This conversation did not correct Eugenia. She perceived, indeed, the truth of what had been said to her, but she was deficient in that sentiment of friendship which leads us to think of others before ourselves. As her first impulse, always, was to consider what she wished others to do for her, her second was a feeling of annoyance at their not having acted sufficiently to her liking; in such a case, it was useless to hope that she would think of what she owed to them. Always commencing by imagining that they had acted wrongly towards her, she did not consider herself under any obligation to them; she was ignorant of the delight that is experienced, in making a sacrifice for those we love; and being constantly dissatisfied with others, she never enjoyed the pleasure of feeling satisfied with herself.
She did not endeavour to make new friends in the school. What had passed between her and Agatha, and the conversations of the governess, had convinced her, that in order to do so, she had too much to overcome in her own disposition. Besides, the adventure of the embroidered bag had caused her companions to form a worse opinion of her than she deserved. She was therefore passing her time very drearily, when a great misfortune befel her. She lost her father, and this loss was the more grievous, as her mother had been long dead, and she was now consequently left quite an orphan. Her companions displayed much concern for her affliction, and especially Fanny, who, grieved at having given her pain, on account of Agatha, was constantly seeking opportunities of being with her. For a time, as all were occupied about her, Eugenia was pleased with every one; and as this state of mind rendered her more gentle and considerate, they imagined that her character had altered, and again began to love her. But when, after having occupied themselves for some time with her griefs, her companions returned to their ordinary games and conversations, she was as much shocked at hearing them laugh, as if they had all lost their parents. The mistress one day found her in tears, and complaining that no one any longer took an interest in her misfortunes.
"Eugenia," said the governess, "who is there among your companions for whom, in a similar case, you would have interrupted for a longer period your ordinary occupations and amusements?"
Eugenia only replied by saying, "that no one loved her in that school, and that she wished she could leave it." This satisfaction was soon granted to her. Her father's life had been shortened by the grief occasioned by the bad state of his affairs. When he was dead, his creditors came together, and made a small annual allowance to his children; this, however, was not sufficient to defray the expenses of Eugenia's education, and that of her brother Edward, who was pursuing his studies in one of the colleges of Germany. It was therefore arranged that they should both be placed with a cousin, an elderly lady, who consented to be satisfied with the allowance made. Eugenia was transported with joy, at the thought of living with her brother, whom she had not seen for ten years, but who wrote her such charming letters, and who besides, as she was his only sister, ought certainly to love her better than any one else in the world.
She was still more enchanted when she saw him. She was then fourteen years of age, and her brother seventeen; he was tall and handsome, as well as mild, amiable, and intelligent. He was exceedingly kind to her, and promised to teach her all he knew himself; he told her that since they had no fortune, he must try to make one for them, and began by giving her half the little money he had brought with him from Germany. Eugenia wept for joy at the kindness of her brother. When he was gone, she could talk of nothing else. She asked all her companions, whether they had seen him, and whether they did not think him handsome; she related the slightest particular of their conversation, and all that he had done and all that he had seen: there was not a town through which he had passed the name of which she did not pronounce with some emphasis. If she forgot anything, she said, "I will ask him to-morrow when he comes." "Is he coming, then?" said the little ones, who, always inquisitive, had formed the project of putting themselves in ambuscade near the door, in order to see what Eugenia's brother was like. "Oh! he cannot fail," said Eugenia, with an air of importance; she already seemed to think that her brother lived only for her convenience, and had nothing to do but to come and see her.
The next day came, but Edward did not make his appearance. Eugenia, greatly agitated, watched the door and the clock. "He must have mistaken the hour," said she. But it was not the hour apparently, but the day that he had mistaken, for it passed and still he did not come. Neither did he make his appearance on the following day. Eugenia's heart was bursting with grief and vexation, and her annoyance was increased by the derision of the little girls, who incessantly repeated, "Oh! he cannot fail to come."
"I shall scold him well," said Eugenia, pretending to laugh. The following day she was sent for, as a person had come to take her to her cousin's house. She did not doubt that her brother had also come; but she only saw her cousin's old cook, who told her in a grumbling tone to make haste because the coach must only be kept an hour, and that it was already dear enough. But Eugenia did not understand her. Quite bewildered at not seeing Edward with her, she already thought herself forgotten and abandoned. She scarcely embraced her companions, who had surrounded her to bid her farewell, but throwing herself into the coach began to weep, while the cook kept grumbling between her teeth, "that it was well worth the trouble of coming to eat other people's bread only to complain under their very eyes." It was nevertheless certain that the small sum paid for the board of Eugenia and Edward was an advantage to their cousin, who was not rich; but the cook was avaricious, and out of humour, and did not reflect, so that thus she only saw the extra expense. Besides, she was accustomed to govern her mistress, who, provided she had every day a dinner which suited her dog and her cat, fresh chickweed for her birds, and nuts for her parrot, allowed the cook to do just as she pleased. The arrival of these two additional guests quite disconcerted her. Eugenia felt distressed and humiliated, but did not, however, dare to complain. She was no longer with persons to whom she had been accustomed to exhibit her ill humour, and her new position intimidated her. As to her cousin, with whom she was acquainted, she knew very well that she would not torment her, but she also knew that she would in no way trouble herself about her; and it was especially requisite to Eugenia's happiness that people should take an interest in her. Therefore it was of Edward alone that she thought. It was he whom she was anxious to see, in order to let the whole weight of her vexation fall upon him; it was on his account that she was careful on entering not to conceal her eyes too much under her bonnet, so that he might clearly see that she had been weeping.
She entered the room, but he was not there. The table was laid, but only for two: she saw that Edward would not come, would not dine with her on the day of her arrival. She did not inquire for him, for she could not speak. Her cousin wished her good morning, just as if she had seen her on the previous evening, and did not even perceive that her eyes were red with crying. But the moment she began to eat her bosom swelled, and a sob escaped her which made her cousin raise her eyes.
"You are sorry to leave your school, my dear," she said; "that is quite natural, but you will soon get over that." Then, without thinking any more about it, or even troubling herself to see whether Eugenia was eating or not, she began to give the cat and dog their dinners, and to talk to Catau, who, being very ill-mannered, either did not reply at all or gave wrong answers, so that she had to repeat the same question twenty times over. After dinner, an old lodger in the house came up to play a game at piquet, which lasted until the evening. Eugenia could therefore torment or comfort herself, or sulk at her leisure, without there being any one to call her to account for it. At last she heard Edward arrive; she was so greatly delighted, that she endeavoured to frown as much as possible on receiving him, and succeeded so well in giving a gloomy expression to her face, that Edward, who ran eagerly to embrace her, drew back a step or two to inquire what was the matter with her.
"Oh! nothing is the matter with me," she said drily.