"I will write and say that you would rather not; for my own part, I will assuredly not be the person to refuse to receive your mother's nephew;" and M. de Manzay left the room. Caroline was struck with these last words, and with the tone in which they were uttered. "My mother's nephew," thought she; "but Denis does not in the least resemble mamma; he is as unamiable as she was good: yet my father appears to regret him: perhaps he thinks that Denis will be cured of his faults—but that cannot be, for he never listens to a word that is said to him. However, he must not be left in the streets; besides, if my father wishes him to come here, that is the most important point. Well! I must be patient, and, after all, he will not eat me."
Caroline rose, after having made these brief reflections, and repaired to her father's room. He was pacing the apartment with a pensive air, still holding in his hand the letter which announced the death of Denis's guardian.
"My dear papa," said she, "I come to request you to invite Denis to come to us."
"Indeed, my dear."
"Yes; just now I was still more unreasonable than he is: pray be so kind as to think no more of it, and to write for Denis."
"You are a good girl, and I promise you to prevent him from tormenting you."
"Oh! no, papa, do not trouble yourself about the matter; I know that these petty grievances are very annoying to you, and I will find means to manage. Perhaps he may have learned to behave better than formerly, and I am certainly less childish than I was a year ago. Make yourself easy, papa, all shall go on well."
A fortnight after this conversation, Denis arrived at his uncle's house. He was fifteen, but his reason was not in proportion to his age. Endowed with great strength and unconquerable activity, he delighted only in noise and commotion, and, if he was fond of teazing, it was only to produce this commotion. Anything was acceptable to him but quiet: the anger of a child, the insults of a servant, the barking of a dog, all answered his purpose, and he would not have cared to teaze an animal unless it cried out. During his first visit to Primini, Stephen had been a great assistance to him. Sometimes he would torment him, and amuse himself with his anger; sometimes he would divert him, and laugh at the displeasure which this occasioned to Caroline; and, if the latter became seriously angry, Denis had attained the height of his wishes. He was not ill-disposed, but he could not endure ennui, and he knew not how to avoid it by rational occupations. Brought up in the country, and much spoiled by his guardian, he had taken more interest in the employments of the labourers, the gardeners, and the gamekeepers, than in the lessons which he from time to time received from the masters, who came from the neighbouring town. He never took up a book, unless he met with accounts of voyages, and battles, tales of robbers, or ghost stories; and his greatest ambition was to lead the life of a corsair some day, or to go and live amongst the savages, and endeavour to be chosen as the chief of a tribe. He was brave, adroit, and capable of generous actions, but he was violent and wilful, and through his excessive activity was becoming a torment to himself and others.
Such was the guest whose arrival Caroline dreaded and certainly not without reason. When he entered the drawing-room, where all the family was assembled, he rushed forward so abruptly to embrace his uncle, that he overturned a table which stood in his way; the lamp which was upon it fell upon Stephen, struck him severely, and covered him with oil. He began to cry, and Caroline, running to him, wounded her foot with a piece of the broken glass. In a word, the arrival of Denis was a signal for noise and confusion; and, what was still worse, Caroline was much disposed to be angry with him, and demand whether he would never learn to be more careful—but she restrained herself, recollecting the promise she had given to her father that all should go well; and, when tranquillity was a little restored, she embraced her cousin cordially, and received him in a very friendly manner. During some days all went on tolerably well; Denis had so much to see that he did not require the aid of others to pass away his time; besides, notwithstanding his rudeness, he was not altogether exempt from that kind of shyness, which is not unusual with those who can neither conform to the established usages of society, nor entirely shake off their exactions. He was always ill at ease with persons with whom he was not completely familiar; indeed, he generally withdrew when a stranger came in; and the few days which were required to renew his acquaintance with the inhabitants of Primini were agreeable enough to them, and very painful to himself: but this state of things did not long continue, he soon recovered the freedom of his disposition and manners, and the effect of this upon the tranquillity of the château was speedily felt. At his first attacks, Caroline, who had prepared herself to bear everything with patience, supported her cousin's tricks without complaint, picked up a dozen times the reel of cotton which he threw down, re-lighted the taper which he extinguished, or replaced before her piano the chair which he removed as soon as she left it. One day, however, Denis, weary of his ineffectual attempts to put her out of temper, after having tried in vain during the whole of a rainy morning, began to teaze Stephen, and smeared with ink a picture which he held in his hand. The child burst into tears, and Caroline, excited by his vexation, and by the impatience which she had so long curbed, was now seriously angry.
"Leave my room, Denis," she cried, "it really is impossible to live with you. Not satisfied with trying the whole day to provoke me, you must now make poor Stephen cry. Go away, I will not have you stay in my room."