ROBERT; OR, THE INFLUENCE OF A GOOD MOTHER.
CHAPTER IV.
"O Paris! gulf of evils, on each of thy stones we could drop a tear, red with blood, if the sorrows, which thy walls enclose, could appear before us."—J.J. ROUSSEAU.
The city of innumerable wonders, of shining domes, and colossal towers, with its enchanting gardens, palaces, and gigantic monuments, which one sees in the distance—the first glimpse he gets of Paris through the blue haze—now appeared to the astonished gaze of the little mountaineer, and was like a dream of the Arabian Nights. "O Paris! Paris!" shouted he joyously, clapping his hands, and looking eagerly through the misty veil that still enveloped the city. And, as he approached nearer, his emotions redoubled; for it was there that his mother predicted he would one day be happy. Oh! sweet security, blissful trust of childhood, why must it pass away with advancing years? Why is it that devouring inquietude and mental restlessness then comes to our souls, and tortures them without ceasing? It is a sad condition of our probation here, that we must see all the bright delusions of early life disappear one by one; and submit unmurmuringly to the different phases of life and the different ideas and feelings to which time leads us all. And so it may perhaps be for little Robert, who now trusts so confidently in the future, and in his mother's prediction being fulfilled. Have confidence, like him, dear readers—like him hope, without trying to draw aside the veil which hides your destiny—but follow him, step by step, in all the changing events of his life, and perhaps we shall see him fill an enviable position, as the fruit of his good conduct and perseverance. And since he is now radiant with hope, let us not efface, by our indiscreet words, this vision which sustains and comforts all.
As the travellers neared Paris, the old man's forehead wrinkled, his brows contracted each moment, and flashes of rage burst from his eyes. The sight of the hordes of the enemy's soldiers who had established their bivouacs before the capital, put him in a transport of fury.
The detested uniforms of the English, Austrians, Russians, and Prussians which he saw before him, made him think he was the victim of some dreadful hallucination, but the insolent air of the conquerors awakened him to the frightful reality that the emperor could no longer expel them. In his terrible rage he beat his breast with his fists, swore, and uttered words that sounded like distant thunder, gnashing his teeth at the same time most [{825}] convulsively. Then he walked on with a resolute and hasty step, so that Robert was obliged to run, rather than walk, at his side to keep up with him. He was very taciturn, but the boy at once comprehended the reason of his stubborn silence, and he respected the holy indignation of the old warrior, wounded, in his national pride and his deepest feelings, when he saw all his dreams of glory vanish with the shadow of the great man who had made the fame and splendor of all France. To the ex-soldier of the guard there was nothing left but cruel discontent. In Paris there was militia of all ranks and grades and countries; but there were no brave leaders, the old soldiers thought, and most of them were young men who had yet to see the field of battle. The white stripes had replaced the three colors, which disappeared with the glorious exile, Napoleon. The despair of poor Cyprien was as great as his love for his emperor, and nothing could soften his rage, so violent was the hatred he felt for the new order of things.
Robert was much excited by the strange and picturesque spectacles which presented themselves to his view on every side—by the gay costumes of' the people, and the movements of this ocean of of human beings, but he did not address many questions to his sad companion, for he loved him already, and saw the deep sorrow that filled his soul, and it made him timid and reserved.
It was now time to think of getting lodgings, and Cyprien wanted to go into the most modest quarter of the city, where he was born, and for which naturally he had the strongest affection. But in the twenty-five years that he had been a wanderer, vast changes had taken place, and most of his family had gone to rest. He found himself alone, separated for ever from his old comrades of glory; but of this he thought little, so completely was his heart filled with the adored image of his emperor. The most extraordinary thing was that amidst his grave thoughts he had found a place for the little orphan, whom chance had thrown in his way, and for whom he evinced the strongest attachment, which grew day by day, for Cyprien did nothing by halves; and when he could for a moment forget his emperor, it was to bestow almost paternal care upon his young protégé. One day, when they had been having a long talk, and he had said things which charmed the sensible and loving boy, he asked him to take him to the Church of St. Germain l'Auxerrois, for it was there that he was to find the curé to whom his letter was addressed. "Willingly," replied Cyprien, "I will take you there; but I cannot go in, it has been so long since I have made a visit of that kind, that I don't care to go, but I will wait for you." Robert presented himself alone at the door of the curé's house, and was received by him with grace and a touching cordiality. He was a man of fine address, with eyes that seemed to penetrate the depths of one's soul, but his scrutiny was accomplished by a smile so beneficent, that it drew you irresistibly toward the minister of' God. The virtues he had practised appeared in his person, his language was full of purity and goodness, and he appeared ever ready to pardon and bless. Such, in general terms, was the man to whom Robert was recommended. When he had read his friend's letter, he made the child sit down and tell him all about his journey and the manner in which he acquitted himself charmed the good curé, and his lively and intelligent face set him to reflecting. The purity of his eyes showed a generous and noble soul, and the good man knew that he was one of those natures that always remain pure, in the midst of corruption. These exiled angels have often sorrowful lives, before they reach the glorious end. Deprived of pecuniary means, they see the paths to fame closed for them, while it is open for the rich, and made wide and easy of access.
The good curé, after making these observations mentally, recalled the illustrious men who have illumined the earth from time to time with the rays of their genius, and the traces of whose lives are still visible; but the road to fame has, alas! been sown for centuries with bitter tears, unknown sufferings, and cries of the despair of unrecognized genius. He recalled faces radiant with sublime thoughts, crowned with thorns, the only recompense of their work, and he said with agony, "O God! if this child should ever be one of the victims, if he should ever weep over lost hopes, would it not be better to leave him as he is, simple and natural, ignorant of the delights of a studious life; ignorant of knowledge, than to be initiated into the cruel deceptions of hope long deferred, and which may be finally lost? How often, like a beautiful dream, youth, glory, and mind fade away in the awful struggle. But no," said he, fixing his eyes on the expressive face of Robert, "his future will not be so sad. Too much intelligence burns in his eyes, too much fire is lighted there, to be extinguished by the wearying labors of mind, or by hunger and frightful misery. If this diamond in the rough shows so much brilliancy, what will it not be when it is polished? Then will all its marvellous lustre appear, and I will have the holy joy of aiding to perfect this work." These were his reflections, and so had it always been with him; from the moment he was ordained to his saintly ministry, he was always looking for the means of doing good to others; and was a beautiful religious type of charity and goodness. It was so great a happiness to him to make others happy, that he looked upon his days as badly spent if he had not dried a tear, or given another joy; and his doing good was so sweet a duty, that he passed his days and nights in consoling the unfortunate. But for children especially was he most tenderly solicitous, He said with one who was all love and charity when among men, "Let little children come unto me." Like his divine Master, he drew them to him and pressed them to his heart, his hands rested on their young heads, and he called down upon them celestial benedictions. But he did not stop here. He gave them not only his prayers, but aid and protection. When his purse was exhausted, and his personal resources no longer sufficed, he had recourse to that of others. He was eloquent and persuasive when he pleaded the cause of children, and happy in receiving the offerings which were always deposited in his charitable hands. Thus he was the father of a large family, the benefactor of many children, who, becoming men, repaid his care by unlimited gratitude and irreproachable conduct, and by the constant practice of the virtues of which he had given them so noble an example. Robert found in him a tender and devoted protector, who was interested for him, and in whose future friendship he might trust. The day when this action was registered in heaven, the good man felt a happiness he had never known before in adopting before God the orphan that his friend, the curé of the village of Bains, had recommended to him in such warm terms. The vow which he made himself to protect him, was not like those men usually make, and forget as soon as made.
During the interview between the child and the curé, the old soldier was walking up and down outside, absorbed in reflections of quite an opposite nature. Sometimes hope colored his thoughts; oftener they were sombre and cold, like the clouds of the region to which memory transported him, to the fatal soil of Russia, where victory had abandoned the French flag. An hour was passed by him in recalling these days of sorrow, but at last he grew tired of waiting, and jerked at the bell string, which hung so modestly at the curé's door, most violently. In an instant a servant appeared with harsh words on the end of her tongue, but the severe face and long moustache of Cyprien induced her to withhold from speaking them. Scarcely was the door opened, when a voice, almost of thunder, [{827}] inquired for Robert. Hearing it, the curé opened the parlor door, and advancing toward the soldier, with an affable air, invited him in, saying, "I will be very glad to talk with you. You were, I suppose, uneasy about your little friend, whom I have detained a long time, I know, but it is not time lost; we have become acquainted and are now old friends, and you have a share of the affection I have avowed for this interesting child. You have a noble heart, and the Lord will bless you, my friend, you may be sure of that, for in the midst of your own sufferings you have had compassion on those of others, and above all you have protected an orphan!" The soldier was stunned by this benevolent speech; he, raised his hand mechanically to his forehead, following the curé and muttering the words "Pardon—excuse—do not pay any attention to me." Robert had not dared to move, but when Cyprien came near him, he threw himself into his arms. "There—that will do," said he to him—"pay attention, the curé speaks." "Why did you not come in with Robert? You have denied me the pleasure I should have had in talking with I a brave soldier. Our protégé has spoken of you in most affectionate terms, but he did not tell me you were waiting for him, or I should not have suffered you to remain outside the door." "Thank you, M. Curé, but I cannot talk to you, I have so few words, and have not been accustomed to much, and all I know is how to use 'Arms.'" "Each of us has his profession, my friend," replied the curé, "and you have made yours glorious. Nevertheless you must allow me to think you know a great deal besides." "If that is your idea, kind father, I will not oppose it, but, with respect to you, I must tell you I have not seen a book since I knew, the 'Little Corporal,' and we are old acquaintances. Twenty-five years;" said he, "impossible to forget that"—wiping away a tear.
"Yes, my friend, you have reason to regret your emperor, and even to weep for him, for he was a great man, and loved you all as children."
"But, oh! how was he repaid?" and then he wept again.
"The love you bear your emperor honors you. Respect and devotion to misfortune fills noble souls, and I understand very well how your attachment is augmented in proportion to the sufferings which weigh down your chief; and it is not for me, a minister of peace and charity, to make a crime of your regrets and affection, or to denounce them. But let us leave this sad subject, until you know me better and have more confidence in me. For today we will talk about Robert and my plans for him. I am thankful to you for taking a father's place to him; without you he would have been lost in this great city, or might perhaps have met persons who would have placed him in contact with vice and wickedness. I rejoice that a kind Providence permitted this child to awaken an interest in you, and that he found you so affectionate a guide. You must continue your friendship, and I hope to gain his, by the care I will take of him."
"Oh! my dear father," said Robert, kissing respectfully the hand of his new protector, "you are too good to me, but I will try to repay your kindness by a full and entire submission to your least wishes."
"Well spoken, little one!" exclaimed the soldier, "this is the first duty of a conscript."
"I will try to find the mean s of aiding him to fill a high position some day," said the curé. "I have acquaintances and friends who will give me of their wealth, for," said he, in a tone of regret, "I am far from being rich. But no matter, God will help us; I have this sweet certainty, so you may take courage, my little friend, and whatever taste you may have for study, I promise you I will do all that I can to advance you. You are in such good hands that I shall have no cause for uneasiness as to how you pass your time; and I will leave you for a while, [{828}] and perhaps I may bring back some good news for you."
After calling at several houses without success, he chanced to see a wealthy widow who had but one child, a son. This boy was of a most vicious nature, and although young in years, he had every defect of character, without a single good quality. He made his poor mother despair, and she often reproached herself bitterly for her weakness toward him, but she knew no means that would reform his bad habits, which assumed the form of fatal and violent passion. When the curé spoke of Robert, she said: "O God! since he is possessed of so many amiable and virtuous qualities, entrust him to me. He will be treated as my own child, will share the studies of Gustave, and have the same masters; and perhaps God may pity a mother's sorrows, and that this child may have so good an influence over him, that Gustave may feel a desire to be good also. I pray you do not refuse me," said the mother in a supplicating tone; "I cling to this last hope, as a ship-wrecked man would cling to the plank he hopes will save him from perishing."
After long consideration of the chances of happiness and success in the future if Robert accepted it—of the great dissimilarity of the two persons who would thus be thrown together, and the disagreements and sufferings for Robert; and still worse, if the pure, rich nature of the orphan should be corrupted in the society of the wicked child, whom he knew only too well—he was still undecided. But an irresistible, though secret, argument spoke in favor of the mother of Gustave; so that at last her pressing solicitations were acceded to. He reserved for himself the right to watch closely over the precious trust that Providence had confided to him, and after this it was agreed that Robert should be presented to Madame de Vernanges (this was the name of Gustave's mother) as soon as he could be informed of it, and if he was willing to accept it.
CHAPTER V.
"The heart of a wicked man sighs for evil, and no one can find pardon before him . . . . ."
Robert was willing to accede to any wish of the good man who had so generously charged himself with his destiny. We have said before, that he was gifted with noble qualities; he had a lively perception, his intellectual faculties were strong, and he seemed to have power to do all that was required of him. He had no knowledge of what was not good, and possessed one of those happy organizations which can only be a gift from God. He felt it his duty to obey all that his protector wished; and when he told him that his interest required that he should go to the house of' Madame de Vernanges, and share in the liberal education this lady gave her son, Robert replied: "If' it is your wish, I am ready to go."
'The curé was surprised and touched at this eagerness to fulfil his wishes, this entire self-abnegation in one who could not but prize the sweet liberty of acting for himself, which he had so long enjoyed on his native mountain; and a still further proof of his remarkable disposition was, that he knew, young as he was, the art of sacrificing his tastes to duty, and the necessity of making himself agreeable to those who interested themselves for him. The kind priest did not wish to spend Robert's money for things which could be dispensed with, but his clothes were unsuitable to his new position, so he had him a complete wardrobe prepared, and a woman could not have been more careful about the minutest details.
'When all was in readiness he conducted him to the house of Madame de Vernanges. As soon as she saw him, she felt as if he was a regenerating angel to be placed near her son. She embraced him affectionately, and asked him if he "would love her like a mother?" "Oh!" said he, at once becoming serious at such a question, "I cannot promise you that, dear [{829}] madame, for it would be impossible for me to feel for any other woman the same degree of affection that I feel for my mother;" but, he added, smiling sweetly, "I think I can assure you that I will love you much."
Some author says that a child only loves his mother for the services she renders him. Can this be true? No—it is blasphemy against filial love; and were it so, alas for the happiness of mothers! Far sweeter is the idea that one loves the other for the other's sake alone; one is the consequence of the other, it is a love eternal like the soul, like its divine author, like God himself: There may be some selfish children who measure their love for their parents by the services they render them, but they are monsters—sad and rare exceptions—and deserve all our pity. The proof of what we affirm is found in the love that Robert always preserved in his heart for the dear and sacred remembrance of his mother. It is the strongest, most lively and unalterable of feelings, and has no rival in the other loves God has given to man in his short life. Who can hear the name of mother spoken without feeling a delicious sensation, and having a tear-drop moisten the eye?
Madame de Vernanges was so pleased with Robert's frankness, that she felt for him from that moment the most tender sympathy. After a few moments' conversation Gustave was sent for, but the reception he gave his future companion of play and study, was not very encouraging to the latter. At first, from the height of his grandeur he looked down upon him with disdain, and received with a very bad grace the amiable advances of Robert, who wished to conquer at once the friendship of his young comrade. He was astonished and sad at the coldness showed him, but little by little Gustave softened, and laid aside his insolent air. The acquaintances of this period of life are easily made. Robert gave himself up with perfect abandon to the new pleasure of playing and talking with a child of his own age. He was not distrustful, for he had no experience; and as his own thoughts were so good and pure, he never suspected others. The mother and the curé, though seemingly occupied in conversation, followed with observing and restless eyes the movements of the children. The latter feared, and not without reason, to see some awkward blunder made by a child raised so far from the world, and in the simple habits of a happy mediocrity. But to his inexpressible satisfaction he saw Robert as easy in his manners as in his language, and he acted as if he had been bred in a parlor. His rare intelligence displayed itself in his answers to Gustave, and he could not have been more sparkling in his repartees. His candor and good nature did not permit him to comprehend the perfidious intentions of his saucy interrogator, and it was a cruel mortification for the wicked Gustave, not to be able, in spite of his ruses, to find any fault with Robert. He had counted on a triumph, and received a complete humiliation; he thought to show his superiority to the child who was given him as a model, and his disappointment was that he felt before him his great defects.
During this time the good priest inwardly rejoiced at the success of the little orphan, while the poor mother sighed in making a sad comparison between the children of the same age, but so different in character; and in spite of her wish to the contrary, she could not but see the low and envious sentiments which ruled the conduct of Gustave, and the goodness contained in each word Robert uttered. Her heart was well-nigh broken, and in bitterness she exclaimed: "Wicked! always wicked! he has not one good thought, one blameless moment. I am cruelly punished for my guilty weakness toward him. O God! is it too late to reclaim him? Is there no remedy for his wickedness? and must I bear all the ills of such a child?"
Assured by the way in which Robert had taken the first and most difficult steps in his new abode, the good priest prepared to leave. It was in warm and pressing terms that he recommended his protégé; and embracing him, gave him his paternal benediction. "I will see you soon," he said to him, and this promise consoled him, for he felt sure he would always be a generous defender, a tender and devoted. friend. The child flattered himself for some time that he had gained the confidence and friendship of Gustave, but he had soon to renounce that belief, for, in spite of his profound dissimulation, the latter could not always keep up appearances, and Robert suddenly discovered the truth. This made Gustave hate him bitterly, and nothing could diminish it; but Robert spoke of it to no one but the priest. Encouraged by his silence, which Gustave mistook for the silence of fear, he was always making war with him when they were alone. Before his mother, or any other person, he did not dare to do so, but changes of manner were no trouble to the young hypocrite, for he could put on a bold air, and give himself the calm serenity of innocence. This premature corruption, this innate science of' evil, he carefully hid, and was deceitful above everything to those before whom he wished to appear good. In the first days of their acquaintance he had conceived a violent hatred to Robert, but he felt the necessity of dissimulating, so as not to awaken the suspicions of his mother; so that he did not openly declare war with his rival, for he knew that would be an irreparable fault. He trusted to chance, which sometimes helps the wicked, and waited for an occasion to present itself.
Robert all this while studied with care the lessons of his different masters, which the goodness of his benefactress gave him the means of sharing with Gustave. It was no trouble to him to learn, and his progress was so rapid and so wonderful, that his masters were enchanted, and were prodigal of their praises and marks of affection. Gustave, the lazy, indolent boy, suffered all the torments of envy. For the first time he felt pride, pushing toward emulation, enter his heart, and that which neither the prayers nor the tears of his mother could obtain, the odious sentiment of jealousy brought, and he worked with ardor, Rage sustained him in his desperate resolution; his duties were no longer neglected, and his hours for work were so laboriously employed, that even his mother believed for a time in the complete reformation of her son, under the happy influence of Robert. This joy was of short duration, and the error soon dispelled, for, if his mind profited on the one hand, his heart remained the same, and in it every bad passion was kindled. Sad fruits of a neglected education, of an infancy and childhood abandoned to itself, without care and without culture.
Nearly a year had passed since Robert entered the house of Madame de Vernanges, and the time had been most profitable to him in every way. Study opened to his eyes the treasures that are concealed from the vulgar, and he was already opening for himself a career sown with the seeds of art and science, the flowers of which he longed to gather; and in spite of all the cruelty and sarcasm of Gustave, he was very happy, for he felt the love of his benefactress and the good curé, and the remembrance of his cherished mother, and under these affections he rejoiced, as one rejoices in the sunlight of heaven. From the night she appeared to him in a dream, he was filled with the desire to be good, and worked nobly for this end. Often his thoughts would fly to his mountain home, and to the grave which contained her ashes. Neither had he forgotten the venerable priest of the Baths of Mount Dore, and had often written to him, and from time to time sent him small sums of money to be employed in charities.
Among Robert's happiest hours now were those he passed with the curé here; but even these he could not long enjoy alone, for the wicked Gustave discovered that his sadness vanished [{831}] whenever he reached the curé's door, and he took a cruel pleasure in always going with him under various pretexts, and thus snatching these few moments of happiness from his victim. But a smile, a kind word from his benefactor, paid Robert doubly for this painful sacrifice, and Madame de Vernanges noticed the hatred her son bore him. She was not to be duped by the friendship he feigned for one he detested from his soul. More than once the feeble mother had been a witness to the odious wickedness of the one, and the admirable patience of the other. She had seen, but had not corrected the guilty, for his strength discouraged her; she was too heart-stricken to combat with the bad genius that possessed him. It was easier for her to close her eyes to it, though she had the justice to seek by delicate attentions and tender caresses to repay Robert for some of his sufferings.
We have lost the old soldier for a time, but have not forgotten him. At the time of their separation, both he and Robert shed bitter tears, and the latter tried to make him promise that he would come sometimes to see him in his new abode: "Not there," said the grenadier, "but I will come sometimes and have a talk with you at the house of the curé, for I love him, by the faith of Cyprien Hardy." And he kept his promise, and many were the talks they had there together. On the 20th of March of that year the exile of Elba made an appeal to all faithful soldiers, and it was not made in vain. Cyprien responded at once to the call of his emperor, and when he had buckled on his warlike habits, he forgot for a while the orphan and the priest.
Madame de Vernanges counted her days only by her sorrows. She had no repose—her health was failing so rapidly that the physicians said she must pass the winter in a warmer climate and under a purer sky. This was a sudden blow for Robert, for he had become much attached to his benefactress, and she said he was to go to college with Gustave, who saw with revolting indifference the sufferings of his mother at the thought of a separation; but all her friends thought it was best, hoping some change in his character might take place from the strict and severe discipline of college life. This new arrangement was submitted to the curé, who in all things pertaining to him, was guided by the interest of his protégé, and it met with his approbation. Madame de Vernanges' was to be absent six months or a year, and Robert felt that he should indeed be isolated from her protective affection, and left alone to the wicked designs of Gustave; who, when they were thrown together at college, used all his time and his power to turn the students against Robert, and get them to league with him against him, for he was longing for an occasion to avenge the marks of tenderness and preference which his mother had shown Robert. Never was a child's patience put to a more severe test—neither the goodness nor generosity of the orphan could soften the hatred Gustave felt for him. But though Robert was of so even and calm a temperament, he could not be injured nor oppressed without defending himself, and there was but one consideration that curbed his indignation, and that was the certainty he felt that Gustave was the author of the persecutions which each wicked boy inflicted upon him. Had he not been convinced of this, he would have used the same means to punish them which they employed to torture him; but, according to his pure sentiments, this would not have been right, and he would not have the least reproach from his benefactress for any unkindness toward her son. He did not oppose his oppressors in any way, but they saw that he felt the outrages perfectly, and disdained, and not without reason, to let them know it. In this combat of all against one, the voice of conscience was not always heard, and in spite of his efforts to keep silent, there came a time when it was insupportable. The epithets of "lazy and coward" [{832}] resounding in his ears, filled him with indignation, and those who spoke them did not dare repeat them a second time, for he dealt with them in a way that convinced them he could not bear everything. Two or three corrections soon put an end to this state of things, and placed Robert high in the esteem of the older collegians. In vain did Gustave try to reawaken the ardor of his partisans. Frightened by the vigorous attack of Robert, they refused to unite in any new vexations against one they respected and loved, and they all vowed they would never take up a prejudice again. Thus Gustave saw, in spite of all his odious efforts to the contrary, Robert loved by his masters, respected and esteemed by his companions, who protected him and despised his persecutor. Things had reached this point when, one morning, an uncle of Gustave's came and took him hurriedly away, leaving Robert at college. This strange conduct affected him very much, and he wondered what it could mean. Could it be that his benefactress had returned and withdrawn her affection, or was she more ill? He was lost in sad conjectures for several days, which appeared ages to him, as he waited in patience to hear. A visit from the curé, with a sad countenance, revealed to Robert the misfortune which was to oppress him. "Madame de Vernanges suffers no more," said he, with a visible effort, drawing to his bosom the weeping child, whose sorrow was certainly more profound and true than that of' Gustave. "Alas! my child, you have lost your benefactress; before she died she asked to see you, but this wish of a heart devoted to you was denied—God willed it otherwise. But she did not need any further proof of your love, your conduct has spoken it so often; and God will never abandon you. Courage then, your recompense will come sooner or later. I will assume from to-day my entire right of father, and my most tender solicitude will be for you. Redouble your ardor at work, triple your strength, and finally the end which I propose for your happiness will come. Your studies, conscientiously finished, will be the magic keys which will unlock the door to an honorable career. From this time Gustave will not torment you, for he will not return to college."
Robert was too much moved to speak—too many sorrowful remembrances pressed themselves into his heart, but he had not lost a single word that was spoken to him. Six months after this he stood before the abbot of Verneuil, to receive from his hands the crown he so justly deserved. Oh! how his heart beat with joy when he heard his name spoken in the sanctuary of science; it seemed then that the sweet voice of his mother spoke to him. Each time he was named, his eyes turned towards the curé, as if asking him: "Are you satisfied?" How light and easy to wear are the laurels won by the victors in every good work! Is it not a bright day in your lives, my dear children, when you are proclaimed conquerors? What a sweet remembrance it leaves in your hearts, that no after thoughts can ever crush out! Our young laureate passed his vacation—that time of repose so dear to students—with the curé. To Robert work was so much more a pleasure than a fatigue, that he was obliged to allow him to study a great deal; but he did not wish him to spend all his time at his books, but to take some hours of respite each day. This excellent man, of such simple habits and manners, and of such contentment, really suffered at times that he could not from his limited means give Robert as many pleasures as his heart dictated. He knew he needed air and liberty, and wished he could send him into the country, where he would be free from all restraints. "Poor child!" he would say to himself, "how he must long for his native mountain." So, before he left, to return to his studies, he thought he would give him an agreeable surprise. The weather was lovely, and all nature seemed to rejoice. The curé and his charge started in a diligence for Versailles, the [{833}] wonderful and magnificent palace once used as a royal residence. Robert had never seen this place, once such a gay city, but whose gilded glory has all departed. No more fêtes, no more balls, in Louis XIV.'s beautiful city. The grand palace is still there, but where are the kings and courtiers? Oh! where?
The gardens charmed Robert, and he bounded about like a young fawn in his native wood, to the great delight of the curé, who rejoiced in his liveliness and happiness, and allowed this little bird that he had freed to follow his capricious fancies, wherever they led him; for he believed that all who loved children favored their pleasures; and it is one of the sweetest joys God has given to man, that he should try to leave no regrets to this age of life. As night was drawing on, Robert left off his sports, and they made ready for their departure. Robert's mind was filled with beautiful pictures of this visit, of which the result was so sad. As they were entering Paris, the benediction that the good curé gave the child each evening was pronounced with much fervor, and it proved the last. They slept in the same room, and Robert had gone happy and trustful to bed, little dreaming of the new and terrible misfortune that awaited him, and in the morning wakes to weep over the inanimate body of his loved benefactor, whose calm and serene face is radiant with immortal joy. The angel of death had come softly near the couch on which reposed the servant of the Lord; and took him from life, to rest on the bosom of his God, leaving a bright example of a virtuous and godly life.
CHAPTER VI.
"O virtue! gift of God! grace divine! it is thou
that givest the saintly and sublime inspirations of
devotion, that trample down vice, that elevate above all
feebleness and all obstacles."
ANONYMOUS.
When Robert realized that he had no longer a protector or friend he was plunged into the depths of despair, but it was not for the miserable consideration of interest, which too often possesses humanity, that he was so full of regret; it was for the wise and virtuous man that he mourned, for the loss of his sweet and persuasive language, and his tender and eloquent words, and his indescribable air of goodness, united to his pure life, which won all hearts, as a tender and delicate flower attracts and ravishes by its perfume. Stranger to all that was passing around him, shut up in his sorrows, made an orphan once more, Robert had still the happy consciousness of having fulfilled all his duties to his benefactor. He awakened from his lethargy at the sound of the first shovel of earth that fell on the coffin of his, beloved curé. The awakening was frightful. The tears and sobs he heard around him from the crowd of poor children and unfortunate ones, of every degree, whom he had benefited during his too short career, recalled with violence to his heart the sad reality. Another sincere mourner for the curé was his faithful old housekeeper, who, when she went in to take her last look of the venerable man, saw Robert standing there in silence and sorrow, and she felt that she, like him, was alone in the world, and suffered the same sorrow he did. But his grief and his loss, bitter as it was, was not as fatal for his advancement as might be supposed. His soul was too strongly fortified with the blessing of religion to allow him to be long discouraged. And when he could for a moment forget his losses, he would look to the future, and dare to hope, that although deprived one by one of his protectors, the path to success was still open to him. Madame Gaudin had most bitter thoughts. She was now getting along in years, being near fifty, and her age would be a barrier to her finding a home where the work would be light, so that she could live without spending her hard earned money. From her own personal thoughts she passed to another subject of solicitude—the future of Robert. If she had not felt any very strong interest in the fate of her master's protégé, [{834}] she was too compassionate a woman not to pity this child, who had been the object of his tender care. She thought of how the saintly man had praised the intelligence and amiable qualities of Robert, and repeated his favorite words: "This child will be something one day." Moved by these remembrances, she thought she heard him tell her to watch over the orphan. Submission and respect for all the orders she received was a habit with her, and she had been accustomed to obey with such exactitude, that she took for reality the illusion of her heart, and resolved to obey the inspired voice, and replace, if possible, the charitable man who had adopted Robert. This resolution once made, she thought of nothing but executing it. Going to Robert, she said, "I know, my young friend, you are thinking of some way of gaining a living for yourself. We can live together, and it will be better for us both, and we shall each have some one to take care of us. I will try to get lodgings and work, and you can be with me when not at your work, and God will assist us. Unfortunately you will be obliged to give up your studies for the present, which is my greatest grief; but we will not lose courage, for I feel sure that, sooner or later, God will give you another proof of his goodness. Your penmanship, which is so beautiful, you can make useful and by it earn money. I will go at once and find us a lodging, and will be entirely the gainer by the arrangement, for I shall have for company a good child, who will be like a son; won't he?" Madame Gaudin half smiled at her project, half cried when she repeated the name of the curé, then said, "Yes! yes! I am sure he inspires me to do this, he inspires me with an interest for this child, whom he loved above everything else." Some days after they were fixed in a small lodging in the rue des Fosses, St. Germain. She bought a bed for Robert, and he obtained a situation at twenty-five francs a month. A year passed in this way, without anything at all remarkable happening. Madame Gaudin worked, took care of things, and sang Robert's praises to all. After he had conscientiously finished the day to the profit of his employer, he returned to his lodgings, took his supper, and attended in the evenings a gratuitous course of drawing lessons. This art, for which he felt each day a more and more decided taste, made him forget for a time his past delightful life of study, which had opened to his dazzled eyes the book with golden leaves, which had as suddenly closed to his inexpressible regret. As time wore on, Madame Gaudin's attachment for Robert increased so much, that she almost believed he was her son; and well did he merit it all, for he respected her sincerely, and was most grateful for all she did for him. Whenever he was out at night, she would await his return with the greatest impatience, and was perfectly happy when she could be near him while he was reading, writing, or drawing; which latter employed most of his leisure hours. He imitated with great care the models given him, and would have passed the entire night working at them, but that Madame Gaudin sweetly forced him to lay them aside and go to bed.
Robert had now reached his sixteenth year, and his salary was increased to forty francs a month, which gave him great joy, as well as Madame Gaudin, though she thought that his merit was not yet remunerated enough, notwithstanding it was a good opening for him to another career. Some days after he had received this mark of the satisfaction his good conduct had given, his employer handed him a letter, with an express recommendation to a celebrated painter, and asked him to take it to his studio, and wait for an answer.
Arriving there, he introduced himself into the studio where the artist sat at his work. He laid down his palette, and when he had finished reading the letter that was handed him, he saw to his great surprise the young messenger absorbed before the picture that was on his easel. After considering [{835}] him far a few moments in silence, he asked him several questions, to which Robert replied with an emotion and an accent that revealed to the painter the inspiration of his soul. The most striking features of his face were his large and spiritual eyes, and his broad open forehead, on which thought sat enthroned. The artist was so charmed with his agreeable exterior, his frank and expressive language, that he inquired with interest what he was doing, who were his family, and what were his projects for the future. Robert satisfied all these questions, which were asked in a benevolent tone, by the recital of his childhood, of the loss of his mother, of his studies, interrupted by the death of his benefactors, and finished by telling his actual position, his love for drawing, and his ardent desire to come to him to study painting. "Well, you can came, my boy," said the painter; "but if you should succeed one day, can you hide from yourself the bitter deceptions which are the sad shadow of glory and renown? Yet why should I frighten you and inspire you with fear, when you trust so implicitly in the future? You can only hope. This word is all-powerful, and with your ideas and wishes you can crush under your feet every obstacle you wish to surmount. From this day consider yourself my pupil, and I doubt not you will do me credit. I will write the answer to the letter you brought me, and tell your employer at the same time that you belong to me now." Robert really thought he was dreaming, and was afraid to stir for fear his castle would fall, until the painter put the letter he was to take into his hand, and said, "Came back to-morrow."
He ran all the way, and stopped almost breathless before the door of Madame Gaudin, opened it hastily, and threw himself into her arms in an ecstacy of delight. "What is it?" she exclaimed, "what has happened you? I know it is something good" Her eyes were so eloquent with curiosity that he at once commenced to tell her, and related, without omitting a single word, the recent conversation which he had with the celebrated painter, and his promise to take him as a scholar. This unexpected event had filled him with such delight, that he entirely forgot the letter that was entrusted to him, but immediately set out to deliver it. Contentment gave him wings, and he was delirious with joy when he pressed against his breast the letter which was the bond of his liberty and his deliverance; and without regret he bade an eternal farewell to his former insipid labor, though his heart beat as he gave it to his employer, and as he stood waiting for him to read it, the minutes were like years. At last he raised his eyes, and said, "So you are to leave me, Robert; I am sorry, for I like you, much, and I shall not soon fill your place; still I cannot stand in the way of your promotion." Robert's happiness knew no bounds, and he returned and dreamed the sweetest dreams that ever came to childhood's pillow. From this time his life of struggle and of real work commenced. Until now he had lived almost alone, far from the world and its attractions, and ignorant of all wickedness. When he finds himself face to face with life's realities, he is like one shipwrecked. He was taken by his new master into the studio, and presented to the other scholars. Thrown like a timid lamb into this flock, he found they had no respect for sacred things, and his innocence and candor were cruelly railed at, his virtue rudely spoken of, and his religion turned into ridicule; and then sometimes, under the pretext of friendship, they would try to make him take part in their noisy revels. But he always refused, never forgetting that his mother had told him to seek the old and wise for advice, and to avoid the company of wicked young men. This enabled him to resist courageously the deceitful pleasures produced by licentiousness and debaucheries. To his pure mind nothing was so delightful as the home friendship, the kindness and the sweet counsels he had with Madame Gaudin. [{836}] Then he made excursions in the neighborhood of Paris, where he found nature in all her beautiful simplicity; he breathed the pure country air, and made sketches of the surrounding scenery. In a word, he was entirely occupied with his art, and it was his true enjoyment. The amusement and excesses of gayety, which ordinarily delight the young, had for him no charm; and he repulsed with horror the poisoned cup to which so many open eager lips. My dear young friends, if you only knew what this bitter cup contained, you would all dash it, far from you, for in drinking it to the dregs, you will sometimes find crime, always remorse, a weariness of all things, and a premature old age.
Robert was spared from falling into the snares which are set to allure youth, which blessing can only be attributed to the pious education he had received. First impressions are never effaced, they take deep root in a child's heart, and if good, become the fruitful germs of many virtues; if they are bad, they are the source from which vice and passion flow. In his tender years Robert had loved God and his works; later, when the good curé had revealed to him the sublimity of religion, the orphan was penetrated with a great love for that God who is goodness itself; and when reason and experience confirmed all which his mother and his protector had taught him, he believed more firmly still, and found in all nature visible proofs of the grandeur and power manifested by the Sovereign Ruler of the universe. When his companions were convinced that they could not make him one of their band of idlers, they let him alone, and treated him with the most contemptuous indifference, which was a great happiness to him, for he was no longer disturbed in his studies, and applied himself with such ardor and perseverance that his master was enchanted with his progress, and prodigal of his praises and encouragement, his counsels and lessons; and aided to the utmost of his ability this rare talent, which only demanded for its perfection aid and good direction. Not a day passed without his looking over Robert's studies, correcting them, and stimulating the generous emulation of the young artist. Robert proved his gratitude by his devotion to his studies, and if on the one hand the master was proud of his pupil, on the other so sincere, exalted, and just was his respect for him, that he would have considered it but a small sacrifice to have given his life for a man who was so liberal of his time and knowledge to him. This tribute which his warm heart gave so willingly, was not the only one Robert received. Madame Gaudin made a duty of continuing the charitable work of the Abbé Verneuil, who had shown so sublime and disinterested an affection for Robert. She spent without regret the sayings of twenty years, and, although an old woman, she worked like a young girl, inventing the most ingenious means for hiding the sacrifices she was obliged to make. She exhausted herself by her labor; but she loved Robert, and said, with a just pride, "He will be a great painter, and will repay me a thousand times for all I do for him now. What is a little trouble? Fatigue soon passes over. I am only an old woman, and have no need of anything, but he is so young, so good and easily contented, that if he only has air and sunshine he is happy. He never spends a cent improperly, and is economical, charitable, and polite. I could not love him more if I were his mother; and all I ask of God is, that he will spare me yet a while, that I may work for him." Robert had not the least idea of the expedients she employed for dissimulating the privations she each day imposed upon herself, but he worked with devouring energy night and day, and nothing is a trouble to him, nothing a fatigue, which brings him nearer to that glorious end, an artist! a true, soul-inspired artist! But material life and its necessities must be provided for; yet he thinks not of privations, so [{837}] completely is he fascinated with art and dreams of fame. It soon became difficult for Madame Gaudin to hide from Robert her almost penniless position, which was all the harder because of her excessive tenderness and love for him. She seemed to have but one thought, and that was to spare him all trouble. The courage of women has its source in the heart, and if they have love as an incentive, they can accomplish ends that place them far above men. So she kept from Robert the knowledge of the obligation he was under to her, and for three years struggled with energy and constancy to give the young painter, not only the necessaries, but also an appearance of luxuries, which deceived him to the last degree. Up to this time her heroic courage was the same, but her health failed suddenly, and religion alone sustained her, with a firm and consoling hand, when misfortunes came. Robert also needed it to keep up his spirits, for he felt a keen anguish when he saw her extended on a bed of pain; but his faith gave him supernatural strength, and he struggled victoriously with poverty, abandoning for a time his loved art to attend to the smallest details of material life, dividing his time between the sick friend whom he surrounded with delicacies, and upon whom he lavished his tenderest care, and work; monotonous, but productive work; and with his money he procured remedies which he hoped would bring back her health who had done so much for him. In this hour of trial he never despaired, and spent sixteen hours out of the twenty-four often in copying miserable and ill-drawn pictures, and all for a salary. But he would exclaim, "I will be an artist." He returned sacrifice for sacrifice, and while Madame Gaudin was in danger, he had not a moment of repose, and only found calmness and tranquillity when convalescence came. The rôles were changed. The protector became the protected; the kind guardian of the orphan became the object of his earnest solicitude. He became a man during her sickness; rendering her the attentions of a devoted son, and providing for the expenses of the household. Brought down from his fairy land of dreams by the realities of life, he is neither less amiable nor less good, but stronger, braver, more faithful than ever. The wings of the child have been folded; he is only a man, that is all.