THIRD DIALOGUE.
Monsieur de Bonnel—Augustus, his Son.
M. de Bonnel.—Augustus, I hope you have returned to George, as I told you, that little cart you took from him?
Augustus (ill-temperedly).—I was obliged to do it, since you desired me, but I did not take it from him; I paid him what it cost. If he was so obstinate as to refuse the money, that was not my fault.
M. de Bonnel.—He did not want your money, and he wished to keep his cart; you had no right to force the bargain upon him.
Augustus.—I have a right to make him do as I please.
M. de Bonnel.—And how came you by this right?
Augustus.—His father Antony is your servant.
M. de Bonnel.—And is that any reason that George should have no will of his own?
Augustus.—No; but it is a reason why he should give up to me; and the best proof that he very well knows this, is that he always does give up to me. To-day, though he would not sell me his cart, he did not think of preventing me from taking it; and had it not been for you he would certainly not have got it back again.
M. de Bonnel.—Very well; but, what is singular in the matter is that for the future he will think differently, and that henceforward he will be obliged to resist you.
Augustus.—I should like to see him do that.
M. de Bonnel.—Well, you shall be gratified. Antony had forbidden his son to use force against you for fear of hurting you. I have just told him that if he did not order George to defend himself against you when you torment him, as he would defend himself against one of his own companions, George should not come here again. You will now see whether it is his duty to humour you, and whether it is from respect that he has hitherto yielded to you.
Augustus.—It would be a fine thing for George to treat me like one of his comrades.
M. de Bonnel.—Very well; you need not make free with him.
Augustus.—Making him obey me is not making free with him.
M. de Bonnel..—When you have no right to exact obedience, you can only obtain it from his politeness by requests such as we use towards an equal, or exact it by force, which he will repel with his fist, and that is the greatest familiarity I know of.
Augustus.—But George is to be my servant one day: he has told me so a hundred times: he will have to be submissive and respectful then.
M. de Bonnel.—He will only be submissive in those things in which he has agreed to obey you: he will only be respectful so long as you fulfil your obligations to him. A servant agrees to obey in everything that concerns the service of his master, and that does not injure himself. Thus, if a master commanded him to go and fight for him, or to give him up the money which he had saved, the servant would no longer be obliged to obey.
Augustus.—But people do not require such things from servants.
M. de Bonnel.—It is quite as unjust and absurd to expect them to labour for you beyond their strength, or to compel them to give up what belongs to them at a price which does not suit them. If you force them to do anything against their inclinations, they then lay aside their respect, and resist you as well as they can, for they have only agreed to obey your orders in certain things; nor have they consented to incur any other risk, in case of disobedience, than that of being reprimanded or sent away. If you go further than this, you break a covenant of which insults formed no part any more than blows; both equally exempt a servant from all duty.
Augustus.—Nevertheless, there are servants who remain in their places, although their masters overwork or ill-treat them. I have heard my cousin Armand say all sorts of insulting things to Jack, his groom, and even threaten to horsewhip him, because he harnessed his horse badly. Jack went on with his work without saying a word, because he knew that he must bear it.
M. de Bonnel.—And what would have happened to Jack if he had answered his master impertinently, as he deserved to be answered?
Augustus.—Why, Armand would have turned him out of doors without a character, so that he would have been unable to get another situation.
M. de Bonnel.—At this rate, masters have the means of treating their servants as ill as they please; and if all masters were to do so, all servants would be obliged to submit to it, I suppose?
Augustus.—Certainly they would.
M. de Bonnel.—But if all servants were to take it into their heads to resist their masters, then the latter would either have to put up with this or do without servants.
Augustus.—But that would never happen.
M. de Bonnel.—That would happen, if service became so intolerable that servants had no interest in humouring their masters. But as masters and servants stand mutually in need of each other, they have felt it to be to their advantage that the former should be kind and the latter obedient and respectful. It is, therefore, because there are many good masters whom it is to their interest to serve, that they serve respectfully even those who are bad. Consequently, he who abuses this respect is a coward, who shelters himself behind others to take advantage of their good actions, and commit wrong with impunity.
[New Year's Night.]
On the New Year's night of 1797, a man, over whose head had passed sixty winters, was standing at a window. He raised his mournful eyes towards the azure vault of heaven, where floated countless stars, as float the white blossoms of the water-lily on the bosom of a tranquil lake; then he looked down upon the earth, where there was no one so destitute of happiness and peace as himself, for his tomb was not far distant. He had already descended sixty of the steps that led to it, and bore with him from the bright days of his youth nothing save errors and remorse. His health was destroyed; his mind a blank, and weighed down with sorrow; his heart torn with repentance, and his old age full of grief. The days of his youth rose up before him, and brought back to his memory that solemn moment when his father placed him at the entrance of those two paths, of which the one leads to a peaceful and happy country, re-echoing with sweet song, and cheered by an ever-cloudless sun, whilst the other leads to the abodes of darkness—to a chasm without issue, peopled by serpents, and filled with poison.
Alas! the serpents had coiled around his heart; the poison had polluted his lips, and he now awoke to the reality of his condition.
He again raised his eyes to heaven, and exclaimed, with inexpressible anguish, "Return, oh, Youth! Return, oh, Father! place me once more at the entrance of life, that I may make a different choice." But his youth had passed away, and his father slept with the dead. He beheld a marsh-fire arise, dance over the morass, and disappear; and he said, "Such were my days of folly!" He beheld a falling star shoot along the sky, tremble, and then vanish; and he exclaimed, "Such am I;" and the sharp arrows of repentance sank deeper into his heart.
Then his thoughts turned upon all those men who had attained to his years, who had been young when he was young, and who now, in different parts of the world, were spending, in peace and tranquillity, this first night of the year, as good fathers of families and friends of truth and virtue. The pealing of the bell which celebrated the new step of time, vibrated on the air from the turret of the neighbouring church, sounding to his ear like a pious song. This sound re-awakened the memory of his parents,—the wishes they had breathed for him on that solemn day,—the lessons they had inculcated:—wishes which their unhappy son had never fulfilled,—lessons from which he had never profited. Overwhelmed with grief and shame, he could no longer gaze into that heaven where his father dwelt: he turned his grief-worn eyes towards the earth; tears flowed from them, and fell upon the snow which covered the ground; and finding nothing to console him in any direction, he again cried, "Return, oh, Youth! Return!"
And his youth did return; for all this was but a troubled dream, which had disturbed the slumbers of this first night of the year. He was still young,—his faults alone were real. He thanked God that his youth was not passed, that he had still the power to leave the path of vice—to regain that of virtue; to return into that happy land covered with abundant harvests.
Return with him, my young readers, if, like him, you have strayed; this terrible dream will henceforward be your judge. If, one day, overwhelmed with grief, you should be found to exclaim, "Return, oh, happy Youth!" the prayer will be vain, for youth will not return.
[The Curé of Chavignat.]
The Curé of Chavignat was an excellent man. He was very fond of children, and was, consequently, a great favourite with them. He chatted with them as if it were for his own amusement, and whilst thus engaged he gave them useful advice, with which they, in their turn, were highly delighted; because his instructions were usually accompanied by stories, which accustomed them to reflect on their own characters, on the best means of correcting their faults, and on the pleasure arising from the possession of good qualities. Whenever the Curé of Chavignat met with a story of this kind, he wrote it down, that he might afterwards give it or relate it to those children to whom it might prove useful. He went frequently to the château of Chavignat, where the children received him with demonstrations of the greatest delight, whilst the parents were continually thanking him for his kindness to their children.
One day he perceived that Juliana, the eldest of the children, who was scalloping a piece of muslin, was quite out of temper because her mother had reproved her.
"When I see," said he, "a little lady who is out of humour with her mamma, I begin to think what would be the state of matters if mammas, on their side, were to be out of humour with their little girls."
"It would be strange, indeed," said Juliana, "if papas and mammas were out of humour, when they are masters, and can do exactly as they please! That would he very just, truly!"
"People do not then get out of humour without just cause, Miss Juliana?" asked the Curé. "I was not aware of that."
"Witness Madame Gonthier, our housekeeper," cried Amadeus, "who, this morning, when her coffee overturned into the fire, scolded the girl who has charge of the poultry-yard, because the hens' eggs were so small."
"Just, Monsieur le Curé," said little Paul, raising his finger to his face, "as if it was the poultry girl that made the hens' eggs."
"Yes, my little friend; or, as if your mamma were to give Miss Juliana a slap on the face because the apricots do not ripen this year."
The children began to laugh, with the exception of Juliana, who, shrugging her shoulders, said in a disdainful tone, "Fortunately, people do not have relations so ill-bred as Madame Gonthier."
"Indeed, young lady," replied the Curé, "there are, I assure you, many persons in that unfortunate predicament. Besides," he added, "it is possible that a young lady very well brought up, like Miss Juliana, who just now gave her little brother a kick because her mamma had found fault with her—it is quite possible, I repeat, that when she grows up to be a woman, she may pull her little daughter by the ears because her footman failed to execute a commission properly."
"Oh, she did not hurt me," cried Paul, "I drew back."
"True," said the Curé, "but when it is the mamma who gives the blow it is not always so easy to draw back. I was once acquainted with a youth whose aunt was extremely ill-tempered, and who when she was dissatisfied with one person would vent her anger on another; and I can assure you, the young gentleman found this anything but agreeable."
"Oh, a story! a story! Monsieur le Curé," exclaimed both the little boys at once; "pray relate it to us."
"I will," said the Curé, giving a side glance at Juliana, "some day when nobody is out of humour here, for a certain person might take it to herself, and I do not wish to be uncivil to any one."
"Oh! pray relate your story, by all means, Monsieur le Curé," said Juliana, very sharply; "people can take it as they please."
"Young lady," replied the Curé, "when I relate a story, I wish it to be taken as I please." Juliana was silent, for she clearly perceived that she had spoken impertinently.
The next day, as soon as the Curé arrived, the little boys failed not to remind him of the promised story: he did not wait to be pressed, for he had brought the manuscript with him.
He seated himself at the table where Juliana was at work; she neither advanced nor drew back her chair. Amadeus placed his as close to the Curé as possible, and little Paul established himself between his knees, with upturned eyes and open mouth: the Curé then related what follows:—