THE PRINCESS.
"This is really insupportable," said Adela, walking, in a hurried manner, from the window overlooking the court, to the terrace which led into the garden.
"What is the matter?" said her mother, who entered at the moment and overheard her.
"Why, you see, mamma," replied Adela, a little confused, "it is past ten o'clock,—(it was five minutes over the hour,)—and papa is not returned from hunting. We shall never get our breakfast."
"Do you think so? that would be very unfortunate, certainly."
"But papa said he would be back by ten o'clock."
"Certainly, five minutes longer are too much to be endured."
"Mamma! I am hungry."
"Well, my dear, you are not obliged to wait for our breakfast; the bread is upon the table, you can take as much as you please; it is surely better to breakfast upon dry bread than bear any longer what is insupportable."
Adela made no reply; for she must have confessed that although she was hungry enough to complain, she was not hungry enough to breakfast on dry bread, which would have been a proof that she was complaining about a mere trifle. This was Adela's chief defect. The least disappointment appeared to her, to use her habitual expression, insupportable. For the slightest indisposition or hurt, she would lament, disturb everybody, and require to be pitied,—not that she so much feared pain, but that whatever incommoded or put her the least out of her way, seemed to her the most grievous and extraordinary thing possible. She must be attended to at the very moment appointed, even things that did not depend on any one must fall out precisely as she desired, or all was wrong. Her nurse used to laugh at her, and say that it was very wrong of the rain to come on the day she wished to go out; for it seemed, in fact, as if every thing must happen so as to suit her convenience and fancy; nor did she seem able to bear the consequences even of what she had most desired, as soon as they occasioned her the slightest inconvenience. Thus, for example, she would take a long walk, and as soon as she began to feel fatigued, she would complain as if others were in fault. She would repeat fifty times over, "This tiresome château will never come," for she seemed almost to believe that the château ought to come to her. She considered herself much aggrieved when her mother would not permit her to hang on her arm, or lean on her sister's shoulder; for her only concern was for herself. Thus she could not conceive why they should do without the carriage when the horses were engaged in helping to bring home the hay; or why her nurse was not ready to dress her, when she had been sent out on a message to the village. Her little sister Amelia would sometimes say, "Adela is always sure of having some one to love her, for she loves herself so well."
This remark Amelia had probably heard from some of the servants, for those even who were attached to Adela, in consequence of the kindness of her parents, were so provoked by her ill-humour and exacting disposition, that they lost no opportunity of laughing at her expense. Her mother endeavoured to make her feel the absurdity of her conduct, and when she heard her complain of some trifling inconvenience, as for example, of being obliged to fetch her bonnet, which Amelia had taken up stairs to their room, by mistake, she said to her:
"Adela, does it hurt your feet to walk up stairs to your room?"
"No, mamma; but——"
"Or perhaps you are afraid of meeting by the way a wolf that will eat you up?"
Adela would have shrugged her shoulders if she had dared.
"Surely, my dear, it must cause you some great pain, otherwise you would not be so displeased about the matter."
"But, mamma! it puts me out of the way."
"And does it hurt you to be put out of the way?"
"I don't like it."
"Why not, if it does you no harm?"
Adela could find nothing more to say, excepting that "Amelia might have spared herself the trouble of taking it up stairs." Then Madame de Vaucourt would no longer listen to her; she merely took care that no one should suffer from her ill-humour, or pay any attention to it. However, it often happened that the servants, in order to get rid of her, did immediately what she required, and little Amelia who loved above all things to laugh and be merry, and who hated to hear complaints, was extremely afraid of doing any thing that might displease her sister.
Monsieur and Madame de Vaucourt saw very little society in the country. It happened, however, that a Polish Princess, with whom they had been formerly acquainted, having arrived in Paris, sent them word that she would come and spend a week with them. At this news the children were in the greatest commotion. Adela, like most little girls, imagined that a princess must be a very extraordinary personage, and Amelia could not picture her otherwise than in dresses embroidered with gold. Adela had no doubt that her mother would order a new bonnet for her on the occasion, and inquired how she was to dress during the princess' visit. She was astonished when her mother, laughing at her, told her she was to dress just as usual. "What, mamma! even in my common cambric frock for the morning?" Her mother assured her that she saw nothing in her dress that required change. This time Adela was indeed out of humour; she was seriously grieved even, but she dared not show her feelings, because she saw that she should be laughed at. However, during the whole week which preceded the arrival of the princess, she was more than ever inclined to indulge in her habitual complaints, crying out, whenever any one came near her, that they would soil her dress, and screaming aloud if a drop of rain touched her bonnet. Little Amelia said it was because she was afraid it would not be nice enough for the arrival of the princess, and also remarked that her sister, who could never be persuaded to put on a pair of shoes in the least worn down at heel, pretending that she could not walk in them, during this whole week wore none but old shoes, in order to keep the new ones for the arrival of the princess.
At last the princess came. The little girls, who were upon the terrace, were greatly astonished to find her dressed much in the same style as their mamma, but then she had a coat of arms on her carriage, and the liveries of her servants were richly laced; this greatly impressed Adela, who had besides been so long prepared to consider her as a person of great importance, that she could not give up the idea she had formed. When therefore little Stanislas, the son of the princess, trod on her foot, in coming up the steps, Adela, for the first time in her life, bore the accident without a murmur. Nay, more, for when her sister happened accidentally to strike her elbow in passing quickly into the drawing-room after the princess, in order to obtain a better view of her, Adela opened her lips to complain, but immediately checked herself, on finding that the princess looked round at the moment.
Scarcely had they entered the room when the princess' little dog put its paws into Adela's work-basket, threw down her thimble, her scissors, and needle-case, and scampered about the room, carrying her work in his mouth, and shaking it about his ears. Amelia screamed. On ordinary occasions such a misfortune would have been a subject of distress and lamentation for an hour, but Adela did not give way to anger. She picked up all her things, ran after the dog, but not too hastily, for fear of appearing out of temper, and although when she at last caught him, she was quite crimson with impatience, she did not say a single word to Stanislas, who was laughing heartily at the trouble she had to get back her work. Stanislas asked to go into the garden, and upon Madame de Vaucourt's desiring her daughters to accompany him, Adela did not begin by replying that he could go very well by himself. When in the garden, Stanislas, who was a spoiled child, threw sand into her shoes, without her uttering a complaint, and on her return to the drawing-room the first thing he did was to seat himself in the chair which she had appropriated to herself, and which was a continual source of disputes between her and her sister, whom she would never allow to sit in it, except by Madame de Vaucourt's express command. Amelia, who began to be on familiar terms with Stanislas, pulled him by the arm, saying, "Come away, that is my sister's chair," and Adela, quite ashamed, touched her sister's arm, and whispered to her to mind her own business.
"But he is upon your chair," said Amelia.
"What is that to you?"
"Oh! very well, then I shall sit there after him;" and as soon as Stanislas quitted the chair, she took possession of it, while Adela, in the presence of the princess, did not even think of preventing her. Amelia soon left the chair, to run and take from Stanislas her sister's draught-board, which he was preparing to open. "I want to play with the draughts," cried the little fellow, while Amelia exclaimed in return, "But my sister will not let any one touch them." Adela, quite alarmed at the idea the princess might form of her, hastened to take the draught-board from the hands of Amelia and gave it to Stanislas.
"Very well, then, I shall play with them too," said Amelia. Stanislas began to roll the draughts about on the floor. Amelia at first tried to check him, and then began rolling them still faster herself. When he was tired of playing with them, she wished to persuade him to put them away in order, but he dragged her to the garden, and called out from the door, that they must leave the draughts where they were, as he meant to come back and play with them again. The next day two of them were missing. Amelia came to tell the news, looking terribly frightened, and as no one seemed to listen with much attention, she said, "But they belong to my sister's draught-board?"
"What does that signify?" said Adela quickly.
"Ah! if I had lost them!" said Amelia: but a sign from her sister imposed silence on her.
"Adela seems very gentle and sensible," observed the princess. Adela cast down her eyes, not daring to look at her mother or sister.
All this lasted several days. At table, Madame de Vaucourt's old servant, who was not very alert, and had more to do than usual, could not wait on Adela as attentively as on other occasions, and was surprised not to hear her say sharply, "Chambéri, do you not mean to give me a plate?" He remarked to her, "Gracious! Miss Adela, how gentle and well-behaved you have become lately!" "That is because she is afraid of the princess," said the mischievous little Amelia, laughing. Adela, who began to lose patience, was sometimes on the point of forgetting herself, but Amelia would then take flight and run into the drawing-room, laughing, as she knew that Adela would not venture to scold her there, while Stanislas, of whom she had made an intimate friend, joined in her laughter without understanding its cause. Adela, though burning with impatience, endeavoured to smile lest some indiscretion on Amelia's part might betray to others the cause of her ill-humour. Her temper, however, would have obtained the mastery at last; and she was beginning sometimes to treat Stanislas and the little dog rather harshly, when, fortunately, the princess took her departure. For the first few days afterwards the effect of the habit which Adela had acquired of restraining her temper was still visible; but as Amelia had also got the habit of fearing her less, and laughing at her, it was not long before the old disputes were renewed. They first began about the chair, which Amelia took without ceremony, even removing her sister's work, which had been left there, as if to keep the place in her absence.
Adela became angry. "I thought that fancy was over?" said Madame de Vaucourt.
"Oh, mamma," replied Amelia, "that was only on account of the princess."
Madame de Vaucourt observed that Adela must have felt there was something very absurd in such childishness, since she was ashamed to show it before the princess; and she hoped, therefore, that they should hear no more of it. The argument was unanswerable, and besides Madame de Vaucourt's tone forbade reply. Adela therefore contented herself with leaving the room, slamming the door with all her might. Her mother called her back.
"My dear," she said, "when the princess was here you used to shut the doors gently, and as that proves to me that you can do so without great inconvenience, I beg you will do it in future."
Thus obliged to close the door quietly, Adela went into the garden to exhale her ill-temper, since she saw that it was now determined to allow no excuse for it. During their evening walk, it happened that the path they had to take was very dirty. Adela said it was insupportable.
"Surely," replied her mother, "you do not mean to let that disturb you? The other day when we were walking with the princess, the mud was ten times as bad, yet you never made the least complaint."
"I found it very disagreeable though."
"Why then did you not complain?"
"It was not necessary."
"And is it necessary to-day?"
"Must one never say a word then about what is unpleasant?" replied Adela in a very impatient tone.
"I would ask you that question, my dear; you best know the reasons which induced you to refrain from murmuring whilst the princess was present."
After some reflection, Adela could find nothing better to say than that her mother had enjoined her to behave well before strangers. Madame de Vaucourt observed that she had enjoined her to behave well at all times. "But," she added, "since you think you ought to refrain from complaints in order to maintain a proper appearance before strangers, why did you, when you cut yourself the other day, whilst the princess was present, say that you were hurt, and hold your finger in water, and then keep it wrapped up in a handkerchief for an hour?"
"But, mamma, it pained me very much."
"You believe then that one may complain before strangers of things which give real pain? Suppose now that you had received a letter from the school, saying that your brother was ill, would you not have thought it allowable to show your grief on such an occasion before the princess?"
"Yes, indeed, mamma," replied Adela quickly.
"You see then that when we suffer real evils we may complain of them before strangers, it is only when things are too trifling to deserve notice, that it is ridiculous to make complaints in their presence, and since they do not deserve notice, it is just as ridiculous to complain of them when strangers are not present."
Adela might not perhaps have been convinced by this reasoning, but thenceforth whenever she said that anything was insupportable, her mother replied, "You did not find it so when the princess was here." Nor would Amelia suffer herself to be harshly treated without talking of the princess: even Chambéri, if Adela scolded him, would say, "Ah! Miss Adela, I see we want the princess here again." Adela began to be terribly annoyed with this raillery; then she got frightened, lest from its being so often repeated it might at last reach the ears of the princess; so that to avoid these constant allusions to her name, she endeavoured to be less impatient. When she had once become convinced that it was possible to repress her angry feelings, she found it was easy to do so; she perceived that three fourths of the things which vexed her, were in reality of no consequence to her, and that the only real harm she experienced from them, was that which she inflicted on herself by losing her temper. Some years afterwards, she saw the princess again, and could not help blushing a little when she thought of all the taunts which her first visit had brought upon her; but these things were now forgotten by her friends, for Adela had ceased to be a grumbler.
"Well!" said the Curé to Juliana, when he had finished his story. "What do you think of it?"
"I think," replied Juliana, a little discontented, "that she was a very ridiculous girl with her princess."
"What! ridiculous for correcting herself?"
"No, but for doing so on account of the princess."
"When we correct our faults it must be for some motive."
"There are many more important motives," said Juliana a little proudly, "which ought to have induced her to correct herself."
"Since you are so well acquainted with these things, Miss Juliana, let me know them," said the Curé, "and we will make a story about them."
"A story?" asked Juliana, uncertain whether to laugh or be offended.
"Certainly: I shall begin it from the point where Miss Juliana made the discovery that there were many good reasons for inducing her to correct her faults, and I shall terminate it by saying—Miss Juliana, whose only serious fault was that of losing her temper when anything was disagreeable to her, corrected herself completely, and became a most amiable young lady."
At this moment, the two little boys, quite disappointed that the Curé would not admit them to his conversation with Juliana, came to teaze him to tell them at least the story. "You shall hear it," he said, "when you have quite left off tormenting your sister," for in correcting Juliana he would not encourage bad habits in her brothers; then turning towards her, "you know now, Miss Juliana, what you have to do in order to silence them."
"That will not be giving them much trouble, at all events," said Juliana.
"But who will have the advantage?" said the Curé; and Juliana appeared pleased at the idea of being some day free from a defect which made her pass many unhappy moments; besides she felt touched and flattered by the pains which the Curé took to be useful to her.
It began to rain; Juliana, whose bonnet was almost new, was anxious to return to the house; but before they could reach it they had to cross a large flower garden, and in an instant the shower became so violent that it was impossible to escape it. Juliana, in running, caught in some trellis work, which tore her dress and threw her down. The Curé, though not running, came up however in time to assist her in rising, and thinking her much disposed to be angry, said to her, "Providence has soon given you an opportunity, Miss Juliana, of introducing a fine passage into our story."
Juliana had sufficient command over herself to make no reply, and that was a great deal for her, as besides spoiling her bonnet, and tearing her frock, she was covered with dirt from head to foot, and had also hurt her knee in her fall. The Curé gave her his arm to assist her to the house, and she might have remarked that although by touching her he had soiled the sleeve and skirt of his coat, and that on their way she had accidentally splashed some water into his shoe and almost filled it, he did not show the slightest mark of displeasure. When, however, they entered the drawing-room, and Zemira came jumping upon her to testify his joy at seeing her again, she was very near giving him a kick, but she checked herself, and the Curé who observed this, said to her, "I shall write on my tablets that Zemira did not receive a kick." If Juliana smiled, it was perhaps against her will, and her brothers, who now entered and began laughing when they saw the plight she was in, would no doubt have felt the weight of her long repressed vexation, if the Curé had not said, "I perceive, Miss Juliana, that these little rogues will not deserve to hear the story of the princess, till you have succeeded in curing them of their faults." Juliana made her escape to her own room, where she changed her dress, not, it is suspected, without more than once showing her impatience to her nurse, who was eagerly busied in assisting her. At all events it is certain that when she came down stairs, and her mother had complimented her on the patience with which she had endured her accident, Juliana could not help blushing.
From that day forward, whenever the Curé came to the château, he asked Juliana if there was anything to be added to the story; sometimes Juliana shook her head, having nothing good to relate; at others, she would smile, because she felt satisfied with herself. On such occasions, she liked to converse with the Curé about the temptations to which she had been exposed; but in recounting them she found them far less serious than they had appeared at the time, and felt more completely how foolish it would have been to have yielded to them. This confirmed her in her good resolutions; and she was further confirmed in them by the satisfaction which her friends testified in her improvement. She afterwards went with her parents to Paris, and remained there three years; during which time she kept up a regular correspondence with the Curé of Chavignat. On her return she was seventeen, and felt happy in the thought that he would find her cured of her childish fault. Amadeus, instead of teazing, now treated her with respect, for she no longer scolded him unjustly; he was consequently accustomed to listen to her when she warned him gently of any fault. Neither did she make any difficulty in relating to him the story of the princess; and Amadeus, when talking of it to the Curé on the day of his return, said, "At all events Juliana was never so disagreeable as that;" and the good Curé rejoiced to find that Juliana's defects were so well concealed that they had even been forgotten. During this time Juliana was looking for her bag, which she had mislaid, and although it was half-an-hour before she could find it, and Paul was all the while tormenting her with a thousand childish tricks, she was not in the least put out of temper.
"Since my story is so well ended, Miss Juliana," said the Curé, when she had found her bag, "pray inform me how you have managed to bring things to so satisfactory a conclusion."
Juliana blushed and smiled as she replied, "By being always, thanks to you, Monsieur le Curé, so full of the desire of being reasonable, that it drove out of my head whatever might have prevented me from keeping my resolution."
[The Double Vow.]
Henry was a youth of fifteen, which is as much as to say that he had good intentions, but did not always carry them out in practice. He loved his father and his tutor, but he loved his pleasures still more; he would have done anything to make them happy, but he did not give them the greatest of all happiness, that of seeing him docile and well-conducted. The impetuosity of his disposition often drew from those he loved bitter tears, which in the end made his own flow. His life was thus divided between faults and repentance; and his good intentions were so continually rendered useless by reprehensible actions, that his friends at last gave up all hopes of his amendment. His father, the Count of A——, was constantly thinking, with increasing anxiety, of the time when Henry must leave him to enter the university, or to travel. The paths of vice would then present themselves to him under the most seductive aspects, and there would no longer be the hand of a father to restrain or his voice to call him back; he might fall deeper and deeper into error, and return to the paternal mansion with a heart corrupted, despoiled of its purity and elevation, and incapable even of that feeling which is at least the reflection of virtue—repentance.
The count was of a mild but feeble character, and his health was delicate; the death of the countess, his wife, had mined beneath his feet the ground on which he rested. Henry, on the return of his father's birthday, fancied that he could hear a secret voice saying to him, "The fragile layer of earth which bears thy father, and separates him from thy mother's ashes, will soon crumble away, and he will disappear from thy view without carrying with him to the tomb the hope of thy amendment." This day he shed burning tears; but what avail tears and softened feelings when they do not produce amendment? He went into the park where stood the tomb of his mother, together with the empty sepulchre which, during an illness, his father had caused to be constructed for himself. There, he made a solemn vow to combat the violence of his temper and his love of pleasure; but, alas! I should too deeply grieve my young readers were I to relate in detail how only a few days before that appointed for his going to the university, he was guilty of a fault which cruelly pierced the heart of his unhappy father, already so deeply wounded. The count fell ill, and was confined to his bed without being able to flatter himself with the hope that he might witness the return of his son to virtue, before he was called upon to exchange his melancholy couch for the bed of stone which awaited him in the park.
I will not then describe to you either the fault or the regret of Henry; but in passing a severe judgment on his errors you may as well extend it also to those of which at any time you may yourselves have been guilty. What child can approach the dying bed of his parents, without saying to himself, "Alas! if I have not deprived them of whole years of life, who knows by how many weeks or days I may not have shortened their term? I may perhaps have added to the sufferings which now I would so gladly have mitigated, and my follies may have closed before their time those eyes which, but for me, might still enjoy the light of day!" It is because the fatal consequences of our faults are concealed from view that reckless mortals are so bold in the commission of crimes: man gives free scope to the ungoverned desires of his heart, as he might let loose a set of ferocious animals; he permits them under favour of the darkness to wander amongst mankind; but he sees not how many innocent people are wounded or torn to pieces: he madly flings around him burning brands, lighted by guilty passions, and when he has already sunk into the tomb, the neighbouring houses on which the fatal spark has alighted, burst into flames, and the dense column of smoke hovers over the place of his repose like a monument raised to his shame.
Henry, when all hope of recovery was at an end, could no longer support the melancholy and care-worn aspect of his father: he remained in the adjacent chamber, and there, whilst the count's ebbing life was struggling against repeated fainting-fits, he addressed his silent prayers to Heaven, closed his eyes to the future, and dreaded, like the explosion of a terrible shell, those first awful words, "He is dead." The time, however, came when he must present himself before his father, take leave of him, receive his forgiveness, and give him his promise of amendment.
Alone in the apartment adjoining that of the invalid, he had roused himself from a long and painful stupor: he listened, and heard only the voice of his aged tutor, who had been his father's preceptor also, and who, now seeing the approach of the shadows of death, gave him his blessing in these words: "Go calmly to thy sleep, virtuous soul! May all thy good actions, all thy promises fulfilled, all thy pious thoughts, be gathered around thee at the close of life, as the beautiful clouds of evening gather round the sun when sinking in the west! Smile once more if you can hear my words, and if your dying heart has still the power of feeling." The invalid made an effort to rouse himself from the heavy sleep of his swoon, but he did not smile, for, in the confusion of his senses, he had mistaken the voice of his preceptor for that of his son. "Henry," he stammered in imperfect accents, "I cannot see you, but I hear you. Lay your hand on my heart, and solemnly promise me that you will become virtuous." Henry rushed forward to make this promise, but the preceptor had already placed his hand on the fluttering heart of the father, and, with a sign to the son, said, in a low voice, "I promise for you." The heart of the count was still beating with that slow and languid motion which announces the near extinction of life; he neither heard the vow, nor the friends who surrounded him.
Henry, sinking under this heart-rending scene, and trembling for that which must succeed it, resolved to quit the château, and not return till the most agonizing hours of his affliction should have passed away, but he felt that this amendment must not commence by a secret flight. He therefore announced to his preceptor, "that he could no longer support this dreadful sight, but that he would return in a week," and then he added, in a voice choked with grief, "I shall still find a father here." He embraced him, told him where he meant to seclude himself, and left the house.
With faltering steps he traversed the park. He perceived the two white sepulchres visible through the trees, and approached them. Not daring to touch the yet empty tomb beneath which his father was to repose, he leaned against the one which covered a heart which he had not broken, that of his mother, whom he had lost many years before. On that mother's tomb, and in the presence of God, he renewed his vow of amendment.
Every step he took brought back the memory of his errors; a child led by his father, a pit, a fading leaf, the sound of a church-bell, all awakened the most painful recollections.
He reached the place of his retreat, but after four days of remorse, of tears and of anguish, he felt that he ought to return to the château, and prove the sincerity of his regret for the loss of his father by imitating his virtues. The most noble commemoration that man can offer to those whom he has loved, and whose loss he deplores, is to dry the tears of those who suffer;—a series of good works is the fairest garland that can be suspended over their tombs.
Henry again turned his steps homewards: it was evening when he crossed the park; and the dusky pyramid which surmounted his father's tomb looked through the trees, like one of those grey clouds which float in the azure sky, over the blackened ruins of a village destroyed by fire. Henry stopped: he leaned his head against the cold marble, his face bathed with tears, but there was no gentle voice to bid him "be consoled." No father there to show his affection by tenderly repeating, "I pardon thee." The rustling of the leaves sounded to him as a murmur of anger, and the obscurity of the evening chilled him with the terror of some horrible gloom. However, he recovered himself, and renewed in these words the vow which his tutor had pronounced in his name: "Oh! father! dear father! Do you hear your poor child who is weeping over your grave? Look at me; on my knees I implore your forgiveness, I promise to fulfil the vow which my tutor pronounced for me upon your dying heart. Oh father! father!"—here grief stifled his voice—"will you not give your child some token of your forgiveness!"
A rustling among the leaves was audible, a figure slowly advancing put aside the branches, and said, "I have pardoned you." It was his father! That which is intermediate between sleep and death, a deep swoon, had restored him to life by throwing him into a salutary lethargy. It was the first time he had been out, and he came, accompanied by his ancient preceptor, to offer his thanks on his tomb. Tender father! if thou hadst indeed passed into another world, thy heart could not thus have throbbed with joy, nor thine eyes shed tears of happiness, on the return of a penitent son who came to cast at thy feet a regenerate man!
I cannot draw the curtain over this affecting scene, without addressing one important question to my young readers. Are you still so happy as to possess a father and a mother, to whom you may afford inexpressible joy by your affection and your good conduct? Ah! if any one of you has hitherto neglected to procure them this felicity, I will take upon me the office of a conscience which cannot fail some day to awaken, and I tell him that a time will come when nothing can afford him consolation if he has to say to himself, "They loved me above all things, yet I have seen them expire without having given them the happiness of being able to say, My child is virtuous."
[Poor José.]
On the 15th of May, 1801, an honest, but wretched woman breathed her last, in a garret of one of the highest houses in the Rue Saint-Honoré. She was still young; but misery more than sickness had rendered her condition hopeless. Stretched, since the morning, without food, upon a bed of straw, her strength was nearly exhausted; and she already was speechless, when the cries of her only child, a boy of about six years of age, attracted the neighbours, as well as the portress of the house. Their assistance, however, was of no avail. The poor creature expired without having the power to utter a single word, and her eyes closed in death while still fixed upon her child, whose tears had already ceased to flow on beholding himself thus surrounded. The portress took him in her arms, and kissed him. "Poor little José!" she said. "Poor José!" repeated the neighbours, and taking the child, they left the garret, to go and consult with Dame Robert, a shoemaker, and owner of a shop six feet square, attached to the same house. She was the friend and adviser of all who lived near her: the most trifling circumstances were referred to her superior judgment, and, in the present embarrassment, it was to her that the neighbours turned to decide on the fate of the unfortunate orphan. Before revealing the result of this noisy conference, we will relate in a few words the melancholy, but too common history, of the parents of poor José.
His father, a native of Annecy, in Savoy, was named Joseph Berr, or José, according to the patois of the province. The name, thus corrupted, is so common in that part of the country, that, if ignorant of a man's name, one may call him José, without being often wrong; and, under all circumstances, the appellation is received with pleasure. José Berr, then, possessed the usual qualities of his countrymen; he was honest, intelligent, and energetic. He had lately married, and not finding sufficient work to maintain his little family in comfort, he, like many other ignorant people, committed the folly of going to settle in Paris, after having expended in a long and wearisome journey, one half of his little store. The simple-hearted Berr firmly believed that he should make his fortune; but he soon found that, if a large city does offer great resources, there are also obstacles to be met with on all sides. He wished to station himself at the corner of a street, to do porter's work, but he found the ground already occupied by rivals, who determined to beat him off the field. They would have nothing to say to the new comer, and it was not until he had expended what was to him a considerable sum, in treating the whole party at a tavern, that he obtained the honour of being admitted into their fraternity. But as, at the corner of almost every street, companies of porters are to be met with, similar to the one into which Berr was received, the profits, consequently, were very trifling, while living in Paris is very dear. His wife, on her side, endeavoured to work, but having neither acquaintances nor patrons, and obliged, moreover, to take care of little José, who was just born, she earned still less than her husband. For some years, this unfortunate family thus struggled against poverty, Berr often repenting that he had left his native town, where, if he did not earn much, he was at least sure of being employed and assisted. Finally, at the close of a severe winter, during which he had made redoubled efforts to obtain a subsistence for his wife and child, Berr was seized with inflammation of the chest, and died in four days' time for want of proper care. From that moment, his wife languished, and unable to endure this loss, and the privations of all kinds which were hourly increasing, she terminated her miserable existence, as we have already seen.
In the meantime, the council of neighbours, assembled at Dame Robert's, deliberated, without coming to any conclusion, upon the fate of little José, who, without troubling himself as to the future, was quietly sleeping in the shoemaker's shop. The charity and the means of most of these women were about sufficient to make them willing to keep the child for a week, but not longer. One had a large family, another was in service. A moment's silence ensued; then a voice uttered the word "Workhouse." "The workhouse!" exclaimed Dame Robert, with indignation. "Send this poor little innocent, the only child of these worthy people to the workhouse! No, you shall not go to the workhouse, my little cherub," she continued, taking up the sleeping José; "I have five children of my own, but you shall share their bread, even if I have to work an hour more morning and evening, I will take care of you until you can provide for yourself; and God will help me."
The idea of the workhouse, so distressing to the poor, had greatly excited Dame Robert, but the kindness of her heart soon confirmed her generous promise. Left alone with the child, after being overwhelmed with praise by her neighbours, who envied her the good action, which they had not themselves courage to perform, she laid the little orphan in the same bed with her own boys, and retired to rest with the satisfaction of having done her duty.
The good done by the poor is more meritorious, and requires more self-denial, than that done by others; for their charity is always at the expense of necessaries, while that of the rich takes from nothing but their superfluity. Dame Robert had recently become a widow. Her small business was tolerably flourishing; but to suffice for the maintenance of a sixth child, she made it a rule to work, as she had said, an hour longer morning and evening. This was a great deal for her, who, with the care of her six children, her work and her business, could only obtain these two additional hours by taking them from her time of rest.
The produce of this surplus labour was amply sufficient for the maintenance of a child so young as José; besides, Dame Robert was not a woman to spoil him any more than the rest, for all her kindness of heart did not prevent her from displaying the roughness of manner so common to her class; his share of potatoes was the same as those of the two younger children; he occupied the small space left in the poor bed provided for them; and when the six little rogues made too much noise, broke anything, or drank the milk of Dame Robert's favourite cat, the reproofs and thumps which followed these misdeeds were equally distributed between José and his adopted brothers. As to the rest, Providence seemed willing to reward the good shoemaker for her humanity. The labour of the two additional hours was scarcely sufficient to satisfy her numerous customers; and, as she herself observed to her neighbours, who were astonished at her constant cheerfulness, "I laugh to see the people passing and repassing in such a hurry, little thinking that by wearing out their shoes they are helping to make my pot boil."
José was beloved by all his little comrades on account of his gentle and obliging disposition; but he was more especially the friend of Philip, the youngest of Dame Robert's children. Somewhat older than José, Philip protected him in their quarrels, gave him the best of everything, and became seriously angry whenever any one called him the little Savoyard, this appellation appearing to him insulting, without his very well knowing why. However, as the children grew older, Philip had no longer any need of exerting his influence for the protection of José. The intelligence of the latter had developed so much, and rendered him so far superior to his young friends, that he assumed over them that kind of ascendancy which the grossest minds cannot refuse to superior intellect, when it does not interfere with their own self-respect.
José had just attained his eighth year; he was small for his age, but strong and active. Dame Robert had neither the means nor the capacity to bestow upon him any education beyond some notions of religion, rather limited, it is true, but still sufficient for his age. The whole moral code of this worthy woman was contained in these four sentences, which she was incessantly repeating to her children, and which they always beheld her put in practice:—
"Be thankful to God for the bread he gives you.
"Never tell a lie, even to gain your bread.
"Earn your bread honestly, otherwise it will profit you nothing.
"When you are grown up, return to your father and mother the bread they have given to you."
It may be seen, that if Dame Robert was not possessed of much eloquence, the principles which guided her conduct were just and solid, and that their correct application was sufficient to direct her children in the narrow path they were destined to tread.
"Now, my boy!" she said, one Sunday morning, taking José upon her knees, "we have something besides sport to think about to-day; you are now eight years old, and you may, in your turn, begin to assist me as I have assisted you. There are no idlers with Dame Robert. My eldest boys have begun their apprenticeship; Philip goes of my errands; and of you I intend to make a little shoe-black, who will bring home every night the pence he has earned in the day. See! here is the little box I have bought for you."
José was enchanted at these words. How delightful to be able, at his age, to earn money, to be useful to his kind mother; for the tenderness of his little heart made him already feel this joy. It must also be owned, that the seductive idea of being almost his own master, and of being able to go through a few streets when executing commissions, delighted him beyond measure, and made him eagerly accept Dame Robert's plan; and he immediately ran to admire his little shoe-cleaning apparatus. Nothing had been forgotten; the box, two hard brushes, two soft brushes, a little knife, some blacking, some spirit for the tops of the boots, a supply of rags, and a vessel to contain water; these articles comprised the whole of José's new possessions. They were looked at, touched, and turned about, not only by himself, but by the other children also; while José, impatient to make use of them at once, wanted to clean all the dirty shoes in the house, and Dame Robert decided, if he succeeded in this his first attempt, that he should the next day be established sole master of his brushes, on the grand Place du Musée. José, full of zeal, immediately set to work, aided by the advice of his brothers and sisters. The first pair turned out badly: José cut the strings; at the second attempt he gave his hand a great scratch, but this only proved that his knife was good, so he did not cry. Finally, he succeeded very well with the third pair, better with the next, and still better with the succeeding one; so that, when he came to Philip's shoes, which he intentionally reserved till the last, the young novice executed what the apprentices term their masterpiece, and it was therefore decided that he might exercise his talents in public.
It was with difficulty that José closed his eyes that night, and when he did sleep he beheld in his dreams more than one passer-by stop before him to require the exercise of his skill. As I have already said, Dame Robert lived in the Rue Saint-Honoré, near the corner of the Rue Froidmanteau; and, although but a short time has elapsed since the period at which little José commenced his labours, this part of Paris then bore no resemblance to what it is at the present day. The wide and handsome street leading from the Carrousel to the Place du Musée did not then exist, and the Place du Musée itself terminated in a rapid descent at the end of the Rue Froidmanteau, while this narrow, low, and always dirty street was almost the only thoroughfare leading to the Louvre in this direction. Nevertheless it was the one usually taken by the artists who were attracted either by business or pleasure to the Palace of the Louvre, in which at that time, as now, the exhibition of pictures was held, and in which, moreover, were situated the free academy for drawing, the rooms for the exhibition of prize pictures, both of which have been removed elsewhere, as well as the studios of a great number of painters then situated in the immense wing which extends from the Pont-des-Arts to the Pont-Royal. Dame Robert, in her tender solicitude for José, and wishing also to justify her reputation for prudence, had carefully examined all the localities I have mentioned; the inevitable mud which every foot-passenger must necessarily collect in crossing the Rue Froidmanteau, first suggested to her the idea of the useful establishment, of which José was to be the founder, and having with joy discovered that no rival in this department had yet thought of taking advantage of so favourable a site, she hastened, as we have already seen, to inform her adopted son of his new destination.
On the Monday morning, therefore, José commenced his new career. The whole of the little family was awake at an early hour, anxious to accompany and install José in the situation indicated by Dame Robert, who herself carried the neat little box, while each of the children took possession of one of the utensils. José alone, as the hero of the day, carried nothing; he marched proudly at the head of the merry troop, and never did conqueror take possession of a kingdom with greater satisfaction than was experienced by the little Savoyard, when he established his apparatus in a hollow, some feet in depth, faced by two enormous posts, between which José appeared as in a fortress. Dame Robert, after having strongly cautioned him not to leave his post, and not to eat up at once his provisions for the day, which she had given to him in a little basket, at length made up her mind to leave him, and went away, accompanied by the other children, though not without often looking back. Having reached the end of the Place du Musée, she once more turned round, and saw, with infinite satisfaction, that José was already engaged in cleaning some boots, which a lazy servant had brought to him, in order to save himself the trouble of doing them. With a contented heart, the good woman then redoubled her speed, and returned home to resume her ordinary occupations; but the image of José frequently presented itself to her imagination, and interrupted her labours. The day seemed to her very long, and she had to exercise her self-denial, in order to resist the temptation she felt to go and take a distant peep at him, to ascertain how he was getting on; but not to give her more credit than she deserved, it must be told that she turned away her eyes when, at lunch-time, Philip, stealing by the side of the houses, bent his steps towards the Place du Musée. When he returned empty-handed, and with a smiling countenance, the kind soul became quite easy, and resumed her needle with more activity than ever.
At the close of this day, so memorable to the little family, the moment José was perceived in the distance, dragging along his new possessions, all the children ran to his assistance; José, throwing himself into the arms of Dame Robert, commenced a confused recital of his wonderful adventures; then, suddenly interrupting himself, he drew from his pocket and presented to her, with inexpressible pride, twelve sous, carefully tied up in a bit of rag. This was the result of his day's labour, and José, encouraged by this first attempt, and having almost completely overcome the timidity natural to his age, like all children who are compelled by necessity to work while very young, he devoted himself with so much assiduity and intelligence to his new calling, that he soon became the most skilful, as well as the smartest little shoeblack in the whole neighbourhood. As he grew older, his earnings increased; he sometimes went of errands, called hackney coaches, &c., &c., while his gentle disposition and pleasing manners gained for him the esteem of all who lived in the neighbourhood of his ambulatory establishment. Besides, José was industrious and docile, and not given to mischief, neither was he greedy, as is sometimes the case with children even better brought up than he could have been, and his good conduct was all the more remarkable from his being entirely his own master during the whole of the day, while fate, as if for the very purpose of trying him, had placed objects of temptation in almost every street through which he had to pass on his way backward and forward. One of these objects was an attractive gingerbread shop, another, a troop of little urchins, who endeavoured to entice every child that passed by to join in their follies. It really required strength of mind, and even what at José's age may be termed virtue, to withstand these terrible rocks, but he was always triumphant, and if he did sometimes cast a longing look towards the somersets and tricks of these little vagabonds, or upon the delicious piles of Madame Legris' crisp gingerbread, his daily treasure was always faithfully carried home to Dame Robert, and never had the mud-soiled pedestrian to complain of having to wait a single minute for the services of the useful shoeblack.
As our reputation commences with ourselves, and is almost always dependent on our own will, José, who was truly anxious to do what was right, had already obtained for himself a very flattering one, considering his age; and we will now relate the good fortune which this reputation was the means of procuring for him at the expiration of a year.
In addition to Madame Legris', and many other enticing shops, there was, at that time, upon the Place du Musée, one which kept an excellent assortment of colours, canvasses, and everything connected with painting, and which the artists and students of that period may remember to have been well acquainted with. M. Barbe, the owner of this establishment, was a kind-hearted and excellent man, very intelligent, and very active in his business. His shop was always filled with artists and young men engaged in painting, the proximity of a great number of studios rendering it convenient for the purchases perpetually required in this pursuit. Moreover, the length of time it had been established, the confidence inspired by the worthy owner, and the advantages it offered to the poorer class of students, had rendered it a kind of rendezvous for that little world of its own which we term artists. Barbe kept in his lumber-rooms those inferior pictures which could not obtain a purchaser, and with which, otherwise, the unfortunate authors would not have known what to do; he supplied one with colours, for a certain time, gratis; lent a palette or an easel to another; had a kind word for all, and took as much interest in them as if they had been his own children. Madame Barbe seconded him wonderfully, and shared his tastes and occupations with a degree of skill and intelligence worthy of all praise; but, as there is nothing perfect in this world, Madame Barbe will not be offended if I reveal two little defects, of which, besides, I have since learned, that she has corrected herself. She was a little too fond, to use a common expression, of storming at those about her; and she possessed such an amazing volubility of tongue, that it was difficult to keep pace with her, so that she almost always remained master of the field. Still young and very agreeable, she exercised great influence over her excellent husband, while she possessed sufficient attraction for her numerous customers, who were amused with her eloquence without suffering from her irritability. Her usual victims were her husband, her little girl of four years old, and a man of about forty, named Gabri, M. Barbe's head assistant and confidential clerk. Naturally taciturn, Gabri had become still more so since the marriage of his patron with this eloquent dame. He had remarked, with his usual discrimination, that when these fits of passion commenced, the very mildest answer was only pouring oil upon the fire; he maintained, therefore, in such cases, the most perfect silence; and Madame Barbe, satisfied with this evidence of the force of her arguments, went elsewhere to exercise her power. Gabri was nevertheless esteemed by her, as by every one else; and it is even asserted, that in one of her better moments she acknowledged, that a great portion of the prosperity of their business was due to his intelligence and integrity. He therefore, with a few exceptions, fared pretty well in the house; not to mention, that Barbe himself treated him altogether as a friend. Still, poor Gabri could not overcome the melancholy induced by irreparable misfortunes. In the course of six weeks he had lost his three children and their mother, by the small-pox; and, even after the lapse of many years, this man, apparently so cold, shed tears whenever he spoke of his poor children. "They were three fine boys," he would say, but could not finish. With a heart so sensitive, it was impossible for him to behold without interest our amiable little José. He carefully watched his disposition and conduct for a long time, became more and more attached to him, and the fortunate child thus acquired by his own merits alone a prudent and sincere friend.
But it was not enough for Gabri that he should love José with his whole heart; he wished also to take measures for his future welfare; and after repeatedly talking over the matter with Madame Legris, who also took a great interest in his young protégé, they commenced their innocent plot in the following manner.
Madame Barbe entertained some partiality for Madame Legris, who, wishing to maintain a good understanding with her neighbours, listened more patiently than others to the long speeches of this chatterbox. Besides, she often gave cakes to the little girl, a generosity which Madame Barbe could not find it in her heart to blame, notwithstanding her desire to discover faults. The friendly vender of gingerbread went, therefore, one morning, to call upon her at the hour she was sure to be in the best humour, her shop being then filled with purchasers. "Well, neighbour," she said, on entering, "how goes on business this week?"
"Pretty well, pretty well," replied Madame Barbe, (all the while dexterously filling and capping some bladders of colour, an occupation which she always reserved till the middle of the morning, in order to display the grace of her pretty fingers,) "but sit down, neighbour; I am really very glad to see you.... Ah! good morning, sir; you shall be attended to in a moment.... Pussy, my darling, here is Madame Legris, who has brought you some cracknels.... Be so kind as to take a seat, ladies.... Barbe, bring some canvasses.... Yes, ladies, they are excellent and very fine, and have been made these twelve months and more.... Your servant, sir; I know what you want.... Gabri, bring some pencils to this gentleman.... Naples yellow and white? In a moment, my little friend.... Gracious! what a crowd! what confusion! and only myself to attend to it all! for as to my husband and Gabri ..." And Madame Barbe shrugged her shoulders in a most significant manner.
"Really, friend," resumed Madame Legris, "you seem to me ..."
"What, sir!" exclaimed Madame Barbe, in a higher tone, "those brushes good for nothing!... Brushes carefully sorted, and made with brass wire.... Just look at them a second time, sir. Here's a glass of water. Good heavens! those brushes ill made!"
"Pooh!" exclaimed the discontented purchaser, "I don't want any water;" and putting the brush into his mouth, "I see," he repeated, "that they divide;" and he threw them on the counter with contempt.
"You have them, however, from the best makers, my dear friend," said Madame Legris, wishing to maintain the choleric shopkeeper in good humour in order to attain her object; "and doubtless ..."
"Doubtless!" resumed Madame Barbe, becoming scarlet, and biting her lips; "the gentleman, doubtless, knows nothing about the manufactory of Dagneau; so it's no use talking. Get out of my way, you little stupid," she said, addressing her daughter, at the same time giving her a slap. "Yes, five sous for every dip-cup[2] you bring me to clean, young gentleman, and quite enough, I think; other people only give four. Mercy! Gabri: you bring so many things at a time, that you will let them all fall." And whether Madame Barbe's quick eye really saw what was going to happen, or whether the sharp tones of her voice startled poor Gabri, certain it is that he let fall the whole of his load in the middle of the shop. His mistress, greatly irritated, rushed forward, and she might, perhaps, have even ventured to have added acts to words had not the entrance of a new comer suddenly changed the expression of her features.
This was a distinguished artist, one of M. Barbe's best customers, who also affected to be an admirer of his wife, at whose expense he amused himself, by deluding her with the hope that he would one day paint her portrait.
"What's the matter now? Here is truly a fine subject for a picture;" he exclaimed, as he beheld the crayons and other articles floating in a sea of oil, while Gabri, with folded arms, stood petrified, and Madame Legris was engaged in restraining the infuriated mistress of the establishment. "It might be called the Broken Cruse. But do not spoil your pretty face, my charming model. My picture will be completed in a week, and then we will commence the sketch of our portrait; but really your complexion is so delicate, so transparent, that we shall have to use all the resources of our art, and I have a great fancy to try it on wood. Have you any panels at hand, as, if so, we will choose one at once."
Whilst Madame Barbe, now calmed and delighted, resumed her seat with an affected air; the painter, half reclining upon the counter, amused himself with sketching a small figure with a piece of white chalk, while he related all the important news of the artistic world. "I told you, Madame Barbe, that the number of fools was increasing; pictures of ten feet are nothing to these gentlemen now. There is G——, whom you know very well; he has just hired the tennis-court at Versailles, in order to commence his picture, as no studio would be large enough for it; and this they call painting."
"Ah! Ah!" said Madame Barbe, smiling, "we shall see that at the Exhibition. But what has become of that young man, a pupil of Monsieur V——'s, so talented, and so admired? I never see him here now."
"Lost! utterly lost!" replied the artist, with a malicious smile. "He gave the greatest hopes, but his master's false system has ruined him. That man will never turn out a first-rate pupil; I have said so for a long time past.... But, Madame Barbe, they are not bringing me anything I want. How is it that you have not more attendance for your numerous customers? It is very strange, upon my word."
"Indeed, neighbour!" said Madame Legris, who had been watching for an opportunity of getting in a word, "Your business is getting so extensive that it will be impossible for you to attend to it all yourself, notwithstanding your activity. Were I in your place, I should take an assistant—a child, for instance, that would not be much expense."
"You are right, neighbour," said Barbe, who at that moment joined them. "Gabri is overwhelmed with messages and work, and an errand boy would be very useful."
Madame Barbe looked at her husband, and then at Gabri: but the latter continued quietly to grind his colours, and Barbe saying no more, the desire of contradicting them passed away almost immediately; and this capricious woman, turning graciously towards the artist, begged him to give his opinion upon a subject of so much importance.
"Certainly!" he replied. "It is a good thing; you are quite right;" and he had already forgotten the matter in question.
"Since it is decided," resumed Madame Barbe, who now calculated that she should have an additional person to exercise her authority over, "tell me, neighbour, whether you happen to know a lad likely to suit us. You know as well as we do what we require."
"As to that," replied Madame Legris, concealing the pleasure she felt at this question, "it is a difficult matter. I am not sure that I know any one at this moment who would suit you in every respect.... Yes! stop; I know a poor boy.... But no, it is impossible; his mother would not consent...."
"His mother would not consent!" exclaimed Madame Barbe, offended at the supposition. "What! not consent to his entering a house like ours, to be my husband's pupil, to live as we do! And for all this, what do we ask in return? Almost nothing, in truth! only to be intelligent, faithful, obedient, active, industrious, and not greedy, nor awkward;" and as she named the last of the required qualifications, she glanced towards Gabri, who bent his head in silence. "In fine, Madame Legris, represent these advantages to the child's parents, and I cannot think that they will hesitate for a moment."
"They will not be so foolish," replied Madame Legris, "besides, this boy has only adoptive parents. It is poor little José, the pretty little Savoyard, who is established down yonder, between those two great stones. His is a singular history, and when you know it...."
"You shall relate it to me at our first sitting," interrupted the painter, taking up his hat; and the hope of being able to relate an interesting story, increased the desire which Madame Barbe then felt of possessing José. The kind-hearted Madame Legris therefore went away perfectly satisfied with the success of her project, and if Gabri's conversation was still as laconic as usual, a close observer might have seen him several times during the day rub his hands and smile, a thing quite extraordinary for him.
The day after this conversation, Dame Robert, dressed in her Sunday clothes, and holding our little hero by the hand, called upon Madame Barbe. The story was long, and the dialogue which followed it still longer: and it may be presumed that Madame Barbe's eloquence was more flowing and animated than usual; but, as her auditors did not take the trouble to report it, we can only inform our reader that it was agreed—firstly, that José should serve Madame Barbe during the space of seven years, without receiving any remuneration whatever; and that, after that time, if his conduct was good, he should be paid a small sum monthly. Secondly, that the said José should, during his seven years' apprenticeship, be lodged and boarded by his new masters, and that Dame Robert should take charge of his clothing.
Every thing being arranged to the satisfaction of both parties, José was immediately set to work, and from the first moment displayed a degree of intelligence which greatly delighted the kind-hearted Barbe and much astonished his difficult partner. He had a wonderful faculty for remembering where the different articles were kept, and, if he happened to hesitate for a moment, Gabri, from the extremity of the back shop, where he was grinding his colours, would quickly make him a sign, which the intelligent child immediately understood. Poor Gabri dared not display all his joy, for his tormenting mistress would have punished him by scolding the innocent José; but, taking advantage of a moment when the latter came to fetch something from where he was, he would cast a rapid glance towards the counter, and, clasping the child in his arms, press him with transport to his heart. Madame Barbe would turn her head, but Gabri's grindstone was already in motion, while little José was at the top of the ladder.
In the evening, the mistress ordered Gabri to conduct the apprentice to his room. Oh! how delightfully did these words fall upon José's ears! he who had hitherto possessed only one-third of the dark loft in which the brothers slept! He was going to sleep alone, and in his own room! After having gaily mounted seven stories, Gabri opened a little door, and entered a very small room which led to the roof of the house, and adjoined M. Barbe's lumber-room. "A window! a window!" exclaimed José, on entering; "Monsieur Gabri, I have a window!" and he clapped his hands, and jumped for joy. Gabri showed him his bed, which was of fresh straw, covered with a sheet; the little fellow was in such a state of joyous excitement that it was with difficulty his protector could induce him to lie down.
José was roused from his pleasant slumbers by the first rays of the morning sun, when he was gladdened by another agreeable surprise, on discovering that the walls of his garret were smooth and perfectly white, for it had just undergone repair, and was then in a state of cleanliness rarely met with in such places; but José, little sensible to this advantage, was very much so to the cheerful appearance of his room, and especially to the facilities which those white walls afforded him for continuing his first attempts in art. For it must be known that José, in the leisure moments left by his former occupation, used often to exercise his talents by daubing with his blacking and clumsy brushes upon stones or bits of wood a thousand figures of his own invention. What pleasure, then, for him to be able to adorn his room with drawings of soldiers and horses! and he was already on the point of commencing operations when he heard the voice of Madame Barbe, and hastened to obey the summons.
For a whole week the house resounded with nothing but the name of José. The poor boy, constantly watched and tormented, was subjected to a very severe test; but the natural goodness of his disposition and his indefatigable zeal, softened by degrees the severity of his mistress. Besides, his kind friend Gabri, by his judicious advice, saved him from many an act of thoughtlessness, and Madame Barbe scolded so often that her husband never scolded at all. José was, therefore, good, beloved, and happy. His taste for painting was increased by the conversations which he daily heard in this house; still, perhaps, this taste might never have been developed, had it not been for a singular occurrence, and his genius, like the fire shut up in a rude stone, might never have emitted a spark, had not some one struck upon it.
Amongst the numerous houses to which José was sent with the orders executed by M. Barbe, there was one at which he was received with especial kindness, and which, notwithstanding all his prudence, he found great difficulty in leaving when his errand was performed. This was the house of one M. Enguehard, a respectable man, in only moderate circumstances, who, being passionately fond of art, had exercised his talents in engraving until compelled to discontinue, by weakness of sight. Married, late in life, to an amiable woman; who made him happy, their constant occupation was the education of their only son, a lad about two years older than José. Francisco, as he was named, had from his birth been destined to be a painter, and being brought up with this idea, he manifested both facility and power; but naturally of a lively, volatile temperament, and still too fond of amusement, he worked but little, and his progress was consequently not rapid. Like many other children he did not reflect on the sacrifices which his father's slender means obliged him to make for his education, and he lost or destroyed, without scruple, books, maps, mathematical instruments, and other expensive articles, which his parents could only replace by depriving themselves of some personal comfort.
Francisco was nevertheless of a good disposition, and when he chose to make an effort, his progress was so astonishing, that his kind parents forgot his past faults. M. Enguehard was at first inclined to restrain the liking which his son manifested for José, fearing lest this child, whom he naturally supposed had not been very carefully brought up, might lead his son to contract some bad habits; but feeling himself an interest, which it was indeed difficult not to feel, on seeing the boy's frank and amiable countenance, he made inquiries about him, and what he learned was so satisfactory that it removed all apprehension with regard to his intimacy with Francisco. The two boys grew daily more and more attached to each other, and José divided all his leisure moments between Dame Robert and his beloved Francisco. Philip, however, was not forgotten; but José, always beyond his years in mental powers, preferred the advantage of being enlightened by the conversation of M. Enguehard and Francisco, to the pleasure of being admired by Philip. His ideas became enlarged and elevated; and, grieved at his own ignorance, he envied Francisco the happiness of an education from which he profited so little.
One day when the latter had thrown aside, in a passion, a book which wearied him, José picked it up, and, turning it round, looked at it with a sigh.
"You are very fortunate," said Francisco, "in not knowing how to read or write, for you are not forced to learn lessons."
"Ah!" replied José, "that is my greatest grief: it is you who are fortunate in having the opportunity of learning. Oh, if you would but teach me to draw!"
"Yes, yes!" cried Francisco, enchanted at the idea: "I will be your master; but take care if you do not do well—upon the knuckles, my lad!"
José smiled at this threat, and M. Enguehard, who entered at the moment, having approved the project, it was decided that Francisco should give José a lesson every Sunday, and of an evening during the week whenever José could obtain permission to go out; but Francisco thought no more about rapping knuckles. José comprehended so readily and advanced so rapidly, that, in order to maintain the proper distance between master and pupil, his friend was obliged to set seriously to work, and this little experiment led him to make a few salutary reflections. M. Enguehard, struck by José's astonishing aptitude, neglected no opportunity of maintaining an emulation so advantageous to both the boys. He often talked to them about the celebrated masters of the old school, and related to them portions of their history. "Almost all of them," he said, "displayed their genius from childhood. Lanfranc, one of the most distinguished pupils of the Caracci, being in the service of Count Scotti, covered all the walls with charcoal drawings, his paper being insufficient to contain the fertility of his imagination. Philippe de Champagne, a native of Brussels, but classed amongst the painters of the French school, and who died President of the Academy, used, when about eight or nine years of age, to copy every picture and engraving that came in his way; and Claude Gelée, called Lorraine, a real phenomenon, such as the history of the arts can offer but few examples of, could learn nothing while at school; his parents therefore apprenticed him to a confectioner, with whom he succeeded still worse. Not knowing what to do, he went to Rome, and, unable to find employment, he entered by chance the service of Augustin Tasso to grind his colours and clean his palette. This master, in the hope of obtaining some advantage from his talents, taught him some of the rules of perspective; and Lorraine, devoting himself entirely to painting, passed whole days in the fields sketching and painting, and became the celebrated and almost unique landscape painter, whose works we still daily admire in our Museum."
José had listened to this recital with an attention which scarcely permitted him to breathe. When M. Enguehard had finished speaking, a silence of a few moments ensued, which José at length interrupted by rising suddenly and crying out with all his might, "Why not? why not?"... He then blushed when he beheld Francisco and M. Enguehard laughing heartily. M. Enguehard sent them to play, and, reflecting upon the words which had escaped from José, he felt tempted to direct him into a career to which everything seemed to call him; but the kind-hearted engraver was poor; to charge himself with José was impossible; and then, was he not wrong in diverting the child's mind from the ideas that were suitable to his present position? Again he hesitated. "Good God! what a pity!" he repeated; "but if I should render him unhappy without being able to assist him!" And from that day M. Enguehard related no more stories, nor gave himself any further anxiety about the lessons which Francisco continued to give to José. But all precautions were now useless; José was born a painter; Claude Lorraine incessantly recurred to his mind, and for want of fields, which he was denied the privilege of beholding, he sketched horses and figures in every corner, and sought subjects for composition in the historical anecdotes which Francisco related to him. Francisco, however, could only teach him the elements and mechanical details of art, things which José's genius rendered almost useless to him. Drawing even was not enough; he burned with a desire to paint, and found a secret pleasure in touching palettes and colours. Examining with attention the occupations of the various painters on whom he waited with parcels, his imagination became excited, and when alone in his garret, he grieved at being only able to work with black and white. He took good care, however, to keep from Madame Barbe the knowledge of his favourite amusement. It was at the expense of his sleep that he exercised his talents; and his friend Gabri, his only confidant, did not feel tempted to betray his secret.
But a circumstance occurred, which all his prudence could not have foreseen, and which, by enlightening Madame Barbe, cost poor José many tears.
We have already spoken of Barbe's kindness in giving room in his house, not only to those pictures, whether good or bad, which their authors had no convenience for keeping; but also to the colour boxes of the young men employed in copying in the Museum; as well as to the studies which the pupils were very glad to bring under the notice of the crowd of artists, who were continually congregated in the shop of the honest colour vender. Before being admitted to compete for the great prize for painting which annually sends to Rome, and maintains there, at the expense of the government, the person who has the good fortune to obtain it, the students have a first trial with a full-length figure, and afterwards with painted sketches; and the six or eight most successful competitors then take their places, and commence the pictures for which the prize is to be awarded. It may easily be conceived how great is the importance attached to these competitions by those young and poor students, who behold in them the termination of their elementary course, and the possibility of pursuing their studies on a more extended scale. One of the most promising pupils of that time had just obtained the prize for the figure. As Barbe had assisted him in various ways, he was anxious to make him a participator in his joy, and place in his hands his triumphant work. He arrived, therefore, followed by a dozen of his companions and rivals, who, the first moment of disappointment over, usually participate cordially in the delight of the victor, especially when they happen to study under the same master. José was a witness to the transports of these young men, and heard the praises lavished by the spectators on the fortunate student. Agitated by a thousand varied emotions, jealous, but with that noble and rare jealousy which made Cæsar weep at the feet of Alexander's statue, he would doubtless in his excitement have drawn upon himself a severe reprimand from Madame Barbe, had not Gabri whom nothing could divert from his silent watchfulness, led him away, in spite of himself.
"Ah!" said José, with emotion, "Do you see that young man? He is only fifteen.... Claude Lorraine was a confectioner.... And I, what am I?... I feel that I, too, have something in me!..."
Gabri knew nothing about Claude Lorraine, but he exerted himself with so much kindness to pacify José, that he at length succeeded, by means of a positive promise, to satisfy, at least, the most attainable of his wishes. The Exhibition had just opened, and José from his station in Madame Barbe's shop, could see successive crowds of amateurs thronging the entrance to the Museum; and he was constantly hearing the merits of the different paintings discussed. How, then, could he help ardently longing to examine for himself those interesting works? He had once ventured timidly to approach the door of the Museum, but the dark scowl of the porter, and a slight movement of his cane, warned him to make a precipitate retreat; not that working-men of all kinds, and soldiers, cannot without difficulty gain admission into these exhibitions; but it must be owned that poor José, at his age, and in his linen pantaloons, besmeared with every colour in M. Barbe's establishment, and in his tattered and scanty jacket, presented an appearance by no means calculated to soften the rigour of so proper a gentleman. Having then confided his grief, both to his young and his old friend,—to Francisco and to Gabri,—the affair was settled in the following manner. Francisco, with his father's permission, presented his little companion with a coat, and a pair of nankeen trousers, which he had laid aside, and which could easily be made to fit José. Philip, who had for some time been working at a tailor's, eagerly offered his services. Dame Robert purchased a pretty piece of stuff, which her daughter cut out for a waistcoat; and Gabri declared that he would take upon himself to provide the hat. José burned with impatience to enjoy the generosity of his friends; but the requisite preparations necessarily took some time, for the little workers had more zeal than capacity; and, besides, they could not neglect their ordinary tasks. It was necessary, therefore, to wait, and José, finding himself alone in the shop, and wishing to divert his mind, determined to take another view of the picture which had made so deep an impression on him, and which the young painter, according to custom, had left for some time with M. Barbe. It was hung at a considerable height; José mounted a ladder, to get it down; but, thinking he heard the voice of the terrible Madame Barbe, he hastily replaced it, and, in his precipitation, brushed against the still fresh paint with his sleeve, and rubbed out a portion of the ground and almost the whole of one leg. Recovering from his fright, and finding no one approach, he again raised his eyes: judge of his dismay, on beholding what had occurred! What was to be done? What would become of him, if the young painter happened to come for his picture? What would Madame Barbe say? for, if questioned on the subject, he would not utter a falsehood. Besides, all evasion would be as useless as it would be wicked, as such an act of carelessness could have been committed by no one but him. The poor child was in despair; he already saw himself ignominiously turned out of the house; but time pressed, and he must discover some means of repairing the mischief. He could find but one. He ran to hide the picture in his room, and was presumptuous enough to rely upon his own ability to repair the fatal blemish.
It may be thought, that so daring an idea was but little likely to enter the mind of a child only thirteen years of age; but José, as we have before observed, was born with extraordinary talents for painting; besides, he knew nothing else; he occupied his thoughts with nothing else;—all that he had seen and heard from his earliest childhood had reference to painting. Neither is it without example, that remarkable talents—especially when constantly directed towards one object—have produced, even in extreme youth, very astonishing results. Some years ago at Florence, when there happened to be a fall of snow of a few inches thick, a very unusual occurrence in that climate, the children of the common people might be seen gathering it together into great heaps, forming it into giants in the principal square, and in the streets into colonnades and statues, and even into groups, in which artists themselves could not but acknowledge a remarkable imitation of the great works in the midst of which they were born; so much does the influence of what they hear and see act upon the minds and dispositions of children, and give, as a mere starting-point, to some of those who live in the atmosphere of art, that which to others less favoured proves almost a goal. It must also be remembered, that the work on which José was about to try his skill was that of a youth of fifteen, and, consequently, far from being faultless.
He had seen enough of painting to feel at no loss in charging a palette; but he wanted colours, brushes, &c.; and José well knew that, though in the midst of everything of this kind, he had no right to touch any. He therefore resolved to have recourse to the friendship of Francisco, and to ask him for the money necessary to make his purchases at a distant shop. It may perhaps appear singular that his friend Gabri did not come to his aid; but the absence of this guardian angel had been the cause of his misfortune as there was no friendly glance or hand to warn, or raise him up. Gabri, for the first time during the whole fifteen years that he had lived with M. Barbe, had asked leave of absence for a few days, in order to visit his native place; his request was so reasonable, that it could not be refused, but Madame Barbe's ill-temper was at its height when she beheld him depart without being able to obtain a single word of explanation relative to the motives which had induced him to undertake this unexpected journey.
Gabri was to return on the Sunday evening, the day following that which had proved so fatal to poor José; but to wait for his coming was impossible, this same Sunday being the only time that the poor boy had at his own disposal. He therefore hastened to M. Enguehard's, and having fortunately found Francisco alone, he confided to him his embarrassment. Francisco shuddered at his friend's danger, but was almost as much terrified at the projected reparation as at the accident itself; nevertheless, at the urgent entreaty of José, who feared lest his absence should be remarked, he gave him all the money he had, amounting to four francs ten sous. This was sufficient for José's purpose; for, as may be easily imagined, there was no question of easel, nor colour box, and he made so much haste, that his purchases were completed and hidden before Madame Barbe had once asked for him.
José was tormented during the whole of the day by the idea of his daring undertaking; and his preoccupation prevented him from being as much delighted as he would otherwise have been with his new clothes, which Philip, with an air of importance, brought home tied up in a handkerchief, in tailor fashion, under his arm. The poor boy, who expected great praise and many thanks, was somewhat disconcerted at the indifference with which José examined an invisible seam, which in spite of this qualification was even more easily distinguishable than any of the others. He therefore went off, persuaded that José was ill, for he could never attach an unkind motive to his conduct.
José, awakening with the earliest dawn, at first felt nothing but the delight of possessing colours and brushes. He prepared his rude palette with extreme care, and made this important operation last as long as he could; but when all was ready, the difficulty of commencing vividly presented itself to his mind, and caused him so much anxiety, that he remained motionless, not daring to touch a brush, when all at once a fortunate inspiration restored his courage. "I have to paint half a leg," he said to himself. "Well, then, why not copy my own? The greatest masters use models, and paint everything from nature; I can easily place one foot without inconveniencing myself. We shall see if with this assistance I cannot manage." And José commenced by cutting a caper; then looking at the figure, the legs of which, fortunately for him, were outstretched, he placed one of his own in nearly the same position, and with a trembling hand gave the first touch. By degrees that fever of enthusiasm, which always fills the mind in every kind of composition, took possession of him; he became excited; he fancied himself drawing like Raphael, colouring like Rubens; and his hand, so timid at first, worked with freedom and facility; he felt no further embarrassment, and did not cease until he had completely repaired the mischief.
Poor José, p. 264.
His task ended, José went down, to watch for an opportunity of replacing the picture without being observed. It was already late, the whole of the family were going out for a walk; and Madame Barbe was in such good humour, on account of a pretty cap which her husband had just given her, that José had no difficulty in obtaining leave to go to the Exhibition, on the understanding that he was to be back before dinner-time, to arrange certain things, which Gabri's absence had left in disorder. José, with a light heart, had no sooner lost sight of them than he hastened to hang up the picture, and smiled, as from beneath he beheld the fine effect of his work. Having now nothing to think of but the delight of possessing his new clothes, and, especially, of being privileged to pass the threshold of that door, so long closed against him, he went out, fastening with some pride the metal buttons of his coat, and entered the Exhibition, eyeing the burly porter, as he passed, with a confident air.
At that period, the noble staircase, with its double banister, which we admire at present, was not built; the square saloon of the Exhibition was reached by a side door, leading from the Place du Musée, and a staircase, which now only serves as a private entrance. This entrance was neither so convenient nor handsome as the present one; but still it was princely in its dimensions, and especially so to the unaccustomed eyes of poor José, who had never seen anything more splendid than the church of Saint Roch. Those wide steps of white stone; those walls covered with pictures, for they reached almost to the first landing-place; the tumult of the crowd which pressed forward, carrying him along with it,—all combined to throw José into a kind of bewilderment. He looked without seeing, walked without thinking, and, driven onwards by the crowd, at length found himself at the door of the great gallery of the Museum, which is left open during the Exhibition, but which at that time contained only the works of the old masters. At the sight of this immense gallery, magnificent even to those who are familiar with magnificence, José stood struck with astonishment, while an involuntary feeling of respect caused him to take off his hat. There were but few visitors in that part of the Museum; José breathed more freely, and being able to examine without being jostled, began deliciously to taste the pleasure he had so often longed for. Various pictures attracted his attention; but too ignorant to divine their subjects, there was something wanting to his enjoyment. But when, at last, he came to that picture of Raphael's, known by the name of La Vierge à la chaise, the figures could easily be recognised, and José found himself, so to speak, in the midst of his habitual acquaintances; he was able to make comparisons, having seen other church paintings; and his natural taste was so pure, and he had so remarkable an instinct for appreciating the master-pieces of art, that at the sight of this admirable production, an emotion hitherto unknown took possession of him. The more he looked, the more complete did the illusion become; the face of the divine infant seemed to become animated, and to smile upon him. José, leaning against the balustrade, extended his arms and smiled too, and in the delight of these new sensations, forgot everything else, when a noise close by him made him start and awake from his reverie. He turned his head, and beheld a man attentively examining him; he was still young, and possessed a countenance remarkable for its expression; his eyes, full of fire, were fixed with kindness upon José, who, notwithstanding his ordinary timidity, replied without embarrassment to the questions addressed to him. The stranger wished to know his name, what he thought of Raphael's picture, what were his views, his occupations, &c. José's artless statements, through which his precocious genius could readily be discerned, deeply interested the stranger. "You were born a painter, child," he said, touching José's forehead. "You already know what no master could teach you, but you must be directed, and this I will undertake to do. Here is my address, my name is G——; call upon me, I will make something of you."
José, overwhelmed with joy in recognising the name of one of our most celebrated artists, clasped his hands without being able to utter a word. Monsieur G. gave him another kind look, and departed. It was some time before José recovered from the agitation into which this event had thrown him, and the day was already far advanced when he remembered that he was still in the service of Madame Barbe, and that his accident caused him to run great risk of not remaining in it. Full of anxiety, he precipitately retraced his steps, and soon reached home. Alas! every one had returned, and the manner in which he was received, was a presage of the storm about to burst over his devoted head.
Barbe, who was hurriedly pacing the shop, advanced towards him, as if to question him, then turned away his head with an expression of vivid sorrow. José, confounded, was beginning to murmur some excuses, when Madame Barbe, the violence of whose passion had hitherto prevented her from speaking, at length recovered the power of pouring forth the abuse destined for the hapless culprit.
"Here you are, at last, Sir!" she said. "You are certainly very punctual; however, I can easily imagine, you young rascal, that you were in no hurry to make your appearance."
"I am very sorry, Madame....." replied José.
But Madame Barbe would not give him time to finish.
"Do not interrupt, you shameless liar," she cried; "you little viper, whom we have nourished, and who now stings his benefactors. But I could pardon you for being idle and ungrateful, if you had not sacrificed the reputation of my house, by destroying the pictures confided to us. Yes," she continued with more vehemence, seeing José turn pale, "you fancied, you hardened, good-for-nothing, that your tricks would not be discovered; thief, we know all: not content with having irreparably destroyed a fine work, you have carried your villany so far as to steal from us the things necessary for your undertaking." José uttered a cry of horror, and rushing towards his implacable mistress, who still continued her invectives, he protested his innocence, in so far at least as related to the second part of the accusation; but neither his tears nor his protestations produced any effect upon the prejudiced minds of his employers. It had so happened that when they entered, the light which M. Barbe carried, fell directly upon the unfortunate figure restored by José; and as nature had made him a colorist, a quality which can never be acquired, and one in which the young student was deficient, it was an easy matter to perceive the difference. Besides, poor José, in his embarrassment, had copied the left foot, which happened to be most convenient for him, without observing whether it was the proper one, and had so placed it that the great toe was on the outside. The loft in which the culprit slept was visited, and his still moist palette and colours left no doubt of what he had done. Barbe would have pardoned the injury done to the painting, but the idea of theft revolted his honest nature, and it was difficult to avoid suspecting José, since they were ignorant of Francisco's friendship for him, and well knew that he had nothing of his own. It was in vain that he related the simple truth, it only appeared an ingeniously concocted story; and Madame Barbe, after a second explosion of invectives, took him by the arm, and would have turned him out of doors that very evening, had not her husband positively declared that he should remain for that night. His wife, obliged to yield, revenged herself by seeking two or three of her neighbours, who hurried with malicious eagerness to see the left foot upon the right leg, and the woful condition of poor little José, choking with grief in a corner. He was spared none of their commentaries, these kind souls taking care to speak very loudly and very distinctly.
"Certainly," said one, "his mother did well to die, poor dear woman. She did not deserve such a son."
"I always expected it," said another, "this is what comes of picking up vagabonds; but Dame Robert is such an obstinate woman. What is one to do?" A third added that everything must be locked up, and care taken that he was never left alone. Finally, their cruelty was carried to such extremes, that poor José was unable any longer to restrain his sobs, which being heard by M. Barbe in his room, he immediately hastened to the poor child and sent him to bed.
José passed a frightful night; a few hours more and he would be sent away disgraced, and obliged to return to his adopted mother, without the means of support, and with a charge of dishonesty weighing upon him. One hope alone remained to him, Francisco might attest the truth of what he had said; he therefore determined to entreat M. Barbe, who was more humane than his wife, to go and question Francisco, who would establish his innocence; but even this resource failed the unfortunate child. The same idea had occurred to Barbe, who was very fond of him, and early in the morning he had called upon M. Enguehard. Wishing to spare his favourite as much as possible, he merely asked Francisco whether he had lent José any money. But Francisco not having been put upon his guard, and fearing lest he might in some manner injure his friend, or be reprimanded by his father, committed a fault too common among children, and in order to save José he told a falsehood, and by so doing completed his ruin, for he assured M. Barbe that he had not lent his apprentice anything. M. Enguehard knew nothing more, and Barbe returned, convinced of José's theft, and of the necessity of sending him away. He therefore repulsed him angrily when he came to present his request, and told him to pack up his things. But Madame Barbe was not a woman to lose an opportunity of delivering a speech or making a scene, and therefore determined before expelling the unhappy boy, to oblige him to make an apology to the young student whom she had begged to call at the shop. José almost happy at this unexpected respite, placed his little bundle on the ground, and leaning upon it, cast a sorrowful look on all the objects around him, and which he was about to leave for ever. Gabri's vacant place caused his tears to flow afresh; would that faithful friend believe his protestations any more than the rest, whilst proofs were so strong against him? At that moment the postman placed a letter in M. Barbe's hand. "Oh!" said the latter, "it is from Nogent-sur-Marne, and from friend Gabri. What can he have to write to us about?" and he read the letter to himself with signs of the greatest surprise. Madame Barbe, impatient to know what it contained, snatched it from his hand, and, after reading it, exclaimed, "Heaven be praised, this act of folly will never be committed. Listen to this," she said, calling to José, "behold the just punishment of your infamous conduct;" and she read, or rather declaimed the following letter:—
"From Nogent-sur-Marne, my native place, September the 7th.
"Monsieur Barbe,—Notwithstanding my intention of returning the day after that fixed by you, I write to inform you in a more authentic and convenient manner of my intentions with regard to Joseph Berr, called José, your apprentice. Monsieur Barbe, I have lost my wife and three children, three fine boys whom God has taken away from me; but I dare say I have already told you this. I have a nice little property perfectly free from all claims (a good seven thousand francs placed here in honest hands). Therefore, being master of my own will, which is to love and assist the said José, I intend that he shall follow the calling which he is so anxious for, viz., that of an artist, and for this I have bound myself, by my signature, which you will see at the end of the deed written by me upon stamped paper, and which accompanies this letter. I beg that it may be read to the said José, and never again recurred to, being, notwithstanding, Monsieur Barbe,
"Your very faithful Servant,
"Sebastian Gabri."
The second paper was as follows:—
"Joseph Berr, called José, requiring, in order to be able to prosecute his studies in painting, during four years, a sum of money, which I possess, I give it to him as a loan which he will return to me when his profession becomes profitable, together with the interests and costs as is just and customary.
f. c. "First. One franc per day for maintenance during the space of four years, making 1460 0 Item. For entering the studio of a celebrated master, 15 francs per month for four years 720 0 Item. For indemnifying Madame Barbe, for three years' apprenticeship, still due to her 50 0 Item. For 25 centimes every Sunday, for child's amusements 52 0 Item. For my journey hither by coach, expressly on his account 10 0 Item. For my expenses while here 12 0 Item. For this sheet of stamped paper 0 30 Item. For interest during four years 460 6 2764 36 "Which sum I undertake to pay, according as required, Provided that the board and lodging be furnished by Dame Robert as heretofore.
"The said José will put his mark at the end of this deed, to which I also cheerfully put my name.
"Sebastian Gabri."
| f. | c. | |
| "First. One franc per day for maintenance during the space of four years, making | 1460 | 0 |
| Item. For entering the studio of a celebrated master, 15 francs per month for four years | 720 | 0 |
| Item. For indemnifying Madame Barbe, for three years' apprenticeship, still due to her | 50 | 0 |
| Item. For 25 centimes every Sunday, for child's amusements | 52 | 0 |
| Item. For my journey hither by coach, expressly on his account | 10 | 0 |
| Item. For my expenses while here | 12 | 0 |
| Item. For this sheet of stamped paper | 0 | 30 |
| Item. For interest during four years | 460 | 6 |
| 2764 | 36 |
It is easy to imagine the agony of poor José while listening to the reading of these papers; what would have overwhelmed him with joy the evening before, now filled him with anguish. Gabri, that tender and generous friend, as a reward for his sacrifice, was about to learn that the object of his care was unworthy of it. Still José was not guilty, and these bitter trials were now on the point of coming to the happiest termination. Francisco, tormented as one always is by the consciousness of having done wrong, and rendered uneasy about his friend on account of M. Barbe's visit, determined to confess all to his father, who had no difficulty in convincing him of the gravity of his fault, and of the inconvenience which might result to the innocent José, who might perhaps be accused of having stolen the colours from his master. Francisco, alarmed at this idea, entreated his father to take him instantly to M. Barbe's; and there, regardless of the spectators, he had the courage and the merit to confess his fault, and thus completely justify his friend.
Whilst Madame Barbe stood biting her lips, and saying, "It is very singular, very strange," and her kind-hearted husband brushed the tears from his eyes, the two boys affectionately embraced each other, and enjoyed the happiest moment of their young lives. A moment afterwards, José had another triumph, highly flattering indeed to his self-love, but not to be compared in real worth with the noble friendship of Francisco. The young author of the injured painting was with his master when Madame Barbe wrote to him her anything but clear account of the accident, which she was anxious to turn to the disgrace of poor José. This master was the very Monsieur G—— before mentioned, who, recognising in the hero of the story, the child who had so much interested him at the Museum, wished to accompany his pupil to M. Barbe's. For a long time he examined in silence the attempt which had cost the poor boy so dear, then turning towards his pupil, "If you don't make haste," he said, "I can tell you he will catch you." This man, distinguished as much by feeling as by genius, was able to appreciate the action of the worthy and generous Gabri; he read his letter with emotion, and taking a pencil, ran it through the fifteen francs per month destined for José's instruction. "I cannot hope," he said, smiling, to José, "to be the celebrated master mentioned by Gabri, but he must at least let me teach you all I know."
It may easily be imagined, that everything was arranged, without difficulty, to the entire delight of the poor boy. Madame Barbe, awed by the presence of Monsieur G—— and Monsieur Enguehard, felt that she must put some restraint upon her tongue. She unhesitatingly accepted, it is true, the indemnification of fifty francs, and only murmured on the day that Barbe presented José with his first box of colours. Dame Robert, who was consulted in all important arrangements, was at first somewhat discontented with José's choice; but she could refuse nothing to her dear child. "And, after all," she said, "it is a trade, like any other. I am only sorry that the apprenticeship is so long." She was completely consoled, however, when José came once more to live with her.
To complete José's happiness, M. Enguehard, a short time after these occurrences, begged M. G—— to receive his son as a pupil. The two friends, therefore, were again together, following the same career with equal ardour, and although with different success, still without any interruption to their mutual friendship.
Those who are curious to know whether José justified the hopes inspired by his childhood, may have their curiosity gratified by a perusal of the Second Part of his history.
SEQUEL
TO
THE HISTORY OF POOR JOSÉ.
How tranquil and pleasant is the life of the artist! He possesses an advantage which is denied even to the fortunate of this world,—an occupation always affording amusement and variety, together with an almost total indifference to everything which does not bear directly upon painting. The artist sees that all is quiet in the town in which he lives; this is enough for him: scarcely does he know the names of the ministers in office, and he is the last to learn what is going on around. Occupied the whole day with his art, his studio is his universe; and at night, in the midst of a re-union of friends, artists like himself, he still dwells upon his favourite idea, which is never absent from his mind, while he gains instruction, or is inspired with increased ardour by the conversation of his colleagues or rivals. These re-unions are gay, and abound in wit, as well as in mischief. Not a few of those caricatures which attract the loungers of the Boulevards and the Rue du Coq, have been sketched by a skilful hand during these moments of recreation. A few amiable women, authors, distinguished musicians, and poets, make a part of these seductive meetings: each one amuses himself according to his fancy; and if the mirth is sometimes a little noisy, and the wit a little too free, wit and mirth are at least always to be found in them.
But if the artist is happy, the student is even more so. The former, being no longer at an age in which he can advance much, is keenly alive to his own deficiencies, and, if it must be owned, often looks with a jealous eye on the success of his brother artists; while to the other, on the contrary the horizon of his hopes is unbounded, and emulation but a healthy stimulant, which does not degenerate into envy. The student tries to excel his companions, but he loves them all; he encourages the less skilful, frankly admires those who are superior to himself, and, while pursuing his laborious occupations, seldom fails to lay the foundation of one of those honourable and lasting friendships which embellish the remainder of his life. Little favoured by fortune, as a general rule, these young men endure privations with cheerfulness, or rather their simple habits prevent them from feeling them as such. The whole of their time and powers, being constantly directed towards the one object in view, there is no space left for the minor passions, which so often disturb the mind of youth. The pleasures of the toilet are unknown to him who spends his days in the studio, and public amusements are too expensive to be thought of more than once or twice a year.
Francisco and José, re-united as we have already said in the studio of a celebrated painter, led a life in every way consonant to their tastes; but José especially felt the happiness of a condition, to which he had never thought it possible to attain. He was no longer the hapless child, rescued from the street by the benevolence of a kind-hearted woman, but a fine young man, the honour and hope of Monsieur G——'s studio, and, what was still better, a good young man, always simple and modest, almost ashamed of being distinguished, and redoubling his attentions towards his first protectors, in proportion as his success rendered them less necessary to him. The excellent Gabri devoted a portion of the sum which had been destined for his instruction to the hire of a room in the house in which Dame Robert lived, where José could work without much inconvenience. He rose very early, and commenced the labours of the day by making pictures of everything that presented itself to his imagination, or copied drawings lent to him by his master. After a hasty breakfast, he repaired to the studio, worked until five o'clock, when, accompanied by Francisco, and conversing together on their projects and hopes, he quietly returned home. M. Enguehard often invited him to dinner, and took great pleasure in extending his knowledge in such a manner as might be useful to him. Thanks to the kind instruction of Madame Enguehard, and to his own natural abilities, he soon learned to read and write; while M. Enguehard especially endeavoured to make him acquainted with history and fable,—acquirements indispensable to a painter, who, in fact, ought not, if it were possible, to remain in ignorance of any branch of knowledge. Everything can and ought to tend to his advancement in art: travel, reading, science, the habits of different classes of society, solitude, happiness, and misery, all are useful and profitable to him who seeks to represent, with the utmost possible truth, the acts and passions of man.
Francisco and José had not yet reached what might be called the moral portion of their studies; but José could form some idea of it, and began to make, beforehand, his provisions for the future. During the winter evenings, the two friends used to draw by lamplight, from seven till ten, according to the custom of almost all the students. Each pay a trifling sum monthly for the hire of the room, the models, and the lights. The students of the various academies assemble together, and their masters often take pleasure in passing an hour with them, and aiding them with their counsel.
It may, perhaps, be thought that such constant occupation must be very fatiguing, but there are so many attractions, and so much novelty, in the study of art, that weariness is seldom felt, especially in the full vigour of youth; and those who have experienced it, can say whether a week in the life of a man of the world does not leave behind it more lassitude, more weariness, and more void, than one such as I have just described. Besides, all is not labour in these pursuits: they rest, they chat; ideas are exchanged and corrected; the rich are generous towards the poor, and never refuse to share with them their experience. The character even is improved in these studious reunions—images in miniature of the great world into which they will have, at a later period, to be thrown; it is no longer the rod and the rule of college, but it is still the salutary influence of companionship; it is emulation, and a something of the honours of renown, without that alloy which so often spoils it for man. But woe to the sullen and morose! woe to those who cherish absurd or bad propensities! for justice is speedily rendered either by bitter sarcasm or by force. There, as elsewhere, the most distinguished take the lead, and it can easily be understood that studies, whose aim in general is to trace the good and the beautiful, may tend to elevate the mind, and strengthen every generous sentiment of the heart.
José enjoyed, with intense delight, the idea of being something of himself, of seeing before him the almost certain prospect of an honourable subsistence, acquired by a great talent. He may one day, perhaps, be rich; the name of Berr may one day be uttered with respect, and his pictures placed with care in the cabinets of the most fastidious lovers of art; but I may confidently assert, in advance, that nothing will be so dear to him, that nothing will efface from his memory the remembrance of the time, when, on the Monday, accompanied by Francisco, each went to purchase his sheet of tinted paper, or when, before retiring to rest, once more turning his canvass to take another look at the morning's work, he ventured to hope for all that he might then possess.
Profoundly impressed with the obligations which he was under to Dame Robert and to Gabri, he made it a law to himself never to lose a single day during the whole four years of his pupilage. Always the first at the studio, he never left before the time of the lessons, as is sometimes done by those idlers who, having gossiped or wasted in play the whole of the morning, hide themselves at the arrival of the master, who supposes them absent. Still, José was not always in an equally favourable disposition; the games and boyish tricks of his companions possessed some attraction for him; but he rarely yielded to the temptation, and did all he could to prevent his too volatile friend Francisco from doing so. "What matters," said the latter, "losing a few hours? We have time enough!" and Francisco wasted his time without scruple. Nevertheless, his natural ability, and a few weeks' steadiness, always kept him pretty nearly in the second rank among his companions.
At the expiration of a year, José began to paint sufficiently well from nature to attempt some portraits; and he eagerly availed himself of this means of being less burdensome to his friend Gabri. At his express desire, Dame Robert persuaded one of her relations to have her face drawn in colours; at the same time assuring her, that her boy was well skilled in his business. José would certainly have been sadly distressed could he have heard her thus torture the language of art; but, happily, he was not present, and the good woman, with two or three phrases of this kind, persuaded her cousin, who merely stipulated that she should be painted with two eyes, and with her lace cap and coral ear-rings. This portrait was to be finished for her husband's birthday. José therefore left the studio a little earlier every day; and, as the likeness was very striking, and had but little shade, while the eyes looked full at the spectator, and the coral ear-rings seemed as if they could be taken in the fingers, the work was universally applauded. The young painter received innumerable compliments, twelve francs, and several commissions, which, although paid for below their value, so much increased his little store, that he had the satisfaction of being able, at the end of a year, to reimburse Gabri for the hire of his room, and Dame Robert for the trifling expense of his board. The greater his advancement, the more profitable did his talents become; and he at length followed the example of many other students of slender means, who, having the good sense not to be ashamed of employing their talents in sign-painting, adorn the shops of Paris with what might almost be called handsome pictures.
All Monsieur G——'s instructions were attentively listened to by José, who sometimes even wrote down the most remarkable passages before he went to bed. One phrase especially struck him as being the true definition of an artist. "Three things," said this clever master to his pupils, "are requisite for him who devotes his life to the fine arts,—genius to conceive, taste to select, and talent to execute." These conditions are equally applicable to the musician and to the poet; but who can flatter himself with being possessed at once of all these three qualifications? José dare not cherish such a hope; he dare not believe that he had genius; but taste and talent might be acquired, he thought; and, as our sage little friend was still but just emerged from childhood, he wrote in large letters, upon his table and upon his easel, the words which thus became to him a fundamental law of painting.
The excellent Gabri experienced the most heartfelt joy at the success of his protégé; he frequently visited him when at work in his room, and, for fear of disturbing him, would remain in perfect silence behind his chair, and then, after embracing him, he would go down to listen to Dame Robert's chat. As we have already observed, Gabri was no talker; their intercourse, therefore, was rather a monologue than a dialogue; but he was never weary of listening, so long as José was the theme; but when Dame Robert went on to any other subject, "Good evening, neighbour," he would say; "Madame Barbe is expecting me, and you know she is not one to make light of things."
One morning, at the class, Monsieur G—— said to his pupils, "Gentlemen, you will to-morrow have a new companion. I recommend him to your kindness. Not too many experiments or jokes, if you please. He is very young, and, doubtless, but little experienced in your ways; be, therefore, good boys. He is sent to me by the city of Angers. Berr, my friend, you will place him by you; and I beg that you, Enguehard, will not show off the Parisian too much." Francisco smiled, without replying; but Monsieur G——'s speech produced the ordinary effect, and which he very well knew himself. The desire of tormenting the new comer immediately seized all these young madcaps, and Francisco in particular. "Oh!" said he, "a pupil from the provinces! how odd that we have had none before. And they think I shall not amuse myself with this young Raphael from Angers! Stuff! our master very well knows the value of his recommendations in this line." And Francisco, encouraged by the laughter of his auditors, began to make a grotesque sketch upon the wall which he assured them was an exact portrait of the Angevin.
"Angevin! Yes, that must be his name," said another young rogue, the usual companion of Francisco's follies; "you know how that exasperates them."
"Oh! as to that," replied Francisco, "we have all our nicknames: am I not the Madcap, and Berr the Phœnix? But listen! I'll tell you what we must do;" and hereupon these two giddy brains began whispering in a corner. José hazarded a few words in favour of the provincial; but he was only laughed at, and was at last obliged to end by joining in their mirth, though he determined, nevertheless, to exert his influence to the utmost at the proper time, in order to save the new pupil from too much annoyance.
Many of the provincial towns had then, and still have, academies of painting, destined for the artistic education of children in humble circumstances; and the pupil who displayed the greatest amount of talent was sent to Paris, to continue his studies under a better master than could generally be obtained in a small town, the expenses of those studies being defrayed by the establishment which elected him. The youth, from whom Francisco and his mischievous companions expected so much diversion, had been chosen by the professors of the Academy of Angers as the most promising of its pupils. This, however, was not saying much; and it did not unfrequently happen, that those who occupied the first rank in the Departmental Schools, were, on entering those of Paris, immediately placed in the lowest; still, however, fortunate that the principles inculcated by their professors were not those of the time of Jouvenet and Boucher. The young student had, unhappily, been directed by an old master—an admirer of that age of absurdity and bad taste. He made his pupils copy figures in red chalk, portraits in pastel, and showed them with pride his prize picture—for he, too, had been to Rome. But we may judge of the merits of his rivals, and of the advantage he derived from his journey, when we learn that this picture, regarded by him thirty years afterwards as his best production, represented Cleobis and Biton; and that the Grecian characters wore Roman armour, and draperies of gauze and silk. To crown his misfortune, the poor candidate, small, ill-made, and more than plainly attired, not so much in conformity with the fashions of his province as with the length of his purse, presented an appearance not altogether unlike the caricature sketched by Francisco upon the wall; and it may, therefore, be easily imagined, that these young satirists did not lose so favourable an opportunity of exercising their humour.
Scarcely had the young man entered, than he was received with noisy acclamations; and two of the pupils, eagerly pressing forward to receive him, overwhelmed him with ironical and outré compliments.
"Sir!" they exclaimed, "your reputation has preceded you; the admiration of your native city was insufficient for such distinguished merit. You are about to receive the homage of Paris, while you have ours already...."
"The name of the Angevin is already celebrated," added another; "and it will be handed down to posterity like that of Josepin."
"But, gentlemen," said the unfortunate victim,—speaking as if all the A's and E's had circumflex accents over them, according to the agreeable custom of his province,—"Gentlemen, I am not called the Angevin. My father's, as well as my own name, is Valentin lâ Grimâudière."[3]
This name, and especially the tone in which it was pronounced, a kind of sing-song, difficult of imitation to those unacquainted with the fair province of Anjou, excited fresh bursts of laughter; and Francisco again taking the word, "You must be aware, Sir," he said, gravely, and at the same time endeavouring to imitate the accent of the stranger, "that the great painters are rarely known by their true names. Thus we speak of Dominichino and Guercino, instead of Dominico Zampieri, and Barbieri da Cento. Assuredly then it is not surprising that you should be called the Angevin."
"But, gentlemen," replied the simple youth, "you are indeed too good; I do not deserve...."
"You deserve our most profound respect, illustrious companion," interrupted Francisco. "Gentlemen, I present to you the glory of the Angevin Academy, the hero of Pasticcio,[4] the conqueror of Stipling, and the favourite of the Rococos.[5] And to you, noble Angevin, I present my especial friends, Landort, Galvaudeur (the Disturber), La Picoterie (the Torment), Rubens the Younger, and myself, Le Braque (the Madcap), your very humble servant. Now, my worthy friend, you know us perfectly, so away with ceremony; take your place, my Gringalet, and let us see what you can do. At the first rest, you shall be made to read, to write, and to sing, and, after the model, you shall pay your welcome."
The unfortunate Angevin, bewildered by this torrent of bad jokes, dared neither reply nor resist. He had arrived early, in the hope of finding his future companions less numerous; but his precaution had proved a failure. Francisco, and the merry participators in his follies, had divined his intention, and their diligence surpassed his own. The more sober pupils had not yet arrived; and José, detained by a portrait which he had to finish that morning, did not arrive until late, so that the innocent victim remained unprotected in the midst of his persecutors. Although he had announced himself as having painted, Monsieur G—— made him commence by drawing, in order to judge of his power.
"Sit there," said Francisco, pointing to an empty seat between two of his companions; "the call has been made, but that is the place of honour, the best for the light, and the one always chosen by the first on the master's list;" and he pushed the poor lad towards the place which his mischief had destined for him.
As studios in repute are usually well attended, and as space is not always in proportion to the number of the pupils, they are often much inconvenienced, and press round the model in three or four rows of different elevations. Those of the first row are seated upon low wooden benches; those of the second upon chairs; others again upon high stools; while, behind these, upon still higher stools, or standing, come those who paint, with scarcely room for themselves and their light easels. The place pointed out by Francisco to the unfortunate competitor, was upon one of the little benches, so that above him were seated two pupils who amused themselves by resting their drawing-boards upon his head, and obliged him to hold it bent down, in a position by no means convenient, especially for looking at the model, which was placed upon a table two or three feet high. Besides, the disagreeable person above him, pretending to be obliged to touch and retouch his work again and again, crumbled up large pieces of bread, which he afterwards shook over the work of the patient Angevin. More than one bullet of bread was aimed at his nose, too, and by such well-practised hands, that their occupation seemed in no way interrupted. Conversation, however, flowed on as usual, while the elder students, busied with their work, thought no more of the stranger. He, poor fellow, tormented, crushed, with heavy drops of perspiration standing on his brow, and not daring to utter a syllable, smudged his paper at random, while tears rolled down his cheeks when he thought of the opinion Monsieur G—— would form of his talents. Summoning up his courage, however, he at length ventured to address his right-hand neighbour, and said gently, "Would you be so kind as to lend me your penknife, Sir?" No reply. "Sir;" he resumed in a somewhat louder tone, and gently touching him, "if you have a penknife...." The young man looked at him with astonishment, and pointing to his ear, gave him to understand that he was deaf. The Angevin sighed, not wishing to speak louder, for fear of again becoming an object of ridicule, and turning towards his left-hand neighbour, he again said, "Oblige me with a penknife, Sir, if you please." The student raised his head, and replied gravely, "Non intelligo, domine; non sum Gallus." "But, Sir, it is a penknife I want," continued the Angevin, at the same time making a movement with his fingers, as if cutting a pencil. His mischievous companion pretended not to understand him, and affecting to believe that he was making game of him, he pretended to be angry, and gave him so rude a push that he almost fell from his by no means steady seat. His portfolio escaped from his hold, and all the drawings and papers contained in it flew into the middle of the room. The Angevin, in despair, crept as softly as possible to pick them up, but his persecutors were not yet weary of the sport. "Get away from the model! Silence!" exclaimed those of the last row, who were disturbed by this commotion. "To the hunt! dog! hunt!" cried the others. At length the poor boy succeeded in returning to his place; but he found himself so much pressed, and so ill at ease, his companions having designedly drawn closer together, that, urged to extremes, his anger was on the point of triumphing over his timidity, when the door opened, and José appeared.
"Ah! Phœnix, Phœnix!" exclaimed the young students. "Good morning, my brave Phœnix," said Francisco; "you are late for a Monday morning, and will get no place for painting."—"I shall not paint this week," replied José, advancing towards the fire-place; then looking round him he said, "Who will give me his place, and I will give him my study?"—"I! I!" exclaimed several voices.
"Come, then!" said José, who had immediately observed the uncomfortable position of the Angevin, "it shall be you, Maurice;" and he pointed to the pupil seated beside the stranger, who had pretended to be deaf. "Bravo!" exclaimed Maurice, rising, "I shall have your study. Besides, I am not very industriously disposed. I shall do nothing this week. I'll be a gentleman at large!"
José took his place, and by a glance caused the drawing-boards which crushed his unfortunate protégé to be removed: then, as if he had forgotten to bring paper with him, he asked him for a sheet. The Angevin hastened to comply with the request, and José having kindly addressed some questions to him, he began to feel a little more at his ease. At the hour of recreation, these mischief-loving urchins again met to decide whether some grand joke could not be played off upon their victim; but José, stepping into the midst of the group, exclaimed, "No! no! gentlemen, enough of this; let us leave the poor fellow in peace; he is not a Paris boy, and I demand an exception in his favour. I was far more of a foreigner among you than he is, yet have I found in you most excellent comrades."
José was so much beloved, and possessed so much influence over his companions, that their sport had no longer any interest for them the moment he disapproved of it; so the Angevin was abandoned to his young protector. The nickname alone adhered to him, and it was not long before they discovered in him so much kindness and good-nature, that they soon ceased to have any desire of tormenting him. He obtained the good opinion of all his fellow-students; but José was his friend, and to serve him he would have gone through fire and water.
Solon has, I think, said: "No praise before death;" and he said wisely, for one moment of forgetfulness might tarnish even the most irreproachable life. Who can boast of being infallible, especially in youth? José, the prudent José, learned this to his cost; for, unhappily, these reflections apply to him. It was his first fault; but it was a serious one, as we shall show.
Occasionally, during the summer, José's companions formed themselves into little parties, and spent the day in the country in an inexpensive manner; for they had both good legs and a good appetite, and required only simple fare. They went into the environs of Paris, and returned home in the evening, after spending a pleasant day. But José, though keenly alive to the pleasure of these parties, often refused to join them, as they occasioned a loss of time which to him was very precious. However, the fête of Saint Cloud was approaching, and Francisco proposed going to see the fountains play. This proposition was eagerly acceded to, and José felt a strong desire to accompany them. He had never seen the fountains play, and this sight possesses powerful attractions to a Parisian, and especially to a young man like José, who was ignorant of almost everything foreign to his studies. It was, therefore, decided that they should form a party of twelve, dine at Saint Cloud, and share the expenses between them. José communicated his project to Dame Robert, and this excellent woman loved him too tenderly to oppose what appeared likely to afford him so much pleasure; nevertheless, at the moment of his departure, she followed him to the door, recommending him not to lose his purse in the crowd, and not get into any quarrel with the boothkeepers at the fair. José smiled at her fears, and hastened to rejoin his friends, who were to meet him at the Tuileries.
The young people merrily pursued their way, already amused with the procession of carriages, horses, carts, and pedestrians, like themselves, all taking the same direction. On arriving at Saint Cloud, they commenced with a simple breakfast, the greater part of their little treasure being reserved for their evening meal. They then took a survey of the booths, admired the cascades, listened to the bands, marvelled at the conjurors, and even laughed at Punch's buffoonery, as the numerous spectators of this fête are annually accustomed to do at the same season of the year. They several times fell in with a troop of young men, pupils of a different master, and their rivals in glory and talent. These two studios were jealous and inimical, as well from party spirit as from a sentiment of attachment to their masters; and this animosity had been manifested in more than one encounter of class against class, for there existed between them no individual aversion. On this occasion, they looked at each other with an expression of irony.
"Oh, oh!" cried José's companions, "here are the Princes of Babocheux and Flou-flou."[6]
"Yes, gentlemen," replied the others, "ready to admire your Croûtes aux épinards."[7]
Each made a grimace; but they separated without saying anything more.
Returned to the inn, after having wandered about for a considerable time, José and his companions were prepared to enjoy a repast, dainty to them, from their simple habits; and they contemplated it with a degree of satisfaction, which would have made many young people, spoiled either by fortune or by their parents, shrug their shoulders with contempt. Their table was laid in what was called the garden, a small enclosure surrounded by walls, and covered with a trellis work, ornamented with honey-suckle and vine. This spot was capable of containing five or six tables, separated by partitions, also of trellis work, and though very warm, still there was a little more air there than in the house; besides the circumstances of the guests permitted them no choice, and our young students were therefore very well satisfied at being so comfortably located.
As may be imagined, there was no lack of conversation; this turned at first upon their good cheer, which they had time enough to enjoy, as the waiters were so much occupied, that they allowed full half an hour to intervene between each course.
"Well! Angevin, my friend," said Francisco,—for José's protection had caused him to be received into the party,—"what do you think of this Marinade?[8] something better than your usual fare, hey!"
"I should think so," replied the Angevin, holding out his plate for the third or fourth time. "Plague take the stew, I shan't touch it to-morrow."
"What!" cried the young folks, laughing; "what do you mean by the stew?"
"Oh! nothing, nothing," replied the Angevin, already regretting his indiscretion; but his companions insisting, and José joining in their request, he told them, laughingly, that, finding it impossible to live in Paris in any other than the most economical manner, he had ended, after trying various plans, by purchasing a large stew-pan and an earthen stove. He filled it once a week with turnips, potatoes, and a few slices of bacon, which he boiled altogether, and this ragout, which was hot only for the first time, served him for dinner during the whole week. He was so much accustomed to call it his stew, that the word had inadvertently escaped him in the presence of his companions.
"My poor fellow!" said José, holding out his hand to him. "Poor Angevin!" repeated the others; and, so far from laughing, a momentary silence pervaded the whole party.
"Gentlemen," said Francisco, who blushed at the remembrance of the murmurs which often escaped him on account of what he called his father's unnecessary economy; "I am going to propose a toast: to the success of our worthy comrade! May he gain the prize, even though I should myself have to be left behind him."
The young friends rose, and eagerly touched their glasses, while the Angevin, deeply moved, repeated, in a tone of emotion, "Oh! Berr, Berr, it is to you that I owe all this!"
Their conversation then turned upon painting, and upon the hopes entertained by Francisco and José, who flattered themselves with being this year permitted to compete for the prize, not, however, with the presumptuous hope of obtaining it, for they were both very young, especially José; but the mere fact of being admitted to the competition counted for much, and they might perhaps deserve honourable mention. Francisco had, moreover, an additional motive for desiring, as soon as possible, to distinguish himself. Glory was not the only passion which agitated his breast; for some time past he had grieved at being without fortune or reputation, which prevented him from aspiring to an alliance which would have crowned his fondest wishes. But this prospect was so distant and so uncertain that he had never spoken of it, even to José, except once, and then very vaguely.
Whilst, then, they were conversing upon art, with an enthusiasm worthy of the subject, they were interrupted by a loud noise, which proceeded from a room on the first-floor, immediately above the spot where they were dining. As the window was open, it was easy to overhear what passed, and, by a natural feeling of curiosity, the young guests checked their conversation, in order to listen to their joyous neighbours.
"By the powers!" cried one, "here's a splendid charge[9] it ought to be hung up in Barbe's shop; the veriest rapin[10] would recognise it!"
"Yes," said another, "it is his very self, with his vagabond air! Ah! ah! my gentlemen of the green and yellow school! you fancy you are going to carry off the next prizes from us, do you? We shall see, my lads! we shall see!"
Our young friends looked at each other with indignation, and softly approached the window, in order to hear more, for they recognised their antagonists, who doubtless little imagined they were so near.
"For my part," said one of the rival students, "I fear neither Rivol nor Enguehard, nor even the famous Berr, about whom they make such a fuss; he is ready enough, and up to the tricks of the art, and that's all. Enguehard is an idle dog, who does no good, while Rivol is too well off ever to be anything more than an amateur and a dauber. So down with the Purists, and long life to the Colourists!"
"Long life to the Colourists!" shouted his companions, and they added many other jests so bitter and so personal, that José and his friends, already animated by a few glasses of wine, to which they were unaccustomed, could no longer restrain their indignation, and commenced the attack by throwing into the room plates, knives, and anything else which happened to come in their way. The enemy hastened to the window, and recognising their adversaries, uttered shouts of laughter, which completely exasperated the others. A decanter, thrown by José, struck the forehead of one of the Colourists, who in their turn became furious, and began to make a descent, by means of the trellis-work placed beneath the window, for the purpose of crushing their antagonists. A battle then ensued, amidst bitter insults. Fragments of broken chairs flew about in all directions, the women at the neighbouring tables screamed, the children cried, and the men rushed forward to separate the combatants, without being in the least able to understand the invectives with which they overwhelmed each other, under the names of Purists and Colourists. The landlord of the inn, attracted by the noise, ran towards the scene of action, followed by his waiters, and they succeeded, without much difficulty, in calming those who were only soldiers—for they fought solely for the honour of their corps. But the chiefs did not so readily listen to reason; Enguehard was stretched upon the ground, his arms pinioned by the two stout hands of a Colourist, and José, absolutely out of his senses, was stifling, with the weight of his knee, the young man who had spoken of him with so much contempt, and who had just been conquered by his impetuosity.
These four madmen would listen to nothing, and were at length obliged to be separated by main force; but José, while still struggling, slipped over some pieces of the broken plates, and gave himself so violent a twist that he was unable to rise, and was obliged to remain seated on the ground, suffering excruciating pain.
It being proved by the testimony of eye-witnesses, that the young people in the garden had commenced this memorable battle, by throwing plates into the room, and that the Colourists had only broken the trellis-work in descending, the landlord contented himself with a slight sum as indemnification, and allowed them to depart; but José and his friends had done considerable damage, and had been the first to commence the disturbance; they had only sufficient money to defray the expenses of their dinner, and the innkeeper declared that he would be paid, and that he should send for the police. Francisco increased the man's anger, by the rage into which he put himself; the poor Angevin employed prayers and tears, to soften the innkeeper; while José, ashamed, and in despair, maintained a gloomy silence, abandoning himself to the most melancholy reflections, when his name, pronounced by a severe and well-known voice, made him utter a cry, and hide his face in his hands.
The voice was that of the good and vigilant Gabri, who had been induced by his active friendship for José to follow him to the fête, and to watch over the inexperience which he very justly attributed to him. He had watched the young men from a distance, and determined not to make his appearance, except in case of accident; finally, having been able to find accommodation only at the farther end of the place occupied by them at the inn, he had been the last to arrive at the scene of action.
"Sir," he said coldly to the innkeeper, "estimate the damage done, and make out your account; I will discharge the debts of these madcaps, who are of my acquaintance, and we will afterwards settle matters together."
The host, who was no cheat, and who was, moreover, too happy to be paid without any further trouble, made out a tolerably reasonable account, which Gabri immediately discharged. Then telling Francisco and the Angevin to support José, who was unable to walk, he placed him in a carriage, and drove off with him, after having saluted the troop of students, who were still too much bewildered by what had taken place even to think of thanking him.
Gabri had placed José in the cabriolet in as convenient a position as possible for his injured leg, while he went upon the box himself, and during the whole of their way home never once addressed a single word to the poor sufferer, nor even turned his head towards him, notwithstanding the complaints which the constant jolting of the rude vehicle drew from the culprit. The well-paid coachman took them as far as Dame Robert's door. "There, there he is," said Gabri to the terrified woman, "and now good evening; I will see him again when he has recovered, and grown wiser;" and he turned away without listening to Dame Robert's exclamations, who in her trouble did not perceive that José had almost fainted. He was conveyed to bed, his dislocated ankle set, and his numerous bruises attended to: but the wine which he had taken, and the violent excitement which had followed an excess altogether new to him, brought on a somewhat severe illness, which lasted for several days; and even when it was subdued he was obliged to remain six weeks with his foot resting upon a chair, without being able to move. We may judge of his grief and remorse, which many circumstances contributed to augment. Gabri allowed his heart to be touched by his repentance, and consented to see him; but he was sad, and Dame Robert uneasy; and José was one day deeply grieved to see her, while thinking herself unobserved, lock up a bottle of brandy which was standing near him.
Soon afterwards he had to endure a far more bitter trial. The time for competing for the prizes arrived; Francisco was admitted for the sketches; while José, who was only just beginning to walk, and whose studies had, moreover, been too much interrupted, was obliged to give up all hope for that year, and endure the mortification of finding himself left behind by companions considerably less advanced than himself. Francisco, though sincerely grieved at his friend's misfortune, felt his ardour increased from not having to compete with so formidable a rival. He made astonishing efforts to sustain the honour of the school, but he only obtained the second prize, which did not send its possessor to Rome: the first was carried off by that same chief of the Colourists who had spoken of José with so much contempt: and thus the poor boy remained with the bitter remembrance of two months passed in suffering, of a triumph lost, and of a folly committed.
However, as it is not considered that a young man must necessarily be dishonoured because he has once been intoxicated and beaten, José, after having passed some time in a state of complete apathy, at length took courage. He perceived, that instead of abandoning himself to vain regrets he ought to endeavour to repair his fault, while that intimate consciousness of power, in which even the most modest cannot help believing, told him, that he could repair everything. It usually happens after a first fault, that a young man either turns from the evil path, or pursues it for the rest of his life. José had too much superiority of nature not to profit by experience. Redoubling, therefore, both his assiduity and zeal, he made such marked progress during the course of the current year, that Monsieur G. decided that he also might compete as well as Francisco and Rivol.
The place in which the young people then worked at their prize pictures, was situated at the top of that same Pavilion du Musée, of which we have already spoken. It was divided into several little compartments, or cells, called boxes, in each of which a student was shut up, so as to allow him no communication with his companions, and still less with his master or with strangers. The subject for the picture was chosen by the professors of painting of the Institution; the programme was distributed to the candidates, and when their sketches were made, and received, they were all to commence their pictures at the same time, according to those sketches, without changing anything. Each morning, on arriving, they were rigidly searched, in order to make sure that they brought with them no drawings or engravings which could in any manner aid them. Thus left to their own resources, they passed two months in this manner, en loge, as it is termed; and these pictures, the figures in which were one third the size of life, were publicly exhibited during three days before the prizes were awarded. But although it was strictly forbidden for the pupils to see their respective works, in order, doubtless, to prevent the weak from being aided by the strong, or to take care that a happy idea should remain the sole property of its author—notwithstanding, I say, all these precautions, the students of that time, less sensible perhaps than those of the present day, found means of visiting each other without being perceived. The windows of their cells all looked in the same direction, upon a small, dirty, and almost unfrequented square, in which is now situated one of the gates leading to the quay. These temporary abodes were, as we have already said, situated in the roof, all the windows opening upon wide leads, unprotected by railings. These madcaps, at the imminent risk of breaking their necks by falling from an immense height, glided by this way from one cell to another. The more scrupulous closed their windows, so as to prevent intrusion; but two days before the expiration of the time allowed for the pictures, each student permitted, without difficulty, his work to be inspected by his companions, and the little Areopagus, with remarkable sagacity and impartiality, precisely anticipated the decrees of the greater one, and awarded the first and second prize in such a manner, that there is scarcely an example of their decisions having turned out erroneous.
José, who took the first rank in the sketches, now prepared to submit to this trial, so severe, but, at the same time, so important to him. Monsieur G. had recommended the reputation of his studio to his pupils. Three times had they competed, without any of them obtaining the first prize. It was necessary to repair this disgrace, and be avenged for the late success of the Colourists. In addition to two formidable rivals in the opposition school, José had to contend against his two friends, Francisco and Rivol, who, besides having already competed for the prize, had, also, the advantage of age—José was then only fifteen years and a half old; but these considerations by no means discouraged him; and fired by that enthusiastic and true love of art which overcomes all difficulties, he commenced, though not without emotion, the required picture, the subject of which was the "Death of Hippolytus."
Dame Robert, as may be imagined, was greatly excited, and her mind wholly absorbed by her darling boy's undertaking. Certainly, had she been consulted, José would have had nothing to fear; but neither the good woman's indulgence, nor Gabri's affection, could avail poor José anything—they must wait. "If," said Dame Robert, "I could only see what they are doing, I should soon find out whether José had not left them behind; but they are cloistered up like so many monks, and when the boy comes home at night, he does not even so much as give us a hint as to how things are going on."
Gabri, equally anxious, but more discreet than Dame Robert, did not seek to elicit anything from José; but he watched him carefully, sighed when the poor boy appeared depressed, and rubbed his hands with glee when he seemed happy.
The good-natured Angevin, who was not yet sufficiently advanced to compete for the prize, was deeply interested in the success of his friend; but he felt little uneasiness, for he knew that José was very far superior to his rivals. He too would have liked to have seen his work, but he was obliged to content himself with walking beneath the windows of the young captives, and see their heads pop out and in occasionally, like so many marionettes, with now and then a mahl-stick accompanying them, and serving to complete the resemblance.
Six weeks had passed away, the pictures were advancing, and as, with the exception of José and his companions, the competitors were of different schools, he had seen only the work of his friends; and his own was so far superior to theirs, that a hope which he scarcely dared own, even to himself, made his heart beat high within his breast. He had nothing to fear from the other students, as they were all inferior to Francisco and Rivol. He was standing, therefore, contemplating with a kind of secret pleasure the group of terrified horses which he had just completed, when Francisco tapped at his window, and immediately afterwards leaping into the room, told him, with a countenance expressive of the utmost concern, that he was in despair, and should never succeed with his figure of Aricia, which was in the programme distributed for the picture. Subjects are usually selected with but few female figures, these being more difficult for the young artists, as they cannot have models; and the unfortunate Aricia, which almost all of them had reserved till the last, had completely wrecked both the courage and talent of Francisco. He looked with admiration on José's Aricia, for he had been entirely successful, at least in his sketch. José, anxious to soothe the agitation of his friend, accompanied him across the leads to his cell, in order to examine the figure which so much distressed him: he found it awkward, ill-drawn, and in bad taste, and could not conceal from his friend that he thought it detestable. This, of course, served only to increase Francisco's despair. He dashed his palette to the ground, stamped upon it, broke his brushes, and ended by crying with rage. José embraced and tried to soothe him, and at length, by dint of kindness and encouragement, succeeded in persuading him that all was not yet lost, and that he could still repaint the figure during the week that yet remained to them. He pointed out to him what he had to avoid, and raised his courage by dwelling on the merits of the rest of the picture. At last, after having spent two hours in this manner, he left him, if not entirely consoled, at least sufficiently recovered to resume his work.
The following days Francisco repainted his unfortunate figure, but still without success; he effaced it, recommenced, again effaced it, and at last succeeded in completing it; but in a manner so far inferior to the other parts of the composition, that it formed a blemish which destroyed the general effect. Such was the opinion of his companions, when, according to the rule established among them, they visited each other to judge of the respective merits of their productions. They had still four days to remain at work, and the pictures were not completely finished, but it was easy to judge which would obtain the prize; and José was regarded as the conqueror, provided he completed the figure of Aricia as he had done the group of Hippolytus and his horses. Next to his, came Francisco's picture, then Rivol's, the others were very far from the mark, and need, therefore, cause them no anxiety.
Francisco, deprived of the last ray of hope by the decision of his companions, as well as by that of his own judgment, shut himself up in his cell, and would not allow José to enter, though he entreated for admittance. He gave no reply to these friendly solicitations, and the intensity of his annoyance had rendered him so unjust, that to avoid seeing José, who lay crouched upon the narrow ledge of the window, he took a large piece of linen, which served him for a blind, and fastened it before the window. José listened to him for some time pacing up and down and groaning with despair; but seeing that his perseverance was useless and importunate he retired, deeply grieved at his distress.
He passed a sleepless night, and the next morning no sooner had he reached his own cell than he ran to Francisco's; but he was not there, his picture still rested upon the easel, and for a moment José thought of retouching the figure of Aricia. But this would have been a palpable fraud, and his honour revolted from its commission. Francisco, moreover, would never have consented to triumph by such disgraceful means. José, therefore, laid down the brush which he had taken up, and with a heavy heart returned to his own cell.
Whilst painting the figure which had proved so fatal to poor Francisco, he vainly sought some method of serving him, and his tender friendship made him almost desire that his Aricia might not be better than his companion's. He worked with so little care, that, had any one else been in the case, his wishes would have been accomplished; but, as it often happens with artists, the very thing that he took the least pains with turned out the best; and, to make use of a familiar expression, this figure came so happily, that even an experienced painter would not have been ashamed to own it.
With a mind absorbed in reflection, José painted on almost without heeding what he did, and it was not until he rose up, when all was completed, that he perceived that the last touches seemed to have been given by the hand of a master, rather than by that of a pupil. His first feeling was one of intense joy, but it was soon overshadowed by the thought of Francisco. He felt that the prize was his, but soon one of those noble inspirations which elevated minds alone receive in their happiest moments, presented itself to his imagination, and showed him that the safety of his friend depended solely upon him.
By one of the old rules of the professors, the pupil who presented his picture with a figure completely erased, or otherwise defaced, was on this account excluded from the competition; his picture was exhibited with the others, but was not taken into account in the awarding of the prizes, even though it were a masterpiece in comparison with the rest. This rule, which it was found rarely necessary to apply, was unknown to most of the students. José had become informed of it during his residence at M. Barbe's, but he was quite sure that Francisco knew nothing about it. His friend's picture was the best, after his own; and by having the courage to destroy the figure of Aricia, which alone would have ensured the prize to a work of less merit, Francisco would remain without a rival.
At first José seized upon this idea with all the warmth of generous affection, but, on raising his eyes to his work, he began to think the sacrifice beyond his strength. Pacing his cell with agitation, he thought of the honour of being crowned at the age of sixteen, of the pleasure of going to Italy, and of the advantage his studies would derive from the journey.
"But," said he, turning his back upon his picture, "Francisco needs it almost as much as myself; the means of his parents are almost exhausted by the efforts they have made for his education; his mother's health requires a warmer climate; if Francisco gains the prize his family will follow him,..." and José again approached his easel.
"Francisco is nearly twenty," he continued; "he has already obtained a second prize, and thus cannot have it again; his age will soon exclude him from the competition, while I have still two or three years before me; moreover, he spoke to me of a vague hope which he entertained of a happy marriage, to which his want of fortune might one day be the only obstacle. If a brilliant success were to overcome this obstacle? If the happiness of his future life depended upon what I am about to do?..." José trembled, opened a box, took out his palette knife, and approached the head of the charming Aricia—but again he paused.
"If I were only to injure it a little," he thought, "alas! it would still be better than my poor friend's!"... and he cast a look of approbation upon the canvas. But soon a thought presented itself, which dispelled his irresolution, and strengthened his wavering heroism. He recalled that painful moment when, despised, falsely accused, on the point of being driven from the house by Barbe, and without hope of justification, Francisco did not fear to own the truth, and to re-establish, at his own cost, the honour of the poor little Savoyard. The honourable career which was now before him commenced from that moment; all that he was, all that he hoped to be, sprang, in the first instance, from Francisco's generous confession.... José no longer hesitated, he resumed his knife, and with a firm hand so erased the figure that nothing but the sketch remained—and thus nobly repaid the debt of friendship formerly contracted to his young companion.
José erasing his Figure of Aricia, p. 301.
Satisfied with himself, and more calm after this trial of strength—an act of high virtue in a young man of sixteen—José gave the last touches to the other parts of his picture, and so cleverly managed the erasure, that nothing more could be inferred from it, than one of those movements of irritability by no means uncommon among students. He kept his secret until the day previous to the one on which the pictures were to be removed. He then called upon Francisco at his father's, and told him that his figure of Aricia was unfinished, and indeed in a great measure effaced, and that there was not time to repaint it. Francisco, recovered from his unjust displeasure, grieved for and blamed his friend; but, being ignorant of the rule of exclusion, he assured him that the prize would still be his, and José did not attempt to remove his impression.
But José had still severe trials to encounter: he foresaw the grief of Dame Robert, Gabri's disappointment, and finally a whole year's work before he could again reach the desired goal, which he had so nearly attained; but the most painful moment was past, and he awaited that in which Francisco should be triumphant, as the only compensation worthy of him.
The exhibition of pictures was held, as usual, in a small room on the basement floor, now appropriated to another use. The artistic crowd arrived, and was constantly renewed during three entire days; and the young students, mingling with it, heard alike the censure and praise unreservedly bestowed, and often even with the knowledge that the young authors of the works were present. The universal opinion was in favour of the pictures of José and Francisco; but the spectators were constantly heard to exclaim, "A figure erased! what a pity! what madness!"
At length, on the fourth day, after a private conference, the professors summoned before them the trembling candidates, and José's sacrifice did not prove unavailing. He heard Francisco Enguehard proclaimed for the first prize, Rivol for the second, and he scarcely heard the honourable mention made of himself, notwithstanding the fatal figure which had excluded him from the competition.
Francisco, surprised and bewildered at such unexpected happiness, scarcely knew what he was about; he did not hear the felicitations of his companions, but allowed himself to be led away by José, who made him run until he reached his father's house.
"He has gained the prize!" cried José, at the foot of the stairs, "Francisco has gained the prize!" and seeing his friend in the arms of his parents, who wept while they blessed him, this noble youth was rewarded by a pleasure more intense and more elevated than any which his own triumph could have afforded him.
Leaving Francisco in the arms of his happy mother, who was never weary of looking at him, and who even thought him handsomer, now that the laurel decked his brow, José bent his steps homeward, and perceived in the distance Dame Robert and Gabri anxiously awaiting his return.
"He walks rapidly," said Dame Robert; "so much the better, he bears us good news."—"He looks happy," continued Gabri: "Oh, if he has gained the prize! at sixteen, too!" and already a smile of joy shone upon the countenance of this excellent man.
"Congratulate me, my friends," cried José, as he approached them; "I am happy in my failure; Francisco has gained the prize!"
"Francisco!" exclaimed Dame Robert, letting fall her arms, already extended to embrace him; "and you? Have you gained nothing? On my word there must be some abominable trickery in the affair."
"No," replied José smiling, "but be comforted, my good mother, I am neither depressed nor discouraged, and next year you shall see the laurels on my brow."
"But," said Gabri, in a tone of vexation, "who obtained the second prize?"
"Rivol," replied José; "and I might perhaps have had it if ..." and he looked timidly at Gabri, "if I had not erased my figure of Aricia."
"Yes!" exclaimed Gabri, as if talking to himself, "I was sure of it, I suspected as much at the exhibition.... José, José, embrace me, my son. Gracious Heaven! this is the first day I have passed without regretting the loss of my own noble boys."
Gabri was too familiar with artistic matters not to have divined the sacrifice which José's friendship had induced him to make, and his heart was capable of appreciating and rejoicing in it; but Dame Robert, who understood nothing of the matter, save that her boy was rejected, gave free vent to her dissatisfaction.
"Indeed, M. Gabri, it is very fine to pet him up after such a failure as that. Who would have thought it? It was well worth while to be shut up for two months without uttering a syllable, to let others walk off with the prize; still your picture was very fine, my boy, though, to tell you the truth, your female figure was too pale. I told you, however, not to spare your colours, but young people will always have their own way."
José smiled, and hastened to tranquillize the good woman. So far as concerned himself he succeeded without much difficulty; but she was for some time out of humour with Gabri, whose triumphant air annoyed her, because she did not understand it. Nor did she gain any information on the subject, for Gabri was discreet, and would not divulge José's secret; he did not even seek an explanation from the lad himself; but his marks of friendship were increased, and he more frequently repeated, "My son José!"
At the annual meeting of the Academy, when the students publicly receive the laurel crown, awarded for the merits of their works, José appeared more pleased than Francisco. He was restless, busying himself with his friend's toilet, &c.; and, placed in a corner of the room during the ceremony, the spectators might have imagined, from his excitement and his looks, when Francisco Enguehard was proclaimed, that he was the happy father of the young laureate, were it not that his almost childish features precluded the supposition.
A month after this great epoch for the two friends, they were separated; Francisco and his parents took the route to Italy; and José having returned to his studies, pursued them with ardour and contentment in thinking of the happiness which he had been the means of securing to three persons.
The year passed, and when again about to compete for the prize, José wrote to his friend, and told him to expect him in three months from that date. He felt confidence in himself, and had acquired so much power, that notwithstanding the merits of seven competitors, all older than himself, his picture was unanimously declared the best. It was even so superior to anything usually seen at these competitions, that it was thought proper to allow the exhibition to remain open several days longer than usual, in order to gratify the crowd of amateurs who flocked to see it. Dame Robert fully enjoyed José's triumph, and the almost equal pleasure of relating its history to her neighbours. Gabri rubbed his hands, and bent his head while listening to the praises of the young artist, and the honest Barbe exultingly boasted of having supplied for this famous picture the finest and the best canvas in his shop.
José, overwhelmed with honours, and full of joy, set out on his way to Rome, where he found Francisco, who had still four years remaining of the five granted by the government. Monsieur and Madame Enguehard received José as a second son; he lived in the same house with them, and enjoyed, in all its fulness, the delights of a life devoted to friendship and the fine arts, in that beautiful land where these arts so naturally flourish.
Many years have passed away since these events took place. Monsieur and Madame Barbe, grown rich and old, have retired, and given up their business to the excellent Gabri. A new generation of artists and students frequents the shop, and pursues pretty nearly the same habits as that which preceded it. But it is not in the same spot; the theatre of José's first exploits no longer exists. The two large posts may still, indeed, be seen; but Barbe's house has been taken down, and in its place monkeys and learned birds, attract by their various tricks, numerous spectators. Francisco Enguehard, steady and talented, is married, as he wished, to the only daughter of a rich antiquary, who desired to have for a son-in-law, a man of genius. Dame Robert has given up her business to her eldest son, and rests her fingers, if not her tongue, for she is never weary of relating to any one who will listen to her, how that José was a poor orphan, how she took him and put him to sleep on her counter, &c., &c. Philip, a worthy fellow, and a passable tailor, is married and settled, as he says, in his wife's native province, that is to say in the Marais. The poor Angevin, still a bad painter, notwithstanding all his efforts and perseverance, has returned to Angers. There, at least, he has talent, and directs in his turn the same school which sent him to Paris. He who was called poor José is now one of our most distinguished artists. He possesses a respectable fortune, acquired by his talents, and, what is far more valuable to him, the universal esteem granted to the most noble character and the most irreproachable conduct. Faithful alike to delicacy and friendship, Francisco never knew the sacrifice which obtained for him his crown. José's laurels are suspended in his magnificent studio, beside his first palette, and his shoeblack's knife. He watches over Gabri, as a son over a father; listens to the long stories of the good old Dame Robert, without the least sign of impatience; and, finally, though young, handsome, and sought after, he always wears clothes made by Philip, and boasting of little elegance, with shoes of the same kind from Dame Robert's shop: and this is not the least remarkable trait in his history.
[Caroline:]
OR,
THE EFFECTS OF A MISFORTUNE.
"How delighted I am that Robert is gone!" exclaimed Caroline de Manzay, as she entered her mother's room; "I never knew anybody so disagreeable!"
"What!" said Madame de Manzay, "not even Denis?"
"Oh! that is quite different; Denis is teazing and troublesome, meddles with everything, and is angry when prevented; he jeers and laughs at one, and becomes passionate and insulting when contradicted; but then he is a mere child, and one overlooks it."
"You did not seem very ready to do so: you were always quarrelling, and could say very insulting things yourself sometimes."
"For all that I like him better than Robert."
"Yet Robert never teazed you; he is very reasonable."
"To be sure he is; he is twenty years old: and how proud he is! Because he is five years older than I am he treats me like a little girl, and to-day he told me I was a spoiled child."
"Robert is not the first person who has said that, my dear; but for what reason did he pay you this compliment?"
"It was because Denis, who always takes delight in seeing me vexed, came to tell me, with an air of triumph, that when we took him and Robert to the village, we were to go by the road which I do not like. I said we were not to go that way; he asserted that we were, because he had heard my father give orders to his forester to wait for him at the green-gate, that he might see on his way back the fir-trees which are to be cut. Then I declared that I would not go out at all, and Robert laughed at me, and insisted that if my father chose it I should be obliged to go, and to take the road he wished. All this made me angry, and when papa came up I teazed him so, till he said we should go the way I liked best, and that he would look at the fir-trees another time. 'Well,' said I to Robert, when my father was at a little distance, 'it is my turn to laugh at you now;' 'I would recommend you not,' he replied, very contemptuously, 'there is no glory in being a spoiled child, and in abusing indulgence,' and then he turned his back on me. Oh! I detest him! So when he got into the carriage I would not say good-bye, and when he came up to kiss me, I turned my back upon him in my turn."
"And did that appear to grieve him?"
"He did not care in the least; he began to laugh, and said, 'Adieu, Caroline, try to become a little more reasonable, you need it greatly.'"
"And how did you part with Denis?"
"Oh, very well, for I spoke to him."
"What did you say to him?"
"I told him I was delighted that he was going away, because he was so rude; and he replied, that he was quite as glad, because I was so wilful and captious. In fact, I am not at all fond of Denis, either, and it is a great relief to be rid of him. It will be a long time, will it not, before we see him again?"
"Much too long; his guardian thinks of going to America, and taking Denis with him. God only knows when he will come back."
"Oh! I shall have quite enough of him; he is so insufferable! And Robert?"
"He is going on his travels for four or five years."
"That is a great blessing."
"But, my dear child, you should reflect that Robert is your father's nephew, and that Denis is my poor sister's son; they are both of them your nearest relatives, and ought to be your best friends."
"Fine friends, indeed! the one teazes me, and the other despises me."
"I allow that Denis is fond of teazing, and that Robert is scornful, but they will out-grow that."
"No, that they won't."
"What! do you, then, really think that Denis, at twenty years old, will spoil your drawing, or blow out your candle?"
"He will do something as tiresome; and even if he should improve, Robert will always remain the same."
"I hope not; he will gain with years the gentleness in which he is deficient. But, even supposing he should not change, you yourself will alter, and when you are no longer a spoiled child, he will not call you such."
"I don't know that; he is so unamiable. However, it is all the same to me; I do not care for his opinion."
"So I perceive, my dear," said her mother, smiling, "you speak of it so calmly."
At this moment, Caroline heard her father calling her, and ran out to join him; she was always happy to be his companion, and responded with all her heart to the passionate affection which he showed her. Caroline was the only survivor of Monsieur and Madame de Manzay's eight daughters, and during her infancy her health had been so delicate, as to cause them the greatest anxiety. Continually agitated by the fear of losing her, their only thought had been to preserve their treasure: they trembled lest the slightest opposition should endanger her fragile existence, or cast a cloud over a life which might have so short a duration. For some years past, these terrible apprehensions had ceased, but Caroline had been so long accustomed to have her own way, that the effect survived the cause. She was accustomed to no other rule than her caprice, or the prompting of a disposition naturally upright and generous. When her fancies or her self-love did not interfere, she was ready to do everything to oblige, and diffused around her all the cheerfulness natural to her age: but if it at all crossed in her wishes, nothing could be obtained from her, and even her kindness of heart was insufficient to conquer her temper. In such unhappy moments, which were but too frequent, she would answer her mother with petulance, refuse to walk with her father, or sing him the airs he loved, and behave roughly to her little brother, whom she nevertheless loved with all her heart, and considered almost as her own child. Being ten years old, when Stephen was born, she had never thought of him as a rival, but as a protégé. She was habitually kind and indulgent, and would spend whole hours in building card-houses for him, or in telling him stories. It is true she did not like him to amuse himself with others: as she could not appropriate him to herself, like his parents, she devoted herself to him; but she did appropriate him, in fact, and one of the principal causes of her dissatisfaction with Denis was, that Stephen preferred his stories to hers, and his noisy games to the more tranquil pleasures procured him by his sister.
"What does it signify, if Stephen enjoys himself better with Denis than with you?" said Robert to her one day.
"It displeases me."
"But why?"
"Because he is so whimsical; a week ago he was interrupting me perpetually, to make me tell him over and over again the story of the Wonderful Cat, and now, when I call him on purpose, he says it wearies him."
"Naturally enough, when you propose telling it to him at the very time that Denis is just in the finest part of a story about robbers or battles."
"And twenty times have I begged Denis not to tell him any more such stories: but he does not care for a word that is said to him."
"Stephen would be very sorry if he left off, I can assure you: look how attentive he is."
"Yes, and what am I to do while Stephen is listening to Denis?"
"You might finish the drawing which your father asked for this morning, and which, as you said, you had not time to complete."
"Indeed I shall not, it is too tiresome; and if anything more is said about it, I will tear it to pieces."
"Surely not, you are not silly enough to do that."
"And why then should I be silly to tear this drawing? It is my own, I hope."
"A fine reason truly! The château yonder is mine also. What would you say if I were to burn it down?"
"There is no resemblance in the two cases."
"In fact, I should be a madman, and you merely a child."
"A child! Do you know that I am fifteen?"
"So they say, but I cannot believe it."
"Why not? I am taller than the gardener's daughter, who is sixteen."
"Yes; but you are not as reasonable as Stephen, who is only five."
"And, how not, pray?"
"Come, do not be angry; you are, perhaps, about as much so, but that is all I can grant you. Now do not put yourself in a passion, that will not frighten me; you cannot tear me to pieces like your drawings. Adieu, make yourself happy: I am going to carry off Denis to hunt, so you may tell Stephen the story of the Wonderful Cat as many times as you please."
It was by conversations like these that Robert had drawn upon himself the animadversions of Caroline. Unaccustomed to any opposition to her wishes, she could not forgive the harsh manner in which her cousin contradicted her, and, spoiled as she was by continual marks of affection, she was astonished at the contemptuous disapprobation which she had to encounter from one, whose good opinion she was desirous of obtaining. Never had she heard the name of Robert de Puivaux mentioned without eulogium. He had completed his studies most successfully, and had particularly distinguished himself at the Polytechnic School, which he had just left, after spending two years there, simply for instruction. His character was extolled, his judgment esteemed, and his understanding and acquirements were considered by all as beyond his years; but all these advantages were effaced, in Caroline's mind, by his ungracious conduct towards herself—or, rather, they served to render it the more vexatious to her. It must be allowed that Robert had treated her in a manner far from pleasant. Naturally serious, and disposed to regulate his conduct on principles of reason and duty, he could not comprehend the inconsiderateness of Caroline, and the importance which she attached to her own whims; he had no patience in seeing everyone yield to her, and was as angry with her for their weakness as for her own defects; he, therefore, never lost any opportunity of showing his disapprobation and contempt: and, wholly engrossed by the unfavourable impressions with which she inspired him, he did not remark the good qualities which lay hidden under this petulant exterior, and which the future would develope.
Shortly after the departure of Robert and Denis, Madame de Manzay, who had been an invalid ever since the birth of Stephen, was suddenly snatched from her family, after a few days' illness. We will not attempt to describe this sad event: there are sorrows which can never be comprehended by those who have not felt them, and which it is needless to relate to those who know them by experience. The language of man cannot adequately express all that the soul of man is capable of feeling, and such feelings are not learned but revealed; a single moment—one of those moments which are equal to a whole life—can explain more than years of reflection, and convey to the heart, what all the knowledge of the mind would be unable to grasp.
A week had elapsed since the death of Madame de Manzay, and her unhappy family were not yet roused from the first stupor of grief; their hearts had not yet recovered composure; they had not returned to their usual habits; no one obeyed, for no one commanded; and each one, engrossed by his affliction, forgot his duties. There was neither regularity nor labour; confusion alone reigned in the desolate household. Poor little Stephen was left all day long to himself; Monsieur de Manzay wandered about in the park; his daughter shut herself up in her room; and no one attempted to assist anyone else in supporting the weight of grief, by which each was oppressed. Caroline, as usual, was weeping in her own apartment, when an old servant, who had been in the family from the birth of her father, and who had just seen his master, seated, alone, in his wife's room, thinking he would like to see his daughter, went to her, and said, "Pray go, Miss Caroline, to my master. Poor gentleman! he has no one now but you."
"And Stephen, Peter; you do not reckon him."
"Oh! that is quite another thing, miss; master loves the dear little fellow with all his heart, but he is not company for him; he cannot talk with him, and divert his thoughts, as you could. Oh! Miss Caroline, you are the very image of my good mistress; try then to resemble her in everything. You cannot remember it, for you were too young, but when my mistress lost four of her children in one year, and you alone were left—well, miss, it was she who then consoled master. He was like one distracted, and said he felt tempted to throw himself in the water, and the poor lady was obliged to appear perfectly calm, in order to tranquillize him. I have sometimes seen her leave my master's room, to go and cry, and then she would return, and urge him to submit to the will of God; she would make him walk with her, or read aloud to divert his thoughts; she would even amuse him with music: and how he loved her in return! Oh! Miss Caroline! you had a treasure in your mother; endeavour to be as good as she was."
Caroline's sobs prevented her from making any reply; but she held out her hand to the aged Peter, and rose immediately to follow him to her father. She was told that he was in the park, and repaired thither; but, absorbed in her affliction, and in the reflections suggested by Peter's artless observations, she mistook the path, and did not perceive her error, for she went on without thinking whither her steps were directed. For the first time in her life, perhaps, she became aware that she had a duty to fulfil towards others, and that she was not placed in this world merely to be loved and indulged. She had just been told—"Your father has no one but you." It was the truth; but of what use had she been to her father, during the past week? Had she afforded him consolation or assistance, when, given up to her own affliction, she had scarcely bestowed a thought on his; when he had been obliged to try and comfort her, and had sought to do so in vain; when her tears and cries had shaken the resolution he found it so difficult to maintain; when she had kept out of his presence, and abandoned him at the time he most needed her? Was it thus that her mother had acted, when, struck by misfortune, she had, for the sake of calming her husband's despair, begun by controlling her own feelings? Yet who, more than her father, possessed a claim to her active gratitude, to her affectionate devotion? Her earliest recollections were associated with his kindness and tenderness. He had consecrated his leisure to her instruction, relinquished for this purpose studies in which he took delight, and renounced all recreations but those which he could share with her; he had made her the companion of his walks, and allowed her to direct them as she chose. If she wished for an excursion in the neighbourhood, M. de Manzay would leave all his occupations to procure this pleasure for her; in a word, he never refused her a request, and yet her demands had not been few. And what had she done, on her part, to requite such great affection? How had she repaid the extreme indulgence of her parents? She loved them heartily, and they were convinced of this, but she had done nothing more: whilst they thought only of her, she had never considered them, and had found it perfectly natural to be continually the recipient of benefits, without ever giving anything in return. "Oh, how wicked I have been!" she exclaimed, clasping her hands; "can God ever forgive me, or mamma?" She threw herself on her knees, and, melting into tears, promised, as if still in the presence of her whom she could never again behold in this world, to repair, by her attention to the objects of affection she had left, the faults which she had committed against her. She felt that her resolution was accepted and blessed; that the relations of those who love each other are eternal; and that her mother was pleased with her earnest endeavours, as she would have been if still living. She felt that it was her soul which responded to her own, and inspired her with the love of virtue, the hope of perseverance, the joy of pardon. She arose, and returned to the château, eager to find her father, and begin her new part. "Hitherto, he has devoted his life to me," said she to herself, "now, it shall be my care to live for him;" and immediately, with the ardour so natural to youth, she depicted to herself all the various ways in which she could be useful to him, and was enchanted at the idea of being at last good for something in the world; no obstacle or difficulty presented itself to her mind, so natural did the performance of her duty appear to her at this moment.
On approaching the château, she found Stephen sitting quite alone, under a tree, crying. "What is the matter, Stephen?" she asked, kissing him.
"I am hungry."
"Hungry! why what o'clock is it?"
"It is twelve o'clock."
"But you have already had your breakfast?"
"No; Mary forgot to make my soup. Nobody thinks about me now that mamma is gone."
"I will think of you, my dear child. Come with me, I will get you some breakfast, and tomorrow you shall not have to wait so long." On entering the house, she inquired for her father. She was told that he had come in, and had asked for her, and, after waiting some time, had gone out again. "But he has had his breakfast, I suppose?"
"No, miss, the cook has gone out."
"Things must not go on thus," thought Caroline; "I must have some order in the household." She perceived at this moment her father coming in, and hastened to meet him; she was eager to have some conversation with him, and impart to him her good resolutions; but the very first was, to attend to others rather than herself, and she therefore sacrificed to Stephen's appetite her desire of communicating to her father her new projects. After breakfast, M. de Manzay was going towards his wife's sitting-room, where he passed all the time which he spent in-doors. Caroline, who wished to follow him, paused for an instant at this sight: she never yet had sufficient resolution to enter her mother's apartment, and trembled at the idea of revisiting a spot so filled with her image. "But how can I ever be of service to my father, if I cannot go where it is his desire always to remain? Come, I must go to him;" and, making an effort to command her feelings, she went to her father. Surprised and pleased to see her in this room, where his recollections became almost realities, he embraced her with even more than his wonted tenderness; and, comparing, with a pleasure mingled with grief, the portrait of his wife with the features of his daughter,—"Oh, my child!" he exclaimed at length, his voice checked by tears, "I have only you now." She threw her arms round him, and for some time neither father nor daughter could utter a word. At length, overcoming her emotion, she said, "My dear papa, I have hitherto done very wrong, but I will endeavour to repair my faults. I have been a selfish, ungrateful child, and lived only for myself; henceforth my life shall be devoted to you. Forgive me for having been so useless to you; forget the past; you shall see that I am no longer the same, and you shall be satisfied with my conduct. Kiss me, dear papa; I will correct all my faults, and endeavour to be like mamma."
"God bless you, my child, for having formed such a project! but you are very young to make even the attempt."
"Not too young, I hope. I shall hardly succeed at first, but the recollection of mamma will come to my assistance. I know what she used to do, and I will endeavour to imitate her. I will come and see you in your study, and be always ready to give up my own occupations to please you. I will give Stephen his lessons. I will keep the accounts. You shall see how steady I will be; only try me, papa."
"Do what you like, my child; I am in no state to make any decision; I can think of nothing. I leave you mistress of the house, of your brother, of myself. If there are still any peaceful moments in store for me on this earth, I shall enjoy them through you, and you alone."
"And Stephen, papa, you forget him."
"Poor child! no, I do not forget him; go and bring him here."
Caroline brought her little brother to her father, who took him in his arms, saying, "Stephen, you loved dear mamma, did you not?"
"With all my heart," replied the child, sobbing.
"And you were also obedient to her. Well, now you must love your sister, and obey her; she will be a mother to you henceforward."
"Would you like it, Stephen?" asked Caroline, "would you like me to take care of you, and give you your lessons?"
"Yes, if you promise not to scold me."
"My dear child, I will not scold you; I will try to be kind like mamma."
"Oh, you are very kind already, I am sure," said Stephen, caressing his sister, "only sometimes you get out of patience, and that frightens me."
"Make yourself easy, I intend to grow better; but you must also be very good, to please papa, who has so much sorrow."
"Oh! yes; for that I will learn my lessons better than I used to do."
"My beloved children," said M. de Manzay, encircling them both in his arms, "my dear children, this is the first moment of comfort I have had for a week past. Go, my own Caroline, assume your new functions; take possession of the keys; direct, command, re-establish the regularity which formerly reigned in the house; take the same care of your brother that he has been accustomed to; but first come to me, that I may give you my blessing, before the portrait of your mother."
After some moments devoted to these tender and afflicting emotions, Caroline left the room with Stephen. Her first care was to see if his apartment was in order: she found it completely stripped of all the articles which he was in the habit of using.
"What has become of your little table, Stephen?" she enquired.
"Oh! I dare say it is in the garden; I took it there the day before yesterday, and they have forgotten to bring it in."
"And your arm-chair?"
"I tied it to Turk's tail, for a carriage, and he broke it."
"You might have expected as much, my dear."
"What could I do? I was alone, and tired of doing nothing."
"You have recollected, I hope, to give water to your birds."
"Oh! gracious! I have never given them any but once. Poor creatures! they must be very thirsty. But, Caroline, do not scold me, it is not my fault. Every morning, mamma used to ask me if I had taken water and seeds to my birds, leaves to my rabbits, and grass to my fawn; and now, who is there to think of all these things?"
"I will. Let us go to your aviary, and I will talk to you by the way."
Caroline then explained to her brother all her plans concerning him. She told him that he should work with her, and that she would amuse him, and take care of all his things; in a word, that she would, as far as possible, supply the place of a mother to him. She had his books brought into her sitting-room, and such of his playthings as he had been accustomed to keep in his mother's apartment; she gave him a shelf in her library, and the lower part of a closet, and established his little table by the window, as he wished. At first, she intended to place it elsewhere, for this was her own favourite place; but she recollected that last year, when she had remarked that her mamma was happy in being able to enjoy, while sitting at table, the prospect over the valley, her mother had yielded to her the place she coveted. "I cannot be so good as mamma," she thought, "unless I do as she did, so I will remove my table from the window."
Such were the feelings and views with which Caroline undertook the reformation of her character, and she begun the task with the blind ardour so natural to youth: that happy privilege bestowed by Providence, to remove all hesitation from their resolutions, and leave nothing doubtful but the execution. But this first strong and happy impulse does not always last; when the sentiment which gave it birth ceases to be exclusive, things which had been forgotten reappear, the realities of life and the peculiarities of character resume their claims, and what we still desire above all things is, nevertheless, not our sole object. This was precisely the case with Caroline. For a considerable time her heart was so full of the idea of her great loss, of the remembrance of her faults, of her affection for her father, and of the new pleasure of exerting herself for the sake of others, that she could not form a thought exclusively for herself, and would have been indignant had she been desired to do so; but when, after the lapse of several months, life had returned to its uniform course, when business was again attended to, and all the family had resumed their usual habits, she perceived how completely her own had been overturned. The time which she formerly employed, according to her fancy, was no longer her own; a great part of it was absorbed by her little brother, and her pursuits were also frequently interrupted by her father. As long as he had a friend constantly at hand, he might be always disposed to accommodate himself to the arrangements of his daughter, but now that this friend was no more, Caroline was required to replace her, and became his property: their positions were changed, and the effect of this was perpetually felt, and the more strikingly in proportion as their first deep affliction subsided by degrees, and M. de Manzay was able to take some interest in the scenes around him, and his daughter to enter into her own employments.
It will readily be believed that, in a young person of sixteen, a change of this nature could not be made easily, or completely carried out from the first. In order to maintain it, Caroline was obliged to exert much self-control, and she often failed of success. It would sometimes happen that she kept her brother waiting to repeat his lesson, because she was reading an interesting book, or playing an air that she liked; on other occasions, she would defer the household accounts for several days whilst she was finishing a drawing, or completing a piece of embroidery; and occasionally her father could read so plainly in her countenance that she had no interest in what he proposed, that he would give up his intention, not without a melancholy retrospect of the days when whatever he wished became immediately the earnest object of another. Yet it must also be said that Caroline acknowledged and regretted all her faults, and very often repaired them so promptly and so thoroughly, that they almost became a merit, and led to fresh improvement. Stephen never found her so kind and patient, or her father so affectionately devoted to him, as when she had to reproach herself with some act of impatience or caprice; and, generally speaking, she quickly recovered herself. To give one instance amongst others:—It was several months after the death of Madame de Manzay, and everything had been placed as far as possible on its former footing in the château, and tranquillity and peace, the more valuable in proportion as happiness is wanting, were reestablished in the house, when, one day, M. de Manzay entered his daughter's apartment with a letter in his hand. "Caroline," he said, "would you like Denis to come and live with us for some time?"
"Oh, no, certainly not. I do not want him; he is insufferable."
"But, my dear, his guardian is lately dead, and Denis, as you know, is on bad terms with the wife, so that he cannot remain with her: where can he go, unless he comes to Primini?"
"Let him go where he likes. Why does he make himself detested by every one? Oh! I should not have a moment's peace if he were here; I would rather go away myself than remain with him. Pray, papa, write word at once that you cannot have him."
"I will write and say that you would rather not; for my own part, I will assuredly not be the person to refuse to receive your mother's nephew;" and M. de Manzay left the room. Caroline was struck with these last words, and with the tone in which they were uttered. "My mother's nephew," thought she; "but Denis does not in the least resemble mamma; he is as unamiable as she was good: yet my father appears to regret him: perhaps he thinks that Denis will be cured of his faults—but that cannot be, for he never listens to a word that is said to him. However, he must not be left in the streets; besides, if my father wishes him to come here, that is the most important point. Well! I must be patient, and, after all, he will not eat me."
Caroline rose, after having made these brief reflections, and repaired to her father's room. He was pacing the apartment with a pensive air, still holding in his hand the letter which announced the death of Denis's guardian.
"My dear papa," said she, "I come to request you to invite Denis to come to us."
"Indeed, my dear."
"Yes; just now I was still more unreasonable than he is: pray be so kind as to think no more of it, and to write for Denis."
"You are a good girl, and I promise you to prevent him from tormenting you."
"Oh! no, papa, do not trouble yourself about the matter; I know that these petty grievances are very annoying to you, and I will find means to manage. Perhaps he may have learned to behave better than formerly, and I am certainly less childish than I was a year ago. Make yourself easy, papa, all shall go on well."
A fortnight after this conversation, Denis arrived at his uncle's house. He was fifteen, but his reason was not in proportion to his age. Endowed with great strength and unconquerable activity, he delighted only in noise and commotion, and, if he was fond of teazing, it was only to produce this commotion. Anything was acceptable to him but quiet: the anger of a child, the insults of a servant, the barking of a dog, all answered his purpose, and he would not have cared to teaze an animal unless it cried out. During his first visit to Primini, Stephen had been a great assistance to him. Sometimes he would torment him, and amuse himself with his anger; sometimes he would divert him, and laugh at the displeasure which this occasioned to Caroline; and, if the latter became seriously angry, Denis had attained the height of his wishes. He was not ill-disposed, but he could not endure ennui, and he knew not how to avoid it by rational occupations. Brought up in the country, and much spoiled by his guardian, he had taken more interest in the employments of the labourers, the gardeners, and the gamekeepers, than in the lessons which he from time to time received from the masters, who came from the neighbouring town. He never took up a book, unless he met with accounts of voyages, and battles, tales of robbers, or ghost stories; and his greatest ambition was to lead the life of a corsair some day, or to go and live amongst the savages, and endeavour to be chosen as the chief of a tribe. He was brave, adroit, and capable of generous actions, but he was violent and wilful, and through his excessive activity was becoming a torment to himself and others.
Such was the guest whose arrival Caroline dreaded and certainly not without reason. When he entered the drawing-room, where all the family was assembled, he rushed forward so abruptly to embrace his uncle, that he overturned a table which stood in his way; the lamp which was upon it fell upon Stephen, struck him severely, and covered him with oil. He began to cry, and Caroline, running to him, wounded her foot with a piece of the broken glass. In a word, the arrival of Denis was a signal for noise and confusion; and, what was still worse, Caroline was much disposed to be angry with him, and demand whether he would never learn to be more careful—but she restrained herself, recollecting the promise she had given to her father that all should go well; and, when tranquillity was a little restored, she embraced her cousin cordially, and received him in a very friendly manner. During some days all went on tolerably well; Denis had so much to see that he did not require the aid of others to pass away his time; besides, notwithstanding his rudeness, he was not altogether exempt from that kind of shyness, which is not unusual with those who can neither conform to the established usages of society, nor entirely shake off their exactions. He was always ill at ease with persons with whom he was not completely familiar; indeed, he generally withdrew when a stranger came in; and the few days which were required to renew his acquaintance with the inhabitants of Primini were agreeable enough to them, and very painful to himself: but this state of things did not long continue, he soon recovered the freedom of his disposition and manners, and the effect of this upon the tranquillity of the château was speedily felt. At his first attacks, Caroline, who had prepared herself to bear everything with patience, supported her cousin's tricks without complaint, picked up a dozen times the reel of cotton which he threw down, re-lighted the taper which he extinguished, or replaced before her piano the chair which he removed as soon as she left it. One day, however, Denis, weary of his ineffectual attempts to put her out of temper, after having tried in vain during the whole of a rainy morning, began to teaze Stephen, and smeared with ink a picture which he held in his hand. The child burst into tears, and Caroline, excited by his vexation, and by the impatience which she had so long curbed, was now seriously angry.
"Leave my room, Denis," she cried, "it really is impossible to live with you. Not satisfied with trying the whole day to provoke me, you must now make poor Stephen cry. Go away, I will not have you stay in my room."
"Then you must put me out of the door yourself, for I shall not stir."
"You will not go! Am I not mistress in my own apartment?"
"Certainly, if you can only make yourself obeyed;" and, so saying, Denis placed himself in an arm-chair.
"I will go and fetch my father."
"As you please; I am not afraid of my uncle, he is much kinder than you are."
Caroline hastened to M. de Manzay's room; she was ready to cry, and her flushed cheeks betrayed her vivid emotion.
"Papa," she said, "will you come and order Denis to quit my room?"
"Why do you wish to turn him out?"
"He teazes me, and makes Stephen cry; it is impossible to have any peace with him,—he makes me quite miserable."
"Well, then, let him return to Paris."
"No—I only want him to leave my room."
"That would settle the question to-day, but to-morrow he might begin again; and I will not have to interfere perpetually in your quarrels."
"This is the first time, papa, I have ever applied to you."
"The same thing will be recurring every day. I would rather he should go—he must be sent to college."
"Send Denis to college, papa! He would be expelled directly."
"So much the worse for him; there will be nothing left for him but to go to sea; that is, after all, the best profession for him, and I will not have him render you unhappy."
"But, papa, would it not be better to prevent him from doing so, by obliging him to behave more reasonably?"
"It would be insufferable to me, to be obliged to be always looking after him. I require tranquillity. I will send Denis away if you like it, but to be perpetually watching him is what I cannot do."
"Then," she exclaimed, in tears, "I must be the victim of this mischievous boy."
"No, certainly; that shall not be the case: he shall go at once. Call my nephew," said M. de Manzay to a gardener, who was at work in front of the window.
"He is not in the château, sir," replied the man; "he has just gone down towards the mill with Master Stephen."
"With Stephen!" repeated M. de Manzay. "What were you telling me then just now, Caroline?"
"They seem to have made up their quarrel, papa, and I will follow their example, for I could not suffer Denis to be sent away."
"So much the better, for this time I will pass over his conduct, but at the very first dispute——
"There shall be none, papa; or, at least, you shall not be troubled about the matter."
"Thank you, my dear child, embrace me. You are a good girl, and the joy of your poor father's heart." And M. de Manzay pressed Caroline to his bosom with the utmost tenderness, grateful for the decision which spared his weakness. When she had quitted him, she reflected on her position. She saw clearly that it was in vain to seek from her father any support against Denis, for, although he had not the same affection for him as he felt towards herself, he was almost as much afraid of opposing him: not that Denis was ill-disposed, but he was so eager about what he wished, and had so determined a will, that his uncle hesitated to resist him; and it would have been a thousand times less painful to him to send Denis away, in order to spare his daughter a moment's uneasiness, than to watch over his conduct, and prevent him from being so troublesome and disagreeable.
It was, therefore, in herself alone that she must seek a remedy for the inconveniences occasioned by her cousin's disposition. It was only by her own calmness and superior sense that she could make him ashamed of his resolution to teaze her. She had already occasionally experienced the happy effects of apparent indifference, and he had more than once desisted from his mischievous tricks, when he found that they did not attain his object. The only plan, then, was to be habitually so patient as to weary him out, and induce him to seek amusements less annoying to others. This being the case, her own tranquillity, and that of her father, must depend upon herself, and for this it was worth while to make some efforts. Yes, undoubtedly, it was well worth while, but such efforts were not so easy as Caroline had imagined, as she quickly found by experience. She said to herself, beforehand, that, after all, she need not be so very unhappy, because Denis would gather her choicest flowers, trample on her flower-beds, disturb her silkworms, or meddle with her herbal; that domestic tranquillity was more valuable than these trifles; and that she had but to sacrifice them at once and entirely: but, if she could bear calmly, though not without a secret struggle, the malicious tricks which her cousin played her, and was not angry once in a dozen times that she was tempted to be so, and that he well deserved it, she could not behold Stephen's vexations with the same equanimity, and when he began to cry her indignation would burst forth. This was, however, bad policy; for Denis then enjoyed a double triumph, which was the more agreeable to him because it was so easily gained. Poor Caroline had, therefore, to pass many unhappy moments; and, whether she succeeded in commanding herself or not, she was continually vexed and agitated, and was every day surprised to find life so full of hardships, and duty so difficult.
But she had also to encounter other difficulties, which were quite unexpected, and which she could not overcome by mere force of will, and a determination to conquer them. The greater part of these difficulties did not arise from within, from her own habits and disposition, from her old aversion to contradiction, and still more to restraint; they came from without, and had their source in the prejudices and passions of others; and upright intentions and firm resolution were not sufficient immediately to overcome them. Caroline had excited many unfavourable prejudices, which, however just in some respects, were unjust in their exclusive severity: it was necessary for her to triumph over these,—necessary, but difficult; and she learned to see how intimate is the connection in our destinies, what lengthened responsibility may attach to an action, in appearance the most trivial, and how indispensable it is to act to the best of our ability in all things, if we would have a conscience free from the fear of consequences.
Two years had now elapsed since Caroline had lost her mother. M. de Manzay had regained sufficient self-command to occupy himself with the education of Stephen. The hunting season detained Denis at a distance from the château; and Caroline, being now accustomed to the management of household affairs, was not obliged to devote so much time to them; and, having become more reasonable, she employed her remaining hours better, and consequently found more leisure than formerly, although in reality she had much more to do. She was particularly struck by the details given in a newspaper of the happy results produced in the village of L——, by the establishment of a school and working institution for girls, according to the method of mutual instruction. All night her head was full of the subject, and the next day, as soon as she rose, she went and proposed to her father to found a similar school of industry in the village, near their château, and offered to undertake its direction.
"We must send for a person who understands the method from one of the Paris schools," she said, "we can then form the establishment and train the monitors; when they are sufficiently instructed, the management of the children will be entrusted to them, and I shall superintend them. That was the plan adopted at L——."
"I ask nothing better, my dear; it will be useful to the village, and afford you occupation. Think over the matter again, and, if you persist in your project, we will speak of it to the curé."
"Why speak to him? It is not his business."
"The education of his parishioners is, in a certain sense, his business; and his opposition would be a great obstacle."
"But surely he would not oppose it; he ought to be pleased when the poor are benefited."
"He is no doubt very charitable, but he is also self-willed. You know I have never been able to hold intercourse with him upon any point whatever. He would not even recommend a beggar to me."
"Very true, but he cannot refuse our proposal. Oh! how happy I shall be when the plan is carried into effect."
Caroline had several conversations with her father on the subject, and was delighted at the idea of being useful to all those little girls, who were so wretched and so ignorant. The day on which it was at length decided between them that the school should be established, she went out full of joy to take a walk. She was musing over her projects, considering in what manner she could render herself beloved and respected by the children, and gain their confidence—thought over the rewards she would give, and the good advice she would address to them—in a word, she was at this moment quite happy, and foresaw no difficulty, when she met the curé, who was returning from a visit to a sick person. He bowed, and would have passed without speaking to her, but, with the confidence natural to her age and character, she stopped him saying, "Monsieur le Curé, I have something to tell you."
"Indeed! Miss Caroline; what can it be?" replied the curé, with an air of surprise and almost of severity. "It appears to me that we have not much connection with each other, and that you occupy yourself but little with the sort of affairs that interest me."
"But I wish to occupy myself with them, and that is what I have to tell you about. My father intends to establish a school of industry in the village."
"For what purpose? We have already a schoolmistress."
"She is old and half deaf, they say; besides she has not a good method of teaching."
"How do you know that? You have never visited the school."
"I shall go every day to the new school; I shall be superintendent."
"You understand, then, what is to be taught?"
"I suppose I know how to read and write."
"Yes, but the catechism; you are probably not acquainted with that; for you do not set a very good example to our young girls."
"How! Monsieur le Curé," exclaimed Caroline, colouring with anger and vexation; "what do you mean?"
"I mean, young lady, that you often come into church after the service has begun, and sometimes go away before it is over."
"Oh, Monsieur le Curé, it is a very long time since that has happened."
"I know nothing about that; I have not time to pay attention to the exact days, but it is really a scandal."
"Monsieur le Curé, I now always remain the whole time. Pray inquire if, for the last two years, I have not come in very punctually."
"Yes; and do you no longer give bad advice as you used to do formerly?"
"I never gave any one bad advice."
"You forget that, in consequence of your interrupting the gardener's daughter in her attendance on the catechism, you caused her first communion to be deferred, and that, when you saw her crying on that account, you told her it was no great misfortune, and gave her a neck-handkerchief to console her, so that she ended by saying that it did not much matter whether she made her first communion then or not, and that a year sooner or later was all the same to her. Perhaps you do not recollect also, that when your milkwoman, Dame Joan, wanted to send her daughter to her old mother, and that Matty did not like going, you told her that her mother was very ill-natured to oppose her wishes, and that your parents let you do whatever you pleased."
"But, Monsieur le Curé, I was then a child; it is more than three years ago."
"You have now, then, become reasonable, I suppose, Caroline?"
"You know I have, Monsieur le Curé.'
"And how should I know it? Have you ever told me so?"
"How could I tell you? We never see you at the château."
"Where, then, could I learn the alteration of which you speak? Have I seen any effects of it? Do you ever visit our poor? Have you given good advice to our young girls? Have you procured work for their mothers? You talk of superintending a school of industry; do you even know how to hem a duster? It is said that you do not. No, Miss Caroline; go and play on the piano, work at your embroidery, amuse yourself, but do not pretend to teach others: there we can do without you."
"Oh! how severe you are, Monsieur le Curé," said poor Caroline.
"I am but just, Miss Caroline. I am aware that this is not the way they speak to you at the château; but things are not the better for that."
"Why have you not given me good advice? I should have profited by it."
"To be sure I ought to have done so, in order that M. de Manzay might ridicule it!"
"My father has never ridiculed you, Monsieur le Curé."
"That is hardly probable. He opposes me constantly. Not a week ago he prevented the municipal council from doing what I requested: he had the upper hand then, now it is my turn. Good evening, Miss Caroline; you will not establish your school."
Caroline repulsed by the Curé, p. 332.
Having thus spoken, the curé bowed, and left her, without waiting for a reply. The poor child was thunderstruck at finding herself the object of so much severity, prejudice, and injustice. "What have I done, then," she exclaimed, in tears, "to give such a bad opinion of me? I wish well to every one, and no one loves me. Oh, how ill-natured the world is—nobody has been kind to me but papa and mamma; and mamma is no longer with us!" Caroline abandoned herself for some time to all the bitterness of her heart, and was indignant at this malevolence, without at all considering whether it were altogether gratuitous, or whether it might not have some foundation. However, as she reflected on the reproofs of the curé, they brought to her recollection other occasions on which she might have justly incurred his censure. By continued reflection and self-examination, she at last perceived, that she must formerly have given a sufficiently bad opinion of herself to all the grave heads of the village, and that she had done nothing since calculated to change that opinion. Fully occupied with her father, towards whom alone she felt that she had been deficient, and with her brother, whom she considered as a sacred legacy from her mother, it had not for a moment occurred to her that strangers might have reason to complain, or pass an unfavourable judgment upon her conduct; nor that approbation might be refused, even when her actions deserved it. "It is quite natural," she said, at length; "why should Monsieur le Curé suppose that I have corrected my faults? He would not enquire of my father if I now comply with all his wishes, or ask Stephen if I am a patient teacher, or Denis whether I bear with him better than formerly. Since I wish to persuade him of the change which has taken place in me, I must begin by giving him proofs of it. I will do all I can, but it will take a long time, for Monsieur le Curé does not give up his notions very readily. I must ask my father to wait before he establishes the school." Monsieur de Manzay was surprised, like his daughter, at the prejudices which existed against her; he loved her so tenderly, and found in her so many charming qualities, that he could never have calculated the effects of her faults, and he found it difficult to conceive that any one could look upon his Caroline with other eyes than his own. However, he entered into her views, and readily consented to her wish to postpone the execution of her benevolent projects, in order to carry them out more effectually.
A few days after that on which the curé had treated her so harshly, Caroline met him again. He bowed to her with more amenity than on the former occasion, for he had reproached himself most heartily for having repulsed with such asperity the good intentions of so young a person, and one who showed so much enthusiasm. He had besides, made some inquiries about her during the interval; had spoken to persons who kept up an intercourse with the château; and all he had heard increased his regret. He was therefore glad to meet her, and hastened to address her. "How is your little brother, Miss Caroline?" he inquired; "I hear that he has a cold."
"Thank you, Monsieur le Curé, he is better to-day." They remained some moments silent, each wishing to say something, but not knowing exactly where to begin. Caroline at length broke the silence: "Monsieur le Curé, you were very hard upon me the other day; but you taught me something of which I was completely ignorant, and which it was very necessary I should know. I had forgotten my childish follies, and did not imagine that others would remember them; you have rendered me a service by undeceiving me; I entreat you now to assist me in convincing every one—and yourself especially—that I have altered for the better. What must I do for this purpose? I am ready to follow your advice."
"My dear young lady," replied the curé with a gentleness which was unusual to him, "I perceive clearly that you are very much improved, for formerly you resented the slightest remonstrance, and now you bear with sweetness even harshness and injustice. I have been really grieved, I assure you, that I was so hard upon you the other day. When I was at some distance, I said to myself: Now, here is this child of sixteen, who was never contradicted in her life, and yet is as patient as a lamb when severe things are said to her; whilst I, an old priest, who fifty years ago renounced the world and its passions, am angry and repulse her good resolutions. Instead of killing the fatted calf, I shut the door against the returning prodigal; and yet, poor little thing, she has done no great harm; she can only be reproached with childish conduct."
"Indeed! Monsieur le Curé," cried Caroline, joyfully, "you really thought all this? Oh! how grateful I am to you!"
"You have nothing to thank me for, my dear young lady, it is but common justice. I much wished to pay you a visit at the château, to express my regret, but I dared not, it is so long since I have seen Monsieur de Manzay, and I responded so ill last week to his request for additional seats in the church, that I did not know how he might receive me; but you are very kind I see, and you will not be offended with an old man who has not yet learned to command his temper. Oh! my child, you are young, and in the season of vigour; for the love of God, employ all the strength you possess in mastering your passions. This is the real duty of man, as the Scripture says. To be benevolent and compassionate, to possess a generous heart and an exalted character, to act so as to make yourself beloved by every one, all this is much in the sight of God and man, and all this I believe you will be; but still all this is not sufficient, and, in conjunction with so many good qualities, may exist great faults, which will prepare for us many regrets. Witness me, for instance, my dear young lady; I am not good for much, but I may say that I love my parishioners, and that I desire their welfare with all my heart. Your father has the best intentions possible, and is full of compassion for the poor, and yet I ask nothing from him, and take no advantage of so good a neighbour: and why is this? Because the first time I met him, four years ago, when he had just completed the purchase of this estate, I heard him praise the Revolution, and say that it was a glorious event. From that moment all was at an end between us; he appeared to my imagination a Jacobin, ready to set fire to our church, and oblige us again to say mass under the shelter of the woods; and I would never hear of any intercourse with him. I am no longer of that opinion, Miss Caroline: I perceive that it is possible to be a very peaceful, and a very honest man, and yet speak well of the Revolution; and several times I have been tempted to renew intercourse with Monsieur de Manzay, but various things have turned out unfavourably. He had a master removed whom I patronised; he decided the municipal council to employ upon a road the money which I had asked for a bell; and when you spoke to me about the school, I fancied it was to oppose me that he chose to have another in these new methods, of which I know nothing, and in which, therefore, I could not interfere. There is my confession, my dear young lady. Now give me your hand, for yourself, and for Monsieur de Manzay; assure me that you bear me no ill-will; and tell me what are your projects."
"I have none for the present, Monsieur le Curé," replied Caroline, greatly moved, as she placed her hand in that of the old man. "I have no plan, but to follow your advice in everything. Tell me what I must do, in order to make the villagers forget that I was formerly a very unreasonable child."
"My dear young lady, you need only be the same at Montfort that you are at the château. I have asked a great deal about you since the other day, and have heard much in your favour, but these things are not known amongst our people, and it is a pity. Observe, Miss Caroline, that you cannot be useful to our poor people, without becoming acquainted with them, and making them acquainted with you. Go and see them sometimes; I assure you that you would become attached to them; and when you are familiar with their wants and have acquired their confidence, we will talk of your school, if you like."
At this moment the bell of the château rang for dinner, and Caroline was obliged to take leave of the curé. They parted on the best terms possible, and the very next day she began her visits to the poor inhabitants of Montfort: but her project was not easy of accomplishment. The curé had not exaggerated the prejudices of which she was the object; and, to those which affected her personally, were united other grounds of dislike, of which she was totally innocent. The arrival of Monsieur de Manzay in this part of the country, had not been looked on with favour, because he succeeded a proprietor who was much beloved by the inhabitants, and who had been obliged, by misfortune, to sell the estate. In order to banish the remembrance of this unfavourable commencement, Monsieur and Madame de Manzay must have been to the inhabitants of Montfort all that Monsieur and Madame de Solanges had been. The latter, without children, without any lively affections, or high powers of mind, but endowed with that intelligent activity which is so great a resource in the various relations of life, took much interest in all the affairs of the peasantry, gave them advice and assistance, and were to them a sort of visible and friendly Providence, whose aid they believed could never fail. With Monsieur and Madame de Manzay all was very different: concentrated in their domestic circle, in the happiness of conscious mutual affection, in the care of their children, and in the elevated pleasures derived from highly cultivated minds, they paid little attention to anything beyond the very small circle of their affections. They were supposed to be indifferent, because they were exclusive; proud, because they were absorbed in themselves: and the departure of Monsieur and Madame de Solanges was a continued source of regret. Caroline was, therefore, not received with much pleasure at Montfort, and it often required great forbearance on her part not to abandon the inhabitants of the village to their unreasonableness and injustice, and renounce all her plans: even the curé himself, whom she had seen so well disposed, often fell back into his old prejudices against her and her family. Sometimes he would be influenced by the ill-humour of some of the village gossips, and sometimes the appearance of a dress or bonnet a little fashionable would induce him to say that Caroline was better fitted for the gay society of Paris than for the country, and that she would not do as much good in her whole life, as Madame de Solanges in a single hour. Sometimes he was angry because she did not compel all the household to attend church, but left every one at liberty in this respect; at others, Monsieur de Manzay, as mayor, had to support the rights of the commune against the encroachments of the curé, and the latter vented his displeasure on poor Caroline, and would hardly answer her when she wished to communicate to him her remarks, her views, and her hopes. The elections, when Monsieur de Manzay voted for the opposition candidate, retarded the establishment of the school at Montfort three months; not that the curé interested himself deeply in politics, but his friends took up the question with so much warmth, that they succeeded in inflaming him, and for more than six weeks he never set foot in the château.
Caroline found it difficult, without becoming morose, to fortify herself against all these obstacles; to maintain calmness under disappointment, yet keep up the same lively interest in success. Indeed, I know not if the welfare of the inhabitants of Montfort, her conviction that she had duties to fulfil towards them, and that God would not have given her the means, without imposing on her the obligation of being useful, would always have sufficed to support her under this arduous struggle—and if she might not, in a moment of discouragement, have said to herself, that she was no longer responsible towards persons who rejected all her efforts for their benefit,—had not another sentiment come to her aid, and softened the unpleasantness of her enterprise. She had perceived, with sorrow, that her mother was not beloved at Montfort as she deserved to be. Her first impulse was that of violent irritation and bitter displeasure against those who failed to do justice to Madame de Manzay; but a little reflection corrected this feeling, and she considered that the best homage she could render to the memory of her mother, would be to acquire the affection of her neighbours, to such a degree, that some portion of it might be reflected upon her by whose remembrance she was guided and encouraged: this idea rendered every sacrifice and every effort more easy to her; she found nothing difficult, when the aim was to call down blessings on the name of her mother, and to efface the unjust prejudice which even death had been unable to destroy. Her filial efforts were crowned with success; she saw all her desires accomplished; and became the successor, with the inhabitants of Montfort, to the attachment which they had retained for Monsieur and Madame de Solanges. They ceased to regret that Monsieur de Manzay had come to settle amongst them, and very soon began to congratulate themselves on that event; for Caroline, who was all-powerful with her father, induced him to have more intercourse with his neighbours, and by that means he was frequently able to be of service to them. A fountain was required in the town. Caroline begged her father to have one constructed, and to name it after her mother, so that her memory might be connected, in the minds of the people, with the idea of a benefit. The curé united with her in the distribution of relief to the poor: Caroline gave away flax for spinning, potatoes, meal; Monsieur de Manzay kept in store faggots and turf; and the curé recommended to them those who were really distressed and deserving of assistance. The school and the work-room were established, and the children made rapid progress. Thus, in the course of a few years, the inhabitants of the château and those of the village found their position, with regard to each other, completely altered; instead of being grievous and hurtful, they had been rendered agreeable and useful, through the exertions of a young girl, who, against the difficulties of the present, drew all her strength from her regret for the past, and her hopes for the future.
But if the salutary influence of Caroline extended itself abroad, it was not, on that account, the less active, or the less efficacious, at home, in the bosom of her own family. In a very few years, everything at Primini had undergone a change. Monsieur de Manzay, who was formerly acquainted only with the enjoyments of the heart, and the pleasures of the intellect, whose life passed away in generous but useless emotions, in beautiful but sterile conceptions, who never sought to communicate his ideas to others, and found, in the disinterested contemplation of truth, sufficient to delight his heart and satisfy his conscience, was, unknown to himself, raised from this state of careless languor, which he had looked upon almost as a merit, and learned to consider it a fault. Caroline, no longer a child, matured by misfortune, and anxious to associate herself with all the tastes and occupations of her father, directed towards the subjects which interested him the energy which had formerly been expended on her own fancies. She very soon became acquainted with his opinions, and adopted them. But it was not merely for her personal satisfaction that she entered into them so deeply. Endowed with great strength of will, and full of the ardour of her age, it was inconceivable to her, that any one should consider he had fulfilled his duty to the cause of truth, while yet he did nothing to promote its triumphs, nor felt the necessity of imparting that of which he cherished the belief. This disposition in the daughter reacted on the father. Monsieur de Manzay, at first, contented himself with taking the steps which Caroline requested, out of complaisance to her. He expected no other result than the pleasure which she derived from them, and the affectionate gratitude which she evinced towards him. But, when success had several times crowned his efforts, when exertions, which he fancied useless, had brought back to constitutional principles a neighbour who had been enlisted on the other side, by prejudices easy to be overcome; when an appeal to the proper authority had obtained the redress of an illegal act; when a journey to the principal town had been of essential service to an election, important to the country; or, when the farmers had consented to adopt new and advantageous methods of culture, Monsieur de Manzay congratulated himself on having yielded to the entreaties of his daughter, and began to think that men are naturally accessible to reason, and that to induce them to submit to it completely, there is often nothing more required than to present it to them in their own way. Such a conviction was encouraging, and made him wish to employ, for the advantage of his neighbours, all those facilities for serving them which he enjoyed, in the possession of a superior understanding and extensive knowledge. He became more intimate with them, and was useful to almost all. Old emigrants, strangers to what was passing around them, to whom liberty was but revolution, and monarchy the old régime, learned, by their intercourse with him, that it was possible to be a friend to representative government, without approving the crimes of the Convention; that a man might love equality, without being, necessarily, ill-bred; that the king's authority gains nothing from being served by bad ministers; and that there is no rebellion in preferring an honest man, brought in by the opposition, but of good ability, and well-known amongst his fellow-citizens, to a designing fellow, without merit, who is sent from Paris, or imposed on the electors by a circular. Young people, on the contrary, led by discontent with what is around them to admire all that existed thirty years back, were convinced, by conversing with Monsieur de Manzay, that everything was not to be regretted in the times of the Revolution or of the Empire; and that because the past was very different from the present, it had not the less been often very bad. Aged men, full of the ideas of the last century, obstinately refused all the demands of the curé, and applauded themselves on the success of this obstinacy, as a victory in the good cause; Monsieur de Manzay led them back to more reasonable sentiments, and the curé, in his turn, ceased to attack them. In a word, Monsieur de Manzay, from a solitary and unknown man, became a communicative and influential one; his power of being useful was thus increased, and consequently his happiness; and for these advantages he was indebted to his daughter.
Stephen was also a gainer by the new order of ideas which had been introduced into the family. His sister, convinced by her own experience of the disadvantages of a too desultory education, felt it to be a matter of much importance that his should be conducted with regularity. She prevailed on her father to give him fixed lessons, and to exact a strict performance of the duties imposed on him; she undertook to watch over their execution, and devoted to this inspection a large portion of her time; she also took upon herself the charge of teaching him many things which it was desirable he should know, and in which she was capable of giving him instruction. All this was easy, but there was yet more to be done: knowledge is desirable and necessary, it is even indispensable; yet it is but one portion, and that not the most important, of education. Though Stephen's mind was not yet fully developed, Caroline was extremely desirous to turn all his abilities to account; but she was still more anxious that his views should be right, his decisions just, and his character firm: she wished him to know how to appreciate everything according to its real value, that he might not passionately attach himself to trivial objects, and that he should give his whole mind to whatever he had once determined on. To attain these results, Stephen must not be indulged as she had been, for she still often felt how naturally the habit of yielding to every fancy leads to mistakes as to what is of real importance. This point, however, she found it difficult to obtain from M. de Manzay. How was he to be induced to give pain to this child, the last pledge of her whose remembrance constituted his life; how could he resist his wishes, impose restraints on him, treat him with severity? Perhaps by urging it very importunately, and asking it as a personal favour, Caroline might have gained this difficult conquest, and led her father to subdue the feelings of his heart, and make use of one weakness to combat another; but she did not have recourse to this dangerous method; her natural sense of uprightness deterred her from making use of it, and taught her that truth alone has the privilege of finally triumphing over error; that one passion is not well vanquished by another; and that though it be a longer, it is at all events a surer way to appeal to reason, the sole legitimate and absolute sovereign of our moral nature. It was, therefore, not by entreaties, but by rational persuasion, that she succeeded in inducing her father to train Stephen for other aims than mere present enjoyment, the amusement of the day, or the gratification of his passing fancies. Nor let it be imagined that Stephen had any reason to regret this change; on the contrary, his mode of life being better regulated, afforded him more enjoyment; the necessity of working gave value to his amusements; he found more happiness in doing what was right, when he had experienced the effects of the reverse; and he loved his father and sister all the better for their complaisance, when he had felt their firmness.
Even Denis himself found his advantage in the reform which had taken place at Primini. When life flowed on there so tranquilly and so happily that each seemed to have no other duties than those of affection, no occupations but those which were required to pass time agreeably, there was abundance of room for him, and he could abandon himself to all the impetuosity of his character; but when misfortune and time had changed the habits of the family—when all was according to rule, and each hour had its employment, each person his work,—what remained for him but to make up his mind, and be reasonable like the others? He had no longer any one to torment, and he scarcely regretted it, for Caroline's patience had at length wearied him of this singular amusement; and if he was sometimes a weight upon his cousin, it was rather from the burthen of his idleness than from any bad intention. But he required society—idle people; when everybody was occupied he knew not what to do with himself. He could not pass the whole of his time in walking, in looking at the haymaking, or in angling; and when Stephen was studying with his father, Caroline at her school, and the servants at their work, he must either lounge about wearily by himself, or find some employment. He resolved one day to try this last plan, fully resolved that if, after six months' trial, he should find it too laborious, he would resume his old mode of proceeding, and give up books for ever. As he had much resolution and strength of character, and would not do things by halves, he gave himself up completely to his new project, and voluntarily, without even requiring to be reminded, he every day devoted eight hours to work. At first he found this insupportable, and could only console himself for the disgust which he experienced, by counting the number of days which remained to complete his term of trial; but by degrees his distaste vanished; he perceived that there is a vast difference between studying at broken intervals, like a child and from constraint, and in seeking heartily to acquire fresh knowledge. For his special employment he had chosen mathematics, which he had formerly begun to learn, and which would be essential if he persisted in his design of entering the naval service; but which he had, nevertheless, thrown aside and neglected. M. de Manzay offered him his assistance, although convinced that his resolution would not be of long duration, and that he would not persevere even to the term which he had prescribed for himself. He was mistaken. Denis, far from being discouraged, every day became more attached to his new mode of life, and the fatal epoch passed without his having remarked it. He was now quite decided upon the continuance of his studies; he was eighteen years of age, and calculated upon employing one more year in preparing himself to enter the Polytechnic School. These two years of labour and of seclusion, the mere idea of which formerly alarmed him to such a degree that he was ready to relinquish his desire of entering the navy, he now scarcely dreaded at all; besides which, he felt that he had sufficient energy to surmount any unpleasant feelings they might occasion. Whenever he again felt any dismay at the prospect, he would go and confide his uneasiness to Caroline, now his best friend, whom he no more thought of teasing than she recollected having been tormented by him; their childish quarrels were so far from their thoughts, that they would have been astonished had they been reminded that only four years had intervened since these puerile disputes.
But if Caroline had forgotten the annoyance which had formerly been given her by Denis, this was far from being the case with respect to the contempt with which she had been treated by Robert; she could not reconcile herself to the idea of his disdainful tone towards her, and though her own good sense told her that her cousin's censure was justly founded, yet she could not sufficiently conquer herself to forgive the manner in which it was shown. Her imagination always represented Robert, and his intercourse with her, such as she recollected them, and she did not take into consideration, either the change in herself, nor that which must have taken place in her cousin; all the praises which she heard bestowed upon him redoubled her fear at the thought of meeting him again, and it was with real dread that she awaited his approaching return.
Robert, on his part, came back full of prejudices against Caroline. With all the self-sufficiency of a young man of twenty, he had formerly seen only her defects, and he persisted in the opinion which he had then formed of her, with an obstinacy which would have been unpardonable, if his absence, and the little taste he had for letter-writing, joined to a not ill-founded mistrust of Monsieur de Manzay's opinion where his daughter was concerned, had not afforded some excuse for the error of still seeing, in the Caroline of twenty, the Caroline of fifteen.
The mutual dislike existing between Robert and Caroline was the more to be regretted as they were destined to pass their lives near each other. Robert's estate was contiguous to that of Monsieur de Manzay, and it was with the intention of settling there that he returned from his travels. Decided to enter upon a completely independent career, which should allow him the free disposal of his mode of life, he had resolved to seek in commercial enterprises the means of employing his time and abilities; he determined to convert his château into a manufactory, and to add to his position as a landowner that of a merchant. His estate, which was thickly wooded, and, traversed by a river, was exactly suited for the establishment of an iron factory;—he promised himself much satisfaction in setting it on foot, and superintending it, and calculated upon being very useful to the country by such a measure. He was not fond of the world, and regretted nothing at Paris but that brilliant circulation of intellect which is as natural to it as its atmosphere. No one can say whence it comes, or whither it goes; who is the giver, or who the receiver; what will be its influence, or what may be its limit: it is enough that it exists, that it spreads itself around, that it seizes on all—yes, on all—even on those who deny it, even on those who condemn it. But although Robert was more than any man capable of appreciating, and of contributing his share to this noble pleasure, he was not disposed to purchase it at the price of a life of idleness, equally devoid of results as of aim. Had the state of his country opened to him a career in which all his abilities might be simultaneously developed, in which activity would have required no sacrifice, but in which his individual progress would have advanced the public good, he would have given this the preference; but this was not possible, and Robert had too much strength of character to suppose that he was exempted from doing that which was good, because he had a glimpse of something better. He felt confident that a time would come, when his wishes might be accomplished, and in the course of a long career he looked forward to the promise of a future for himself and for his country. But the future is in the hands of God alone, and our obligations are attached to the present time; to squander it in the expectation of the future, is to borrow without knowing whether we have wherewith to pay, and to expose ourselves to the danger of being some day bankrupt. Robert, therefore, not without some hesitation, but without regret, fixed on the plan the best suited to his tastes and his position, and which offered the best employment for his time, whilst awaiting a more extended career; but he would not enter on his project lightly, or without acquiring all the knowledge requisite for such an enterprise. It would not satisfy him to be merely a worker on a grand scale; even could he have made it profitable, it would have given him no pleasure; and he was rich enough to entitle him not to consider money as his sole object. He began, then, by passing two years at the Polytechnic Institution, which he left with a brilliant reputation. It was at that period that he spent a short time at Primini, before he set out on the long tour on which he had determined, in order to see various countries, and study their manners and institutions; to perfect himself in living languages; and to examine the different industrial processes invented and practised beyond the bounds of his own country, with which it was right that he should be acquainted.
He thus came back to Puivaux at twenty-five years of age, happy to return to his own country, to revisit the scenes of his childhood, and renew his family ties; and the only thing that disturbed him was, the disagreeable recollection which he retained of Caroline. In spite of his prejudices, she had often presented herself to his mind, and the remembrance of her caprices could not efface that of her lovely face, the elegance of her form, and the grace of her movements; the sweet tones of her voice still vibrated on his ears, and often had he repeated to himself that it was a great pity she was so insufferable, for she might have been charming; and then—then—but it must not be thought of, she possessed neither good sense nor good temper, and from such a person what could be hoped for?
It was rather late, one evening, when Robert arrived at Primini, where he was to take up his abode till everything was in order at his own house. He was not yet expected, but the absence of a friend, whom he had intended to visit by the way, had shortened his journey; and he had entered the château, and made his way to the drawing-room, before his coming was even suspected. He was struck by the scene presented by the persons there assembled. Monsieur de Manzay was reading aloud, Stephen was drawing, Denis copying music, and Caroline working at her embroidery frame. This social employment, this active tranquillity, was the more striking from its contrast with the former habits of those present, and its congeniality with his own tastes. He looked on without stirring, when Caroline chanced to raise her eyes, and exclaimed, "It is Robert!" Her voice expressed more surprise than pleasure, and, after having risen hastily, she remained where she was without advancing towards her cousin. He had already repeatedly embraced his uncle and Stephen, and shaken hands with Denis, before she could recover herself sufficiently to speak; she opened her lips and closed them again without uttering a syllable. Robert, on his side, was ill at ease, and it is impossible to say how long their embarrassment might have lasted, if Monsieur de Manzay had not cried out, "Well! what are you both doing? Are you not glad to see each other again? What are you thinking about?"
"Will you permit me to embrace you, Caroline?" then said Robert.
"Permit you!" repeated Monsieur de Manzay; "are you such a simpleton as to ask? I should like to see her refuse, indeed. For I am a terrible despot, as you well know," he added, caressing his daughter, as he led her towards Robert. They then embraced, but without much pleasure on either side; and, under the pretext of giving some orders, Caroline speedily made her escape from the room.
"My cousin is, then, at the head of your house?" inquired Robert, when she was gone.
"Yes, certainly, and a capital manager she is, I can assure you."
"I should not have supposed her to be over-gifted with order."
"Formerly she had little enough; but she is greatly changed; you would not recognise her, my friend."
"She has at least retained her good looks, and she has done well, for she is really charming."
"Why, then, did you stand there like a post before her?"
"We were not very good friends, formerly, and I was afraid she might recollect it. By the way, Denis, how do you agree with Caroline?"
"With Caroline! how is it possible to do otherwise than agree with her, kind as she is?"
"Yet you used to be always quarrelling."
"Oh! that is a long time ago, when I was quite a child; but now, I would throw myself into the river to give her pleasure."
"Or, what would be more to the purpose, you would work for her—as I imagine this music is destined for her?"
"Exactly so; but, Robert, do not suppose that I am still the idle fellow I used to be. I have been quite reformed here, and I am going to enter the Polytechnic School."
"How! you, who spoke of it with such horror?"
"I tell you that I am quite reformed; for the last four years, nearly, I have been living at Primini, and as everyone here is occupied, I was obliged to do like the rest. In the beginning it was exceedingly wearisome, but afterwards I took delight in the exertion, and so does everyone. Is it not so, Stephen?"
"How tall Stephen is grown," said Robert; "he was quite a little fellow, when I went away."
"You must remember that five years have passed since then, and many events have occurred; but you will have time enough to discover this, my friend, and for the present you must need refreshment and repose. Stephen, go and tell your sister that she had better order supper."
At this moment, Caroline entered the room.
"Your apartment is quite ready, Robert," she said; "shall Stephen conduct you to it, or would you rather take supper immediately?"
"Just as you please, I am quite at your disposal," replied Robert, in a ceremonious manner, corresponding, perfectly, with the extreme politeness of Caroline.
They were both of them ill at ease, infinitely more so than they would have been with total strangers, when a little constraint would have been natural. In fact, when all is real, there can be no embarrassment. It is by a false position, and not by a difficult one, that we are disconcerted. The remainder of the evening passed cheerlessly enough. Caroline, who usually diffused life and gaiety over the home circle, was constrained and silent, and took no share in the conversation; her silence reacted upon Denis, who was accustomed to laugh and jest with her: Robert reproached himself for the constraint and ennui which he seemed to have introduced into the house, and promised himself not to prolong his stay, grieved as he was to find himself like a stranger, and a troublesome stranger, in his own family. Following up his old prejudices he laid all the blame of his vexation upon Caroline. "She is still the same, whatever they may say," thought he to himself; "she yields completely to the fancy of the moment. Because she is sorry to see me—yet what harm have I ever done her?—she makes us all uncomfortable, with her intolerable, ill-humoured airs. I perceive nothing of that devotion to others—that self-denial, of which my uncle spoke in his letters. However, I never believed in it, and I was right; she is, and she always will be, a spoiled child."
The next day affairs assumed a different aspect, but Robert was no great gainer by the change. Caroline, who had reproached herself for making the evening pass disagreeably to her father, determined to overcome the awkwardness which she experienced in Robert's presence, and, as far as outward appearances were concerned, she succeeded. She threw off the almost gloomy silence of the preceding evening, replied gaily to the pleasantries of Denis on the subject, and appeared, as usual, serene and amiable; but she found it impossible to be at her ease with Robert. She listened to him with attention, replied with gentleness, and even addressed her conversation to him when the opportunity occurred; but it was evident that she did so with effort, and that she laboured under insufferable constraint with him. Robert perceived this clearly, and every day added to his vexation; this negative distinction wounded and annoyed him, and he had to encounter it perpetually. If Caroline wanted a strong hand to stretch her embroidery frame, it was to Denis that she applied; if she wished to gather a flower that was beyond her reach, she would call Denis to her assistance, even if Robert were close beside her. At table, she might sometimes forget to help Denis, or attend to Stephen before him, whilst her scrupulous politeness towards Robert marked the distance between them. Treated thus as a stranger, and more wounded by Caroline's polite attention than even by her coldness, Robert found little pleasure at Primini, and was dissatisfied with his cousin. He felt that their near relationship gave him a right to more familiar intercourse, whilst he forgot that he did nothing to promote it; greatly piqued, and more grieved than he was aware of, to find himself on such bad terms with Caroline, he took the very way to increase the distance between them; he was reserved and ceremonious in his conduct towards her, yet captious, and even ironical. Never did a word of friendly regard drop from his lips, but he would often complain; and, too proud to own his vexation, he veiled it under so much bitterness, that he was completely misunderstood by Caroline, whose heart, accustomed to the full light of truth, never suspected simulation, or detected what was feigned.
As Robert's stay at Primini was prolonged, he was day after day the more grieved at the state of his relations with Caroline; seeing her as he did continually, he could not but acknowledge that she possessed excellent qualities, great amiability and simplicity of character, and that she had wonderfully improved since they parted. Although he was still far from being acquainted with all her worth, he began to think that it would be very delightful to gain her friendship and possess her confidence, and also to doubt whether he had ever deserved either the one or the other. The remembrance of his former wrongs towards her presented itself to his mind; he recollected how disagreeable had been his manners, how severe his condemnation; he was no longer surprised at the coldness of Caroline, and asked himself whether, since his arrival, he had taken the proper measures to overcome it. His conscience told him that he had not; his regret augmented, and soon assumed the form of self-reproach. He accused himself as the sole cause of all this vexation, and anxiously sought the means of putting an end to the constraint which was so painful to both, so distressing to himself. One morning, as he was pondering over the subject whilst taking a walk, he heard bursts of laughter, and, approaching, saw Caroline and Denis engaged in watering the flowers, and chatting in the most animated manner. He joined them, wished them good morning; Caroline resumed her gravity; Denis recollected that it was the hour to begin his studies, and left them. Robert and Caroline remained for some moments without speaking. At last, making an effort, he said, "I have disturbed you, Caroline; I am sorry for it."
"Why should you think you disturb me, Robert? I can go on watering my flowers whilst you are here."
"Yes; but you are not laughing as you were just now."
"I have no longer any inclination to do so."
"That is the very thing of which I complain; I always interrupt your merriment, my dear Caroline; cannot you laugh and chat with me as you do with Denis?"
"With you, Robert? Oh, that would be very difficult."
"And why? Am I not also your cousin?"
"I do not know you so well as Denis."
"But yesterday, when the curé introduced his nephew, to whom you were a stranger, you conversed a great deal with him, and appeared to be amused."
"I am not afraid of M. Julius."
"Are you, then, afraid of me?"
"Yes, certainly: you are so extremely severe."
"Have I found fault with you once since my return?"
"No; but you do not blame me the less in your own thoughts."
"Nay, I assure you I think of you very favourably. Besides, my dear Caroline, allowing that we are not always of the same opinion, and that—pardon my frankness—some of the disadvantages which I formerly remarked may yet remain from your too indulgent education—you possess so many good qualities, that these slight defects may be easily overlooked. I, also, have had my faults, and especially towards you; but, because we are neither of us perfect, need we be other than good friends? Forget the past, I entreat you, and give me some portion of your regard."
"With all my heart, Robert," cried Caroline, holding out her hand to her cousin, who kissed it affectionately. "Believe me, I was far from supposing that you set any value on my affection. I thought you despised me." And the tears stood in her eyes. "Let us say no more about it," she continued, more calmly, "it makes me too unhappy."
"How good and amiable you are, my dear Caroline; I have been very unjust."
"I shall think of it no more. I was so unreasonable five years ago, that I quite understand your thinking me very ridiculous."
"Yes; but how harsh I was! Oh, I repent it with all my soul! Pardon me, I entreat you."
"Pardon you! my dear Robert, what a grand word! Must I, in my turn, remind you that you are my cousin, and, above all, my senior; and that I could not allow myself to talk of pardon to you? Come, let us return to the house; my father will be delighted to see us on such good terms; for our coldness annoys him, and he scolds me every day—in his way of scolding, however—for not making myself more agreeable to you." She took Robert's offered arm, and they went back to the house chatting familiarly.
This first step once made, a complete change took place in the nature of the relations between Caroline and Robert. They were both so simple-minded, so truthful, so upright, that as soon as what may be called the exterior obstacles which had separated them were removed, the most perfect confidence was established between them. There were, besides, so many reasons to bring them together; all their affections were directed to the same objects: Robert had no relatives that were not also those of Caroline; their interests were alike; near neighbours, their exertions were employed for the welfare of the same persons: the workmen of Robert were the sons, the brothers, the husbands of Caroline's protégées; their opinions agreed, their tastes were congenial; in a word, everything combined to attract them to each other, and they could not become intimately acquainted without finding how exactly they suited each other's tastes. Caroline was never tired of listening to the accounts which her cousin gave of his travels, or to the development of his ideas, his projects, and his hopes, of which he perpetually conversed with her. It was with intense delight that he contemplated the vivid impressions of so fresh a mind, so youthful a heart; he was surprised by her good sense, enchanted by her gentleness, and was particularly charmed with the seriousness and sincerity which induced her to maintain her own opinion with firmness till the moment that she was convinced of an error, when she would at once abandon it, without any subterfuge or embarrassment.
The winter arrived, and passed away in this pleasing intercourse. Its long days afforded Robert the greater opportunity for attaching himself to Caroline, and gaining her affections. With the return of spring he was to quit Primini, and establish himself at Puivaux. Scarcely six months ago, he had impatiently longed for this period; a little later, he felt that he looked forward to it without eagerness; and now that the time approached, he could not contemplate it without dread. However, by frequently grieving over the matter, and thinking how dreary life would appear to him without Caroline, he at last arrived at the conclusion, that he might render it happy through her means, and that his cousin might perhaps consent to become his wife: she already showed so much regard and esteem for him, and placed in him so much confidence; might she not bestow on him still more? Why should not Caroline return his love?
His addresses were not destined to encounter any obstacles; he had never been indifferent to Caroline, and had now become extremely dear to her: the certainty of living in his vicinity had already appeared to her a happy destiny; what, then, would it be to live for him, to form his happiness, and receive from him her own; to be the first object of his thoughts and pursuits; to find such admirable qualities and such noble faculties devoted entirely to her; in a word, to become the wife of a man whom she was proud to call her friend, and congratulated herself on having for a relative?
It may easily be imagined that M. de Manzay was not slow in granting his consent. He had often dwelt with pleasure on the idea of this union, and had never abandoned the hope of seeing it take place. The marriage was celebrated at Montfort by the curé, who had once thought so ill of Caroline. She was accompanied to the altar by four young couples, M. de Manzay giving the dowry to the girls selected by Caroline from amongst her former pupils, whilst Robert supplied the funds for their establishment. The bridegrooms were workmen employed at his ironworks, and were to live at Puivaux, whither Robert conducted Caroline the day after the wedding. Her father followed her thither. It was impossible for him to live without her, and he would not detain her from her husband's affairs; but Primini was not neglected. This place, which was destined for Stephen, was on all accounts much loved by Caroline; she therefore watched over it with the greatest care, and thither her walks were habitually directed. The two châteaux belonged to the same commune, and were situated in the same parish: their interests were identical, and the good which was undertaken by Monsieur and Madame de Puivaux was only the continuation of that which had been effected by Monsieur and Mademoiselle de Manzay.
Reed & Pardon, Printers, Paternoster-row, London.