Moral Tales 13

	Moral Tales 13

Madame Lacour knew nothing of all this; she had been ill for a week, and had seen no one but M. Guimont, who took no interest in such absurdities. She received company on the Thursday for the first time, and was astonished to find that nobody came. She supposed they still considered her ill, and finding it getting late, sent her servant to the houses of two or three of her neighbours, to tell them she was waiting for them. They replied, that they could not come. This answer was given in the presence of an old lady, who, having no daughter, did not consider herself bound to share in the resentment occasioned by Aglaia's conduct; besides, being fond of news and gossip, she was glad to have an opportunity of ascertaining what was going on at Madame Lacour's; whether the agreement which had been made would be adhered to; what Madame Lacour would think of it, and what Aglaia would say. When, therefore, Madame Lacour expressed her astonishment at being thus abandoned, "It is not at all surprising," said the old lady, "after what has happened." "What has happened then?" asked Madame Lacour. Hereupon the old lady detailed, with all the exaggerations usual in such cases, the misconduct of Aglaia, and the consequent indignation of her friends. During this recital, Aglaia was in the most painful situation; she made excuses, endeavoured to justify herself, denied some things, and explained away others; but all this did not prevent Madame Lacour from being excessively angry with her. She told her that she felt disposed to send her that very moment to apologize to all those ladies, but that, at all events, she should have to apologize. M. Guimont and his children entering at this moment, found her in tears. "I hope, at least," added Madame Lacour, "that your rudeness has not extended to the children of my friend M. Guimont; for this is a thing I would never forgive." Hortense blushed a little, and ran to embrace Aglaia; Gustave was silent, but Madame Lacour having asked him, whether it was because he was displeased with Aglaia, that he had not come to correct her exercises for several days past, he assured her that he had been very much occupied, a statement which his father confirmed, and he proposed to look over them at once. Aglaia, trembling, went and brought her papers, and gave them to him, not daring, however, to raise her eyes; he corrected them, but without talking to her, as he was accustomed to do, and when he had finished, he went over to see the game which M. Guimont was playing with Madame Lacour and the old lady. Aglaia's heart was very heavy. Hortense consoled herself as well as she could, and said to her, "We shall have plenty of other things to chat about now; a German lady, the Princess de Schwamberg, arrived about an hour ago; she will be obliged to remain here for some days, because her governess, of whom she is very fond, and whom she treats like a friend, has been taken ill. It turns out that the governess, who is a French-woman, is a relative of Mademoiselle Champre. It was my father who informed them that she was here, with Mademoiselle d'Armilly, and the princess intends, with M. d'Armilly's permission, to send her daughters to spend a portion of their time with Mademoiselle Leontine." Aglaia, notwithstanding her grief, thought with a certain degree of satisfaction, that she should see these German princesses; her vanity rejoiced extremely at the idea of being admitted into such distinguished society. She put many questions to Hortense, to which the latter was unable to reply, as her father never conversed with her about such frivolities; besides, the game was over, and Gustave approached them; Aglaia therefore became silent. The following day, Madame Lacour was still too angry for Aglaia to think of asking permission to visit Leontine, but she hoped that perhaps Leontine might send and invite her. However, she heard nothing of her, either on that day or the next. It had been agreed that, on the following Sunday, Leontine was to take her for a drive in her father's carriage. Madame Lacour, when apprized of this arrangement, was extremely unwilling to give her consent, but as it was made, she did not like to interfere with it. She, however, again severely reprimanded Aglaia for her misconduct, and ordered her to show the greatest politeness to all her acquaintances whom she might chance to meet. At the hour appointed, Aglaia went to Leontine's house. She was told that she was on the parade with the Mesdemoiselles Schwamberg, where the carriage was to take them up. She went there, and seeing the carriage in the distance, hurried on, and arrived, quite out of breath, expressing her fear that she had kept them waiting. "Oh! not at all," said Leontine, "we were not waiting for you, for there is no room." "What!" exclaimed Aglaia, with astonishment, "did you not tell me...." "You see clearly, my dear," replied Leontine, in a tone of impatience, "that there is no room: Mesdemoiselles de Schwamberg, Mademoiselle Champre, and myself make up four." Mademoiselle Champre was going to speak, and one of the princesses proposed to make room for her. "No! no!" said Leontine, "we should be stifled; it must be for another time." At this moment the coachman mounted his box; Leontine gave Aglaia a patronising bow, and the carriage drove off. Aglaia remained stupified. All who were on the promenade had been drawing near during the debate, and had witnessed her humiliation. She heard their titterings and whisperings, and on raising her eyes, beheld several of her acquaintances looking at her with an air of derision, while others turned away, shrugging their shoulders. She made her escape, her heart swelling with shame and anger. Some ill-bred young men followed her, ridiculed her, and made a thousand offensive remarks, which reached her ears. One of them, leaving his companions, passed before her, and taking off his hat, said, "This is what Mademoiselle Leontine d'Armilly does." The servant who accompanied Aglaia, became angry with them, and said that their parents should be informed of their conduct. This, however, only increased their laughter and mockery. Aglaia walked as fast as she could, in order to escape from them, and reached home heated and weeping. Interrogated by her grandmother, she was obliged to relate what had happened, and she had the additional mortification of being told that it was quite right, and that she had only received what she deserved. Nevertheless, Madame Lacour determined, without communicating her intentions to her granddaughter, to give a lesson to those ill-bred young men, through M. Guimont, who possessed great authority in all the circles of the town. Aglaia spent two days very unhappily; she would not have ventured out at all, had not her grandmother absolutely ordered her to do so, so much did she dread to meet any of those persons who had ridiculed her. Twice she had met Leontine, who, laughing and talking with Mesdemoiselles de Schwamberg, had scarcely noticed her. No one had visited her, not even Hortense. She knew that on the Wednesday there was to be a _reunion_ at Madame Dufour's garden, and she had not been invited. She was grieving at seeing herself thus abandoned by every one, when on the Wednesday Hortense came to see her. She was very much astonished, for she thought that she was at the garden with the others. Hortense told her that her father had permitted her and her brother to refuse the invitation. Aglaia timidly asked why. "Because I preferred spending the day with you." "And Gustave?" said Aglaia, still more timidly. "Gustave," replied Hortense, somewhat embarrassed, "would not go, because you had not been invited, and gave this as his reason, because he did not wish it to be supposed that he had quarrelled with you, but he said that he should come to the house as little as possible, 'because,' he observed, 'I can no longer rely upon Aglaia, who can abandon her old friends to accommodate herself to the caprices of Mademoiselle d'Armilly.'" Aglaia wept bitterly, Hortense endeavoured to console her, but she could not venture to hold out any decided hopes that her brother would relent, for he appeared to be very decided, and Aglaia felt more than ever that the friendship of Gustave was much more honourable than the momentary partiality of Mademoiselle d'Armilly. While Hortense and she were sitting together very sorrowfully, Gustave came in. He still looked somewhat serious, but he was less cold. They both blushed with surprise and pleasure at seeing him. "Aglaia," he said, "must come to the parade with us; I have asked my father to take us, and he is now dressing to come. I have just learned," he continued very warmly, "that there is a report that Aglaia is afraid to show herself on the parade after what has recently occurred; we must prove that this is not the case; every one will be there on their way home from Madame Dufour's garden, and we must show them that she has still her ... former friends to support her." He had hesitated, not knowing what to say. Aglaia, greatly affected, threw herself into the arms of Hortense, as if to thank Gustave, but she was grieved that he had hesitated, that he had only spoken of _former friends_. "Are you not still my friends?" she exclaimed, leaning her head on Hortense's shoulder. Hortense embraced her, and endeavoured to console her. Gustave said nothing, but when for an instant she raised her eyes towards him, she perceived that his face wore a softer and less serious expression. Madame Lacour was not in the room at this moment, as he had availed himself of her absence to relate what he had heard, for, as she was still an invalid, they wished to say as little as possible to her about these broils, which were beginning to annoy her, and might end in making her seriously angry with those acquaintances with whom M. Guimont was anxious to reconcile her. They therefore simply asked her to allow Aglaia to walk out with M. Guimont and his children. To this she willingly consented, being delighted to have her granddaughter in such good company. M. Guimont arrived. Hortense took her father's arm, and Gustave offered his to Aglaia. She trembled a little, and did not dare to say a word. At length a stone caught her foot in such a way that she must have fallen, had he not supported her: he inquired with such eagerness and kindness whether she were hurt, that she began to gain courage. She spoke of her exercises, told him what she had done, and asked his advice. At length she summoned up courage to say, "Will you always be angry with me?" Gustave did not reply. Tears started to Aglaia's eyes; she held down her head, but Gustave nevertheless perceived that he had grieved her. "We are not angry," he said, with some degree of emotion; "but what grieves us is, that you could so readily forget your old friends for a mere stranger." Aglaia's tears now flowed fast. "I did not forget you," she murmured, "for all my anxiety was to make you acquainted with Leontine." Gustave crimsoned, and replied with warmth, "We would not have formed acquaintance with Mademoiselle d'Armilly. Her society does not suit us. We wish to associate with those only who treat us as their equals." Aglaia understood by this reply how much he must have felt humiliated on her account, in consequence of the slavish deference she had manifested in Leontine's presence; she had reflected much on this subject during the last two days, and at this moment Gustave's pride made her blush for it still more. "Very well," she said, after a moment's silence, "how must I act towards Leontine? for perhaps she may wish to see me again; perhaps even I may now meet her on the parade." "Ask my father," said Gustave; for he was too sensible to trust altogether to his own judgment in such a case. They approached M. Guimont, and Gustave repeated to him her question. "My dear child," said M. Guimont, "how would you act if it were Laurette, or Mademoiselle Dufour, who had treated you as Mademoiselle d'Armilly has done? You would not quarrel with her on this account, for that would be to attach too much importance to such things; but as it would have been evident that she cared little about your society, since she neglected to show you those attentions which alone could render hers agreeable to you, you would treat her with great reserve, and carefully avoid everything that could lead her to suppose that you wish to retain her acquaintance. You ought to act in the same manner with Mademoiselle d'Armilly. According to the usages of society, you are not her equal, since she is richer and of higher birth than you are; these usages have their reasons, whether good or bad, and we must conform to them. Therefore, you ought to regard it as a matter of course, that those who occupy a more elevated station than yours, should not seek your society; and you ought to endure good humouredly the petty distinctions which they think themselves entitled to claim. But no one is obliged to associate with those who do not treat him in a manner congenial to his feelings; therefore, you ought not to think of associating with a person of superior station to your own, except when she altogether forgets this inequality, and treats you as she does her other acquaintances." Gustave listened with great pleasure to these observations of his father, in whose judgment he had full confidence, and who sometimes had to check his rather exaggerated notions of self-respect. Aglaia thanked M. Guimont, and promised to act towards Leontine with proper reserve. "Oh, if you see her again," said Gustave, "she will resume her influence over you, and we shall have the same thing over again." Aglaia assured him that he was mistaken; but Gustave seemed sceptical on the subject. "Aglaia would be in no danger," said M. Guimont, "if she were always accompanied by a sensible person; but her excellent grandmamma cannot always be with her." "Very well," said Aglaia, taking the arm of Hortense, while she still held that of Gustave, "in order that I may always have some one to support me, if M. Guimont will consent, and my grandmamma permit, I will never go anywhere when she is not with me, unless I can have Hortense and Gustave by my side." "That might perhaps be inconvenient to you sometimes," said Gustave, who nevertheless was greatly pleased with her declaration. "No, no," she exclaimed; for she felt at that moment that nothing could confer on her such happiness or honour, as to be always surrounded by those good and worthy friends. They reached the parade: it was already crowded. Aglaia held the arm of Hortense, and Gustave walked by her side with a proud and satisfied bearing. The young men who had ridiculed her, now bowed with a disconcerted air, for M. Guimont, who had already reprimanded them, gave them a look of severity, which made them cast down their eyes. Aglaia blushed a little, but she felt protected, and rejoiced in her position. Madame and Mademoiselle Dufour passed by. M. Guimont, with a smile, took their arms, and obliged them, after some little manoeuvring, to walk with them. The friends who were with Madame Dufour, followed, and thus Aglaia saw herself in the midst of that society which had been so dissatisfied with her conduct. At first no one spoke to her, and even some disagreeable allusions were allowed to escape; but the presence of M. Guimont restrained them, especially as he had already spoken to several of these persons about the absurdity of their bickerings. Still Aglaia felt very uncomfortable, but at each unkind word, Hortense tenderly pressed her hand, and Gustave approached her, to show her some mark of attention, or to offer a kind word; and this friendliness was very consoling to her. At length they ceased to torment her, but she trembled at beholding Leontine coming towards them, accompanied by Mesdemoiselles de Schwamberg. Leontine approached her, and said something expressive of her regret at not having been able to take her in the carriage two days previously. Mademoiselle Champre had at last taken upon herself to make her feel how ridiculous her behaviour had been: and as the young princesses, who were very polite, had been extremely grieved at the annoyance which Aglaia had experienced on their account, Leontine, therefore, in order to retain their good opinion, endeavoured in some degree to repair an error, which she assured them had been committed through mere thoughtlessness. She made her excuses with an awkward air, which she meant to be easy. Aglaia was silent, and this silence, together with the number of people who surrounded her, embarrassed Leontine extremely, and she said to her, with some degree of brusquerie, "Will you take a turn with us?" "No," said Aglaia, indicating by her looks the persons by whom she was surrounded, "I am with these ladies." Leontine blushed, bowed, and went away, with an air of considerable annoyance. Aglaia's refusal had a very good effect; nothing was now thought of but Leontine. She was examined at every turn of the walk, with a degree of attention which ended in embarrassing her very much, though she affected an air of _hauteur_ which disconcerted no one. The next Thursday, Madame Lacour was again surrounded by most of her friends. There were some few complaints and expostulations, but the lovers of peace interfered, and put a stop to them as quickly as possible, and at last everything went on as formerly. When the princesses were gone, Leontine wished to renew her intimacy with Aglaia, but the latter sent word that she could not go out; though with her grandmamma's permission, she invited her to their party. Leontine, to while away her time, twice accepted the invitation, but she felt no enjoyment. Surrounded by persons who were entire strangers to the manners to which she was accustomed, she knew not how to act towards them, and was continually doing something amiss. A fortnight previously, Aglaia would have proclaimed silence, in order that she might be heard, but now she had discovered that it was not her good opinion which it was of consequence to obtain. Leontine, dissatisfied, ceased to seek her society, and ended by being so completely wearied, that she obtained her father's permission to pass the remainder of the summer with one of her aunts. Aglaia's companions still kept up, for some time, a little of their resentment against her, but she was sustained by the friendship of Hortense and Gustave, to whom she attached herself more and more, and at last she felt at a loss to conceive how she could for a moment have preferred, to the happiness she found in their society, the discomfort and constraint to which she had submitted in the company of Leontine. OH! OH! OH! A TALE. "Oh! Oh! Oh!" cried little Louis, "see, my tooth moves again, I cannot eat;" and he put his breakfast down upon the table. "And it will continue to move until it is taken out," said his mother. "I don't want to have it taken out, it would hurt me so." "Do not complain then of its being loose." "But I can't eat." "In that case let me take it out, it is only a first tooth, and has scarcely any hold." "Oh! indeed! It has scarcely any hold! I am sure it has very long fangs." "As you prefer to let it remain, you must put up with the annoyance it causes you." Louis did not reply, and his mother urged him no further; she wished to direct and mould the inclinations of her children, not to constrain them; she therefore gave few commands or prohibitions. A command cannot correct a fault, nor can a prohibition prevent an inclination to disobedience; therefore she preferred to wait with patience, and teach her children to correct themselves. Louis again tried to eat his breakfast, but his tooth clattered and shook at every mouthful, and being persuaded that by moving it, it hurt him, he put down his bread and his apple, and went to play with Fidele. Fidele was a charming dog, of a very gentle disposition, and accustomed to allow himself to be tormented, without manifesting any displeasure. Louis took him by the paws: "There, stand up, Fidele; make a bow; give me your paw; no, not that, the other one;" and Fidele obeyed him with the best grace imaginable, though this kind of sport did not at all please him. With a docile dog, almost anything may be done. Louis, in order to prolong his game, took it into his head to take hold of Fidele by the tail, and thus to force him to rise upon his fore-paws, and then to turn a somerset. At the first attempt, Fidele contented himself with resisting, with a slight growl merely; at the second, the growl became louder, but at the third, Louis pulled his tail so violently, that Fidele, quite angry, turned upon him and slightly bit his little finger. "Oh! oh! oh!" cried Louis, "the horrid dog has bitten me; mamma! Fidele has bitten me; oh! how my finger pains me!" "Let me see, my boy; oh! that's nothing, I can hardly see the mark of his teeth; what were you doing to him?" "I only took hold of his tail, to teach him to turn a somerset, but he wouldn't stand on his fore-paws." "You certainly hurt him much more by pulling his tail, than he has hurt you by his bite; why do you expect him to be more patient than you are?" "I will never play with him again." "You can do as you like as to that, he will not complain." Louis went away, and as he passed by Fidele, the dog began to growl. "Go away," said the child, "I don't wish to be bitten again," and he held his little finger in his other hand, as if it had been dreadfully wounded. He went to look for his little sister Henriette, to come and play with him, but she had just pricked her finger with her needle, and being as little able to bear pain as himself, she received his proposition with a very bad grace. "Let me alone," she said, "I have pricked my finger," and she watched the blood which scarcely tinged the water into which she had plunged it. "That's a funny sort of a wound!" said Louis, "Why the blood doesn't come!"--"A funny sort of a wound? Oh! you shall see if it is so funny," and she immediately pricked him with the needle, which she still held in her hand. "Oh! oh! oh! nurse, Henrietta has pricked me, give me a glass of water, oh!" The nurse brought him the water without looking at him, she was leaning her head upon her left hand. "Just look, nurse, how she has pricked me." "What am I to look at? What a terrible affair: what would you say if you had such a tooth-ache as I have?" "Have you the tooth-ache?" "Yes: I have had no sleep these three nights, and I shall certainly go to-morrow and have the tooth which torments me taken out; for I don't want to let my work lie there," and she went and resumed her sewing. When Louis, after having well squeezed his finger, could make no more blood flow from it, he was greatly embarrassed. How was he to amuse himself? Fidele still growled at him, Henriette was out of temper, and his nurse had the tooth-ache and was busy; every one was taken up with his own sufferings. Louis did not find the house very gay; he therefore went back to his mother, who, at all events, was not a grumbler. At this moment he heard on the stairs the voice of little Charles, one of his companions. He rushed forward to open the door. Charles, accompanied by his tutor, had come to ask him to join him and five or six other boys of his age, in a walk to the Canal de l'Ourcq, to see the skating. Louis, transported with joy, obtained his mother's consent: he put on his great coat and his fur gloves, and they set off. It was the middle of winter, but the weather was dry, and the sun brilliant. The little boys ran and jumped about the whole of the way. Louis did the same at first, but by degrees he felt his nose getting cold, and one of his hands was fully employed in holding it and keeping it warm. His fingers soon became numb; he put the hand he was not using into his pocket, and complained of being obliged to leave the other exposed to the air; then his feet became cold. It was quite useless to tell him that if he ran about, he would soon get warm again. "How am I to run," he replied, "when my feet are frozen?" He dragged himself along, with great difficulty, by the side of the tutor, slipping at every step, notwithstanding the slowness of his pace, and every now and then withdrawing his hand from his nose to breathe upon his fingers, and then hurriedly replacing it, with an appearance of the utmost concern. They reached the side of the canal, which was covered with skaters, who, with a free and unrestrained air, with head erect, and arms sometimes crossed, sometimes in motion, glided rapidly over the smooth expanse, on which the timid walker could scarcely maintain his footing. The children, with the permission of their guide, went down upon the ice in order to have a slide. Louis suffered himself to be persuaded to follow them, and soon, by sliding in the same place, they had formed a long path, as polished as a mirror, over which, after taking a slight run, they glided with the rapidity of lightning. Louis had not yet dared to venture upon it. "Come, Louis, have a slide," said one of his companions, "how can you avoid being frozen if you do not move about?" Louis made up his mind to do so; he took a run of a few steps, reached the glistening path, and ventured on it, still holding his nose with one hand and keeping the other in his pocket. He proceeded, and maintained his equilibrium; but a mischievous little boy, who was more used to this sport, rushed after him, and reaching him before he got to the end, gave him a push, which made him fall with some violence upon the ice. "Oh! oh! oh!" exclaimed Louis. "Oh! oh! oh! who has thrown me down? I can't get up; help me to get up. Oh! oh!" and he continued on the spot where he had fallen, because he would not make use of one of his hands to lean upon the ice. His companions laughed both at his awkwardness and his misfortune. The tutor went to him, raised him up, and endeavoured to console him, telling him that such falls only gave a little pain, which was soon over. But Louis cried, and became angry, left the canal, and went and stood against a tree, which was growing on the banks, turning his back to the skaters. An old soldier passed by him, laughing heartily. "What a pity I have a wooden leg!" He had one, in fact. "What is the matter with you, my little friend," he said to Louis, seeing his loneliness and melancholy. "Why are you not down there with the rest?" "But can I skate?" "You do not know how to skate? Go quickly then and learn; I wish I were your age, to be able to do the same: at all events you can amuse yourself by sliding." "Yes, to have them push me, and throw me down." "Well, if they push you, you can push them in return, and if you fall, you can get up again." "Yes, and freeze my hands by putting them upon the ice." "Oh! you are afraid of freezing your hands; poor child! what would you have done, if, like me, you had fallen into a deep ditch, in the midst of a battle, and when it was intensely cold?" "Into a ditch? Oh! they would soon have come and taken me out." "You think so, do you? but I can tell you, that before any one would have come and taken you out, you would have been frozen to death. Oh! if I had not broken my leg, how I should have returned to the action!"   [Illustration: "What is the matter with you, my little friend?" he   said to Louis, seeing his depression and melancholy.--P. 364.] "If your leg was broken, how did you get out of the ditch?" "The deuce! would you have had me remain in it? It was not very comfortable there, I assure you. I dragged myself along upon my hands, and in less than five minutes I was out of it." "And what did they do to your leg afterwards?" "What did they do to it? why, they cut it off; thank God! no harm came of it; and I manage to get along pretty well upon my wooden leg. Come along, my little friend, we will both go upon the ice; you shall learn to slide, and I will protect you from being pushed." Louis, who had been interested and cheered by the conversation of the pensioner, followed him. The tutor, who had overheard what was said, allowed him to do so. He walked at first upon the ice with great precaution; the good soldier allowed him to hold his hand for a few minutes. "Now," said he, "you must go alone. You have your two legs, and I am going to look at you. Forward, march!" Louis began to slide. "Take your hand out of your pocket," cried the pensioner, "and let go of your nose; are you afraid it will fall off? Make use of your arms to balance yourself; hold up your head; stretch out your leg; bravo! that's the way; leave yourself free, unbutton your great coat, don't you see how it hinders you?" Louis unbuttoned his coat, stretched out his arms, and allowed himself to go on without fear. In a quarter of an hour he had learned to slide as well as any of the little boys on the canal. "Listen," said the pensioner, "let us join your comrades; they have not seen you. You shall go upon their slide, and in your turn push the boy who threw you down a little while ago. Keep yourself up, at all events." They made a slight circuit; the moment arrived; Louis started. "Ha! ha! here's Louis," was exclaimed from all sides. He reached his adversary in the middle of the slide, pushed him, made him come down with considerable force, then turned round, and finished his course in grand style; while the other, somewhat ashamed, got up without saying a word. "Who taught you to slide?" asked all the children. "I did, young gentlemen," said the man with the wooden leg, "and I warrant you he is not afraid of any of you now." The boys, very much astonished, resumed their sports, and Louis maintained his place amongst them very well. When the hour for departure came, he went to say good bye to his friend the pensioner, who pressing his hand warmly, said, "Good bye, comrade, till we meet again; if I happen to be here when you return, I will teach you to skate." As they went home, Louis did not complain of the cold, did not put his hands in his pockets, left his nose exposed to the air, ran about like the rest, and reached the house not only without having grumbled, but without having suffered. As he was running towards his mother to tell her his tale, he saw her talking to a poor old woman, who was crying, and who seemed to be asking assistance. "Oh! madame," said she, "you could never imagine what my Jacques has done. He is my only support, and though he is not yet fourteen, he works so well at his master's, who is the carpenter at the corner, that every evening he brings me home tenpence for his day's wages. We have nothing but that to live upon, for it is very little I can do. Well, about a fortnight ago, my poor Jacques had the misfortune to put his wrist out of joint, in carrying a wainscoting. He came home in great trouble; fortunately I had saved during six months ten shillings, to buy him a waistcoat. I gave them to him, and told him to go immediately and have his wrist set by the surgeon of the district, who is very clever. He went out, and I supposed that he had done so. Nothing of the kind. He was afraid that it would cost too much. Our neighbour, the blacksmith, offered to set it for half a crown; he allowed him to do so, and brought me home the remainder, saying that he had not been asked for more; but certainly his wrist must have been badly set, for since that time, it has been swelling, and getting numb; and on looking at it, I saw clearly that the bones were not in their right place. By dint of questioning, I at last got the truth from him. We have been to the surgeon, who says that it can be cured, but that it will take a long time, and much medicine, and we have no means of getting any, as my poor Jacques has not worked for a fortnight, and will not be able to work for a long time to come. In God's name, madame, you, who are so good, have pity on us!" Here the poor woman ceased. Louis had listened to her with great attention. His mother, very much affected herself, observed how this recital led him to reflect upon his own want of fortitude in bearing pain; she did not know that he had already begun to be ashamed of it. "My good woman," she said, "give yourself no uneasiness, as your son can be cured, he shall be cured. Let us go for him. I will take him myself to the surgeon's, who will again examine his arm, and I will pay the expenses of the treatment. Will you come, Louis?" "Oh! yes, mamma, I want to see Jacques very much." Henriette, who was working at her embroidery, in a corner of the drawing-room, exclaimed, "And I too, mamma." "Yes, you too, my child; come, be quick, Jacques's cure must not be delayed." They set off at once. There were no complaints of the cold during the whole of the way. On arriving, they found Jacques employed in making the handle of a tool with his remaining hand. His mother informed him, with tears of joy, of the success of her visit. "He did not want me to apply to you, madame," she added; "he said that other people ought not to be tormented with his troubles." Jacques advanced, and expressed his thanks, with some embarrassment. "It must have given you a great deal of pain, Jacques, did it not?" "Oh! not much, madame, if I could only have worked!" "Come, come, cheer up, you shall be cured as soon as possible. You are a good and a brave boy;" and Jacques bowed with an air of increased embarrassment. They went to the surgeon's, who was not acquainted with Jacques's whole history, because he would not allow his mother to relate it at their former visit. As soon as he learned it, he took the most lively interest in the courageous child, and his attentions were soon efficacious. At the end of a fortnight, the swelling began to decrease. They were obliged to prevent Jacques from working so soon as he wished, but they gave him hope that it would not be long before he was again in a condition to handle the plane; and in the mean time he wanted for nothing. Louis, on his return home, said to his mother, "Mamma, tie a thread round my tooth," and he immediately pulled it out himself, having learned by the example of the pensioner, as well as by that of Jacques, never to cry out, "Oh! oh! oh!" for so slight a cause as a little cold, or a prick of a pin. HELEN; OR THE FAILURE. "Take care, Helen!" said Madame d'Aubigny, to her daughter, "when you are going one way, you are looking another; in this manner you will never go straight anywhere." And such was exactly the case. Whether in the street, or on the promenade or even when running in the fields, Helen seldom thought of looking before her, or watching her steps; her attention was constantly directed to one side or the other, to see if any one noticed her; and when she fancied herself observed, she gave herself all sorts of airs and graces. Often when at the Tuileries, she was so completely absorbed in endeavouring to give a graceful turn to her head, or in casting down her eyes, when she considered it suitable to do so, or in looking at the leaves with an air of abstraction, according as one or other of these different movements appeared to her best calculated to attract attention, that she struck against a tree, or against some one coming in an opposite direction. Often when wishing to jump gracefully over a pool of water, she fell into the middle of it, and was covered with mud. In fine, Helen did nothing in a simple manner, like other people, and merely for having the thing done; she neither walked, nor ate, nor drank, for the sake of walking, or eating, or drinking, but in order that people might see the grace she was able to throw into all her movements; and had there been any one to observe her while sleeping, she would certainly have contrived the means of sleeping gracefully. She little thought how much all these efforts tended to defeat the very object which she had in view, and yet she might easily have perceived, that if, while doing one thing, her thoughts were on another, it was quite impossible that she should do the thing well, and consequently impossible that she should be favourably noticed. If, when she saw some one entering the room, in whose eyes she wished to appear agreeable, she began to talk with greater animation to the person near her; if she threw more vivacity into her gestures, and made her gaiety more conspicuous, still, as she was not really amused, but only supposed that she had the appearance of being so, her laugh was not hearty, her gestures were unnatural, and her gaiety so obviously forced, that no one could possibly fancy that she was really gay, while the pretence of being so occupied her thoughts. In like manner, no one who saw her bestowing alms would have supposed that she was really kind-hearted, and yet Helen gave when she was not observed, and she gave with good will; but if there happened to be any one near to notice her, it was no longer of the poor that she thought, but of the pleasure of being seen bestowing alms. Her pity then assumed an appearance of exaggeration and eagerness, which made it quite apparent that her object was to display it. Her eyes indeed expressed compassion, but instead of being fixed upon the beggar, they were turned towards the persons present, so that it might have been said that it was they, and not the beggar, who had caused her emotion. Madame d'Aubigny had continually reprimanded her daughter for this tendency, which she had displayed from her childhood, and had succeeded in correcting the most absurd and gross of her affectations; and Helen herself, as she advanced in age, became more skilful in detecting such as were likely to appear too glaring; but as her affectations also increased in number, she merely took a little more pains to conceal them, without being able to persuade herself that, while she had them at all, they could not possibly be concealed. "My child," her mother would sometimes say to her, "there is but one way of obtaining praise, and that is by acting well; and as there is nothing commendable in an action done for the sake of commendation, it is impossible that such actions should secure you praise: rest assured, therefore, that to make praise and reputation your aim, is a certain way of never obtaining it." Helen felt, to some extent, the truth of these remarks, and she promised herself to conceal her vanity with greater care, but it returned at the first opportunity; and besides, where is the girl who fully believes all her mother says to her? In the same house with Madame d'Aubigny, there lodged one of her relations, Madame de Villemontier, whose daughter Cecilia was Helen's particular friend. Cecilia was so full of kindness and simplicity, that she did not even perceive Helen's affectation, and was continually disputing on this subject with the old Abbe Riviere, the former preceptor of M. de Villemontier, Cecilia's father, and who, after having educated his son, and resided with him at the college, where he finished his studies, had returned to take up his abode in the house, where he was respected as a father, and where he occupied himself in the education of Cecilia, whom he loved as his own child. They never quarrelled, except on Helen's account, whose affectation appeared so absurd to the Abbe Riviere, that he was incessantly ridiculing it. Accustomed to speak exactly what he thought, he did not restrain himself in her presence, though there was all the more necessity for doing so, as Helen, who had always heard him spoken of with great consideration at Madame de Villemontier's, and had witnessed the pleasure caused by his return, and the respect with which he was treated, felt extremely anxious to gain his good opinion. This desire was increased by the praises he constantly bestowed on Cecilia. It was not that she was jealous; for, notwithstanding her vanity, she was incapable of any meanness, she only thought that she merited the same praises as her friend, and indeed, she would have done so, had she not sought for them. But her desire of being noticed by the Abbe Riviere destroyed all the means she would have had of gaining his esteem; therefore, did he torment her with provoking jokes, which had only the effect of rendering her more anxious to gain his approbation, and induced her to make redoubled, though always awkward and misdirected efforts to obtain it. The Abbe was a very well-informed man. Helen could not be so foolish as to make a parade, in his presence, of the small amount of knowledge which a girl of her age is capable of possessing; but she never allowed a day to pass without finding some indirect means of alluding to her love of study. Some remark was made about walking: she said that she took very little pleasure in it, without a book: it was also one of her greatest griefs that her mother would not permit her to read before going to bed; and then she related how, during the morning, she had so completely forgotten herself, that three hours had passed without her being conscious of it. The Abbe pretended not to hear her; this was one of his mischievous ways; then she emphasized, and varied her expression. "Yes," she said, as if speaking to herself, "I commenced at a quarter to one, and when, for the first time, I looked at the timepiece, it was four o'clock; so that more than three hours had elapsed without my having perceived them." "There was nothing lost, however," said the Abbe, "for you took very good notice of them afterwards." Helen became silent, but she did not the less begin again on the following day. What the Abbe most praised in Cecilia's conduct, was her attention to her mother, who was in very delicate health. One evening, Madame d'Aubigny happened to faint. Helen, who was in the habit of taking her work, and sitting with Madame de Villemontier almost every evening, did not come down on this occasion, except for a moment, to relate the accident, and to have the pleasure of speaking of the anxiety which it had caused her. She began by expatiating so much upon the alarm she felt, when she beheld her mother pale and almost unconscious, that the Abbe could not help saying, "I see clearly all that Mademoiselle Helen has suffered from her mother's accident, but I should like to know what Madame d'Aubigny has suffered." The following day, Madame d'Aubigny, though still indisposed, insisted that her daughter should go as usual, and pass the evening with Madame de Villemontier. She entered with an air of languor and fatigue, saying that she was very sleepy, in order that they might understand that she had passed a bad night. As the questions to which she was anxious to reply, were not put to her, she endeavoured to lead to them in another way. She observed that the weather was delightful at five o'clock that morning: that her mother had been very restless until two, but that at three o'clock she slept quietly; from which it was evident that Helen must have got up at these various hours, for the purpose of ascertaining how her mother was. Several times she requested to know the hour, saying that although her mamma had given her permission to remain until ten o'clock, she should certainly return to her at nine. She inquired again at half-past eight, and again at a quarter to nine. During this time, Cecilia, without being observed, had two or three times raised her eyes to the clock. A minute before nine she rang the bell; her mother asked her why she did so. "You know, mamma," said Cecilia, "that it is time for you to take your broth." Helen immediately jumped up, with a loud exclamation, and put away her work in a great hurry, for fear of staying beyond the hour.