Moral Tales 10

Moral Tales 10

It was decided that the first communions of the village should be made on the feast of Corpus Christi, and that until then, Madame d'Aubecourt should go every other Thursday to pass the afternoon at the Cure's house, where Marie expected them with great delight. She saw them besides every Sunday at church, when, of course, she did not speak to them, but they exchanged a few words on coming out, and sometimes, though rarely, they met in their walks; thus they did not lose sight of each other, but were able to converse about their various occupations. Marie had read the whole of her Rollin: Alphonse pointed out to her other historical works, and she gave him an account of what she read. He applied with great zeal to his studies, in order to be able to give her, hereafter, lessons in drawing and English; and Lucie never learned a new stitch, or busied herself with any particular work, without saying, "I will show it to Marie." Every one was happy at Guicheville, and all hoped to be still more so. The feast of Corpus Christi was drawing near; the two girls, equally inspired with piety and fervour, beheld its approach with mingled joy and fear. Alphonse thought of the happy day which was to bring back Marie, and to exhibit her, as well as his sister, as an example to the young girls of the village. He would have been glad to have signalized it by some fete, but the seriousness and holiness of such a day would not permit of amusement, or even of any distraction. He determined at least to contribute as much as he possibly could to those attentions which were allowable. Madame d'Aubecourt had provided for Lucie and Marie two white dresses, both alike; Alphonse wished them to have veils and sashes also alike. From the money which his grandfather had given him for his new year's gift, and which he had carefully saved for this occasion, he sent to purchase them at the neighbouring town, without saying anything on the subject to Lucie, who did not consider it proper to occupy herself with these matters, and left them all to her mother's care. Madame d'Aubecourt was the only person admitted into his council, and with her permission, the last evening but one before the festival, he sent Philip, with the veil and sash, to Marie, accompanied by a note, in which he begged her to wear them at her first communion. Philip was very much attached to Alphonse and Marie; this was almost his only merit; in other respects he was coarse, quarrelsome, and insolent, and had an especial aversion to Mademoiselle Raymond; and as he and his father were the only persons in the house who were but slightly dependent upon her, he amused himself by provoking her whenever he could find an opportunity. He never met her with Zizi without making some disagreeable remark about the animal, to which he always added, "It's a great pity they don't let you eat Mademoiselle Marie," at the same time threatening him with his hand. Mademoiselle Raymond would get angry, while he would go off laughing. If he chanced to meet Zizi in a corner, a thing which very rarely happened, because his mistress no longer dared to let him go about, he would tie a branch of thorns to his tail, a stick between his legs, or cover his face with paper; in fact he thought of everything which could displease Mademoiselle Raymond, who thus lived in a state of perpetual apprehension. As Alphonse was very anxious that Lucie should have the surprise of seeing Marie dressed exactly like herself, he had told Philip to go to the presbytery without being observed, and Philip, who was very fond of doing what he ought not to do, took a fancy to get there by climbing over the wall, which was not very high. When on the top, he perceived Marie, who was reading on a slight elevation which had been raised near the wall, for the purpose of enjoying the very beautiful view which it commanded. He called to her in a low voice, and threw her the packet which Alphonse had confided to him, and was preparing to descend, when he perceived Mademoiselle Raymond walking by the side of the wall, with Zizi panting before her. As she approached, Philip, finding under his hand a piece of flint belonging to the wall, threw it at Zizi, and hid himself among the trees which overhung the wall at this spot: Mademoiselle Raymond, who was stooping down at the moment for the purpose of removing something from Zizi's throat, received the flint on her forehead, where it left rather a large wound. She screamed, and raised her head. Perceiving Marie on the mound, who, having heard her cry, stood up, and was looking at her, she did not doubt that it was she who had thrown the stone. Redoubling her speed, she hastened to the presbytery to complain, without perceiving Philip, who, nevertheless, was not very well concealed, but whom she had no idea of finding there. As to him, the moment she had passed, he jumped down and made his escape as fast as he could. Mademoiselle Raymond found no one at home but Madame Sainte Therese. The Cure had gone to the neighbouring town on business, and would not return until the following evening. She related to her what had occurred, showing her forehead, which was bleeding, though the wound was not very deep; she also showed the stone, which she had picked up, and which might have killed her. She asserted that it was Marie who had thrown it; but Madame Sainte Therese could not believe such a thing. She, however, accompanied her to the garden, in search of Marie. When Marie saw them approaching, she hid her packet under a cluster of rosebushes, for, being as yet unaware of what had occurred, she was afraid that Philip had done something wrong, and in order not to be compelled to say that he had been there, she did not wish what he had brought to be seen; however, she blushed and turned pale alternately, for she was afraid of being questioned, and did not wish to be guilty of an untruth. Madame Sainte Therese, on coming up to her, was struck with her air of embarrassment, and Mademoiselle Raymond said to her, "See, Mademoiselle Marie, how well you employ the last evening but one before your first communion! After that you will be called a saint in the village. I shall only have to point to my forehead." Saying this, she showed it to Marie, who blushed still more at the thought that Philip could have committed so disgraceful an act. "Is it possible, Marie," said Madame Sainte Therese, "that it can be you who have thrown a stone at Mademoiselle Raymond?" and as Marie hesitated, seeking for an answer, she added, "You must surely have hit her unintentionally; but nevertheless, this would be an amusement very unbecoming your age, and the duty for which you are preparing yourself." "Madame," replied Marie, "I assure you that I have not thrown any stone." "It seems, then, to have come of its own accord," said Mademoiselle Raymond, in a tone of great asperity, at the same time pointing to the spot where she stood when the stone struck her: it was evident that it could only have come from the garden, and from an elevated position. Madame Sainte Therese interrogated Marie with increased severity, and Marie, trembling, could only reply, "I assure you, Madame, that I have not thrown any stone." "All that I can see in the matter," continued Mademoiselle Raymond, "is that I doubt whether Mademoiselle Marie will make her first communion the day after to-morrow." "I am very much afraid that she has rendered herself unworthy of doing so," replied Madame Sainte Therese. Marie began to weep, and Mademoiselle Raymond hastened to relate her adventure at the chateau, and to say that probably Marie would not make her first communion. She referred to her talent for throwing stones at the cats, as they ran along the leads, and added, "She makes a fine use of it." Lucie was horrified. Alphonse, quite bewildered, ran to question Philip, and to know whether, when he executed his commission, he had observed anything amiss at the Cure's house, and whether Marie appeared sad. Philip assured him that he had not perceived anything whatever wrong; at the same time carefully avoiding any mention of the means by which he had transmitted the packet to Marie; and he so represented matters, that Alphonse did not suspect anything. Madame d'Aubecourt, being very uneasy, wrote to Madame Sainte Therese, who replied that she could not at all understand what had happened, but that it seemed to her impossible that Marie should not be greatly in fault: and during the course of the following day, they learned from Gothon, who had received her information from the Cure's servant, that Marie had cried almost all the day, and that Madame Sainte Therese treated her with great severity, and had even made her fast that morning upon bread and water. In the evening, Lucie went to confession to the Cure, who had returned, and saw Marie coming out of the confessional, sobbing violently. Madame d'Aubecourt went to Madame Sainte Therese, and asked her whether Marie was to make her first communion on the following day. Madame Sainte Therese replied, in a sad and severe tone, "I do not at all know." As they were in the church, nothing more was said. Marie cast upon her cousin, as she passed by, a look which, notwithstanding her tears, expressed a feeling of satisfaction. She whispered something to Madame Sainte Therese, who led her away, and Lucie entered the confessional. After having finished her confession, she was timidly preparing to ask the Cure what she so much desired to know; but before she could summon courage to begin, he was sent for to a sick person, and hurried away, so that she had no time to speak to him. She passed the whole of that evening and night in inexpressible anxiety, which was so much the more intense, from the manner in which she reproached herself for every thought which wandered from the sacred duty of the morrow. Then she prayed to God for her cousin, thus uniting her devotion with her anxieties, and the thought of the happiness which was in store for her, with the supplications which she breathed for her dear Marie. The morning came; she dressed herself without speaking, collecting all her thoughts, so as not to allow a single one to escape her which could occasion her any uneasiness. She embraced her brother, and begged the blessing of M. d'Aubecourt and her mother, which they gave her with great joy, and M. d'Aubecourt added, that he blessed her both for himself and for his son. All sighed that he was not present at such a time, and after a moment's silence, they repaired to the church. The girls who were to make their first communion were already assembled. Lucie, notwithstanding her self-possession, surveyed them with a glance, but Marie was not among them. She turned pale and leaned upon the arm of her mother, who sustained and encouraged her, and telling her to commit her griefs to God, led her into the row of girls, and passed with M. d'Aubecourt into the chapel at the side. Behind the girls, stood Mademoiselle Raymond and Gothon, and the principal people of the village. "I was quite sure she would not be there," said Mademoiselle Raymond. No one answered her, for all were interested in Marie, whom they had often seen in the cemetery during the past months, fervently praying at the foot of the cross which she had begged might be erected over the grave of her poor nurse. Lucie had heard Mademoiselle Raymond's remark, and, violently excited, she prayed to God with all her strength to preserve her from all improper feelings; but her agitation, and the restraint she had imposed upon her thoughts, affected her so much, that she could scarcely support herself. At length, the door of the sacristy opened, and Marie appeared, conducted by the Cure and Madame Sainte Therese; she came forward with the white veil upon her head, beautiful as an angel, and as pure. A murmur of satisfaction ran through the church. Marie crossed the choir, and, after bending before the altar, went and knelt at the feet of M. and Madame d'Aubecourt, to ask their blessing. "My child," said the Cure to her, sufficiently loud to be heard, "be always as virtuous as you are now, and God also will bless you." Oh! what joy did Lucie feel! She raised to heaven her eyes moistened with tears, and believed that in the happiness she then experienced, she felt the assurance of divine protection throughout the whole of her future life. M. and Madame d'Aubecourt, deeply affected, bestowed their blessing upon Marie, who knelt before them, while Alphonse, standing behind, his face beaming with joy and triumph, looked at her with as much respect as affection. Madame d'Aubecourt herself led Marie to Lucie's side. The two cousins did not utter a word, nor give more than a single look, but that look reverting to Madame d'Aubecourt before it fell, expressed a degree of happiness which no words could have conveyed, and the eyes of Madame d'Aubecourt replied to those of her children. The long-wished-for moment had arrived at last; the two cousins approached the altar together. Lucie, more feeble, and agitated by so many emotions which she had been forced to repress, was almost on the point of fainting: Marie supported her, her countenance beaming with angelic joy. Having received the communion, the cousins returned to their places, prayed together, and after having passed a part of the morning in the church, went to dine at the chateau, where Madame Sainte Therese and the Cure had been invited. Marie and Lucie talked but little, but it was evident that they were very happy. Alphonse, his relations, the servants, all appeared happy too; but this joy was silent, it seemed as if they feared to disturb the perfect calm which these young souls, pure and sanctified, ought to enjoy. The looks of all were unconsciously turned towards them, and they were waited upon with a kind of respect which could not suggest any sentiments of pride. After having again gone to church in the afternoon with Lucie, Marie came back with her, to take up her abode at the chateau. The evening was very happy, and even a little gay. Alphonse ventured to laugh, and the two cousins to smile, In the room in which they slept, and next to the bed occupied by Madame d'Aubecourt, Marie found one exactly like Lucie's. All the furniture was alike; henceforth they were two sisters. From the following day, she shared in all Lucie's occupations, and especially in her care of M. d'Aubecourt, who soon became as fond of her as he was of his grandchildren. Mademoiselle Raymond having fallen ill some time afterwards, Marie, who was very active, and had been accustomed to attend to her poor nurse, rendered her so many services, went so often to her room, to give her her medicines, was so careful each time to caress Zizi, and even occasionally to carry him a bit of sugar to pacify him, that the feelings of both were changed towards her: and if Zizi, who was the most vindictive, still growled at her now and then, he was scolded by his mistress, who begged pardon for him of Marie. Marie had related to Alphonse and Lucie, but under the strictest secrecy, all that had taken place. She told them that Madame Sainte Therese, having questioned her to no purpose, had treated her with much severity; that she had said nothing, fearing, that if the truth were known, Philip might be discharged, but that she had been very unhappy during those two days; that at length, the Cure having returned, she took the resolution of consulting him in confession, well assured that he would then say nothing about the matter; and that he advised her to confide what she had done to Madame Sainte Therese, on her promising inviolable secrecy. This she had done, so that they were reconciled. She, moreover, told Lucie that the reason of her crying so much on leaving the confessional, was because the Cure had exhorted her in a most pathetic manner, in recalling to her mind her poor nurse, who had been carried to the grave precisely on the same day, and at the same hour, the preceding year. Alphonse scolded Philip very severely, and forbade him ever to do any harm to Zizi, or anything which might displease Mademoiselle Raymond. The latter, being freed from annoyance on this point, consoled herself for not being so completely mistress of the chateau as formerly, by the reflection, that Madame d'Aubecourt and her children, in relieving her of many cares, left her more at liberty. Besides, the regard they had for her on account of her fidelity and attachment, flattered her self-love, so that her ill-humour perceptibly decreased; so that song and laughter were now as frequently heard at Guicheville, as murmuring and scolding had been during many previous years. M. d'Aubecourt returned to France. He found but little of his property remaining, but still sufficient for the support of his wife and children. Marie, on the contrary, had become rich: her right had been recognised, not only to her mother's fortune, but even to that of her father also, as he had died before the laws against the emigrants had been enacted. The elder M. d'Aubecourt was her guardian, and as, though a minor, she enjoyed a considerable income, she found a thousand opportunities of making this family, which was so dear to her, partake in its enjoyment; in fine, in order to unite herself entirely to it, she is going to marry Alphonse, who loves her every day with a deeper affection, because every day she becomes more amiable. Lucie is transported with joy at the prospect of becoming in reality Marie's sister: Madame d'Aubecourt is also very happy, and Marie finds that the only thing wanted to render her own happiness complete, is the power of making her poor nurse a partaker in her joy. Every year she has a service celebrated for her at Guicheville, and all the family look upon it as a duty to assist at it, in order to show respect to the memory of one who so generously protected the childhood of Marie. THE LITTLE BRIGANDS. "Peter, Jacques, Louis, Simon, listen! listen!" cried Antony to his companions, a set of little vagabonds belonging to the village of Marcieux, who were playing at quoits upon the village green. A postchaise had just passed by, from which had been thrown a paper, containing the remains of a pie. Antony had immediately seized it: it chanced to be the _Journal de l'Empire_, of the 22nd of February, 1812, and as he was able to read, for he was the son of the village schoolmaster, he had discovered, while eating the crumbs which it contained, the following paragraph:-- "_Berne, January 26th, 1812._--A certain number of students, of the second and third classes of our college, between the ages of twelve and thirteen years, who had read during their hours of recreation, romantic tales of brigands, formed themselves into a company, elected a captain and officers, and gave themselves the names of different brigands. They had secret meetings, in which they smoked, held their orgies, and bound themselves by oath to preserve secrecy in all their operations, &c." This was what he wished to read to his comrades. "Oh! brigands! brigands!" they all exclaimed, after having heard it. "That's capital! Let us all be brigands. Charles, will you be one?" they cried to the Cure's nephew, who was coming up at the time. "What is it? what is it? Oh, yes, I don't mind," said Charles, without knowing what they wanted. Charles was a good boy, but he had one great fault, and that was disobedience to his uncle, the Cure, who had forbidden him to associate with the other little boys of the village, almost all of whom were mischievous and bad. Instead of obeying this order, he stopped whenever he could find an opportunity, to play with one or other of them; he even made appointments to meet them at different places, through which he would have to pass, when his uncle sent him out on any commission. When in their company, they led him into many follies, which he did not willingly commit, but he was unable to resist their persuasions. He was very angry when he saw them throw stones to bring down the fruit, or walk in the fields of ripe corn, or spoil the asparagus-beds: on these occasions, he declared he would never play with them again, but he invariably returned, nevertheless. He now said he would be a brigand because he thought it was a game. It was first determined that they must have sticks; they therefore ran to a heap of faggots, and drew out from it some of the thickest branches. Charles urged in vain, that these faggots belonged to his uncle, the Cure, who had purchased them that morning; they replied, that brigands were not afraid of cures, and that all the cures in the world had only to come to them, and they would find their match. Charles laughed at all these follies, and Simon, the one of whom he was most fond, because he was gay and good-natured, although a very naughty boy, having selected a stick for him, he took it. Then they began brandishing their sticks, raising their heads, and assuming as wicked an expression as they possibly could, after which they began to deliberate on what was to be done next. "We must first of all swear that we are brigands," said Antony, "and then," added he, referring to the paper, "then we'll steal everything we can find, and we'll hold our orgies." "We'll steal!" repeated Charles, who was beginning to find this rather an extraordinary kind of game. "Certainly, since we are brigands." "I won't steal." "Oh, you'll steal, you'll steal," cried all the little boys. "You are a brigand, so you must steal." "I will _not_ steal." "What does it signify to us," said Simon, who was always anxious to accommodate matters, "if you won't steal, so much the worse for yourself, that's all." "Yes, if you are such a fool," said the others, "so much the worse for yourself--you'll get nothing." "But what is the meaning of holding orgies?" said one of the troop. Charles explained that it meant to get tipsy. "Ah! yes, and to smoke too," said Antony, again consulting his paper; "we will go together to the tavern." "Of course they'll let you go there!" said Charles. "Oh, brigands are not afraid of anything, and besides no one will know it. We'll go to Troux, that's a league from here. Brigands don't want leave, they do just what they please, and set every one at defiance." And the little wretches again brandished their sticks in the air with greater fierceness than before. "Come," said Antony, "we must swear that we are brigands." "Nonsense!" said Charles, "let us leave off this stupid game, and play at quoits. Simon, come and play at quoits; I owe you a revenge, you know," and Simon was willing enough to go and have his revenge; but he was withheld by the others, who told him he must take the oath, and that Charles might go if he liked, because he was a fool. Charles ought to have gone; nevertheless he remained. Antony said they must have some wine; and as he had been reading history in an old Latin and French book, which his father used in teaching Latin, he said that they would do as the conspirators of former times had done, that is, they would put a little of their blood into the wine, and afterwards drink it, and then they would be bound to be brigands all their lives. This they thought would be delightful. "But how shall we get blood?" said one of them. "Oh, we must prick our fingers," said another. "I have a large pin which fastens my trousers." They agreed to make use of the pin, each one determining in his own mind not to go very deep. But they wanted some wine; this was a great embarrassment. They asked Louis, who was the son of the wine-merchant, to go and steal some from his father's cellar. Louis replied that he would not go in the daylight, for fear of being seen, and beaten. They said that, for a brigand, he was very cowardly; still none of them would go in his stead. At length Simon, who was the most daring, went and begged some of the innkeeper's servant, who liked him because, when he met her in the streets, heavily laden, he assisted her in carrying her jugs. She gave him a little that remained at the bottom of a measure, and he carried it off triumphantly in an old broken sabot, into which he had poured it. Antony was the first to prick his finger, but as he felt it hurt him, he said that it bled quite enough, although it did not bleed at all. The others then pretended to prick their fingers, and they shook them very much, as if they really had bled a great deal. Charles alone refused to imitate them, and Jacques struck him violently with the pin, and caused the blood to flow. He was very angry, and fought with Jacques. Simon took his part, and beat Jacques. Charles, being in a rage, wanted to upset the wine, which was in the sabot, but the others prevented him, and told him he refused to drink and take the oath, because he was a traitor, and wanted to inform against them. Even Simon himself said, that if he did not drink with them, it would prove that he was a traitor. This was painful to Charles, especially as Simon had just been defending him. "You promised to be a brigand," they all cried. Charles assured them that he had no wish to inform against them but that he would not be a brigand. They again exclaimed, with greater vehemence, "You must be a brigand, you promised to be one," and Simon held the sabot to his mouth. Charles resisted, but they asserted that he had drunk, and therefore was a brigand. He went away very angry, declaring that it was not true. However, he did not long retain his anger against Simon, who on the following day waited for him as he passed down the street, for the purpose of telling him to come and see a large sausage which they had found the means of snatching from the hooks of a pork-butcher's shop in the village. Charles at first positively refused to go, but Simon said so much about the size of the sausage, that he became curious to see what it really was. He therefore went in the afternoon upon the green, where they were eating it. It was indeed very large. They told him how they had managed to get it, their fear of being seen by the shopkeeper, and the tales with which Simon had amused him outside the shop, while one of them stole into it. All this made Charles laugh, and he so completely forgot the evil of such actions, that when they invited him to taste the sausage, he took a piece and ate it. But he had no sooner swallowed it, than he felt distressed at what he had done. He immediately left them without saying a word, and the more he thought of it, the more he was tormented. His anxiety increased after he got home, for his uncle made him repeat the lesson in the catechism, which on that day happened to fall on the commandment, "_Thou shalt not steal_." His uncle explained to him that those who took what did not belong to them, were not the only thieves, but that those also were such who bought without paying, whose expenses were greater than their means, who borrowed what it was not possible for them to return, and above all, those who profited by what others had stolen. Charles became pale and red by turns; fortunately for him, it was getting dark, and his uncle did not observe his agitation. He made no reply, and as soon as he could get away, he went and concealed himself, in order to give vent to his tears. At supper he ate nothing, saying that he was sick, and in truth the piece of sausage he had taken, had made him feel ill. He could not sleep; his conscience reproached him with having participated in the theft, since he had profited by it, and he felt that he could no longer tell them that they had done wrong, since they would say, "That, however, did not prevent you from eating some of the sausage." He knew, and his uncle had often repeated it to him, that one cannot hope for forgiveness from God, without at least returning the value of what has been stolen. He would most willingly have given the little he possessed to be delivered from so heavy a burden; but how was he to make the butcher accept it? It would be necessary to explain everything, and accuse his companions. This he would not have thought of doing, even if he had not considered himself bound by his promise; he therefore determined to go and lay the four sous, which was all the money he possessed, upon the door-step of the pork-butcher's shop, thinking that he would take them up, supposing them to belong to him. He passed before the door two or three times, without daring to carry his plan into execution; at last, at a moment when he was not perceived, he laid them on the threshold, and ran away to the corner of the street, in order to see what would happen. He had no sooner stationed himself there, than he saw Antony come up, who, prowling about the shop, and perceiving that its owner's back was turned, stooped down to pick up the money. Charles rushed upon him to prevent him. Antony struggled, and the shopkeeper turned round at the noise. "What are you doing in front of my shop?" he exclaimed, in an angry tone; for he remembered what had been stolen from him. "What does M. Charles mean by lurking about here for a whole hour? Be off with you; I do not accuse you, M. Charles, but I don't want any one in front of my shop." "He ought to be accused as much as any one else," said Antony, and Charles in despair beheld himself driven away, without daring to resist, as he would have done on any other occasion. He ran after Antony, in order to get back his four sous, saying that they belonged to him, but Antony only laughed at him. He dared not compel him to give them back, for Antony had over him the advantage of a scamp, who laughs at everything that can be said to him, while Charles did not possess that of an honest man, which consists in having nothing to conceal, for his conduct had not always been irreproachable. As he stood there, sad and ashamed, Jacques and Simon happened to pass by. "Oh," said Simon, in a low voice, "we have got such a beautiful basket of peaches, which Dame Nicholas was going to carry into the town, and which we took from off her donkey, while she was gone to pick up sticks by the side of the park walls. We have hidden it there in the ditch. Come and see it." "No, I will not," said Charles. "Well, they are not for him," replied Jacques, "he has had no trouble in getting them; he is a cowardly brigand." "I am not a brigand," said Charles, "and I do not care for your peaches." "You were not so squeamish about the sausage, though." Charles, on any other occasion, would have replied by a blow; but now he was humbled, and remained silent, and Jacques went away, singing at the top of his voice, to the air of "_C'est un enfant_," _he's a child_:--     "He's a coward,     He's a coward." "Why will you not come?" asked Simon. "Simon," replied Charles, who wished to reform him, "it is very wrong to steal, and to keep company with those who steal." "That's all very fine! but you did not think so yesterday." "But since then I have bitterly repented of it." "Very well, you may repent again to-morrow, come along;" and Simon, who was accustomed to make him do pretty nearly what he pleased, dragged him along by the arm. "No, no. I will not go." "Very well, don't come, then;" and he pushed him rudely back: "I see very well it's because you won't let me have my revenge." "But, Simon, how am I to do it? I have no more money." "You have still the four sous that you won from Louis and me." Charles related what he had done, and what followed; Simon laughed so heartily, that Charles almost laughed to see him laughing: however, he became impatient. "If I could only make him restore them," he said. "Oh," said Simon, "brigands never restore anything; but come presently and play at quoits upon the green. Since it is that rascally Antony who has stolen them from you, we shall easily find the means of winning them again from him." "No," said Charles, "I will not go." "Very well, as you like. I shall win them for myself then." As Charles, notwithstanding his misfortunes, was rather more satisfied with himself, he dined better than he had supped on the previous evening. Nevertheless, he thought it would have been very pleasant to have won back his money from Antony. The following day was Sunday, and his uncle gave him the key of his garden, desiring him to carry it to Madame Brossier, one of his parishioners, who was very old and infirm. She lived at the distance of four or five hundred paces from the village, and in going to mass had a much shorter journey to make, by crossing the Cure's garden, than by going round by the streets. Charles set out. His way lay near the green, and as he passed, he looked towards it, walking more slowly, and endeavouring to discover what his comrades, whom he saw there assembled, were about. In this manner he approached them, found that they were playing at quoits, and drew still nearer, in order to ascertain whether it was Simon who was winning. The latter observed him, and called to him, inviting him to go halves with him. Charles at first made no reply; Simon renewed his proposal: it was against Antony that he was playing, and Charles therefore agreed, forgetting that he had no right to play, since he had no money to pay if he lost. This idea occurred to him in the midst of the game, and he became so terribly alarmed at the thought of losing, that he could hardly breathe. He watched the game with anxious attention; and on two occasions he fancied he saw Simon, with whom he was to share, take an opportunity, while approaching for the purpose of measuring, to push his quoit in such a way as to make it appear that he had won, when in reality he had lost. However, he did not dare to say anything; but whether it was for the sake of not injuring Simon, or for the sake of not losing, he could not decide, so much was he confused. He won a sou, and went away, still more troubled, if possible, than on the previous evening. He thought that Simon had cheated, and that from this dishonesty had come what he himself had gained; and that though Antony had stolen the money from him, still this was no reason why he should steal it in his turn. He would have been glad to have asked some one whether he had any right to keep this money, or whether, on the contrary, he ought not also to return even what Simon had gained, since he had not given notice that he was cheating. But whom was he to ask? It is one of the misfortunes of those who have been guilty of any disgraceful act, that they dare not seek advice, even though it be for the purpose of repairing their fault. Charles's conscience tormented him so much, that he tried to distract his thoughts, in order not to feel his self-reproaches. He therefore began running, to try and shake off his painful impressions, but on reaching Madame Brossier's door, he perceived that he had not the key of the garden. He imagined at first that he must have dropped it while running, and therefore searched for it for some time, but at last recollecting that he had lent it to Simon to measure the distance of the quoits, he went back to ask him for it. Simon, however, was not there, nor Jacques either, and the others declared that they had not got his key. Charles was going to run after Simon. "Don't go," said Antony, "he'll come back presently, and you will miss him. Let's have a game instead." Charles was just in a condition for committing faults; he did not know whether the money he had belonged to him or not, and it would seem that those who have had the misfortune of rendering their duties so difficult and complicated, that they no longer know how to extricate themselves from their embarrassments, are apt to abandon altogether the care of their conscience, and become reckless, so that they go on from bad to worse, and thus deprive themselves of the means of repairing their errors. Charles played, and lost not only his sou, but four others which he did not possess; still he wanted his revenge, but Antony refused to play any longer, and Simon did not return. Charles thought but little of this, so much was he occupied with his game; however he had once inquired if Simon was not coming back. "Yes, yes! when the fowls get teeth," replied Antony, deriding him. Charles had scarcely heard him. Whilst he was asking for a last game, which would probably have again made him lose what he did not possess, Jacques arrived at full speed, and without perceiving Charles, for it was beginning to get dark, he called out from a distance, though in a suppressed voice, "It's the key of the garden sure enough, we have tried it, and are going to fetch some baskets." Charles perceived that they were talking of his key, and saw clearly that he had been expressly detained, in order to allow Jacques and Simon time to take it away. He was going to run after Jacques, but Antony retained him: "Pay me my four sous first," said he. "I will pay you them to-morrow, but I must have my key." "Are you afraid any one will eat your key?" "No, but I don't want any one to go to my uncle's garden and steal his fruit, as they did the basket of peaches, and the sausage;" and he continued to struggle, but Antony kept him back. "There is a great deal of harm," said Louis "in picking up the fruit which has fallen, and is rotting on the ground." But Charles, who knew very well that they would not content themselves with this, struggled still more violently. "You will have to let me go in the end," said he, "and then I will run and tell my uncle to make them give up his key." "And I will tell him," said Antony, "to make you give me my four sous." "Very well! Let me go; I will say nothing about it." "Swear it on the faith of a brigand." "But I am not a brigand." "You are, you are a brigand," exclaimed all the little boys at once, taking hold of each other's hands, and dancing round him in such a manner as to prevent him from getting away. "Swear it on the faith of a brigand." Charles stamped, cried, and made every effort to get away, but in vain; he was obliged to swear on the faith of a brigand, that he would not tell, and that he would pay the four sous on the following day; that is to say, he promised to give what he did not possess: but his first faults had led him into a bad path, and now he could not get out of it. As soon as he got free, he began to run as fast as he could in the direction of the house, but at some distance he met his uncle, who stopped him and inquired whether he had given the key to Madame Brossier. Charles, dismayed and confused, stammered, and could only repeat: "The key, the key ... the key, uncle." "Have you lost it?" "Yes, uncle," said Charles, delighted at this excuse. The Cure was a good quiet man, who never got angry: he merely said, "Very well! we must look for it." "What uncle, at this hour? it is almost dark." "We shall have much more difficulty in finding it when it is quite dark;" and he began to look for it, Charles pretending to do the same. They met Antony and his companions, who were returning to the village; the Cure inquired for his key; they replied that they had not found it, and Charles, filled with indignation, heard them as they went away, laughing among themselves, and saying, "It will be found, M. le Cure, it will be found." He saw them running, and felt convinced that they were hastening to take advantage of his uncle's absence to effect their purpose. He trembled for his uncle's beautiful apricot-tree, so laden with fruit that some of the branches had to be supported; but above all, he trembled for Bebe, a beautiful little lamb, which the Cure's servant had brought up, and of which Charles was passionately fond, for it knew him, would run to him, as far as the length of its cord would allow, the moment it perceived him, would caress him, and eat from his hand. It was tied in the garden, and if these good-for-nothing fellows were to take it away, and hurt it, the poor thing might bleat as much as it pleased, without any possibility of the servant's hearing it, as the garden was at some distance from the house, and only connected with it by a narrow path, passing along the back of the church. He could not endure the thought. "Uncle," said he, in great agitation, "let me go; if any one has found the key, he may get into the garden; I will put something in the lock to prevent them from opening it." "No! no!" said the Cure, "you would spoil my lock:" Charles had already set off. The Cure again cried out to him, forbidding him to put anything into the lock. Charles promised not to touch it, and ran on, and his uncle, seeing it was getting too dark to leave any chance of finding the key, went to pay a visit in the village. Charles reached home, quite out of breath; he found everything perfectly quiet. Bebe was in her old place, and came to lick his hand; he breathed more freely, but he was still in constant fear of hearing the little brigands arrive. What was he to do then? He had placed himself in the most distressing dilemma in which a man can be placed, that of either failing in his word, or of allowing a wrong to be committed, which he had the power of preventing. His uncle had forbidden him to put anything in the lock, but he thought that if the ladder which was used for mounting the trees, were placed across the door, it might hinder its being opened. He had just begun to drag it along with much difficulty, when he heard several persons speaking in a low voice outside the wall, and close to the door; he saw that there was no time to reach it with the ladder, and therefore rushed forward, that he might at least push it with all his might; but at that moment the key was put into the lock, and the door suddenly burst open. Charles was almost thrown down, and he beheld the five little brigands enter the garden. "Go back! go back!" he said, "go back, or I'll call out." "Go and call outside then!" said Jacques, pushing him out of the garden, the door of which he closed, after having taken out the key. Charles did in fact cry out, and knock, but they threw a flower-pot over the wall, which fell upon his shoulder and hurt him a good deal. He saw another coming, and concluded that he could not stay there. Being obliged to go round, he made all the haste possible, though his fears made him tremble; he found the gate of the yard open, ran along the walk without being seen from the house, and heard Bebe bleating in so pitiable a manner, that it filled him with terror. "Tie it tight round her neck," said Jacques; "tie it very tight." Charles uttered a loud cry. Simon rushed upon him, placed his hands before his mouth, and aided by Antony, retained them there, notwithstanding his struggles, while the others endeavoured to tighten the cord round the neck of the lamb, already half-choked. Poor Bebe, however, uttered a last and feeble cry; Charles heard it; despair gave him strength; he tore himself from the hands that restrained him, and screamed out "Help! help!" He was heard; the Cure, who had been looking for him, and the servant who was coming to take in Bebe, hurried to the spot. The little brigands saw themselves discovered, and fled to different parts of the garden. They tried to make their escape, but they had closed the door. The servant had already recognised and boxed the ears of two or three, whilst Charles, solely occupied with Bebe, untied her so that she could breathe, and kneeling beside her, kissed her, cried over her, and tried to induce her to eat the grass he offered her. After having severely reprimanded the little brigands, and driven them out, the Cure and the servant returned to Bebe. Charles was surprised to hear the servant say that there were four of them, Simon's name not being mentioned. He thought he must have contrived to escape; but as he was walking along a narrow path behind the others, and leading Bebe, who was still so much frightened that she would hardly allow herself to be conducted, he perceived Simon crouched behind a large lilac-tree. He was at first on the point of crying out, recollecting that it was he who had placed his hands upon his mouth, while the others were trying to strangle Bebe; but a feeling of generosity, and the recollection of his own faults, restrained him. He beckoned to him to follow quietly, and whilst the Cure and the servant entered the house, he gave him the means of escaping through the gate of the yard. On being questioned by the Cure, Charles took the determination of humbly confessing his faults, and of asking pardon of God, and of his uncle, who treated him with kindness, but, nevertheless, imposed a penance upon him. Charles begged him to advance the little sum which he allowed him monthly, that he might pay Antony, and also return the money which Simon and himself had won from him, in no very honourable manner. He wished, besides, to give something to the pork-butcher. The Cure consented, although he had a great dislike to see money given to Antony, who would be sure to make a bad use of it. Nevertheless Charles owed it, and his uncle made him observe, that the inconveniences of bad conduct often continue long after the fault has been corrected, and still compel people to do things which they very much regret. As for the money for the shopkeeper, Charles did not wish to give it himself, and his uncle approved of this, because there are faults so disgraceful, that unless we are compelled to avow them, for the sake of avoiding falsehood, they ought not to be confessed before any one but God. His uncle promised to give this money back as a restitution with which he had been intrusted. Charles expressed his fear that in this case, the quarter from whence it came might be suspected; but his uncle reminded him, that as he had been so little afraid of suspicion in doing the wrong, he must brave it in repairing his fault, and that an irreproachable conduct was the only means of re-establishing his reputation, which might very well be injured by this adventure.