Popular Tales

by Madame Guizot

"Why not? I am taller than the gardener's daughter, who is sixteen."

"Yes; but you are not as reasonable as Stephen, who is only five."

"And, how not, pray?"

"Come, do not be angry; you are, perhaps, about as much so, but that is all I can grant you. Now do not put yourself in a passion, that will not frighten me; you cannot tear me to pieces like your drawings. Adieu, make yourself happy: I am going to carry off Denis to hunt, so you may tell Stephen the story of the Wonderful Cat as many times as you please."

It was by conversations like these that Robert had drawn upon himself the animadversions of Caroline. Unaccustomed to any opposition to her wishes, she could not forgive the harsh manner in which her cousin contradicted her, and, spoiled as she was by continual marks of affection, she was astonished at the contemptuous disapprobation which she had to encounter from one, whose good opinion she was desirous of obtaining. Never had she heard the name of Robert de Puivaux mentioned without eulogium. He had completed his studies most successfully, and had particularly distinguished himself at the Polytechnic School, which he had just left, after spending two years there, simply for instruction. His character was extolled, his judgment esteemed, and his understanding and acquirements were considered by all as beyond his years; but all these advantages were effaced, in Caroline's mind, by his ungracious conduct towards herself—or, rather, they served to render it the more vexatious to her. It must be allowed that Robert had treated her in a manner far from pleasant. Naturally serious, and disposed to regulate his conduct on principles of reason and duty, he could not comprehend the inconsiderateness of Caroline, and the importance which she attached to her own whims; he had no patience in seeing everyone yield to her, and was as angry with her for their weakness as for her own defects; he, therefore, never lost any opportunity of showing his disapprobation and contempt: and, wholly engrossed by the unfavourable impressions with which she inspired him, he did not remark the good qualities which lay hidden under this petulant exterior, and which the future would develope.

Shortly after the departure of Robert and Denis, Madame de Manzay, who had been an invalid ever since the birth of Stephen, was suddenly snatched from her family, after a few days' illness. We will not attempt to describe this sad event: there are sorrows which can never be comprehended by those who have not felt them, and which it is needless to relate to those who know them by experience. The language of man cannot adequately express all that the soul of man is capable of feeling, and such feelings are not learned but revealed; a single moment—one of those moments which are equal to a whole life—can explain more than years of reflection, and convey to the heart, what all the knowledge of the mind would be unable to grasp.

A week had elapsed since the death of Madame de Manzay, and her unhappy family were not yet roused from the first stupor of grief; their hearts had not yet recovered composure; they had not returned to their usual habits; no one obeyed, for no one commanded; and each one, engrossed by his affliction, forgot his duties. There was neither regularity nor labour; confusion alone reigned in the desolate household. Poor little Stephen was left all day long to himself; Monsieur de Manzay wandered about in the park; his daughter shut herself up in her room; and no one attempted to assist anyone else in supporting the weight of grief, by which each was oppressed. Caroline, as usual, was weeping in her own apartment, when an old servant, who had been in the family from the birth of her father, and who had just seen his master, seated, alone, in his wife's room, thinking he would like to see his daughter, went to her, and said, "Pray go, Miss Caroline, to my master. Poor gentleman! he has no one now but you."

"And Stephen, Peter; you do not reckon him."

"Oh! that is quite another thing, miss; master loves the dear little fellow with all his heart, but he is not company for him; he cannot talk with him, and divert his thoughts, as you could. Oh! Miss Caroline, you are the very image of my good mistress; try then to resemble her in everything. You cannot remember it, for you were too young, but when my mistress lost four of her children in one year, and you alone were left—well, miss, it was she who then consoled master. He was like one distracted, and said he felt tempted to throw himself in the water, and the poor lady was obliged to appear perfectly calm, in order to tranquillize him. I have sometimes seen her leave my master's room, to go and cry, and then she would return, and urge him to submit to the will of God; she would make him walk with her, or read aloud to divert his thoughts; she would even amuse him with music: and how he loved her in return! Oh! Miss Caroline! you had a treasure in your mother; endeavour to be as good as she was."

Caroline's sobs prevented her from making any reply; but she held out her hand to the aged Peter, and rose immediately to follow him to her father. She was told that he was in the park, and repaired thither; but, absorbed in her affliction, and in the reflections suggested by Peter's artless observations, she mistook the path, and did not perceive her error, for she went on without thinking whither her steps were directed. For the first time in her life, perhaps, she became aware that she had a duty to fulfil towards others, and that she was not placed in this world merely to be loved and indulged. She had just been told—"Your father has no one but you." It was the truth; but of what use had she been to her father, during the past week? Had she afforded him consolation or assistance, when, given up to her own affliction, she had scarcely bestowed a thought on his; when he had been obliged to try and comfort her, and had sought to do so in vain; when her tears and cries had shaken the resolution he found it so difficult to maintain; when she had kept out of his presence, and abandoned him at the time he most needed her? Was it thus that her mother had acted, when, struck by misfortune, she had, for the sake of calming her husband's despair, begun by controlling her own feelings? Yet who, more than her father, possessed a claim to her active gratitude, to her affectionate devotion? Her earliest recollections were associated with his kindness and tenderness. He had consecrated his leisure to her instruction, relinquished for this purpose studies in which he took delight, and renounced all recreations but those which he could share with her; he had made her the companion of his walks, and allowed her to direct them as she chose. If she wished for an excursion in the neighbourhood, M. de Manzay would leave all his occupations to procure this pleasure for her; in a word, he never refused her a request, and yet her demands had not been few. And what had she done, on her part, to requite such great affection? How had she repaid the extreme indulgence of her parents? She loved them heartily, and they were convinced of this, but she had done nothing more: whilst they thought only of her, she had never considered them, and had found it perfectly natural to be continually the recipient of benefits, without ever giving anything in return. "Oh, how wicked I have been!" she exclaimed, clasping her hands; "can God ever forgive me, or mamma?" She threw herself on her knees, and, melting into tears, promised, as if still in the presence of her whom she could never again behold in this world, to repair, by her attention to the objects of affection she had left, the faults which she had committed against her. She felt that her resolution was accepted and blessed; that the relations of those who love each other are eternal; and that her mother was pleased with her earnest endeavours, as she would have been if still living. She felt that it was her soul which responded to her own, and inspired her with the love of virtue, the hope of perseverance, the joy of pardon. She arose, and returned to the château, eager to find her father, and begin her new part. "Hitherto, he has devoted his life to me," said she to herself, "now, it shall be my care to live for him;" and immediately, with the ardour so natural to youth, she depicted to herself all the various ways in which she could be useful to him, and was enchanted at the idea of being at last good for something in the world; no obstacle or difficulty presented itself to her mind, so natural did the performance of her duty appear to her at this moment.