The Catholic World, Vol. 18, October, 1873, to March, 1874. / A Monthly Magazine of General Literature and Science

by Various

THE FARM OF MUICERON.

BY MARIE RHEIL.

FROM THE REVUE DU MONDE CATHOLIQUE.

XII.

The Sunday after the last day of the harvest, M. le Marquis invited all the boys up to the château, where a magnificent banquet was prepared, and they were expected to remain until the evening. He ordered a splendid repast, and music besides; the principal barn, which ordinarily was crammed full at this season, but that, owing to the bad season, was comparatively empty, was decorated for the occasion. Our master desired that nothing should be spared to make the fête a great success. All the fine linen of the château—and the closets were heaping-full of it—the china, and silver were put into requisition, so that there never was given a more superb banquet to great personages than to our delighted villagers. As for the fricassée, it is remembered to this day; it was composed, to commence with, of a dozen kinds of poultry, so well disguised under different sauces that one ate chicken in confidence as chicken, because it was so written on little strips of paper laid beside each plate, but without being positive that it was not turkey or pigeon; and every one agreed in acknowledging that such a delicious compound had never passed down country throats, and that the wines, if possible, surpassed the eating; so that the good fellows commenced to be merry and perfectly happy when the roast appeared.

Of this roast I will say a word before passing to other things, for I fancy you have seldom seen it equalled. With all respect, imagine a huge hog, weighing at least a hundred pounds, roasted whole, beautifully gilded, and trimmed with ribbons, and reposing so quietly on a plank covered with water-cresses you would have thought him asleep.

It was really a curious and most appetizing sight, and sufficiently rare to be remarked; but see how stupid some people are! On seeing this superb dish, whose delicious perfume would have brought the dead back to life—that is to say, if they were hungry—some of the fellows said that M. le Marquis might have better chosen another roast, as pork was something they ate all through the year. Whereupon Master Ruinard, the head-cook of the château, made a good-natured grimace, and apostrophized them as a heap of fools, but without any other sign of displeasure; and then seizing his big knife, that he sharpened with a knowing air, he cut the animal open, and out tumbled snipe, woodcock, rennets, and partridges, done to a turn, and of which each one had his good share. As for the hog, no one touched it, which proved two things—first, that you must not speak too soon; secondly, that when a great lord gives an entertainment, it is always sure to be remarkably fine.

At the dessert, which was abundant in pastry, ice-cream, and fresh and dried fruits, they served a delicate wine, the color of old straw, the name of which I don't know exactly, but which was sweet and not at all disagreeable. At this time, M. le Marquis, accompanied by mademoiselle, Dame Berthe, and Jeannette, entered and mingled with the guests, who rose and bowed low. Our good master thanked the young men for the great service they had rendered him; and as he could not drink with each one, he touched his glass to that of Jean-Louis, saying it was to the health of all the commune. They cried, "Long live M. le Marquis!" until the roof shook; and as their heads were as heated as the boilers at the big yearly wash, they whispered among themselves that it would be well to carry Jean-Louis again in triumph, as much to please the master as to render justice to him who was the cause of all this festivity.

Now, our Jean-Louis was the only one who remained composed after all this eating and drinking. He had eaten with good appetite, and fully quenched his thirst, but not one mouthful more than was necessary. He heard all that was said without appearing to listen; and when others might have felt vain, he was displeased; he therefore watched his chance, slid under the table, and, working his way like an eel between the legs of his comrades, who were too busily occupied to notice him, in three seconds was out of the door, running for dear life, for fear of being caught.

He was delighted to breathe the fresh air, and did not slacken his pace until he had gone a good quarter of a league, and was near Muiceron. Then he stopped to take breath, laughing aloud at the good trick he had played.

"Thank goodness!" thought he, "I have at last escaped. They can run as fast as they choose now; there is no chance of catching up with me. What would M. le Marquis and the family have thought to have seen me hoisted up on the shoulders of those half-tipsy fellows, and paraded around the court, like a learned beast on a fair-ground? Not knowing that I had come to the château only to oblige the master, who had besides given me a valuable watch, it would have looked as though I wished to receive in vain applause what I refused in money. None of that, none of that for me; there is enough nonsense going on, without my mixing myself up in it. They can drink and dance until sunrise to-morrow, if they so please, it is all the same to me; and I will go home to bed, after having told all to my dear mother, who will not fail to approve of my conduct, and laugh heartily at my escape."

As he said this to himself, he entered the wood, of which we have already spoken, that skirts La Range and throws its shade nearly to the fir-trees which surround Muiceron. It was such a delightful spot, either by night or day, that it was difficult to pass through it without feeling a disposition to loiter and meditate, particularly for such a dreamer as Jean-Louis. After all, now that he was safe, there was nothing to hurry him home for at least half an hour. He therefore put his hands in his pockets, and strolled along, resting both mind and body in a dreamy reverie for the benefit of the one, and walking slowly to the great good of the other.

Really, the evening was delicious. The great heat of the day had been succeeded by a fresh breeze, which, passing over the orchards around, brought into the wood the sweet odor of young fruit, mingled with that of the foliage and bark of the trees, damp with the August sap. The hum of insects was heard, and not far off the joyous murmur of the stream leaping over the stones. As the ground had been thoroughly soaked for several weeks past, quantities of wild flowers strewed the soil, and added to the balmy air a taste of spring, entirely out of season. You surely must have felt, at some time or other, how such nights and such scenes enervate the brain. The will cannot resist the bewitching influence; insensibly we become dreamers, and feel a strong desire to converse with the stars. August nights especially are irresistible, and I imagine no one, unless somebody depraved by wicked deeds and thoughts, or a born idiot, can fail to understand and acknowledge the effect.

Judge if our Jean-Louis, with his pure soul and young heart of twenty years, was happy in the midst of these gifts of the good God. He was like a child who hears for the first time the sound of the bagpipes; and I beg you will not sneer at this comparison, for the reveries of an innocent heart have precisely the same gentle effect on the soul as the grand harmonies that roll through vast cathedrals on the great festivals of the church.

Doubtless, that he might better listen to this music, he seated himself on the moss at the bottom of a birch-tree, rested his head against the trunk, and looked up at the leaves, shaken by the wind, his feet crossed, and in the most comfortable position possible, to dream at his ease. Now, whether he was more fatigued than he imagined, on account of his week's hard labor, or whether the unusual feasting at the château made him drowsy, certain it is that he first closed one eye, then both, and ended by falling as soundly asleep as though he were in his bed at Muiceron.

It happened that, during this time, a storm arose behind the hill of Chaumier, to the right of the river that runs through the parish of Val-Saint and Ordonniers—something which our sleeper had not foreseen, although he was very expert in judging of the weather. Ordinarily, the river cuts the thunder-clouds, so that this side of La Range is seldom injured by storms; but this time it was not so. At the end of an hour or two that his sleep lasted, Jean-Louis was suddenly awakened by a clap of thunder which nearly deafened him; and in an instant the rain commenced to fall in great drops that came down on his face, and of which he received the full benefit as he lay stretched out on the grass.

He rose at a bound, and started off on a gallop, that his best clothes might not be injured. Muiceron was not far distant, and the storm had just commenced; he therefore hoped to reach the house in time to escape it. Not that he thought only of his costume, like a vain, effeminate boy, but because his mother Pierrette was very careful, and did not like to see his Sunday suit spoiled or spotted with the rain.

But the storm ran faster than he; the rain fell as from a great watering-pot in the trees, lightning glared on all sides at once, and one would have said that two thunder-clouds were warring against each other, trying to see which could show the greatest anger.

In the midst of this infernal noise, Jean-Louis suddenly saw what he thought, by the flash of lightning, to be a little brown form trotting before him in the middle of the path. He was not a boy to be alarmed by the raw-head-and-bloody-bones stories with which we frighten children to make them behave, and which many grown-up men, with beards on their chin, half believe to be true; but, nevertheless, the thing appeared quite unusual. He hastened his steps, and, as sometimes he could see in the lightning-glare as well as at noonday, he soon recognized the costume of the women of the country, or at least the cloak they throw over their clothes when the weather is threatening.

"Oh!" said the kind-hearted Jeannet, "here is a poor little thing half frightened to death on account of the storm. I must catch up with her, and offer to take her to the village."

For Jean-Louis, although he had very little ever to do with girls, was so kindly disposed he was always ready to be of service to his neighbors, whether they wore blouses or petticoats.

But as he hurried on, that he might put in practice his charitable thought, there came a flash of lightning that seemed to set the woods on fire, and, immediately after, a terrible clap of thunder as loud as though the heavens were rent asunder. Jeannet involuntarily closed his eyes, and stopped short, fastened to the ground like a stake. It was what the savants call—an electric shock. But don't expect me to explain that expression, for I know nothing about it, and, besides, I don't worry my head about such things.

When our boy opened his eyes, after one or two seconds, which appeared to him very long, his first care was to explore the path, in order that he might discover the unknown country-girl; but there was nowhere to be seen a trace of a girl, a cloak, or anything that resembled a human being.

"Well, this is at least singular," said he very uneasily. "Has my sight grown dim? No; I would stake my head that I saw before me a flesh-and-bone woman. I saw it—that I am positive and sure. If she has been hurt by this stroke of lightning, which must surely have fallen near here, she must be lying on the ground; for I have never heard that the storm kills people by making them melt like snow under the March sun."

This sudden disappearance excited him to such a degree that, without thinking of the rain, which was pouring down in torrents, and had drenched his new coat of Vierzon cloth, he resolved to enter the copse, at the risk of losing his way, and search around until he would discover the lost girl. But before leaving the beaten path, by a sudden inspiration, he cried out with a loud voice:

"If there is any one here who needs assistance, let her speak. I will bring two strong arms to the rescue."

Instantly a faint voice, stifled and weeping, replied, "Oh! for S. Sylvain's sake, good people, have mercy on me!"

"Holy Virgin Mary!" cried Jean-Louis, "is not that the voice of my sister Jeannette? She is the last person for three leagues around I would have expected to find in such a plight at this hour of the night. But I must be mistaken; it can't be possible."

And with that, more dead than alive from the violent palpitation of the heart which suddenly seized him, Jean-Louis rushed towards a thicket of young chestnut-trees that bordered the path, and from which seemed to come the weak, mournful voice that implored pity. He pushed aside the branches with a vigorous hand, and soon discovered a girl, in cloak and hood, crouched upon the ground, and so doubled up in a heap she could have been mistaken at first sight for a large ant-heap or bundle of old rags left there by some passing beggar.

"For the love of our Lord and Saviour, tell me who you are, and don't be afraid of me," said Jeannet, leaning over the poor little thing.

She raised her head, and instantly let it fall again on her knees, around which her hands were clasped; but as the lightning continued without ceasing a moment, the movement sufficed for Jean-Louis to recognize her.

It was really Jeanne Ragaud, but so paralyzed with fear, so wet and fainting, she seemed about to breathe her last. Her piteous moans were enough to break one's heart. Her whole body trembled, and thus huddled up in the middle of the mud in the dense underbrush, her situation was so perilous I verily believe she would have met her death in that lonely spot, but for the assistance sent by Heaven.

"Jeanne, Jeanne!" cried Jean-Louis, coming close to her, "keep up your courage, my darling. Rouse up, I beg of you. Be brave; you are already chilled through. It is dangerous to remain in the woods in such a storm."

But the poor little creature did not move. The fright and cold of the terrible tempest had totally bewildered her. Jeannet vainly shook her by the shoulders, trying to raise her on her feet, and to unclasp her hands, which had stiffened around her knees. He could not make her change her position in the least. What could be done? He did not know precisely how long she had wandered in the wood before falling down; and although he had just heard her speak a moment before, he feared that she was about to die, as perhaps she had been struck by lightning.

He made the sign of the cross, and invoked the angels of paradise. Immediately he remembered that not far from this grove was a miserable cabin, used by the wood-cutters, half tumbling down, but still sufficiently sound to shelter a Christian. This thought gave him fresh strength; and taking the little thing, doubled up as she was, in his arms, he raised her from the ground, and carried her, without stopping, to the wretched hut.

Well was it that he thought of this retreat, and, still better, that it was not far distant; for Jeannette, although slender and not tall, was in a dead faint, and consequently so heavy that Jeannet was perfectly exhausted when he reached the shelter.

By a still greater mercy, he had his flint in his pocket, and, luckily, it had not been injured by the dampness. He thus was able to strike a light, after having laid the poor girl on the dry earthen floor. He quickly lighted some handfuls of brush and straw that strewed the ground, and by their smoky light discovered, in a corner of the cabin, a good moss mattress, which the wood-men used when they came to sleep in the place, and near by a little board, upon which laid a packet of auribus—little resin candles very much used in our province.

"May God be praised for helping me!" thought the brave boy, delighted at having found poor little Jeannette. "It is a poor bed-room in comparison with the fine apartments at the château, but worth a palace when we think of the thicket just now."

He unfastened his sister's cloak, with a thousand respectful precautions, just as he would have touched the veil that covers the statue of Our Lady, and in the same manner took off her shoes and stockings, which he found very difficult, as, owing to the dampness, the fine thread stockings clung tightly to the skin. That accomplished, he built up the fire with all the rubbish he could find, and, turning the moss mattress in such a manner that Jeannette's feet were in front of the fire, he stretched her gently upon it, and seated himself beside her, waiting for her to recover her senses.

Thus passed half an hour without the little one stirring; fortunately, her cloak was very thick, so that the rest of her clothes were not wet, and he could thus hope for the best. But it was the first time Jeannet had ever watched by the side of a fainting girl; and, not knowing by experience what to do in such a case, the time seemed to him very long before she revived. He himself was dripping wet, and, although he scarcely gave it a thought, he shivered as one who might soon have the chills-and-fever.

"It would be very queer if I also should have an inclination to faint; what then would become of us?" thought Jean-Louis, who really began to feel very uncomfortable.

As this idea entered his head, Jeannette moved her little feet before the fire, and began to sigh, and then to yawn, which was the best sign that there was no danger of dying, as there is always hope as long as a sick person can yawn. A minute afterwards, she raised herself, and looked around with astonished eyes that asked an explanation.

"Well," said the happy Jeannet, "how do you feel, my poor little sister?"

"Is it you?" she asked, still trembling. "O Jeannet! how frightened I was."

And as she spoke, she tried to throw her arms around his neck, like a child who seeks refuge in his mother's breast. Jean-Louis drew back—something which was entirely different from his usual manner of receiving her caresses.

"Are you angry?" said she. "I have done nothing wrong, except to venture out to-night to return home; but the weather was not bad when I started, and I did not dream of such a storm."

"I angry? Why should I be?" cried Jean-Louis, kissing both her hands. "No, no, my pet; on the contrary, I am most happy to see you a little restored. But I am thoroughly drenched with the rain; that is the reason I don't wish you to touch me."

"That is true," said she; "I did not notice it before. What were you doing before this good fire, instead of drying yourself?"

"I was looking at you," replied Jeannet innocently.

"Big goose!" cried the little thing laughing heartily with her usual good humor. "Hadn't you any more sense than that? And now you are just ready to catch the ague."

"Don't be uneasy, Jeannette; it is not the first time I have had a check of perspiration. What I hope is that you will not suffer by this adventure, any more than I. But tell me, why did you run away from the fête at the very moment the dancing was about to commence?"

"I cannot say why," replied Jeannette. "Sometimes we have ideas we must follow, whether or no. It is as though some one stronger than we were pushing us by the shoulders the way he wished us to go. To speak frankly, I saw you leave hastily, and I instantly became more serious, and felt less desire to be amused. I said to myself, Doubtless Jeannet, who is better than I, knows that father and mother are alone waiting for him at Muiceron, and he cannot bear the thought of their sitting up for him until late at night. And I, what am I doing? Am I not also a child of the house? Jeannet will relate all that happened at the dinner, and they will ask, 'And Jeannette?' 'Oh! yes, Jeannette; does Jeannette think of anything else but amusing herself and talking nonsense far away from her parents?' At these thoughts my heart throbbed so I nearly burst into tears; just then mademoiselle was busy replying to the compliments every one was offering her; so I left the barn, and went after my cloak, and, without further reflection, started for Muiceron. You know how afraid I am of thunder and lightning; when I saw the storm coming up, I became bewildered, and don't know which way I went, but I suppose it was the wrong one. When I regained what I thought was the right path, the storm was still raging, and I would have died of fright, but for you, my old fellow."

"Thank God you escaped this time!" said Jean-Louis, very much touched by the simple recital, which showed the good heart of the little girl; "but, nevertheless, you ran a great risk. Now, Jeannette, let us hurry home; we must quit this place, as it must be late."

"I suppose it is," said she. "Haven't you your watch to see what time it is?"

"I left it hanging up in my room," replied Jeannet. "I did not wish to wear it when at dinner in the château, for fear it might look as though I wished to display it before those who had none; and it is well I did not take it, as it would have been ruined by the rain."

"How can I walk barefooted?" asked Jeannette. "I can't put on my wet stockings."

"And your shoes still less," replied her brother, laughing. "But if you will let me, Jeannette, I can carry you."

"Poor Jeannet! Not at all; it would be too much for you," said she. "Go to Muiceron, and bring me my wooden shoes. It is all quiet now outside; I don't hear any noise, and I will not be afraid to remain here alone for a little while."

It was really the best and shortest way of getting over the difficulty. Jean-Louis opened the door of the cabin, and saw that the sky was clear and bright; not this time with the lightning's glare, but with the soft rays of the moon and beautiful stars of the good God. All was quiet and peaceful, except that great drops fell from the trees, still wet with the heavy rain, and that the ruts in the road were filled with water, that made them look like little rivulets.

"Watch the fire, Jeannette, and be patient ten minutes," said he; "and in two strides I will be there and back again."

It took a little longer time than that to return, as on entering the farm he met Ragaud, who was looking to see if the storm had injured the palings around the barn-yard, and was therefore obliged to stop and in a few words relate the night's adventure.

The good man, while grumbling and scolding at the imprudence of his daughter, who, he said, had no more sense than a child six years old, felt fearfully anxious, as was easily shown by the rapid questions he asked Jean-Louis. To assure himself that nothing was kept behind, and that the boy, from kindness of heart, had not disguised the truth, he hastily took down his big woollen scarf from the hook, and hurried off.

"I will lecture the giddy child well," said he. "Go before, Jeannet; I will follow you. It is not far, so hurry."

"Mother will be anxious," said Jeannet. "Let me go alone; I will be back the sooner."

"Your mother has been asleep a long time," replied Ragaud, "or else she would have been on our heels before this, and we would have had to carry her back also. Fasten the bolt, without any noise, and let us be off."

With that they started. Ragaud was quick and light for his age, and they proceeded at a rapid rate, which soon brought them to their journey's end. Jean-Louis carried a bright lantern and a bundle of woollen stockings and wooden shoes he had taken at random out of the chest; for it was all-important that Jeannette's feet should be well warmed, and that she should be in her comfortable bed as soon as possible, so as to prevent fresh chills.

It was nearly midnight when they reached the hut, which enables us to see what a long time had elapsed since Jean-Louis' flight from the château, what a good sound sleep he had had in the wood, and proves that the storm and Jeannette's swoon were not slight affairs.

As soon as they entered—Jeannet the first, Ragaud behind him—they saw that the lantern was a wise precaution. The heap of brush-wood was burnt up, and there was no light, except from a little pile of red ashes, as even the resin candle glued to the wall was flickering and falling in big drops, which announced its speedy death.

"Here we are, my Jeanne," cried Jean-Louis from the threshold of the door. "Father is with me, and we have brought fresh lights."

No answer. The child was so weak and faint, it looked as though she had swooned again. Ragaud, at this sight, forgot the scolding he intended giving his daughter by way of welcome, and, leaning over her, placed his hand on her forehead, which was icy cold.

"She is very ill, I tell you," murmured the good man. "Bring the lantern here, Jeannet. God have mercy on me, how pale the poor child is!... Jeanne, Jeanne, don't you know us?"

"Ah! yes, my father," she whispered, looking languidly at him. "I hear you, but I am so sleepy ... so sleepy ... I can't talk."

"But you must wake up, and leave this place," said Ragaud. "Try and rouse yourself, my child; in five minutes we will be at the house."

She made the effort, and tried to stand on her feet; but for Jeannet, who was near and caught her, she would have fallen down.

"I am so tired!" she said again, closing her eyes.

"Shall we carry you on a chair to see the king?" asked Jean-Louis. "Perhaps that will be the best way."

"Yes, yes," said she, smiling at this remembrance of her childhood; "that will be fun."

Undoubtedly you know what is a chair to see the king? It is a child's play, which generally is done by three persons—two boys and a girl; the boys clasp hands in such a manner that a good seat is made for the girl, who thus, without any fatigue to the bearers, can be carried as easily as in a carriage.

Ragaud highly approved of the idea. Jeannet, who thought of everything, tied the lantern to a piece of cord, and suspended it to Jeannette's neck, who recovered enough strength to laugh; and thus, well lighted and very happy, they started on their return to the farm, which they soon reached safe and sound.

They entered Muiceron by the kitchen door, so softly that Pierrette, who was sleeping in the big front room, did not hear the slightest noise. Jeannette appeared perfectly restored; she was gay, although still pale and shivering; but she assured them the warmth of the bed would soon make her feel better. So they embraced, and, after many good-nights, retired to their rooms.

The next morning Ragaud told Pierrette all the events of the preceding night, but forbade her entering Jeannette's room, for fear she might be awakened too soon after her great fatigue; but at the same time, unable to restrain his own curiosity, he took off his wooden shoes, softly lifted the latch, walked on tiptoe to the bed, and peeped between the curtains, just to see, for a second, how the child was resting.

Alas! poor Jeannette was sitting up in bed, her face on fire, her eyes wandering in delirium, her whole body burning with fever. She knew no one. Her excitement was so great she beat the air with her bare arms, while her throat was so choked up the voice was nearly stifled. Ragaud thought she was dying; he uttered a loud cry, which brought Pierrette to the bedside, where the poor mother fell down, half fainting with grief and fright.

In an instant the whole farm was in a tumult. Big Marion set up a blubbering, crying that the child was dying; the cow-herds and stable-boys burst into the room, and, seeing every one in tears, began to whine in their turn without exactly knowing why. Jean-Louis alone, when he saw his sister's dreadful condition, did not shed a tear or make a sound, but, darting out of the room like an arrow, leaped on a horse's bare back, and galloped off for the doctor, who lived half a league beyond Val-Saint, towards the large town of Preuilly.

By good fortune, he found him at home, as it was quite early; and, while explaining the pressing case that brought him, spied the doctor's wagon under the shed, and quickly harnessed to it the horse which he had ridden, so that, in less time than it takes to say it, doctor, wagon, horse, and Jean-Louis were on the way to Muiceron, and reached there before any one else had thought that, before such great lamentation, no matter what was the trouble, it would have been better to have run promptly for assistance.

And here you will excuse me if I add, by way of advice, that presence of mind, which is not counted among the virtues, is one nevertheless, and not at all to be disdained in the life of this world; and, therefore, I beg of you always to keep a good share in reserve, for I do not doubt you may soon find use for it, if not to-day, perhaps to-morrow, and you will always do well to remember what I say.

XIII.

The doctor, on seeing the room of the patient filled with people lamenting from useless tenderness of heart, instead of doing something for her relief, began by being very angry. He was a good man, rather rough and coarse in manner, but skilful in his profession, and understood perfectly how to manage peasants, for he had always practised in the country, and was himself of the upper class of villagers.

"What is such a lot of noisy, lazy bawlers doing around a sick girl, who needs air and quiet?" he cried. "Get out of here, the whole of you, and don't one dare come within ten yards. You, Ragaud, can stay if you choose, but keep as quiet as you are now, and don't look as if you were more dead than alive, with your miserable face a foot long; you, Mme. Ragaud, stop hugging your daughter. Let her go; don't you see you are smothering her? And above all, don't be dropping your tears on her face; she don't know you. Jean-Louis, don't stir from here; you are reasonable and courageous, and will be useful to me. And now open the window, and let out this smell of the stables brought by those abominable cow-herds, who ought to have been driven out with a pitchfork. Good. Now tell me what has happened to this child."

All being thus quieted, and the room purified by the fresh morning air, which came freely in through the open window, a slight change for the better was soon seen in Jeannette. She let them lay her head on the pillow, and, although she was still insensible, her pretty face, crimson and swollen with the fever, looked less excited. The doctor counted her pulse while he listened to the night's adventure, which was correctly related by Jean-Louis, as neither the father nor mother could have put two ideas together at that particular moment.

"Just as I thought," said the doctor; "a violent fever brought on by exposure to the cold, and wet feet. All the danger is in the head, and I do not deny that it is very great. The child has a cerebral fever; do you understand? Cerebral means of the brain. Now the brain is the inside of the head; so the sickness is there, under this beautiful blonde hair, which you must instantly cut off. I hope, Mme. Ragaud, you will not hesitate to sacrifice your daughter's hair to save her life?"

"O my God!" cried poor Pierrette, sobbing. "Do what you please, my dear doctor; if it would be of any use to cut off one of my arms, I would willingly allow it."

"Yes, my good woman, but that would not help you much, and her not at all; so keep your arms, we will need them for something else. Come, we must relieve her. Jump in the wagon, Jeannet, and go to the château, and tell them to send me some ice, mustard, and other things that I will write on this slip of paper; and remember to tell mademoiselle not to be uneasy, and not to put her foot in this house short of a week. While waiting for the return of Jean-Louis, Mme. Ragaud, draw a bucket of water from the well, and bring it to me immediately."

Poor Pierrette obeyed without saying a word, which was very beautiful in her; for hearing it announced that her daughter was ill from cold, the words ice and well-water confused her terribly. She had already been horrified when commanded to open the window. Indeed, Dr. Aubry was no fool, as had been well proved for twenty years; and the best way was to think that he knew what he was about, no matter how unreasonable his words might sound.

Jean-Louis performed his errand with his usual promptitude; he brought back what was needed for the first applications. During his absence, the doctor had constantly applied bandages, soaked in very cold water, to Jeannette's head; but that was not effective enough, and, as soon as the ice was brought from the château, he prepared to use it. It was the moment to accomplish the sacrifice of Jeannette's beautiful hair, which was still dressed as for the previous night's dance. To tell the truth, the thick, heavy braids were enough to weigh down the poor sick head. Pierrette showed great courage; she only cared for the relief of her child. As for the doctor, he thought no more of cutting off this splendid hair than of pulling up a bunch of nettle out of the flower-beds in his garden.

Ragaud sat as though nailed to his chair, and seemed neither to hear nor see anything passing around him. You would have pitied the poor old man. But our Jeannet, so brave until then, could not look on indifferently at the murderous play of the scissors around that dear head, which would so soon be shorn of its crowning beauty. As the doctor cut off a tress and threw it on the floor, as if it were a noxious weed, he picked it up and smoothed it with his hand, as though to repay by caresses the condemnation it had received. Thus he soon had all the fair hair in his hands; and then, as he thought that soon—too soon, perhaps—it might be the only living vestige of Jeannette, his courage vanished; he sank on a chair near the window, hid his face in the mass of hair, that was still warm, and sobbed as though his heart would break....

This touched Dr. Aubry, who was kind-hearted under his rough exterior. He never talked sentiment, being too much accustomed to tears and lamentations around sick-beds; but he loved Jeannet, and thought him more refined and superior in tone to the surrounding boys. So he approached the poor child, and, tapping him on the shoulder, he said by way of consolation: "Bah! you big ninny, that will improve her hair; in one year it will be handsomer and thicker than ever, and you will have enough of this to make a hundred yards of watch-chain."

"In one year!" cried Jean-Louis, who only heard this word of all the fine consolation. "Then you don't think she will die?"

"What are you talking about? Die? A beautiful young girl of seventeen, who has always been healthy and good, don't die from having got her feet soaked on a stormy night. Be reasonable, follow my orders, keep everything around quiet and fresh, don't fatigue her with words and embraces when she recovers her senses, and, with the help of God, I will answer for her."

"Oh!" said Jean-Louis, throwing his arms around the doctor's neck, "may Heaven listen to you, M. Aubry!"

These cheering words brought old Ragaud back to life; big tears rolled from his dry, fixed eyes, and relieved him greatly. Pierrette fell on her knees by the bedside; for, before thanking the doctor, it was right to raise her heart to God, who saw further still than he.

M. Aubry again repeated his orders, which he always did—oftener six times than once with his village patients; for it must be acknowledged we are very stupid about nursing, and, outside of the common remedies, which are purgatives, emetics, and quinine to break the fever, all the rest of the medical gibberish appears to us very strange, and often rather contrary to good sense. That is the reason those who are cured burn a candle to S. Sylvain. But for his kind protection, there would be as many deaths as sick people; and if you find fault with that expression, I will tell you that I am very sorry for it, but that is the way we talk, and I cannot express myself differently or more delicately than I was taught.

The doctor drove off in his wagon, to which the farm-horse was still harnessed, and he had the privilege of keeping it several days, which was a great convenience to him, as his own beast was out at pasture. He took care to pass by Val-Saint, where he found mademoiselle very anxious and sad about her god-daughter's accident. As soon as she heard it was a serious illness, she rushed to the bell, crying that she must have the carriage immediately to go to her darling; but M. Aubry, who had his own way with every one, caught her by the arm.

"I beg your pardon," said he; "but you are not going there at all."

"Why not?" she asked. "I cannot stay here without seeing my Jeanne, when I know she is suffering."

"You shall not go," repeated M. Aubry firmly. "It would be dangerous for you; and I am your physician as well as hers."

"What nonsense!" said mademoiselle, who, gentle as she was, did not like him to oppose her. "You will never make me believe a brain fever is contagious."

"That is yet to be seen," replied M. Aubry, who could lie when necessary as well as any dentist; "and, if you should get sick, I declare that, daughter of a marquis as you are, I would not have the time to take care of you. At this moment I have more sick people—maimed, wounded, and down with fever—than I can manage, and I don't want another case; without counting that your château is perched up as high as the devil, and, to get up here, I would lose half a day."

"You horrid man!" said mademoiselle, who could not help smiling, for she knew the doctor's way, and never took offence at what he said. "You talk like a car-driver; but you are perfectly capable of doing as you say, so I dare not risk it. But when can I go?"

"We will see about that; neither to-morrow nor next day, nor for several days after. I will come and bring news of her."

"But how will you find time, with all your patients?" asked mademoiselle, delighted to catch the doctor in a little falsehood.

"You give me the change for my money," said M. Aubry, laughing in his turn. "I see you are as malicious as ever. Well, then, to speak frankly, it is not the contagion that I fear, but your chattering and gabbling, which never stop. If La Ragaudine recovers, it will depend upon quiet and repose. Not even the buzzing of a fly must be heard in her room for a week; therefore, it would be useless for you to go there. But now you can act as you think proper."

"You should have told me this at first," said mademoiselle. "I will not go; but promise me you will always tell the truth about her, and never conceal any danger."

"My God! no," said the doctor quietly; "and, to commence, since you do not wish me to disguise the truth, I will tell you that, if Jeanne Ragaud does not recover her senses to-night, she will be dead to-morrow at twelve o'clock."

"But you are a monster!" cried mademoiselle, the tears streaming from her eyes. "How can you be so hard-hearted as to tell me such news without any preparation?"

"There!" said the doctor, "you are off again. I thought you wished me to tell you the whole truth."

"My poor Jeanne! Dead to-morrow!" sobbed mademoiselle.

"One moment—pay attention to what I say—if she does not recover her senses to-night; but she will, for she was already a little better before I left Muiceron."

"Oh! I wish you would go away!" cried mademoiselle. "I hate to hear you talk; you will set me wild.... Come now, doctor, speak seriously: is poor dear Jeannette really in danger?"

"I tell you yes, but I have great hope. And now I am going away; you are not angry with me, dear mademoiselle?"

"I will have to forgive you," said she, giving him her hand; "but know well that I detest you from the bottom of my heart, and, when I am sick, I will send for another doctor."

"Bah! I bet you won't," replied M. Aubry, perfectly unmoved; "you are so amiable and gentle when the fever comes on!"

Mademoiselle laughed through her tears; she knew from experience it was not easy to have the last word with M. Aubry, and she let him go without further discussion.

The good God showed that he loved Muiceron. For three days Jeannette was very ill, after which her youth and good constitution overcame the disease. M. Aubry declared he would answer with his head for hers, and soon the dear child recovered strength and color. But this was the moment to be careful; for convalescence is very uncertain and dangerous, they say, in such a case, and the least imprudence will suffice to cause a relapse. Therefore the doctor for ever repeated:

"Attend to what I say; because she is better, that is no reason to think she is cured. Don't let her stir any more than you would let loose a chicken among the fir-trees; these affections of the brain are terrible if there is a relapse."

That word, affections, was another that Pierrette could not manage to understand; each time he said it she was terribly perplexed, and looked intently at the doctor, to see if he could not use a more appropriate one in its place.

"For," thought she, "I see nothing affectionate in such a wicked fever that nearly brought my daughter to the threshold of the grave. Whoever does or speaks ill is always called a great enemy; and I don't think an enemy can ever be affectionate, or friendly, or anything else of the sort."

And you will acknowledge the argument was not bad for a good countrywoman, who knew nothing except to read her Mass-prayers by force of habit.

It is not necessary to inform you that all the people around were very much interested in Jeannette's illness; and if there is a consolation that softens the bitterness of grief, it is surely that which is given by friends who offer to share trouble. Many of the neighbors were anxious to relieve Pierrette by taking her place at night; but you understand that a mother is always mother, and, unless she had fallen dead at her daughter's bedside, she would yield her post to no one. Happily, the great danger which demanded such extreme care did not last long; and as at the end of a week the fever left Jeannette, and she then slept tranquilly the greater part of the night, Pierrette consented to lie down, without undressing, on a little bed temporarily placed in the sick-room by Jean-Louis, and thus was enabled to obtain some rest.

But many weeks elapsed before Jeannette was strong enough to resume her accustomed life; and as she daily felt herself improving, the great difficulty was to keep her quiet in bed, and furnish her amusement, so that she would not get up too soon, at the risk of falling ill again; and here, again, Jean-Louis, with his devotion and thoughtfulness, provided a remedy.

Not far off lived a beautiful young girl, a year or two older than Jeannette, and the friend of her childhood, named Solange Luguet, the sister of Pierre; she was tall, rather thin and pale, like Jean-Louis, whom she somewhat resembled in features and character. This will not astonish you, as I have already told you they were first-cousins without knowing it; and, whether legitimate or illegitimate, near relatives generally have a certain family resemblance.

Solange led a retired life, some said from piety, others from shyness. She was a skilful seamstress, and embroidered beautifully; consequently, she never wanted work, and passed her time by her little window, sewing from morning till night. Jean-Louis was very fond of her. He often wished Jeannette's tastes and habits were as quiet, and he sometimes held up Solange to her as a model. But Jeannette's character was entirely different, and what seemed to Solange the perfection of happiness would have been miserably tiresome for her; nevertheless, the two girls were great friends, and were always happy to meet.

It was, therefore, Solange Luguet whom Jeannet thought of as a means of distracting Jeannette during her convalescence. He went to her, and begged that she would come and pass several hours every day with Jeannette. Solange willingly consented, as she could take her work with her, and whether she embroidered at home or at Muiceron was all the same to her; and, besides, she could be useful to her friends, especially Jean-Louis, for whom it was easy to see she felt a great preference.

Now, Solange, in spite of her reputation for piety and shyness, was very lively and bright. The first day she came to the farm Jeannette was quite subdued; without saying it, she was afraid her companion would be very serious and frown at the least joke. But it was just the contrary; Solange amused her so much with her stories, and gossip—which was never ill-natured—and songs, that Jeannette never let her go until she promised to return next day. This pleasant arrangement suited everybody. Ragaud and Jean-Louis gradually resumed their outdoor work, and Pierrette was less tied down. We all know that weariness of mind is the worst of ills, as it renders one sad, and sadness makes both body and soul sick: so this little spoiled Jeannette, who laughed and chatted from morning till night, recovered four times as rapidly, thanks to Solange's agreeable company, and was soon able to sit up an hour or two about noon.

Who had caused all this happiness? Even he who never gave it a second thought, and to whom it was so perfectly natural to serve others that it seemed a part of his everyday life; for the excellent Jeannet spoke so seldom of himself, neither Jeanne nor the Ragauds ever dreamt of thanking him for having brought Solange, seeing that they knew nothing, and simply thought the Luguet girl came of her own free will, which certainly she never would have done, if even the idea had ever entered her head.

As soon as mademoiselle received permission, she hastened to Jeannette's side. Every other day her beautiful carriage was seen coming down the road, and, a minute after, she alighted, accompanied by Dame Berthe, who always brought a little basket filled with dainties and delicacies fitted to tempt an invalid's stomach.

Poor mademoiselle found the days very long since Jeanne had left, and was very impatient for her complete recovery, that she might carry her back to the château. She did not hesitate to express her desire at each visit before the Ragauds, never remarking that neither ever replied to her proposition. The reason was that Ragaud had received such a severe shock by the narrow escape of his daughter, he had promised and sworn never again to expose the child to such a fearful risk, which had so nearly proved fatal. He saw in this terrible sickness a warning from the good God; and, as he felt it in the bottom of his heart, he acknowledged in the end that if Jeanne had not led a life above her position, nothing like it would have happened.

Between ourselves, mademoiselle, who was much better informed than Ragaud, should have even more clearly understood it. Still further, as M. le Curé, who you can well imagine came constantly to Muiceron since the accident, had been confidentially told by Ragaud of his good resolutions, which he highly approved, and cautiously approached the subject whenever an opportunity offered of conversing with mademoiselle. But "none are so deaf as those who will not hear," said this good pastor; "and even without a scene mischief will come of taking Jeannette from the château. Her acquaintance there is too long formed."

It did not happen precisely so. Jeanne, without scenes or difficulty with any one, had been forced to seek refuge under the paternal roof, and should have remained there until the present time from her own free will and accord; but when one has strayed ever so little from the right path, it is not easy to return to it, even when it has not gone as far as mortal sin; and you will see this time again that I have strong proofs to support what I have advanced, as Jeanne Ragaud had to undergo severe and bitter trials before she could entirely give up the half-noble position she had involuntarily filled, and resume fully the simple peasant life.

XIV.

One day, when mademoiselle was making her accustomed visit, after she had talked and laughed, and played dinner-party with the fruits and delicacies she had brought to Jeannette, she suddenly exclaimed:

"You are looking admirably, my child—as pretty as a picture; your color is more brilliant than even before you were sick, and your short hair, which made me feel so sad the first time I saw it, is more becoming than the way in which you formerly wore it; but you are very badly dressed. What have you done with all the dresses I gave you?"

"They are still at the château, godmother," replied Jeannet. "I have not needed them for a long time. If you will send me some of them, I will try and look better at your next visit."

"You are very much thinner, poor little thing, so that none of them will fit you; besides, it will be a long while yet before you can go out. What you want is a dressing-gown, and I will have one made for you, if you will promise me to wear it."

"When you come, I will," answered Jeannette, who knew well such a dress did not suit her position, and that her parents would not like it.

"No, I wish you to wear what I will send, and not only when I am here, but every day; do you understand, child? I wish it."

"O godmother!" said Jeannette, "I beg you will not insist upon it; such a dress is very well at the château, but here I cannot dress differently from my mother."

"I do not wish to transform you into a princess," replied mademoiselle; "but neither do I like to see you dressed, as you are, in serge. I have my own reasons for it."

Jeannette bowed her head, although at heart she was very much dissatisfied. Pretty Solange, who was silently working away in her corner by the window, gave her an encouraging glance, to keep her firm in her good resolution; but for ten years Jeannette had given in to all her godmother's whims and caprices, and dared not answer.

Two days afterwards, a large bandbox, directed to Jeannette, was brought to Muiceron. She was still in bed, and was quite curious until it was opened; and there was the promised dress, made of beautiful blue cashmere, so fine and soft it looked like silk. As to how it was made, I really cannot describe it; but it is enough to know that mademoiselle herself could have worn it without impropriety, so that it can easily be understood it was not suitable for Jeanne Ragaud.

"Isn't it beautiful?" exclaimed Jeannette, admiring the dress, fit for a marchioness. "But I will never wear it; do you think I should, Solange?"

"No, indeed," said Solange. "Don't do it for the world, Jeannette; it would be very wrong for you to wear it, and the neighbors would laugh at you."

"Help me to get up," replied Jeanne. "It will be no harm to try it on once; it will amuse us. Can I?"

"Yes, to be sure," said good Solange; "I should like to see you for once dressed as you were at the château."

Jeannette jumped quickly out of bed, and Solange, to amuse her, brushed her short hair in such a way that she looked like a little angel; then she put on some fine white petticoats, and, last of all, the beautiful robe, which fitted her splendidly. Thus dressed, Jeannette was one of the prettiest young ladies you can imagine; and I rather think she looked at herself in the mirror with great satisfaction.

She sat down in the big arm-chair her godmother had sent her from the château as soon as she was convalescent, and it was easy to see she was not ill at ease in her beautiful present, but that, on the contrary, was infinitely satisfied, and not at all anxious to take it off.

However, she feared the arrival of her parents, and did not wish them to see her in such a costume. Solange, from the same thought, had not resumed her work, and remained standing before her, ready to undress her. You see the will was good, but the devil was upon the watch. At the very moment that Jeannette, with a little sigh of regret, was about to put off her gay trappings and don her peasant dress, the big white horses of mademoiselle were heard pawing the ground in the yard.

"It is my godmother!" said Jeannette, blushing. "Well, I am not sorry; she will see that I do honor to her present."

Mademoiselle entered immediately after, and, seeing Jeannette so pretty and so stylish in her beautiful dress, kissed her heartily, and loaded her with praises.

"You are perfectly lovely," said she; "and for the penalty, I have prepared a great surprise. There is a handsome gentleman, who has come with me, and wishes very much to see you."

"Will you please tell me who it is?" asked Jeannette.

"No; I wish to see if you will recognize him. Come in, Isidore," cried mademoiselle to some one who was waiting outside the door.

The said Isidore immediately appeared—a tall young man, well made, and dressed in the latest Parisian style. His hair was elaborately curled, and his cravat, gloves, and shoes were so elegant he looked as though he had just been taken out of a bandbox. He made a low bow to Jeannette, and paid her a compliment such as we read in books.

Jeannette, much amazed, rose without speaking, and, as her astonished look showed she did not recognize him in the least, mademoiselle laughingly relieved her embarrassment.

"What!" said she, "you don't remember Isidore Perdreau, the son of Master Perdreau, my father's notary, and the playmate of your childhood?"

"You must excuse me," said Jeanne, "but he is so much changed."

"In size, perhaps," said M. Isidore, "but not in beauty, as you most certainly are."

"He has returned from Paris, and will in future live at Val-Saint. It is very good in him," said mademoiselle, "for his life will be very different; but his father wishes to associate him with himself in business."

"To all true hearts one's native place is dear," replied M. Isidore, placing his hand on his waistcoat.

"Don't you remember the young girl by Jeannette?" asked mademoiselle.

"Not precisely," he replied.

"I am the sister of Pierre Luguet, with whom you used to go hunting for blackbirds."

"Pierre Luguet? Ah! yes, little Pierre; and where is he now?"

"Always in the same place," replied Solange, without stirring.

M. Isidore did not condescend to continue the conversation with one so little disposed to talk, and, turning towards Jeanne, lavished upon her some more foolish compliments, which, without being exactly to the taste of the child, were not displeasing to her vanity.

It was evident that mademoiselle encouraged Isidore, and thought him very charming. It was not because she was wanting in sense or penetration, but the custom of living alone in her big château, where she rarely saw any one but country people, and the new distraction of carrying out a plot that she had concocted, and which you will soon guess, made her see things dimly; and whilst Solange, simple girl as she was, saw at the first glance that young Perdreau had become an insolent, ridiculous fop, this high-born young lady, who had read so many books, was ready to faint at the least word of that simpleton—for simpleton was the name he well deserved until after-circumstances proved that he was worthy of a still more odious title.

Dame Berthe behaved just like her mistress; but, as the good creature had scarcely any common sense, that can very easily be understood. Isidore, since his return three days before, had never ceased to flatter her and relate long stories about Paris, principally his own inventions, but to which, nevertheless, the old governess, with eyes, ears, and mouth wide open, listened with devoted attention. So, when Solange showed such coldness to her old school-fellow, mademoiselle looked at her with anything but a gentle expression, and Dame Berthe instantly shrugged her shoulders and made big eyes at her.

But Solange remained perfectly indifferent; in the first place, because her back was turned to the ladies, and, secondly, because she worked away as though she expected to be paid a franc an hour.

Meanwhile, Pierrette and Ragaud came back from the pool Saint-Jean, where they had commenced to soak the hemp, and Jean-Louis soon followed. When they saw such fine company in the room, they all three stopped, rather ashamed of their working-clothes, which was doubtless the reason they did not observe that Jeannet, in her elegant costume, was a great contrast to them.

Ragaud, as you already know, was rather given to vain-glory, and his vanity was easily tickled. It was the only defect of this good man, but it must be acknowledged this defect clung to his heart as a tree is tied by its root to the ground; so that in Isidore Perdreau he only saw the favorable side—to wit, a young man, brought up in the capital, very rich and handsome, who could be received in the best houses, and who did not disdain to hasten to greet old friends so far beneath him. Pierrette, without further reasoning, was very sensible of what she likewise considered a great honor. So the excellent couple, whose honest souls were rather stupefied for the moment, quite overwhelmed Perdreau with the warmth of their reception, and pressed him so earnestly to repeat his visit you would really have thought they were welcoming the return of their own son.

Mademoiselle was in a gale of delight, and, when she re-entered the carriage with her attendants, the lackeys' faces were in a broad grin at seeing her so gay, and even the horses made two or three little jumps on starting, as though they, too, participated in the good-humor of their mistress.

"Well, what did I tell you?" asked mademoiselle of Isidore, who was seated opposite to her. "Is she pretty enough, well-bred enough? And, in spite of all your Parisian acquaintances, do you think she is a woman to be scorned?"

"O mademoiselle!" cried Perdreau, "she is adorable, delightful! But you brought her up; isn't that enough?"

"She will make a lovely bride," said mademoiselle; "and it will be the happiest day of my life when I shall see you both leave the church arm-in-arm."

"How becoming the wreath of orange-blossoms will be to her!" cried Dame Berthe.

"But will she have me?" asked Isidore in a hypocritical tone.

"Bah! be assured she will be most happy, and her parents immensely honored," replied mademoiselle; "besides, I have only to say a word, as you know."

"You are an angel!" said M. Perdreau, as he kissed mademoiselle's hand; "and if I had not seen you again before Jeanne Ragaud, my happiness would make me crazy. I can only say that you are the most beautiful and graceful woman in the world, and she is the second."

Poor mademoiselle, who was humpbacked and anything but handsome, and, besides, nearly thirty, smiled nevertheless at this insolent speech, so out of place from the mouth of her notary's son; so true is it that compliments are swallowed as easily as ripe strawberries, no matter how false they may be, if the mind is not properly balanced, and cannot rise above the frivolity and nonsense heard on all sides in this world.

While the carriage rolled away to the château, each one at the farm had something to say, and Perdreau was there, also, the subject of conversation.

"He is a very pleasant fellow," said good Ragaud, "not at all proud, and much better-looking than when he left home. He must have studied very hard in Paris, and his dear, good father will have a worthy successor."

"When I think," replied Pierrette, "how readily he accepted your invitation to supper, never raising the slightest difficulty, that proves he has a good heart."

"We won't know what to say to him," remarked Jeannette, "he is so much more learned than we."

"Yes, but very simple with it all," said Pierrette. "I will not be the least embarrassed. I am sure he will like to talk over all his boyish tricks and adventures—how he stole apples from Cotentin's garden, and how he would keep M. le Curé waiting when it was his turn to be altar-boy."

"He was always full of fun," replied Ragaud, "and is so still; but that is no defect."

"Oh! certainly not," cried Jeannette.

"For what evening have you invited him?" asked Jean-Louis, who had not yet expressed an opinion.

"Next Sunday," said Ragaud; "that will not take us from our work, and we can bring him back with us in the wagon after Vespers."

"What a beautiful dress you have on!" said Jeannet, looking at his sister.

"Mademoiselle gave it to me," she replied, looking down. "I put it on to receive her; but I will not wear it again."

"Until Sunday?" asked Jean-Louis.

"Certainly," said Pierrette, "Jeannette must be prettily dressed in honor of Isidore."

Jean-Louis said nothing; he walked to the window where Solange was sitting, and leaned on the back of her chair, apparently absorbed in watching her embroider.

"Jeannet," said Solange, without raising her eyes, "what do you think of all this?"

"It makes me sad," he replied.

"You have reason to feel so," said she. "That smooth-tongued Isidore has turned all their heads. Mademoiselle is even more carried away than the others; and, from the way things are going on, there will be trouble before long."

Jean-Louis sighed. As they had spoken in a low tone, and the Ragauds were conversing with Jeannette, their little conversation had not been remarked.

"Will you go home with us after Mass next Sunday?" continued Solange. "Pierre will be glad to see you, and Michou has promised to dine with us at noon, and taste our boiled corn."

"Thank you," said Jeannet, "I will go with pleasure."

This was on Tuesday; the four following days Isidore Perdreau came constantly to Muiceron, sometimes with mademoiselle, sometimes alone, and was most cordially received by the Ragauds, and Jeannette also, I regret to say.

If you are of my opinion, you will allow that nothing is pleasanter than to listen to a story when there is only question of good people and happy events. It makes our hearts glad, and we forget for a little while that life is like the clouds in the sky, streaked with white, gray, and black, and that often the dark clouds overshadow the light; but as truth must be loved above all, I am very sorry to tell you that for the present I have nothing good to relate. You must pardon me, then, if I am obliged to sadden you by the recital of sinful and criminal acts, and believe me that, if it is painful for you to have to listen to them, it is not less so for me to recount them to you.

When mademoiselle once became possessed with the charming idea of marrying her god-daughter to Isidore, never was the caprice of a woman without occupation more obstinately pursued and more firmly fastened in the very bottom of her brain. Very true, she only sought the happiness of her beloved Jeannette, and thought she had thereby secured it. She incessantly repeated to Dame Berthe that it would be the greatest misfortune if Jeannette should marry a peasant, that after all the care she had lavished upon her for ten years she could not bear to see her milking the cows, and hardening her hands by washing and working in the fields. On the other side, she would not risk the happiness of her pet by marrying her to a man she did not know; consequently, she should marry some one in the neighborhood; and Isidore was the only person around who united all the requisites desired by mademoiselle, as the other young men were only of the laboring class. She communicated her idea to M. le Marquis, who, without making any objections, thought the project might be attempted. He himself went to see M. Perdreau, the father, and announced to him his wishes upon the subject, and Isidore was immediately recalled from Paris.

Old Perdreau, the notary, passed for one of the most honest men in his profession. For thirty years M. le Marquis had closed his eyes and left him the entire control of his affairs, which, truth to say, were not very complicated, as the principal wealth of the château consisted of fertile land, woods, meadows, and vineyards, the revenues of which he received and controlled.

More than that—and this was the worst—our master made him the special confidant of his most secret expeditions. Thus, when he left home on one of his mysterious journeys, where he expected to encounter great dangers, Perdreau alone knew exactly the hiding-places of M. le Marquis, the plots that were there concocted—in a word, the great conspiracies that monsieur and his friends thought legitimate in their souls and consciences, although they could scarcely be called such in my opinion.

This was very astonishing, it must be acknowledged, as it bound M. le Marquis hand and foot to his notary. But what could you expect? My late beloved father, who had been an enthusiastic Chouan, contrary to most of the people of his province, who did not care a fig for all that fuss, said that perfectly honest souls can never think ill of any one, and that is the reason they are often duped and vilified without their even dreaming of it.

For it is time to let you know that Master Perdreau, the notary of Val-Saint, was, and had been always, the most cunning rascal, not only of our neighborhood, but of the whole country for twenty leagues around, including all the towns, little and big. His only idea was to make money, and for that he would have sold his master, his conscience—in case he had one—his best friends, his soul, and even the sacred vessels of the tabernacle. In the way of hypocrisy, deep wickedness, theft, stinginess, and falsehood he had nothing to fear from any rival, saving, perhaps, his only son, Isidore, who was rapidly learning to play the knave, and promised, with the help of the devil, to become very soon the true pendant of monsieur, his father.

In order to perfect this shameful education, Isidore had finished his studies in Paris, and Master Perdreau, I need not say, had chosen a college for him where he would neither learn virtue nor the fear of God.

For the consolation of good people, evil-doers seldom profit by their crimes. Thus, at this period of our story, Master Perdreau was on the eve of reaping the fruits of thirty years of criminal conduct, and it was precisely the opposite of what he had sought all his life that was about to happen to him.

Holding in his hand the secrets of M. le Marquis, he had used them to obtain large sums from the poor deluded man, under the pretence of advancing his interests; and with this money, added to other thefts, he had first supplied his son with means for continuing his dissipation in Paris, and then speculated so often and so well in a place not very Christian—called, I believe, the Exchange—that he had nothing left he could call his own but his little country office and debts enough to drive him crazy. Judge, then, if he thought himself favored by fortune when M. le Marquis came and proposed Jeanne Ragaud to him for daughter-in-law. Never did a drowning man grasp more eagerly at the plank held out to keep him from death. The girl's fortune was well known. Muiceron and the adjoining property was worth at least one hundred thousand francs; and to rightly estimate the money good Ragaud laid by every year, one would have to count on his fingers a tolerably long while. Further, Jeannette was an extremely pretty girl, brought up as a young lady, and there was no doubt her godmother would leave her—perhaps might give her at her marriage—a very handsome present. All being thus arranged to the satisfaction of this scoundrel of a notary, he had only to rub his hands and chuckle at the idea of having fooled everybody during his whole life.

I will not sadden you by relating what was the conversation on the subject between father and son on the evening of Isidore's arrival in the village, and the means which they proposed to accomplish their ends, which was to wheedle old Ragaud into giving up all the property to his daughter, only reserving for himself a modest annuity. As for the shameful way in which these arrant swindlers held up to ridicule M. le Marquis, whom they called "old fool," and mademoiselle, whom they stigmatized as the "yellow dwarf," on account of her crooked figure, it would make me sick to relate all they said. However, in saying that Perdreau deceived everybody, I have rather exaggerated, for two men in the village saw through his villany, and, thank God, they were two of the most worthy—namely, Jacques Michou, and our dear, holy curé. The first, who, as you know, had never been drawn into the promising conspiracies of his good lord, had always suspected Perdreau for catching so readily at the alluring bait. He had watched him closely, and, to fully unravel his plans, pretended to become very intimate with M. Riponin, the steward, who was scarcely any better than the notary, but who owed Perdreau a grudge for his having duped him in some knavish trick they undertook together. Since then, Michou, who knew how to play one against the other, in order to serve his master, made one thief steal from the other, and fully succeeded in his design. As for our curé, he knew both the good and the bad, and looked out for a squall. The great misfortune was that mademoiselle was so fully possessed with her idea of the marriage she neglected to consult him and ask his advice.

Alas! I am bound now to avow that poor little Jeannette, whose sin was more of the head than the heart, allowed herself to be very quickly caught in the net held out to her. Never did a giddy, inconstant little fish make the leap as willingly as she. In a village marriages are soon arranged. The parties are supposed to be well acquainted. At the first proposition, when the interests agree, they have only to say yes; and so it happened no later than the second Sunday after the arrival of Isidore Perdreau.

Every one assisted to hurry up the affair with lightning speed. Jeanne solemnly believed all the nonsense poured into her ear by Isidore, thought herself adored by him, and regarded him as infinitely superior to all other men in style, manner, and fine speeches. Ragaud and Pierrette were puffed up with pride; monsieur and mademoiselle did not conceal their satisfaction; and the people around, with the sole exception of Michou, who was looked upon as a cross, peevish old fellow, hastened to congratulate the fortunate couple.

Sickness was no longer thought of. Jeannette, happy and triumphant, rapidly regained her strength. The poor silly child only thought of her new dresses and of the promised visit to Paris after her marriage, the delights of which Isidore dwelt upon in glowing terms, which would have turned a stronger head than hers. Never, in fact, did a family rush blindfolded and more willingly into a bottomless abyss.

However, there was one person at Muiceron whose presence tormented M. Isidore, and whom he had hated from the first day. You can guess it was Jean-Louis. Each time that he entered the house and saw that tall figure, the face pale and serious, silently seated in a corner, the only one who did not receive him with joy, his eyes flashed with anger, and he would turn his back on him in the most contemptuous manner—something which the Ragauds would certainly have resented in any one else; but the poor people were so bewitched they were unjust enough to be angry with Jean-Louis, and even to fancy that he was jealous, whilst he was only very properly grieved at what had happened.

His life had become very different. No more friendly talks, no more watching for him, no more tender caresses; not that they had ceased to love him, but there was no time for these innocent family recreations, and, besides, it would have embarrassed them to make a display of affection before M. Isidore, who thought all such country performances beneath him. Poor Jean-Louis, who for so many years had always entered Muiceron with joyful heart at the thought of embracing his dear mother, now came in with sad and troubled brow. Pierrette always appeared busy and worried. She would rapidly say "good-evening" in reply to Jeannet's gentle salutation whispered in her ear, and immediately go on with her work; for there were always sauce-pans to overlook, or orders to give to Marion, who was not the least bewildered of them all. As for Jeannette, the cold manner in which Jean-Louis always treated her intended, and, above all, the wicked insinuations Isidore made against him, aroused her displeasure; and, if Pierrette was always absorbed in her household cares, Jeannette pained him still more by her frigid manner, bordering on sullenness.

Jean-Louis felt all this most keenly. He was not a person who liked to complain or ask explanations; besides, what would he have gained by it? He knew too well the reason of their conduct to be obliged to ask why. In a moment he could have changed all by appearing as delighted as the rest; but that was precisely what he would not do. In truth, when we see those we love at the point of drowning, how can we applaud?

Still worse was it when the family circle of Muiceron was increased by the presence of old Perdreau, who nearly every evening showed his weasel-face at the table, and drank with great friendliness to the health of the good people whose ruin he was mercilessly plotting. Jean-Louis two or three times bore it patiently; then he felt he could take himself off, and be missed by no one; so one fine evening he mustered up courage, left the farm before supper, and went off to the house of his friends, the Luguets.

As usual, he found the little house quiet, clean, and shining with neatness. Pierre was reading aloud the life of a saint, while Solange, always employed, was sewing by the lamp. Their old parents and Jacques Michou, seated around the fire, listened in silence, and the dog lay snoring on the warm hearth-stones. Jeannet on entering motioned with his hand for them not to stir, and seated himself by Solange, who nodded to him.

"My friends," said Jean-Louis when the reading was over, "I have come to ask for my supper this evening, and perhaps I may again to-morrow."

"Whenever you please, my boy," said Luguet.

"Things don't please you at Muiceron, eh?" asked Michou.

"Ah!" replied Jeannet sadly, "perhaps I am unjust and wrong; but I cannot bring myself to help in that marriage."

"What difference does it make to you?" said Pierre; "when people are possessed, they will do as they please. You are too sensitive, Jean; after all, you will not have to marry Perdreau."

"I am so sure," replied Jeannet, "that poor child will be unhappy."

"No one forces her!" said Pierre. "She wishes it, so do the Ragauds, so do M. le Marquis and mademoiselle. All agree; well, then, let them run the risk!"

"Be still, Pierre," said Solange; "you speak as though you had no heart. Remember that Jeannette has been from her infancy like a sister to Jean-Louis; would you like to see me marry Isidore?"

"Ah!" cried Pierre, "I would sooner cut his throat; but you are not like Jeannette."

"Don't say anything against her," replied good Solange with warmth. "She is the best girl in the world; and because her head is rather light and giddy, that does not prevent her having an excellent heart. I understand Jean-Louis' feelings, for, certainly, Isidore Perdreau's reputation is not very good. But who knows? Perhaps, when he is married and settles down, he may make Jeannette a good husband."

"Thank you, Solange," said Jeannet, taking her hand, "it is so kind in you to defend her; it makes me feel happy. If I could only show a little friendship for Isidore, I think I would be less miserable; but I cannot conquer myself; I cannot change...."

"It is not worth while trying to do it, boy," said Michou; "when we see misfortune coming, and cannot prevent it, the best we can do is to keep at a distance, and not meddle."

"Then, M. Michou, you really think trouble will come of it?" asked Jeannet.

"Yes, my son, such overwhelming trouble," answered the game-keeper, "that until the day I see them standing before the mayor and the curé, I shall hope the good God will work a miracle to prevent it. The Ragauds at present are like men who have taken too much brandy—that is to say, they are as tipsy as a beggar after the vintage. They can neither hear nor understand. But mind what I say; you others who are in your senses. I will tell you what sort of men they are, that infamous notary and his rascal of a son, and then you will see whether Jean-Louis is right or wrong."

Thereupon he recounted to his astonished friends what we already know, but went into greater details than I have thought necessary.

"We can only pray to God," said Solange when he had ended. "Alas! poor Jeannette, what will become of her? M. Michou, you must warn the Ragauds."

"You think that would be easy?" said Michou. "In the first place, they would not believe me. Monsieur and mademoiselle would be indignant. The Perdreaux are too thorough scoundrels not to have at hand a crowd of proofs and protestations which would make them appear as white as snow. Every one is against us, up to that obstinate Jeannette, who is dead in love with Isidore, so they say—hare-brained little fool!"

"It is only too true," said Jeannet, much overcome.

"As for you," resumed Michou, "in consequence of your peculiar position, you can say less than any one else; but if I were in your place, I would not remain an indifferent spectator of such a sad affair."

"What can I do?" said Jeannet. "How can I abandon them?"

"Come and stay with me a while. I am clearing a part of the wood; you can overlook the workmen, and we can manage to keep house with Barbette, if you are not very difficult to please about the cooking."

"Oh! I would like it very much, M. Michou, and you will do me a great favor. But I must ask my father about it; will you see him, and get his consent?"

"To-morrow we will have it all arranged," replied Michou.

"Jeannet," said Solange, "the wood of Val-Saint is not very far from here; when your day's work is over, you must remember there is always a place at our table for a friend. Come, and we will console you. Don't worry yourself too much about all this affair; often the storm is so terrible we expect every moment to be struck with lightning, and then the clouds break, the sky clears, and, after all the fright, nobody is killed."

Jean-Louis, notwithstanding his sadness, could not help smiling at these hopeful words, spoken by this good and beautiful girl, so reasonable in all things, and still always so cheerful. He pressed her hand, and helped her set the table for supper. Michou, reflecting on these words of Solange, wisely remarked that the future being in the hands of God, who always concealed it from us through mercy or to grant us agreeable surprises, it was unbecoming in us to torment ourselves too much about it.

At which speech good Pierre, who never liked trouble, loudly applauded; and then, the repast being served, all sat down to table, and, while eating, conversed on various topics not the least connected with Muiceron.

XV.

According to his promise, Michou the next day paid an early visit to the Ragauds, accompanied by his old blackened pipe, which he always kept firmly between his teeth when he feared he might become impatient or angry in conversation. He said that, without it, the big words would rush out of his mouth before he had time to prevent them; but that, with it, while he smoked, shook it, or relighted it, he regained his composure, and gathered time to arrange his ideas. And never was puffer—as he called his pipe—more necessary than on this visit to Muiceron. Seeing his friends on the point of throwing themselves into the enemy's clutches, and knowing that remonstrance would avail nothing, he felt that anger and sorrow might carry him to any extremity—in words only, let it be well understood.

He found Ragaud seated before the door, shelling gray peas, while Pierrette was washing dishes; for, since she had commenced to feed the Perdreaux, all the crockery was in use, and they went to bed so late half the work remained for next day.

"I wish you good-morning," said Michou to his friends. "I see you are very busy, but I have only come to remain a few moments."

"Come in," said Pierrette.

"No, I prefer to remain outside," replied Michou. "I like the fresh air. Ragaud, do you feel inclined to do me a favor?"

"What a question!" said the good man. "I am always ready for that, my old friend."

"Thank you, it is not a very great request. Can you spare me Jean-Louis for a fortnight? I have twenty men at work in the wood of Montreux, and no one to oversee them. The young fellow can help me a great deal."

"Very willingly," said Ragaud; "the hemp is nearly ready, and I do not want Jeannet just now."

"He will take his meals with me," replied Michou, "and sleep at my house the nights. He will be obliged to work late; so you need not be uneasy if he does not return home sometimes."

"Agreed," said Ragaud. "Do you employ the wood-cutters of the neighborhood?"

"Deuce take it, no!" replied Michou. "I hire them right and left, and truly they are the stupidest asses. The way they talk makes one's hair stand up under his cap."

"Bah! what do they say?"

"Devilish nonsense! Why, they talk of nothing but revolution, overthrowing everything and everybody, massacring the nobility, and theft. I remember how my father, long ago, told me about the people before the Reign of Terror, and I imagine these men must be something of the same stamp. Some of them disappear sometimes; when they return, they speak in whispers, and, when I order them to go to work, you should see the way they glare at me. It is very well I don't know what fear means; but, reinforced by Jeannet, all will go well."

"Take him right away," said Ragaud; "and if he is not enough, well, send for me; I will give you a helping hand."

"You?" replied Michou, who commenced to mumble over his pipe. "You are too busy in this house with the wedding."

"Oh! it is not going to be to-morrow," said Ragaud; "the day of betrothal is not yet fixed. I leave all that to good M. Perdreau. He is taking a great deal of trouble; and I am glad he is, for I know precious little about legal matters."

"So, then, you don't bother yourself with anything?—very pretty conduct on your part."

"What should I do?" asked Ragaud innocently. "Each one has his part to play. M. Perdreau was brought up among books, and I at the plough. When he has the papers ready, he will tell me where to sign my name."

"And you will sign it?"

"Undoubtedly, after he has read them to me."

"All very nice," said Michou. "If I were in your place, I would sign without reading them; it would be more stupid...."

"What do you say?" asked Ragaud.

"I say," replied Jacques, "if you will allow me to offer a word of advice, you will not only make them read your daughter's marriage contract to you, but also have it read to others—to M. le Curé, for example; he is learned also—that he is."

"That would be insulting to M. Perdreau."

"Not at all. Two such learned men would soon understand each other. After all, you know, you must do as you think best. Good-morning! Thank you for Jean-Louis; send him to me quickly. I must hurry off to my rascally wood-cutters in the wood of Montreux."

And the game-keeper turned his back without waiting for an answer, puffing away at his pipe so tremendously his cap was in a cloud of smoke.

Ragaud continued to shell his peas, but it was easy to see he felt rather anxious. Nevertheless, when he had ended his work, he re-entered the house without showing any discomposure.

Jean-Louis left home that morning to spend a fortnight with Michou, depressed in spirits, but still hoping the best. On passing through Val-Saint, he stopped at M. le Curé's, who confirmed all that Michou had said about the Perdreaux. That dear, good man was much distressed, but could not think of any remedy for the evil; but he promised Jeannet to say Mass for the family, and highly approved of his leaving Muiceron for a time.

Meanwhile, the Ragauds acted as though they were bewitched. During the first week after the departure of Jeannet, his name was scarcely mentioned, even by Pierrette. They appeared to have lost all recollection of the services the excellent-hearted boy had rendered his adopted parents. No one thought of him or noticed him when he returned sometimes late at night from his hard day's work; and, had it not been for the good Luguets, poor Jean-Louis would have been as isolated in the world as if he had been brought up in a foundling asylum—his first destination. But God did not abandon him, and, although always very sad, he did not lose courage. Every evening, whether he returned or not to Muiceron, he visited his friends, and there, with Pierre and Solange, he recovered his good-humor, or at least maintained his gentleness and resignation. His friendship for Solange increased day by day. He suspected nothing, nor she either; for although very friendly and intimate, they only felt toward each other like brother and sister. However, all was known in the village—better, perhaps, than elsewhere—and the gossips commenced to say that the devout Solange jumped at marriage as quickly as any other girl. Several of the girls even commenced to tease her about him; all of which she received gently, and smiled without being displeased, contenting herself with the remark that, after all, she might choose worse; and her work was continued more faithfully than ever.

One evening, when Pierre and his parents remained rather late at the fair at Andrieux, which is three good leagues from Ordonniers, and which is only reached by roads very difficult to travel in the bad season, Jeannet, as usual, went to the Luguets, and was surprised to find Solange all alone. She blushed slightly when she saw him, not from embarrassment, however, but only, I imagine, because she remembered the reports that were circulating in the village. Jeannet took his usual seat, which was always near hers. The month of November was nearly ended, and that morning Michou had told Jean-Louis that Jeannette's betrothal would take place a little before Christmas, and the marriage soon after. The poor fellow was overwhelmed with sorrow; he poured all his grief into Solange's ear, and so great was his confidence in her that he allowed himself to weep in her presence.

"You have lost your courage and become thoroughly hopeless," said Solange gently. "I don't like that in a man, still less in a Christian."

"How can I help it? Am I made of stone?" replied Jeannet, his head buried in his hands. "Alas! alas! Solange, I believed your words. I thought that God would have mercy on us, and that this unfortunate marriage would not take place."

"I don't see that it has yet," replied Solange. "In the first place, they only speak of signing the contract a month from now, and up to then the mill will turn more than once; and, after all, does not God know better than we what is good for us, poor blind things that we are?"

"That is true; but to see Jeannette the wife of that man, without faith or fear of God or law; to see my old father and dear, good mother reduced to want; to be obliged to leave the country, and never see Muiceron again! For think, Solange, that Jeannette, when she signs her marriage contract, will know that I am not her brother! I will not wait to be told that my place is outside of the house. God knows I have worked for my parents, and their tenderness never humiliated me, but to receive a benefit from Isidore—no, never!" cried Jean-Louis, raising his eyes that flashed with honest pride.

"You are right in that," said Solange quietly; "but listen a moment, ... and first sit down there," she added, gently placing her hand on his arm. "Come to your senses. There, now, can you yet listen patiently to me?"

"Go on," said Jean-Louis obediently; "you need not talk long to calm me."

"Well," resumed Solange, resting her elbow on the table in such a manner that her sweet face nearly touched Jeannet's shoulder, "I will repeat again that the story is not yet ended; but as this good reason is not weighty enough for your excited brain, I beg you will tell me why you think Jeannette will despise you when she will learn that you are not her brother."

"But how can you expect it to be otherwise, my dear friend? Is it not against me that I seem to be installed in her house for life? that I have had half the hearts of her parents? Do you think that Isidore, who detests me, will not tell a thousand falsehoods to prejudice her against me? Ah! Solange, I have suffered terribly during the last month; but to see Jeannette regard me as an intruder; to have her crush me with her scorn, and make me feel that I am a foundling, picked up from the gutter—it is beyond all human strength, and the good God will not compel me to endure such agony. I will not expose myself to such a trial."

"But what can you do? You cannot get work in the country without running the risk of meeting her at every turn."

"I will manage it," said Jean-Louis. "France is a kind mother, Solange, and has never refused food to one of her sons, even though he had no name but the one given in baptism. I know that my dear father intended to procure a substitute for me; but, in the present situation, I can no longer accept a cent of Jeannette's inheritance, which will one day be Isidore's."

"Good," said Solange. "But wait another moment. All this is still in the future, since you can only be drawn next year; so put that aside. I will only say that you have spoken like a good-hearted fellow, for which I don't compliment you, as I knew you were that before. But, to return to what we were speaking of, why do you think you will be scorned by Jeannette? Come, now, tell me all. You love the little thing? and ... more than a brother loves a sister?"

"Ah!" cried Jeannet, hiding his face, which he felt crimsoning, like a young girl surprised, "you drag the last secret from my heart. Yes, I love her, I love her to madness, and that adds to the bitterness of my despair. May God pardon me! I have already confessed it, but with my great sorrow is mingled a wicked sentiment. Solange! I am jealous; I know it well. What can you expect? I was so before I knew it, and I cannot drive it from me. Did I ever feel that she was not my sister? No, not once until the day that there was question of her marriage; and yet," added he clasping his hands, "God, who hears me, knows that if she had chosen one worthy of her, I would have had the strength to conquer it for the sake of her happiness. But so many misfortunes have made me what I am, and—what I only avow to you—incapable of surmounting my jealousy and dislike."

While he spoke thus, beautiful Solange smiled, not like a scornful woman, who has no pity for feelings to which she is insensible, but like a mother who is sure of consoling her sick child. Her clear, tranquil eyes rested upon Jean-Louis, who gradually raised his, that he might look at her in his turn; for everything about this girl of twenty years was so gentle and calm, and at the same time so good, one always expected to receive consolation from her.

"You wish to scold me?" said Jean-Louis. "If so, do it without fear, if you think I am in fault."

"Not at all," she replied; "there is nothing wrong in what you have confided to me, Jeannet. I pity you with my whole heart, only I scarcely understand you."

"Why so, Solange? You are, however, very kind, and certainly have a heart."

"I hope so," said she; "but when a creature is loved so dearly, she should be esteemed in every respect."

"Don't I esteem Jeannette? O Solange! why do you say that?"

"But I only repeat what you first said, my child," she replied in her maternal tone, which was very sweet in that young mouth. "You think her capable of despising you, and imagine that she will disdain you when she learns the misfortune of your birth; therefore, you do not esteem her, and so, I repeat, I can't understand such great affection."

"You can reason very coolly about it," said Jeannet; "but if your soul were troubled like mine, you would not see so clearly to the bottom of things."

"It is precisely because you are so troubled that the good God permits this conversation to-night," she replied. "Let me tell you now why I still hope. Jeannette at this moment sins by the head, but her heart is untouched; and here is the proof: the secret you so dread her knowing she has known as well as either of us for more than three months. Have you seen any change in her manner?"

"Oh! is it possible?" cried Jeannet. "And who told her?"

"I myself," answered Solange. "She had heard at the château some words dropped by Dame Berthe, which excited her curiosity. After her sickness, when I went to stay with her, she one day asked an explanation of her doubts; and as I feared, if she questioned others, she would not be properly answered, I told her all."

"You did right; and what was her reply?"

"She threw herself in my arms, and thanked me," said Solange. "For more than an hour she spoke of her great affection for you, which time had augmented instead of diminishing. She wept for your misfortune, and thanked God that her parents had acted so well, as by that act they had given her a brother; and never did I see her so gentle, tender, and kind. She made me promise I would never tell you that she knew your secret; but the poor child did not then foresee the necessity that compels me to speak to-night on account of your wicked thoughts."

"Dear, dear Jeannette!" said Jean-Louis, with tears in his eyes.

"I have heard lately," continued Solange, "that she came near sending off Isidore, because he presumed, thinking she knew nothing, to make some allusion to the subject. She declared that she considered you her brother, and those who wished to be friends of hers must think the same."

"Say no more," said Jeannet. "I will love her more than ever."

"No," replied she, "it is useless. Only don't despair. Take courage, for there is always hope when the heart is good; and the moment this poor child, who is now acting without reflection, will know she should despise Isidore, she will dismiss him and drive him away as she would a dangerous animal."

"But will she ever know it?" said Jean-Louis.

"Hope in God," replied the pious girl. "Has he ever yet abandoned you?"

"Beg him to make me as confident as you," said he, looking at her with admiration. "What good you do me! How can I repay you, Solange, for such kind words?"

"Perhaps," said she seriously—"perhaps, one day, I may ask you to do me a great service."

"Really! Let me know it now. I will be so happy to serve you."

"Yes? Well, then, I will," replied Solange, after a moment's hesitation. "You have laid bare your heart to me; I will return your confidence. Jean-Louis, I also have a secret love in my soul, and I will die if I do not obtain what I desire."

"You!" said Jeannet, astonished; "you, dear Solange! I always thought you so quiet and so happy in your life."

"It is true," said she, sighing. "I look so, because I cannot let people see what they could not understand. But with you, Jean-Louis, it is different; I can tell you everything."

"I hope, at least," said Jeannet, smiling, "that he whom you love is worthy of your esteem."

"Oh! yes," she replied, crossing her arms on her breast, while her pale, beautiful face crimsoned with fervor—"oh! yes, for he whom I love is the Lord our God. I wish to be a Sister of Charity, Jeannet, and until then there will be no happiness on earth for me."

Jean-Louis for a moment was dumb with surprise at this avowal; then he knelt before her, and kissed her hands.

"I might have suspected it," said he, much moved; "you were not made to live the ordinary life of the world. God bless you, dear Solange, and may his holy angels accompany you! But what can I do to aid you in your holy wishes?"

"Much," she replied; "you can inform my parents, and afterwards console them; reason with Pierre, who will be half crazy when he hears of my departure; and perhaps you can even accompany me to Paris, for I am afraid to go alone. I have never been away from home, and I would not dare venture on that long journey."

"But, dear Solange, you will need a great deal of money for that."

"Oh!" said she, laughing, "do you think me a child? For two years I have deprived myself of everything, and I have more than enough. See," she added, opening a little box, which she kept hidden under a plaster statue of the Blessed Virgin, which stood near her bed. "Count!"

"Three hundred francs!" said Jeannet, after having counted; "and ten, and twenty, and thirty more—three hundred and sixty, besides the change. There are nearly four hundred francs."

"There will be when I am paid for what I am now embroidering," said she. "Is that enough?"

"Ten times too much," replied Jeannet. "Poor dear Solange! what happiness to think that I shall see you until the last moment!"

"And afterwards again," said she gaily; "the white cornets are made to go over the world. We will meet again, don't fear!"

It is truly said that example is better than precept. Jean-Louis became a man again before that beautiful and pious girl, so brave and so good. His heart was comforted, his soul strengthened. He would have blushed now to weep about his sorrows, when Solange was about to sacrifice her whole life to the sorrows of others. She commenced to play her part of Sister of Charity with him, and God doubtless already blessed her; for never did balm poured into a wound produce a more instant effect.

They finished their little arrangements just as the Luguets returned home. Pierre was rather gay, as he could not go to the fair without drinking with his friends; and when a man's ordinary drink is water colored with the skins of grapes, half a pint is enough to make him feel jolly.

Therefore, when he found Solange and Jeannet in conversation, looking rather more serious than usual, he commenced to look very wise, whistled, winking from one to the other, to let them know he understood what was going on. Jean-Louis was seated near the fire, and pondered over the mutual confidences made that evening. He paid little attention to Pierre's manœuvres; but Solange saw them, and, while laying the cloth for supper, begged her brother to explain, in good French what was on his mind.

"Yes, yes, my pretty one!" said he, trying to put his arm around her waist, something which she did not permit even in him; "we know something about you."

"Nothing very bad," she replied, laughing; "here I am before you in flesh and blood, and you see I am not at all sick."

"Don't be so sly," he answered; "this is not the time. We returned from the fair with lots of acquaintances, and every one told us you were going to be married, and that your bans would be published next Sunday."

"It is rather too soon," said Solange quietly; "the consent of the parents will be needed, and I don't know yet whether it will be given. And to whom shall I be married? Those people who are so well informed should have told you that."

Thereupon Pierre, without answering, struck Jean-Louis on the shoulder.

"Look up, sleepy-head!" cried he in his ear. "Can you tell me who is going to marry my sister Solange?"

"Who? What?" answered Jeannet, like one coming out of a dream. "What are you talking about?"

"I say that you and Solange can keep a secret famously," said he, rather spitefully. "It is well to keep it secret, when you are only thinking of marriage, and I don't object to your first arranging it between yourselves; but now that everybody knows it except us, it is rather provoking for the family."

"You are crazy," said Jean-Louis.

"A big baby, at least," said Solange, shrugging her shoulders.

"All very well," said Pierre; "we know what we know. We say nothing further. When you choose to speak of your affairs, well, we will be ready to listen to you."

Jeannet was about to reply, but Luguet and his wife, who all this while had been in the barn, giving a look at the cattle, to see that all was safe for the night, re-entered the room, and Solange motioned to Jean-Louis not to continue such a useless conversation before her parents.

But whether Pierre was more obstinate than usual that night on account of the wine in his head, or whether his great friendship for Jeannet inflamed his desire for the alliance, certain it is he would not give up his belief in the approaching marriage, and continued throughout supper to make jokes and clack his wooden shoes underneath the table; in fact, he acted like a boy who is sure of his facts and loves to torment people. Jean-Louis several times was on the point of telling him to be quiet, but Solange, with her gentle smiles, always prevented him.

You can well perceive this confirmed Pierre in his belief that they understood each other, as honest lovers have the right to do; so that, if he was a little doubtful on his return from the fair, he was no longer so at the end of the supper, and went to bed so firmly persuaded that he would soon have Jeannet for brother-in-law, they could easier have cut off his right hand than make him believe to the contrary.

TO BE CONTINUED.

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EPIGRAM.
TO DOMITIAN, CONCERNING S. JOHN, COMMANDED TO BE CAST INTO A CALDRON OF BURNING OIL.

Thou go unpunish'd? That shall never be,
Since thou hast dar'd to mock the gods and me.
Burn him in oil!—The lictor oil prepares:
Behold the saint anointed unawares!
With such elusive virtue was the oil fraught!
Such aid thy olive-loving Pallas brought![198]

—Crashaw.

FOOTNOTES:

[198] The allusion is to wrestlers anointing themselves to prevent their adversaries grasping them.

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NANO NAGLE:
FOUNDRESS OF THE PRESENTATION ORDER.

There is no fact more apparent or more full of significance in the history of the church than the constant acting and reacting upon each other of races and nations in the perpetual struggle between civilization and religion with barbarism and infidelity, light with darkness. While the faith seems dimmed and its professors the victims of persecution in one land, in another the torch of learning and piety is slowly but surely kindling into brilliancy, and the ardor of apostolic zeal is being awakened, even by the supineness and apostasy of its neighbors. That this should be permitted or ordained by divine Providence is a mystery to all, but its effects can easily be perceived by any ordinary student of history.

For proof of this mutation and transition we need not go beyond our own day and generation. Europe of the XIXth century presents a spectacle, if not alarming, at least discouraging to many who have the cause of Christianity sincerely at heart. In one country we perceive a direct attack on the Sovereign Pontiff, wholesale spoliation of his temporal possessions, restriction of his personal liberty, and a general onslaught on the religious orders—those most efficient agents for the propagation of morality, charity, and intelligence—which surround him—and that, too, by a prince of Catholic origin and education, who claims the right to govern twenty millions of subjects. In another we have a stolid, sordid imperator, instigated by a more intellectual but not less arbitrary minister, not only claiming complete dominion over the lives and property of twice that number, but assuming also the right to dictate the terms upon which they shall worship their Maker, what shall be their faith, and who may be their teachers and guides in the way of salvation.

Again, in such countries as Austria, France, Spain, and Belgium, until very recently considered the bulwarks of Catholicity on the Continent, indifferentism, communism, and open infidelity, if not yet triumphant, have certainly of late made rapid strides towards power and authority, and to the human eye seriously threaten the very existence of society, of all order and all law, human and divine, in those distracted nations. And still, a prospect such as Europe now presents, though seemingly gloomy, is actually full of hope and promise. While the hitherto supine Catholics of the Italian peninsula are being aroused into earnestness by the outrages daily perpetrated on the Holy Father and the religious orders, and their co-religionists of Germany are forming themselves into a solid, compact, and energetic array in defence of their rights, elsewhere the cause of the church is progressing with a rapidity and uniformity that equally astonishes and alarms her enemies.

Take our own republic, for example, with its seven archbishops, its forty-nine bishops, thousands of priests, and millions of earnest and obedient spiritual children, where a century ago a priest was an object of curiosity to most of the people, and a Catholic was generally regarded with less favor than is now shown the Chinese idolaters. Now, what has wrought this change; what has scattered broadcast over this vast continent, and engrafted in the heart of our vigorous young republic the doctrines of the church, but the persecutions which our co-religionists have endured and are still enduring, in the Old World? To the irreligious maniacs of the French Revolution, to the penal code of Great Britain, and now to the mendacity of Victor Emanuel and the truculent tyranny of Bismarck, are we mainly indebted, under Providence, for the origin, growth, and increase of Catholicity among us. Like a subterranean fire, the spirit of the church can never be repressed. Subdued in one place, it will burst forth in another with redoubled force, intensified by the very attempts made to confine it.

Then let us look at England—England which among the nations was the land of the Reformation; who not only stoned the prophets, but whose annals for nearly three centuries are the most anti-Catholic and intolerant to be found in the records of modern history. She, also, as in the early ages of her conversion, felt the effect of continental barbarism and persecution. At the very time when the faith seemed to have been utterly extirpated within her boundaries, the French Revolution drove to her shores many Catholics, lay and clerical, of gentle birth, cultivated manners, and varied accomplishments, and to those exiles does she owe primarily the revival in her bosom of the religion planted by S. Augustine. She has now sixteen archbishops and bishops, sixteen hundred priests, over one thousand places of worship, where assemble large congregations, including many of the most eminent and distinguished of her sons.

The Catholics of Ireland, always true to the faith and loyal to the head of the church, were common sufferers with their co-religionists across the Channel, and, though in a different manner and at an earlier period, they were equally the gainers with those of England, and from causes almost similar. The property of that cruelly tried people was not only confiscated by the penal laws, their clergy outlawed, and their persons subjected to all sorts of pains and penalties, but they were denied the poor privilege of acquiring the principles of the commonest education. The consequences of such persecution, continued generation after generation, were what might have been, and no doubt was, expected to be—that the people, persistently refusing to yield to cajolery or threats in matters of conscience, within two centuries after the "Reformation" had almost universally sunk into abject poverty and secular ignorance. In fact, had it not been for their traditional knowledge of the great truths of religion, and the instruction sometimes stealthily given them by some fugitive priest in remote mountains and the fastnesses of the bogs, they must inevitably have degenerated into something like primitive barbarism.

However, such an anomalous state as this could not last for ever. All Christendom was about to cry out against it, and an incident occurred in 1745, under the administration of the celebrated Lord Chesterfield, which awakened at home general attention to the wretched manner in which four-fifths of the inhabitants of the country were obliged to worship their Creator. It happened that in that year a small congregation was assembled secretly in an old store, in an obscure part of Dublin, to hear Mass, when the floor gave way, and the entire body was precipitated to the ground below. F. Fitzgerald, the celebrant, and nine of his parishioners, were killed, and several others severely injured. The viceroy, who, whatever may have been his other faults, was certainly less bigoted than his predecessors, thereupon took the responsibility of allowing the Catholics, under certain restrictions, to open their chapels, and worship in public. This limited concession was the commencement of a new era in the affairs of the Irish Catholics. The number of priests began to increase; churches, rude and small of necessity, sprang up here and there, generally in secluded localities, as if afraid to show themselves; and incipient efforts for the education of the masses of both sexes were soon noticed.

In this latter great work of benevolence the most zealous and efficient was the lady whose name heads this article. She seems to have been endowed by Providence with all the gifts, mental and moral, necessary to constitute her the pioneer of that host of noble women who, since her time to the present, have devoted themselves to the education and training of the females of Ireland. Born of an ancient and thoroughly Catholic family of considerable wealth and wide popular influence, she grew up amid home scenes of comfort, peace, and charity, a devout believer in the sanctity of religion, and in perfect accord with the instructions of indulgent but watchful parents. The position her father held among his poorer and less fortunate neighbors, his charity to the needy, and his protection to the helpless, afforded her, even in her extreme youth, many opportunities of studying the wants of the distressed, and of sympathizing with their afflictions: principles which, then perhaps nourished in her heart unconsciously, were in after-years destined to grow and fructify into those nobler deeds of charity that have made her memory so cherished and revered.

Honora, or, as her friends and beneficiaries loved to call her, Nano Nagle, was the daughter of a gentleman named Garret Nagle, of Ballygriffin, near Mallow, in the county of Cork, where she was born A.D. 1728. Through both parents she was related, not only to many of the old Catholic houses, but to several of the most influential Protestant families in the South; which is only worthy of remark as furnishing a clew to the fact of her parents' wealth and social standing in times when those of the proscribed religion were not only disqualified from accumulating or holding property in their own right, but were personally objects of contempt and contumely to the dominant class. It may also, perhaps, account for the impunity with which Mr. Nagle, despite the numerous statutory enactments, was enabled to send his favorite child to the Continent to complete an education the rudiments only of which could be obtained in the privacy of her family.

Accordingly, at an early age, Nano quitted her pleasant and cheerful home by the Blackwater for the retirement and austerity of a convent on the banks of the Seine, in which institution she acquired all the accomplishments and graces then considered befitting a young lady of position.

Having entered school a mere girl from a remote part of a semi-civilized country, untutored, undeveloped, and, it is even said, a little petulant and self-willed, she now, at her twenty-first year, emerged from the shadow of the convent walls into the sunshine of Parisian life, an educated, beautiful, and self-sustained woman. Her family had many friends in the French capital, particularly in the households of the Irish Brigade officers and other Catholic exiles, and her entrance into the best society was unimpeded, and was even signalized by rare scenes of festivity and mutual gratification. Her native naïveté and buoyancy of spirits, tempered with all the well-bred courtesy and dignity of a French education under the old régime, made her a general favorite; and though it does not appear that she was in the least spoiled by the admiration and adulation that everywhere awaited her, there is little doubt that she participated in the fashionable dissipations of the gay capital with all the ardor and impetuosity latent in her disposition. Admitted to such scenes, it is little wonder that for a time she forgot the land of her birth, its persecutions and tribulations, its degraded peasantry and timid and degenerate aristocracy. One so young and so capable of appreciating the refinements and elegancies of the most cultured city in Europe, might well have been excused if she found it difficult to exchange them for the obscurity and monotony of a remote provincial town.

But the spell which at this time bound her was soon to be broken. The still, small voice of duty and conscience was soon to find a tongue and speak to her soul with the force almost of inspiration. The circumstances of this radical change in her life are thus graphically described in a very valuable book recently published:

"In the small, early hours of a spring morning of the year 1750, a heavy, lumbering carriage rolled over the uneven pavement of the quartier Saint Germain of the French capital, awakening the echoes of the still sleeping city. The beams of the rising sun had not yet struggled over the horizon to light up the spires and towers and lofty housetops, but the cold, gray dawn was far advanced. The occupants of the carriage were an Irish young lady of two-and twenty, and her chaperon, a French lady, both fatigued and listlessly reclining in their respective corners. They had lately formed part of a gay and glittering crowd in one of the most fashionable Parisian salons. As they moved onward, each communing with her own thoughts, in all probability reverting to the brilliant scene they had just left, and anticipating the recurrence of many more such, the young lady's attention was suddenly attracted by a crowd of poor people standing at the yet unopened door of a parish church. They were work-people, waiting for admission by the porter, in order to hear Mass before they entered on their day's work.

"The young lady was forcibly struck. She reflected on the hard lot of those children of toil, their meagre fare, their wretched dwellings, their scanty clothing, their constant struggle to preserve themselves and their families even in this humble position—a struggle in many a case unavailing; for sickness, or interruption of employment, or one of the many other casualties incidental to their state, might any day sink them still deeper in penury. She reflected seriously on all this; and then she dwelt on their simple faith, their humble piety, their thus 'preventing the day to worship God.' She contrasted their lives with those of the gay votaries of fashion and pleasure, of whom she was one. She felt dissatisfied with herself, and asked her own heart, Might she not be more profitably employed? Her thoughts next naturally reverted to her native land, then groaning under the weight of persecution for conscience' sake—its religion proscribed, its altars overturned, its sanctuaries desolate, its children denied, under grievous penalties, the blessings of free education.

"She felt at once that there was a great mission to be fulfilled, and that, with God's blessing, she might do something towards its fulfilment. For a long time she dwelt earnestly on what we may now regard as an inspiration from heaven. She frequently commended the matter to God, and took the advice of pious and learned ecclesiastics; and the result was that great work which has ever been since, and is in our day, a source of benediction and happiness to countless thousands of poor families in her native land, and has made the name of Nano Nagle worthy of a high place on the roll of the heroines of charity."[199]

Miss Nagle then set out for Ireland, firmly determined to commence the noble work so suddenly contemplated and so maturely considered; but on her arrival in Cork, she found her friends exceedingly lukewarm, and the amount of ignorance and destitution in that city so appalling that she shrank from the very magnitude of the difficulties to be overcome, and began to fear that she had, in a moment of enthusiasm, overrated her ability and mistaken her vocation. This was natural. What could a young lady, scarcely entered on womanhood, delicately nurtured, and hitherto accustomed only to the society of the most fastidious—what could such a frail scion of aristocracy do to remove even an infinitesimal part of the incubus of poverty, ignorance, and crime, the result of centuries of misgovernment, which then weighed so heavily on the people?

She therefore resolved to visit the French capital again to consult eminent clerical friends, and to lay before them all her doubts and difficulties. They heard her explanations and arguments with attention, weighed her objections with proper gravity, and finally, having dispelled her doubts and strengthened her self-confidence, assured her that in their opinion—and it was a unanimous one—God had evidently called her to be the succor and comfort of her afflicted countrywomen—a decision which subsequent events proved to have been little short of prophetic. Thus reassured, and casting aside once for all the allurements of life, the rational pleasures which youth, beauty, and wealth might reasonably command, Miss Nagle resolved to eschew the things of the world for ever, and devote herself heart and soul to the self-imposed duties from the performance of which she had lately shrunk, more from a consciousness of the weakness of her position than from any lack of intention to perform them faithfully. The resolve she so solemnly made then she kept till the day of her death, thirty years afterwards, with unflinching fortitude and fidelity.

In 1754 we find her back in Cork, steadily but quietly, almost secretly, as the spirit of the times demanded, initiating her crusade against squalor and ignorance. With what precocious circumspection she commenced her labors is best shown in a letter to a friend, Miss Fitzsimmons, then in the Ursuline Convent at Paris. The extract is long, but it will repay perusal, as it may be considered an exact reflex of the working of her strong, simple, but thoroughly earnest mind. She writes under date July 17, 1769:

"When I arrived, I kept my design a profound secret, as I knew, if it were spoken of, I should meet with opposition on every side, particularly from my own immediate family; as, to all appearances, they would suffer from it. My confessor was the only person I told of it; and as I could not appear in the affair, I sent my maid to get a good mistress, and to take in thirty poor girls. When the little school was settled, I used to steal there in the morning. My brother thought I was in the chapel. This passed on very well until, one day, a poor man came to him, to speak to me to take his child into my school; on which he came in to his wife and me, laughing at the conceit of a man who was mad and thought I was in the situation of a schoolmistress. Then I owned that I had set up a school; on which he fell into a violent passion, and said a vast deal on the bad consequences that may follow. His wife is very zealous, and so is he; but worldly interests blinded him at first. He was soon reconciled to it. He was not the person I most dreaded would be brought into trouble about it; it was my uncle Nagle, who is, I think, the most disliked by the Protestants of any Catholic in the kingdom. I expected a great deal from him. The best part of my fortune I have received from him. When he heard it, he was not at all angry at it; and in a little time they were so good as to contribute largely to support it. And I took in children by degrees, not to make any noise about it in the beginning. In about nine months I had about two hundred children. When the Catholics saw what service it did, they begged that, for the convenience of the children, I would set up schools for children at the other end of the town from where I was, to be under my care and direction; and they promised to contribute to the support of them. With this request I readily complied, and the same number of children that I had were taken in; and at the death of my uncle, I supported them all at my own expense. I did not intend to take boys, but my sister-in-law made it a point, and said she would not allow any of my family to contribute to them unless I did so; on which I got a master, and took in only forty boys. They are in a house by themselves, and have no communication with the others."

This letter, it will be observed, was written fifteen years after the first school was founded, and already there were in active operation, in various parts of the city, two schools for boys and five for girls, all under the supervision of Miss Nagle, and supported from her private purse, or by a contribution of one shilling per month, which she was in the habit of collecting from a few of the more wealthy of the citizens. In these nurseries of intelligence and morality—model schools, in fact—the children of both sexes were taught to read and write, to say their daily prayers, learn the catechism, and, in the case of the older girls, to acquire a familiarity with such useful work as befitted their condition. Those who were of sufficient age heard Mass every morning, went to confession monthly, and to communion as frequently as their confessor considered advisable.

In supervising so many schools, and constantly instructing hundreds of pupils, whose moral as well as mental culture had been neglected hitherto most wofully, this heroic woman's self-imposed labors, it may well be imagined, were of the most arduous description, and we are not surprised to find that her health began to show signs of giving way. "In the beginning," she says, "being obliged to speak for upwards of four hours, and my chest not being so strong as it had been, I spat blood, which I took care to conceal, for fear of being prevented from instructing the poor. It has not the least bad effect now. When I have done preparing them at each end of the town, I feel like an idler that has nothing to do, though I speak almost as much as when I prepare them for their first communion. I find not the least difficulty in it. I explain the catechism as well as I can in one school or other every day; and if every one thought as little of labor as I do, they would have little merit. I often think that my schools will never bring me to heaven, as I only take delight and pleasure in them. You see it has pleased the Almighty to make me succeed when I had everything, I may say, to fight against. I assure you I did not expect a farthing from any mortal towards the support of my schools; and I thought I should not have more than fifty or sixty girls until I got a fortune; nor did I think I should in Cork. I began in a poor, humble manner; and though it has pleased the divine will to give me severe trials in this foundation, yet it is to show that it is his work, and has not been effected by human means. I can assure you that my schools are beginning to be of service to a great many parts of the world. This is a place of great trade. They are heard of; and my views are not for one object alone." The fortune here so delicately alluded to was left her by her uncle Nagle, who, profoundly penetrated with a sense of her discretion and of her devotion to the friendless, bequeathed her the bulk of his property. It was a very considerable sum, and was unstintingly devoted by her to further the great objects she had ever in view.

As her schools multiplied, and the attendance on each increased, with a rapidity that astonished every one, Miss Nagle saw the absolute necessity of calling in other and, if possible, organized assistance, that thus, by making her system more perfect, she might perpetuate the good work already so auspiciously begun. She therefore resolved on a bold measure—one that could have entered only the mind of a dauntless spirit, fortified by implicit faith in the protection of Providence. She determined, in fact, despite the many inhuman and ingenious penal statutes against monastic institutions, to establish a convent in Cork.

For this purpose, some time previous to the date of the above letter, four young ladies, representing some of the best families in the neighborhood, were sent to the Ursuline Convent of S. Jacques, in Paris, to enter their novitiate, while Miss Nagle, with her usual generosity and prudence, set silently to work to build a suitable house for their reception on their return. That event took place in 1771, and marks a new era in the history of the church in Ireland and England. The young novices who thus not only abandoned the allurements of the world, home, friends, and future, to serve God, but braved the terrors of the penal laws and the sneers of the anti-Catholic rabble, deserve to have their names handed down for the admiration and homage of their sex in every age and clime. They were "Miss Fitzsimmons, the special friend and correspondent of the foundress; Miss Nagle, her relative; Miss Coppinger, of the Barryscourt family, and cousin of Marian, Duchess of Norfolk; and Miss Kavanagh, related to the noble house of Ormonde." They were accompanied by Mrs. Margaret Kelly, a professed sister of the Ursuline Convent of Dieppe, none of the sisters of S. Jacques being willing to undertake so hazardous an enterprise.

They arrived in May, and on the 18th of September following took formal possession of their convent, and from that day may be dated the reintroduction of the conventual order into the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland.[200]

Thus in the wise designs of God, while the Encyclopedists and the secret societies of the Continent were maturing their plans of attack on the church and her institutions, when monasteries, convents, colleges, and hospitals from one end of Europe to the other, already feeling the premonitory symptoms of that monstrous earthquake of immorality and infidelity which was soon to be felt throughout Christendom, were shaking to their very foundations, in an obscure little city in the South of Ireland were planted the seeds of religion and Christian instruction which have since grown up and produced such marvellous fruits. The incident becomes even more interesting when we consider that the five ladies who commenced this beneficent work were all educated in that country and city, which ere long were to furnish the deadliest enemies of Catholicity.

It is not to be supposed that so daring an act as that of the intrepid Nano could pass unnoticed. Though the sisters studied the greatest seclusion, it was at one time proposed by the local authorities to enforce the laws against them; but better counsels prevailed, and the humble community grew rapidly in popularity and usefulness. A few months after its establishment, a select school, with twelve young ladies as pupils, was founded, and this number was quickly augmented by children from the more wealthy Catholic families of the adjoining counties. There are now five houses of this order in Ireland.

At first Miss Nagle lived in the convent; but her impatient soul, her burning love for the children of the lowly, was not yet satisfied; for though the good Ursulines devoted all their available time to the instruction of the poor, while perfecting in the higher branches of education those destined in turn to become teachers, she felt that another and a more comprehensive organization was necessary to combat so vast an array of popular error, ignorance, and destitution. A society that would devote itself, as she had so long done, individually, exclusively, and gratuitously to the service of the impoverished and untrained masses was what she desired, and what she felt called upon to form and direct. With that indomitable energy which I ever characterized her, though enfeebled in health, reduced in fortune, and prematurely old from incessant labor, at the age of forty-four she retired from the companionship of her friends and protégés, the Ursulines, to a house adjacent to the convent, purchased by herself, and, gathering around her some pious women, formed a society that was to be known as "Of the Presentation of Our Blessed Lady in the Temple." The objects of this association were: "Going through the city, looking after poor girls; inducing them to attend school, and instructing them in their religion; and, further, visiting, relieving, and consoling the sick poor in their own homes and in the public hospitals—duties analogous to those now discharged by the Sisters of Charity and Sisters of Mercy."[201] Being approved by the bishop of the diocese, the Rt. Rev. Dr. Moylan, it began its pious labors on Christmas day, A.D. 1777, by entertaining at dinner fifty poor persons, the foundress being the presiding genius, or rather angel, of the entertainment. She also established, in connection with the home, an asylum for aged females.

This was the origin of what is now known as the Presentation Order, and was the last and crowning glory of Nano Nagle's remarkable career. Though of exclusively Irish origin, and notwithstanding that the original design of its foundress has been somewhat changed, and its field of labor circumscribed and partly occupied by other orders or congregations, the institution founded by her with such limited means and materials has, with God's blessing, flourished with amazing rapidity, and has spread its influence, not only over the native land of the foundress, but to Great Britain, the lower provinces of North America, and even to India and Australia. In Ireland alone there are at least fifty convents of the order, with poor schools, industrial schools, and asylums for the aged attached.[202]

In 1791 the society was reorganized and founded into a congregation at the request of the Bishop of Cork. The brief of Pope Pius VI. granting the prayer, directed that the members should observe as near as possible the rules governing the Ursulines, taking, after proper novitiate, simple vows of chastity, poverty, and obedience. Sixteen years later the congregation was changed into an order by brief of Pius VII., under the title and invocation of the "Presentation of the Blessed Virgin Mary." The rules and constitutions governing the congregation and order were, at the request of His Holiness, drawn up by Dr. Moylan, approved by the archbishops and bishops of Ireland, and upon being forwarded to Rome, and upon proper examination, received the Papal sanction.

The six or seven years spent by Miss Nagle as head of the Society of the Presentation were perhaps the most useful of her life; for not only did she create and perfect a plan of practical instruction and discriminating charity which has since been of infinite benefit in promoting the cause of religion and industry in other parts of Ireland; not only did she inculcate in others who were to survive her, principles of order, charity, and self-denial, but she organized a system of relief and a scheme of instruction which were of infinite benefit to the deserving poor of Cork, and which were afterwards applied with equal advantage by other religious bodies in other cities and towns. None knew so well as she did to whom to give and whom to refuse, though it may be well imagined that her gentle heart, when it erred, leaned in favor of the latter.

Nor must we suppose that the early years of what might be called her missionary labors were devoted exclusively to the instruction of her little waifs. On the contrary, much of her time—all, in fact, that could be spared from her private devotions and her beloved schools—was devoted to the visitation of the sick and the relief of the starving; for starvation, be it remembered, was even then chronic in the South of Ireland. On her return from France, she at first mingled occasionally in society, as much to conceal, perhaps, her immature plans as in deference to the wishes of her friends; but gradually she withdrew from all association with those of her own station, and devoted her entire time to acts of practical charity. Even the most inclement winter weather could not deter her from her duty; and it is said that before daylight she might be noticed wending her way to the little North Cork chapel, to hear Mass as the commencement of a long day's labor, and that far into the night, in the unlighted streets of Cork, a female figure, closely enwrapped in a cloak and bearing a lantern, could be seen hurrying to the death-bed of some poor sufferer, regardless of rain or snow or the cutting night-blast. So familiar had this apparition become to the citizens, and so well her errands of mercy were known, that the vilest of both sexes passed her with respect, and she trod the lanes and alleys of the worst parts of the city with perfect safety. At the sight of that little lantern in the distance, the drunken brawler, as he reeled home, ceased his ribald song or stayed the half-uttered oath; and the ill-starred wanderer, the pariah of her sex, fled to some hiding-place, or came forth for a few words of gentle admonition, which fell like healing balm on her wounded, sinful soul; for Nano Nagle, in humble imitation of her Redeemer, had charity for all, even for the most degraded of mankind.

It is unnecessary to say that, in all her toils and struggles, Miss Nagle enjoyed the respect and esteem, and, when required, the assistance, of all the more wealthy and respectable of the citizens of Cork, Protestant as well as Catholic; but it was amid her children and in the hovels of the poor that she was best beloved, because best known. Where famine hollowed the cheek and glazed the eye, she was to be found, with her brave words of comfort and hope, and, better still, with her well-filled basket and open purse; where sickness and disease lurked, and the atmosphere of the miserable dwellings of the fever-stricken was laden with almost certain death, her place was at the bedside of the dying, consoling and solacing; now administering the cooling draught to the poor patient's burning lips; now, by prayer and spiritual instruction, endeavoring to smooth the path to a better world of the soul that was struggling to be free. No danger daunted her, no sight, however repulsive, stayed her persistent charity; and it is even said that the once brilliant and accomplished favorite of the Rue St. Germain did not hesitate, when she considered herself called upon to do so, to perform the most menial of domestic offices for her sick or aged pensioners.

Thirty years of such unremitting labor was more than a constitution of ordinary strength could well bear; and even Miss Nagle, buoyed up as she was by intense devotion to the poor, felt that the hand of death was upon her, and that she was about to receive the eternal reward of her virtues, her charity, and her zeal in the service of God. Early in 1784 her health completely broke down, and, thus timely warned, she prepared, with Christian sincerity and humility, to leave the scenes of her earthly labors, and pass through those portals which, for the just, open to an infinity of happiness. In the house of the society, and surrounded by its members, her spirit calmly took its upward flight on the 26th of April, 1784. Her last advice to her little community was: "Love one another as you have hitherto done."

Such, in brief, were the life and labors of one whose name even is seldom heard, and of whose heroic efforts in the cause of religion and education so little mention is made beyond the boundaries of the locality in which she wrought and which she sanctified. Judging her by the sacrifices she made, there may be found many even of our own day equally meritorious; but considering the age in which she worked, the dangers and difficulties which constantly beset her path, the invincible energy with which she surmounted all obstacles, and the widespread and beneficent character of the results of her thirty years' toil, we may assuredly place her among the most remarkable and most devoted of the daughters of the church.

FOOTNOTES:

[199] Terra Incognita; or, The Convents of the United Kingdom. By John Nicholas Murphy. London: 1873.

[200] There are now in England and in Wales alone two hundred and thirty-five convents, containing about three thousand nuns of various orders and congregations. Among these is the Presentation Convent in Manchester, to which is attached a female orphanage, a poor school attended by four hundred and seventy-five day and five hundred Sunday-school scholars.

[201] Terra Incognita.

[202] The convents are those of the city of Cork, South, opened in 1777, in which is also an asylum for aged women; the city of Cork, North; Bandom, Doneraile, Youghal, Midleton, Fermoy, Michelstown, Limerick, Killarney, Tralee, Dingle, Milltown, Cahirciveen, Millstreet, Listowel, Castleisland, Thurles, attached to which is an industrial school; Cashel, with an orphanage and an industrial school; Fethard, Ballingary, Waterford, Dungarvan, Clonmel, Carrick-on-Suir; Lismore, George's Hill, Dublin; Roundtown, near Dublin, Maynooth, Clondalkin, Lucan, Kilkenny, Castlecomer, Mountcoin, Carlow, Maryborough, Kildare, Bagnalstown, Clane, Stradbally Portarlington, Mount Mellick, Wexford, Enniscorthy, Drogheda, Rahan, Mullingar, Granard, Tuam, Galway, and Banmore.

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