Meantime, Cecilia carried into execution her determination of writing to Mademoiselle Gerard; but as she, of course, addressed her letter to the Château, it was received by Dubois, who for some days had no opportunity of forwarding it to the town, and in the interval learned that Mademoiselle Gerard was dead. He was then grieved at having treated her with so much brutality the day before her departure; but as for Nanette, when told that she had run away from the shopkeeper's, and had not since been heard of, he took no further trouble in the matter, quite satisfied in his own mind that she was a thief, and that they were very fortunate to be rid of her. Of all these matters he sent an account to Madame de Vesac; but her husband having recovered and returned to active service, she had just left for Paris, and neither received this letter nor the one sent to her by Mademoiselle Gerard a few days prior to her death, and which, having passed through Paris, had been delayed a considerable time on the way. Madame de Vesac stayed only a few days at the capital, and then set out with her daughter for her country-seat, ignorant of all that had lately happened there. She had made inquiries of Cecilia respecting Mademoiselle Gerard; and Cecilia being unable to give her any information, was obliged to confess her negligence. Her mother severely reprimanded her, though little imagining the misfortunes this negligence had produced.
They were four days on their journey, and while changing horses at the last post but one, Cecilia descended from the carriage, and leaving the yard of the inn, went to breathe the fresh air on the high road. Immediately a little boy came towards her, asking charity for his little sister who was ill, at the same time pointing her out to Cecilia, who, in fact, beheld a little girl seated on the ground, with a dying look, and her head leaning against a stone; at that moment she was sleeping; her clothes were in rags, and so dirty, that their colour could scarcely be distinguished. Cecilia, while looking at her, was seized with pity, and struck by her resemblance to Nanette; but it never occurred to her that it could be Nanette. Just then she was called, and giving the little boy a penny, telling him it was for his sister, she returned to the carriage, her mind filled with the thought of the poor little girl she had just seen; yet she did not dare to speak of her to her mother, fearing that by recalling the memory of Nanette she might revive those reproaches which her conscience told her she deserved. What, then, was her consternation, when, on arriving at the Château, she was informed of the death of Mademoiselle Gerard, and the disappearance of Nanette. While Dubois was relating these particulars, Madame de Vesac fixed her eyes upon her daughter, who at one moment looked at her with an expression of great anxiety, and at the next cast down her eyes ashamed. As soon as Dubois had left the room, Cecilia, pale and trembling, with clasped hands, and a look of despair, said to her mother, "Oh! mamma, if it was that little girl I saw close to the post-house, who looked as if she were dying." Her mother asked her what grounds she had for such an idea. Cecilia informed her, and, while doing so, wept bitterly; for the more she thought of the subject, the less doubt did she entertain of its being poor little Nanette. "I am sure I recognised her," she continued; "and now I remember that she wore the blue dress I gave her. It was all torn, and I could scarcely tell the colour; but it was the same, I am sure. Poor little Nanette!" And with this, she redoubled her tears. She entreated that some one might be sent immediately to the inn, to make inquiries; but it was then too late in the day, and she dreaded lest the delay of a few hours should render Nanette so much worse as to be past recovery. Her agitation increased every moment. Madame de Vesac gave orders that the following morning, as soon as it was light, some one should go to the post-house, to ascertain if the people knew anything of the little girl who was begging at the door on the previous day. Cecilia passed a sleepless night, and rose the next morning before daybreak; and she was awaiting the return of the messenger even before he had started. He did return at last, but without any information. Nanette had never before been at the inn, and the people had not noticed her, and were at a loss to understand the object of all these inquiries. Cecilia was in hopes she would return there during the day, and a messenger was again sent to inquire; but Nanette did not make her appearance, for the post-house was situated at a considerable distance from the village in which Dame Lapie lived; and, in her feeble and suffering condition, the walk had so much exhausted her that she found it impossible to return. "Oh, mamma," exclaimed Cecilia, "perhaps she is dead." At that moment she felt all the anguish of the most dreadful remorse; her agitation almost threw her into a fever. Inquiries were made in the town; and the shopkeeper's wife stated that Nanette had run away, and no one knew what had become of her. The neighbours were also applied to; and they, disliking the sister-in-law of Mademoiselle Gerard, and having heard of the will, said, that to avoid paying the six hundred francs to Nanette, she was quite capable of forcing her, by her ill treatment, to run away, and that perhaps even she had turned her out of doors. To this were added conjectures and rumours, some declaring that a little girl had been met one night in the fields, almost perished with cold; others saying that one had been found on the high road, nearly starved to death; but when questioned further on the point, no one could tell who had seen this little girl, nor what had become of her; for these were only false reports, such as are always circulated in cases of disaster. Cecilia, however, believed them, and they threw her into despair. At this time, Mademoiselle Gerard's letter reached them; it contained a complete justification of Nanette, whom Dubois persisted in regarding as a thief; it also proved that, if Cecilia had written immediately on the receipt of her first letter, Nanette would not have been lost. This redoubled Cecilia's distress. To complete it, there arrived another letter, bearing the post-mark of the village in which Nanette's mother lived. It was written by the clergyman, at the poor woman's request. In this letter, she said that they had several times heard—but not until it was too late,—that Madame de Vesac had passed by. This had very much grieved her, as she would have been glad to have seen her daughter for a moment; but she was told that Nanette was not with them, and feeling extremely uneasy, she entreated Mademoiselle Cecilia—to whom the letter was addressed—to send her some intelligence of her child. The clergyman concluded by saying: "God will bless you, my dear young lady, because you do not abandon the poor." This letter pierced Cecilia to the heart. She grew thin with grief and anxiety; every time the door opened, she fancied there was some news of Nanette. Her eyes were constantly directed towards the avenue, as if she expected to see her coming; and at night she woke up with a start at the slightest noise, as if it announced her return. At last her mother resolved that they would themselves make inquiries in all the neighbouring villages, and speak to all the clergymen, although still fearing that they were too late. They therefore set out one afternoon, and as they approached a village, but a short distance from the town, Cecilia, who was anxiously looking in every direction, uttered a cry, exclaiming, "Mamma, mamma, that's her! there she is! I see her! I see the same little boy!" and she caught hold of the coachman's coat, to make him stop the quicker, and darting out of the carriage, rushed towards Nanette, who was lying on the ground, with her head leaning against a tree, seeming scarcely able to breathe. Cecilia threw herself on the ground by her side, spoke to her, raised her up, and kissed her. Nanette recognised her, and began to weep; Cecilia wept also, and taking her upon her knees, she caressed her, called her her dear Nanette, her poor little Nanette. The child looked at her with astonishment, while a faint flush animated her cheeks. Madame de Vesac soon reached the spot. Cecilia wanted to have Nanette put instantly into the carriage, and taken home; but Madame de Vesac questioned Jeannot, who stood staring in the utmost astonishment, utterly unable to comprehend the meaning of what he saw. While Cecilia was arranging Nanette in the carriage, Madame de Vesac, conducted by Jeannot, went to Dame Lapie's cottage. The old woman was sitting at her door, still unable to walk, and related all she knew about the child. Madame de Vesac gave her some money, and returned to Cecilia, who was dying with impatience to see Nanette home, and in a comfortable bed. She got there at last. Cecilia nursed her with the greatest care, and for a whole week never left her bedside, frequently rising in the night to ascertain how she was. At last the surgeon pronounced her out of danger; but it was long before she was restored to health, and still longer before she recovered from the sort of stupidity into which she had been thrown by such a series of misfortunes and suffering. When quite well, Cecilia was desirous of resuming her education with more regularity than formerly; but this education had now become still more difficult than at first, and Cecilia could no longer assume her former authority; for, whenever she was going to scold Nanette, she remembered how much she had suffered through her negligence, and dared not say a word. She felt that to have the right of doing to others all the good we wish, and of ordering what may be useful to them, we must never have done them any injury. She therefore sent Nanette to school, and economized her allowance, in order to be able afterwards to apprentice her to a business. The brother of Mademoiselle Gerard was made to refund the six hundred francs; but Cecilia desired that the sum might be kept for a marriage portion for Nanette, when she was grown up. Madame de Vesac gave Jeannot a suit of clothes; and Dame Lapie had permission to send every week to the château for vegetables. Madame de Vesac spent not only this summer, but the winter also, and the following summer, in the country; so that Nanette had time to learn to read, and make some progress in writing. This was a source of great joy to Cecilia, who, for some time, feared that her mind was totally stupified. In conversing on the subject with her mother, after she had been relieved of all anxiety in regard to it, Madame de Vesac said to her: "We never know what injury we may do when we confer favours heedlessly and solely for our own pleasure, and without being willing to give ourselves any trouble. This is not the way to do good. Those whom you neglect, after having led them to expect assistance, find, when you have abandoned them, that they had calculated upon you, and are now without resource; so that you have done them more harm than if you had never aided them."
[THREE CHAPTERS
IN
The Life of Nadir.]
CHAPTER I.
THE ROSE.
In the month of Flowers, in Farsistan, the Land of Roses, three youths inhaled the perfumed air of the morning, as they sported in the flower-covered fields, and amid the leaves, sparkling with dew. Pleasure directed their steps towards the depths of a dark grove, into which the heat of the first beams of day had not yet penetrated. A celestial fragrance mingled with the first exhalations of the verdure. One single sunbeam had pierced the thick foliage, as if to point out, with its golden finger, a Rose, the loveliest of roses. The dew-drops bathed it as they passed, or crept, for its refreshment, into its bosom, coloured with transparent tints of light and shade; and the zephyr of the grove seemed to have no other care than to balance it on its delicate stem. Proudly, but timidly, did it raise its head, expanding like the countenance of a young girl, whose lips scarce dare to smile, while already happiness is beaming in her eyes.
"Oh! lovely flower," said Zuléiman, "I will carry thee to Schiraz; this day shalt thou adorn the feast; the poets of Persia shall sing of thy perfume and thy beauty;" and already was his hand stretched forth to pluck the Rose.
"Stop!" cried Massour, "why thus cut short the bright hours of its life? Think, Zuléiman, think how, after shining for a few brief moments in the crown of a guest, or in the garland destined to adorn the vases of the feast, consumed by the burning breath of men, and sinking beneath the vapour of their cups, it will droop that head now so full of vigour, and let fall, one after the other, its fading petals, until at night, trodden under foot, it will scarcely leave upon the ground a faint trace of its existence."
"What matters it," continued the impetuous Zuléiman, "whether it perish amid the splendours of a court, or upon its slender stem? A single day is the term of its existence, and that day will at least have been a glorious one. Poor flower! I will not suffer thee thus to lavish in forgetfulness thy fragrant odour and soft beauty in this secluded spot, where thou art scarce known, even to the nightingale and the zephyr."