THE TEMPTATIONS.
Madame de Livonne, after having been in affluent circumstances, had fallen into a state of great poverty. Being left a widow, with her daughter Euphemia, who was about twelve years of age, and having only distant relations, who were far from wealthy, and to whom she did not wish to be a burden, she took the reasonable and courageous resolution of providing, by her own exertions, for herself and daughter. She therefore established herself in a small town where she was unknown, that she might be able to live as she pleased, without being obliged to go into company, or receive visits. She applied herself to plain work, with Euphemia, who was gentle and reasonable, and who loved her mother, whom she had seen very unhappy, so tenderly, that provided she saw her tranquil, nothing troubled her. It was not because Euphemia did not, at first, experience much difficulty in accustoming herself to certain privations which daily increased, or to duties somewhat repugnant to her feelings; but she found her mother so ready to neglect herself on her account, and so anxious to spare her as much as possible everything that was disagreeable, that she felt eager to anticipate her, and made a pleasure of what would otherwise have been a pain. Thus, for instance, she had no fancy for counting the linen, or washing the dishes, but if she could manage to be the first to see the laundress, she hastened to give her the clothes, delighted with the thought that her mother would not have to do it; and after dinner she generally contrived to surprise her, by washing and arranging the things before Madame de Livonne rose from table, who, upon seeing what was done, would embrace her child with the greatest tenderness.
With the happiness which these attentions caused, would sometimes mingle a feeling of melancholy and uneasiness, relative to the future prospects of Euphemia; but Madame de Livonne possessed so much fortitude, that she was enabled to overcome her fears, and to place her trust in Providence. Besides, there could not well be any sadness where Euphemia was, for she laughed and sung over all she did, and her mother, who was still young, and had a pleasing voice, often joined in her songs. In the evening, when the weather was fine, they walked into the country, and Euphemia, after having been shut up all day, enjoyed with transport the beauty of the weather and the freshness of the air; and, satisfied with having worked with diligence, she thought with pleasure of the duties of the succeeding day. To see and hear her, one would have imagined that she was the happiest creature in the world; and in truth she was happy, for she did nothing wrong, she had no fancies that tormented her, she was never wearied, and always spent her time in useful occupations.
Madame de Livonne was so economical, and proportioned so well her expenses to her means, that since they had been compelled to work for their living, they had never been embarrassed. But she was taken ill, even dangerously so. However, Euphemia's joy, when she beheld her convalescent, was so great, that she could scarcely think of the situation in which they were soon to be placed. Almost all their money had been spent during the time that Madame de Livonne had been unable to work, and when Euphemia, occupied in nursing her, her heart always heavy, and her eyes full of tears, was scarcely able to work either. It was not what the poor child had eaten during this time that cost much, but medicines and nourishing food had been required for her mother. Several persons of the town who esteemed Madame de Livonne, on account of her fortitude and her virtues, had, indeed, sent her various things, of which she stood in need, but this assistance ceased as soon as she was better, and she herself even, in order not to encroach upon their kindness, had assured them that such things were no longer necessary for her. They therefore found themselves in such a state of destitution, that as soon as Madame de Livonne had, in some degree, regained her strength, she determined to go to a town, about two leagues distant from where they lived, in order to collect some money for work sent home before her illness.
They set out very early one morning, and when just on the point of starting, the daughter of Mathurine called upon them. It was in this town that she was in service, and her mother lived in the one to which they were going. She was acquainted with them, as they worked for her mistress, and being aware of their intended journey, she begged them to carry to her mother the louis d'or that Victorine had given her. They willingly took charge of it, and set off full of spirits. Euphemia was so delighted to breathe the morning air, that, although repeatedly reminded by her mother that they had four leagues to walk during the day, she could not refrain from jumping about, and running on before, and into the fields, on each side of the road; so that when the heat increased, she became very thirsty, and the more so as she had eaten, while skipping about, a large piece of bread. Her mother exhorted her to bear the inconvenience with patience, as there was no means of procuring anything to drink. Euphemia said no more about it, as she did not wish to grieve her mother needlessly; but presently she uttered a cry of joy.
"Oh, mamma, there is a man selling gooseberries; we can buy a pound to refresh ourselves."
"My poor child," said her mother, "you know we have no money."
"I thought," replied Euphemia, timidly, "that they would not be very dear."
"But I have no money at all, my dear Euphemia; none whatever."
"I thought, mamma, that this man might change for us old Mathurine's louis d'or, and when we arrived, we could give her her money, together with what we had borrowed from it."
"But we have neither the permission of Mathurine, nor of her daughter, to borrow from this money; it was not given us for that purpose."
"Oh! I am quite sure," continued Euphemia, in a sorrowful tone, "that if they knew how thirsty I am, they would gladly lend us sufficient to buy a pound of gooseberries."
"My poor child," replied her mother, still more sorrowfully, "we can be sure only of our own will, and dispose only of that which belongs to us. As this money does not belong to us, is it not the same as if we had not got it at all?"
As she spoke, she put her arms round her daughter's neck, and embraced her tenderly, regarding her with a look of distress, as if to entreat her not to persist in a request which she could not grant. Euphemia kissed her mother's hand, and turned away her head, that she might not see the basket of gooseberries which was passing by them at the moment; and hearing her mother sigh heavily, she determined not to give her any more uneasiness.
"Are you still very thirsty?" said Madame de Livonne to her, some time afterwards.
"Yes, mamma;" and she added, "this is like the child of Hagar in the desert." But seeing that her comparison brought tears to her mother's eyes, she continued gaily, "But I shall not die of it," and she began to skip about, in order to show that she was not overcome by the heat and thirst. Nevertheless, she was very much flushed, and her mother, looking at her with great anxiety, saw that she was really suffering. She stopped, and looked around her. "Listen, Euphemia," said she to her daughter; "it is possible that behind this rising ground, which overhangs the road, we may find a hollow, and perhaps some water. Get up and see."
Euphemia ascended, and at first saw nothing but a vast plain covered with corn, without a tree, without the least verdure indicative of water. For the moment, she felt ready to cry; she stood on tiptoe, and notwithstanding the heat of the sun, which was shining full upon her head, she could not make up her mind to come down and resign the hope of quenching her thirst. At length she heard a dog bark not far from the spot where she stood. After hearing it several times, she remarked that the sound always proceeded from the same place, and that it was, moreover, the voice of a large dog, and not that of a shepherd's dog. She judged that the animal must be at the door of some dwelling, and running in the direction of the sound, she discovered, to her extreme joy, a house which had been hidden by the elevation on which she stood. She announced the news to her mother, who telling her to go on, followed after her. Before Madame de Livonne arrived, Euphemia had drunk off a large glass of water, with a little wine in it, which a good-natured woman had given her, although Euphemia at first refused the wine, as she had no money to pay for it. She also asked for a glass for her mother, and ran to meet her; and Madame de Livonne, delighted at seeing the poor child refreshed and comforted, forgot half her own fatigues.
Having fully rested and refreshed themselves, and warmly thanked their kind entertainer, they again set out on their journey, by a path which she had pointed out to them, as shorter and pleasanter than the high road. Euphemia, quite reanimated, could not refrain from congratulating herself on her good fortune, and a little also on her cleverness, in having inferred that there was a house there.
"You must allow," said her mother, "that you would not have shown so much discrimination, had you not been so thirsty. Necessity is the parent of invention."
"Oh, most certainly," replied Euphemia, "if I had eaten the gooseberries, we should not have sought for something to drink, and I should not have had that good glass of wine and water, which has done me so much more good."
Whilst thus conversing, a poor woman approached them, carrying an infant, which was very pale, and so weak, that it could not hold up its head; she herself was frightfully emaciated, and her eyes were red and hollow from weeping; she asked them for alms.
"Good Heavens! we have nothing," said Euphemia, in a most sorrowful tone.
"Only enough to buy something for my poor child, who has had no milk for two days! only enough to save it from dying!"
"I have nothing in the world," said Madame de Livonne, with inexpressible anguish. The poor woman sat down on the ground and burst into tears. Euphemia, her heart torn with grief, clasped her hands and exclaimed, "Mamma, mamma, shall we leave this poor child and its mother to die of hunger? Would not that be worse than borrowing from Mathurine's money? We are still near the house; let me go and change the louis." Madame de Livonne cast down her eyes, and for a moment appeared to reflect.
"Euphemia," said she, "have you forgotten that as this money does not belong to us, it is the same as if it were not in our possession?"
Euphemia began to cry bitterly, hiding her face in her hands. The poor woman, seeing them stop, got up and again approached Madame de Livonne.
"For the love of God," she exclaimed, "and that he may preserve your young lady, take pity on my poor child!"
"Tell me," said Madame de Livonne, "have you sufficient strength to reach the town?" The poor woman replied that she had, and Madame de Livonne, drawing from her pocket the cover of a letter, on the back of which she wrote a few lines in pencil, told her to take it to the Curé of the town in which she resided, promising her that he would give her assistance. Euphemia, hearing the poor woman thank her mother, felt courage at last to turn to her her tearful face. The expression of her pity seemed to shed a gleam of comfort over the heart of this unhappy creature. She looked alternately at Euphemia and at her child, as if to tell him also to thank her. Euphemia just then remembering that she had in her bag a piece of bread, left from her breakfast, gave it to the poor woman, who went away loading them with blessings, for she plainly saw that they had done for her all that was in their power. They continued their journey: their minds were relieved, but they were serious. Euphemia could talk of nothing but the poor woman. "You see, my child," said her mother, "that there are sometimes terrible temptations in life."
"Oh, mamma! so terrible that I do not know how it is possible to resist them."
"By fully persuading ourselves that there is nothing truly impossible but a breach of duty."
"But, mamma, if you had not been able to write to the Curé, could you have made up your mind to allow this poor woman to die, rather than change Mathurine's louis?"
"I would rather have begged for her."
This reply, in proving to Euphemia that resources are never wanting to him who has the courage to employ all those which are allowable, calmed a little the alarm inspired by the severity of certain duties.
At length they reached the town. One of the two persons with whom Madame de Livonne had business, lived at its entrance, and she felt a little uneasy at seeing the shutters of the house closed. Nevertheless she made inquiries. A servant, the only one remaining in the house, informed her that her mistress was gone to see her sister, who was ill, and living at a distance of thirty leagues. Euphemia looked at her mother with dismay; however, she thought it very fortunate that they had not touched Mathurine's louis. They then went to the other customer; but she no longer resided in the town. A neighbour told them that she had only stayed there a short time, and that no one knew where she was gone to. On receiving this reply, Madame de Livonne sat down on a step. Her daughter saw her turn pale, and lean for support, as if she was going to faint; and indeed it was only her courage which had until then supported her against the debility left by her malady, the fatigues of the journey, and the vexation occasioned by her first disappointment. Now her strength entirely gave way, and she fainted outright. Euphemia, trembling, and in despair, embraced her as long as she was able, and called her, and shook her, in order to make her revive. She was afraid to leave her for the purpose of seeking assistance; brought up in habits of self-restraint, she dared not cry out, and no one happened to be passing by; every one was in the fields. At length, the neighbour who had spoken to them again coming out, Euphemia called her, and pointed to her mother. Two other old women also come up and gave their aid in restoring her to consciousness. Madame de Livonne opened her eyes, and turned them upon her daughter, who kneeling by her side, kissed her hands, and exclaimed in a transport of joy, "Mamma, here I am;" for at this moment she thought of nothing but the happiness of being once more restored to each other.
However, she soon become very anxious about their return home; but her mother told her not to torment herself, as she would soon recover her strength; and yet at every moment she seemed on the point of fainting again. Every time she closed her eyes, Euphemia turned pale and was ready to burst into tears, but restrained herself, in order not to grieve her mother, and clasping her hands, she murmured in a suppressed voice, "My God! what shall we do? how are we to get home?" One of the women told her that a coach would be passing in two hours which would take them back, but Euphemia knew very well that they had no money to pay for their places, and besides she thought that it would be impossible for her mother, weak as she was, to continue her journey without taking some refreshment. However, she had not once thought of making use of Mathurine's money; but at last it occurred to her that if she were to carry it to her, she might perhaps lend them a part of it. Delighted with this idea, she forgot her timidity, and hastily searching for the louis in her mother's pocket, and begging one of the women to accompany her to Mathurine's house, she looked at her mother for permission. Madame de Livonne by a sign gave her consent, and Euphemia set off, walking so quickly that the woman who accompanied her had some difficulty in following her. Her heart beat violently as she reached the house; the door was locked; Mathurine had gone four leagues off to assist in the harvest, and was not to return until the following day. Euphemia looked at the person who gave her this information without uttering a word. She was unable to speak, for her heart was bursting, and her ideas were confused to such a degree, on receiving an intelligence which destroyed her last hope, that, happily for her, she no longer felt all the misery of her situation. She returned slowly, looking mechanically around her, as if seeking some one who might give her aid; but all she saw seemed poorer than herself, though she felt that at that moment there were none of them so wretched. Presently the air resounded with the cracking of postilions' whips; a travelling carriage drove up, and stopped at the inn: it occupied the whole of the narrow street, and obliged Euphemia and her companion to stop. A lady, her husband and daughter, and a lady's-maid, descended from it, and were quickly surrounded by poor asking for alms. This sight made Euphemia weep, without very well knowing why. She watched them, and listened to the lady's soft voice; she looked at her husband, whose countenance was good and amiable, and at the young girl, who was nearly of her own age; she could not make up her mind to pass on. At last she heard the husband, in a tone of kindness, say to the poor who were begging, "My children, I can give you nothing here; but come to Béville, ask for the château, and you shall have work."
A thought suddenly struck Euphemia: they might perchance give her work too. She rushed into the yard, regardless of the horses that were crossing it, and stood before the lady, who was just entering the house; but once in her presence, she stopped, cast down her eyes, and was afraid to speak. Madame de Béville, such was the lady's name, seeing before her a young girl neatly dressed and in tears, asked her kindly what she wanted. Euphemia hesitated, stammered, but at length the thought that her mother was waiting for her, and perhaps uneasy, forced her to make an effort, and with clasped hands, and downcast eyes, for she dared not look at Madame de Béville, she said in a low voice, "Let me have some work too."
"Some work, my child? certainly I will, but how—what sort of work?"
Euphemia could not reply; the little girl then approached her, and said in the most encouraging tone, "Come, speak to mamma."
Euphemia took courage, and addressing Madame de Béville in her former manner, said, "But I want to be paid in advance, immediately; and then," she added, raising her head, and in a tone of great earnestness, "then, I will work for you as long and as much as you please."
She stopped, trembling. Madame de Béville questioned her with great kindness, and Euphemia related her troubles; but while speaking, the louis d'or, which she held in her hand, fell to the ground. The little girl picked it up, and returned it to her, blushing, grieved at the thought that Euphemia had been trying to deceive them.
"My child," said Madame de Béville, in a reproachful tone, "why did you tell me that you had no money?"
"It is not ours," replied Euphemia with simplicity, "it has been intrusted to us for another, and therefore we cannot touch it."
The young girl, much moved, looked at Madame de Béville, who kissed Euphemia, and asked to be conducted to the place where she had left her mother. At this moment, Madame de Livonne entered the yard, supported by M. de Béville, who had recognised her from having often seen her in Paris, and who begged his wife to join him in persuading her to pass a few days with them, in order to regain her strength. Madame de Béville, deeply affected by Euphemia's narrative, pressed the hand of Madame de Livonne, entreating her, in the kindest manner, to accompany them. Madame de Livonne turned to Euphemia, who smiled at her with a look of entreaty; the little girl had already taken her by the arm to lead her away. Madame de Livonne could no longer hesitate, and they entered the carriage of Madame de Béville, whose horses had arrived to conduct them to the château, which was only a few leagues distant. Euphemia could not contain her joy when she saw her mother seated in that comfortable carriage, and surrounded by persons who took care of her; and her pleasure was enhanced by the thought of the delightful time they should pass at Béville. The following day the louis was sent to Mathurine by a confidential person.
Madame de Livonne only required rest, and was soon perfectly restored. M. and Madame de Béville, greatly pleased with the principles she had impressed upon the mind of her daughter, and knowing besides that she was well educated, and very talented, told her that, as they could not obtain in the country, where they lived the greater part of the year, such masters as they wished for their daughter, they would be delighted if she would remain with them, and assist them in her education. Madame de Livonne, although for herself she would have preferred her independence, nevertheless accepted a proposition, which insured to Euphemia a happier existence, and probably, also, a valuable protection.
As to Euphemia, she was delighted beyond measure at the thought of having to live with Mademoiselle de Béville, with whom she had already formed a most intimate friendship; and while rejoicing with her mother at this good fortune, she remarked that it would not have happened to them, if they had been so weak as to change Mathurine's louis d'or.
"We have done our duty," she added, "and God has rewarded us."
"My child," said her mother, "our present situation is a blessing bestowed on us by God, but not a reward."
"And why so, mamma?"
"Because this is not the kind of recompense he assigns to the fulfilment of duty. Do you remember the lines I made you read to me the other day from an English book?—
'What! then is the reward of virtue bread?'[A]
[A] Pope. "Essay on Man."
"It is not by giving to the virtuous the means of living, that God rewards them, but by giving them the satisfaction of having done their duty, and obeyed his will. This, sometimes, is their only reward in the present world; sometimes, even, they are unhappy during the whole of their lives: do you suppose from this that God is unjust to them?"
"No, mamma."
"And do you not think that among these virtuous yet afflicted people, there must have been many who have had much more difficult duties to fulfil than ours, and who have fulfilled them without obtaining those things which you look upon as a reward?"
"Oh, certainly, mamma."
"It is not, then, probable, that God has wished to reward us, in preference to others, who have better merited a recompense."
"But, mamma, nevertheless, it is because we have done our duty, that we are now so happy."
"Yes, my child; and things like this should often happen, for a very simple reason. God, who has willed that the accomplishment of our duties should be rewarded by peace of mind, has also permitted that happiness should usually be the portion of those who take the most pains to attain it. Now, it is certain, that he who feels no hesitation in neglecting his duty, will not, in a case of emergency, trouble himself with the search of any more difficult resource than this."
"That is quite clear."
"Whereas, he who is anxious not to fail in his duty, will exert all the energies of his mind, in order to discover some other means of success; and as the Gospel says, 'Seek, and ye shall find.' Thus it may often happen, that the efforts we make to avoid a breach of duty, enable us to discover many important resources, which would not otherwise have occurred to us."
"Yes, mamma, just as with the pound of gooseberries. And if, also, when I saw you so ill, I had considered myself justified in making use of Mathurine's louis, I should not have thought of addressing myself to Madame de Béville, which has been so much more advantageous to us."
At this moment, the poor woman whom they had met upon the road presented herself. Her child was quite restored, and she herself, though still very thin, appeared happy. The Curé had at first relieved her, and afterwards sent her to a manufactory, where she obtained employment. Assured of a subsistence, she had come to announce her happiness to those who had been the means of procuring it, and to bring her child for Mademoiselle Euphemia to kiss, now that he had become handsome again.
"Mamma! mamma," said Euphemia, overwhelming it with caresses, "it is still because you would not change Mathurine's louis, that you sent them to the Curé. Oh! how much good this louis has done us!"
Here M. de Cideville paused.
"Is that all?" asked Ernestine.
"Yes," replied her father, "I think that is the whole history of the louis d'or; and that from old Mathurine it has come to me, without any adventures."
"And now, papa," said Ernestine, "you forbade me to question you until the end of the story; but is it not true, that you do not know whether all the adventures you have related, have really happened to the louis d'or you showed me?"
M. de Cideville smiled, and said, "It is true that I do not exactly know whether these adventures have really happened; but you must allow that they are possible." Ernestine assented.
"You must also allow, that if some of them are rather romantic, some at least are probable, and may have occurred without any very extraordinary combination of accidents." She again assented.
"Well, then, my child," replied M. de Cideville, "it is partly for want of knowing the truth, and partly for want of sufficient imagination to supply its place, that I have not related many other histories, all more simple and more interesting than my own, in which you might have seen a louis d'or, or even a much smaller sum, prevent the greatest misfortunes. Picture to yourself a family which had eaten nothing for three days: can you imagine the delight with which they would receive a louis d'or, which would afford them time to await, without dying, such other assistance as might save them entirely? And again, the unhappy wretch whose reason has been so far disturbed by excess of misery, that he is led to attempt his own life, can you doubt that a louis d'or, by delaying the moment, would often give him time to return to calmer feelings, and seek some better resource than an act of crime? I give you only two examples, but I repeat, that there are thousands remaining, of which it would be impossible to think, without losing every wish to spend such a sum in a frivolous manner."
"But, papa," said Ernestine, "is it then never allowable to spend a louis on pleasure?"
"My child," said M. de Cideville, "if we impose upon ourselves restrictions too severe, on one point, we run the risk of failing in others. There are duties proportioned to every situation in life. It is proper that those who enjoy a certain degree of affluence, should occupy in the world a position suitable to their means, and also that they should mix in society, which they cannot do without some expense; for it is highly important that society should be kept up, since it binds men together, and gives them opportunities of mutually instructing each other. It is also good for the poor, because the expenses of the rich give them the means of exerting their industry, and maintaining their families. It is necessary, too, that those employed in important labours, as I am every morning in my study, should be able sometimes to repose the mind by occupations of a less serious nature, as otherwise they would end by losing the means of fulfilling the duties of their station. It is for reasons of this kind that many expenses which do not appear directly useful, are nevertheless proper and necessary. But a mind accustomed to judge of the real value of things, will easily draw a distinction between money spent in this manner, and that which is thrown into the sea, as the saying is; and while such a person will never feel tempted to indulge in expenses of the latter kind, he will permit himself to enjoy the others without remorse. I know very well, my dear Ernestine, that you may easily deceive yourself in regard to your pleasures: at your age, every pleasure appears of great importance; but I am anxious that you should at least understand the value of what you bestow upon it; therefore, I promise to give you this louis as soon as you have found a really useful means of employing it."
Ernestine, quite enchanted, promised to seek one; we shall see whether she succeeded in her search.