The most touching and beautiful affection in the world is that for parents, for their homes, and their graves. A child who reveres his mother's memory will keep his name free from blemish; for a good name is a precious heritage, and the remembrance of virtues in either father or mother will shield against bad actions like an impenetrable buckler. But, alas! a veneration for the names of our fathers is no longer in honor among men. Family homesteads are ruthlessly destroyed by those who forget that every stone is sacred to some tender memory; and it seems now that cool indifference has replaced that sweet affection which of old united parents and children. How common a thing it is in the present day to see children disrespectful to those who have given them birth; and to what can this perversion of heart, which chills all natural feelings, be attributed but a want of religious training, that sanctifying, purifying power which is based upon God's holy will and divine commandments; and faith, hope, and charity, the celestial virtues which ought to fill all hearts?
With Robert, advancing years had not weakened in his soul the tender veneration be avowed for the memory of his mother and her virtues. It was to the principles she had instilled into his mind that he was indebted for his present prosperity and happiness, for, though genius is the inestimable gift of God, it needs guidance and consecration; and all the pious sentiments which were afterward developed in his soul were from the seeds sown by that angel mother.
Robert took the road to Clermont, and could have flown the entire distance, so eager was he to get to his old home. And again and again doubts would fill his mind as to whether he would find the loved grave; whether pitiless time would not in nine years, have effaced the letters which traced the name of his mother? Clermont at last appeared in the distance, then the village of Bains, and then he was at the door of the rectory, standing with a beating heart to see a loved face, but the door is opened by a strange priest, from whom he learns that the venerable curé whom he sought was dead, but in dying he left instructions to his successor; begging that Madame Dormeuil's grave should not be neglected, which gave Robert but another proof of his imperishable love. After obeying the first wish of his heart and visiting his mother's grave, he obtained the papers which concerned him, and, opening them with emotion, read as follows:
"My dear son: I did not wish you to know the contents of these papers until you were twenty-one, because it seemed to me that before this time you would hardly comprehend them, and I thought it best to wait until you had experience and maturity of judgment. You know we are rarely willing to take the experience of others for our instruction; believing that what shipwrecked them we would have been wise enough to have avoided; that we would have acted better, reasoned better, than those who have preceded us on the perilous sea called the world. The blind lead the blind, and when we fall we are astonished. It is so with all men. Being feeble, they think they are strong; being dependent, they think they are free; being powerless, they think they are creatures of genius. But thou, my dear child, wilt have more strength than those who repose in themselves the care of their conduct, and do not invoke God to light them with his divine rays. In the moment of trial they fall; it happened so to me, my son, when I took my own feeble reason for my guide. But, though I have no grave faults to reproach myself for, it is not the less true that I have compromised thy future, and forgotten my duties as a wife and my duties as a Christian, for I have not been indulgent and forgetful of injuries. To-day, by God's grace, I am calm. I judge myself more severely then he will judge me, and I feel guilty and cannot excuse myself to thy eyes, by my youth, inexperience, and the isolation in which I found myself, when I claimed the right of breaking the links which I ought to have respected for my son. But it was my fault, and I will have the courage to tell you all—to confess all my sins, and then ask for pardon. Dormeuil is not thy name, my child; it is mine, the name of my father, a plebeian name, but without blemish. Thy name is De Verceil, and thy father is the Count Sosthène de Verceil. At ten years of age, I lost my father; my mother died in giving me birth, and I was left to the charge of an aunt who was my only relative. This worthy woman was not rich, but an annuity left her by her husband and the revenue from some savings placed her above want, and her kind heart pitied my orphanage, and she shared everything with me. I owe to her five years of happiness, and oh! that it were more; her counsels and her tenderness would have spared me the regrets I feel at this hour. She had placed me in a school of great renown, wishing, she said, to leave me, in lieu of fortune, a good education. Notwithstanding my plebeian name I had a crowd of friends of rich and noble heritage, for youth never thinks of the differences in rank or the prerogatives of birth; and it was thus that I became the friend of an amiable young girl, Helena de Verceil. Her brother came to see her often, and, as we were inseparable, I was generally present at these visits. I was a simple and candid girl, and these traits made a profound impression on the young count, and when I left the school some months after Helena I continued to see him from time to time, at his sister's house, for she was married immediately after leaving school. Young, ardent, impetuous, and unused to any resistance, the count fell easily into the snare which was held out to his inexperience by an irresistible tenderness. His passion, far from calming, grew stronger each day, and he resolved to overcome all obstacles and ask to marry me, although his age and his tastes were far from this grave determination. With his fortune and hand, he came to beg my aunt's consent, and to pray that she would not defer his happiness. Overwhelmed with joy at so brilliant and advantageous an offer for her niece, she gave her consent, for in all her dreams for the daughter of her cherished brother she had never caressed so sweet an illusion as this. She accepted it with the more gratitude as she knew she had a mortal malady which would soon leave me alone, in the midst of the manifold dangers that assail youth. In taking for his wife an obscure and poor girl the count was alienated from all his family, and his proud and noble parents would not pardon this unworthy mesalliance. He could, they said, have married a woman of rank and wealth, but this unprofitable union to the eyes of people blinded by their titles, whatever may have been the qualities of heart, was nothing and worse than nothing. He could obtain no favor from them, after putting so dark a spot on their escutcheon. These humiliations and insults would have had no effect upon me, could I have been consoled by the tender affection of my aunt, who saw but too late that wealth does not give happiness; and in less than two years after my marriage I was called to mourn her loss. The love of the count was soon extinguished, and men are very apt to be ungrateful and cruel when they cease to love. His conduct soon proved that he had only formed for me an ephemeral attachment, but I loved him above everything, and with all the energy of my soul; and this love increased when I became a mother, and I dared to believe that this title imposed by nature, and so dear to most men, would touch the heart of my husband, but the paternal sentiment could not triumph over the aversion the count felt for her whom, in a moment of insensate passion, he had taken for his wife. For one moment a ray of joy burned in his eyes when he saw that he had an inheritor; it was the pride of having a son, nothing more. He soon left my side, and I saw no more of him, except in the rare moments he consecrated to thee. Carried away in a round of pleasures, stifling in the noise of revelry the cries of conscience, regretting his liberty, furious at finding himself tied to a woman who was the only obstacle to his ambitious desires, be wished to give the half of his fortune to get clear of me; he overwhelmed me with reproaches, and flew into furious rages about my being the cause of his misfortunes.
"One day, after a fit of fury, in which he had treated me most cruelly, he said, 'I do not wish you to nourish this child any more; I am not going to have him raised by you!' These words struck me dumb. I had you in my arms, my dear Robert, and I resolved to keep you there, and fly with you to where he could not find me. I had laid by the sum of four thousand francs, which my aunt had left me, and some savings from my father's pension, with the jewels my husband gave me at our marriage. These I sold, and that, added to the rest, made ten thousand francs. I filled a trunk with the clothing which was absolutely necessary for us, leaving behind all luxuries, and all ornaments and jewels, save a portrait of thy father, which is in a small medallion set in pearls, and may aid you to recognize him. All my preparations being made, I waited until the servants had gone to their evening meal, and then, with a thousand precautions, left by a stairway which led to the vestibule. It was scarcely night when I came out and found a stage to take my baggage and myself. I did not know at first where to go, but I wanted to fly far from the city where I had suffered so much, and to assure myself of keeping my child; this was my only thought, my only desire. In thinking over where I should go, I remembered that my parents were originally of l'Auvergne, and in my childhood I had heard my father describe this part of France, and, above all, the baths of Mount Dore. I hesitated no longer, taking the road to Clermont, but filled with the most horrid fears. Each time the stage stopped I fancied I saw the angry figure of thy father, and that he jerked thee from my arms. What I suffered during this journey I can never express to you. A thousand terrors, shudderings, and anguishes of all kinds agitated me, until I feared I should lose my reason. If anyone looked at me, I thought they knew my secret, and was ready to scream with horror. The gallop of a horse made me tremble and think I was overtaken, and my emotion would have betrayed me had the passengers been interested in watching my movements. Every unknown person I suspected as an enemy, and the remembrance of those hours of my life is still so vivid that they even now fill me with horror. However, I arrived at Clermont without accident, and remained there long enough to inform myself of the chances of being able to find a small house to let, in the neighborhood of the baths of Mount Dore. Here the first years of thy life were passed, and no remarkable event has ever troubled our happy solitude. What I have most dreaded was that I might have to return to the world, but God spares me this; he will take me soon. Thou canst now judge of my anguish at the thought of being separated from thee, and the desolation of my soul, that I know will soon leave thee alone in the world. O my child! in this hour, when my love redoubles its strength and struggles against death to enjoy some moments more of thy sweet society, I weep bitterly at the loneliness I have made for thee. I may, perhaps, exaggerate my wrongs; I may have acted badly; but when the moment comes when I will appear before my sovereign Judge, to render an account for all my actions, if I reproach myself with voluntarily throwing off the yoke which weighed me down, I will say also, with the same frankness, that I rejoice to have raised thee far from the world's corruptions and would rather leave thee alone in life than surrounded by wicked men. I have tried to instil good principles into thy mind, and I know that thou fearest and lovest God and will cherish my memory, and the heart is the talisman that will preserve thee from evil. I have the firm conviction that thou wilt never forget the sublime teachings of religion, and that it will ever guide thee in the right way. Pardon me, my son, for having deprived thee of thy father's caresses and protection; and as I have need of thy indulgence, I will be indulgent to others, and efface all remembrance of what I have suffered, and will think only of the happiness thou hast given me. Then, if it pleases God that thou shouldst ever find thy father, tell him that I pardoned him long ago, but that I never forgave myself for my conduct to him. Tell him that to the last hour of my life I regretted I could not make him happy; and, if remorse should fill his heart, console him, my child, be to him an angel of mercy, be prodigal of thy cares and tenderness, for repentance is a second baptism; it is the regeneration of the soul. When thou wilt read the lines I now trace with trembling hand, it will be long after I have bid adieu to the transitory things of time. Thou wilt be a man and subject to passions. If thou art pure, God be blessed a thousand times; if thou art feeble, repent sincerely and call upon God to assist thee. Respect, above all things, the purity of affection. Hold out thy hand to help all who need encouragement and pity. A word of compassion does more good than severity and reproach. What can I say more, but what thou knowest better than I do? for I have seen little of the world, and what I have seen makes me regard it with horror. Flee from the wicked, from whom nothing can be gained and all lost. Whatever career you may choose, fill it with honor and credit. Happiness consists neither in feasting nor the brilliancy of riches; it is in the life within, in doing good and making others happy, and in laying up treasures in heaven. Recall often the sweet and peaceful joys of thy childhood, the twelve years of thy life which will forever be engraven in thy heart. May these simple pleasures inspire thee with wisdom to choose between the burning, wasting pleasures of a vain world, and the pure joys of retirement."
Thus finished the letter.
"O my precious mother!" cried Robert, raising his eyes toward heaven, "if thou wert living, I would say to thee, with lively gratitude, 'Thou hast done well;' for, if I am exempt from the passions of youth, it is to thy tender care that I owe it; it is to thy love and thy virtues that I am indebted for that peace of mind which makes my whole life happy. O my good mother! thy memory will ever be for me a precious talisman, and thy least desires and wishes will be sacred orders for thy son; and I swear by thy revered memory to try and find my father, if the Lord will permit me."
To the confession of his mother were joined the register of the birth of Robert and the marriage of Mlle. Stephanie Dormeuil with the Count Sosthène de Verceil. Though Robert had the right to take his father's name, be did not wish it. He preferred the more humble one of his mother, and hoped, by his talent, to raise it above the noble one of his father; to efface its original plebeianism under a crown of fame. This was the generous idea of a good son, who wished to avenge the contempt his mother had received from his noble grandparents. He had now but this desire, and determined the maternal name should be cited among the illustrious.
After one more visit to the grave of his mother, and another to his loved mountain, the little house, and all the place, which spoke so eloquently of her, he set out for the classic land of Italy, the cradle of the arts and sciences.