Completely reassured, Robert knocked and entered immediately. Two cries came at the same time from two hearts that joy suffocated. Robert raised Madame Gaudin in his arms; her too sudden surprise had overwhelmed her with emotion, and Cyprien cried, "It is you, it is you!" wiping away a tear. "I am happy, now, Mister Robert. I knew you would come back, but I have had a time consoling this poor woman, who saw everything in blackness and despair."
Robert pressed the faithful soldier to his heart, then covered Madame Gaudin with caresses, enquired for her health, and wished to know if either of them had suffered in any way since he left them. When the confusion of this sudden meeting had subsided a little, both Cyprien and dame Gaudin perceived that Robert had no luggage. "Where are your effects, my child?" said the good woman. Robert smiled, and said he had left them at home, "How at home? And do you not intend to remain with us, my dear Robert?" "Yes, of course, but we will live in another house, and I will take you to your new home." She opened her astonished eyes, and followed Robert, who descended the steps, and, calling a carriage, made his friends get in, and directed the coachman to drive them all to No. 110, rue Grenelle, Saint Germain.
On the way Madame Gaudin tried to draw from him his secret, but all attempts were useless, for he took delight now in teasing her. Stopping in front of the hotel where his father was, he took the arm of his worthy benefactress and conducted her to the saloon where the Count de Verceuil waited. "Father," said he, as he entered, "here is the excellent woman who has taken the place of a mother to me, and who for my sake generously sacrificed all she had." "Madam," said the count with amiable courtesy, "excuse me that I did not come for you myself, as it was my duty to do, but I wished to allow Robert the pleasure of surprising you. You are at home here, madam, in the house of my son, and I hope you will always be his friend." "Your son?" she said, half stupefied. "Who, then, is your son? Ah! I know," she cried with lively anguish, a secret sentiment of jealousy coming into her heart; "it is Robert. God is just, and has given him this recompense. What I have done for your son, monsieur, anyone else would have done in my place, for no one could have helped loving so good and generous a child. But I do not merit so much kindness at your hands. I am only a poor creature, without either education or manners, so how can I live with you?" "These things are of little value in my eyes, my dear madam. What I honor in you, and what all honest and virtuous people would consider above everything else, is the nobleness of your soul and the virtues of which you have given so bright an example. You will give me great pain if you refuse an offer that comes from the heart, and that I make you in my name and the name of my son. We will live and enjoy together the favors God has been pleased to bestow upon us. And you will be ours, my brave Cyprien" said the count, taking the hand of the old soldier. "I know you love my son, and this entitles you to my friendship. Will you accept it?" "Oh! yes; with all my heart," replied Cyprien, looking affectionately at Robert, who was watching silently the interview between his father and his friends.
His father was kind and good, and often he blessed the day they met. Nothing can be dearer to a man's heart than a father he is proud of. Robert had experienced this feeling for his mother, whom he venerated almost as much as God. She was to him the type of every virtue. His misfortunes and affliction had entirely changed his father, and to the vain pleasures of the world had succeeded the practices of religion and the duties of the Christian. All the virtues he admired in his mother he found in the paternal heart, tried in the crucible of adversity. In a word, the father was worthy of the son as the son was worthy of the father, and a sweet harmony reigned in this family, bound to each other by the tenderest ties. All rank was effaced, and the noble count, the heir of a great name and an immense fortune, and the old woman and the old soldier lived with no other desire than to make each other happy. Robert did not give up his profession, and his name is now illustrious in the world of art! He married his cousin Julia de Moranges, and crowned with joy and happiness the last days of his father, who now sleeps the sleep of the just. Thus ends our story. We have tried to trace the struggling life of Robert, and its glorious recompense. We have tried faithfully to reproduce his touching virtues and the noble and beautiful sentiments that adorned his soul, and also to inspire our young readers with a desire to imitate him. We have tried to show the efficacious and all-powerful help of religion in nourishing the teachings of a Christian mother, and that a good and persevering child can overcome all obstacles. Have we, then, succeeded and obtained your approbation? If there are among you, my dear readers, some poor little orphans like Robert, call down the blessings of your mother upon your heads, and, though she lives in heaven, she will watch over you with tender solicitude, and the God of the motherless will be your sure refuge and your final Saviour. Think not that you can live without constant prayer to God, the author of your beings and the giver of every good and perfect gift. Put your whole trust and confidence in him and his mercy, and whether obscurity or fame be yours, always remember that he knows best, and places you in whatever position best suits you. Should he give you the transcendent gift of genius, you must struggle hard to obtain its rewards, and, whatsoever you do, remember to do it for the honor and glory of God and the good of mankind; and then, when you are called to leave this life for that better world where all cares cease, you can welcome death, which will open for you the gate of life, and exchange with joy the changing scenes of earth for the unfading bliss of heaven!
Original.
Confiteor.
"Confess therefore your sins
one to another."—St. James v. 16.
By Richard Storrs Willis.
When to God alone I make confession,
Why, my shameful heart! so light thy task?
While so deep the shame and the emotion
When to man thou must thy guilt unmask?
Only here we find the true abasement:
More than God we dread the eye of man!
Hence the justice that, by heaven's ordaining,
Human guilt a human eye should scan!
Ah! how oft, by some great sin o'ermastered,
Hearts in secret pray, but all in vain!
Not till human ear has heard the story
Peace descends and Guilt can smile again!
Thus must sin requite both earth and heaven;
Since 'gainst man the wrong as well as God!
Just amends are due the Heavenly Father—
Due my brother of this earthly sod!
Ye who fain would find a peace that's vanished.
Heaven demands no long, desponding search!
Seek the kind, attentive ear of Jesus,
Seek his listening human ear—the Church!