Popular Tales

by Madame Guizot

THE RECONCILIATION.

Louis was left alone in his apartment, in a state of terrible agitation, and he passed nearly an hour in thinking only of his annoyance, and giving way to passion, without coming to any decision.

The last words of Marianne rang disagreeably in his ears. "It is useless to try," he repeated; "Is it, then, impossible to be reasonable?" and the idea displeased him; for he would rather have believed that it was impossible. He began to reperuse his mother's letter; but in his present disposition he several times stopped impatiently, for he felt as if his mother were there, giving him advice which he was unwilling to follow. Once he even threw the letter on the table in a passion; but suddenly recollected, that one day when he was vexed at some advice which his mother gave him, she said, "My dear Louis, are you displeased with my advice because it is bad, or because it is good?" and he acknowledged that people quarrel only with good advice, because it is that alone which one is obliged to follow.

But although acknowledging to himself that his mother's advice was good, Louis was not the less inclined to dispute: was he not only to renounce so great a pleasure, and one, too, on which he had so long counted, but also give way to his aunt, and especially in a thing so unreasonable! Then another recollection presented itself. One day during his childhood, when he had given a kick to Barogo, for not learning his exercise, saying, "What a stupid brute you are!" his mother replied, "If he be a brute, why do you expect him to do things which require reason?" This reflection now struck him, and he said, "Since my aunt is so unreasonable, it is foolish in me to expect her to require of me nothing but what is reasonable;" and he added, "If I do not yield to her in what is unreasonable, I shall never have to yield at all, for as to other things, I should do them of my own accord."

His agitation began to subside in consequence of the pleasure which he experienced in feeling himself a reasonable person, and this kind of pleasure always inspires the wish to become still more so. He remembered also that his mother had often said to him: "Sensible people have a great task imposed on them, for they have to be reasonable, not only for themselves, but for those also who are unreasonable;" and he began to consider it as something very honourable to feel one's self intrusted with a duty of this kind. Then he felt a pleasure in reading over again, not only the last letter which he had received from his mother, but all she had written to him since her departure. He was struck with the following sentence: "Your misfortune, my dear son, consists in your having completely forgotten, in your intercourse with your aunt, how we ought to conduct ourselves towards those whose approbation we desire. Now, it appears to me, that approbation is always desirable, and that there may be some pleasure in gaining it where it costs an effort." In his present disposition, this idea particularly struck Louis. "It would be amusing, after all," he said, "to force my aunt to praise me." His imagination was so excited by this project, that he could scarcely go to sleep.

The next morning he awoke in the best disposition possible. The weather was delightful; he heard in the streets sounds indicative of a festival-day, and this made him feel rather heavy-hearted; but he had other things to think of, and did not permit these recollections to distress him. He entered his aunt's room with an air of serenity which she had not expected. He knew that she had already inquired of Marianne whether he was going into the country, and had been answered in the negative. Her demeanour, accordingly, was rather stiff than angry. When he had informed her of the news which he had received: "It is for this reason, then, I suppose, young gentleman," she observed, "that you have put water into your wine."

The colour mounted into Louis' cheeks, but he had so well prepared himself, that he did not lose his temper; besides, he could not but acknowledge to himself that his aunt had spoken the truth. "At all events, aunt," he said, "I should certainly be much grieved, if my father and mother, on their return, should find you dissatisfied with me."

Madame Ballier was astonished; she had not calculated on such an answer, and contented herself with muttering in a low voice, that she might not appear at a loss, "I shall soon, then, be released from my charge:" she then hastened to make inquiries respecting the health of her nephew, and the time of his return; then, presently recurring to the subject on which it was easy to see she wished to enter without very well knowing how to begin, she said, in a tone which merely simulated displeasure, "Then you will have no one to hinder you from going into the country."

"But you know, aunt," said Louis, gently, "that my mother had granted me permission to go."

"And for that reason," said Madame Ballier, again growing angry, "you considered that you might dispense with the permission of every one else."

"You may see very well, aunt," replied Louis, in the same mild tone, "that that is not the case, for it was because you did not wish it that I have not gone; and yet I wanted very much to go," he added, with a sigh, which was not feigned.

"How he is playing the hypocrite at present!" said Madame Ballier, turning away her head.

"No, aunt, I am not playing the hypocrite," replied Louis, rather hastily. "You know very well, that I calculated upon going into the country, and I expected to enjoy myself extremely, I can assure you."

"Louis," replied Madame Ballier, gravely, "I do not wish to deprive you of your enjoyment, when you can ask for it in a proper manner." She evidently expected a reply.

Louis hesitated a moment, and then said, "Well, then, aunt; will you ... permit me to go?" The words cost him an effort, but when they had passed his lips, he hastened to add, in order to conceal his repugnance, "I shall be very much obliged to you."

"You may go," said Madame Ballier, somewhat embarrassed herself with the victory she had gained; and by way of preserving her dignity, she added, "To say the truth, it is more than you deserve after your conduct yesterday."

"Come, aunt, let us talk no more of that," said Louis, in a tone of mingled playfulness and submission; and Madame Ballier, who could scarcely believe her senses, shrugged up her shoulders, as she said, "Go, then, and be quick." Louis did not wait to be told a second time. In running to dress, he met Marianne, and, wild with joy, he seized her by the shoulders, and spinning her round, cried out, "Marianne, I am going into the country."

But Marianne was in no laughing mood. Robinet had just overturned a jug of water, and she had all her kitchen to clean up. She declared she would wring the cat's neck the very first time she could catch him; and as she uttered these words, a single door only, and that scarcely closed, separated her from Madame Ballier. Louis trembled; he put his hand before her mouth, coaxed her, spoke of the necessity of maintaining a good understanding in the house, and even read to her a passage from his mother's letter; and Marianne, quite enchanted, began to moralize on the duties of servants towards their masters, which led her on, from one good sentiment to another, till she came to protestations of attachment to Madame Ballier, and even to Robinet. Louis had hardly reached his room upstairs, when he heard his aunt calling to him, "Come, make haste, Louis, you will be killed with the heat;" and, on going down, he found her brushing his hat: touched with this mark of kindness, he kissed her hand, whilst Marianne hastened to take the brush from her. Never had anything of the kind been seen before in the family.

Louis set off, his heart as light as his heels; he felt not the sun, he felt nothing but his delight. Quite astonished at his own happiness, he asked himself if it was legitimate, and after the most strict self-examination, could find nothing to reproach himself with,—nothing that had not been prompted by the best intentions; he could not but wonder how all had been settled with two words, when he had long been wasting so many in throwing every thing into confusion. He felt grateful to his aunt for giving way so promptly, and he was pleased with himself for experiencing this sentiment, for a feeling in harmony with our duties is something akin to virtue. On his arrival, he saw, in the distance, Charles standing at the door, and called out so loud, "Here I am," that Eugenia heard him and ran to the door. M. Lebeau came also, and Louis plainly perceived that he had been the subject of conversation since the preceding evening.

"Did your aunt make a great fuss?" inquired M. Lebeau.

"No, no," replied Louis, in a tone which sufficiently marked his present disposition: in his new plan of conduct towards his aunt, he would have considered as treachery on his part a word spoken against her in her absence.

The three days passed delightfully, and yet Louis was not grieved to see them come to a close. The new task which he had set himself occupied his mind, and filled it with that interest always accorded to a project the success of which depends on our own exertions. He represented to himself the happiness of his mother when, on her arrival, she would witness the good understanding which had replaced the appearances of animosity which made her uneasy; he took pleasure in thinking that she would feel obliged to him for this; and happy in the idea of being able to procure her this satisfaction, the efforts by which it was to be obtained began to assume a pleasant aspect in his mind. On his way homewards, he was surprised to find himself thinking, with satisfaction, of meeting his aunt, and of seeing her reconciled to him, and he was consequently a little agitated when he arrived. It was very near eleven o'clock at night, and Madame Ballier, whose imagination had not been excited like that of her nephew, received him ill enough on account of his coming home so late. Louis, though disconcerted by this reception, was so full of his good sentiments that he had no difficulty in keeping his temper, and he replied gently that he was very sorry to have kept his aunt waiting. Madame Ballier, who had not expected such an answer, had not a word to say in reply. On the succeeding days, the case was the same: when Madame Ballier scolded, Louis apologized, so that she ceased to scold, or did so only from habit. One day, at dinner, she was seen to give a bone to Barogo, and even advised Louis to make him wear a muzzle, in order to prevent him from eating the poisoned balls which were thrown into the streets during the extreme hot weather. Barogo, however, could not endure a muzzle, and Louis did not like to inconvenience his favourite, so he replied that Barogo did not go out till late, and after the balls had been eaten by other dogs. Upon this, Madame Ballier, day after day returned to the subject of the muzzle, and Louis persisted, with some warmth, in defending Barogo's opinion. Hence, it happened that Madame Ballier, having once mentioned the subject, was perpetually recurring to it indirectly, and with some degree of asperity. Louis had at first said to himself, "The dog is mine, and it is no concern of my aunt's," but he afterwards considered, "If it did concern her, it would be my duty to do it, since she required it, and, since she has no right to interfere, I ought to do it to please her." It gave him some pain to follow this determination, particularly when it was necessary to overcome the resistance of Barogo, who had not made the same progress as himself in the art of obliging. "Barogo," he said, as he fastened on the muzzle, "we must please my aunt;" and, instead of waiting, as perverse people often do, until his aunt again complained of his injuring his dog, in order to obtain a triumph over her, he showed her the muzzle, saying, "Aunt, I have put a muzzle on Barogo," and, as he was now daily improving, he added, "and he does not mind it nearly so much as I feared he would." Madame Ballier contented herself with replying, somewhat ungraciously, "I knew very well it would be so," and never failed to remind him every day to put the muzzle on his dog. But every day, also, at dinner, Barogo received a bit of meat from Madame Ballier, and as Barogo was sensible of this kindness, and did not know that it was she who was the cause of his being muzzled, he began at table to wag his tail, and fix his bright eyes upon her, which was quite a new thing on his part, and Louis was filled with amazement to see him. Good sense and gentleness seemed to spring up on all sides since he had thought of introducing them into the house.

Nevertheless, he one day found Marianne in a fury. Madame Ballier had just told her that she had seen some ripe cherries, and ordered her to go and purchase some. Marianne had maintained that they were not ripe, and protested between her teeth that she would not go, flying into a violent passion, as if she had been thrust out by the shoulders. Louis, at first, endeavoured to persuade her that it was not very difficult to try at least to get some cherries; but this only increased Marianne's anger. Then he said that he was sure Marianne would do difficult things for his sake, and that he particularly wished for some cherries. "Nonsense!" said Marianne, "that is only to prevent your aunt from making an outcry."

"Yes, Marianne," he replied, smiling, "for fear that my father, who is on his journey, should hear the noise." Then, gently patting her on the shoulder, he added, "My good Marianne, you would not wish to give my father a headache?" Marianne shook her head, told him he was a wheedler, and went to fetch the cherries.

Since Louis had given up the idea of employing any but gentle means in the attainment of his wishes, he discovered a vast number of such means, which would never otherwise have occurred to him. This evening he found an opportunity of telling Marianne that the cherries were excellent, and from this point went on to speak of the pleasure it would give his mother to find there were so much fewer quarrels in the house; and Marianne was so pleased at having contributed to this pacification, that the same evening she placed, of her own accord, the lamp upon the table, instead of on the mantel-piece, a thing she had never before consented to do, without having been first scolded about it by Madame Ballier.

Time passed, and M. Delong was approaching home, although slowly, being obliged to travel by short stages, and to rest frequently. They had now but one week more to wait, and the day before his arrival was the fête-day of the village in which M. Lebeau's country house was situated. This fête was a celebrated one in the neighbourhood; there was a grand fair, dancing in a pretty meadow, games, and boating on the river. Louis was to pass the day with the Lebeau family, and promised himself great pleasure, enhanced by the assurance of still greater happiness, a few days afterwards, on the arrival of his father and mother. He had spoken of this party to his aunt, and she had consented to his going, with an expression of vexation which had not escaped Louis, but the cause of which he had not courage enough to investigate. He soon perceived, however, that his aunt was herself embarrassed about going to this fête. Those persons with whom she was most intimate in the town were absent; others had made up their parties, which she could not join, or which did not suit her, and during three days she had a fund of ill-humour, and Louis a feeling of discomfort, for which he dared not venture to account. At length he confessed to himself, that if he was ill at ease, it was because he was not performing his duty; and from this moment the only question was, how to summon resolution for its performance: a difficult duty is more than half accomplished when we have once acknowledged its necessity. Yet, to renounce his engagement with the Lebeau family, and give up his whole day to his aunt, was a sacrifice which, three weeks before, would never have entered his mind. But now that the arrival of his mother drew so near, he was more than ever engrossed with the desire of proving to her that he had conducted himself well in her absence; and it would have been vexatious to spoil all his labour by leaving with his aunt a sufficiently legitimate cause of complaint. Still he hesitated, grieved at the idea of relinquishing the delightful prospect in view, but a letter from his mother put an end to his uncertainty. A sensible amelioration had permitted M. Delong to hasten his journey, and he was to arrive the day after the fête. Madame Delong at the same time mentioned to her son her anxiety respecting his conduct to his aunt, of which the last letters received from her gave but an indifferent idea. Louis triumphantly smiled to himself at his mother's fears, and at the happiness he was preparing for her; and, full of these delightful thoughts, he so vividly transported himself in imagination to the day of her arrival, that it was easy for him to leap over that of the fête. He ran to his aunt, who was already informed by letter of his father's more speedy arrival, and hastened to propose to take her to the fête with him. When she objected, by saying that he would have much more amusement with the family of M. Lebeau, he was on the point of answering "Very well, aunt;" happily, however, he checked himself in time, and simply replied that he should have great pleasure in escorting her; and this was quite true; for at this moment all was pleasure to him. He then went to M. Lebeau, to excuse himself from his engagement. M. Lebeau was annoyed, and inquired, "How is it that your aunt can find no one to take charge of her?"

"All her acquaintances are in the country," replied Louis; "there is perhaps no one left in town with whom she is so well acquainted as with yourself."

"And I am not going to take her, I assure you," said M. Lebeau.

"That I am quite aware of," said Louis, somewhat offended in his turn; for he probably thought that a little good-nature on the part of M. Lebeau would have settled everything satisfactorily.

"What a pity!" said Eugenia, in a low tone, glancing timidly at her father: "there is abundance of room in the boat."

"There is no room for any one but ourselves," said M. Lebeau, hastily, for he had overheard or guessed what she said: "and suppose it should upset—do you imagine I want to have to run after Madame Ballier?"

"There is no question about the matter," said Louis, still more displeased; "I am going with my aunt."

"It is the best thing you can do." For the first time M. Lebeau was offended with Louis, because Louis had placed him in the wrong, and, for the first time also, Louis found that M. Lebeau was to blame for his disobliging conduct towards his aunt.

The next day, he would have set out in a somewhat sad mood, had he not chanced to notice his mother's room, which had been left open for the purpose of airing it, as well as his father's, which Marianne had just been putting in order. This recalled his resolution to make every thing pleasant to his aunt, who, on her side, was all good humour. Even Barogo, who, in the transports of his joy, leaped several times upon her, was allowed to do so without being angrily repulsed. Louis, compelled at the fête to give his arm to his aunt, who could neither walk fast nor go far, could not help looking at the various groups of pedestrians so full of vivacity and mirth. People were hastening to the river-side, and crowding into boats, in order to go and dine on an island at a short distance, whence they were to return afterwards to dance in the meadow. Madame Ballier wished to engage a boat, but there was not one to be had, nor even a place in one. Louis saw, with a sigh, that he should be obliged to sacrifice his whole day completely, and Madame Ballier was herself rather disconcerted, not knowing very well how to pass the time. At some distance they perceived M. Lebeau, ready to embark with all his family. Louis observed them without stirring from his place, till M. Lebeau beckoned to him, when he begged permission from his aunt to go and speak to him.

"Have you a boat?" asked M. Lebeau. Louis replied in the negative. "Confound it!" said M. Lebeau, with a look of annoyance which Louis very well understood; for his boat would have accommodated half-a-dozen more persons.

"Could not your aunt," said M. Lebeau, "join some other party? I see some of her acquaintance yonder. Then you could join us." Louis could not forbear looking in the direction pointed out, but immediately recollecting himself, he replied, "Indeed, Monsieur Lebeau, I could not think of proposing such a plan to her; you must see yourself that it would not be right," and he was turning away, but Eugenia held him gently by his coat.

"Confound it!" repeated M. Lebeau. He stopped, and then suddenly resumed, "Well, then, if it cannot be otherwise arranged, bring your aunt with you; we will try and find a place for her."

Louis hesitated, not knowing whether he ought to accept the invitation. "Go, Charles, and propose it to her," said Madame Lebeau, who had long wished to see an end to the bickerings between her husband and Madame Ballier; and Eugenia, without waiting for a command, set off with Charles to invite Madame Ballier to come into their boat, adding, like a person of discretion as she was, that her mother would herself have come, had she not to take care of her little sister. Madame Ballier made a few difficulties, just sufficient to support her dignity; but Louis came up, took her arm, and cutting short all objections, had no sooner said, "Come, let us make haste, pray," than they were already on the way, Madame Ballier walking as fast as she could, and Charles with Eugenia running and skipping before them with cries of triumph. The bustle of arrival, and of entering the boat, saved Madame Ballier the embarrassment of showing either too much eagerness or too much resentment; and M. Lebeau, in saying to her, "Come, Madame Ballier, place yourself there, quite at your ease," was not more abrupt in his manner than he would have been to one whose society was the most agreeable to him. Madame Lebeau was all kindness and attention, and Eugenia hastened to place under her feet the board which was laid across the bottom of the boat, to preserve the ladies from the wet. Louis, meanwhile, pressed the hand of M. Lebeau, with an expression which moved him. "Come," said the latter, "you are a good boy; I am very glad to have given you pleasure;" and off they went.

The day passed delightfully. They dined on the island. M. Lebeau exerted himself to amuse Madame Ballier. Madame Ballier was soon in high spirits, and her gaiety quite accorded with that of M. Lebeau. On rising from table they were the best friends in the world; and M. Lebeau said to Louis, "After all, your aunt is at heart a good sort of woman." "No doubt of it," replied Louis, in a tone which showed that he would not have the good qualities of his aunt called in question. On bringing her amongst his friends, he had taken care that his friends should be agreeable to her. His attentions naturally attracted those of others, and the kind Eugenia seemed to have no thought but that of seconding him. As to Madame Ballier, she was good-nature itself; she remained as late as they wished at the dancing, and scarcely complained of fatigue on their way home, particularly as Louis took care to say something laughable, whenever they came to any bad parts in the road. To crown all, on entering the house, they found a letter announcing the exact hour at which they might expect their friends the next day; and Madame Ballier declared that she would herself carry the intelligence to M. Lebeau, to whom she owed this civility, as he had been so extremely obliging to her.

The morning came at last; then noon; then four o'clock; then they heard the sound of the carriage; then it stopped. How often had they repeated to themselves that they must restrain their joy to avoid overpowering the invalid; yet, at the moment the doors were opened, and that they rushed down stairs, the excitement was so great, that Barogo began to bark, Robinet took to flight, and Marianne knew not where she was; but all was hushed at the sight of M. Delong, who, still feeble, and deprived of the use of his limbs, required support on all sides, and of Madame Delong, pale and worn out by the sufferings of her husband. The invalid was carried upstairs so gently that even the steps of those who bore him were inaudible. They seated him in an easy-chair, and quietly placed themselves around him. Louis, standing before his father, sometimes raised his eyes to him, and then cast them down as he encountered those of his father examining him attentively. His heart beat, for this first interview with a father who had left him a mere child and now found him almost a man, was to him a great and imposing moment. Madame Delong, with a mixture of anxiety and confidence, looked alternately at her son and at her husband. At length, Madame Ballier, who willingly translated into words these mute scenes, said to the colonel,—"I can assure you, nephew, that you have a very amiable son;" and then addressing herself to Madame Delong; "You cannot imagine, niece, how much he has improved during your absence."

Louis eagerly kissed his mother's hand, whose pale features were now lit up with a flush of joy. This moment convinced her that they had not ceased to understand each other.

"Louis," said M. Delong, as he held out his hand to him, "your mother has told me much good of you; I know she thinks still more, and I am always disposed to think as she does." Louis, in stooping his head over his father's hand, half bent one knee in this first act of gratitude towards a parent whose approbation he so ardently desired. His eyes then met those of his mother. The necessity of restraining their feelings rendered them only the more intense. This was a moment which could never be forgotten.

M. Lebeau came in, and declared that as soon as the colonel could bear another removal, he must come and establish himself at his house in the country, and in the sequel of his speech he included in his invitation Madame Ballier, who graciously bowed her acquiescence. Madame Delong looked with astonishment at her son, who smiled, and Madame Ballier having quitted the apartment; "This wizard, Louis," he said to Madame Delong, "has absolutely forced me to be on good terms with his aunt;" then turning to M. Delong, he added—"Colonel, this son of yours will be a remarkable man; remember, I tell you so."

How happy was Madame Delong, and with what heartfelt pleasure did the eyes of Louis meet the delighted looks of his mother, which were constantly fixed upon him! Nor was their felicity momentary. Louis found no difficulty in acknowledging to her his faults, because he had repaired them. He confessed how greatly he had felt relieved since, instead of seeking out failings in his aunt, he had been engaged in considering her good qualities, and the respect he owed her of which he had been too forgetful; for children and young people are not sufficiently aware of the harm they do, when, even without talking to others, their thoughts are occupied in examining the defects of those to whom they owe respect, instead of going backward, like the children of Noah, to cover them with their mantle. Louis had learnt by experience, that when we look at things as they really are, it is almost always possible to find something good in persons of whom at first we were disposed to think only evil. He gradually attached himself to his aunt through his desire of pleasing her; and Madame Ballier, on her side, acquired so strong an affection for him, that she would not suffer any one to blame him or oppose him in her presence; and when he found her in dispute with Marianne or Barogo, he had only to interpose, and all was at an end. This new mode of proceeding has brought back peace into the domestic circle of Madame Delong, and Louis continually experiences the advantage of having acquired the power of self-control, which is the surest means of obtaining influence over others; for he who advances thoughtfully, observing carefully where he steps, instead of following his humour and heedlessly rushing into any mire that may obstruct his path, is sure to become at last the leader of his party.

When the Curé had concluded his story, he raised his head, took off his spectacles, and looking round at the children, said, "Well, now, which would you rather be,—Madame Ballier or Louis?"

"Oh! there is no great difficulty in deciding that question," replied Amadeus.

"You know, Monsieur le Curé," said Paul, "that everybody would like better to be an amiable person than one who is not so."

"I think," remarked Juliana, with her disdainful tone, "it was hardly worth while to ask such a question."

"Indeed," said the Curé; "for my part, I thought that there were persons to be met with occasionally, who would rather not be amiable."

Juliana shrugged her shoulders, and Amadeus burst into a loud laugh.

"Ah! that is Juliana," cried Paul, jumping about, and clapping his hands.

"By no means," replied the Curé; "for I perceive that Miss Juliana is displeased when any one appears to think her less amiable than usual, and this proves that she wishes to be amiable."

Juliana blushed: she was not sure whether the Curé was speaking in jest or in earnest, for it was perfectly true that many times when her ill-humour was over, she felt sorry for having given way to it, especially in the presence of persons who appeared shocked by it. "Oh, yes!" said Amadeus, "when she has done any thing foolish she is so vexed that it makes her immediately do something else just as bad. Don't you remember this morning, Juliana, throwing your work into Zemira's porringer, because mamma had rung for you twice whilst you were busy undoing a knot in your thread?"

"Yes, and only think! Monsieur le Curé," cried Paul; "she was so angry—so very angry, at having wetted her work with the water in the porringer, that when I picked it up to bring it back to her, she snatched it out of my hands, and scratched my finger so with her needle."

And Paul, excited by the recollection of his misfortune, pointed to the scratch on his finger, whilst Juliana could hardly restrain her tears, so much was she ashamed and grieved that her fault should be made known to the Curé.

"You know very well I did not do it on purpose," she said, in a broken voice; "but Amadeus is always finding fault with me;" and her tears began to flow in earnest.

"Come, calm yourself, my good girl," said the Curé, in an affectionate tone; "these little folks do not know how vexatious it is to a sensible young lady to feel that she has not been quite so reasonable as she ought to have been: but I will teach you how to silence them."

Juliana shook her head with a sigh.

"You shall hear my story," added the Curé, "which shall be for you alone, and we will afterwards discuss the matter."

The next day the Curé brought the following tale, which he read to Juliana in private, because he perceived, that as she was growing up, the best way of gaining her confidence was to avoid wounding her self-love, more especially in the presence of her brothers, who, in this case, especially, would not have failed to draw comparisons extremely disagreeable to her.