ROBERT; OR, THE INFLUENCE OF A GOOD MOTHER.
CHAPTER FIRST.
"Although young on the earth,
I am already alone.
. . . . .
And when I ask myself
Where are those I love?
I look at the green turf."
LAMARTINE.
THE ORPHAN.
The traveler who passes through the village of the baths of Mount Dore, situated at the base of the mountain of Angle, will find that between the mountains the little streams of Dore and Dogne unites, and take the name of the river Dordogne. In looking at the course of this new-born River, he will see to the left of the mountain of Ecorchade, thus named for its ruggedness and its deep ravines. This mountain crumbles away each day under the powerful hand of time, and its volcanic wrecks move the valley with strange sounds, which the echo takes up and wafts to the most distant spots. On the other side of the valley, to the right of the mountain, and in front of Ecorchade, is another mountain, the round top of which is covered with verdure and with wood. Its base is formed of basaltic columns of black, white, and gray rocks of different shapes and sizes, which stand there like a troop of phantoms. Near the base, and in one of the fissures of this mass of rocks, piled up by some giant hand, there was, about twenty-five years ago, a little house, constructed, one might imagine, by the spirit of the mountain, to serve as a refuge for travellers when the furious children of the tempest were unchained. Hidden by the abrupt flanks of the mountain, and masked in the spring and summer by the dense foliage of trees centuries old, this retreat suddenly became visible to mortal eye. But the chief interest attached to it is, that for twelve years it was inhabited by a high-bred lady, who chose this secluded spot, and placed herself, one might say, on the first step of this gigantic ladder, which seemed by degrees to draw her nearer to heaven, and away from the vain pursuits of earth. She came unattended, carrying in her arms an infant several months old. This child, her son, was the object of her most tender care, and was the only thing that was to endear her to this savage solitude. From whence came this person, who was she, and what were her resources for living? No one knew. Her real name even was to remain a mystery for all, even for those eager and pitiless people who are always ready to unravel the causes of secret sorrow, and who rejoice when they can see tears and suffering. Such people are like a species of wasp that only approach to sting you most cruelly. The people of the valley had on many occasions tried to stop this young woman and capture her confidence by testimonials of friendship and feigned sensibility, but they had seen their insidious advances repulsed with such coldness that, deceived and disappointed, they were obliged to put an end to their efforts. Finally, when all curiosity had subsided and given place to the most complete indifference, they learned in some way that she called herself Madame Dormeuil, and her little boy Robert. There was one person, however, who had received the intimate confidence of Madame Dormeuil, and that was the curé of the village, and from time to time he was seen directing his steps toward the solitary abode, where more than one indiscreet eye had wished to penetrate. At the time this story opens it is [{642}] night, one of those glorious nights of the month of May, nights full of sweet mysteries and soft perfumes, nights the nightingale resounds in harmonious cadences. It is the hour of silence and repose for humanity; but still a dim light shone through one of the windows of this isolated house. As the hours of the night advanced, when all nature slept, even the smallest insect under the humid leaves of the rose, hard necessity constrained even the inmates of this house to sleep, but alas! It proved a funeral awakening. The tender mother, who, during the infancy of her child, had tasted in this modest asylum moments of happiness, pure and chaste, such as our only given to maternal love, closed her eyes, and breathed out her last sigh, with no one here but her little son. In vain he calls his dear mother, her voice can reply to him no more. Poor child! what will become of him? for he has no one in the wide world to love and protect him; and in the bitterness of his grief he sobs and cries, "Dead! dead! I have no mother now!" and takes her hand, but it is cold and stiff, and no longer sensible to the soft pressure of his. The unaccustomed silence of those lips, that never parted but to speak tenderly to him, is more than he can bear, but suddenly his face recovers its habitual serenity, and a smile lights up his pallid cheeks. What means this sudden change, this almost instantaneous forgetfulness of sorrow, which drives in an instant the tears of love? But do not blame him; it is not forgetfulness, but remembrance—the remembrance of his mother's last words—her last adieu, her last sublime expression of a love which cannot be extinguished, even by the cold shadow of death, for it re-lives in heaven. "My child," said his mother to him on that day, "I have loved you much, but I must leave you. I am going to live with the angels, but I will watch over you. Be wise, honest, laborious; love God with all your heart, and others as yourself, and he will bless you. Do not grieve for my loss, for I will still be useful to you in heaven. I will pray there for you. Take courage, and always remember, when you are in trouble, to raise your thoughts to the eternal throne, and consolation will not be denied you." These were the words which Robert remember, and which stopped so suddenly the violence of his grief. This was why he almost thought his mother was not dead; this was why he felt no fear, though alone; with these sweet thoughts forever present, he fancied her eyes would reopen and smile upon him. He knelt in prayed with fervor, seeming to solicit some special manifestation, and his attitude told that he mentally invoked of his mother and the Protector of children what he knew to be good for them; and his prayer, no doubt, was favorably received, for it his imagination he saw the home of the saints. "My mother!" cried the child, transported with joy, "is it thee? Oh! speak, I pray thee, speak to thy Robert!" But the celestial vision faded, and he saw nothing but the thousands of little globes of light, the sparkling fire of which dazzled his eyes. Thus maternal influence, even from the tomb, comes as a gentle authority to this pious orphan. We will see him in each important event, and in each critical phase of his life invoking this mysterious and beneficent power that presides over him from heaven, in the presence of his mother. It is already under the generous impulse of this belief that he is consoled and strengthens, and returns to the funeral chamber, and calls again upon prayer and reflection.
Robert had never played with children. Always with his mother, whom he passionately loved, and who conversed with him as she would have done with an older person, he had acquired a seriousness of conversation and a precocity of judgment which made him, though still a child in years, almost a man in his intelligence and good sense. Child of solitude, wild flower of the mountain, he was [{643}] entirely ignorant of the habits of cities and of society, but he possessed an instinct which took the place of large experience in human nature. He was what God had made him, good and generous, loving the beautiful with the fervent adoration which characterizes great souls, and feeling a deep repugnance for even the appearance of evil. These inestimable gifts God in his wisdom has seen fit to endow to certain souls.
Robert was not more than twelve years of age, but he could read and write well. Possessed of a good memory, he had retained the many recitations made him by his mother in geography and sacred and profane history. His course of reading had not been extensive, for his mother had but few books; but she had been to him the living book from which he had gained all he knew, and which developed the qualities of the heart and Christian virtues which, later in life, shone so brilliantly in him. Robert was often absorbed in thinking over his past life, so rich in delicious memories. He remembered that his mother had spoken to him of Paris with an emotion which betrayed itself in her trembling voice. She was born there, she had told him, and had passed a part of her youth there. He remembered perfectly that, each time his mother referred to the subject, she exercised upon him a charm which entirely captivated his attention. If by her glowing descriptions of Madame Dormeuil had any intention of exciting in her son the wish to go to that city, she completely succeeded, for, notwithstanding his tender years, the words of his mother had filled him with an ardent desire to see the place predestined to be the most beautiful and most wonderful city ever built by the hands of man. This desire taking hold of him, he naturally thinks of the means of satisfying it, if the unfortunate circumstances in which he finds himself will forget. Moved by the strong wish, which was not weekend when obstacles presented themselves, Robert tried to get things ready to start. Opening a closet where he had often seen his mother put things she intended for him, the first object that met his eyes was a package, tied, and bearing this inscription, "For my son when he is twenty-one years of age." Under this was another paper, folded double, but not tied. He opened this, looking at the words which were written at the top: "My last requests." "When I shall be no more, my son," said Madame Dormeuil (and unfortunately the hour of death approaches very near) "quit this mountain where thou hast been a happy child, and go to Paris, where thou wast born. God and my love will conduct thee there, but constantly place thyself under his protection. Work; make thyself beloved, by thy sweetness and perseverance and good conduct. A voice within said to me one day, that happiness crowned all virtuous efforts, and this prediction of my heart will be realized, and thy mother will rejoice in heaven when she sees it descend on thee. Thou wilt find in a purse some crown pieces; it is all that I possess. Start soon, walk the short roads, have courage. Avoid bad children, seek the old and the wise. Pray to God fervently, and he will never abandon the good who walk in his presence and keep in their hearts the counsels of a mother. Adieu, my child, my dear and much loved Robert I will meet you in a better world than that in which I leave you, my poor little one, and then we will never part again."
Robert covered with kisses and with tears the words traced by the failing hand of his mother; then, when he was a little calmed, it made him happy to know that she had conceived a plan which was precisely the same he had thought of, and that she was solicitous for him to go. The rest of the night passed slowly enough to the young orphan. At daybreak he came down from the mountain and knocked at the door of the rectory. The virtuous and worthy curé, who preached to the inhabitants of the village of Bains, received him with the utmost kindness, for he had known him long and well, and had already initiated him into the [{644}] mysteries of our divine religion, and from his pure and touching morals he had been led to give him his first communion. When he saw the poor child in such distress he could scarcely utter a word, so much did he feel for his bleeding heart, either could he ask him the questions he knew he ought relative to his leaving the isolated place in which he had lived, nor could Robert have answered them so full was he of emotion; but he said to him in a paternal tone and full of interest: "Let us see, my child, what is to be done with your effects. Don't you think that you should leave the place, now that you are alone? What do you intend to do? Have you formed any project? If you have confidence in me, tell me your ideas, speak to me openly, and all that I can possibly do for you I will with pleasure I have no occupation but to do good to others, to console them in their sorrows, and take them by the hand with a need assistance." "Thank you, good curé," replied Robert, with sweetness and respect. "I desire to obey the wishes of my mother, who tells me to go to Paris. See what she says to me—this dear, good mother—before she dies," holding to him with the trembling hand the precious paper containing the interpretation of his mothers wishes. He then said: "Is it not a sacred duty I owe my mother, that of accomplishing her last request?" "Yes, my dear child, but you are very young to make so long a journey on foot to Paris. Do you know any one there?" "No, sir; but my mother said I must go, and no matter how I get there I must do it." "Your resolution is praiseworthy my child, yet it seems to me that you should reflect a little, before undertaking what seems so much for you. But if you really must attempt it, I will give you a letter to a friend of mine, who is now curé of the Church of Saint-Germain l'Auxerrois. This recommendation, I hope, will be of great assistance to you, for my friend is a man of rare virtues and inexhaustible charity Place your cell under his protection, and I do not doubt but you will soon be out of embarrassment. I think you should sell your furniture, the proceeds would in large your funds very much. But, my child, your extreme youth frightens me. I am afraid you will never get to Paris." "Oh! be tranquil, good father. I trust so much to God as my guide that I know I shall arrived without accident, and with but little fatigue." "Go, my child, I have no longer any objection; and since you desire it so much, I will do all I can to facilitate your project. While I am gone refresh yourself; take something to eat, it will strengthen your body, which cannot but be feeble under the sufferings of your soul. Do you hear, my child? I want you to take some nourishment, if it is only a little you will feel better after it. I will return directly," and, looking kindly at him, the venerable curé went out, to see which of his parishioners would purchase the furniture belonging to the orphan.
CHAPTER II.
"Still an hour of suffering,
Still a sad farewell".
. . . . .
THE FAREWELL.
The curé was a all time absent, and when he return had no good news for Robert; his errand had been ineffectual. "My child," said he, "my wishes for disposing of your furniture have been in vain, but do not be discouraged. Let us go and pay the last mark of respect to your mother, and then we will speak of other things." Robert followed him, and on the way told him of the package of papers he had found in the closet, the contents of which he was not to know until he had attained his majority.
"I advise you, my child, to leave me the package to take care of. If you should lose it, it would be an irreplaceable loss, and might be attended with [{645}] serious results. You need fear no accident on my part, for, if God should call me to him, before we meet again, I will put it in safe hands; for instance, if it please you, to the Notary of Besse, a small town about two leagues from here. It might be a long time before you would return, but the grave of your mother will draw you here, and I know you are too good a son to forget it. I am sure, then, of seeing you sometimes if God wills it, for it is the Supreme Arbiter who decides the length of our days." They had come by this time to the house, the door of which was opened by a woman who had been sent there by the curé to "lay" out the mother of the poor orphan. Her body was then enclosed in the coffin, and the cortége took the way which led to the churchyard, where rest at last the king and his subjects, the rich and the poor. Oh! what courage it requires to bear up under the sorrows of this last sad walk, above all when the earth receives the remains of a cherished mother. How each sound that fell on the coffin bruised this poor child's heart! And were it not for the consoling hope, the firm belief, that his mother was in heaven, his life would be one of despair; but he believed what she told him before she died, that she would rest on the bosom of God, and that she would watch over him with the same love and the same solicitude of which she had given him so many proofs during her life. He was the last to leave this new grave, which hid from his sight forever the only being he ever loved, and which was watered with filial tears. "Oh!" he exclaimed, "if I can only put a stone over my good mother, it will be a consolation to know, when I visit the spot where I leave my heart, that it is marked by the love of a son." Full of this idea he revealed it afterward to the good curé, who took an interest in it, and listened, with tears in his eyes, while the child cultures the cost of a simple so. "But, my child," he said sadly, "all simple as it may be, it will still be too dear for your feeble resources. Wait for executing this pious wish until you have more to spare. I cannot promise you that it will be a new one, but I will place a wooden cross on your mother's grave." Robert, although saddened at the non-success of his project, felt the wisdom of the advice which was given him. He resigned it for the present, hoping that a more prosperous time would come, when miserable pecuniary considerations need not stop him in the accomplishment of what he felt was a filial duty. Then after having thanked the pastor, and told him how grateful he was to him for his paternal care and loving advice, he asked his permission to pass another night in the house where he first remembered the light of day. "Go, my child," said the curé, moved by his touching resolution, "go if you feel strong enough: solitude raises the soul and purifies its approach to the Creator. Sometimes remember the consoling words of our divine Saviour, 'Blessed are they who mourn, for they shall be comforted.' It is time for you to go. May God in the silence of your solitary night visit your desolate soul, and with his paternal hand wipe away your tears. To-morrow morning I will see you, and we will arrange about your affairs."
The courageous child, for he was courageous to put himself face to face with so many dear remembrances, wished to visit once more the haunts of his infant joys, where his mother had guided his tottering steps, and, later, where she had explained to him the wonders of nature in the presence of these wonders. Yes, he wished to see them all again, and engrave them in an ineffaceable manner upon his memory. They were all dear to his heart, all filled with thoughts of his mother, and the most tender caresses had been exchanged there between them. He recalled the dreams of those days when his head rested on his mother's bosom, and he felt himself [{646}] bathed in love and happiness; he recalled the charm of that intercourse, when two hearts are bound in sweetest sympathy; and it was for this purpose that he wandered over the mountain, stopping at each loved spot, until he reached the highest plateau. There he sat down, but not before looking around him, for, for the first time in his life, he felt a little timid and frightened. The magic beauty of his surroundings was not new, he had seen it all often before, had contemplated it a thousand times, but a sort of unquiet terror seizes him, and betrays itself in tears. It seems but a day since he bounded and frolicked gayly in the same places, under the eye of his mother, and now what a strange and sorrowful change! He is alone; his strength and courage all gone. He seems so small and insignificant by the side of these masses of rocks, so gigantic and imposing, which look at him as though they would crush him. Little by little he becomes reassured; he thinks he hears above him chords of infinite sweetness; these ravishing sounds seem to come from the sky; it is a choir of angels, who chant the notes of some sweet melody. The child is transported with delight: he listens; his soul is strengthened, he is not deceived. From among those harmonious voices he discovers one well known to him, the sound of which makes him happy. He knows it is his mother's, and she calls tenderly to him: "Robert, what do you believe? am I not always with you? Look, my child, and admire this grand picture, radiant with waves of gold and purple from the declining sun. Look in wonder at what God has done for you." These words transformed Robert. He is transported with a new emotion, and, prostrating himself on his knees, cries, "O God! O God! how wonderful art thou, how grand are thy works!" After he had satisfied his soul with the enchanting scene, he went to all the spots where he had sat with his mother, and gave them each a long and sorrowful look, and then bade farewell to them. "Farewell, dear mountain, farewell beautiful valley. I gaze at you perhaps for the last time. And, shady wood, where I have so often slept, watched by my tender mother, you who have protected me from the two great heat of the sun, farewell also. I must leave you now, and I know not if I shall ever gaze upon your glories again. I would I could pass my life in your deep shades, and hear you whisper unceasingly the cherished name of my mother. But it cannot be; and now farewell. And thou, beautiful and fertile Limagne, that I see shining in the distance, I salute thee, and will soon traverse light green fields. Be hospitable to the poor little orphan, and made by smiling aspect and fresh verdure be a happy presage for me." He stood some moments silent and immovable, lost in regrets, and then returned to the house. During the night involuntary fear filled his mind. When the rays of the moon penetrated his chamber and the stars shed their soft light, he felt revived, and waited for the vision of the preceding night, but it came not, and his lips quivered, and at last sleep came to close his eyelids and repair the strength of his body and mind. The next day the curé found him somewhat consoled, at least more calm than before he slept. Together they made an inventory of his modest furniture, which was worth about fifty pounds. In one of the drawers they found a small medallion containing the portrait of a gentleman. The face was handsome and expressive, though a little hard. It was easy to see that it was a person of high rank; and if the good curé had been less preoccupied and had examined closely the face, he would, perhaps, have been struck by the resemblance which existed between the features of the child and those of the miniature. He would have concluded beyond doubt that it was his father. But he simply handed it to Robert, saying almost mechanically, "It is necessary to preserve this with care." The [{647}] examination being concluded, he said to him: "My child, I have not found any purchasers for this furniture, and may not for some time. I will give you, however, what I suppose to be its value, and if I should get more for it shall be glad to remit it to you; by thus doing I will have time to look about, and can, perhaps, dispose of it two more advantage." The poor child knew not how to reply to this kindness, but he said, "All that you have done is right, my dear father, you are too good to take so much trouble for me, and I thank you with all my heart." Again the curé closed the door and took Robert's hand. He burst into sobs at the idea of being separated from all which reminded him of his mother, but he baked him to have courage. "Courage, my child. I know you suffer in leaving a spot sacred to your mother's memory; it is but a natural feeling but you cannot stay. Leave all to my care, accomplish the wish of your mother, go to Paris, and if the blessing of an old man, a blessing which calls down that of God, can inspire you with resolution and confidence in the future, I give you mine, and made it make you happy." In saying these words he had laid his hands on the head of the child, who was kneeling before him.
Robert past several days with the kind father, where he gained strength and courage; and one morning at sunrise, with a small bundle of his shoulder and a stick in his hand, set out, accompanied by the good curé, who had wished to render less painful by his presence the first steps of this sad journey. He had sent a letter to his friend the curé in Paris, in which he enclosed the fifty pounds, not thinking it prudent that Robert should carry it with him. A half league from the village, on the route to Claremont, the excellent man embraced the child, pointed to heaven, and bade him farewell!
CHAPTER III.
"We may know by a child's actions
If his motives are pure and right."
Proverbs.
As long as it was possible, Robert followed, with burning eyes, the charitable man who had comforted him in his severe affliction. Several times he turned to see if the mountain had yet disappeared, on which he had passed so many happy days. At last the charm was broken, it was no longer visible, and tears chased each other down his checks, but he walked on quickly, saying, "My mother wishes it." His mind was so occupied that he walked on without looking at the road which ran ahead of his thoughts and his regrets, until, involuntarily raising his eyes to the scene before him, he stops in the extremity of his surprise; his eyes refuse to believe their evidence; they wander from object to object without knowing why, without being able to explain the mystery which plunges him into a sort of stupor, and he believes himself under the dominion of a feverish and fantastic dream. He raises his hand to see if he is asleep, but he is wide awake, and laughs at his simplicity. It is easy for us to understand this. He recognizes no longer men, things, or even nature. All that he left behind him was different from what was before and around him. He was in a new world, on strange ground, and everything which was presented to his sight caused him an undefinable sensation. Was there not enough to surprise him? These large fields, these plains of vendure, these yellow harvests, were to him a new spectacle, strange, singular, sometimes even monotonous to the eye of a little mountaineer, habituated to the fantastic forms of the rock and the sombre and imposing verdure of the woods which covered the sides of his native mountain. Where are the great heaps of volcanic rocks among which he had been reared and which were so familiar to his eyes? All had [{648}] disappeared, and it seemed to him that, without transition he had passed from severe and grand nature to simple and gay, rich with flowers and fruits and corn white and golden. It was the contrast which frightened him, and made him think he had been transported by some invisible hand a thousand leagues from his home. Like a bird slightly wounded which flies to the parent nest and seeks shelter under the warm wings of its mother, so Robert, restless and inquiet, longs for the maternal arms in which he can hide his fears. He feels his loneliness; the road seems longer at every step, and he cannot see the end of it. He invokes through his mother the blessing of God, and his fears are dissipated, and strength and hope are given him to hasten on. With the versatility which is the happy accompaniment of childhood, he put a sweet security in place of the most foolish fears. And now he was brave again. This transition of sentiment, this quick changing of the most lively sorrow into a kind of gayety, is natural to youth. They have extremes of joy and sorrow, and, without being prepared for either, we see them pass suddenly from one to the other. Happy, happy childhood! Robert was now full of a new sentiment, and the birds fluttered round him and sang their merriest songs; the long, low murmur of the insects was delightful to his ears. Why should he be sad when all nature was so joyous? A universal hymn of gratitude and love is being sung by all that exist, by everything that breathes, in honor of our divine Creator; and, no matter how many the sorrows and desolations of man, calmness comes to his heart, in the sweet perfume of joy, the suave harmony and gracious gayety that fill all nature under the life-giving influence of a beautiful summer morning. As we are all, sooner or later, initiated into the sufferings of life, we must feel for others and pour what balm we can into every wounded heart. Robert walked on until he came to an inn where he asked to pass the night. His fresh, open face, his gentleness, and the title of Orphan, gained for him the heart and good graces of his hostess. She asked him whither he was going and if he wished to go. He told her, and that it was his mother's wish, and, of course, if hers, his, that he should go to Paris. The next morning he started off, overwhelmed with the caresses of this woman, for she was a mother, and felt a tear moisten her cheek, as she saw this little boy take up his bundle and resolutely pursue his way, and she prayed God to take care of him. Robert felt his mother's loss hourly when fatigue weakened his limbs and hunger made him cry, but he saw her with the eyes of faith in heaven. Yes; believe me, dear little children who have lost your mothers! turn to heaven, and there you will see them looking at you with eyes of love, and saying to you: "Be good, my darlings, and when you are asleep I will visit you, and kiss your pure and innocent foreheads." Yes; look to heaven, and I promise you you will see your mothers there, if you are good. It was this which recalled to Robert's heart each day the remembrance of his mother and filled his eyes with tears. It carried also to his heart a secret encouragement and gave him strength.
As he walked on he left behind him Clermont, Rion, Aigueperse, and Grannot. Some leagues before this he had bid good-by to the beautiful district of Limagne, which had charmed him by its sea of verdure, it's deep golden foliage, and its rich and fertile plains. This was the first canton of France which was considered worthy of a particular description, and it was of this part of l'Auvergne that Apollo Lidoine said: "It is so beautiful that strangers who go there cannot leave it, and there have even then instances of persons forgetting their own country when there." It was of this country, so favored by heaven, that King Childebert said, "that before dying he desired but one [{649}] thing, and that was to see beautiful Limagne d'Auvergne, which is the masterpiece of nature, and a scene of enchantment." We cannot say that Robert shared in their opinion, but it is certain that he passed it with regret, although he was drawn by so strange of feeling toward Paris, the object of his hope and his ambition. He walked to St. Pourçain, Moulins, and all the small places, and rested a day when overfatigued. Great was his delight when he reached Fontainebleau, which royal residence had witnessed the first abdication of the emperor. All was still in motion at this place, and more than one old soldier twisted his mustache, and with a fierce and martial air walked on the edge of this great forest, weeping for the liberty of his emperor, his god, his idol. It was with delight that our young hero, the child of the woods and solitude, sought the fresh shades, which recalled to him, by a striking similarity, his cherished mountain home; and the immense piles of irregular rocks attested that this place, too, had been the theatre of some great convulsion of nature. At mid-day, when the sun sheds his fiercest rays, when the tired flowers lean on their stems, when the birds hide under the leaves, when all nature seeks repose, the better to enjoy the freshness of the evening, Robert, too, followed the example, and lay down and slept at the foot of a huge chestnut-tree many centuries old; the vast shade of which form and impenetrable cover from the heat of the sun. He awoke refreshed, rose, and ventured into one of the long alleys or walks to which a sign conducted him. For several hours he wandered about lost in this tangled maze and looking in vain for an opening. But he was a patient child, and obstacles did not stop him, neither was he discouraged by his unfruitful efforts; on the contrary, he redoubled his ardor, and finally reached a clear space, in the center of which was a fountain ordered by rose-beds. Four paths diverged from it, and of such great length were they that it fatigued the eye to look at them. In exploring in turn each of these paths, Robert found in one of them a sign pointing out to strangers the various labyrinths of the forest. He had nothing else for a guide, but thought if he could only find his way to the palace again, there must be some one there who could tell him how to go; so he followed the path which he thought might be right, and it was, and led him into the avenue which wound round by the palace. When he got right in front of the principal and only truly royal edifice of France, or rather of Napoleon, he stopped and wondered at the vast aspect of this assemblage of buildings, producing an effect at once imposing and majestic. Nothing like this had ever entered his imagination, and the most lively astonishment shone on his face, and his eyes burned with the fire of intelligence and pleasure. A few steps from him was an old soldier who was entirely absorbed in contemplating the building, and who looked worn and sad. He, too, was in a sort of ecstasy, but he gazed in silence and seemed lost to all around him. His expression was of one in anguish, and his eyes rested with a strange fixedness upon the steps of honor. He waits and watches as if hoping to see some one whom he ardently loves appear; but his hope is deceived, and two tears trickle slowly down his dark cheeks, scarred and burned by the fires of a hundred battles. At this moment when marks of supreme sorrow told so eloquently of his sufferings, Robert turned, and seeing his tears he was deeply moved at this testimony of profound sorrow, and, eagerly approaching the soldier, said to him in a touching voice: "Why do you cry, sir? Have yon also lost your mother? I fear you have." Robert had never wept but for one sorrow, and that we all know, and in happy ignorance of the other misfortunes of life he thought all wept [{650}] for the same thing; and in his great loss he looked to older persons to console him, which proved how tender, delicate, and generous are the sentiments that live in the hearts of children. Their young souls are mirrors have to which we should only give pure, chaste, and pious images to reflect and show them good examples, that without effort vice might be crushed out, and the world left an Eden of purity.
Hearing so touchingly compassionate a voice, the old soldier turned and looked at the child, while tears glistened in his eyes. "No," said he in a coarse tone, "it is not for my mother that I weep, it is for my emperor." "And who is it that is your emperor?" "Alas! I have no father, and have just lost my mother," he said sighing. "Was your emperor good, and did you love him so much that you weep or him? I shall never forget my mother, she was so sweet and good to her little son. But tell me, sir, tell me of your emperor. My mother said I should always love those who were good, and I want to love him too." The old fellow twisted his mustache, and growled some words between his teeth, looking alternately at the palace and the child, who smiled at him with an expression so gentle that it moved the soldier's heart. You could see he was the victim of an emotion he vainly sought to conceal. "Wonderful!" cried he, vanquished by the magical eyes of Robert. "You are a good child, and speak to my heart when you tell me that you love my emperor. But who does not love him, except those cowards! those scoundrels! those traitors! But stop, I have said enough." He saw that Robert was a little frightened, for his ears had only been accustomed to the caressing voice of his mother. "Do you see that staircase? My emperor descended by it to embrace the eagles of his flag, the victorious eagles which have made him immortal, and which led his way to glory. Yes, the embraced them, and wept because he could not embrace all his old soldiers had not betrayed him and would have followed him to the end of the world. And some of his old guard still live. Oh! if they had only sent me with him into the loan island of his misfortunes, if I could be with him there, I should be content. But since I cannot, I must go to Paris and see what is doing there. See, my child, you are going there too, and I believe you said you had neither father nor mother. Have you any relatives?" "No," said Robert. "Why, then, are you going to Paris if you have no friends there?" "My mother said I must go, and I'm going." "I don't wish to be too curious, but tell me from whence you come?" "From the village of Mount Dore, eight leagues from Clermont." "Pretty walk for such little legs, I think; but as we are both going to Paris, and you have no father or mother to protect you, and I and a poor old soldier, I will take care of you, for you have moved my heart by your gentle words, and we will travel together, so that the walk will be shorter for both." "Oh! how delightful," said Robert; "and then you can tell me about your emperor. I know I can walk fast enough in hearing you talk about one whom you love so much." "Yes, my boy," he replied, "I could speak forever of my emperor; but it must be when we are alone, for his glorious name, which once made kings and conscripts alike tremble, is now called usurper, and is forbidden to be pronounced. A thousand thunders! the thought enrages me; and if I had his traitorous subjects I would strangle them, or my name is not Cyprien Hardy." This conversation was held with furious gestures on the one side and great astonishment on the other, until they came to the modest inn where Robert had left his bundle. The child in his new friend, the old soldier, who justified the name, made a frugal repast, and continue [{651}] their journey. On the way Robert related the history of the twelve years he had passed on his cherished mountain with his beloved mother, which simple recital gained him the lasting friendship of his companion, whom Robert looked upon as a friend provided for him by that kind Providence who watches over orphans. He bore the fatigue of the journey well, and was in perfect health when they reached that magnificent chaos called Paris. The old soldier is, then, the second friend that God has given our little hero. And how strange it was that these two were isolated beings should meet in such a place, before the grand palace of kings—the one a man of resolute energy, who carried on his bold forehead great scars of glory, but who shed tears of despair at the fall of his well-beloved chief, in whom he had found parents, country, family; the other a charming youth, representing brilliant promises for the future, young, beautiful, and full of ambition. Cyprien Hardy was one of those true French hearts to whom the name of patriot was not a vain word. He was moved like many others when dangers threatened the republic and the when powerful allies audaciously invaded its territory. He was one of the first to take up arms, having entered the army as a volunteer at twenty-one. Some years later he served in the first regiment of the soldiers of the guard, after having made the memorable campaigns of Italy, Egypt, and Germany, always following the "Little Corporal," always the first in battle, and always respected. Dangers made him smile; his courage was inexhaustible. One thing alone could move him, and that was the voice of his chief. This electrified him, and made him forget all but noble actions. He had always loved Napoleon, and this affection increased with the fortunes of the great man whose word or look transformed soldiers into heroes. It was in the forts of Moscow that his emperor had given him the "Cross of Honor," for a wound which he received from a cannon ball while waving his flag. In this disastrous retreat the brave soldier, dying with cold, fatigue, and hunger, preserved his heroic exaltation and his confidence in and love for his emperor; and if he ever grumbled, it was only because he could not kill every Cossack that he laid his eyes upon. His courage and energy never diminished, and he believed so implicitly in his emperor that he thought good fortune must return. But it had gone forever. His heart revolted at the thought; and he swore that the author of this infamous treason should repent, and this was why he was going to Paris to see if he could find any of his old companions.
TO BE CONTINUED.