Moral Tales 11

	Moral Tales 11

And it was so, indeed, for some time. The Cure, in his sermon the following day, having spoken against theft, without naming any one, and warned the parents to watch over their children who were acquiring dangerous habits, all those who had children were very uneasy, and endeavoured to discover what he meant by this. The servant, notwithstanding her master's injunctions to the contrary, could not help relating the whole affair. The little brigands were severely punished by their parents, who, afterwards, however, asserted that Charles was the worst amongst them, as he had opened the door to them, and then betrayed them. The little boys, on their side, insulted him whenever they saw him. Simon was the only one who was not angry with him. Charles, when he happened to meet him, for he no longer sought his company, tried to persuade him to reform, and Simon made many promises to that effect, but he did not keep them, and he became at last so bad, that Charles was obliged to give up speaking to him altogether. Neither did he regret doing so, as Simon soon lost the good qualities which he naturally possessed; for there is no virtue that can stand against the constant habit of doing wrong, nor any sentiment which will not, in the end, be entirely smothered by want of principle. OLD GENEVIEVE. "How stupid you are! How absurdly you have put in that pin! You have laced me all on one side. Oh! I shall be horribly dressed; this is unbearable: I never saw anything so awkward." It was pretty much in this style that Emmeline was in the habit of speaking to old Genevieve, whose duty it was to wait upon her, since she had lost her nurse, and after having seen Emmeline quite an infant, she never expected to be treated by her in this way; but it had been observed that for some time past, Emmeline, though naturally kind and gentle, and even rather timid, had nevertheless assumed with the servants haughty airs, to which she had not previously been accustomed. She no longer thanked them when they waited upon her at table, and asked for what she wanted without even saying, _if you please_. Up to this time, she had never followed her mother through an antechamber, where the servants rose as they passed, without acknowledging by a slight bow, this mark of their respect; but now she seemed to think it would be derogatory to her dignity, not to pass among them with her head higher than usual. It might, however, be seen that she blushed a little, and that it required an effort on her part to assume these manners, which were not natural to her. Her mother, Madame d'Altier, who began to perceive this change, had more than once reprimanded her on account of it, so that Emmeline did not dare to give herself too many of these airs in her presence. She chiefly affected them when in the society of Madame de Serres, a young woman of seventeen, who had been a year and a half married, and who from her childhood, had been greatly spoiled, as she was very rich and had no parents. Even now she was spoiled by her mother-in-law, who had been very anxious that she should marry her son, and also by her husband, who, almost as young as herself, allowed her to do just what she pleased. As she was not in the habit of inconveniencing herself in the least for any one, she did so still less for her servants; consequently she was incessantly complaining of their insolence, because the severe and imperious manners she assumed towards them, sometimes led them to forget the respect they owed her, while the extravagance of her whims rendered them impatient. Emmeline, who was at that time fourteen years of age, and desirous of playing the grand lady, imagined that she could not do better than imitate the manners of her cousin, whom she saw almost every day, because Madame de Serres, when in Paris, resided in the same street as Madame d'Altier, and in the country occupied a neighbouring chateau. Emmeline had not, however, dared to display the whole of her impertinence towards her mother's servants, who had been a long time in the family, and accustomed to be well treated, and who, the first time she manifested these arrogant and impertinent airs, would probably have laughed outright at her. She therefore contented herself with being neither kind nor civil to them. They did not serve her any the less on this account, because they knew it was their duty to attend to her; but when they compared her with her mother, who showed so little anxiety to exercise the right which she really had to command them, they thought the conduct of Emmeline very ridiculous. Emmeline, indeed, was sometimes conscious of this, and became mentally impatient, because she did not dare to subject them to her authority; but she revenged herself upon Genevieve, who, born on the estate of M. d'Altier, was accustomed to regard with great respect, even the little children of the family of her seigneurs; besides, until lately, she had never had the honour of being completely attached to the chateau, though she had been employed there almost daily during the last twenty years, in some inferior occupations; consequently, when Madame d'Altier, on her arrival in the country this year, knowing her respectability, had engaged her to assist Emmeline in dressing, and to attend to her room, she considered herself elevated in condition, but without being any the more proud on this account. She looked upon Emmeline, whom she had not seen for ten years, as a person whom she was bound to respect, and from whom she ought to endure everything. When the latter, therefore, thought proper to exercise her authority over her, by making use of any harsh expression she could think of (and she would have used many more had she not been too well brought up to be familiar with them), Genevieve never replied; she only made all the haste she could, either to get away, or to avoid irritating her further, and in consequence, she was only the more awkward, and the more harshly treated. One day, while she was arranging Emmeline's room, it happened that the latter wished to send her on an errand into the village; but as Genevieve continued her occupation, Emmeline became angry, considering it very strange that she was not obeyed. Genevieve represented to her that if, after breakfast, when she returned to her room to draw, she did not find it in order, she would scold her, and that, nevertheless, it was necessary to have time for everything. As she was right, Emmeline ordered her to be silent, saying that she provoked her. Madame d'Altier, who from the adjoining room, had overheard the conversation, called to her daughter, and said, "Are you quite sure, Emmeline, that you were right in your discussion with Genevieve? because, after having assumed such a tone as that with a servant, it would be extremely annoying to find, in the end, that you had been wrong." "But, mamma," replied Emmeline, a little ashamed, "when instead of doing what I tell her, Genevieve amuses herself with answering me, it is necessary to stop her." "You are then certain, before having examined, or even heard her reasons, that they cannot be good?" "It seems to me, mamma, that a servant is always wrong in arguing, instead of doing what she has been ordered to do." "That is to say, she is wrong even when she is right, and when she is ordered to do anything which is impossible." "Oh! mamma, these people always find things impossible, because they do not like them." "This is the way your cousin would talk: I wish, Emmeline, you had spirit enough to invent ridiculous airs for yourself, instead of assuming those of other people." "I don't stand in need of my cousin," said Emmeline, much piqued, "to know that Genevieve never does half she is told to do." "If you have no other means of obtaining her obedience than those you have just employed, I am sorry for it; I must take her away from you, for I pay her to wait upon you, and not to be ill treated; I have never paid any one for that purpose." Madame d'Altier said these words in so firm a tone, that her daughter did not dare to reply. However, she consoled herself in talking to her cousin, who came to spend an hour with her, and they both agreed that Madame d'Altier did not know how to manage her servants. This was an unlucky day for Emmeline; the conversation with her cousin had taken place in one of the garden-walks, and just as she had terminated it, she saw her mother coming from a neighbouring one. Madame d'Altier smiled at the prattle of these little personages, who presumed to set themselves up as judges of her conduct. She looked at her daughter, who blushed excessively, and seeing Genevieve, she called to her to remove some branches, which were in her way. Genevieve replied, that she would come as soon as she had carried some food to the turkeys, which were screeching like mad things, because they were hungry. "In truth," said Madame d'Altier, "it is evident, as you very justly observed, that I do not know how to get served before my turkeys; I suppose, therefore, I must be thought more reasonable and less impatient than they are." But at this moment they beheld Genevieve, who putting, or rather throwing, on the ground the vessel she held in her hand, began to run with the utmost precipitation towards the house. "Gracious me!" she cried, as she ran along, "I have forgotten to close the window in Mademoiselle Emmeline's room, as she ordered me. I must make haste," she repeated, quite out of breath. "I congratulate you, my child," said Madame d'Altier, "I see that you have more talent than my turkeys even, in getting waited upon." Emmeline said nothing, but she glanced at her cousin as she was accustomed to do, whenever anything was said which displeased her. Madame de Serres, who considered herself interrupted in her important conferences with her cousin, and who was afraid to display all her fine ideas in the presence of her aunt, of whose good sense and raillery she stood in awe, returned to her carriage, for the purpose of paying a visit in the neighbourhood, accompanied by her lady's-maid, who always attended her in her drives, because she was still too young to go alone. She promised to come back to dinner, and Emmeline went to attend her flowers. "Oh, dear," she exclaimed, as she reached the terrace, where the pots were arranged, which served for the decoration of her room, "last night's rain has scattered the blossoms of all my roses, and my jasmine has not a single flower left upon it. Genevieve might have taken them in last night, but she can do nothing. She never thinks of anything." "But, mademoiselle," said old Genevieve, who happened to be close at hand, "I dare not touch your flowerpots, for fear of breaking them." "Did you take in mine?" said Madame d'Altier. "Oh! yes, madame." "I am very glad to find," said Madame d'Altier, looking at her daughter, "that I can be attended to without compelling attention." "But, mamma, I never told her not to touch my flowerpots," replied Emmeline. "No; but probably for the smallest thing she breaks, you scold her so much, that she is afraid to run the risk of again exposing herself to your anger." "It is absolutely necessary, mamma," she said, as she ascended the steps to take in her flowers, "Genevieve is so awkward, and pays so little attention, that...." As she uttered these words, one of the flowerpots slipped from her hands, fell on the steps, and was broken into a thousand pieces. "She is so awkward," rejoined Madame d'Altier, "that precisely the same thing happens to her sometimes, that would happen to you as well, had you the same duties to perform." "Indeed, mamma," said Emmeline, very much irritated, "what has happened to me is quite disagreeable enough without...." "Without what, my child?" Emmeline paused, ashamed of her impatience. Madame d'Altier took her hand, and made her sit down by her. "When your ill-humour is over, my child, we will reason together." Emmeline kissed in silence the hand of her mother, who said, "Is it then so very vexatious a matter, my child, to have broken this pot of coloured earth, which can be immediately replaced by one from the greenhouse, where you know you can choose for yourself?" "No, mamma, but...." "It cannot be on account of your anemone, which is past flowering, and which you told me you would return to the beds. You are spared the trouble of unpotting it." Emmeline smiled. "Yes, mamma, but on these occasions one always feels something disagreeable, which makes one dislike...." "To be tormented; is it not so, my dear? And yet it is precisely these moments you select to scold and ill-treat Genevieve, when any accident of this kind happens to her, as if to add to her vexation and confusion." "But, mamma, it is her duty to pay attention to what she is doing." "Is it more her duty than it is yours, when you are attending to your own business? Do you wish her to be more careful of your interest than you can be yourself, and require that her anxiety to serve you should make her escape accidents, which you cannot avoid, for your own sake?" "But, nevertheless, what I break is my own, and I am quite sufficiently punished, whereas she...." "Cannot be sufficiently punished, I perceive, for having caused you a momentary vexation; and not only is this your own opinion, but you want it to be hers likewise, for you would consider it very improper if she wished to prove to you that you were wrong." "Undoubtedly, mamma, it would be very absurd if Genevieve took it into her head to argue with me, when I told her to do anything." "I understand. When you are out of humour, Genevieve ought to say to herself, 'I am a servant, it is consequently my duty to be rational and patient, for the sake of Mademoiselle Emmeline, who is incapable of being so. If my age, my infirmities, or, in fine, any weakness of my nature, render my duties at certain time more difficult to perform, I ought resolutely to surmount every obstacle, for fear of causing Mademoiselle Emmeline a moment's disappointment or contradiction, as she would not have sufficient strength of mind to endure it. If her impatience wounds my feelings, if her ill-temper provokes me, if her fancies appear to me ridiculous and unbearable, still I ought to submit to them, as she is a poor little creature, from whom one cannot expect anything better.'" "Genevieve would show very little attachment," replied Emmeline, greatly piqued, "if she could entertain such thoughts as these." At this moment Madame de Serres arrived, very much agitated and angry. "Just imagine, my dear aunt," she said to Madame d'Altier, as she approached, "my maid is going to leave me. She selected the time when she was in the carriage with me, to announce her intention; therefore I had her set down in the road, and she may get back as she pleases. Will you have the kindness to allow your maid to accompany me home? I had this person in my service long before my marriage, and she leaves me for a situation which she says suits her better. Who can rely on the attachment of such people?" "Were you very much attached to her?" asked Madame d'Altier, carelessly. "Oh! not at all; she is slow and disagreeable. I should have taken another could I have found one." Madame d'Altier laughed. It seemed to her excessively absurd that it should be a perpetual subject of complaint and astonishment, that a servant is not more attached to the master whom he has served many years, while the master considers it quite a matter of course to care nothing about the servant, by whom he has been served during all this time. Madame de Serres did not perceive that her aunt was laughing at her, but Emmeline observed it, and it sometimes happened that even she thought her cousin rather ridiculous. Madame de Serres consoled herself by jesting about the pleasure she should have in being under the protection of Mademoiselle Brogniard, Madame d'Altier's lady's-maid, who took her pinch of snuff with such gravity, and when in the open fields, walked as uprightly, and made her courtesy as regularly as if she had been in a drawing-room, in the midst of fifty people. It was agreed, as the weather was fine, and the distance but trifling across the fields, that Madame de Serres should walk, and that Emmeline should accompany her with Mademoiselle Brogniard, and also that they should call and take some milk at a farm, which lay almost on their road. They set off soon after dinner; but scarcely had they reached the farm, when the weather, which up to that time had been fine, suddenly changed, and the rain began to fall in torrents. When, after the lapse of an hour, it had ceased, and they resolved to continue their way, the country was so completely inundated, that they sank ankle-deep into the mud. Madame de Serres was in great distress because she had not returned home in her carriage. Emmeline, rather shocked at observing that she thought of no one but herself, exclaimed, as she perceived Genevieve coming towards her with a parcel, "Well! as for me, here's Genevieve bringing my cloak and boots." "No," replied Genevieve, "but I have brought Mademoiselle Brogniard's fur shoes, and wadded dress, for I thought that with her rheumatism the damp might do her a great deal of harm." "You might at least, at the same time," said Emmeline, angrily, "have brought my boots." "But you did not tell me to do so, Mademoiselle." "Neither did Mademoiselle Brogniard tell you to bring hers." "But she knew, Mademoiselle Emmeline," replied Mademoiselle Brogniard, sententiously emphasising every word, "that I should be greatly obliged to her; and indeed, Genevieve, I am extremely obliged to you." "I have only done my duty," said Genevieve, as she assisted Mademoiselle Brogniard to put on her dress. She then went away, leaving Emmeline extremely annoyed at finding that Genevieve considered herself bound to be more attentive to Mademoiselle Brogniard than to her. Madame de Serres tried to jest on account of Mademoiselle Brogniard being the best clad and the best served of the three; but as the latter said very little, her pleasantry soon terminated, and her lamentations about the carriage recommenced. At last, as they drew near the high road, she perceived it slowly returning, and in a transport of delight ran forward towards it. "Mademoiselle Brogniard," she said, "I shall soon be at the chateau; it will be unnecessary for you to accompany me any further: farewell, my dear," she cried out to Emmeline, "I am delighted to spare you the rest of the way," and she departed, without once thinking that she could have saved Emmeline a walk in the mud, by taking her back in her carriage, at least as far as the avenue of her mother's chateau. Emmeline reflected upon this, and saw clearly that her cousin's plan of not troubling herself about the comfort of those who were in her service, formed part of a much more extensive plan, which was that of not troubling herself about any one. These reflections, and the representations of her mother, had the effect of sparing Genevieve some haughty airs, and some caprices; but Emmeline could not treat her with kindness. Her orders were always delivered in a brief and dry manner, and she was constantly giving orders. She took no pains to discover whether what she ordered could be easily or more conveniently done at one time, or in one manner than another, neither did she take any interest in anything that concerned Genevieve, for Emmeline imagined that this kind of familiarity would have made her appear childish. Towards the end of the summer, Madame d'Altier and her daughter went with Madame de Serres to spend some days at a chateau in the neighbourhood. Madame de Ligneville, the mistress of the chateau, was a young woman twenty-two years of age, extremely gentle and amiable, and especially remarkable for her kindness to her servants, the greater part of whom had surrounded her from her childhood. Her housekeeper had been her former governess, and Madame de Ligneville was not afraid of allowing authority in her household to one who had formerly possessed it over her own person; for in proportion as she became reasonable, her governess became as submissive as she had formerly been rigorous in exacting obedience. Her lady's-maid was the daughter of this governess, and had been brought up with her, but she was not on this account the less zealous or respectful. Her footman had belonged to her father, her gardener was in the family before her birth, and sometimes related to her how, when a child, she used to plant bits of apricot, in order that they might become apricot-trees. Every one adored her; everything in her household seemed regulated by an invisible machinery, and without anything being ever said; an order appeared like an advertisement to which every one hastened to attend. It was a matter of doubt whether Madame de Ligneville had ever scolded her servants, and they themselves did not believe that she had; for if at any time she was obliged to reprove them, they were more conscious of their own fault than of the reprimand of their mistress. Emmeline saw with astonishment that this kindness on her part did not in the least detract either from her elegance or her dignity. It even seemed, that without ever commanding, she had much more the appearance of being mistress than Madame de Serres, who could only obtain obedience by dint of talking, tormenting, and scolding. She also observed, that although people were sometimes amused by the little haughty airs and caprices of her cousin, Madame de Ligneville was treated with much more respect and friendship. They had been staying with her for some days, when all the company of the chateau were invited to a fete, which was to be held at a few leagues' distance. Madame de Serres and Madame de Ligneville took a fancy to go there in the costume of a peasant of the province. Emmeline had a dress of this kind, which was immediately sent for to serve as a pattern for the others; but on examining it, Madame de Ligneville found it rather complicated, and was afraid her maid would not have time to complete it for the following day, as they were to set out early. "Oh! my maid must find time to finish mine," said Madame de Serres. "I do not put up with her fancies in this way. You spoil your servants, my dear," she said, addressing Madame de Ligneville. "I know it through Justine, who I believe is cousin to your Sophie; but I warned her that she need not expect to be treated in the same manner; for, believe me, you will get nothing from them in this way." Madame de Ligneville did not reply, for she was not at all anxious to enforce her opinions on others. Madame de Serres hastened to give her orders, and Justine immediately set to work. At night, when her mistress retired to her room, the costume was considerably advanced, but it did not suit her fancy. She became angry; said she would never wear such a frightful thing as that, and ordered her to begin it all over again. Justine replied that it would be impossible to finish it in that case, unless she sat up all night. Madame de Serres told her that she must do so, adding that it was no great hardship. Justine asserted that she could not, as she was very much fatigued already from having worked the whole of the evening. Her mistress told her that she was an impertinent creature, and that she must either contrive to bring her the dress by the time she awoke on the following morning, or never again appear in her presence. On awaking the following morning, she found her dress in precisely the same condition as she had left it the previous night. Justine told her, that as it seemed to be her intention to discharge her, she had come to ask for her dismissal. Madame de Serres flew into a passion; ordered her to leave the room; desired her never to come into her presence again, and sent to ask Mademoiselle Brogniard to assist her in dressing; in fine, she made so much noise about what she termed Justine's insolence, and was altogether so unreasonable, that the whole house soon became aware of what had occurred, and all were greatly amused by it, for they had already heard of several similar incidents which had happened to her. At breakfast, she affected a manner more than usually easy, to conceal the ill-humour which was nevertheless perceptible through it. She made no allusion to her dress, neither did Madame de Ligneville, as she had resolved not to put on her own, should it even be completed; while Emmeline, very sad because her mother, in order not to annoy her cousin, would not allow her to wear hers, although it was very becoming to her, began to think that Madame de Serres had acted very improperly in her treatment of Justine. After breakfast, all were preparing to go and dress, when their attention was drawn to Madame de Ligneville's room, in order to see a singular flower, which her gardener had brought her. While there, Sophie entered by one of the inner doors of the apartment, holding in her hand Madame de Ligneville's dress, completely finished, and the prettiest thing imaginable: every one looked at it, and all felt tempted to glance at Madame de Serres, who, although she blushed, yet hastened to express her approbation. "Indeed, Sophie," said Madame de Ligneville, very much embarrassed, "I had given it up altogether, for I never could have thought you would have been able to finish it." "Oh, madame," said Sophie, heedlessly, "my cousin helped me, and we got up very early." This cousin was Justine. Madame de Serres blushed still more, and Madame de Ligneville did the same; but every one else felt disposed to laugh. Emmeline perceived this, and from that moment her cousin appeared to her as ridiculous as she was in reality. All insisted that Madame de Ligneville should wear her dress; Emmeline, consequently, wore hers also; and as Madame de Ligneville pretended to be her elder sister, they passed the day together. This was very gratifying to Madame d'Altier, as Madame de Ligneville was an extremely sensible woman, and Emmeline found her so kind and so charming, that she became very much attached to her. Two or three times Madame de Ligneville remarked, as she looked at her dress, "There really is a great deal of work in it; that poor Sophie must have laboured very hard." And Emmeline, because she was pleased with her, considered as very charming what a short time previously she would have regarded as beneath her dignity; and she also felt that it might be very gratifying to receive such proofs of affection. She enjoyed the fete very much. However, the heat of the weather, and the fatigue she had undergone, brought on, after her return, a slight illness, which confined her for some time to her bed. One day during her indisposition, she heard Genevieve, who had paid great attention to her, say, "I must take care of her, poor little thing, though I am quite sure that when she gets well she will vex me very much." She felt humiliated at finding herself in need of Genevieve's generosity. During her convalescence, she also frequently required her assistance, for she was very weak, and Genevieve had to aid her in almost every movement. She was therefore obliged to lay aside some portion of her pride, and learn that the authority and dignity of one who can do nothing for herself is, after all, no very great affair. She felt that, if servants have need of masters for their support, masters, whom custom and wealth have habituated to a multitude of luxuries, have also constant need of servants, for their comfort and convenience. She likewise learned, in the end, that an industrious and honest servant can always find a master willing to pay him, whereas a master who is willing to pay, is not always sure of meeting with a servant who will serve him with zeal and affection, and consequently that it is particularly important to masters that their servants should be contented. She thus returned to her natural disposition, which was that of wishing to have every one satisfied with her, and she found that there was no other state of mind either so agreeable or so convenient as this. JULIA; OR THE STORY OF MADAME CROQUE-MITAINE. Two years had elapsed since Madame de Vallonay had placed her daughter at school, in order to go and nurse her husband, who was ill at a fortified town, in which he commanded, and which was at any moment liable to attack. Circumstances having changed, M. and Madame de Vallonay returned to Paris, and brought their daughter home again. Julia was thirteen, she was sufficiently intelligent and sufficiently advanced for her age; but a child of thirteen, however advanced, cannot possibly understand all that is said by persons older than herself. She had, however, acquired a habit of regarding everything that she did not understand as ridiculous. Accustomed to the chit-chat of school-girls, who among themselves discussed, criticised, and decided upon everything, she fancied she understood a thing when once it had formed the subject of conversation at school. Thus, if any circumstance was spoken of, Julia maintained that the fact had happened differently; she was quite sure of it, for Mademoiselle Josephine had heard so in the holidays. If told that such or such a style of dress was in bad taste, "Oh, but it must be fashionable, nevertheless, for three of our young ladies have adopted it for ball dresses this winter." It was the same on more serious matters: whatever one of the elder girls related, from having heard her parents mention it, whether about peace or war, or the theatre, to which she had never been, it became a general opinion, to which neither Julia nor her companions ever thought there could be anything to oppose. Thus, there never was a visit paid to her parents, that Julia did not exclaim, the moment the persons were gone, "Oh! mamma, what an absurd thing Monsieur or Madame So-and-so said!" Her mother permitted her to express her opinion in this manner when she was alone with her, in order to have an opportunity of proving to her, either that she did not understand what had been said, or that she did not understand what she wanted to say herself; but when there was company, she carefully watched, that her daughter did not give way to any rudeness, such as whispering, while laughing or looking at some one, making signs to a person at the other end of the room, or seeming to be unable to restrain her laughter. Julia, who stood in awe of her mother, usually behaved pretty well in company. One day, however, when two or three of her schoolfellows had come to dine at Madame de Vallonay's, the Cure of the Vallonay estate, being in Paris on business, dined there also. He was a very worthy and sensible man, who said many excellent things, though in a rather more tedious manner than other people, while he introduced into his conversation old proverbs, very useful to remember, but which appeared to Julia excessively ridiculous, because she was unaccustomed to this style of speaking. Moreover, she had never before seen the Cure, and it was her habit always to discover something extraordinary in persons whom she saw for the first time. Her companions were as foolish as herself. Before dinner they amused themselves by mimicking the gestures of the Cure, whom they saw from an adjoining apartment, walking up and down the drawing-room with M. de Vallonay; this had put them into such a mocking humour, that during the whole of dinner, there was a constant succession of whisperings and laughings, for which they sought a thousand frivolous pretexts. Sometimes it was the dog who scratched himself in a droll manner, or who, in putting his paw upon Julia's knee to beg for something to eat, pulled her napkin, or else Emily had drunk out of her glass, or had taken her fork or her bread. Madame de Vallonay, though excessively annoyed, was nevertheless fearful of allowing her displeasure to be visible, lest the Cure should suspect its cause, but in the evening, when the company had departed, she scolded her daughter very seriously, and made her feel the rudeness, and even absurdity, of such conduct, and assured her that if such a thing occurred again, she would not allow her to associate with companions, who encouraged her in such disagreeable habits. Finally, as she was anxious to accustom her to reflect upon the motives of her actions, she asked her what there was so very remarkable in the conversation of the Cure de Vallonay. "Oh! mamma, he said everything so oddly." "As, for example:"-- "Well, mamma, he took the trouble of telling me that more flies were to be caught with a spoonful of honey than with a barrel of vinegar." "And, it appears to me, Julia, that this maxim was never better applied; and it would have been a fortunate thing had it recalled to your mind at that moment, that love is gained by doing what is pleasing to others, not by mockery and disagreeable behaviour." "And then he recited to papa, who apparently knew it very well beforehand, that verse of La Fontaine--     "Plus fait douceur que violence."     Gentleness does more than violence. "Which means...?" asked Madame de Vallonay. "Which means ... which means...." And Julia, probably rather annoyed by the conversation, was entirely taken up with pulling with all her strength the string of her bag, which had become entangled with the key of her work-box. "Which means," continued Madame de Vallonay, "that you would do much better, were you gently to untie the knot in that string, instead of tightening it as you are doing, by pulling it in this irritable manner. I see, Julia, that you will often require to be reminded of the Cure's proverbs." "But, nevertheless, mamma, they are things which everybody knows, and it was that which wearied me, and made me laugh with those girls." "Which everybody knows? which you, Julia, know, do you not?" "I assure you I do, mamma." "You, who might learn something from every one! You, who might find something instructive in the story of Madame Croque-Mitaine, if indeed, you were capable of understanding it!" "The story of Madame Croque-Mitaine!" exclaimed Julia, very much piqued: "that story for babies, which my cousin brought the other day for my little sister?" "Exactly so, the one he made for her, when I showed him that bad engraving which I had given her, and which represented Madame Croque-Mitaine, with her bag and stick, threatening all the little children that she will take them away, if they are not good." "What, mamma! and you really believe that I should learn something from that story?" "No, because I am not sure that you have penetration enough to understand its utility. Come, let us see, here is the paper, read it..., come, read on." "Oh! mamma." "Oh! my child, you will have the kindness to read it aloud to me; if my dignity is not hurt by hearing it, surely yours need not be so by reading it." Julia, half-laughing, half-pouting, took the manuscript, and read aloud the following story: MADAME CROQUE-MITAINE: A TALE. "Come away! come away, Paul," said little Louisa to her youngest brother, "we have more time than we want; the shop where they sell flowers and toys is at the end of the next street; mamma is dressing, and before she has finished we shall be back again, you with your whip, and I with my nosegay, and we will bring back one for mamma too, which will please her." Taking Paul by the hand, she walked off with him as fast as their little legs could carry them. Louisa was nine years old, and Paul only seven, and they were two of the prettiest children imaginable. Louisa was dressed in a frock of snow-white cambric, and a rose-coloured sash encircled her little waist. As she walked along, she admired her red shoes, while her fair hair fell in ringlets over her shoulders. Paul's hair was neither less fair nor less beautiful; he wore a nankeen dress, quite new, an embroidered waistcoat, and an open worked shirt; but all these were nothing in comparison with the pleasure which awaited them. Their mother had promised to take them to the fair of Saint Cloud, and they were to set out in an hour. In the country, where, up to the present time, they had resided, they had been permitted to run about in the park, and sometimes even into the village; since they had come to Paris, however, they had been forbidden ever to venture beyond the carriage-gate, but the habit of attending to these injunctions was not yet confirmed, and besides, Louisa wanted to have a bouquet to take with her to Saint Cloud, and Paul wanted a whip, that he might whip his papa's horses, for he had promised to take him by his side in front of the caleche, and they hastened to buy these things unknown to their mother, with the money that she had just given them for their week's allowance. All the passers-by stopped to look at them: "What pretty children!" they said, "how can they be allowed to go in the streets alone at their age?" And Louisa pulled Paul by the hand, in order to walk faster, so as not to hear them. A cabriolet which was coming very quickly behind them, made them redouble their haste. "Let us run fast," said Louisa, "here comes a cabriolet," but the cabriolet also ran, and Louisa, in her fright, turned to the right instead of to the left, and passed the flower-shop without perceiving it. The cabriolet still followed them, every instant drawing nearer; the noise of the wheels so bewildered Louisa, that thinking it was upon her heels, she rushed into another street. The vehicle took the same direction, and in turning round, the horse trotting in the middle of the gutter, sent up such a shower of mud and water, that our two terrified children were completely covered by it. Paul instantly burst into tears: "My embroidered waistcoat is spoiled," he exclaimed. "Be quiet," said Louisa, "we shall be observed," and she cast an anxious and melancholy look, sometimes around her, and sometimes on her cambric dress, which was even more splashed than Paul's waistcoat. "Shall we soon reach the toy-shop?" asked Paul, still crying, though in a lower tone. "We have only to go back," said Louisa, "for I think we have come too far; if we take the same way back, we shall soon be there," and she pulled Paul still more forcibly, while she kept close up to the wall, in the hope of not being seen; nevertheless, she did not know how she could venture to enter the toy-shop, or return home to her mother, with her dress in this condition. All the streets seemed alike, and a child knows only the one in which it lives. Louisa did not return through the same streets by which the cabriolet had followed her. The farther she went, the more uneasy did she become, at not reaching the shop, and she dragged Paul's arm, who, not being able to walk so fast, said to her, "Don't go so fast, you hurt me." They went down a little street, which somewhat resembled one in the neighbourhood of their own house through which Louisa had sometimes passed, but at the end of it they found no passage, and instead of their road, they beheld ... Madame Croque-Mitaine, rummaging with her crook in a heap of rags. You know Madame Croque-Mitaine. You have seen her humped back, her red eyes, her pointed nose, her dark and wrinkled face, her dirty and withered hands, her petticoat of all colours, her sabots, her bag, and that long stick with which she turns up and examines every heap of rubbish she meets with. At the noise made by the two children in running, she raised her head, looked at them, and guessed, without much difficulty, from their frightened looks, and by the tears which still flowed down Paul's cheeks, and the sobs which swelled the bosom of Louisa, that they ought not to be where they were. "What are you doing here?" she asked of them. Louisa, without replying, leaned against the railing, holding Paul still more firmly. "Have you a tongue?" continued Madame Croque-Mitaine. "You have at all events very good legs to run with," and she took Louisa by the hand, saying, "Hold up your head, my little one, what has happened to you?" Louisa was so unaccustomed to speak to persons whom she did not know; the stories which her nurse had been foolish enough to repeat to her about old women who take away little children; the wrinkles, the ill-tempered look, the costume, and the first words addressed to her by Madame Croque-Mitaine, had so much terrified her, that notwithstanding the softened tone in which she now spoke to her, Louisa did not dare either to raise her eyes, or to reply. "Well," said the old woman, "I see that I shall not get a word from them, nevertheless, I will not leave the poor children here. Will you," she said, addressing Paul, "will you tell me where you come from, and where you are going to? Are you also dumb like your sister?" "We are going to the toy-shop," said Paul. "And we have lost our way," rejoined Louisa, who began to feel a little less afraid of Madame Croque-Mitaine. "Your mamma, surely, did not allow you to go out?" continued the old woman. Louisa cast down her eyes. "Well! well! you must first come to my house, in order that I may get rid of some of this mud for you; you are almost as dirty as I am." "No! no!" exclaimed Louisa, who began again to be frightened at the recollection of the stories of her nurse.