Moral Tales

by Madame Guizot

OLD GENEVIÈVE.

"How stupid you are! How absurdly you have put in that pin! You have laced me all on one side. Oh! I shall be horribly dressed; this is unbearable: I never saw anything so awkward."

It was pretty much in this style that Emmeline was in the habit of speaking to old Geneviève, whose duty it was to wait upon her, since she had lost her nurse, and after having seen Emmeline quite an infant, she never expected to be treated by her in this way; but it had been observed that for some time past, Emmeline, though naturally kind and gentle, and even rather timid, had nevertheless assumed with the servants haughty airs, to which she had not previously been accustomed. She no longer thanked them when they waited upon her at table, and asked for what she wanted without even saying, if you please. Up to this time, she had never followed her mother through an antechamber, where the servants rose as they passed, without acknowledging by a slight bow, this mark of their respect; but now she seemed to think it would be derogatory to her dignity, not to pass among them with her head higher than usual. It might, however, be seen that she blushed a little, and that it required an effort on her part to assume these manners, which were not natural to her. Her mother, Madame d'Altier, who began to perceive this change, had more than once reprimanded her on account of it, so that Emmeline did not dare to give herself too many of these airs in her presence. She chiefly affected them when in the society of Madame de Serres, a young woman of seventeen, who had been a year and a half married, and who from her childhood, had been greatly spoiled, as she was very rich and had no parents. Even now she was spoiled by her mother-in-law, who had been very anxious that she should marry her son, and also by her husband, who, almost as young as herself, allowed her to do just what she pleased. As she was not in the habit of inconveniencing herself in the least for any one, she did so still less for her servants; consequently she was incessantly complaining of their insolence, because the severe and imperious manners she assumed towards them, sometimes led them to forget the respect they owed her, while the extravagance of her whims rendered them impatient.

Emmeline, who was at that time fourteen years of age, and desirous of playing the grand lady, imagined that she could not do better than imitate the manners of her cousin, whom she saw almost every day, because Madame de Serres, when in Paris, resided in the same street as Madame d'Altier, and in the country occupied a neighbouring château. Emmeline had not, however, dared to display the whole of her impertinence towards her mother's servants, who had been a long time in the family, and accustomed to be well treated, and who, the first time she manifested these arrogant and impertinent airs, would probably have laughed outright at her. She therefore contented herself with being neither kind nor civil to them. They did not serve her any the less on this account, because they knew it was their duty to attend to her; but when they compared her with her mother, who showed so little anxiety to exercise the right which she really had to command them, they thought the conduct of Emmeline very ridiculous.

Emmeline, indeed, was sometimes conscious of this, and became mentally impatient, because she did not dare to subject them to her authority; but she revenged herself upon Geneviève, who, born on the estate of M. d'Altier, was accustomed to regard with great respect, even the little children of the family of her seigneurs; besides, until lately, she had never had the honour of being completely attached to the château, though she had been employed there almost daily during the last twenty years, in some inferior occupations; consequently, when Madame d'Altier, on her arrival in the country this year, knowing her respectability, had engaged her to assist Emmeline in dressing, and to attend to her room, she considered herself elevated in condition, but without being any the more proud on this account. She looked upon Emmeline, whom she had not seen for ten years, as a person whom she was bound to respect, and from whom she ought to endure everything. When the latter, therefore, thought proper to exercise her authority over her, by making use of any harsh expression she could think of (and she would have used many more had she not been too well brought up to be familiar with them), Geneviève never replied; she only made all the haste she could, either to get away, or to avoid irritating her further, and in consequence, she was only the more awkward, and the more harshly treated.

One day, while she was arranging Emmeline's room, it happened that the latter wished to send her on an errand into the village; but as Geneviève continued her occupation, Emmeline became angry, considering it very strange that she was not obeyed. Geneviève represented to her that if, after breakfast, when she returned to her room to draw, she did not find it in order, she would scold her, and that, nevertheless, it was necessary to have time for everything. As she was right, Emmeline ordered her to be silent, saying that she provoked her. Madame d'Altier, who from the adjoining room, had overheard the conversation, called to her daughter, and said, "Are you quite sure, Emmeline, that you were right in your discussion with Geneviève? because, after having assumed such a tone as that with a servant, it would be extremely annoying to find, in the end, that you had been wrong."

"But, mamma," replied Emmeline, a little ashamed, "when instead of doing what I tell her, Geneviève amuses herself with answering me, it is necessary to stop her."

"You are then certain, before having examined, or even heard her reasons, that they cannot be good?"

"It seems to me, mamma, that a servant is always wrong in arguing, instead of doing what she has been ordered to do."

"That is to say, she is wrong even when she is right, and when she is ordered to do anything which is impossible."

"Oh! mamma, these people always find things impossible, because they do not like them."

"This is the way your cousin would talk: I wish, Emmeline, you had spirit enough to invent ridiculous airs for yourself, instead of assuming those of other people."

"I don't stand in need of my cousin," said Emmeline, much piqued, "to know that Geneviève never does half she is told to do."

"If you have no other means of obtaining her obedience than those you have just employed, I am sorry for it; I must take her away from you, for I pay her to wait upon you, and not to be ill treated; I have never paid any one for that purpose."

Madame d'Altier said these words in so firm a tone, that her daughter did not dare to reply. However, she consoled herself in talking to her cousin, who came to spend an hour with her, and they both agreed that Madame d'Altier did not know how to manage her servants. This was an unlucky day for Emmeline; the conversation with her cousin had taken place in one of the garden-walks, and just as she had terminated it, she saw her mother coming from a neighbouring one. Madame d'Altier smiled at the prattle of these little personages, who presumed to set themselves up as judges of her conduct. She looked at her daughter, who blushed excessively, and seeing Geneviève, she called to her to remove some branches, which were in her way. Geneviève replied, that she would come as soon as she had carried some food to the turkeys, which were screeching like mad things, because they were hungry. "In truth," said Madame d'Altier, "it is evident, as you very justly observed, that I do not know how to get served before my turkeys; I suppose, therefore, I must be thought more reasonable and less impatient than they are. But at this moment they beheld Geneviève, who putting, or rather throwing, on the ground the vessel she held in her hand, began to run with the utmost precipitation towards the house. "Gracious me!" she cried, as she ran along, "I have forgotten to close the window in Mademoiselle Emmeline's room, as she ordered me. I must make haste," she repeated, quite out of breath. "I congratulate you, my child," said Madame d'Altier, "I see that you have more talent than my turkeys even, in getting waited upon."

Emmeline said nothing, but she glanced at her cousin as she was accustomed to do, whenever anything was said which displeased her. Madame de Serres, who considered herself interrupted in her important conferences with her cousin, and who was afraid to display all her fine ideas in the presence of her aunt, of whose good sense and raillery she stood in awe, returned to her carriage, for the purpose of paying a visit in the neighbourhood, accompanied by her lady's-maid, who always attended her in her drives, because she was still too young to go alone. She promised to come back to dinner, and Emmeline went to attend her flowers.

"Oh, dear," she exclaimed, as she reached the terrace, where the pots were arranged, which served for the decoration of her room, "last night's rain has scattered the blossoms of all my roses, and my jasmine has not a single flower left upon it. Geneviève might have taken them in last night, but she can do nothing. She never thinks of anything."

"But, mademoiselle," said old Geneviève, who happened to be close at hand, "I dare not touch your flowerpots, for fear of breaking them."

"Did you take in mine?" said Madame d'Altier.

"Oh! yes, madame."

"I am very glad to find," said Madame d'Altier, looking at her daughter, "that I can be attended to without compelling attention."

"But, mamma, I never told her not to touch my flowerpots," replied Emmeline.

"No; but probably for the smallest thing she breaks, you scold her so much, that she is afraid to run the risk of again exposing herself to your anger."

"It is absolutely necessary, mamma," she said, as she ascended the steps to take in her flowers, "Geneviève is so awkward, and pays so little attention, that...." As she uttered these words, one of the flowerpots slipped from her hands, fell on the steps, and was broken into a thousand pieces.

"She is so awkward," rejoined Madame d'Altier, "that precisely the same thing happens to her sometimes, that would happen to you as well, had you the same duties to perform."

"Indeed, mamma," said Emmeline, very much irritated, "what has happened to me is quite disagreeable enough without...."

"Without what, my child?"

Emmeline paused, ashamed of her impatience. Madame d'Altier took her hand, and made her sit down by her. "When your ill-humour is over, my child, we will reason together." Emmeline kissed in silence the hand of her mother, who said, "Is it then so very vexatious a matter, my child, to have broken this pot of coloured earth, which can be immediately replaced by one from the greenhouse, where you know you can choose for yourself?"

"No, mamma, but...."

"It cannot be on account of your anemone, which is past flowering, and which you told me you would return to the beds. You are spared the trouble of unpotting it." Emmeline smiled.

"Yes, mamma, but on these occasions one always feels something disagreeable, which makes one dislike...."

"To be tormented; is it not so, my dear? And yet it is precisely these moments you select to scold and ill-treat Geneviève, when any accident of this kind happens to her, as if to add to her vexation and confusion."

"But, mamma, it is her duty to pay attention to what she is doing."

"Is it more her duty than it is yours, when you are attending to your own business? Do you wish her to be more careful of your interest than you can be yourself, and require that her anxiety to serve you should make her escape accidents, which you cannot avoid, for your own sake?"

"But, nevertheless, what I break is my own, and I am quite sufficiently punished, whereas she...."

"Cannot be sufficiently punished, I perceive, for having caused you a momentary vexation; and not only is this your own opinion, but you want it to be hers likewise, for you would consider it very improper if she wished to prove to you that you were wrong."

"Undoubtedly, mamma, it would be very absurd if Geneviève took it into her head to argue with me, when I told her to do anything."

"I understand. When you are out of humour, Geneviève ought to say to herself, 'I am a servant, it is consequently my duty to be rational and patient, for the sake of Mademoiselle Emmeline, who is incapable of being so. If my age, my infirmities, or, in fine, any weakness of my nature, render my duties at certain time more difficult to perform, I ought resolutely to surmount every obstacle, for fear of causing Mademoiselle Emmeline a moment's disappointment or contradiction, as she would not have sufficient strength of mind to endure it. If her impatience wounds my feelings, if her ill-temper provokes me, if her fancies appear to me ridiculous and unbearable, still I ought to submit to them, as she is a poor little creature, from whom one cannot expect anything better.'"

"Geneviève would show very little attachment," replied Emmeline, greatly piqued, "if she could entertain such thoughts as these."

At this moment Madame de Serres arrived, very much agitated and angry. "Just imagine, my dear aunt," she said to Madame d'Altier, as she approached, "my maid is going to leave me. She selected the time when she was in the carriage with me, to announce her intention; therefore I had her set down in the road, and she may get back as she pleases. Will you have the kindness to allow your maid to accompany me home? I had this person in my service long before my marriage, and she leaves me for a situation which she says suits her better. Who can rely on the attachment of such people?"

"Were you very much attached to her?" asked Madame d'Altier, carelessly.

"Oh! not at all; she is slow and disagreeable. I should have taken another could I have found one."

Madame d'Altier laughed. It seemed to her excessively absurd that it should be a perpetual subject of complaint and astonishment, that a servant is not more attached to the master whom he has served many years, while the master considers it quite a matter of course to care nothing about the servant, by whom he has been served during all this time. Madame de Serres did not perceive that her aunt was laughing at her, but Emmeline observed it, and it sometimes happened that even she thought her cousin rather ridiculous. Madame de Serres consoled herself by jesting about the pleasure she should have in being under the protection of Mademoiselle Brogniard, Madame d'Altier's lady's-maid, who took her pinch of snuff with such gravity, and when in the open fields, walked as uprightly, and made her courtesy as regularly as if she had been in a drawing-room, in the midst of fifty people. It was agreed, as the weather was fine, and the distance but trifling across the fields, that Madame de Serres should walk, and that Emmeline should accompany her with Mademoiselle Brogniard, and also that they should call and take some milk at a farm, which lay almost on their road. They set off soon after dinner; but scarcely had they reached the farm, when the weather, which up to that time had been fine, suddenly changed, and the rain began to fall in torrents. When, after the lapse of an hour, it had ceased, and they resolved to continue their way, the country was so completely inundated, that they sank ankle-deep into the mud. Madame de Serres was in great distress because she had not returned home in her carriage. Emmeline, rather shocked at observing that she thought of no one but herself, exclaimed, as she perceived Geneviève coming towards her with a parcel,

"Well! as for me, here's Geneviève bringing my cloak and boots."

"No," replied Geneviève, "but I have brought Mademoiselle Brogniard's fur shoes, and wadded dress, for I thought that with her rheumatism the damp might do her a great deal of harm."

"You might at least, at the same time," said Emmeline, angrily, "have brought my boots."

"But you did not tell me to do so, Mademoiselle."

"Neither did Mademoiselle Brogniard tell you to bring hers."

"But she knew, Mademoiselle Emmeline," replied Mademoiselle Brogniard, sententiously emphasising every word, "that I should be greatly obliged to her; and indeed, Geneviève, I am extremely obliged to you."

"I have only done my duty," said Geneviève, as she assisted Mademoiselle Brogniard to put on her dress. She then went away, leaving Emmeline extremely annoyed at finding that Geneviève considered herself bound to be more attentive to Mademoiselle Brogniard than to her. Madame de Serres tried to jest on account of Mademoiselle Brogniard being the best clad and the best served of the three; but as the latter said very little, her pleasantry soon terminated, and her lamentations about the carriage recommenced. At last, as they drew near the high road, she perceived it slowly returning, and in a transport of delight ran forward towards it.

"Mademoiselle Brogniard," she said, "I shall soon be at the château; it will be unnecessary for you to accompany me any further: farewell, my dear," she cried out to Emmeline, "I am delighted to spare you the rest of the way," and she departed, without once thinking that she could have saved Emmeline a walk in the mud, by taking her back in her carriage, at least as far as the avenue of her mother's château. Emmeline reflected upon this, and saw clearly that her cousin's plan of not troubling herself about the comfort of those who were in her service, formed part of a much more extensive plan, which was that of not troubling herself about any one.

These reflections, and the representations of her mother, had the effect of sparing Geneviève some haughty airs, and some caprices; but Emmeline could not treat her with kindness. Her orders were always delivered in a brief and dry manner, and she was constantly giving orders. She took no pains to discover whether what she ordered could be easily or more conveniently done at one time, or in one manner than another, neither did she take any interest in anything that concerned Geneviève, for Emmeline imagined that this kind of familiarity would have made her appear childish.

Towards the end of the summer, Madame d'Altier and her daughter went with Madame de Serres to spend some days at a château in the neighbourhood. Madame de Ligneville, the mistress of the château, was a young woman twenty-two years of age, extremely gentle and amiable, and especially remarkable for her kindness to her servants, the greater part of whom had surrounded her from her childhood. Her housekeeper had been her former governess, and Madame de Ligneville was not afraid of allowing authority in her household to one who had formerly possessed it over her own person; for in proportion as she became reasonable, her governess became as submissive as she had formerly been rigorous in exacting obedience. Her lady's-maid was the daughter of this governess, and had been brought up with her, but she was not on this account the less zealous or respectful. Her footman had belonged to her father, her gardener was in the family before her birth, and sometimes related to her how, when a child, she used to plant bits of apricot, in order that they might become apricot-trees. Every one adored her; everything in her household seemed regulated by an invisible machinery, and without anything being ever said; an order appeared like an advertisement to which every one hastened to attend. It was a matter of doubt whether Madame de Ligneville had ever scolded her servants, and they themselves did not believe that she had; for if at any time she was obliged to reprove them, they were more conscious of their own fault than of the reprimand of their mistress. Emmeline saw with astonishment that this kindness on her part did not in the least detract either from her elegance or her dignity. It even seemed, that without ever commanding, she had much more the appearance of being mistress than Madame de Serres, who could only obtain obedience by dint of talking, tormenting, and scolding. She also observed, that although people were sometimes amused by the little haughty airs and caprices of her cousin, Madame de Ligneville was treated with much more respect and friendship.

They had been staying with her for some days, when all the company of the château were invited to a fête, which was to be held at a few leagues' distance. Madame de Serres and Madame de Ligneville took a fancy to go there in the costume of a peasant of the province. Emmeline had a dress of this kind, which was immediately sent for to serve as a pattern for the others; but on examining it, Madame de Ligneville found it rather complicated, and was afraid her maid would not have time to complete it for the following day, as they were to set out early.

"Oh! my maid must find time to finish mine," said Madame de Serres. "I do not put up with her fancies in this way. You spoil your servants, my dear," she said, addressing Madame de Ligneville. "I know it through Justine, who I believe is cousin to your Sophie; but I warned her that she need not expect to be treated in the same manner; for, believe me, you will get nothing from them in this way."

Madame de Ligneville did not reply, for she was not at all anxious to enforce her opinions on others. Madame de Serres hastened to give her orders, and Justine immediately set to work. At night, when her mistress retired to her room, the costume was considerably advanced, but it did not suit her fancy. She became angry; said she would never wear such a frightful thing as that, and ordered her to begin it all over again. Justine replied that it would be impossible to finish it in that case, unless she sat up all night. Madame de Serres told her that she must do so, adding that it was no great hardship. Justine asserted that she could not, as she was very much fatigued already from having worked the whole of the evening. Her mistress told her that she was an impertinent creature, and that she must either contrive to bring her the dress by the time she awoke on the following morning, or never again appear in her presence.

On awaking the following morning, she found her dress in precisely the same condition as she had left it the previous night. Justine told her, that as it seemed to be her intention to discharge her, she had come to ask for her dismissal. Madame de Serres flew into a passion; ordered her to leave the room; desired her never to come into her presence again, and sent to ask Mademoiselle Brogniard to assist her in dressing; in fine, she made so much noise about what she termed Justine's insolence, and was altogether so unreasonable, that the whole house soon became aware of what had occurred, and all were greatly amused by it, for they had already heard of several similar incidents which had happened to her. At breakfast, she affected a manner more than usually easy, to conceal the ill-humour which was nevertheless perceptible through it. She made no allusion to her dress, neither did Madame de Ligneville, as she had resolved not to put on her own, should it even be completed; while Emmeline, very sad because her mother, in order not to annoy her cousin, would not allow her to wear hers, although it was very becoming to her, began to think that Madame de Serres had acted very improperly in her treatment of Justine.

After breakfast, all were preparing to go and dress, when their attention was drawn to Madame de Ligneville's room, in order to see a singular flower, which her gardener had brought her. While there, Sophie entered by one of the inner doors of the apartment, holding in her hand Madame de Ligneville's dress, completely finished, and the prettiest thing imaginable: every one looked at it, and all felt tempted to glance at Madame de Serres, who, although she blushed, yet hastened to express her approbation.

"Indeed, Sophie," said Madame de Ligneville, very much embarrassed, "I had given it up altogether, for I never could have thought you would have been able to finish it."

"Oh, madame," said Sophie, heedlessly, "my cousin helped me, and we got up very early."

This cousin was Justine. Madame de Serres blushed still more, and Madame de Ligneville did the same; but every one else felt disposed to laugh. Emmeline perceived this, and from that moment her cousin appeared to her as ridiculous as she was in reality. All insisted that Madame de Ligneville should wear her dress; Emmeline, consequently, wore hers also; and as Madame de Ligneville pretended to be her elder sister, they passed the day together. This was very gratifying to Madame d'Altier, as Madame de Ligneville was an extremely sensible woman, and Emmeline found her so kind and so charming, that she became very much attached to her. Two or three times Madame de Ligneville remarked, as she looked at her dress, "There really is a great deal of work in it; that poor Sophie must have laboured very hard." And Emmeline, because she was pleased with her, considered as very charming what a short time previously she would have regarded as beneath her dignity; and she also felt that it might be very gratifying to receive such proofs of affection. She enjoyed the fête very much. However, the heat of the weather, and the fatigue she had undergone, brought on, after her return, a slight illness, which confined her for some time to her bed. One day during her indisposition, she heard Geneviève, who had paid great attention to her, say, "I must take care of her, poor little thing, though I am quite sure that when she gets well she will vex me very much." She felt humiliated at finding herself in need of Geneviève's generosity. During her convalescence, she also frequently required her assistance, for she was very weak, and Geneviève had to aid her in almost every movement. She was therefore obliged to lay aside some portion of her pride, and learn that the authority and dignity of one who can do nothing for herself is, after all, no very great affair. She felt that, if servants have need of masters for their support, masters, whom custom and wealth have habituated to a multitude of luxuries, have also constant need of servants, for their comfort and convenience. She likewise learned, in the end, that an industrious and honest servant can always find a master willing to pay him, whereas a master who is willing to pay, is not always sure of meeting with a servant who will serve him with zeal and affection, and consequently that it is particularly important to masters that their servants should be contented. She thus returned to her natural disposition, which was that of wishing to have every one satisfied with her, and she found that there was no other state of mind either so agreeable or so convenient as this.

---

JULIA;
OR THE STORY OF MADAME CROQUE-MITAINE.

Two years had elapsed since Madame de Vallonay had placed her daughter at school, in order to go and nurse her husband, who was ill at a fortified town, in which he commanded, and which was at any moment liable to attack. Circumstances having changed, M. and Madame de Vallonay returned to Paris, and brought their daughter home again. Julia was thirteen, she was sufficiently intelligent and sufficiently advanced for her age; but a child of thirteen, however advanced, cannot possibly understand all that is said by persons older than herself. She had, however, acquired a habit of regarding everything that she did not understand as ridiculous. Accustomed to the chit-chat of school-girls, who among themselves discussed, criticised, and decided upon everything, she fancied she understood a thing when once it had formed the subject of conversation at school. Thus, if any circumstance was spoken of, Julia maintained that the fact had happened differently; she was quite sure of it, for Mademoiselle Josephine had heard so in the holidays. If told that such or such a style of dress was in bad taste, "Oh, but it must be fashionable, nevertheless, for three of our young ladies have adopted it for ball dresses this winter." It was the same on more serious matters: whatever one of the elder girls related, from having heard her parents mention it, whether about peace or war, or the theatre, to which she had never been, it became a general opinion, to which neither Julia nor her companions ever thought there could be anything to oppose.

Thus, there never was a visit paid to her parents, that Julia did not exclaim, the moment the persons were gone, "Oh! mamma, what an absurd thing Monsieur or Madame So-and-so said!" Her mother permitted her to express her opinion in this manner when she was alone with her, in order to have an opportunity of proving to her, either that she did not understand what had been said, or that she did not understand what she wanted to say herself; but when there was company, she carefully watched, that her daughter did not give way to any rudeness, such as whispering, while laughing or looking at some one, making signs to a person at the other end of the room, or seeming to be unable to restrain her laughter.

Julia, who stood in awe of her mother, usually behaved pretty well in company. One day, however, when two or three of her schoolfellows had come to dine at Madame de Vallonay's, the Curé of the Vallonay estate, being in Paris on business, dined there also. He was a very worthy and sensible man, who said many excellent things, though in a rather more tedious manner than other people, while he introduced into his conversation old proverbs, very useful to remember, but which appeared to Julia excessively ridiculous, because she was unaccustomed to this style of speaking. Moreover, she had never before seen the Curé, and it was her habit always to discover something extraordinary in persons whom she saw for the first time. Her companions were as foolish as herself. Before dinner they amused themselves by mimicking the gestures of the Curé, whom they saw from an adjoining apartment, walking up and down the drawing-room with M. de Vallonay; this had put them into such a mocking humour, that during the whole of dinner, there was a constant succession of whisperings and laughings, for which they sought a thousand frivolous pretexts. Sometimes it was the dog who scratched himself in a droll manner, or who, in putting his paw upon Julia's knee to beg for something to eat, pulled her napkin, or else Emily had drunk out of her glass, or had taken her fork or her bread. Madame de Vallonay, though excessively annoyed, was nevertheless fearful of allowing her displeasure to be visible, lest the Curé should suspect its cause, but in the evening, when the company had departed, she scolded her daughter very seriously, and made her feel the rudeness, and even absurdity, of such conduct, and assured her that if such a thing occurred again, she would not allow her to associate with companions, who encouraged her in such disagreeable habits. Finally, as she was anxious to accustom her to reflect upon the motives of her actions, she asked her what there was so very remarkable in the conversation of the Curé de Vallonay.

"Oh! mamma, he said everything so oddly."

"As, for example:"—

"Well, mamma, he took the trouble of telling me that more flies were to be caught with a spoonful of honey than with a barrel of vinegar."

"And, it appears to me, Julia, that this maxim was never better applied; and it would have been a fortunate thing had it recalled to your mind at that moment, that love is gained by doing what is pleasing to others, not by mockery and disagreeable behaviour."

"And then he recited to papa, who apparently knew it very well beforehand, that verse of La Fontaine—

"Plus fait douceur que violence."

Gentleness does more than violence.

"Which means...?" asked Madame de Vallonay.

"Which means ... which means...." And Julia, probably rather annoyed by the conversation, was entirely taken up with pulling with all her strength the string of her bag, which had become entangled with the key of her work-box.

"Which means," continued Madame de Vallonay, "that you would do much better, were you gently to untie the knot in that string, instead of tightening it as you are doing, by pulling it in this irritable manner. I see, Julia, that you will often require to be reminded of the Curé's proverbs."

"But, nevertheless, mamma, they are things which everybody knows, and it was that which wearied me, and made me laugh with those girls."

"Which everybody knows? which you, Julia, know, do you not?"

"I assure you I do, mamma."

"You, who might learn something from every one! You, who might find something instructive in the story of Madame Croque-Mitaine, if indeed, you were capable of understanding it!"

"The story of Madame Croque-Mitaine!" exclaimed Julia, very much piqued: "that story for babies, which my cousin brought the other day for my little sister?"

"Exactly so, the one he made for her, when I showed him that bad engraving which I had given her, and which represented Madame Croque-Mitaine, with her bag and stick, threatening all the little children that she will take them away, if they are not good."

"What, mamma! and you really believe that I should learn something from that story?"

"No, because I am not sure that you have penetration enough to understand its utility. Come, let us see, here is the paper, read it..., come, read on."

"Oh! mamma."

"Oh! my child, you will have the kindness to read it aloud to me; if my dignity is not hurt by hearing it, surely yours need not be so by reading it."

Julia, half-laughing, half-pouting, took the manuscript, and read aloud the following story:

MADAME CROQUE-MITAINE:
A TALE.

"Come away! come away, Paul," said little Louisa to her youngest brother, "we have more time than we want; the shop where they sell flowers and toys is at the end of the next street; mamma is dressing, and before she has finished we shall be back again, you with your whip, and I with my nosegay, and we will bring back one for mamma too, which will please her."

Taking Paul by the hand, she walked off with him as fast as their little legs could carry them. Louisa was nine years old, and Paul only seven, and they were two of the prettiest children imaginable. Louisa was dressed in a frock of snow-white cambric, and a rose-coloured sash encircled her little waist. As she walked along, she admired her red shoes, while her fair hair fell in ringlets over her shoulders. Paul's hair was neither less fair nor less beautiful; he wore a nankeen dress, quite new, an embroidered waistcoat, and an open worked shirt; but all these were nothing in comparison with the pleasure which awaited them. Their mother had promised to take them to the fair of Saint Cloud, and they were to set out in an hour. In the country, where, up to the present time, they had resided, they had been permitted to run about in the park, and sometimes even into the village; since they had come to Paris, however, they had been forbidden ever to venture beyond the carriage-gate, but the habit of attending to these injunctions was not yet confirmed, and besides, Louisa wanted to have a bouquet to take with her to Saint Cloud, and Paul wanted a whip, that he might whip his papa's horses, for he had promised to take him by his side in front of the calèche, and they hastened to buy these things unknown to their mother, with the money that she had just given them for their week's allowance.

All the passers-by stopped to look at them: "What pretty children!" they said, "how can they be allowed to go in the streets alone at their age?" And Louisa pulled Paul by the hand, in order to walk faster, so as not to hear them. A cabriolet which was coming very quickly behind them, made them redouble their haste. "Let us run fast," said Louisa, "here comes a cabriolet," but the cabriolet also ran, and Louisa, in her fright, turned to the right instead of to the left, and passed the flower-shop without perceiving it. The cabriolet still followed them, every instant drawing nearer; the noise of the wheels so bewildered Louisa, that thinking it was upon her heels, she rushed into another street. The vehicle took the same direction, and in turning round, the horse trotting in the middle of the gutter, sent up such a shower of mud and water, that our two terrified children were completely covered by it.

Paul instantly burst into tears: "My embroidered waistcoat is spoiled," he exclaimed.

"Be quiet," said Louisa, "we shall be observed," and she cast an anxious and melancholy look, sometimes around her, and sometimes on her cambric dress, which was even more splashed than Paul's waistcoat.

"Shall we soon reach the toy-shop?" asked Paul, still crying, though in a lower tone.

"We have only to go back," said Louisa, "for I think we have come too far; if we take the same way back, we shall soon be there," and she pulled Paul still more forcibly, while she kept close up to the wall, in the hope of not being seen; nevertheless, she did not know how she could venture to enter the toy-shop, or return home to her mother, with her dress in this condition.

All the streets seemed alike, and a child knows only the one in which it lives. Louisa did not return through the same streets by which the cabriolet had followed her. The farther she went, the more uneasy did she become, at not reaching the shop, and she dragged Paul's arm, who, not being able to walk so fast, said to her, "Don't go so fast, you hurt me." They went down a little street, which somewhat resembled one in the neighbourhood of their own house through which Louisa had sometimes passed, but at the end of it they found no passage, and instead of their road, they beheld ... Madame Croque-Mitaine, rummaging with her crook in a heap of rags.

You know Madame Croque-Mitaine. You have seen her humped back, her red eyes, her pointed nose, her dark and wrinkled face, her dirty and withered hands, her petticoat of all colours, her sabots, her bag, and that long stick with which she turns up and examines every heap of rubbish she meets with.

At the noise made by the two children in running, she raised her head, looked at them, and guessed, without much difficulty, from their frightened looks, and by the tears which still flowed down Paul's cheeks, and the sobs which swelled the bosom of Louisa, that they ought not to be where they were.

"What are you doing here?" she asked of them.

Louisa, without replying, leaned against the railing, holding Paul still more firmly.

"Have you a tongue?" continued Madame Croque-Mitaine. "You have at all events very good legs to run with," and she took Louisa by the hand, saying, "Hold up your head, my little one, what has happened to you?"

Louisa was so unaccustomed to speak to persons whom she did not know; the stories which her nurse had been foolish enough to repeat to her about old women who take away little children; the wrinkles, the ill-tempered look, the costume, and the first words addressed to her by Madame Croque-Mitaine, had so much terrified her, that notwithstanding the softened tone in which she now spoke to her, Louisa did not dare either to raise her eyes, or to reply.

"Well," said the old woman, "I see that I shall not get a word from them, nevertheless, I will not leave the poor children here. Will you," she said, addressing Paul, "will you tell me where you come from, and where you are going to? Are you also dumb like your sister?"

"We are going to the toy-shop," said Paul.

"And we have lost our way," rejoined Louisa, who began to feel a little less afraid of Madame Croque-Mitaine.

"Your mamma, surely, did not allow you to go out?" continued the old woman.

Louisa cast down her eyes.

"Well! well! you must first come to my house, in order that I may get rid of some of this mud for you; you are almost as dirty as I am."

"No! no!" exclaimed Louisa, who began again to be frightened at the recollection of the stories of her nurse.

"What do you mean by 'No?' Are you afraid that I shall eat you? Oh! I see they have made you afraid of Madame Croque-Mitaine; but make yourself easy, she is not so bad as they have told you."

And, indeed, this Madame Croque-Mitaine was only what they all are; that is a poor old woman, who had no other means of gaining a living, than by picking up rags here and there, and selling them afterwards to persons as poor as herself.

She threw her stick into her bag, took the two children by the hand, who still walked with hesitating steps, and went down one of the narrow streets.

Every one looked with astonishment, both at the conductor, and those whom she conducted; their pretty dresses, all splashed as they were, nevertheless formed a singular contrast with hers, and it was quite evident, by their looks of shame, that they had met with some accident, occasioned by their own fault.

"I verily believe," said a man, "that those are the two children I met some time since, and who were walking along so gaily, holding each other by the hand."

"What has happened to them?" asked another.

Louisa wished, notwithstanding the fear which she had not yet entirely overcome, to hasten the steps of Madame Croque-Mitaine, in order to escape from the looks of the curious.

"Stop! stop!" said the old woman, "do not pull me so much, I have my sack to carry, and I cannot go so fast."

At last they arrived in front of a dirty little house, into which they entered, through a door half-mouldered away. Madame Croque-Mitaine opened it, and made the children go in before her. She followed them, put down her sack, and called her daughter, saying, "Charlotte, bring some water and a cloth here, to wash these poor little creatures." Charlotte came out of a corner where she was spinning some coarse hemp; her clothes were as ragged as those of her mother, and she was only two or three years older than Louisa; but when the latter saw her, she felt a little more confidence. Charlotte washed Louisa, while the old woman did the same service for little Paul. The cloth was very coarse, and the maids not very careful. Paul cried, and said they rubbed him too hard, but Louisa was too much ashamed to venture any complaint.

When this operation was over, "Now," said the old woman, "you will tell me where you live, that I may take you home."

"In the Rue d'Anjou," said Louisa, immediately.

"Ha! ha! You can speak now without waiting to be pressed; come along, then; it is not very far from here," and she set off with the two children, who were now quite comforted.

As she had left her sack at home, they could walk faster. When once they had reached the Rue d'Anjou, Louisa went direct to her own door. They found, on entering, the whole house in commotion. They had been sought for ever since they had left. All the servants had dispersed themselves in different directions in search of them; and their mother, in great anxiety, had also gone out to look for them. The moment the portress saw them, she uttered a cry of joy, and ascended with them to the apartments. "Here they are! here they are!" she cried out from a distance, to the nurse, who was quite in despair at not having watched them more carefully; and Louisa ran and threw herself into her arms, crying with shame, fear, and pleasure. At the same moment their mother returned, a prey to the deepest anguish. Transported with joy at finding them again, she never thought of scolding them as they deserved. "What has happened to you? What have you done?" she asked, taking them upon her knees, and covering them with tears and kisses.

"They lost their way, madame," said Madame Croque-Mitaine, for Louisa did not dare to reply. "I met them in a cul-de-sac, at some distance from here: the little girl told me that she was going to buy nosegays for herself and you, and a whip for her brother; but surely it must have been without your permission."

"Good heavens, yes!" replied the mother, still trembling, "and is it you, good woman, who have brought them back to me?"

"Yes, madame, but I first went and washed them at my house. No doubt they must have been splashed by a coach; if you had only seen the state they were in!" And Louisa, greatly ashamed, would have been glad to hide her dress, which was covered with mud; while Paul, on the contrary, showed his waistcoat to his mother, saying, "But, mamma, I shall want another waistcoat to go to Saint Cloud."

"Oh, my dears," said their mother, "no Saint Cloud for this day. I am still trembling with the fright you have caused me. It is already late, and your papa is still seeking for you. If you had not ventured out alone, and without my permission, you would neither have been splashed nor lost, and we should now have been on our way to Saint Cloud; it is right you should be punished for your fault; go then and change your clothes."

Paul was very much disposed to cry and pout; but Louisa, feeling the justice of her mother's words, took his hand, and left the room with him, followed by her nurse.

Their mother remained with Madame Croque-Mitaine. "These poor children were very much afraid of me, madame," said the old woman. "They would scarcely go with me, and I had great difficulty in inducing them to enter my hovel."

"How much I am indebted to you!" replied the mother. "Had it not been for you, they would not now be here, and God only knows what might have happened to them. Oh, how much I owe you!"

"Oh, nothing at all, madame; if my daughter had lost herself, and you had chanced to find her, you would have done as much for her."

"Have you a daughter, my good woman?"

"Yes, one twelve years old, may it please you, madame; Charlotte is very pretty, though I say so."

Louisa returned at this moment.

"Louisa," asked her mother, "did you see little Charlotte?"

"Oh yes, mamma, it was she who washed me."

"Well, shall we go and pay her a visit?"

"Oh yes, mamma, I should like that very much."

"Come, then, with me, my child."

Louisa followed her mother into her room, and, at her suggestion, hastily made up a packet containing two dresses, still very good; some underclothing, a cap, two handkerchiefs, and two pair of stockings.

"Come, then, let us take these things to Charlotte," said her mother; and Louisa, greatly delighted, exclaimed, "Oh, mamma, I think they will just fit her; she is not much bigger than I am."

"Will you conduct us to your house, my good woman," said the mother to Madame Croque-Mitaine, who was greatly rejoiced by this visit.

"Charlotte will not have gone out, will she?" demanded Louisa, blushing.

"No! certainly not," replied the old dame, "she never goes out without my permission;" and they quickly descended.

Their walk did not occupy much time. Louisa almost ran. As they entered the house, Madame Croque-Mitaine made numberless apologies for the dirty floor, and the worn-out door. Louisa had already gone to look for Charlotte, in the corner where she was spinning. The little girl was rather ashamed of coming so badly dressed into the presence of such a grand lady.

"Come forward, miss," said her mother. "Make a courtesy; this is the mamma of Mademoiselle Louisa, whom you washed a short time since. Oh, I assure you, madame, she did it very cheerfully," and Charlotte, not daring to look up at such a great lady, glanced at Louisa, and smiled. The latter wanted immediately to dress her in her frock, to put on her white stockings, a handkerchief, and a cap, in order that she might have the pleasure of looking at her.

"Let her do that, herself," said her mother; "she will dress herself when she likes. Tell me, my little girl, would you like to come and live near Louisa?"

Charlotte looked at her mother, as if to ask her what she ought to reply.

"Answer, child," said the latter.

"You shall not leave your mother," continued the lady, "for I have a proposition to make to her. My doorkeeper is going away, and I have not yet engaged another in her place. Would you like to take the lodge, my good woman? We do not keep late hours at my house, and you will not have much trouble."

Madame Croque-Mitaine was overjoyed at this offer; it was a good and secure situation, and she accepted it with the most lively gratitude. It was agreed that she should enter upon her duties on the following day, and Louisa returned home with her mother. Her father, who had just come in, scolded her a little for what she had done, a fault of which she had not at first felt the full extent; and Louisa, while acknowledging her fault, said, nevertheless, that her nurse ought not to have told her bad stories about Madame Croque-Mitaine, and that she was much better pleased at having had an opportunity of doing a service to Charlotte than if she had gone to St. Cloud.

---

"Well, my child," said Madame de Vallonay to Julia, when she had finished reading, "what useful reflections do you deduce from the story of Madame Croque-Mitaine?" Julia smiled, but said nothing, as if she imagined that her mother was laughing at her. But Madame de Vallonay having pressed for an answer, she said, with a contemptuous expression, "Indeed, mamma, if you made me read it, in order to teach me not to be afraid of old women, who go about picking up rags in the streets, I think I knew that much before."

"And do you see nothing else in it?"

"What! mamma, that we ought not to be disobedient? this is a thing one scarcely needs to learn at my age."

"I am very glad," said Madame de Vallonay, smiling, with a slight tinge of sarcasm, "that this lesson has become quite useless to you. But cannot you see any others?"

"What others can there be?"

"As for that, my child, I will not point them out to you. You might then find that I was only repeating what all the world knows. Look for them yourself."

With these words, Madame de Vallonay went to her husband's study, as she wished to speak with him, and left Julia with her work, her books of history, and her sonata to practise. When she returned, it was ten o'clock, and as she opened the door, Julia screamed and started from her chair greatly frightened.

"What is the matter, my dear?" said her mother.

"Oh! nothing, mamma, I was only frightened."

"Frightened at what?"

"Because you startled me."

"What childish nonsense! Come, it is late, you must go to bed."

"Are you coming, mamma?"

"No, I have a letter to write."

"Well, mamma, I will wait until you have finished it."

"No, I wish you to go to bed."

"But, mamma, if you will let me, as I pass by, I will carry your desk and lamp into your bedroom, you will be able to write there more comfortably."

"No, my dear, I shall write much more comfortably here. Cannot you go to bed without me?"

Julia did not move. She looked at the wax taper, which her mother told her to take, with an expression of dismay, and without lighting it, and seemed from time to time, to listen anxiously in the direction of the door. Her mother could not conceive what was the matter with her.

"Indeed, my dear," she said, smiling, "I think you must be afraid of meeting Madame Croque-Mitaine by the way."

Julia smiled too, though with some embarrassment, and confessed that she had been reading in a book which lay upon the table, a story of robbers and assassins, which terrified her so much that she had not courage to go alone to her room, which was separated from the boudoir by the drawing-room and her mother's bedroom.

"We had agreed, Julia, that you should not read anything without my permission. I think it would not have been quite so useless if Madame Croque-Mitaine had taught you not to disobey."

"Mamma, I did not think I was doing much harm, because it was a book for young people, and you had already allowed me to read some of the tales."

"You should have waited until I had given you permission to read the whole, and the story of Madame Croque-Mitaine ought to have taught you, that children should not undertake to interpret the wishes of their parents, as they can seldom understand the reasons on which they are founded. Louisa and Paul, like you, thought they were doing no great harm, and like you, too, they fell into the very inconvenience from which it was intended to preserve them. Go, my child, go to bed, and if your fear prevents you from sleeping, you can reflect on the moral contained in the story of Madame Croque-Mitaine."

Julia saw she had no alternative; she lighted the taper as slowly as she could, and as she went out, left the door of the boudoir open; but her mother called her back to shut it. Then, seeing herself alone, she began to walk so fast that the taper went out at the door of her room. She was obliged to retrace her steps. When she reached her room a second time, her heart beat violently; she started at every creaking of the floor, nor could she go to sleep, until her mother came. These absurd fears tormented her for two or three days, though she did not dare to speak of them, for fear of being again reminded of Madame Croque-Mitaine; but she had not yet escaped from her.

One of Julia's companions had been presented with two little white mice, the prettiest little things imaginable. They were inclosed in a large glass-case, through which they could be seen; a kind of little wheel had been suspended from the lid, which they turned round with their paws, like squirrels, in trying to climb upon it, and thus they fancied they were travelling a great distance. As her friend could not carry them with her to school, where she had still to remain for a year, Julia begged that she would lend them to her for that time, promising to take great care of them; and, indeed, she attended to them herself. Her mother would not allow her to have animals to be taken care of by the servants, for she thought such things can amuse only when one attends to them oneself, and that if they do not amuse, they are not worth the trouble of having. Julia gave them their food frequently enough, but she frequently forgot to shut the case; then they made their escape. They had hitherto been always caught, but one day, when they were out enjoying themselves, and when Julia, according to custom, had been so careless as to leave her door open, a cat entered, and Julia, who returned at that moment, saw her eating one of the mice without any power of preventing it. She was in despair, and exclaimed twenty times, "Oh! the vile cat! the horrid cat!" and declared that had she known this, she would never have taken charge of the mice.

"My dear child," said her mother, when she was a little pacified, "all your misfortune comes from your not having again read, at that time, the story of Madame Croque-Mitaine."

"But, mamma," said Julia impatiently, "what could that have to do with it?"

"You would have seen then, that we ought never to undertake anything without being sure of having the power of accomplishing it. For what happened to Louisa and Paul arose from their not sufficiently considering, before they went out to the toy-shop, whether they should be able to reach it without going astray, and without being afraid of the carriages; just as you did not sufficiently consider, before you took charge of the mice, whether you were able to take proper care of them."

"But, mamma, it would have been necessary to have foreseen."

"That you would have been careless; that the mice would escape from an open case; that when they were out, the cat would eat them. All this you might very easily have thought of, had you been able to profit by the story of Madame Croque-Mitaine."

Julia thought her mother's raillery very disagreeable, but she was soon consoled, for her friend, to whom she wrote an account of her misfortune, told her, in reply, that she was not angry with her, and besides, she was invited to a ball, the first to which she had been since she had left school. Julia danced pretty well. During the two years she had passed at school, she had been one of those selected to dance the gavotte, at the distribution of prizes, and as always happens in polished society, many compliments had been paid her, so that she felt the greatest desire to dance the gavotte at a ball. Scarcely had she arrived at this one, when she communicated her wishes to the daughter of her hostess, who was her cousin, and the mother having become acquainted with her desire, arranged one for her, towards the middle of the ball. Madame de Vallonay being quite ignorant of the matter, was greatly astonished when they came for Julia to dance. She at first refused to let her go, but the lady of the house had calculated upon her performing this dance with her son, and thought it would be very pretty to see them in it, as they were nearly of a size, and also much alike. Madame de Vallonay, finding that she made a point of it, that the company were already arranged for the gavotte, and that this discussion attracted general attention, consented to let her daughter go, although with extreme reluctance, because she considered it absurd to take up in this manner the attention of every one, in looking at persons who do not possess any talent capable of affording amusement.

Not so with Julia: convinced that she was going to delight every one, she walked across the room with a lofty air, which caused much laughter. She heard this, and reddened with anger, especially when she saw one lady speaking in a whisper, while looking at her with a quizzical air, and heard another behind her saying, "How ridiculous to interrupt the ball, in order to let that little girl dance the gavotte!" However, she was not discouraged; she did her best, held her head still higher than usual, and displayed all those graces which had obtained her such brilliant success at school. She was, therefore, dreadfully annoyed when, at the end, the ironical laughter which mingled with the applause, and even the exaggeration of the applause itself, showed her that she was an object of ridicule. Scarcely had she finished her last courtesy, when the young ladies and gentlemen crowded forward to take their places in the country dance. Julia, as with difficulty she passed through them, conducted by her partner, who was wiping his brow, heard it murmured around her, "It is well that that is over; it has been a very stupid affair."

She felt deeply humiliated; her heart was oppressed, and she cast down her eyes: she supposed that no one would again ask her to dance, and indeed, two country dances had taken place without her having been invited to join. Anticipating, therefore, nothing but vexation from this ball, from which she had promised herself so much pleasure, she told her mother that she was tired, and entreated her to go home. Madame de Vallonay easily guessed the cause of her fatigue; but that she might not increase her annoyance, she did not mention the subject that evening. The following day, however, she wished to know whether it was she who requested to dance the gavotte. Julia, though very much ashamed, confessed that it was.

"It has turned out very unfortunately for you, my poor Julia," said Madame de Vallonay; "what a pity that you did not call to mind at that moment the story of Madame Croque-Mitaine."

"And what use would it have been to me?"

"It would have taught you that we always run the risk of committing folly, when we wish to follow one general course of action, without reflecting whether the circumstances are altered. Thus, Louisa and Paul, who were accustomed to run about alone, in the country, in places where there was no danger of their meeting with carriages, or cabriolets, or passers by, never thought that in the streets of Paris, it would be quite a different affair; and you, who were in the habit of dancing the gavotte at school, where you were applauded, because the strangers who were there were anxious to please the mistress, did not reflect that it would be quite another matter when you danced it in the midst of a large number of persons, who took no interest in you, and who were assembled there to dance themselves, and not to look at you."

"But, mamma," said Julia, who was anxious to turn the conversation, "you find everything in Madame Croque-Mitaine."

"I could find many other things also; and if you wish, we shall have enough there for a long time to come."

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

"I shall be very glad not to speak of it any more, my child, but only on one condition, which is, that for the future, you will not take it into your head to imagine that what is said by grownup people can be a fit subject of raillery for a little girl like you; and that, when their conversation wearies you, instead of pretending that it does so, because it is ridiculous, you will, on the contrary, say to yourself, that it is because you have not sufficient penetration to understand it, or sufficient sense to profit by it. Take care, for if you fail, I shall send you again for instruction to the story of Madame Croque-Mitaine."

---

AGLAÏA AND LEONTINE;
OR MANŒUVRING.

Aglaïa resided in a provincial town, with her grandmother, Madame Lacour, the widow of a respectable notary. As Madame Lacour was in easy circumstances, and, moreover, exact and economical, she was enabled to live very agreeably, associating only with persons of her own class, without seeking those who were distinguished by a more elevated rank, or greater wealth. She received company every Thursday, and spent the other evenings in visiting her friends at their own houses. Aglaïa, who always went with her, met on these occasions young people of her own age, and these in like manner accompanied their parents on the Thursdays to Madame Lacour's soirées. In the summer they made up parties for the country, and spent the day in the gardens belonging to one or other of the society. These gardens not being very distant, the young people walked there, while the elder ones rode upon donkeys. They amused themselves in the fields, and returned home in the evening very tired, but very happy, and a few days afterwards commenced again.

Aglaïa, who was mild and amiable, was very much beloved by her companions; but her greatest friends were Hortense Guimont, and her brother Gustave, the children of the physician of the town. Hortense was fourteen years of age, Aglaïa a year younger, while Gustave was sixteen. Though Aglaïa was less familiar with him than with Hortense, she was still very fond of him. She even felt for him a certain degree of deference, for Gustave was much advanced for his age, highly esteemed in the town for his diligence and success in his studies, and looked upon as one destined to obtain honourable distinction in his future career. Even those who had known him from his childhood, no longer called him little Guimont, but young Guimont. Some even said M. Guimont. Parents held him up as a model to their sons, and his companions were proud of him, and always treated him with respect.

His sister, Hortense, was also very amiable and sensible. M. Guimont, their father, brought them up very judiciously. Although his society was much courted by the most distinguished families of the town, not only on account of his talents as a physician, but also on account of his amiability and conversational powers, he would never take his children into the high circles which he occasionally frequented himself. "I wish my daughter," he said, "to remain among those with whom she is destined to pass her life; and as to my son, if his talents procure him hereafter the means of being well received in the world, I shall be delighted; but I will not inspire him with a taste for elevated society, until I am quite sure that he will be able to maintain his position there with honour."

It was sometimes said to him, "With your extensive connection, you might easily advance your son." He replied, "If my son has merit, he will advance himself; and if he has not, I would not wish to place him in a position in which he would only discover his own incapacity;" and he added, "Gustave is in a much better position than I was when I began, for there are many persons, I believe, who will be disposed to take an interest in him on my account; he must do the rest for himself, and he will be able to do it much better than I could do it for him, for I cannot make people take an interest in him on his own account." Nevertheless, M. Guimont could not entirely resist the importunities of some friends, who were particularly attached to him, and who pressed him very much to bring his son to visit them. However, Gustave, who was proud, felt ill at ease in the society of persons with whom he was not on an equality, and who thought they were conferring an honour on him, in receiving him into their circle; and he was equally ill at ease with the young people of this class, since he could not treat them as companions. He was afraid of being too cold, and did not wish to be too polite, because an excess of politeness might have been regarded as adulation; neither did he wish to be too attentive, because he felt that his attentions could not be flattering to any one. He therefore entreated his father not to take him again into such company, and resolved to devote his energies to the acquirement of personal merit, that he might hope one day to be sought for on his own account, to confer, in his turn, honour on those who received him, and see them attach importance to his attentions.

He always felt happy at Madame Lacour's, who was a woman of good sense, and an intimate friend of his father. He was very fond of Aglaïa, who had been brought up by her grandmother, as well as any young lady could be in a country town, and who showed a disposition to improve her mind. Madame Lacour had begged him to revise her exercises, and he was a severe master; indeed, Aglaïa was more afraid of his disapprobation than of that of her grandmother. Whenever he was dissatisfied with her, it was always Hortense who restored peace between them, and being older and more advanced than Aglaïa, she generally looked over her exercises before they were shown to Gustave, so much was she afraid of his finding fault with her. Notwithstanding all this, however, they agreed very well, and, next to his sister, Aglaïa was the person in whom he reposed most confidence. She was very proud of this, for all the young people with whom she was acquainted, attached great value to Gustave's friendship.

The nobility and people of wealth seldom spent more than the winter in the town. In summer all went to their country seats. The town, however, was not on this account any the less gay for Aglaïa, or the reunions of Madame Lacour; but as it was more quiet, every unusual occurrence created a proportionate sensation. People were therefore very much taken up with M. d'Armilly, and his daughter Leontine, who had just arrived there. M. d'Armilly had recently purchased a château in the environs, which being uninhabitable, he was having rebuilt; and in order to be able to superintend the operations, he had established himself in the town: but he was very seldom at home, and usually slept at a neighbouring farm, that he might be nearer his workmen. He left his daughter under the care of a confidential person, who acted as her governess, and who could have educated her very well, as she was herself well educated, had she not, for the sake of pleasing M. d'Armilly, who quite spoiled his daughter, allowed her to have her own way in everything.

Leontine was as foolish as a spoiled child, and excessively proud. She was fifteen years old, just the age when ridiculous ideas are most apt to enter the head of a young girl. Having some relations of high rank, she had lived in Paris in the most fashionable society, and had assumed some of the airs of a woman, while adding to them all the follies of a child. Her father and herself having been received, on their arrival, with all the respect with which an innkeeper is usually inspired by the sight of one of the greatest landowners of his neighbourhood, she thought she must maintain her dignity by corresponding manners. She asked if at that time there was any one in the town whom she could visit; they named Madame Lacour, M. Guimont, M. André, a linen-manufacturer, M. Dufour, a wholesale wine-merchant, &c. She inquired about some persons of higher rank, whom she knew were resident there, but all were then out of town; and Leontine, satisfied with having indicated by her questions the kind of society to which she had been accustomed, did not dare, however much she may have felt inclined to be impertinent, to display more than half the ridiculous airs which she had prepared to mark her contempt for the more humble names.

Reduced to the society of her governess, and to a few excursions made with her father to the château which was in course of erection, Leontine's only amusement was to select from her wardrobe whatever was most novel, and best calculated to produce an extraordinary sensation in a provincial town, and then to go daily and display her haughty airs on the public promenade. Every one looked at her, but this was what she wished; every one ridiculed her without her being aware of it, but in secret all the young girls began to imitate her. It was soon observed that they carried their heads much higher, and that an innovation was made in the manner of fastening their sashes. Aglaïa had already turned and returned her bonnet in two or three different ways, in the hope of imparting to it something of the style which Leontine's displayed, and she had also tried two or three modes of arranging the folds of her shawl.

Gustave had remarked this, and laughed at her, and though she would not admit the charge, she still felt very much annoyed with him, because he would not appreciate the beauty of a bow, which she had succeeded in placing in precisely the same manner in which Leontine's had been arranged on the previous evening.

The excitement became general: even Hortense, accustomed as she was to defer to her brother's opinion, had already twice disputed with him, maintaining that it did not follow, that because a fashion had been introduced by Leontine, it was not pretty; and that if it was pretty, it was quite rational to adopt it. Gustave, almost as much a child, in his own way, as Aglaïa in hers, would not allow that Leontine should be imitated in anything, so much was he annoyed at the importance attached to everything she did. In fact, she could not take a step, but it was known; people were informed of what her father's cook had bought for dinner, and various intrigues were resorted to in order to discover what she ate for breakfast. It was known whether she heard mass attentively or not, and this at least proved that the observers had been inattentive; in a word, she could not pass down the street without every one rushing to the window to see her.

One may judge of the excitement at Madame Lacour's, when one morning, Leontine, accompanied by her governess, Mademoiselle Champré, called there to pay a visit. Madame Lacour's husband, who for many years had been a notary in another province, had rendered M. d'Armilly important services in his affairs. This gentleman, having discovered that his widow resided in the town, desired his daughter to call upon her, as he was too much occupied at the moment to go himself; and Leontine, who began to get very dull, was not sorry to have a pretext for laying aside her dignity. Madame Lacour, who had shared but little in the extreme interest taken in all her actions, was but moderately excited by her visit, but Aglaïa blushed a dozen times before Leontine had spoken to her, and a dozen times more while answering her.

It is not so easy as may be imagined to assume airs with persons who are not accustomed to them, and whose simplicity interferes with them at every moment; when not sustained by a suitable concurrence of circumstances, and by the example of others, a person relapses into his natural manners in spite of himself, and the studied tones of impertinence only return at intervals, and as it were by an effort of the memory. Leontine was much less ridiculous than could have been supposed. Madame Lacour, with her customary indulgence, was pleased with her, and Aglaïa thought her charming.

It was Thursday: in the evening at Madame Lacour's soirée, nothing was talked of but the morning's visit. "She has then, at last, made up her mind," said some of the ladies; "I suppose she will do us also the honour of paying us a visit;" and they were not a little shocked that Leontine had commenced with Madame Lacour. Others took refuge in their dignity, and professed to care nothing at all about her. Others, again, less reserved, asked what she had said, calculated the day she would call upon Madame Dufour or Madame André, and whispered among themselves that she would probably not visit Madame Simon, whom they considered as somewhat inferior to themselves, and they agreed that it was quite natural that she should not call on her. The young ladies in their circle repeated very much the same things as their mothers, and with still greater volubility. As for Aglaïa, she narrated, explained, and repeated her story, in the most imposing and animated tones; but while in the midst of her excitement, she perceived that Gustave was watching her from his part of the room, and shrugging his shoulders with an ironical smile. This disconcerted her exceedingly; but seeing Hortense listening to her with more attention than her brother, she resumed the conversation, and would willingly have continued it throughout the entire evening. It was with pain that she heard any other subject introduced, and she contrived to revert to her favourite topic every moment. "That is precisely," she would say, "what Mademoiselle Leontine d'Armilly was telling me this morning." If any particular place in the neighbourhood was alluded to, "Mademoiselle Leontine d'Armilly has not yet seen it," said Aglaïa. Some one spoke of the excessive heat of the day, "Mademoiselle Leontine d'Armilly was surprised to find grandmamma's room so cool," observed Aglaïa.

At this moment she was balancing herself on her chair, the two front legs slipped backwards, and both Aglaïa and the chair fell. Every one hastened to help her up, and Gustave amongst the rest; but seeing that she was unhurt, he said, "I suppose Mademoiselle Leontine d'Armilly did that too." Every one laughed: Aglaïa, very much ashamed, and very angry, did not again pronounce Leontine's name, neither did she speak to Gustave the whole evening. Though she was afraid of vexing him too much, still it is certain that she began to withdraw her confidence from him, for she could not speak to him on the subject that chiefly occupied her thoughts. She was also a little afraid of Hortense, and thus she was ill at ease with those whom she most loved, because they did not share in the ridiculous pleasures of her vanity.

The others, while ridiculing the importance she attached to Leontine's visit, were not the less anxiously looking forward to a similar visit for themselves. For two or three days, at the hour at which Leontine had called on Madame Lacour, all the young ladies kept themselves fully prepared, and constantly on the look-out; she did not, however, make her appearance; but they learned that she had invited Aglaïa to breakfast with her; and in the evening, at the assembly, Aglaïa hardly dared to speak of the breakfast in the presence of Gustave, and she merely said that Leontine was to fetch her on the following day for a walk. Her companions drew themselves up with an expression of mortification. All the annoyance produced by this preference was quite evident: one of them, named Laurette, less proud and more thoughtless than the rest, said to Aglaïa, "Very well, I shall ask mamma to let me call on you at that hour, and I shall be included in the party." Aglaïa, very much embarrassed, stammered out some excuses; she said that Leontine was not acquainted with Laurette, and that she did not know whether such a thing would be agreeable to her. Laurette said that it was all the same to her, that she should find others to walk with her, and immediately made a proposal to that effect to two or three other girls, who accepted it, saying, "Oh! as for us, it does not become us to be so proud." One of the mothers overheard this conversation; fortunately it was not Laurette's, for she would have made a scene. However, the lady in question did make some observations on the imprudence of exposing oneself to insults, together with other remarks full of bitterness, which were repeated by the young people. The evening passed in the most disagreeable manner. Madame Lacour being indisposed, had remained at home, and at night M. Guimont, having called for his own children, also accompanied Aglaïa home. She kept close to him, in order to avoid speaking to Hortense or Gustave, whose displeasure she had noticed, though they had said nothing; and though Hortense, with her accustomed kindness, had several times tried to interrupt the conversation, when she thought it likely to be disagreeable to Aglaïa. Had the latter reflected, she would have felt that the pleasure of being preferred to bear Leontine company was but a poor equivalent for the embarrassment she suffered in the society of those she loved; but vanity blinded her, and she did not see how much she lowered herself, in looking upon such distinction as an honour.

The following day, Aglaïa, dressed in her gayest attire, accompanied Leontine to the promenade. Her manner sufficiently betrayed the pride she felt, at being thus an object of attention, while at the same time it showed her embarrassment with Leontine, with whom she was not at her ease, being constantly afraid of saying something which might appear unbecoming. What was most extraordinary in all this was, that whilst it gave her no uneasiness to make herself ridiculous in the eyes of a great number of persons with whom she was destined to pass her life, the bare idea of appearing ridiculous to a single person whom she scarcely knew, and with whom she would only associate for a couple of months, at the utmost, would have caused her inexpressible vexation. Every one was on the promenade. The mothers passed close to Aglaïa, with lofty and displeased looks, making ill-natured remarks, which she dreaded might reach the ear of Leontine. Some of the young ladies too, assumed all their dignity. The young men all bowed to her; but on that day she thought some of them so common-looking, and so deficient in style, that they were extremely annoyed at the manner in which she returned their salutation, watching, as it were, for the moment when she could do so without being observed by Leontine. The latter had already asked her the names and professions of several; and Aglaïa had answered her with some degree of pain, as they had not very brilliant titles for presentation. When she perceived any grounds for criticising either their persons or their dress, she eagerly seized upon it, fearing that Leontine might suppose she had not observed it. Never before had she discovered so many defects in her friends and acquaintances. At length she perceived at a distance Hortense and her brother. "Oh!" said she, "those two are very amiable." She was dying to introduce them to Leontine, for she fancied they would be as pleased to be acquainted with her as she herself was, for, notwithstanding their disagreements, she really loved them. Besides, she was proud of Gustave, proud of his talents, and of his reputation, and she was delighted to be able to boast of them to Leontine; she began, therefore, to praise him with great warmth, assuring her that he composed most charming verses, and that every one considered him destined to shine in the very best society of Paris.

"To do that, my dear," replied Leontine, with the air of one who understood all these sort of things, "to do that, he must acquire a little more style, for at present he looks very much like a schoolboy;" saying this she glanced carelessly at Hortense and Gustave, and began to speak of something else.

Aglaïa blushed, partly for Gustave and partly on her own account, for she felt that she had compromised herself. By this time her two friends were close to her; she would willingly have stopped and spoken to them, and she slackened her pace for that purpose, but Leontine, whose head was turned in another direction, continued to walk on, and Aglaïa followed her, casting towards Hortense, for she dared not look at Gustave, a glance of mingled shame and sadness, which seemed to say, "See, I know not what to do." Gustave shrugged his shoulders at beholding his weak-minded little friend reduced to such slavery.

The following day nothing was talked of in the town but the impertinences of Aglaïa. One said that she had pretended not to see her; a third, that she had not bowed to her; another, that she had looked at her with a laugh, while joining Leontine in ridiculing her. The young men were divided in their opinion, some being for, others against her. Gustave was the only one who said nothing, but he appeared sad, and Hortense endeavoured to palliate her faults.

Two days afterwards, Aglaïa took Leontine for a walk into Madame Lacour's garden. As she did not know what refreshment to give her, she had persuaded the servant to bring her some milk and cakes, but she dared not say a word to her grandmamma on the subject, for fear she should tell her to invite her other friends also. Aglaïa would indeed have found this much more pleasant than her tête-à-tête with Leontine; but then she did not know whether such a thing would be agreeable to her visitor, and she was so childish, that she felt more timid with her than with a grownup person. Whilst they were in the garden, Laurette happened to pass by the gate, and seeing it open, went in. She was returning with the servant from her father's garden, where she had been gathering some fruit and salad. She had her basket on her arm, and wore her every-day dress, which was not over clean, as she was rather careless. The servant had the manners and coarse voice of a peasant, and was carrying in a cloth a ham, which a few days before she had buried in the ground, in order to render it more tender, and which she had now been to fetch. Judge of Aglaïa's embarrassment at such a visit. Had she been a sensible girl, had she possessed any real dignity, she would, in an unaffected manner, have accustomed Leontine from their very first acquaintance to see in her the simple habits suitable to a small fortune, and thus have prepared her for similar habits in the persons of her acquaintances. To do this, there would have been no need of discoursing about household duties, a subject of conversation by no means amusing; it was simply required that she should not carefully shun all allusion to them as something humiliating. Thus, for instance, she need not have resorted to a thousand evasions to conceal from Leontine, that it was herself and her grandmother who made all their preserves, and prepared for the winter their pickled cucumbers, their vegetables, and their dried fruits. Leontine, had she known this, might perhaps have considered it more pleasant not to be obliged to take all this trouble, but she certainly would never have ventured to make it a subject of contempt; for that which is reasonable, if performed in an unaffected manner, without either shame or ostentation, always carries with it something which is imposing, even in the estimation of those who are not reasonable. Had Aglaïa acted in this manner, she would have felt no embarrassment at this apparition of Laurette, with her salad, and of her servant with the ham; but as it was, all the fine-lady airs which she had assumed, were completely upset, and she therefore gave Laurette a very bad reception. Indeed, had it not been for Mademoiselle Champré, who made room for her on the grass where they were seated, she would have left her standing. Laurette, who was very ill-bred, made many absurd remarks, and the servant also joined several times in the conversation. Aglaïa was in torture. At last Laurette went away, for the servant, annoyed at being kept waiting, detailed all that had to be done in the house, in order to hasten her departure. In the evening, at Madame Dufour's soirée, to which Laurette accompanied her mother, it was whispered that Aglaïa had given a luncheon to Leontine, in her grandmother's garden, to which no one had been invited; that Laurette had gone there by chance, and that she had not even been asked to take anything. This caused a great deal of excitement, and it was resolved that, as Madame Lacour allowed her granddaughter to be guilty of such rudeness, they would not go to her soirée on the following Thursday.

Madame Lacour knew nothing of all this; she had been ill for a week, and had seen no one but M. Guimont, who took no interest in such absurdities. She received company on the Thursday for the first time, and was astonished to find that nobody came. She supposed they still considered her ill, and finding it getting late, sent her servant to the houses of two or three of her neighbours, to tell them she was waiting for them. They replied, that they could not come. This answer was given in the presence of an old lady, who, having no daughter, did not consider herself bound to share in the resentment occasioned by Aglaïa's conduct; besides, being fond of news and gossip, she was glad to have an opportunity of ascertaining what was going on at Madame Lacour's; whether the agreement which had been made would be adhered to; what Madame Lacour would think of it, and what Aglaïa would say. When, therefore, Madame Lacour expressed her astonishment at being thus abandoned, "It is not at all surprising," said the old lady, "after what has happened."

"What has happened then?" asked Madame Lacour.

Hereupon the old lady detailed, with all the exaggerations usual in such cases, the misconduct of Aglaïa, and the consequent indignation of her friends. During this recital, Aglaïa was in the most painful situation; she made excuses, endeavoured to justify herself, denied some things, and explained away others; but all this did not prevent Madame Lacour from being excessively angry with her. She told her that she felt disposed to send her that very moment to apologize to all those ladies, but that, at all events, she should have to apologize. M. Guimont and his children entering at this moment, found her in tears. "I hope, at least," added Madame Lacour, "that your rudeness has not extended to the children of my friend M. Guimont; for this is a thing I would never forgive."

Hortense blushed a little, and ran to embrace Aglaïa; Gustave was silent, but Madame Lacour having asked him, whether it was because he was displeased with Aglaïa, that he had not come to correct her exercises for several days past, he assured her that he had been very much occupied, a statement which his father confirmed, and he proposed to look over them at once. Aglaïa, trembling, went and brought her papers, and gave them to him, not daring, however, to raise her eyes; he corrected them, but without talking to her, as he was accustomed to do, and when he had finished, he went over to see the game which M. Guimont was playing with Madame Lacour and the old lady. Aglaïa's heart was very heavy. Hortense consoled herself as well as she could, and said to her, "We shall have plenty of other things to chat about now; a German lady, the Princess de Schwamberg, arrived about an hour ago; she will be obliged to remain here for some days, because her governess, of whom she is very fond, and whom she treats like a friend, has been taken ill. It turns out that the governess, who is a French-woman, is a relative of Mademoiselle Champré. It was my father who informed them that she was here, with Mademoiselle d'Armilly, and the princess intends, with M. d'Armilly's permission, to send her daughters to spend a portion of their time with Mademoiselle Leontine."

Aglaïa, notwithstanding her grief, thought with a certain degree of satisfaction, that she should see these German princesses; her vanity rejoiced extremely at the idea of being admitted into such distinguished society. She put many questions to Hortense, to which the latter was unable to reply, as her father never conversed with her about such frivolities; besides, the game was over, and Gustave approached them; Aglaïa therefore became silent.

The following day, Madame Lacour was still too angry for Aglaïa to think of asking permission to visit Leontine, but she hoped that perhaps Leontine might send and invite her. However, she heard nothing of her, either on that day or the next. It had been agreed that, on the following Sunday, Leontine was to take her for a drive in her father's carriage. Madame Lacour, when apprized of this arrangement, was extremely unwilling to give her consent, but as it was made, she did not like to interfere with it. She, however, again severely reprimanded Aglaïa for her misconduct, and ordered her to show the greatest politeness to all her acquaintances whom she might chance to meet. At the hour appointed, Aglaïa went to Leontine's house. She was told that she was on the parade with the Mesdemoiselles Schwamberg, where the carriage was to take them up. She went there, and seeing the carriage in the distance, hurried on, and arrived, quite out of breath, expressing her fear that she had kept them waiting. "Oh! not at all," said Leontine, "we were not waiting for you, for there is no room."

"What!" exclaimed Aglaïa, with astonishment, "did you not tell me...." "You see clearly, my dear," replied Leontine, in a tone of impatience, "that there is no room: Mesdemoiselles de Schwamberg, Mademoiselle Champré, and myself make up four."

Mademoiselle Champré was going to speak, and one of the princesses proposed to make room for her. "No! no!" said Leontine, "we should be stifled; it must be for another time."

At this moment the coachman mounted his box; Leontine gave Aglaïa a patronising bow, and the carriage drove off. Aglaïa remained stupified. All who were on the promenade had been drawing near during the debate, and had witnessed her humiliation. She heard their titterings and whisperings, and on raising her eyes, beheld several of her acquaintances looking at her with an air of derision, while others turned away, shrugging their shoulders. She made her escape, her heart swelling with shame and anger. Some ill-bred young men followed her, ridiculed her, and made a thousand offensive remarks, which reached her ears. One of them, leaving his companions, passed before her, and taking off his hat, said, "This is what Mademoiselle Leontine d'Armilly does." The servant who accompanied Aglaïa, became angry with them, and said that their parents should be informed of their conduct. This, however, only increased their laughter and mockery. Aglaïa walked as fast as she could, in order to escape from them, and reached home heated and weeping. Interrogated by her grandmother, she was obliged to relate what had happened, and she had the additional mortification of being told that it was quite right, and that she had only received what she deserved. Nevertheless, Madame Lacour determined, without communicating her intentions to her granddaughter, to give a lesson to those ill-bred young men, through M. Guimont, who possessed great authority in all the circles of the town.

Aglaïa spent two days very unhappily; she would not have ventured out at all, had not her grandmother absolutely ordered her to do so, so much did she dread to meet any of those persons who had ridiculed her. Twice she had met Leontine, who, laughing and talking with Mesdemoiselles de Schwamberg, had scarcely noticed her. No one had visited her, not even Hortense. She knew that on the Wednesday there was to be a réunion at Madame Dufour's garden, and she had not been invited. She was grieving at seeing herself thus abandoned by every one, when on the Wednesday Hortense came to see her. She was very much astonished, for she thought that she was at the garden with the others. Hortense told her that her father had permitted her and her brother to refuse the invitation. Aglaïa timidly asked why.

"Because I preferred spending the day with you."

"And Gustave?" said Aglaïa, still more timidly.

"Gustave," replied Hortense, somewhat embarrassed, "would not go, because you had not been invited, and gave this as his reason, because he did not wish it to be supposed that he had quarrelled with you, but he said that he should come to the house as little as possible, 'because,' he observed, 'I can no longer rely upon Aglaïa, who can abandon her old friends to accommodate herself to the caprices of Mademoiselle d'Armilly.'"

Aglaïa wept bitterly, Hortense endeavoured to console her, but she could not venture to hold out any decided hopes that her brother would relent, for he appeared to be very decided, and Aglaïa felt more than ever that the friendship of Gustave was much more honourable than the momentary partiality of Mademoiselle d'Armilly. While Hortense and she were sitting together very sorrowfully, Gustave came in. He still looked somewhat serious, but he was less cold. They both blushed with surprise and pleasure at seeing him. "Aglaïa," he said, "must come to the parade with us; I have asked my father to take us, and he is now dressing to come. I have just learned," he continued very warmly, "that there is a report that Aglaïa is afraid to show herself on the parade after what has recently occurred; we must prove that this is not the case; every one will be there on their way home from Madame Dufour's garden, and we must show them that she has still her ... former friends to support her."

He had hesitated, not knowing what to say. Aglaïa, greatly affected, threw herself into the arms of Hortense, as if to thank Gustave, but she was grieved that he had hesitated, that he had only spoken of former friends. "Are you not still my friends?" she exclaimed, leaning her head on Hortense's shoulder. Hortense embraced her, and endeavoured to console her. Gustave said nothing, but when for an instant she raised her eyes towards him, she perceived that his face wore a softer and less serious expression. Madame Lacour was not in the room at this moment, as he had availed himself of her absence to relate what he had heard, for, as she was still an invalid, they wished to say as little as possible to her about these broils, which were beginning to annoy her, and might end in making her seriously angry with those acquaintances with whom M. Guimont was anxious to reconcile her. They therefore simply asked her to allow Aglaïa to walk out with M. Guimont and his children. To this she willingly consented, being delighted to have her granddaughter in such good company. M. Guimont arrived. Hortense took her father's arm, and Gustave offered his to Aglaïa. She trembled a little, and did not dare to say a word. At length a stone caught her foot in such a way that she must have fallen, had he not supported her: he inquired with such eagerness and kindness whether she were hurt, that she began to gain courage. She spoke of her exercises, told him what she had done, and asked his advice. At length she summoned up courage to say, "Will you always be angry with me?"

Gustave did not reply. Tears started to Aglaïa's eyes; she held down her head, but Gustave nevertheless perceived that he had grieved her. "We are not angry," he said, with some degree of emotion; "but what grieves us is, that you could so readily forget your old friends for a mere stranger."

Aglaïa's tears now flowed fast. "I did not forget you," she murmured, "for all my anxiety was to make you acquainted with Leontine."

Gustave crimsoned, and replied with warmth, "We would not have formed acquaintance with Mademoiselle d'Armilly. Her society does not suit us. We wish to associate with those only who treat us as their equals."

Aglaïa understood by this reply how much he must have felt humiliated on her account, in consequence of the slavish deference she had manifested in Leontine's presence; she had reflected much on this subject during the last two days, and at this moment Gustave's pride made her blush for it still more. "Very well," she said, after a moment's silence, "how must I act towards Leontine? for perhaps she may wish to see me again; perhaps even I may now meet her on the parade."

"Ask my father," said Gustave; for he was too sensible to trust altogether to his own judgment in such a case. They approached M. Guimont, and Gustave repeated to him her question.

"My dear child," said M. Guimont, "how would you act if it were Laurette, or Mademoiselle Dufour, who had treated you as Mademoiselle d'Armilly has done? You would not quarrel with her on this account, for that would be to attach too much importance to such things; but as it would have been evident that she cared little about your society, since she neglected to show you those attentions which alone could render hers agreeable to you, you would treat her with great reserve, and carefully avoid everything that could lead her to suppose that you wish to retain her acquaintance. You ought to act in the same manner with Mademoiselle d'Armilly. According to the usages of society, you are not her equal, since she is richer and of higher birth than you are; these usages have their reasons, whether good or bad, and we must conform to them. Therefore, you ought to regard it as a matter of course, that those who occupy a more elevated station than yours, should not seek your society; and you ought to endure good humouredly the petty distinctions which they think themselves entitled to claim. But no one is obliged to associate with those who do not treat him in a manner congenial to his feelings; therefore, you ought not to think of associating with a person of superior station to your own, except when she altogether forgets this inequality, and treats you as she does her other acquaintances." Gustave listened with great pleasure to these observations of his father, in whose judgment he had full confidence, and who sometimes had to check his rather exaggerated notions of self-respect. Aglaïa thanked M. Guimont, and promised to act towards Leontine with proper reserve.

"Oh, if you see her again," said Gustave, "she will resume her influence over you, and we shall have the same thing over again." Aglaïa assured him that he was mistaken; but Gustave seemed sceptical on the subject.

"Aglaïa would be in no danger," said M. Guimont, "if she were always accompanied by a sensible person; but her excellent grandmamma cannot always be with her."

"Very well," said Aglaïa, taking the arm of Hortense, while she still held that of Gustave, "in order that I may always have some one to support me, if M. Guimont will consent, and my grandmamma permit, I will never go anywhere when she is not with me, unless I can have Hortense and Gustave by my side."

"That might perhaps be inconvenient to you sometimes," said Gustave, who nevertheless was greatly pleased with her declaration.

"No, no," she exclaimed; for she felt at that moment that nothing could confer on her such happiness or honour, as to be always surrounded by those good and worthy friends. They reached the parade: it was already crowded. Aglaïa held the arm of Hortense, and Gustave walked by her side with a proud and satisfied bearing. The young men who had ridiculed her, now bowed with a disconcerted air, for M. Guimont, who had already reprimanded them, gave them a look of severity, which made them cast down their eyes. Aglaïa blushed a little, but she felt protected, and rejoiced in her position. Madame and Mademoiselle Dufour passed by. M. Guimont, with a smile, took their arms, and obliged them, after some little manœuvring, to walk with them. The friends who were with Madame Dufour, followed, and thus Aglaïa saw herself in the midst of that society which had been so dissatisfied with her conduct. At first no one spoke to her, and even some disagreeable allusions were allowed to escape; but the presence of M. Guimont restrained them, especially as he had already spoken to several of these persons about the absurdity of their bickerings.

Still Aglaïa felt very uncomfortable, but at each unkind word, Hortense tenderly pressed her hand, and Gustave approached her, to show her some mark of attention, or to offer a kind word; and this friendliness was very consoling to her. At length they ceased to torment her, but she trembled at beholding Leontine coming towards them, accompanied by Mesdemoiselles de Schwamberg. Leontine approached her, and said something expressive of her regret at not having been able to take her in the carriage two days previously. Mademoiselle Champré had at last taken upon herself to make her feel how ridiculous her behaviour had been: and as the young princesses, who were very polite, had been extremely grieved at the annoyance which Aglaïa had experienced on their account, Leontine, therefore, in order to retain their good opinion, endeavoured in some degree to repair an error, which she assured them had been committed through mere thoughtlessness. She made her excuses with an awkward air, which she meant to be easy. Aglaïa was silent, and this silence, together with the number of people who surrounded her, embarrassed Leontine extremely, and she said to her, with some degree of brusquerie, "Will you take a turn with us?"

"No," said Aglaïa, indicating by her looks the persons by whom she was surrounded, "I am with these ladies." Leontine blushed, bowed, and went away, with an air of considerable annoyance. Aglaïa's refusal had a very good effect; nothing was now thought of but Leontine. She was examined at every turn of the walk, with a degree of attention which ended in embarrassing her very much, though she affected an air of hauteur which disconcerted no one. The next Thursday, Madame Lacour was again surrounded by most of her friends. There were some few complaints and expostulations, but the lovers of peace interfered, and put a stop to them as quickly as possible, and at last everything went on as formerly. When the princesses were gone, Leontine wished to renew her intimacy with Aglaïa, but the latter sent word that she could not go out; though with her grandmamma's permission, she invited her to their party. Leontine, to while away her time, twice accepted the invitation, but she felt no enjoyment. Surrounded by persons who were entire strangers to the manners to which she was accustomed, she knew not how to act towards them, and was continually doing something amiss. A fortnight previously, Aglaïa would have proclaimed silence, in order that she might be heard, but now she had discovered that it was not her good opinion which it was of consequence to obtain. Leontine, dissatisfied, ceased to seek her society, and ended by being so completely wearied, that she obtained her father's permission to pass the remainder of the summer with one of her aunts. Aglaïa's companions still kept up, for some time, a little of their resentment against her, but she was sustained by the friendship of Hortense and Gustave, to whom she attached herself more and more, and at last she felt at a loss to conceive how she could for a moment have preferred, to the happiness she found in their society, the discomfort and constraint to which she had submitted in the company of Leontine.

---

OH! OH! OH!
A TALE.

"Oh! Oh! Oh!" cried little Louis, "see, my tooth moves again, I cannot eat;" and he put his breakfast down upon the table.

"And it will continue to move until it is taken out," said his mother.

"I don't want to have it taken out, it would hurt me so."

"Do not complain then of its being loose."

"But I can't eat."

"In that case let me take it out, it is only a first tooth, and has scarcely any hold."

"Oh! indeed! It has scarcely any hold! I am sure it has very long fangs."

"As you prefer to let it remain, you must put up with the annoyance it causes you."

Louis did not reply, and his mother urged him no further; she wished to direct and mould the inclinations of her children, not to constrain them; she therefore gave few commands or prohibitions. A command cannot correct a fault, nor can a prohibition prevent an inclination to disobedience; therefore she preferred to wait with patience, and teach her children to correct themselves. Louis again tried to eat his breakfast, but his tooth clattered and shook at every mouthful, and being persuaded that by moving it, it hurt him, he put down his bread and his apple, and went to play with Fidèle.

Fidèle was a charming dog, of a very gentle disposition, and accustomed to allow himself to be tormented, without manifesting any displeasure. Louis took him by the paws: "There, stand up, Fidèle; make a bow; give me your paw; no, not that, the other one;" and Fidèle obeyed him with the best grace imaginable, though this kind of sport did not at all please him. With a docile dog, almost anything may be done. Louis, in order to prolong his game, took it into his head to take hold of Fidèle by the tail, and thus to force him to rise upon his fore-paws, and then to turn a somerset. At the first attempt, Fidèle contented himself with resisting, with a slight growl merely; at the second, the growl became louder, but at the third, Louis pulled his tail so violently, that Fidèle, quite angry, turned upon him and slightly bit his little finger. "Oh! oh! oh!" cried Louis, "the horrid dog has bitten me; mamma! Fidèle has bitten me; oh! how my finger pains me!"

"Let me see, my boy; oh! that's nothing, I can hardly see the mark of his teeth; what were you doing to him?"

"I only took hold of his tail, to teach him to turn a somerset, but he wouldn't stand on his fore-paws."

"You certainly hurt him much more by pulling his tail, than he has hurt you by his bite; why do you expect him to be more patient than you are?"

"I will never play with him again."

"You can do as you like as to that, he will not complain."

Louis went away, and as he passed by Fidèle, the dog began to growl. "Go away," said the child, "I don't wish to be bitten again," and he held his little finger in his other hand, as if it had been dreadfully wounded. He went to look for his little sister Henriette, to come and play with him, but she had just pricked her finger with her needle, and being as little able to bear pain as himself, she received his proposition with a very bad grace. "Let me alone," she said, "I have pricked my finger," and she watched the blood which scarcely tinged the water into which she had plunged it.

"That's a funny sort of a wound!" said Louis, "Why the blood doesn't come!"—"A funny sort of a wound? Oh! you shall see if it is so funny," and she immediately pricked him with the needle, which she still held in her hand. "Oh! oh! oh! nurse, Henrietta has pricked me, give me a glass of water, oh!" The nurse brought him the water without looking at him, she was leaning her head upon her left hand.

"Just look, nurse, how she has pricked me."

"What am I to look at? What a terrible affair: what would you say if you had such a tooth-ache as I have?"

"Have you the tooth-ache?"

"Yes: I have had no sleep these three nights, and I shall certainly go to-morrow and have the tooth which torments me taken out; for I don't want to let my work lie there," and she went and resumed her sewing.

When Louis, after having well squeezed his finger, could make no more blood flow from it, he was greatly embarrassed. How was he to amuse himself? Fidèle still growled at him, Henriette was out of temper, and his nurse had the tooth-ache and was busy; every one was taken up with his own sufferings. Louis did not find the house very gay; he therefore went back to his mother, who, at all events, was not a grumbler. At this moment he heard on the stairs the voice of little Charles, one of his companions. He rushed forward to open the door. Charles, accompanied by his tutor, had come to ask him to join him and five or six other boys of his age, in a walk to the Canal de l'Ourcq, to see the skating. Louis, transported with joy, obtained his mother's consent: he put on his great coat and his fur gloves, and they set off.

It was the middle of winter, but the weather was dry, and the sun brilliant. The little boys ran and jumped about the whole of the way. Louis did the same at first, but by degrees he felt his nose getting cold, and one of his hands was fully employed in holding it and keeping it warm. His fingers soon became numb; he put the hand he was not using into his pocket, and complained of being obliged to leave the other exposed to the air; then his feet became cold. It was quite useless to tell him that if he ran about, he would soon get warm again.

"How am I to run," he replied, "when my feet are frozen?"

He dragged himself along, with great difficulty, by the side of the tutor, slipping at every step, notwithstanding the slowness of his pace, and every now and then withdrawing his hand from his nose to breathe upon his fingers, and then hurriedly replacing it, with an appearance of the utmost concern. They reached the side of the canal, which was covered with skaters, who, with a free and unrestrained air, with head erect, and arms sometimes crossed, sometimes in motion, glided rapidly over the smooth expanse, on which the timid walker could scarcely maintain his footing.

The children, with the permission of their guide, went down upon the ice in order to have a slide. Louis suffered himself to be persuaded to follow them, and soon, by sliding in the same place, they had formed a long path, as polished as a mirror, over which, after taking a slight run, they glided with the rapidity of lightning. Louis had not yet dared to venture upon it.

"Come, Louis, have a slide," said one of his companions, "how can you avoid being frozen if you do not move about?"

Louis made up his mind to do so; he took a run of a few steps, reached the glistening path, and ventured on it, still holding his nose with one hand and keeping the other in his pocket. He proceeded, and maintained his equilibrium; but a mischievous little boy, who was more used to this sport, rushed after him, and reaching him before he got to the end, gave him a push, which made him fall with some violence upon the ice.

"Oh! oh! oh!" exclaimed Louis. "Oh! oh! oh! who has thrown me down? I can't get up; help me to get up. Oh! oh!" and he continued on the spot where he had fallen, because he would not make use of one of his hands to lean upon the ice. His companions laughed both at his awkwardness and his misfortune. The tutor went to him, raised him up, and endeavoured to console him, telling him that such falls only gave a little pain, which was soon over. But Louis cried, and became angry, left the canal, and went and stood against a tree, which was growing on the banks, turning his back to the skaters. An old soldier passed by him, laughing heartily.

"What a pity I have a wooden leg!" He had one, in fact. "What is the matter with you, my little friend," he said to Louis, seeing his loneliness and melancholy. "Why are you not down there with the rest?"

"But can I skate?"

"You do not know how to skate? Go quickly then and learn; I wish I were your age, to be able to do the same: at all events you can amuse yourself by sliding."

"Yes, to have them push me, and throw me down."

"Well, if they push you, you can push them in return, and if you fall, you can get up again."

"Yes, and freeze my hands by putting them upon the ice."

"Oh! you are afraid of freezing your hands; poor child! what would you have done, if, like me, you had fallen into a deep ditch, in the midst of a battle, and when it was intensely cold?"

"Into a ditch? Oh! they would soon have come and taken me out."

"You think so, do you? but I can tell you, that before any one would have come and taken you out, you would have been frozen to death. Oh! if I had not broken my leg, how I should have returned to the action!"

"If your leg was broken, how did you get out of the ditch?"

"The deuce! would you have had me remain in it? It was not very comfortable there, I assure you. I dragged myself along upon my hands, and in less than five minutes I was out of it."

"And what did they do to your leg afterwards?"

"What did they do to it? why, they cut it off; thank God! no harm came of it; and I manage to get along pretty well upon my wooden leg. Come along, my little friend, we will both go upon the ice; you shall learn to slide, and I will protect you from being pushed."

Louis, who had been interested and cheered by the conversation of the pensioner, followed him. The tutor, who had overheard what was said, allowed him to do so. He walked at first upon the ice with great precaution; the good soldier allowed him to hold his hand for a few minutes.

"Now," said he, "you must go alone. You have your two legs, and I am going to look at you. Forward, march!"

Louis began to slide.

"Take your hand out of your pocket," cried the pensioner, "and let go of your nose; are you afraid it will fall off? Make use of your arms to balance yourself; hold up your head; stretch out your leg; bravo! that's the way; leave yourself free, unbutton your great coat, don't you see how it hinders you?"

Louis unbuttoned his coat, stretched out his arms, and allowed himself to go on without fear. In a quarter of an hour he had learned to slide as well as any of the little boys on the canal.

"Listen," said the pensioner, "let us join your comrades; they have not seen you. You shall go upon their slide, and in your turn push the boy who threw you down a little while ago. Keep yourself up, at all events."

They made a slight circuit; the moment arrived; Louis started.

"Ha! ha! here's Louis," was exclaimed from all sides. He reached his adversary in the middle of the slide, pushed him, made him come down with considerable force, then turned round, and finished his course in grand style; while the other, somewhat ashamed, got up without saying a word.

"Who taught you to slide?" asked all the children.

"I did, young gentlemen," said the man with the wooden leg, "and I warrant you he is not afraid of any of you now."

The boys, very much astonished, resumed their sports, and Louis maintained his place amongst them very well. When the hour for departure came, he went to say good bye to his friend the pensioner, who pressing his hand warmly, said, "Good bye, comrade, till we meet again; if I happen to be here when you return, I will teach you to skate."

As they went home, Louis did not complain of the cold, did not put his hands in his pockets, left his nose exposed to the air, ran about like the rest, and reached the house not only without having grumbled, but without having suffered. As he was running towards his mother to tell her his tale, he saw her talking to a poor old woman, who was crying, and who seemed to be asking assistance. "Oh! madame," said she, "you could never imagine what my Jacques has done. He is my only support, and though he is not yet fourteen, he works so well at his master's, who is the carpenter at the corner, that every evening he brings me home tenpence for his day's wages. We have nothing but that to live upon, for it is very little I can do. Well, about a fortnight ago, my poor Jacques had the misfortune to put his wrist out of joint, in carrying a wainscoting. He came home in great trouble; fortunately I had saved during six months ten shillings, to buy him a waistcoat. I gave them to him, and told him to go immediately and have his wrist set by the surgeon of the district, who is very clever. He went out, and I supposed that he had done so. Nothing of the kind. He was afraid that it would cost too much. Our neighbour, the blacksmith, offered to set it for half a crown; he allowed him to do so, and brought me home the remainder, saying that he had not been asked for more; but certainly his wrist must have been badly set, for since that time, it has been swelling, and getting numb; and on looking at it, I saw clearly that the bones were not in their right place. By dint of questioning, I at last got the truth from him. We have been to the surgeon, who says that it can be cured, but that it will take a long time, and much medicine, and we have no means of getting any, as my poor Jacques has not worked for a fortnight, and will not be able to work for a long time to come. In God's name, madame, you, who are so good, have pity on us!" Here the poor woman ceased.

Louis had listened to her with great attention. His mother, very much affected herself, observed how this recital led him to reflect upon his own want of fortitude in bearing pain; she did not know that he had already begun to be ashamed of it. "My good woman," she said, "give yourself no uneasiness, as your son can be cured, he shall be cured. Let us go for him. I will take him myself to the surgeon's, who will again examine his arm, and I will pay the expenses of the treatment. Will you come, Louis?"

"Oh! yes, mamma, I want to see Jacques very much."

Henriette, who was working at her embroidery, in a corner of the drawing-room, exclaimed, "And I too, mamma."

"Yes, you too, my child; come, be quick, Jacques's cure must not be delayed."

They set off at once. There were no complaints of the cold during the whole of the way. On arriving, they found Jacques employed in making the handle of a tool with his remaining hand. His mother informed him, with tears of joy, of the success of her visit. "He did not want me to apply to you, madame," she added; "he said that other people ought not to be tormented with his troubles." Jacques advanced, and expressed his thanks, with some embarrassment.

"It must have given you a great deal of pain, Jacques, did it not?"

"Oh! not much, madame, if I could only have worked!"

"Come, come, cheer up, you shall be cured as soon as possible. You are a good and a brave boy;" and Jacques bowed with an air of increased embarrassment.

They went to the surgeon's, who was not acquainted with Jacques's whole history, because he would not allow his mother to relate it at their former visit. As soon as he learned it, he took the most lively interest in the courageous child, and his attentions were soon efficacious. At the end of a fortnight, the swelling began to decrease. They were obliged to prevent Jacques from working so soon as he wished, but they gave him hope that it would not be long before he was again in a condition to handle the plane; and in the mean time he wanted for nothing. Louis, on his return home, said to his mother, "Mamma, tie a thread round my tooth," and he immediately pulled it out himself, having learned by the example of the pensioner, as well as by that of Jacques, never to cry out, "Oh! oh! oh!" for so slight a cause as a little cold, or a prick of a pin.

---

HELEN;
OR THE FAILURE.

"Take care, Helen!" said Madame d'Aubigny, to her daughter, "when you are going one way, you are looking another; in this manner you will never go straight anywhere."

And such was exactly the case. Whether in the street, or on the promenade or even when running in the fields, Helen seldom thought of looking before her, or watching her steps; her attention was constantly directed to one side or the other, to see if any one noticed her; and when she fancied herself observed, she gave herself all sorts of airs and graces. Often when at the Tuileries, she was so completely absorbed in endeavouring to give a graceful turn to her head, or in casting down her eyes, when she considered it suitable to do so, or in looking at the leaves with an air of abstraction, according as one or other of these different movements appeared to her best calculated to attract attention, that she struck against a tree, or against some one coming in an opposite direction. Often when wishing to jump gracefully over a pool of water, she fell into the middle of it, and was covered with mud. In fine, Helen did nothing in a simple manner, like other people, and merely for having the thing done; she neither walked, nor ate, nor drank, for the sake of walking, or eating, or drinking, but in order that people might see the grace she was able to throw into all her movements; and had there been any one to observe her while sleeping, she would certainly have contrived the means of sleeping gracefully.

She little thought how much all these efforts tended to defeat the very object which she had in view, and yet she might easily have perceived, that if, while doing one thing, her thoughts were on another, it was quite impossible that she should do the thing well, and consequently impossible that she should be favourably noticed. If, when she saw some one entering the room, in whose eyes she wished to appear agreeable, she began to talk with greater animation to the person near her; if she threw more vivacity into her gestures, and made her gaiety more conspicuous, still, as she was not really amused, but only supposed that she had the appearance of being so, her laugh was not hearty, her gestures were unnatural, and her gaiety so obviously forced, that no one could possibly fancy that she was really gay, while the pretence of being so occupied her thoughts. In like manner, no one who saw her bestowing alms would have supposed that she was really kind-hearted, and yet Helen gave when she was not observed, and she gave with good will; but if there happened to be any one near to notice her, it was no longer of the poor that she thought, but of the pleasure of being seen bestowing alms. Her pity then assumed an appearance of exaggeration and eagerness, which made it quite apparent that her object was to display it. Her eyes indeed expressed compassion, but instead of being fixed upon the beggar, they were turned towards the persons present, so that it might have been said that it was they, and not the beggar, who had caused her emotion.

Madame d'Aubigny had continually reprimanded her daughter for this tendency, which she had displayed from her childhood, and had succeeded in correcting the most absurd and gross of her affectations; and Helen herself, as she advanced in age, became more skilful in detecting such as were likely to appear too glaring; but as her affectations also increased in number, she merely took a little more pains to conceal them, without being able to persuade herself that, while she had them at all, they could not possibly be concealed. "My child," her mother would sometimes say to her, "there is but one way of obtaining praise, and that is by acting well; and as there is nothing commendable in an action done for the sake of commendation, it is impossible that such actions should secure you praise: rest assured, therefore, that to make praise and reputation your aim, is a certain way of never obtaining it." Helen felt, to some extent, the truth of these remarks, and she promised herself to conceal her vanity with greater care, but it returned at the first opportunity; and besides, where is the girl who fully believes all her mother says to her?

In the same house with Madame d'Aubigny, there lodged one of her relations, Madame de Villemontier, whose daughter Cecilia was Helen's particular friend. Cecilia was so full of kindness and simplicity, that she did not even perceive Helen's affectation, and was continually disputing on this subject with the old Abbé Rivière, the former preceptor of M. de Villemontier, Cecilia's father, and who, after having educated his son, and resided with him at the college, where he finished his studies, had returned to take up his abode in the house, where he was respected as a father, and where he occupied himself in the education of Cecilia, whom he loved as his own child. They never quarrelled, except on Helen's account, whose affectation appeared so absurd to the Abbé Rivière, that he was incessantly ridiculing it. Accustomed to speak exactly what he thought, he did not restrain himself in her presence, though there was all the more necessity for doing so, as Helen, who had always heard him spoken of with great consideration at Madame de Villemontier's, and had witnessed the pleasure caused by his return, and the respect with which he was treated, felt extremely anxious to gain his good opinion. This desire was increased by the praises he constantly bestowed on Cecilia. It was not that she was jealous; for, notwithstanding her vanity, she was incapable of any meanness, she only thought that she merited the same praises as her friend, and indeed, she would have done so, had she not sought for them. But her desire of being noticed by the Abbé Rivière destroyed all the means she would have had of gaining his esteem; therefore, did he torment her with provoking jokes, which had only the effect of rendering her more anxious to gain his approbation, and induced her to make redoubled, though always awkward and misdirected efforts to obtain it. The Abbé was a very well-informed man. Helen could not be so foolish as to make a parade, in his presence, of the small amount of knowledge which a girl of her age is capable of possessing; but she never allowed a day to pass without finding some indirect means of alluding to her love of study. Some remark was made about walking: she said that she took very little pleasure in it, without a book: it was also one of her greatest griefs that her mother would not permit her to read before going to bed; and then she related how, during the morning, she had so completely forgotten herself, that three hours had passed without her being conscious of it. The Abbé pretended not to hear her; this was one of his mischievous ways; then she emphasized, and varied her expression. "Yes," she said, as if speaking to herself, "I commenced at a quarter to one, and when, for the first time, I looked at the timepiece, it was four o'clock; so that more than three hours had elapsed without my having perceived them."

"There was nothing lost, however," said the Abbé, "for you took very good notice of them afterwards."

Helen became silent, but she did not the less begin again on the following day.

What the Abbé most praised in Cecilia's conduct, was her attention to her mother, who was in very delicate health. One evening, Madame d'Aubigny happened to faint. Helen, who was in the habit of taking her work, and sitting with Madame de Villemontier almost every evening, did not come down on this occasion, except for a moment, to relate the accident, and to have the pleasure of speaking of the anxiety which it had caused her. She began by expatiating so much upon the alarm she felt, when she beheld her mother pale and almost unconscious, that the Abbé could not help saying, "I see clearly all that Mademoiselle Helen has suffered from her mother's accident, but I should like to know what Madame d'Aubigny has suffered."

The following day, Madame d'Aubigny, though still indisposed, insisted that her daughter should go as usual, and pass the evening with Madame de Villemontier. She entered with an air of languor and fatigue, saying that she was very sleepy, in order that they might understand that she had passed a bad night. As the questions to which she was anxious to reply, were not put to her, she endeavoured to lead to them in another way. She observed that the weather was delightful at five o'clock that morning: that her mother had been very restless until two, but that at three o'clock she slept quietly; from which it was evident that Helen must have got up at these various hours, for the purpose of ascertaining how her mother was. Several times she requested to know the hour, saying that although her mamma had given her permission to remain until ten o'clock, she should certainly return to her at nine. She inquired again at half-past eight, and again at a quarter to nine. During this time, Cecilia, without being observed, had two or three times raised her eyes to the clock. A minute before nine she rang the bell; her mother asked her why she did so. "You know, mamma," said Cecilia, "that it is time for you to take your broth." Helen immediately jumped up, with a loud exclamation, and put away her work in a great hurry, for fear of staying beyond the hour.

"These two young ladies," said some one present, "are very punctual, and very attentive."

"Yes," murmured the Abbé, between his teeth, and looking at Helen, with a provoking smile, "Cecilia is wonderfully careful of her mother, and Mademoiselle Helen of her reputation."

Helen blushed and hastened to depart, dreading some fresh sarcasm; but Madame de Villemontier, having requested the Abbé to accompany her, and to bring word how Madame d'Aubigny was, he took the candle and followed her. She walked so fast, that he could not keep up with her. "Wait for me," said he, quite out of breath, as they drew near, "you will break your neck."

"I am so anxious to know how mamma is!"

"How fortunate you are," said the Abbé, taking her arm, "to be able in the midst of your anxiety, to think of so many other things! As for me, if any one of whom I am very fond was ill, I should be so taken up with his illness, that it would be impossible for me to notice what I did for him, still less to think of making others observe it; but women are so strong minded."

"Really, M. l'Abbé," said Helen, whom this remark embarrassed, "you can never let a minute pass without tormenting me!"

"That is to say, without admiring you. We admire others for their general conduct; we love and admire them because they have acted with propriety, during a long space of time, and on various occasions; but we must admire Mademoiselle Helen on every occasion. Every action, every thought, every movement of hers, demands an eulogium."

And the mischievous Abbé, with his eyes fixed upon Helen, and holding the candle in such a position as fully to display the sarcastic expression of his countenance, stopped at every step, and emphasized every word, prolonging as much as possible both his remarks and his journey. They did, however, at last reach the apartments of Madame d'Aubigny, and Helen was delighted to free herself from his arm, and make her escape. The Abbé's raillery greatly pained her, but still she saw beneath it so much kind feeling, that she could not be angry with him. He, on the other hand, touched by the gentleness with which she received his reproofs, and the desire she manifested to gain his esteem, felt anxious to correct her, especially as he perceived that, notwithstanding her affectation, she was really kind-hearted and sensible.

Madame d'Aubigny had an old servant who was rough and ill-tempered, although he was all day long reading moral and religious books. She had allowed him to have with him a little nephew, to whom he pretended to give a good education. This man's sole talent for teaching consisted in beating little François when he did not know his lesson in history or in the catechism; and François, to whom this plan did not impart any taste for study, never knew a word of it, and was consequently beaten every day. One morning, Helen saw him coming down stairs sobbing loudly; he had just received his usual correction, and was to receive twice as much if he did not know his lesson when his uncle, who had gone out on an errand, returned. Helen advised him to make haste and learn it; the boy said he could not.

"Come, come," said Helen, "we will learn it together, then," and she led him into the room, where she set to work so diligently to make him repeat it, that the Abbé Rivière, who came to see Madame d'Aubigny, entered without her hearing him.

"Make haste," said she to François, "so that no one may know that it was I who taught it to you."

"Ha!" said the Abbé, "I have at last caught you doing good for its own sake."

Helen blushed with pleasure; this was the first time she had ever heard him seriously praise her. But at the same moment, vanity usurped the place of the good feelings which had animated her: her manners ceased to be natural, and though she continued precisely the same occupation, it was evident that she was no longer actuated by the same motive.

"Well! well!" said the Abbé, "I am going away, resume your natural simplicity, no one is going to look at you."

In the evening, at Madame Villemontier's, Helen found an opportunity of speaking of François. The Abbé shook his head, aware of what was coming; and Helen, who had her eye upon him, understood him, and checked herself. However, her tendency got the better of her discretion, and half an hour afterwards she returned to the same subject, though in an indirect manner. The Abbé happened to be near her: "Stop, stop," said he in a whisper, touching her elbow, "I see you want me to relate it, and, indeed, it is best that I should," and hereupon he began:—

"This morning, François ..." and he assumed a manner so emphatic and comical, that Helen did all she could to make him desist: "Let me go on," he whispered, "and when there is anything that you wish to be made known or particularly remarked, merely give me a sign."

Helen, ashamed, pretended not to understand him, but yet could not keep from laughing. It may easily be imagined that she lost all desire of speaking of François during that evening, and from that moment, the Abbé, as he had told her, assumed the part of trumpeter. As soon as she opened her lips to insinuate anything to her own advantage, he immediately caught the word, and broke forth into a pompous panegyric. If her movements indicated any desire of attracting attention, "Look!" he would say, "what grace Mademoiselle Helen displays in all her movements." If she uttered a loud and forced laugh, "I beg you will observe," he said to every one, "How gay Mademoiselle Helen is to-day:" then he would afterwards approach her and whisper, "Have I fulfilled my functions properly? I shall do better another time," he would add, "but you do not give me notice, and I can only speak of what I perceive," and nothing escaped him; still there was mixed up with all this, something so comic, and at the same time so kind, that Helen, at once annoyed, embarrassed, and obliged to laugh, insensibly corrected herself, as well from her dread of the Abbé's remarks, as from his presenting her affected manners in a light so ridiculous, that she could not help being herself struck by their absurdity.

She has at last succeeded in entirely correcting herself of them, and she endeavours to gratify her self-love by more substantial and reasonable pleasures, than that of having people observing her at every moment of the day, and of directing attention to her most insignificant actions. She acknowledges that she owes this change to the Abbé Rivière, and says, that if all the young girls who feel disposed to give themselves affected airs, had, in like manner, an Abbé Rivière at their side, to show them, at each repetition of them, the impression which they produce on those who witness them, they would not long take the trouble of making themselves ridiculous.

---

ARMAND;
OR THE INDEPENDENT LITTLE BOY.

M. de Saint Marsin, on entering one day into the apartment of his son Armand, found him in a violent passion, and heard him say to his tutor, the Abbé Durand, "Very well! Of course I shall obey you; I must do so, because you are the strongest, but I can tell you that I do not recognise your right to compel me, and I shall hate you as unjust, and a tyrant."

After this speech, on turning round with a movement of irritability, he perceived his father standing at the door, which he had found open, and looking at him with a calm and attentive countenance. Armand turned pale, then blushed; he feared and respected his father, who, though exceedingly kind, had something very imposing both in countenance and manner, so that he had never dared to resist him directly, or put himself in a passion in his presence. Dismayed, and with downcast eyes, he awaited what M. de Saint Marsin was going to say; when the latter, having entered, sat down near the table, upon which Armand had been writing, and which formed the subject of his quarrel, for the Abbé Durand had insisted on his removing from the window, as it diverted his attention from his work.

"Armand," said M. de Saint Marsin, in a serious but calm tone, "you think, then, that no one has a right to force you to obey?"

"Papa," said Armand, confused, "I did not say that to you."

"But you did say it to me, for the power which M. l'Abbé possesses, he holds directly from me, his rights are founded upon mine, and these I have transmitted to him. Are you not aware of this?"

Armand was well aware of it, but he could not make up his mind to obey the Abbé Durand, as he did his father; or rather obedience was in all cases extremely disagreeable to him, and fear alone prevented him from manifesting his sentiments before M. de Saint Marsin; for Armand, because he was thirteen years of age, and possessed of some intelligence, considered himself a very important personage, and his pride was habitually wounded, because he was not allowed to follow his own inclinations: he therefore rebelled against what he was commanded to do, not because he considered it unreasonable, but simply because it was commanded, and he several times hinted to the Abbé Durand, that if parents ruled their children, it was simply because they were the strongest, and not because they had any legitimate right to do so. M. de Saint Marsin, who was aware of all this, was very glad to have an opportunity of coming to an understanding with him on the subject.

"Tell me," he continued, "in what respect I commit an injustice, in obliging you to obey me, and I am ready to repair it."

Armand was confused, but his father, having encouraged him to reply, he said, "I do not say, papa, that you commit an act of injustice towards me, only I do not exactly see how it can be just for parents to compel their children to follow their wishes; for children have wills as well as parents, and they have as much right to follow them as their parents have to follow theirs."

"I suppose it is because children, not being reasonable, it is necessary that their parents should be reasonable for them, and compel them to be so too."

"But," said Armand, hesitatingly, "if they do not wish to be reasonable, it seems to me that that is their affair; and I cannot understand how any one can have the right of compelling them to be so."

"You therefore consider, Armand, that if a child of two years of age took a fancy to put his hand into the fire, or to climb up to a window at the risk of falling out of it, that no one would have a right to prevent him from doing so."

"Oh, papa, what a difference!"

"I see none: the rights of a child of two years of age, appear to me quite as sacred as those of a child of thirteen; or if you admit that age makes any difference, then you must allow that a child of thirteen ought to have less than a man of twenty."

Armand shook his head, and remained unconvinced; his father having encouraged him to state his opinion, "I have no doubt," he replied, "that there are some good reasons to oppose to this, although I cannot discover them; but even allowing that it may be to the advantage of children to be forced to obey, still I do not see how any one can have a right to benefit another against his will."

"Well, then, Armand, you do not wish me to force you to be reasonable by obeying me."

"Oh, papa, I did not say that, but...."

"But I understand it very well; and as I do not wish that you should be able to consider me unjust, I promise you that I will not again compel you to obey me until you tell me you wish me to do so."

"Until I wish you to force me to obey you, papa?" said Armand, half-laughing and half-pouting, as if he imagined that his father was ridiculing him. "You know it is impossible that I should ever wish that."

"That remains to be proved, my son. I wish to have the pleasure of seeing it; and from this moment, I resign my authority, until you request me to resume it. You must make up your mind to do the same, my dear Abbé," said M. de Saint Marsin, addressing the Abbé Durand. "Your rights cease at the same time as mine."

The Abbé, who understood the intentions of M. de Saint Marsin, smiled, and promised to conform to them. As for M. de Saint Marsin, he still retained his grave expression, and Armand looked from one to the other, with an air of uncertainty, as if to ascertain whether they were in earnest or not. "I do not know," continued his father, "what was the act of obedience so exceedingly displeasing to Armand, but after these new arrangements, he ought to be exempted from it."

"That is a matter of course," replied the Abbé.

"Come, my boy," said M. de Saint Marsin, "use your liberty without restraint, and do not think of renouncing it until you are quite sure that you no longer wish to retain it, for I warn you that then, in my turn, I shall exercise my authority without scruple."

Armand saw him depart with a stupified look, and could not bring himself to believe what he had heard. As the first essay of his liberty, he replaced by the side of the window the table which he had begun to remove from it, and the Abbé Durand, who took up a book, allowed him to do so without appearing to notice him; he merely observed, when Armand sat down to continue his exercise, "I do not know why you take so much trouble to settle yourself so comfortably, for I suppose, that now you are master of your own actions, we shall have but few lessons."

"I do not know, sir," replied Armand, "on what grounds you imagine that. I should think I am not so much of a baby as to require to be put into leading-strings, and you may rest assured I shall require no force to induce me to do what I know to be reasonable."

"Very well!" said the Abbé, and continued his reading, while Armand, in order to prove his assertion, never once looked towards the window, but did his exercise twice as rapidly and twice as well as usual. The Abbé complimented him upon it, and added, "I hope your liberty will always answer as well as it has done on this occasion."

Armand was enchanted, but his pleasure was somewhat diminished in the evening, when, on asking his tutor whether they should go out for a walk, the Abbé replied, "Certainly not, for if you took it into your head to walk faster than me, or run about, or go through a different street to that which I wished to take, I should have no power to prevent you, and I am too old and too stout to run after you. I cannot undertake to conduct through the streets a giddy fellow, over whom I possess no authority." Armand became angry, and contended that the Abbé was unreasonable. At last he said, "Very well, I promise not to walk faster than you do, and to go just where you please."—"That is all very well," replied the Abbé; "but you might take some fancy into your head, which I ought to oppose, and as I have no power to restrain you, you might bring me into trouble."

"I am willing to promise obedience during our walk," said Armand.

"Very well! I will go and inform M. de Saint Marsin, that you renounce the treaty, and wish to replace yourself under authority again."

"No! no! it is only for the period of our walk."

"So," replied the Abbé, "you not only wish to follow your own will, but you want to make me do the same. You wish me to resume my authority when it suits you, and to relinquish it when you no longer desire it. I must say in my turn, no! no! no! If I consent to resume my authority, it will be to continue it; therefore, my dear Armand, you must make up your mind, either to renounce the treaty, or to give up your walk for the future."

"But papa wishes me to walk," replied Armand drily.

"Yes, but he does not require me to walk with you, when I can be of no use to you. He has no right over my actions, except in so far as he gives me a right over yours. When he intrusted to me a part of his authority, it was quite natural that he should prescribe the manner in which he wished me to exercise it. Now that he intrusts nothing to me, of what have I to render him an account?"

"As to that," said Armand, "I do not know what should prevent my going out by myself."

"No one in the world will hinder you. You are as free as the air."

"The proof that I am not so," replied Armand carelessly,—"the proof that this is all a fairy tale, is, that I am still with you, M. l'Abbé."

"Not at all," said the Abbé calmly, "it is your father's wish that I should give you lessons, as long as you are disposed to take them, but this does not bind you to anything: it is also his wish, that as long as I remain with him, I should share the apartment which he gives you; he has a right to do what he pleases with it, and I have a right to comply with his wishes if I choose to do so. As to the rest, you can do in it whatever you think best, provided you do not annoy me, for in that case, I shall exercise the right of the strongest, and endeavour to prevent you. With this exception, you may go out or you may remain, just as you please; it is all the same to me. I shall see you do the things which I have heretofore forbidden, without troubling myself in the slightest degree. And if you wish that we should not speak to each other, or even look at each other, I do not ask for anything better: that will be exceedingly convenient to me."

"Why, M. l'Abbé, you are carrying things to extremes!"

"Not in the least, everything is quite natural. What interest would you have me take in your conduct, when I am not responsible for it?"

"I thought you had more friendship for me."

"I have as much as I can have. Are you of any use to me? Can I talk to you as to a friend, of the books which I read, and which you would not understand? Can I speak to you of the ideas which interest me? You, whom a serious book sends to sleep, and who feel no interest in history, except for its battles? Can you render me any service? Can I rely on you, in any case in which I may stand in need of good advice, or useful aid?"

"So, I perceive that people are loved only when they can be useful. This truly is admirable morality and friendship!"

"I beg your pardon; we also love people because we can be useful to them; we become attached to them because they have need of us, and it is on this account that we are fond of children. We are interested in what they do, from the hope we entertain of teaching them to do well: we love them, notwithstanding their faults, because we believe that we possess the power of correcting those faults; but the moment you deprive me of all influence over your conduct, the moment I become useless to you, what interest can I have in troubling myself about you?"

"But we have passed many years together. You have seen me every day."

"If we are to become attached to a child, merely from seeing him every day, why am I not equally attached to Henry, the porter's son, who waits upon us? I have seen him for as long a time; he has never refused to do anything I asked him: he has given me no annoyance; I always find him in good humour; he renders me a thousand services, and is far more useful to me than you can be."

"Nevertheless, it would be rather strange if you liked Henry better than me."

"If up to the present time I have liked you better than him, it is because, as you were confided to my care, the submission you were obliged to render me gave you the desire of pleasing me, and this made you deserve my friendship; and because also, as your interests were confided to me, I acted for you as I would have acted for myself, and even with more zeal than I could have felt in my own case. But now that you have undertaken to think for yourself, I have nothing more to do but to think for myself."

Armand had nothing to reply; he thought to himself that the way to force those on whom he was dependent to have as much affection for him, as when he was under their authority, was to conduct himself as well, as if he were still obliged to obey them, and he determined to adopt this method. But Armand did not yet possess either sufficient sense, or sufficient firmness of character, to adhere to such resolutions, and it was precisely this which rendered it necessary for him to be guided and controlled by the will of others; left to himself, he was not as yet capable of meriting their affection.

Many children will, doubtless, be astonished, that Armand did not profit by his liberty to throw aside his studies, run about alone, and do a thousand absurdities; but Armand had been well brought up, and his disposition was good, notwithstanding the caprices which occasionally passed through his brain; and at thirteen years of age, though children have not always sufficient strength to do what is right, they begin, at least, to know what is right, and to desire to be regarded as rational beings; and, besides, notwithstanding all his fine arguments, he had acquired the habit of obedience, and would have found it very difficult to oppose directly, any command of his father or tutor, in such a way that it might come to their knowledge. However, the following morning, he thought his liberty might surely extend so far as to send and buy a rasher of ham for his breakfast, a thing of which he was very fond, but which he was very rarely allowed to have. He wanted to send Henry for it; but Henry, who at that moment had something else to do, said that he could not go. He was usually rather insolent to Armand, who, on his part, often became excessively angry with him, because he did not obey him as readily as M. de Saint Marsin or the Abbé Durand. On the present occasion, elated by the new importance which he thought he had acquired, he assumed a more imperious tone, and expressed his anger more loudly than usual, but this only increased Henry's ridicule. He even affected to lecture Armand, saying that M. de Saint Marsin did not allow him to send out of the house for anything, and reminded him that he had been already scolded for that very thing.

"What does that matter to you," said Armand, still more angrily, "have I not a right to send you where I please?"

"No, my son," replied M. de Saint Marsin, who happened to be passing at the moment, "Henry is not under your orders, but under mine."

"But, papa, do you not wish him to wait upon me?"

"Undoubtedly, my son, he has my commands to that effect, and I trust he will not neglect them; but he will wait upon you according to the orders I give him, and not according to those you give him."

"Nevertheless, papa, it is necessary that I should ask him for what I want."

"You need only let me know what you want, and what I tell him to do for you he will do."

"But I think, papa, you have often allowed me to give him my commands myself."

"That was at a time when there were things which I could allow you to do, because there were others which I could forbid. I could then, without danger, allow you to have some authority in my house, because, as you could only do what I pleased, your authority was subordinate to mine. I did not fear that you would give my servants any orders at variance with my wishes, since I had the right to forbid your doing anything which displeased me; but now that you are at liberty to do whatever suits you, if I gave you the right of commanding my servants, it might suit you to send them to all the four corners of Paris, at the very moment that I required their services here, and I should have no means of preventing you. You might tell them to go to the right while I told them to go to the left; there would be two masters in the house, and that would never answer. Impress this fact upon your mind, my son, that you can have no authority over any one, unless I give it to you, and that I cannot give it to you, unless I have the power of compelling you to make a reasonable use of it." Then, turning to the boy, who while pretending to be busily occupied in cleaning Armand's shoes, was, in reality, amusing himself all the while with what was passing,—

"Listen, Henry; you will do with great care for Armand's service, everything which I order you, but you will do nothing whatever that he orders."

"It is well worth while to be free," said Armand, discontentedly.

"My child," said M. de Saint Marsin, "I do not interfere with you in any respect, not even with your giving orders to Henry, if that affords you any pleasure; but then, you must, in turn, allow me to have the privilege of forbidding him to execute them."

Saying this, he went away; and when he had got to some distance, Henry began laughing, and said, "It is a fine thing to order one's servants, when one has got any to order!"

Armand was enraged, and attempted to give him a kick, but Henry avoided it, saying, "I have had no orders to allow myself to be beaten; therefore mind what you are at," and he took up a boot with which he was preparing to defend himself. Armand would not compromise his dignity by contending with him, and therefore left him, saying that he was an insolent fellow, and that he would pay him off some day.

"Yes! yes! and I will pay you, when you pay me for the ham which I have bought for you this morning."

This recollection redoubled Armand's ill-humour; he felt inclined to go and get it himself; but in addition to his being unaccustomed to go out alone, he was proud, and could not make up his mind to stop at the shop of the pork-butcher, especially as the man knew him, from having seen him frequently pass by with the Abbé Durand, and it would have been very annoying to him to explain to such a person the reason of his coming himself, and of his being alone. To have profited by his liberty, Armand ought to have been better able to manage for himself, and to overcome his repugnance to a thousand things, which he could not bring himself to do. He began to discover that he was made to pay dearly for a freedom from which he hardly knew how to extract any advantage; nevertheless he had nothing to complain of. No one controlled his actions, and he could not help acknowledging, that the Abbé Durand had a right to refuse to take him out, and his father a right to forbid his servants to execute his orders. He felt that the kindness which these servants had hitherto manifested towards him, could result only from their submission to the authority of his father and his preceptor; still he persuaded himself that the latter, by acting as they did, took an unfair advantage of the need he had of their protection. He did not remember, that when we cannot do without people, we must make up our minds to be dependent on them.

Being out of temper this day, he learned his lessons badly; then interrupted them, and did not finish them. The manner in which he had gone through his morning's tasks left him in no humour for the evening's studies: he therefore passed the afternoon in playing at battledore and shuttlecock in the yard with Henry, with whom he was very glad to be on better terms again; but when he saw his father return, he hid himself. The remainder of the day he was afraid to meet him, for fear of being asked whether he had been at work. At night, he returned to his room, much embarrassed, and scarcely daring to look at the Abbé, who, however, said nothing, but treated him as usual. It was of no avail for Armand to say to himself that no one had a right to scold him, and that he was free to do as he pleased: he was, nevertheless, ashamed of wishing for and doing what was unreasonable; for the man who is most completely master of his actions, is no more at liberty to neglect his duties, than a child whom we compel to fulfil them: the sole difference is, that the man possesses reason and strength to do what is right, and that it is because the child does not yet possess these qualities, that he stands in need of being sustained by the necessity of obedience. Nothing would be more unhappy than a child left entirely to himself; half the time he would not know what he wanted; he would commence a hundred things, and never finish one of them, and would pass his life without knowing how. Even he who considers himself reasonable, and who, on this account, thinks that there is no necessity for his being commanded, does not perceive that all his reasonableness springs from his doing what is commanded without repugnance, and without ill-temper; and that if he had no one to guide him, he would be quite incapable of guiding himself. Armand had some notion of all this, but it was a confused one: he did not reflect much upon the matter, and merely thought that, after all, there was no such great pleasure in being free.

The next day, which was Sunday, two of his companions, the sons of an old friend of M. de Saint Marsin, came to see him. They were about fifteen or sixteen years of age, frank and thoughtless, and often amused Armand by relating anecdotes of their college, and of the tricks of the boys; but they sometimes shocked him also, by their coarse and disagreeable manners. They, on their side, often ridiculed him for being too orderly, too neat, and too elegant. As their father was not rich, he had only placed them at college as day-scholars; and as they always went there alone, they laughed at Armand, who could not move a step without his tutor. He was therefore delighted to be able to tell them that he was free to do whatever he pleased.

"That's good," said they, "we shall have fine fun: we will go to the place where we went last Sunday; one can play at ball there with all the people of the neighbourhood, who are dressed in their Sunday clothes: they swear, they fight; it's capital sport! Jules was near getting a thrashing from one of the players, because he laughed at him for never sending back the ball." "And Hippolyte," said the other, "had his nose and lips swelled for three days, from having been hit by the ball, in the face; and then they drink beer. Though we were sent to stay here the whole morning, we were determined to go there; will you come with us?"

"Certainly not," replied Armand, to whom this sport offered few attractions: he had no ambition to contend with a porter, nor be struck by a ball, nor to drink beer at a tavern. "You must come," continued his companions. "Oh, we'll polish you up; we'll show you how to amuse yourself."

"I wish to amuse myself in my own way," said Armand, who endeavoured, but in vain, to extricate himself from his friends, who had each taken one of his arms, in order to drag him against his will out of the yard where they were. Armand cried out and struggled, and, seeing his father at the window, "Papa," said he, "don't let them drag me away by force."—"I! my son," replied M. de Saint Marsin, "why do you ask me to prevent these young gentlemen from doing anything? You know very well that every one is free here. My friends, amuse yourselves according to your own fancy. Armand, do just what you please. I have no wish to restrain you in any respect," and he withdrew from the window. The two lads laughed outrageously, repeating, as they held Armand tightly by the arm, "Armand, do just what you please;" and seeing that M. de Saint Marsin left them a clear stage, they forced Armand to run along the streets, in spite of his cries and struggles. As they passed along, people exclaimed, "Look at those young rascals fighting!" and, indeed, Armand did not make a very respectable appearance; he was without cravat, or hat; he had on a soiled over-coat, and his stockings were tied in a slovenly manner; it was this which delighted his mischievous companions, for they knew he had a great objection to be seen in public, unless when well dressed, and they had sometimes fancied, when walking with him, that he had manifested some degree of pride, in consequence of being better dressed than they were. The remarks which were made on them increased his annoyance and anger. "Let me go!" he exclaimed, "you have no right to hold me against my will." "Hinder us, then," said his tormentors; but Armand was strong in arguments only, so that in order to avoid being dragged along by force, he was obliged to promise that he would go with them voluntarily; but he was indignant at the treatment he had received, and might perhaps, notwithstanding his promise, have been tempted to make his escape, had not his two tormentors kept constant guard over him, "Don't be a baby," they said, "you don't know how much you'll be amused."

They soon reached a kind of tavern-garden, where several men were playing at ball. Jules' first joke was to push Armand in amongst them; a ball struck him on the left ear, and the man whose throw he had interfered with, gave him a blow with his fist on the right shoulder, in order to push him out of the way. This threw him on the feet of another man, who sent him off with a second blow, at the same time swearing at him, and telling him to mind what he was about. He had not time to reply to this one, before the ball came bounding close to him, and one of the men who ran after it, for the purpose of sending it back again, threw him on the ground with an oath, at the same time falling with him; every one laughed, and especially Jules and Hippolyte. Armand had never in his life felt so enraged, but seeing that his anger was impotent, his heart was ready to burst, and had not his pride restrained him, he would have cried with vexation. However, he restrained himself, and withdrawing from the players, he seized the moment when Jules and Hippolyte, who had probably had sufficient of this kind of sport, were no longer watching him, and leaving the garden, he hastened home as fast as he could, trembling lest he should see them coming after him. His heart swelled with anger and a sense of degradation, to find that he was unable either to defend himself, or to punish those who had so unworthily used their strength against him. He reached home at last: his father was coming out as he entered, and asked him, somewhat ironically, whether he enjoyed his walk. Armand could no longer contain himself; he said it was a shame to have encouraged Jules and Hippolyte to drag him away by force, as they had done: "If it was to punish me," he continued, "for the agreement you pretended to make with me, I ought to have been told of it. I did not ask you to make such an agreement."

"My child," said M. de Saint Marsin, "I have no wish to punish you; I have nothing to punish you for; I have no right to punish you. On the other hand, what right had I to prevent your companions from doing what they pleased with you. When you were dependent upon me, I could say, I do not wish him to do such and such things, consequently I will not allow any one to force him to do them. I could exercise my authority, and even my strength, if necessary, to protect you from those who might desire to interfere with you. I could not permit any one to infringe my rights, by compelling you to obey them, but now you depend upon yourself only; it is your business to defend yourself, to say I will not, and to discover what your will is worth. So long as you are unwilling to be dependent upon any one, no one is obliged to assist you."

"I see, then," said Armand, in a tone of irritation, "that because I am not dependent upon you, if you saw any one going to kill me, you would say that you had no right to defend me."

"Oh! no," said M. de Saint Marsin, smiling. "I do not think my forbearance would extend quite so far as that: however, I will think about it. I have not yet examined the case. I do not very well see what are the duties of a father towards a child who does not consider himself bound to obey his father. And remember that this is not my fault, for I never before met with a child who entertained these ideas."

With these words he went away. Armand, who clearly perceived that they were making game of him, began to weary of these pleasantries; but at the same time, he was becoming confirmed in the idea of following his own will. Near the place where he had seen the ball-playing, he had noticed another spot where they were firing at a target, and the idea of this had recurred to him since his return. His father, when in the country, had begun to teach him the use of firearms, and had even occasionally allowed him to accompany him on a shooting excursion, an amusement which greatly delighted Armand. But M. de Saint Marsin would not permit him to use firearms in Paris, notwithstanding his earnest assurances that he would employ them with the greatest prudence. This prohibition was very grievous to Armand, who, in his wisdom, was quite satisfied that he would be able to amuse himself in this way without any danger. As he had no fancy for practising with such people as he had just escaped from, it occurred to him that he might at least have a target in his father's garden, or shoot at the sparrows. He went to fetch from his father's study, where they were always kept, his gun and some pistols which had been given him by one of his uncles. It was a mere chance that he got at them, for since he had been intrusted with his liberty, M. de Saint Marsin, fearing he might make a dangerous use of them, had always been careful to keep them locked up; but his valet de chambre having to get something from the place where they were kept, had, notwithstanding the strict injunctions given to him, forgotten to relock the place, and take away the key. Armand therefore found the gun, the pistols, and some ammunition. On descending to the garden, he observed a cat running along the cornice of a neighbouring house; he took aim, missed, and walked on. He entered the garden, and there shot away right and left, and kept up a firing sufficient to alarm the whole neighbourhood.

After exhausting his ammunition, he was returning across the yard, loaded with his artillery, when a man, who was talking very vehemently with the porter, rushed towards him, saying, "Oh! that's him! that's him! I knew very well it came from here. It is you, then, sir, who have been breaking my windows and my furniture, and were very near killing my son. Oh, you shall pay well for this! I will be paid; if not I'll go and fetch the police, and take you before a magistrate!" He was in such a rage, that he poured forth a torrent of words, without allowing himself time to take breath, and all the while he shook Armand by the arm. "Yes, yes, I'll take him before a magistrate," he said to the gossips of the neighbourhood, who began to crowd round the gate.

"That's right," said one; "with his gun and pistol shots, one would have supposed that the enemy was at hand."

"The balls hit our walls," said another, "and I didn't know where to hide myself."

"Our poor Azor barked as if he was mad," said a third, "and I am still trembling all over."

"They shall pay me," continued the man. Armand, confounded, neither knew what had happened, nor what they wanted. At length he became aware that the shot which he had fired at the cat, had struck a window above the ledge along which the animal was walking. He had loaded his gun with ball, thinking that small shot would not be sufficient to kill it, and the ball had entered the window of one of the finest apartments in a furnished house, and had broken a looking-glass worth two thousand francs, shattered a pendule, and knocked off the hat of the landlord's son, who happened to be standing near the chimney-piece. At every incident the man related, he shook the arm of Armand, who was making fruitless efforts to escape from him. "You shall pay me," he continued, "as sure as my name is Bernard, and something more into the bargain, to teach you not to fire at other people's houses."

"He would be rather puzzled to pay, I should think," said one of the women.

"If he pays," added another, "it will not be out of his own purse."

"It's all the same to me," said Bernard. "I must be paid: I don't care by whom. Where is M. de Saint-Marsin? I wish to speak with M. de Saint-Marsin!"

"Here I am," said M. de Saint-Marsin, who entered at the moment. "What do you want of me?"

At the sight of his father, Armand turned pale; yet his presence gave him confidence of protection. Whilst they were explaining the facts of the case, he timidly raised his eyes, but immediately cast them down again, like a criminal awaiting his sentence. When M. de Saint-Marsin understood the cause of all this commotion, he said, "M. Bernard, I am very sorry for the misfortune that has happened to you, but I can do nothing in the matter. If it be really my son who has broken your looking-glass, you must arrange with him, it is not my business."

"But it must of necessity be your business, Sir," replied M. Bernard, "otherwise who is to pay me?"

"I know not, Sir, but if my son has done it, it was during my absence, so that no one can suppose I have had anything to do with it. I do not answer for his actions."

Then turning towards Armand, he said, "You must see, Armand, that this is just; that I cannot be responsible for your actions, when I have no means of making you obey my wishes."

Armand was unable to reply, and stood with his eyes cast down, and his hands clasped, while large tears rolled down his cheeks. M. Bernard, in a terrible fury, insisted on taking M. de Saint-Marsin before the magistrate.

"It is not I who ought to go, it is my son," said M. de Saint-Marsin.

"Oh, your son may be sent to prison."

"I am very sorry, Sir, but I can do nothing."

"To the correctional police," continued M. Bernard.

"I shall be exceedingly grieved, but I cannot prevent it."

Armand at each word sobbed violently, and raised his eyes and clasped hands towards his father. Some one whispered to M. Bernard, "Here is the commissary of police passing by." Armand heard him, and uttering a loud scream, he tore himself from the hands of M. Bernard, and ran to take refuge with his father, round whom he clung with all his strength, exclaiming, "Oh, papa, do not let the commissary take me away; have pity on me!... Do not let me go to prison!"

"What right have I to prevent him, my son? or in what respect is it my duty to do so? Have you not renounced my protection?"

"Oh, restore it to me! restore it to me! I will obey you, I will do everything you wish."

"Do you promise me this? Do you really desire that I should resume my authority?"

"Oh! yes! yes! Punish me in any way you please, but do not let me go to prison."

"Follow me," said M. de Saint-Marsin; and turning to M. Bernard, he said, "M. Bernard, I trust this matter may be arranged without the intervention of the magistrate; have the goodness to wait here for me a few minutes."

When he entered the house, he said to Armand, "My dear son, I do not wish to take advantage of a moment of trouble; think well of what you are going to do: have you made up your mind to obey me, and are you now convinced that I have a right to exact obedience? I will not conceal from you, that if M. Bernard takes any proceedings, it will in all probability be against me, and that after having compelled me to pay the damages, I shall be ordered to prevent you from committing similar acts for the future. Will you believe, then, that you are bound to submit to my authority, or will you wait for the magistrate to order you to do so?"

"Oh! no, no, papa!" said Armand, confused, and kissing his father's hand, which he covered with tears. "Forgive me, I entreat you."

"My dear child," said his father, "I have nothing to forgive you: in granting you your liberty, I knew very well that you would abuse it. I knew that by allowing you to follow your own judgment, I exposed you to the danger of committing many faults; but it is for this reason that you ought to feel the necessity of sometimes submitting to my judgment."

Armand was unable to express his gratitude for so much indulgence and kindness. M. de Saint-Marsin returned to M. Bernard, and told him he would have an estimate made of the amount of damage done, which fortunately was not so great as M. Bernard had at first represented. Nevertheless it was considerable, and Armand, who happened to be in his father's study on the day when they came to demand payment, did not dare to raise his eyes, so much was he ashamed of what he had done.

"You now understand, my son," said M. de Saint-Marsin, "that parents have a right to prevent the follies of their children, since they have to pay for them; but it is not only for such faults as they have to pay for, that they are responsible, but for all the faults of their children, when they have the power of preventing them."

"To whom are they responsible, papa?"

"To God and to the world. To God, who requires that men should be good, reasonable, and as much as possible enlightened, but who does not require that children should become all this, by their own unaided efforts. He has, therefore, intrusted their education and instruction to their parents, and for this purpose has given them the authority necessary for compelling them to receive instruction, and to endeavour to become virtuous. On the other hand, as the world also demands that children should be so brought up, as to become worthy members of society, when they conduct themselves ill, when they manifest vicious propensities, it is the parents who are reproached: they ought therefore to possess the means and authority of correcting and controlling their actions, until they attain sufficient strength and reason to be rendered responsible for themselves."

Armand felt the truth of these arguments. He still occasionally found obedience troublesome, but he no longer obstinately clung to his own ideas, for he perceived that there are many things which cannot possibly be thoroughly understood by a boy of thirteen.

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