left in a hole, and two or three times she almost gave up in despair. Alphonse sometimes assisted her; sometimes laughed at her, promising to harden her to it. He returned home, pleased with everything, and disposed to put up with a good deal from Mademoiselle Raymond, whom he found to be better tempered than on the previous evening.

Madame d'Aubecourt had not brought a maid with her. Mademoiselle Raymond, therefore, proposed that she should take into her service a young girl named Gothon, who was her goddaughter, and Madame d'Aubecourt accepted this proposal with her usual grace and sweetness, saying that, recommended by Mademoiselle Raymond, she was sure she would suit her. Mademoiselle Raymond, enchanted, drew herself up, bewildered herself in complimentary phrases, and ended by saying that Mademoiselle Lucie had her mother's sweet look, and that M. Alphonse, though a little hasty, was very amiable.

M. d'Aubecourt's temper experienced the good effects of this return to a friendly understanding. When Mademoiselle Raymond was out of humour, every one in the house was so likewise, for every one was scolded. She was naturally kind-hearted, but easily offended. Subject to prejudices, and being accustomed to have her own way, she feared everything that might interfere with her authority. But when she saw that Madame d'Aubecourt interfered with nothing in the house, she laid aside all the bitterness which had at first been produced by her arrival. M. d'Aubecourt, who had hesitated between the desire of spending less money, and the dread of the confusion which might result from the establishment of his daughter-in-law at the château, was comforted when he learned that Madame d'Aubecourt had refused to pay any visits in the neighbourhood, alleging that her present situation, and that of her husband, did not permit of her seeing any one. Besides, she was careful to conform to all his habits, so that everything went on smoothly, provided that Alphonse and Lucie scarcely spoke at dinner, because M. d'Aubecourt, accustomed to take his meals alone, asserted that noise interfered with his digestion; provided they were careful never to exceed a smile, for a burst of laughter would make M. d'Aubecourt start as violently as a pistol-shot; and provided they never entered his private garden, which he cultivated himself, and where every day he counted the buds and the branches. He could not without trembling see Alphonse, who was always impulsive and ever bustling from side to side, go into it, or even Lucie, whose shawl might accidentally catch and break some of the branches as she passed by.

Madame d'Aubecourt had been about six weeks at Guicheville, when she received a letter from her husband, informing her that one of their relations, little Adelaide d'Orly, was living at a village two leagues off. Adelaide was at that time about the age of Lucie; she had lost her mother at her birth, and had been placed at nurse with a peasant, on the estate of M. d'Orly. As she was extremely delicate, and had been benefited by the country air, she was left there a long time. The revolution having broken out, her father left France, and not being able to carry with him a child who was only three years old, he thought it best to leave her, for the present, with her nurse, hoping to be able to return soon, and take her away. Things turned out otherwise, however: M. d'Orly died soon after his arrival in a foreign land; his property was sold, and Adelaide's nurse having lost her husband, married again, and left the province, taking Adelaide with her, as she was now her sole protector. For a long time it was not known where she had gone to, but at last it was ascertained, and M. d'Aubecourt, who had received information of it from another relative, begged his wife to see her.

M. d'Orly was the nephew of old M. d'Aubecourt, and had been an intimate friend of his son's, whom at his death, he had entreated to take care of his daughter. M. d'Aubecourt had several times mentioned the matter in his letters to his father, but the latter had remained silent on the subject, from which the son had concluded that he was ignorant of the fate of the child. Such, however, was not the case, for the nurse having discovered, the year before, that he was Adelaide's grand-uncle, had come to see him. M. d'Aubecourt, who feared everything that might put him out of his way, or lead to expense, had tried to persuade himself that she had made a false statement, and that Adelaide was really dead, as had been rumoured. Mademoiselle Raymond, who did not like children, confirmed him in this opinion, which possibly she believed to be well founded, for we are always tempted to believe what we desire to be true. The nurse having met with an indifferent reception, and, besides, not caring to have Adelaide, whom she loved as her own child, taken from her, did not insist further, and the child, therefore, remained with her.

As soon as Madame d'Aubecourt had received this intelligence, she communicated it to her father-in-law, at the same time informing him of her intention of going to see Adelaide. M. d'Aubecourt appeared embarrassed, and Mademoiselle Raymond, who happened to be in the room, assured her that the roads were very bad, and that she would never be able to get there. Madame d'Aubecourt saw plainly that they were already in possession of the information which she had supposed herself the first to communicate, and she also perceived that her project was not very agreeable to M. d'Aubecourt; nevertheless, however great might be her desire to oblige him, she did not consider herself justified in renouncing her intention. Her extreme gentleness of disposition, did not prevent her from possessing great firmness in everything that she considered a duty. She set out then, one morning, with Lucie, who was enchanted at making acquaintance with her cousin, and with Alphonse, who was delighted at having to travel four leagues on foot.

As they approached the village, they asked each other what kind of person their cousin was likely to be, brought up as she was among the peasantry.

"Perhaps something like that," said Alphonse, pointing to a young girl, who, in company with two or three little boys, ran out to see them pass. There was a pool of water by the side of the road where they were walking, and the children, in order to see them closer, ran into it, splashing them all over. Alphonse wanted to throw stones at them, but his mother prevented him.

"It would be a good joke," said he, "if it turned out to be my cousin, at whom I was going to throw stones."

Lucie exclaimed against such an idea, and one of the little boys having called the girl Marie, she was comforted by thinking that it was not her cousin Adelaide d'Orly, whom she had seen dabbling about with a troop of little idle urchins.

On reaching the cottage, in which Adelaide's nurse lived, they found her laid up with an illness resulting from debility, and from which she had suffered for six months. Madame d'Aubecourt having given her name, the poor woman recognised her, and said she was thankful to see her before she died, and that finding herself unable to go out, it had been her intention to ask the mayor to write to M. d'Aubecourt, "for," said she, "my child" (it was thus she always called Adelaide) "will have no one to look to when I am gone." She had lost her second husband; and had no children of her own, and she did not doubt that her brother-in-law would come and take possession of everything, and turn her child out of doors, who would not then have even bread to eat, for she had nothing to leave her; and the poor woman began to weep. She added, that she had been to see M. d'Aubecourt, who would not listen to her, and she went on to complain of the cruelty of Adelaide's relations, who thus left her a burden upon a poor woman like her. Madame d'Aubecourt interrupted her to inquire whether she had any documents. The nurse showed her an attestation from the mayor and twelve of the principal inhabitants of the parish which she had left, certifying that the child whom she took with her, was truly the daughter of M. d'Orly, and baptized under the name of Marie Adelaide, and also another from the mayor of the parish in which she was now residing, certifying that the girl living with her under the name of Marie, was the same that she brought with her into the parish, and whose age and description corresponded exactly with those of Marie Adelaide d'Orly.

"Marie," exclaimed Lucie, when she heard this name.

"Yes, indeed," said the nurse, "the Holy Virgin is her true patron; she has saved her in a dangerous illness: this is her only name in the village."

Lucie and her brother looked at each other, and Alphonse began to laugh, amused at the idea of having been on the point of throwing stones at his cousin. At this moment Marie made her appearance, singing in a loud voice, and carrying a faggot, which she had gathered. She threw it down as she entered, and was somewhat astonished on seeing with her nurse the very ladies whom she had splashed, and the young gentleman who was going to throw stones at her.

"Embrace your cousin, Marie," said the nurse, "if Mademoiselle will be so good as to allow you."

Marie did not advance a step, nor Lucie either.

"Oh! she also was made to wear fine clothes," continued the nurse, "but what more could a poor woman like me do?"

Madame d'Aubecourt assured her that all the family were under great obligations to her, and Lucie, on a sign from her mother, went, blushing, and embraced her cousin. It was not pride that had at first withheld her, but the idea of having a peasant cousin had astonished her; and everything that astonished, also embarrassed her. Marie, equally surprised, had allowed herself to be kissed, without moving, or without returning the salutation. Madame d'Aubecourt took her by the hand, and drew her kindly towards her, remarking how much she resembled her father. The resemblance, in fact, was striking. Marie was very pretty; she had fine dark, brilliant, though at the same time very soft eyes; but the way in which she had been brought up, had given a certain brusquerie to her manners. She had beautiful teeth, and would have had a pretty smile, had it not been spoiled by awkwardness, shyness, and the habit of making grimaces. Her complexion, somewhat sun-burnt, was animated, and glowing with health; she was well formed, tall for her age, and had it not been for her awkward carriage, would have displayed nobility even under her coarse dress. It was impossible to make her raise her head, or answer a single word to Madame d'Aubecourt's questions. Her nurse was in despair: "That is the way with her," she said; "if she takes a thing into her head, you will never get it out of it;" and she began scolding Marie, who did not appear in the slightest degree moved by what she said. Madame d'Aubecourt made an excuse for her, on account of her embarrassment, and said that she had a gentle look. The nurse immediately began praising her with as much warmth as she had displayed in scolding her. Marie smiled, and looked at her with affection, but still without saying a word, or stirring from her place.

Madame d'Aubecourt promised the nurse that she should soon hear from her again, and took away the documents relating to Marie, and which the nurse, with some hesitation, confided to her. She felt sure that she should be able to induce her father-in-law to receive Marie; he was her nearest relative in France, and it was quite impossible that he should not feel what duty required of him in regard to her; still she well knew how much annoyance this would cause him. The children could talk of nothing else during their return to Guicheville, and M. d'Aubecourt awaited, with some anxiety, the result of the visit. He had nothing to oppose to the proofs she brought with her; nevertheless he said that further information was necessary. Madame d'Aubecourt wrote to every one whom she thought likely to give her any. All agreed with the first. There was, therefore, no longer any doubt of Marie's being really Adelaide d'Orly.

Then M. d'Aubecourt said, "I will think of it;" but the nurse, feeling herself worse, and not hearing from Madame d'Aubecourt, who had been prevented from going to see her, by a severe cold, had got the mayor to write to M. d'Aubecourt. It was also known, since Marie had been talked about at the château, how much people complained in the neighbourhood, of his neglect of his grandniece. Madame d'Aubecourt's visit to the nurse had spread the intelligence, that at last he was going to receive her. He heard this mentioned by the Registrar, by the Curé, and especially by Mademoiselle Raymond, who was much annoyed at it, and who, consequently, was perpetually talking of it. In order, therefore, to get rid of a subject which tormented him, he gave his consent in a moment of impatience, and Madame d'Aubecourt hastened to take advantage of it, for she felt extremely anxious about the situation of Marie, and grieved that so much time should not merely be lost to her education, but actually employed in giving her a bad one.

Having sent to inform the nurse of the day on which she would fetch Marie, Madame d'Aubecourt and her children set off one morning, mounted upon donkeys. The one that was to carry Marie, being mounted by a peasant girl, whom Madame d'Aubecourt had engaged to attend the nurse during her illness, which she was grieved to see would not be of long duration. As she could not reward her for all that she had done for Marie, she wished at least to do all that was in her power for her. She had already sent her some medicines suited to her condition, and some provisions rather more delicate than those to which she was accustomed, and she had learned with great satisfaction, that this good woman was in comparatively easy circumstances.

When they reached the cottage they found the door locked. They knocked, but remained for some time unanswered, and Madame d'Aubecourt began to feel excessively uneasy, for she feared the nurse might be dead, and in that case what had become of Marie? At length, the nurse herself, notwithstanding her debility, came and opened the door, telling them that she had been obliged to fasten it, as on the previous day, Marie, imagining that it was the one fixed for her departure, had fled from the house, and did not return until night, and she had been anxious to prevent the recurrence of the same thing on that day. Marie was standing in a corner, her eyes swoln and red with crying. She no longer wept, but stood perfectly motionless, and silent. Madame d'Aubecourt approached, and gently endeavoured to induce her to accompany them, promising that she should return to see her nurse. Lucie and Alphonse went to kiss her, but she still continued fixed and silent. Her nurse exhorted her, scolded her, and then began to grieve and weep at the idea of losing her. But all this did not extract a single syllable from Marie, only when she saw her nurse weep the tears rolled down her own cheeks. At length, Madame d'Aubecourt seeing that nothing was to be gained by these means, went over to her, and taking her by the arm, said in a firm tone, "Come, come, Marie, this will not do; have the kindness to come with me immediately." Astonished at this authoritative tone, to which she was not accustomed, Marie allowed herself to be led. Alphonse took her other arm, saying, "Come along, cousin." But when she came near her nurse, she threw her arms round her, weeping and sobbing as if her heart would break. The nurse wept as violently as the child, and Madame d'Aubecourt, though herself greatly affected, was nevertheless obliged to exercise her authority in order to separate them.

At length Marie was mounted on her donkey, she went on in silence, only now and then allowing large tears to escape from her eyes. By degrees, however, she began to laugh at the caracoles which Alphonse endeavoured to make his animal perform. All at once Lucie's donkey began to bray, and was going to lie down. Marie jumped off hers before either of the others, and ran to Lucie's assistance, who was crying out and unable to retain her seat. She scolded and beat the animal, and at length reduced him to obedience; but perceiving that he was about to recommence, she insisted that Lucie should mount hers, which was more gentle, saying that she would soon manage the other. This little incident established a good understanding between the two cousins. Marie began to be cheerful, and to defy Alphonse in the race, and had quite forgotten her griefs and troubles, when, on arriving at Guicheville, the sight of Mademoiselle Raymond and M. d'Aubecourt, again rendered her silent and motionless. She was, however, soon roused by Mademoiselle Raymond's dog, who came forward barking with all his might. Like the generality of dogs brought up in the house, he had a great antipathy to ill-dressed people, and Marie's dress quite shocked him. He rushed upon her as if about to bite her, but Marie gave him so violent a kick, that it sent him howling into the middle of the room. Mademoiselle Raymond ran forward and took him up in her arms, with a movement of anger which sufficiently announced all she was going to say, and which she would have said without hesitation, had not the presence of Madame d'Aubecourt in some degree restrained her. Alphonse forestalled her by saying, that if her dog had been better brought up, he would not have drawn such treatment upon himself. Mademoiselle Raymond could no longer contain herself. Madame d'Aubecourt, by a sign, imposed silence upon her son, who was about to reply. This sign, though not addressed to Mademoiselle Raymond, nevertheless obliged her also to restrain her feelings, and she left the room, carrying with her her dog and her resentment.

From this moment war was declared. Zizi, who did not forget the kick which Marie had given him, never saw her without showing his teeth, and if he came too near her, another kick sent him off again, without softening his resentment. Alphonse never met him without threatening him, either with his hand or his cane, and Mademoiselle Raymond, constantly occupied in running after her dog, and protecting him from his enemies, had not a moment's repose between her fears for Zizi's safety and her aversion for Marie, whose follies she eagerly seized upon; and Marie's follies were almost as frequent as her actions.

However, she did not often commit any before M. d'Aubecourt; she scarcely dared either to speak or move in his presence. At meals, during the first few days, it was impossible to make her eat; but as soon as they had risen from table, she could take a large slice of bread, and eat it while running in the garden, where Alphonse speedily joined her. With him she agreed better than with any one else in the house. Both were gay, livery, thoughtless, and enterprising, and vied with each other in all kinds of tricks and follies. Marie, who was very expert, taught Alphonse to throw stones at the cats, as they ran along the leads, and during this apprenticeship he had twice managed to break some panes of glass, one of which belonged to the window of Mademoiselle Raymond's room. In return, he taught his cousin to fence, and they often entered the house with their faces all scratched. Marie had also a method of pinning up her dress, so as to enable her to climb upon the trees and walls. Madame d'Aubecourt sometimes surprised her while engaged in this amusement, and reprimanded her severely. Marie immediately became quiet and modest, for she felt great respect for Madame d'Aubecourt, and would never have thought of disobeying her to her face, but as soon as she was out of sight, whether from thoughtlessness, or from not being aware of the necessity of obedience, a thing to which she had never been accustomed, she seemed to forget all that had been said to her. Alphonse occasionally reminded her of it, and to him she willingly listened, for she had great confidence in him. Neither was she obstinate, but she had never been taught to reflect, and her thoughts seldom extended beyond the moment; so that when she took a fancy into her head, she could think of nothing else. She spoke but little, and was almost constantly in motion. Motion, indeed, seemed to constitute her very existence. When her timidity compelled her to remain quiet, this repose was not turned to any advantage, in the way of reflection: the constraint she felt absorbed her mind, and she could think of nothing but the speediest means of escaping from it. Unlike other children, she made no remarks on what she saw around her. When asked whether she did not think the château de Guicheville much more beautiful than her nurse's cottage, she replied that she did; still she never thought of enjoying its comforts and conveniences, and she had more pleasure in sitting upon the tables than upon the chairs. Madame d'Aubecourt had a frock made for her like the every-day dress worn by Lucie, and she was delighted at seeing herself attired like a lady, but she always managed to have it too much on one side or the other, while the string belonging to the neck was very usually tied with that which belonged to the waist. She was constantly forgetting to put her stockings on, and her hair, which had been cut and arranged, was almost always in disorder. A pair of stays had been made for her, and she allowed them to be put on without any opposition, for she never resisted; but the moment afterwards the lace was burst and the bones broken; they were mended two or three times, and at length given up. On one occasion, Madame d'Aubecourt had sent her, accompanied by Gothon, to see her nurse. While the girl was gone into the village to execute a commission, Marie made her escape into the fields, in order to avoid being taken back. Half a day was consumed in seeking for her, and everything was in commotion at Guicheville, on account of the uneasiness occasioned by her protracted absence.

All these facts were carefully noted by Mademoiselle Raymond; nor had she any trouble in becoming acquainted with them, for they formed a perpetual subject of conversation between Lucie and Gothon. Lucie could not reconcile herself to the manners of her cousin; besides, her arrival at Guicheville had afforded her very little amusement, for Madame d'Aubecourt, fearful lest she should contract any of Marie's bad habits, left them but little together. Lucie, too, saw much less of her brother than formerly, for the moment he had finished his lessons, he ran off in search of Marie, to join him in those sports which were little suited to his sister's disposition, so that she sought amusement in discussing the new subjects for blame or astonishment, which Marie's conduct perpetually supplied. Gothon, her confidante, spoke of them in her turn to her godmother, Mademoiselle Raymond, and Mademoiselle Raymond discussed them with M. d'Aubecourt. He attached but little importance to them, so long as they did not decidedly affect himself; but after some time, when Marie had become accustomed to the persons and things about her, the circle of her follies widened, and at last reached him. Since she had dared to speak and move at table, she seldom spoke without a burst of noise; and if she turned round to look at anything, it was with so hasty a movement, that she upset her plate upon the floor, or shook the whole table. If she climbed upon an arm-chair in the drawing-room, for the purpose of reaching anything, she upset the chair, and fell with it, breaking one of its arms, and with the foot tearing a table-cover, which happened to be near it. Alphonse had frequently warned her not to enter his grandfather's garden; but this advice was forgotten as soon as the garden happened to be the shortest way from one place to another; or that the shuttlecock had chanced to fall into it, or that she wanted to pursue a cat, or a butterfly. On such occasions, M. d'Aubecourt always found a branch broken off, a rose-bush or a border trodden down; and Mademoiselle Raymond, whose window looked upon the garden, had always seen Marie either going in, or coming out of it. These multiplied vexations tormented M. d'Aubecourt all the more, from his not complaining of them openly, but only by indirect allusions, as is often the case with the aged. Sometimes he would say that, at his time of life, one could seldom hope to be master of his own house, and that it was natural that people should trouble themselves very little about the aged, or their inconveniences. At another time, he would assure them that they might do just what they pleased with his garden, and that he should not trouble himself any more about it. Madame d'Aubecourt understood all this, and was greatly grieved, and as she perceived that Marie's presence occasioned him a constantly increasing annoyance, she kept her away from him as much as possible.

But the necessity of doing this was very painful to her, for she felt that the only means of making anything of Marie was by gaining her confidence, which could only be done by degrees; by seldom quitting her, by taking an interest in what amused and pleased her, by endeavouring to give her an interest in things with which she was as yet unacquainted, by talking to her, in order to oblige her to reflect, and thus implant some ideas in her mind, which was naturally quick enough, but totally devoid of culture. Could she have followed her own wishes, she would, in the first instance, have overlooked all faults arising from impetuosity, want of reflection, or ignorance, reserving her severity for grave occasions, or rather without making use of any severity, she might have succeeded in leading Marie by the sole desire of giving her satisfaction. Whereas, instead of that, obliged to be incessantly scolding her for faults slight enough in themselves, but seriously annoying to M. d'Aubecourt, she had no means of insisting, with particular emphasis, on more important matters. Besides, it happened that, for the first time in his life, M. d'Aubecourt had a violent attack of the gout, and as he was unable to walk, the society of his daughter-in-law had become indispensable to him, and she seldom quitted his room; so that Marie was more than ever left to herself, with no other guardian or preceptor than Alphonse.

Nor was he altogether useless to her. Her want of sense rendered him more reasonable: the defects of her education made him appreciate the advantages he had derived from his own; he corrected her whenever she made use of any vulgar expressions; he taught her to speak French, and scolded her if she happened to repeat any word for which she had already been reprimanded, and by his mother's advice he made her repeat the reading lesson which Madame d'Aubecourt gave him every morning. Marie took great pleasure in doing everything required by Alphonse, who was fond of her, and liked to be with her, and whose presence never embarrassed her, as he had similar tastes with herself. Therefore, when she had read well, and he perceived she took pains to pronounce the words he had taught her, he would not patiently suffer her to be found fault with; and he was fond of boasting of her dexterity and intelligence in their games, and of the vivacity and at the same time gentleness of her disposition.

And in truth, as he observed to his mother, no one had ever seen Marie in a passion, nor had she ever been known to exhibit any impatience at being kept waiting, or any irritability when contradicted. Always ready to oblige, the ball of worsted had no sooner fallen on the floor, than she had picked it up, and she was always the first to run and fetch Madame d'Aubecourt's handkerchief from the other end of the room. If, while eating her breakfast, she saw any poor person, she was sure to give him almost the whole of her bread; and one day, when a cat had flown at Zizi, and was biting him, Marie, notwithstanding the scratching and anger of the animal, tore him from Zizi's back, where he had already drawn blood, and threw him to a great distance; at the same time becoming angry with Alphonse, for the first time in her life, because he laughed at Zizi's predicament, instead of trying to extricate him. Alphonse laughed still more at his cousin's anger, but he related the circumstance to his mother. Lucie, who had also seen what Marie had done, told Gothon of it, and she informed Mademoiselle Raymond; but Mademoiselle Raymond was so much excited against Marie, that she would not have been moved by anything that came from her, even had Zizi himself related it to her.

However, these various manifestations of Marie's kindness began to increase her cousin's affection for her. The feast of Corpus Christi was drawing near, and Lucy had worked for several days with great industry upon an ornament, designed for the altar which was to be erected in the court-yard of the château. Marie had watched her working with much pleasure; she had a great respect for the ceremonies of the church, and this was about the whole amount of the religious education her nurse had been able to impart to her. Deprived for a long time of the clergy and the mass, the poor woman had regretted them exceedingly, and when the practices of religion were re-established, she experienced great delight, in which Marie shared, though without very well knowing why, for her knowledge did not extend very far; but she was always angry when the little boys of the village made use of any irreligious expressions, and told them that God would punish them. She had learned by heart the prayers, in order to sing them at church with the priests, and Lucie was somewhat embarrassed by this, because it attracted attention to them; but Madame d'Aubecourt allowed her to continue the practice, as she sung with earnestness, and was thereby kept quiet in church. She was fond of going to church, because her nurse had told her to pray for her; and now she thought she was performing a meritorious act, in standing by Lucie's frame, while the latter worked the ornament for the altar, and assisting her by cutting her silks, threading her needles, and handing her the scissors.

Since the day that she made her escape into the fields in order to avoid returning to Guicheville, she had never been allowed to visit her nurse; this favour was denied under pretence of punishing her, but in reality because the poor woman was so ill that she no longer seemed conscious of anything. Madame d'Aubecourt had been several times to see her, but without being recognised. She took care that she wanted nothing that could alleviate her condition, but she was anxious to spare Marie so sad a scene. Marie, taken up with a crowd of objects, only thought of her nurse occasionally, and then she manifested great impatience to go and see her. She had no idea of her being in danger, and flattered herself, as she had been led to expect, that when she recovered, she would come to Guicheville. The evening before the fête, being in the yard, she saw a peasant who had come from the village in which her nurse lived. She ran to him, asked him how her nurse was, and whether she would soon be able to come to Guicheville.

"Oh! poor woman," said the peasant, shaking his head, "she will go nowhere but to the other world, every one says that she will not be long here."

Marie was struck as with a thunderbolt. This idea had never occurred to her. Pale and trembling, she asked the man whether her nurse had got worse, and how and when she had become so.

"Oh! Mademoiselle Marie," said he, "ever since you left her she has been declining; that is what has brought her to the state she is in."

He was, however, wrong in this opinion, for during the few conscious moments that she had enjoyed since Marie's departure, she had greatly rejoiced that her mind was at rest on her account, but what the man had said was the rumour of the village. Marie, weeping and sobbing, ran to find Alphonse, for she was afraid to address herself directly to Madame d'Aubecourt, and she entreated him to ask his mother to let her go and see her nurse. "I will come back," she said, clasping her hands; "tell her that I promise to come back the moment Gothon tells me." Alphonse much moved, rose to beg his mother to grant the permission which Marie solicited; he met his sister, who whispered to him that they had just learnt that the nurse had died the previous evening,—the peasant had slept at the town, and therefore was not aware of what had happened. Marie, who followed Alphonse at some distance, saw him stop to speak to Lucie, and exclaimed, "Oh! do not prevent him from asking if I may go to see her, I promise you I will return." Her look was so suppliant, and the expression of her sorrow so intense, that Lucie had great difficulty in restraining her tears while listening to her. They made a sign to her to tranquillize herself, and hastened to their mother to state her request.

Madame d'Aubecourt did not wish to inform her at that moment of her nurse's death, for though Marie had usually excellent health, yet during the last few days she had exhibited, on two or three occasions, feverish symptoms, consequent upon her rapid growth, and Madame d'Aubecourt was afraid that this intelligence might be injurious to her. She hastened to Marie and endeavoured to calm her, promising that in a few days she should do as she wished, but that at the present moment it was impossible, as Gothon, Lucie, and herself were busy in working for the festival of the following day. She assured her also, that it was quite a mistake to suppose that it was her departure which had made her nurse so ill, and at length she succeeded in tranquillizing her a little. But for the first time in her life, Marie experienced a sorrow which fixed itself upon her heart, and would not leave it. She thought of her poor nurse, of the last time she had embraced her, of her grief when she saw her depart, and then she uttered cries of anguish. She prayed to God, and several times in the night she woke Lucie, by repeating, in an under-tone, as she kneeled on her bed, all the prayers she knew. She thought that the following day, being a grand festival, it would be the most favourable time to beg of God to restore her nurse to health, and as her devotion was not very rational, she imagined that to merit this grace, the best thing she could do was to contribute to the adornment of the altar, which was to be erected in the court-yard of the château. She therefore rose before it was light, and left her room unheard, for the purpose of seeking, in a particular part of the park, for some flowers which she had observed growing there, and of which she intended to make some bouquets and garlands; but on reaching the spot, she perceived, to her great grief, that a heavy rain which had fallen the evening before, had destroyed all the blossoms on the trees. She could not find a single branch that was not faded, and in the rest of the park there were scarcely any but lofty trees. She saw no chance of meeting with anything of which she could make a bouquet. Whilst looking about, however, she passed by M. d'Aubecourt's garden, which at daybreak exhaled a delightful perfume; she thought that if she were to take a few flowers they would not be missed. She began by gathering them cautiously, in different places; then, when she had plucked a very beautiful one, another like it was requisite to form a pendant, on the other side of the altar; thus her zeal, and her love of symmetry, led her at every moment into fresh temptations, and then she remembered that M. d'Aubecourt had the gout, that he could not leave the house, and would not see his flowers, that they would be of no use to any one and that no one would know what she had done: at last she forgot all prudence, and the garden was almost entirely stripped.

Just as she had finished her collection, she perceived from the terrace, the peasant who had spoken to her, passing along the road, at the bottom of the park; she called to him and begged him to tell her nurse not to be too much grieved, that she should soon go and see her, for they had promised to allow her to do so.

"Oh! poor woman," said the man, "you will never see her again, Mademoiselle Marie, they are deceiving you, but that is not my business."

With these words he struck his horse, and galloped off. Marie, in the greatest anxiety, threw down her flowers, and ran into the yard, to see if she could find any one who could explain to her what the man meant. She saw the kitchen-maid, who was drawing water from the well, and asked her whether Madame d'Aubecourt had sent the previous evening to inquire about her nurse. "Sent, indeed!" said the girl, "it was not worth while." Marie became dreadfully uneasy, and began to question her, but the girl refused to reply. "But why," said Marie, "why did Peter tell me I should never see her again?"

"I suppose," replied the servant, "he had his own reasons for saying so," and she went away, saying that she must attend to her work. Marie, though it had not yet occurred to her that her nurse was dead, nevertheless was very unhappy, for she perceived that something was concealed from her, and being timid in asking questions, she was at a loss to know how to obtain the information she wanted. At this moment she perceived one of the small doors of the yard open. She had so long been in the habit of running alone in the fields, that she could not believe there was any great harm in doing so, and, accustomed to yield to all her emotions, and never to reflect upon the consequences of her actions, she ran out while the servant's back was turned, determined to go herself and learn something about her nurse.

She walked as fast as she could, agitated with anxiety, at one moment for her nurse, at another for herself. She knew she was doing wrong, but having once begun, she continued. She thought of what Alphonse would say, who, though always ready to excuse her before others, would, nevertheless, scold her afterwards, and sometimes severely enough, and she remembered her promise to him, only a few days before, to be more docile, and more attentive to what Madame d'Aubecourt said to her. She thought, too, that it might be for her want of due submission, that God had thus punished her, for she had yet to learn that it is not in this world that God manifests his judgments. However, she did not think of returning; she felt as if she could not go back; and then the idea of seeing her nurse again, and of comforting her, filled her with anticipations of pleasure, which it was impossible for her to renounce. Poor Marie! the nearer she drew, the more she dwelt upon all this, and the more lively became her joy. The anxieties which had tormented her, began to vanish. She hurried on, reached the village, ran to her nurse's door, and found it closed: she turned pale, but yet without daring to conjecture the truth.

"Has my nurse gone out?" was all she could ask of a neighbour, who was standing at her door, and who looked at her with an air of sadness.

"She has gone out, never to return," was the reply. Marie trembled, and with clasped hands leaned against the wall.

"She was carried to her grave yesterday evening," added the woman.

"To her grave!... Yesterday!... How?... Where have they taken her?"

"To Guicheville; the cemetery is at Guicheville."

Marie experienced an emotion indescribably painful, on learning that, the evening before, and so near to her, the funeral had taken place, without her knowledge. She recollected having heard the tolling of the bells, and it appeared to her, that not to have known it was for her poor nurse they were tolled, was like losing her a second time; then, as the thought of never seeing her again passed before her mind, she sat down on the ground by the door, and wept bitterly.

During this time, the neighbour told her that her nurse had regained her consciousness a few hours before her death, and had prayed to God for her little Marie, and had also spoken of her to the Curé of Guicheville, whom Madame d'Aubecourt had sent to see her. Marie wept still more. The woman tried to induce her to return to Guicheville, but she would not listen to it. At length, after she had cried for a long time, the good woman took her to her cottage, and succeeded in making her drink a little milk, and eat a piece of bread, when, seeing her more calm, she again endeavoured to persuade her to return home. But Marie, who was now capable of reflection, could not endure the idea of facing Madame d'Aubecourt, whom she had disobeyed: still, what was to become of her? Her sorrow for the loss of her nurse was redoubled. "If she were not dead," said she, sobbing, "I should have remained with her." But these regrets were to no purpose: this the neighbour tried to make her understand, and this Marie felt but too well; nevertheless, as her reason did not restrain her when she was about to leave Guicheville, neither did it in the present instance induce her to return, although she knew it was necessary; but Marie had never learned to make use of her reason, to control either her impulses, her wishes, or her antipathies.

At length, the woman perceiving, after two hours of entreaty, that she could gain nothing, and that Marie still continued there, either pensive or crying, without saying a word or deciding on anything, she determined to send to Guicheville, and inform Madame d'Aubecourt; but when she returned from the fields, where she had gone to seek her son to send him with the message, Marie was not to be found. She sought for her in vain through the whole village, and at length learned that she had been seen going along a road which led to Guicheville. She immediately suspected that she must have gone to the cemetery, and in fact Marie had gone there, but not by the direct way, for fear of meeting any of the inmates of the château. As the boy had not yet started, his mother ordered him to take the shortest way to the house, and tell them that it was in the direction of the cemetery they must look for Marie.

During Marie's absence, a terrible scene had been enacted at the château. M. d'Aubecourt, who she imagined would be confined to his room for another week, feeling much better, wished to take advantage of a lovely morning to go and see his garden. As he approached it, leaning on the arm of Mademoiselle Raymond, he perceived Marie's hat half-filled with the flowers which she had collected, and part of which lay scattered on the ground, where she had dropped them, after having spoken to the peasant. He recognised his streaked roses, and his tricoloured geraniums; he picked them up, anxiously examined them, and looked at Mademoiselle Raymond, who, shaking her head, observed, "It is Mademoiselle Marie's hat." He hurried on to his garden; it seemed as if an enemy had passed through it: branches were broken, bushes had been separated in order to get at a flower which happened to be in the midst of them, and one border was quite spoiled, for Marie had fallen upon it with her whole length, and in her fall had broken a young sweetbrier, recently grafted.

M. d'Aubecourt, whose sole occupation and pleasure consisted in his flowers, and who was accustomed to see them respected by every one, was so disturbed at the condition in which he beheld his garden, that the shock, increased, perhaps, by the effect of the air, or by his having walked too fast, made him turn pale, and lean on the arm of Mademoiselle Raymond, saying that he felt faint. Greatly frightened, she called out for assistance. At this moment, Madame d'Aubecourt came up: she was calling for Marie, and very uneasy at not finding her anywhere.

"You want Mademoiselle Marie," said Mademoiselle Raymond: "see what she has done!" and she pointed to M. d'Aubecourt, to the pillaged garden, and to the hat filled with flowers. Madame d'Aubecourt did not in the least understand what all this meant, but she hastened to her father-in-law, who said to her in a feeble voice, "She will kill me." He was carried to his bed, where he remained a long time in the same state. He experienced suffocating paroxysms, which scarcely permitted him to breathe. The gout had mounted to his chest, and they feared every moment that he would be stifled. Madame d'Aubecourt perceiving that the mere name of Marie redoubled his agitation, endeavoured, though in vain, to impose silence on Mademoiselle Raymond, who was incessantly repeating, "It is Mademoiselle Marie who has brought him to this condition." Lucie, quite ignorant of what had happened, came to tell her mother that Marie was nowhere to be found, and that perhaps it would be advisable to send some one to the village, where her nurse had resided.

"Yes! look for her everywhere," said M. d'Aubecourt in a low voice, interrupted by his difficulty of breathing. "Yes! look for her everywhere, in order that she may kill me outright."

Madame d'Aubecourt entreated him to be calm, assuring him that nothing should be done but what he wished, and that Marie should not come into his presence without his permission.

In the mean time, the news of what Mademoiselle Raymond called Marie's wickedness, soon spread through the château. Alphonse was thunderstruck, not that he believed in any bad motive on the part of his cousin, but, accustomed to respect his own duties, he could not conceive how any one could so forget themselves. Lucie, who was beginning to be fond of Marie, felt grieved and anxious; the servants talked over the matter amongst themselves, without much regretting Marie, who had not made herself loved by them; for it is not enough to be kind-hearted, it is necessary to use sufficient reflection to render our kindness agreeable and beneficial to others. Marie, sometimes familiar with the servants, would very often not listen to them when they spoke to her, or would deride their remonstrances. She always laughed when she saw the cook, who was deformed, pass by, and she had several times told the kitchen-maid that she squinted. She had never asked herself whether these remarks gave pain or pleasure to those to whom they were addressed.

Almost the whole of the morning was passed in anxiety, and the man who had been sent to the village, had not returned, when the Curé came to the château, and requested to see Madame d'Aubecourt. As he was leaving the church, after having finished the service, he met the son of the neighbour with whom Marie had spoken, and being acquainted with him, he asked him if he knew what had become of Marie, for he had been informed of her disappearance. The peasant told him what had taken place, and added, that he thought she must be in the cemetery. They immediately went there, and looking over the hedge, they beheld Marie seated on the ground, crying. They saw her kneel down with clasped hands, then kiss the earth, and afterwards seat herself again, and weep, with a depth of sorrow which penetrated them to the soul. It was evident that at that moment Marie believed herself alone in the world, and abandoned by every one. She entreated her nurse to pray for her.

They did not enter the cemetery for fear of frightening her, but the Curé, leaving the peasant as sentinel, went to communicate his discovery to Madame d'Aubecourt. She was very much embarrassed; she could not leave her father-in-law, though he was beginning to recover, for the slightest agitation might cause a relapse, and she was satisfied that neither Mademoiselle Raymond, nor any one belonging to the house, would succeed in inducing Marie to return. She hoped the Curé would be able to effect this, and as she did not wish her to enter the château at the present moment, for fear the news might reach M. d'Aubecourt, she requested the clergyman to take her to his house, where his sister, who had been a nun, now resided with him.

In consequence of this determination, the Curé returned to the cemetery, where he found Marie still in the same attitude. When she saw him, she turned pale and blushed alternately; yet, however she may have stood in awe of him, she felt so completely abandoned, since she no longer dared to return to the château, that she experienced an emotion of joy on seeing some one whom she knew.

"Marie, what have you done?" said the Curé, addressing her with some degree of severity. She hid her face in her hands, and sobbed. "Do you know what has taken place at the château?" he continued. "M. d'Aubecourt has been so overcome by the ingratitude you have evinced in devastating his garden, which you knew was his sole delight, that he has had a relapse, and Madame d'Aubecourt has passed the whole morning agitated by the anguish occasioned by his condition, by her anxiety on account of your flight, and by her grief for the impropriety of your conduct."

"Oh, M. le Curé," exclaimed poor Marie, "it was not from wickedness, I assure you. I wanted to adorn the altar, that God might grant me the grace of curing my poor nurse; and she was already there," she said, pointing to the ground, and redoubling her sobs.

The Curé, profoundly touched by her simplicity, seated himself by her side, upon a bank of turf, and said to her with more gentleness, "Do you think, Marie, that the way to please God, and obtain his favours, is to distress your uncle, who has received you into his family, and to disobey Madame d'Aubecourt, who shares with you the little she has reserved for her own children. If anything can afflict the souls of the just, you have distressed that of your poor nurse, who looks down upon you, I hope, from heaven, for she was a worthy woman. She regained her consciousness for some hours before her death. I visited her at the request of Madame d'Aubecourt, and in speaking of you, she said, 'I hope God will not punish me for not having done all that was necessary to restore her sooner to her relations. I loved her so much, that I had not the resolution to separate myself from her. I know very well that a poor woman like me could not give her an education. She has often grieved me also, because she would not go to school, and because I had not the heart to oppose her. Oh, M. le Curé, entreat her for my sake, to learn well, and to be obedient to Madame d'Aubecourt, in order that I may not have to answer before God for her ignorance and her faults.'"

Marie still continued weeping, but less bitterly. She had again knelt down, and clasped her hands; it seemed as if she was listening to her nurse herself, and entreating her forgiveness for the grief she had caused her. After the Curé had admonished her for some time longer, she said to him in a low voice, "M. le Curé, I entreat of you to ask forgiveness for me of Madame d'Aubecourt; beg Alphonse and Lucie to forgive me; say that I will do all they tell me, and learn all they wish."

"I do not know, my child," said the Curé, "whether you will again be permitted to see them. M. d'Aubecourt is so extremely angry with you, that your mere name redoubles his sufferings, and I am afraid you cannot return to the château."

This intelligence struck Marie like a thunderbolt: she had just clung to the idea that she would do all she possibly could to please her relations, and now they abandoned her—cast her off. She uttered cries almost of despair. The Curé had much difficulty in calming her, with the assurance that he would exert himself to obtain her pardon, and that if she would aid him by her good conduct, he hoped to succeed. She allowed herself to be led without resistance. He took her to his own house, and gave her into the charge of his sister, a very worthy woman, though somewhat severe. Her first intention had been to reprimand Marie; but when she saw her so unhappy, and so submissive, she could think of nothing but consoling her.

The Curé returned to the château to give an account of what he had done. Madame d'Aubecourt and Lucie were affected as he had been himself by the sentiments of poor Marie, and Alphonse, with his eyes moist with tears, and at the same time sparkling with joy, exclaimed, "I said so." He had not, however, said anything, but he had thought that Marie could not be altogether in fault. It was arranged that as her return to the château was out of the question for the present, she was to remain as a boarder with the Curé. Madame d'Aubecourt, on leaving Paris, had sold some of her remaining jewels, and had destined the money she received from them for the support of herself and her children. It was out of this small sum that she paid in advance, the first quarter's salary for Marie, for she well knew that the present was not the time to ask M. d'Aubecourt for anything.

Alphonse and Lucie rejoiced at the arrangement, as it did not remove Marie away from them, and Alphonse promised himself to be able to go and continue her reading lessons; but the following day the Curé came to announce to them that his sister had received a letter from her superior, inviting her to rejoin her, and a few other nuns of the same convent, whom she had gathered together. He added that his sister proposed to set out at once, and that if they consented to it, she would take Marie, who would thus pass with her the time of her penitence. Alphonse was on the point of protesting against this proposition, but his mother made him feel the necessity of accepting it, and all three went to take leave of Marie, who was to set out on the following day. Marie was extremely grieved when she learned the mode in which they disposed of her; she felt much more vividly her attachment to her relations since she had been separated from them, and it now seemed to her that she was never to see them again, and she said, crying, "They took me from my nurse in the same way, and she is dead." But she had become docile; and, besides, Madame Sainte Therèse,—such was the name of the Curé's sister,—had something in her manner which awed her a good deal. When she heard of the arrival of Madame d'Aubecourt and her children, she trembled very much, and had she been the Marie of a former time, she would have made her escape; but a look from Madame Sainte Therèse restrained her. Lucie, on entering, went and threw her arms round her neck, and she was so much moved by this mark of affection, when she only expected severity, that she returned the embrace with her whole heart, and began to weep. Alphonse was exceedingly sad, and she scarcely dared to speak to him, or look at him. "Marie," he said, "we are all very grieved at losing you." He could say no more, for his heart was full, and he knew that a man ought not to display his sorrow too much, but Marie clearly perceived that he was not angry with her. Madame d'Aubecourt said to her, "My child, you have occasioned us all very great grief in compelling us to separate ourselves from you, but I hope all will yet be well, and that by your good conduct you will afford us the opportunity of having you back again." Marie kissed her hand tenderly, and assured her that she would conduct herself properly, she had promised it, she said, to God and to her poor nurse.

They were astonished at the change that had been wrought in her by two days of misery and reflection. She save sensible answers to all that was said to her, she remained quiet upon her chair, and already looked to Madame Sainte Therèse from time to time, for fear of saying or doing anything which might displease her. The austere look of this lady somewhat terrified Alphonse and Lucie, on their cousin's account, but they knew that she was a very virtuous person, and that there is nothing really alarming in the severity of the virtuous, because it is never unjust, and can always be avoided by doing one's duty. Alphonse gave Marie a book, in which he begged her to read a page every day for his sake, and he also gave her a little silver pencil-case, for the time when she should be able to write. Lucie gave her her silver thimble, her ornamented scissors, an ivory needlecase, and a ménagère, furnished with threads, because Marie had promised to learn to work. Madame d'Aubecourt gave her a linen dress, which she and Lucie had made for her in two days. Marie was greatly consoled by all this kindness, and they separated, all very melancholy, but still loving each other much more truly than they had done during the two months they had passed together, because they were now much more reasonable.

Marie departed; M. d'Aubecourt recovered; and quiet was again restored in the château: but this sending away of Marie was a subject of great surprise in the village, and as Mademoiselle Raymond had not concealed her aversion for her, she was looked upon as its cause. She herself was not liked, and an increased interest was therefore felt in Marie's fate. Philip, the gardener's son, who regretted Marie because she played with him, told all the little boys of the village that Zizi was the cause of Mademoiselle Raymond's antipathy to her, and whenever she passed through the streets with Zizi, she heard them say, "Look, there's the dog that got Mademoiselle Marie sent away!" She therefore did not dare to take him out with her, except into the fields, and this consequently increased her ill feeling towards Marie.

As to M. d'Aubecourt, on the contrary, being kind-hearted, though subject to whims and ill-temper, he had ceased to be irritated against her, now that she was no longer in his way. He permitted Madame d'Aubecourt to talk of her, and even to read to him the letters in which Madame Sainte Therèse gave an account of her good conduct; and, finally, as no one knew better than Madame d'Aubecourt how to persuade people to do what was right, because all were won by her extreme sweetness, while her good sense inspired confidence in her judgment, she induced him to pay the trifling salary of Marie; and he even sent her a dress. It was Alphonse who communicated all this good news to her, at the same time adding, that both his sister and himself endeavoured to do everything they could to please their grandfather, that when he was very much satisfied with them, he might grant them a favour, which would give them more pleasure than anything else in the world, namely, the permission for her to return. He told her that he had begun a pretty landscape for M. d'Aubecourt's fête, which was that of St. Louis, and that Lucie was working him a footstool on which to support his lame foot.

Marie was enchanted at receiving this letter, which she was already sufficiently advanced to read herself. The brother of one of the nuns, who had a garden in the neighbourhood of the place in which she resided, and who was very fond of Marie, had given her two very rare trees; she would have been delighted could she have sent them to M. d'Aubecourt for his fête, but she hardly dared to do so, and besides, how was she to send them?

Madame Sainte Therèse encouraged her, and it so happened, that a relative of one of the nuns had occasion to go, precisely at that time, in the direction of Guicheville. He was kind enough to take the trees with him, and had them carefully secured on all sides, so as to prevent their being too much shaken in the journey. They arrived in very good condition, and were secretly committed to Madame d'Aubecourt, and on the morning of St. Louis's day, M. d'Aubecourt found them at his garden gate, as if they had not dared to enter it. On them was this inscription: From Marie, repentant, to her benefactor, written in large letters, with Marie's own hand, for she could as yet only write in large hand. M. d'Aubecourt was so much affected by this present, and its inscription, that he wrote a letter to Marie, in which he told her that he was very much satisfied with the account that had been given him of her conduct, and that if she persevered he should be very glad to see her again at the château. This was a great joy for Madame d'Aubecourt and her children, to whom M. d'Aubecourt read his letter, and they all wrote to Marie. She had sent word to Alphonse by the traveller, that Madame Sainte Therèse had forbidden her to read in the book which he had given her, because it consisted of tales; that this had very much grieved her, and she begged him to choose from among the books which Madame Sainte Therèse did permit her to read, one in which she could every day read more than a page for his sake. She asked Lucie to send her a strip of muslin, which she wished to scallop for her, because she was beginning to work well, and she sent word to Madame d'Aubecourt that she kept for Sundays the dress which she and Lucie had given her, the day of her departure. These messages were faithfully delivered. Alphonse, by his mother's advice, selected for her, Rollin's Ancient History. Lucie sent at the first opportunity, two trimmings for handkerchiefs, to be scalloped, one for Marie and another for herself, and Madame d'Aubecourt added an English belt to wear on Sundays with her dress.

From this moment the children redoubled their care and attention to their grandfather. Lucie wrote his letters, under his dictation, and Alphonse, who had found means of constituting himself sole manager of Marie's trees, because he had received the instructions of the man who brought them, entered every day into the garden to attend to them, and he occasionally watered M. d'Aubecourt's flowers, who soon looked to him so much for the care of his garden, that he frequently consulted him as to what was to be done in it. Lucie was also admitted to the council, and Madame d'Aubecourt likewise gave her opinion occasionally. The garden had become the occupation of the whole family, and M. d'Aubecourt received much greater pleasure from it than when he had it all to himself.

One day when they were all together, one watering, another weeding, and a third taking insects from the trees: "I am sure," said Alphonse, replying to his own thoughts, "that Marie would take care of them now with as much pleasure and attention as ourselves."

Lucie blushed and glanced at her brother, not daring to look at M. d'Aubecourt. "Poor Marie!" said Madame d'Aubecourt, with tenderness, though not with any sadness, for she began to feel quite sure that she would return. "We shall see her again, we shall see her again," said M. d'Aubecourt. The subject was not pursued further at that time, but two days afterwards, when they were all in the drawing-room, Madame d'Aubecourt received a letter from Madame Sainte Therèse, who informed her that in the spring of the following year, she intended to pass three or four months with her brother, prior to her settling finally in the place where she then was, and that being anxious that Marie should edify the village of Guicheville, where she had set such a bad example, she would bring her there to make her first communion. Lucie uttered a cry of joy, "Oh! mamma," she said, "we shall make it together!" for it was also in the following year that she was to make her first communion. Alphonse, much affected, looked at his grandfather, "Yes, but," said he, after a moment's silence, "Marie will then go away again."

"After her first communion," said M. d'Aubecourt, "we shall see."

Lucie, who was seated by her grandfather, quietly knelt down on the footstool upon which his feet were placed, and as she gently bent her head over his hands, in order to kiss them, he felt the tears of joy fall upon them. Alphonse was silent, but his hands were tightly clasped together, and an expression of happiness pervaded his whole countenance.

"If she is as good a child as you two," said M. d'Aubecourt, "I shall be delighted to have her back with us."

"Oh! she will be! she will be!" said both the children, their hearts swelling with pleasure. They said no more, fearing to importune M. d'Aubecourt, who loved tranquillity, and had accustomed them to restrain their feelings; but they were very happy.

There was great satisfaction throughout the château; Marie's faults were forgotten, while her disgrace was pitied. Mademoiselle Raymond was the only person who felt any annoyance; not that she was really ill disposed, but when once she took up any prejudices, she seldom overcame them. Besides, the continued reproaches made to her for her dislike of Marie had the effect of increasing it; and as the other servants made a sort of triumph of her return, she was all the more displeased with it. But she had insensibly lost much of her ascendancy over the mind of M. d'Aubecourt, who, now that he was surrounded by more amiable society, was less dependent on her and less afraid of her ill temper; for Madame d'Aubecourt spared him the trouble of giving his orders himself, and thus freed him from a thousand petty annoyances. Mademoiselle Raymond therefore manifested nothing of her displeasure before her superiors, and the end of February, the time fixed for Marie's return, was looked forward to with great impatience.

Marie arrived in the beginning of March. For more than a week, Alphonse and Lucie went every day to wait for the diligence, which passed by the château. At length it stopped, and they saw Marie descend from it. They scarcely recognised her at first, she had grown so much taller, fairer, and handsomer; her bearing was so much improved, and her deportment so modest and reserved. She threw herself into Lucie's arms, and also embraced Alphonse; Madame d'Aubecourt, who had perceived her from the window, hastened to meet her. All the servants ran out; Zizi also ran out barking, because all this commotion displeased him, and besides, he remembered his former aversion for Marie. Philip gave him a blow with a switch, which made him, howl terrifically. Mademoiselle Raymond, who was slowly approaching, rushed towards him, took him in her arms and carried him away, exclaiming, "Poor fellow! you may now consider that your days are numbered." The servants heard this, and glanced slyly at her and Zizi.

Marie was led to the château, and Madame Sainte Therèse, who had gone to her brother's, left word that she should soon come and fetch her. M. d'Aubecourt had given permission for her to be led to him; he was in his garden; she stopped at the gate, timid and embarrassed.

"Go in, Marie, go in," said Alphonse; "we all go there now, and you shall go in and take care of it as we do."

Marie entered, walking with great care, for fear of injuring anything as she passed along. M. d'Aubecourt appeared very glad to see her; she kissed his hand, and he embraced her. They happened to be standing near the two plants which she had given to him. Alphonse showed her how much they had prospered under his care. He also pointed out such trees as were beginning to bud, and all the early flowers which were making their appearance. Marie looked at everything with interest, and found everything very beautiful.

"Yes, but beware of the Feast of Corpus Christi," said M. d'Aubecourt, laughing.

Marie blushed, but her uncle's manner proved to her that he was no longer displeased with her; she again kissed his hand with a charming vivacity, for she still retained her liveliness, though it was now tempered by good sense. She spoke but little,—she had never indeed been talkative, but her replies were to the purpose, only she constantly blushed. She was timid, like a person who had felt the inconvenience of a too great vivacity. Madame Sainte Therèse returned. Marie seemed to feel in her presence that awe which respect inspires; nevertheless, she loved her, and had great confidence in her. Madame Sainte Therèse said that she had come for Marie. This grieved Alphonse and Lucie excessively. They had hoped their cousin would have remained at the château the whole of the day, and they had even been anticipating a further extension of the visit; but Madame Sainte Therèse said that as Marie had commenced the exercises for her first communion, it was necessary that she should remain in retirement until she had made it, and that she was not to go out, except for her walk, nor were her cousins to see her more than once a week. They were obliged to submit to the arrangement. Although Madame d'Aubecourt did not approve of this excessive austerity, which belonged to the customs of the convent in which Madame Sainte Therèse had passed the greater part of her life, she was so virtuous a person, and they were under so many obligations to her for all that she had done for Marie, that they did not consider it right to oppose her. When Marie was gone, Alphonse and Lucie were eloquent in their praises of her deportment, and the grace of her manners: their mother agreed with them, and M. d'Aubecourt also expressed his satisfaction, and consented positively that immediately after her first communion, she should again become an inmate of the château.

It was decided that the first communions of the village should be made on the feast of Corpus Christi, and that until then, Madame d'Aubecourt should go every other Thursday to pass the afternoon at the Curé's house, where Marie expected them with great delight. She saw them besides every Sunday at church, when, of course, she did not speak to them, but they exchanged a few words on coming out, and sometimes, though rarely, they met in their walks; thus they did not lose sight of each other, but were able to converse about their various occupations. Marie had read the whole of her Rollin: Alphonse pointed out to her other historical works, and she gave him an account of what she read. He applied with great zeal to his studies, in order to be able to give her, hereafter, lessons in drawing and English; and Lucie never learned a new stitch, or busied herself with any particular work, without saying, "I will show it to Marie." Every one was happy at Guicheville, and all hoped to be still more so.

The feast of Corpus Christi was drawing near; the two girls, equally inspired with piety and fervour, beheld its approach with mingled joy and fear. Alphonse thought of the happy day which was to bring back Marie, and to exhibit her, as well as his sister, as an example to the young girls of the village. He would have been glad to have signalized it by some fête, but the seriousness and holiness of such a day would not permit of amusement, or even of any distraction. He determined at least to contribute as much as he possibly could to those attentions which were allowable. Madame d'Aubecourt had provided for Lucie and Marie two white dresses, both alike; Alphonse wished them to have veils and sashes also alike. From the money which his grandfather had given him for his new year's gift, and which he had carefully saved for this occasion, he sent to purchase them at the neighbouring town, without saying anything on the subject to Lucie, who did not consider it proper to occupy herself with these matters, and left them all to her mother's care. Madame d'Aubecourt was the only person admitted into his council, and with her permission, the last evening but one before the festival, he sent Philip, with the veil and sash, to Marie, accompanied by a note, in which he begged her to wear them at her first communion.

Philip was very much attached to Alphonse and Marie; this was almost his only merit; in other respects he was coarse, quarrelsome, and insolent, and had an especial aversion to Mademoiselle Raymond; and as he and his father were the only persons in the house who were but slightly dependent upon her, he amused himself by provoking her whenever he could find an opportunity. He never met her with Zizi without making some disagreeable remark about the animal, to which he always added, "It's a great pity they don't let you eat Mademoiselle Marie," at the same time threatening him with his hand. Mademoiselle Raymond would get angry, while he would go off laughing. If he chanced to meet Zizi in a corner, a thing which very rarely happened, because his mistress no longer dared to let him go about, he would tie a branch of thorns to his tail, a stick between his legs, or cover his face with paper; in fact he thought of everything which could displease Mademoiselle Raymond, who thus lived in a state of perpetual apprehension.

As Alphonse was very anxious that Lucie should have the surprise of seeing Marie dressed exactly like herself, he had told Philip to go to the presbytery without being observed, and Philip, who was very fond of doing what he ought not to do, took a fancy to get there by climbing over the wall, which was not very high. When on the top, he perceived Marie, who was reading on a slight elevation which had been raised near the wall, for the purpose of enjoying the very beautiful view which it commanded. He called to her in a low voice, and threw her the packet which Alphonse had confided to him, and was preparing to descend, when he perceived Mademoiselle Raymond walking by the side of the wall, with Zizi panting before her. As she approached, Philip, finding under his hand a piece of flint belonging to the wall, threw it at Zizi, and hid himself among the trees which overhung the wall at this spot: Mademoiselle Raymond, who was stooping down at the moment for the purpose of removing something from Zizi's throat, received the flint on her forehead, where it left rather a large wound. She screamed, and raised her head. Perceiving Marie on the mound, who, having heard her cry, stood up, and was looking at her, she did not doubt that it was she who had thrown the stone. Redoubling her speed, she hastened to the presbytery to complain, without perceiving Philip, who, nevertheless, was not very well concealed, but whom she had no idea of finding there. As to him, the moment she had passed, he jumped down and made his escape as fast as he could. Mademoiselle Raymond found no one at home but Madame Sainte Therèse. The Curé had gone to the neighbouring town on business, and would not return until the following evening. She related to her what had occurred, showing her forehead, which was bleeding, though the wound was not very deep; she also showed the stone, which she had picked up, and which might have killed her. She asserted that it was Marie who had thrown it; but Madame Sainte Therèse could not believe such a thing. She, however, accompanied her to the garden, in search of Marie.

When Marie saw them approaching, she hid her packet under a cluster of rosebushes, for, being as yet unaware of what had occurred, she was afraid that Philip had done something wrong, and in order not to be compelled to say that he had been there, she did not wish what he had brought to be seen; however, she blushed and turned pale alternately, for she was afraid of being questioned, and did not wish to be guilty of an untruth. Madame Sainte Therèse, on coming up to her, was struck with her air of embarrassment, and Mademoiselle Raymond said to her, "See, Mademoiselle Marie, how well you employ the last evening but one before your first communion! After that you will be called a saint in the village. I shall only have to point to my forehead." Saying this, she showed it to Marie, who blushed still more at the thought that Philip could have committed so disgraceful an act.

"Is it possible, Marie," said Madame Sainte Therèse, "that it can be you who have thrown a stone at Mademoiselle Raymond?" and as Marie hesitated, seeking for an answer, she added, "You must surely have hit her unintentionally; but nevertheless, this would be an amusement very unbecoming your age, and the duty for which you are preparing yourself."

"Madame," replied Marie, "I assure you that I have not thrown any stone."

"It seems, then, to have come of its own accord," said Mademoiselle Raymond, in a tone of great asperity, at the same time pointing to the spot where she stood when the stone struck her: it was evident that it could only have come from the garden, and from an elevated position.

Madame Sainte Therèse interrogated Marie with increased severity, and Marie, trembling, could only reply, "I assure you, Madame, that I have not thrown any stone."

"All that I can see in the matter," continued Mademoiselle Raymond, "is that I doubt whether Mademoiselle Marie will make her first communion the day after to-morrow."

"I am very much afraid that she has rendered herself unworthy of doing so," replied Madame Sainte Therèse. Marie began to weep, and Mademoiselle Raymond hastened to relate her adventure at the château, and to say that probably Marie would not make her first communion. She referred to her talent for throwing stones at the cats, as they ran along the leads, and added, "She makes a fine use of it."

Lucie was horrified. Alphonse, quite bewildered, ran to question Philip, and to know whether, when he executed his commission, he had observed anything amiss at the Curé's house, and whether Marie appeared sad. Philip assured him that he had not perceived anything whatever wrong; at the same time carefully avoiding any mention of the means by which he had transmitted the packet to Marie; and he so represented matters, that Alphonse did not suspect anything. Madame d'Aubecourt, being very uneasy, wrote to Madame Sainte Therèse, who replied that she could not at all understand what had happened, but that it seemed to her impossible that Marie should not be greatly in fault: and during the course of the following day, they learned from Gothon, who had received her information from the Curé's servant, that Marie had cried almost all the day, and that Madame Sainte Therèse treated her with great severity, and had even made her fast that morning upon bread and water. In the evening, Lucie went to confession to the Curé, who had returned, and saw Marie coming out of the confessional, sobbing violently. Madame d'Aubecourt went to Madame Sainte Therèse, and asked her whether Marie was to make her first communion on the following day. Madame Sainte Therèse replied, in a sad and severe tone, "I do not at all know."

As they were in the church, nothing more was said. Marie cast upon her cousin, as she passed by, a look which, notwithstanding her tears, expressed a feeling of satisfaction. She whispered something to Madame Sainte Therèse, who led her away, and Lucie entered the confessional. After having finished her confession, she was timidly preparing to ask the Curé what she so much desired to know; but before she could summon courage to begin, he was sent for to a sick person, and hurried away, so that she had no time to speak to him.

She passed the whole of that evening and night in inexpressible anxiety, which was so much the more intense, from the manner in which she reproached herself for every thought which wandered from the sacred duty of the morrow. Then she prayed to God for her cousin, thus uniting her devotion with her anxieties, and the thought of the happiness which was in store for her, with the supplications which she breathed for her dear Marie. The morning came; she dressed herself without speaking, collecting all her thoughts, so as not to allow a single one to escape her which could occasion her any uneasiness. She embraced her brother, and begged the blessing of M. d'Aubecourt and her mother, which they gave her with great joy, and M. d'Aubecourt added, that he blessed her both for himself and for his son. All sighed that he was not present at such a time, and after a moment's silence, they repaired to the church.

The girls who were to make their first communion were already assembled. Lucie, notwithstanding her self-possession, surveyed them with a glance, but Marie was not among them. She turned pale and leaned upon the arm of her mother, who sustained and encouraged her, and telling her to commit her griefs to God, led her into the row of girls, and passed with M. d'Aubecourt into the chapel at the side. Behind the girls, stood Mademoiselle Raymond and Gothon, and the principal people of the village. "I was quite sure she would not be there," said Mademoiselle Raymond. No one answered her, for all were interested in Marie, whom they had often seen in the cemetery during the past months, fervently praying at the foot of the cross which she had begged might be erected over the grave of her poor nurse. Lucie had heard Mademoiselle Raymond's remark, and, violently excited, she prayed to God with all her strength to preserve her from all improper feelings; but her agitation, and the restraint she had imposed upon her thoughts, affected her so much, that she could scarcely support herself. At length, the door of the sacristy opened, and Marie appeared, conducted by the Curé and Madame Sainte Therèse; she came forward with the white veil upon her head, beautiful as an angel, and as pure. A murmur of satisfaction ran through the church. Marie crossed the choir, and, after bending before the altar, went and knelt at the feet of M. and Madame d'Aubecourt, to ask their blessing. "My child," said the Curé to her, sufficiently loud to be heard, "be always as virtuous as you are now, and God also will bless you."

Oh! what joy did Lucie feel! She raised to heaven her eyes moistened with tears, and believed that in the happiness she then experienced, she felt the assurance of divine protection throughout the whole of her future life. M. and Madame d'Aubecourt, deeply affected, bestowed their blessing upon Marie, who knelt before them, while Alphonse, standing behind, his face beaming with joy and triumph, looked at her with as much respect as affection. Madame d'Aubecourt herself led Marie to Lucie's side. The two cousins did not utter a word, nor give more than a single look, but that look reverting to Madame d'Aubecourt before it fell, expressed a degree of happiness which no words could have conveyed, and the eyes of Madame d'Aubecourt replied to those of her children. The long-wished-for moment had arrived at last; the two cousins approached the altar together. Lucie, more feeble, and agitated by so many emotions which she had been forced to repress, was almost on the point of fainting: Marie supported her, her countenance beaming with angelic joy.

Having received the communion, the cousins returned to their places, prayed together, and after having passed a part of the morning in the church, went to dine at the château, where Madame Sainte Therèse and the Curé had been invited. Marie and Lucie talked but little, but it was evident that they were very happy. Alphonse, his relations, the servants, all appeared happy too; but this joy was silent, it seemed as if they feared to disturb the perfect calm which these young souls, pure and sanctified, ought to enjoy. The looks of all were unconsciously turned towards them, and they were waited upon with a kind of respect which could not suggest any sentiments of pride.

After having again gone to church in the afternoon with Lucie, Marie came back with her, to take up her abode at the château. The evening was very happy, and even a little gay. Alphonse ventured to laugh, and the two cousins to smile, In the room in which they slept, and next to the bed occupied by Madame d'Aubecourt, Marie found one exactly like Lucie's. All the furniture was alike; henceforth they were two sisters. From the following day, she shared in all Lucie's occupations, and especially in her care of M. d'Aubecourt, who soon became as fond of her as he was of his grandchildren. Mademoiselle Raymond having fallen ill some time afterwards, Marie, who was very active, and had been accustomed to attend to her poor nurse, rendered her so many services, went so often to her room, to give her her medicines, was so careful each time to caress Zizi, and even occasionally to carry him a bit of sugar to pacify him, that the feelings of both were changed towards her: and if Zizi, who was the most vindictive, still growled at her now and then, he was scolded by his mistress, who begged pardon for him of Marie.

Marie had related to Alphonse and Lucie, but under the strictest secrecy, all that had taken place. She told them that Madame Sainte Therèse, having questioned her to no purpose, had treated her with much severity; that she had said nothing, fearing, that if the truth were known, Philip might be discharged, but that she had been very unhappy during those two days; that at length, the Curé having returned, she took the resolution of consulting him in confession, well assured that he would then say nothing about the matter; and that he advised her to confide what she had done to Madame Sainte Therèse, on her promising inviolable secrecy. This she had done, so that they were reconciled. She, moreover, told Lucie that the reason of her crying so much on leaving the confessional, was because the Curé had exhorted her in a most pathetic manner, in recalling to her mind her poor nurse, who had been carried to the grave precisely on the same day, and at the same hour, the preceding year. Alphonse scolded Philip very severely, and forbade him ever to do any harm to Zizi, or anything which might displease Mademoiselle Raymond. The latter, being freed from annoyance on this point, consoled herself for not being so completely mistress of the château as formerly, by the reflection, that Madame d'Aubecourt and her children, in relieving her of many cares, left her more at liberty. Besides, the regard they had for her on account of her fidelity and attachment, flattered her self-love, so that her ill-humour perceptibly decreased; so that song and laughter were now as frequently heard at Guicheville, as murmuring and scolding had been during many previous years.

M. d'Aubecourt returned to France. He found but little of his property remaining, but still sufficient for the support of his wife and children. Marie, on the contrary, had become rich: her right had been recognised, not only to her mother's fortune, but even to that of her father also, as he had died before the laws against the emigrants had been enacted. The elder M. d'Aubecourt was her guardian, and as, though a minor, she enjoyed a considerable income, she found a thousand opportunities of making this family, which was so dear to her, partake in its enjoyment; in fine, in order to unite herself entirely to it, she is going to marry Alphonse, who loves her every day with a deeper affection, because every day she becomes more amiable. Lucie is transported with joy at the prospect of becoming in reality Marie's sister: Madame d'Aubecourt is also very happy, and Marie finds that the only thing wanted to render her own happiness complete, is the power of making her poor nurse a partaker in her joy. Every year she has a service celebrated for her at Guicheville, and all the family look upon it as a duty to assist at it, in order to show respect to the memory of one who so generously protected the childhood of Marie.

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