Robert all this while studied with care the lessons of his different masters, which the goodness of his benefactress gave him the means of sharing with Gustave. It was no trouble to him to learn, and his progress was so rapid and so wonderful, that his masters were enchanted, and were prodigal of their praises and marks of affection. Gustave, the lazy, indolent boy, suffered all the torments of envy. For the first time he felt pride, pushing toward emulation, enter his heart, and that which neither the prayers nor the tears of his mother could obtain, the odious sentiment of jealousy brought, and he worked with ardor, Rage sustained him in his desperate resolution; his duties were no longer neglected, and his hours for work were so laboriously employed, that even his mother believed for a time in the complete reformation of her son, under the happy influence of Robert. This joy was of short duration, and the error soon dispelled, for, if his mind profited on the one hand, his heart remained the same, and in it every bad passion was kindled. Sad fruits of a neglected education, of an infancy and childhood abandoned to itself, without care and without culture.
Nearly a year had passed since Robert entered the house of Madame de Vernanges, and the time had been most profitable to him in every way. Study opened to his eyes the treasures that are concealed from the vulgar, and he was already opening for himself a career sown with the seeds of art and science, the flowers of which he longed to gather; and in spite of all the cruelty and sarcasm of Gustave, he was very happy, for he felt the love of his benefactress and the good curé, and the remembrance of his cherished mother, and under these affections he rejoiced, as one rejoices in the sunlight of heaven. From the night she appeared to him in a dream, he was filled with the desire to be good, and worked nobly for this end. Often his thoughts would fly to his mountain home, and to the grave which contained her ashes. Neither had he forgotten the venerable priest of the Baths of Mount Dore, and had often written to him, and from time to time sent him small sums of money to be employed in charities.
Among Robert's happiest hours now were those he passed with the curé here; but even these he could not long enjoy alone, for the wicked Gustave discovered that his sadness vanished [{831}] whenever he reached the curé's door, and he took a cruel pleasure in always going with him under various pretexts, and thus snatching these few moments of happiness from his victim. But a smile, a kind word from his benefactor, paid Robert doubly for this painful sacrifice, and Madame de Vernanges noticed the hatred her son bore him. She was not to be duped by the friendship he feigned for one he detested from his soul. More than once the feeble mother had been a witness to the odious wickedness of the one, and the admirable patience of the other. She had seen, but had not corrected the guilty, for his strength discouraged her; she was too heart-stricken to combat with the bad genius that possessed him. It was easier for her to close her eyes to it, though she had the justice to seek by delicate attentions and tender caresses to repay Robert for some of his sufferings.
We have lost the old soldier for a time, but have not forgotten him. At the time of their separation, both he and Robert shed bitter tears, and the latter tried to make him promise that he would come sometimes to see him in his new abode: "Not there," said the grenadier, "but I will come sometimes and have a talk with you at the house of the curé, for I love him, by the faith of Cyprien Hardy." And he kept his promise, and many were the talks they had there together. On the 20th of March of that year the exile of Elba made an appeal to all faithful soldiers, and it was not made in vain. Cyprien responded at once to the call of his emperor, and when he had buckled on his warlike habits, he forgot for a while the orphan and the priest.
Madame de Vernanges counted her days only by her sorrows. She had no repose—her health was failing so rapidly that the physicians said she must pass the winter in a warmer climate and under a purer sky. This was a sudden blow for Robert, for he had become much attached to his benefactress, and she said he was to go to college with Gustave, who saw with revolting indifference the sufferings of his mother at the thought of a separation; but all her friends thought it was best, hoping some change in his character might take place from the strict and severe discipline of college life. This new arrangement was submitted to the curé, who in all things pertaining to him, was guided by the interest of his protégé, and it met with his approbation. Madame de Vernanges' was to be absent six months or a year, and Robert felt that he should indeed be isolated from her protective affection, and left alone to the wicked designs of Gustave; who, when they were thrown together at college, used all his time and his power to turn the students against Robert, and get them to league with him against him, for he was longing for an occasion to avenge the marks of tenderness and preference which his mother had shown Robert. Never was a child's patience put to a more severe test—neither the goodness nor generosity of the orphan could soften the hatred Gustave felt for him. But though Robert was of so even and calm a temperament, he could not be injured nor oppressed without defending himself, and there was but one consideration that curbed his indignation, and that was the certainty he felt that Gustave was the author of the persecutions which each wicked boy inflicted upon him. Had he not been convinced of this, he would have used the same means to punish them which they employed to torture him; but, according to his pure sentiments, this would not have been right, and he would not have the least reproach from his benefactress for any unkindness toward her son. He did not oppose his oppressors in any way, but they saw that he felt the outrages perfectly, and disdained, and not without reason, to let them know it. In this combat of all against one, the voice of conscience was not always heard, and in spite of his efforts to keep silent, there came a time when it was insupportable. The epithets of "lazy and coward" [{832}] resounding in his ears, filled him with indignation, and those who spoke them did not dare repeat them a second time, for he dealt with them in a way that convinced them he could not bear everything. Two or three corrections soon put an end to this state of things, and placed Robert high in the esteem of the older collegians. In vain did Gustave try to reawaken the ardor of his partisans. Frightened by the vigorous attack of Robert, they refused to unite in any new vexations against one they respected and loved, and they all vowed they would never take up a prejudice again. Thus Gustave saw, in spite of all his odious efforts to the contrary, Robert loved by his masters, respected and esteemed by his companions, who protected him and despised his persecutor. Things had reached this point when, one morning, an uncle of Gustave's came and took him hurriedly away, leaving Robert at college. This strange conduct affected him very much, and he wondered what it could mean. Could it be that his benefactress had returned and withdrawn her affection, or was she more ill? He was lost in sad conjectures for several days, which appeared ages to him, as he waited in patience to hear. A visit from the curé, with a sad countenance, revealed to Robert the misfortune which was to oppress him. "Madame de Vernanges suffers no more," said he, with a visible effort, drawing to his bosom the weeping child, whose sorrow was certainly more profound and true than that of' Gustave. "Alas! my child, you have lost your benefactress; before she died she asked to see you, but this wish of a heart devoted to you was denied—God willed it otherwise. But she did not need any further proof of your love, your conduct has spoken it so often; and God will never abandon you. Courage then, your recompense will come sooner or later. I will assume from to-day my entire right of father, and my most tender solicitude will be for you. Redouble your ardor at work, triple your strength, and finally the end which I propose for your happiness will come. Your studies, conscientiously finished, will be the magic keys which will unlock the door to an honorable career. From this time Gustave will not torment you, for he will not return to college."
Robert was too much moved to speak—too many sorrowful remembrances pressed themselves into his heart, but he had not lost a single word that was spoken to him. Six months after this he stood before the abbot of Verneuil, to receive from his hands the crown he so justly deserved. Oh! how his heart beat with joy when he heard his name spoken in the sanctuary of science; it seemed then that the sweet voice of his mother spoke to him. Each time he was named, his eyes turned towards the curé, as if asking him: "Are you satisfied?" How light and easy to wear are the laurels won by the victors in every good work! Is it not a bright day in your lives, my dear children, when you are proclaimed conquerors? What a sweet remembrance it leaves in your hearts, that no after thoughts can ever crush out! Our young laureate passed his vacation—that time of repose so dear to students—with the curé. To Robert work was so much more a pleasure than a fatigue, that he was obliged to allow him to study a great deal; but he did not wish him to spend all his time at his books, but to take some hours of respite each day. This excellent man, of such simple habits and manners, and of such contentment, really suffered at times that he could not from his limited means give Robert as many pleasures as his heart dictated. He knew he needed air and liberty, and wished he could send him into the country, where he would be free from all restraints. "Poor child!" he would say to himself, "how he must long for his native mountain." So, before he left, to return to his studies, he thought he would give him an agreeable surprise. The weather was lovely, and all nature seemed to rejoice. The curé and his charge started in a diligence for Versailles, the [{833}] wonderful and magnificent palace once used as a royal residence. Robert had never seen this place, once such a gay city, but whose gilded glory has all departed. No more fêtes, no more balls, in Louis XIV.'s beautiful city. The grand palace is still there, but where are the kings and courtiers? Oh! where?
The gardens charmed Robert, and he bounded about like a young fawn in his native wood, to the great delight of the curé, who rejoiced in his liveliness and happiness, and allowed this little bird that he had freed to follow his capricious fancies, wherever they led him; for he believed that all who loved children favored their pleasures; and it is one of the sweetest joys God has given to man, that he should try to leave no regrets to this age of life. As night was drawing on, Robert left off his sports, and they made ready for their departure. Robert's mind was filled with beautiful pictures of this visit, of which the result was so sad. As they were entering Paris, the benediction that the good curé gave the child each evening was pronounced with much fervor, and it proved the last. They slept in the same room, and Robert had gone happy and trustful to bed, little dreaming of the new and terrible misfortune that awaited him, and in the morning wakes to weep over the inanimate body of his loved benefactor, whose calm and serene face is radiant with immortal joy. The angel of death had come softly near the couch on which reposed the servant of the Lord; and took him from life, to rest on the bosom of his God, leaving a bright example of a virtuous and godly life.
CHAPTER VI.
"O virtue! gift of God! grace divine! it is thou
that givest the saintly and sublime inspirations of
devotion, that trample down vice, that elevate above all
feebleness and all obstacles."
ANONYMOUS.
When Robert realized that he had no longer a protector or friend he was plunged into the depths of despair, but it was not for the miserable consideration of interest, which too often possesses humanity, that he was so full of regret; it was for the wise and virtuous man that he mourned, for the loss of his sweet and persuasive language, and his tender and eloquent words, and his indescribable air of goodness, united to his pure life, which won all hearts, as a tender and delicate flower attracts and ravishes by its perfume. Stranger to all that was passing around him, shut up in his sorrows, made an orphan once more, Robert had still the happy consciousness of having fulfilled all his duties to his benefactor. He awakened from his lethargy at the sound of the first shovel of earth that fell on the coffin of his, beloved curé. The awakening was frightful. The tears and sobs he heard around him from the crowd of poor children and unfortunate ones, of every degree, whom he had benefited during his too short career, recalled with violence to his heart the sad reality. Another sincere mourner for the curé was his faithful old housekeeper, who, when she went in to take her last look of the venerable man, saw Robert standing there in silence and sorrow, and she felt that she, like him, was alone in the world, and suffered the same sorrow he did. But his grief and his loss, bitter as it was, was not as fatal for his advancement as might be supposed. His soul was too strongly fortified with the blessing of religion to allow him to be long discouraged. And when he could for a moment forget his losses, he would look to the future, and dare to hope, that although deprived one by one of his protectors, the path to success was still open to him. Madame Gaudin had most bitter thoughts. She was now getting along in years, being near fifty, and her age would be a barrier to her finding a home where the work would be light, so that she could live without spending her hard earned money. From her own personal thoughts she passed to another subject of solicitude—the future of Robert. If she had not felt any very strong interest in the fate of her master's protégé, [{834}] she was too compassionate a woman not to pity this child, who had been the object of his tender care. She thought of how the saintly man had praised the intelligence and amiable qualities of Robert, and repeated his favorite words: "This child will be something one day." Moved by these remembrances, she thought she heard him tell her to watch over the orphan. Submission and respect for all the orders she received was a habit with her, and she had been accustomed to obey with such exactitude, that she took for reality the illusion of her heart, and resolved to obey the inspired voice, and replace, if possible, the charitable man who had adopted Robert. This resolution once made, she thought of nothing but executing it. Going to Robert, she said, "I know, my young friend, you are thinking of some way of gaining a living for yourself. We can live together, and it will be better for us both, and we shall each have some one to take care of us. I will try to get lodgings and work, and you can be with me when not at your work, and God will assist us. Unfortunately you will be obliged to give up your studies for the present, which is my greatest grief; but we will not lose courage, for I feel sure that, sooner or later, God will give you another proof of his goodness. Your penmanship, which is so beautiful, you can make useful and by it earn money. I will go at once and find us a lodging, and will be entirely the gainer by the arrangement, for I shall have for company a good child, who will be like a son; won't he?" Madame Gaudin half smiled at her project, half cried when she repeated the name of the curé, then said, "Yes! yes! I am sure he inspires me to do this, he inspires me with an interest for this child, whom he loved above everything else." Some days after they were fixed in a small lodging in the rue des Fosses, St. Germain. She bought a bed for Robert, and he obtained a situation at twenty-five francs a month. A year passed in this way, without anything at all remarkable happening. Madame Gaudin worked, took care of things, and sang Robert's praises to all. After he had conscientiously finished the day to the profit of his employer, he returned to his lodgings, took his supper, and attended in the evenings a gratuitous course of drawing lessons. This art, for which he felt each day a more and more decided taste, made him forget for a time his past delightful life of study, which had opened to his dazzled eyes the book with golden leaves, which had as suddenly closed to his inexpressible regret. As time wore on, Madame Gaudin's attachment for Robert increased so much, that she almost believed he was her son; and well did he merit it all, for he respected her sincerely, and was most grateful for all she did for him. Whenever he was out at night, she would await his return with the greatest impatience, and was perfectly happy when she could be near him while he was reading, writing, or drawing; which latter employed most of his leisure hours. He imitated with great care the models given him, and would have passed the entire night working at them, but that Madame Gaudin sweetly forced him to lay them aside and go to bed.