Moral Tales 4

Moral Tales 4

Having fully rested and refreshed themselves, and warmly thanked their kind entertainer, they again set out on their journey, by a path which she had pointed out to them, as shorter and pleasanter than the high road. Euphemia, quite reanimated, could not refrain from congratulating herself on her good fortune, and a little also on her cleverness, in having inferred that there was a house there. "You must allow," said her mother, "that you would not have shown so much discrimination, had you not been so thirsty. Necessity is the parent of invention." "Oh, most certainly," replied Euphemia, "if I had eaten the gooseberries, we should not have sought for something to drink, and I should not have had that good glass of wine and water, which has done me so much more good." Whilst thus conversing, a poor woman approached them, carrying an infant, which was very pale, and so weak, that it could not hold up its head; she herself was frightfully emaciated, and her eyes were red and hollow from weeping; she asked them for alms. "Good Heavens! we have nothing," said Euphemia, in a most sorrowful tone. "Only enough to buy something for my poor child, who has had no milk for two days! only enough to save it from dying!" "I have nothing in the world," said Madame de Livonne, with inexpressible anguish. The poor woman sat down on the ground and burst into tears. Euphemia, her heart torn with grief, clasped her hands and exclaimed, "Mamma, mamma, shall we leave this poor child and its mother to die of hunger? Would not that be worse than borrowing from Mathurine's money? We are still near the house; let me go and change the louis." Madame de Livonne cast down her eyes, and for a moment appeared to reflect. "Euphemia," said she, "have you forgotten that as this money does not belong to us, it is the same as if it were not in our possession?" Euphemia began to cry bitterly, hiding her face in her hands. The poor woman, seeing them stop, got up and again approached Madame de Livonne. "For the love of God," she exclaimed, "and that he may preserve your young lady, take pity on my poor child!" "Tell me," said Madame de Livonne, "have you sufficient strength to reach the town?" The poor woman replied that she had, and Madame de Livonne, drawing from her pocket the cover of a letter, on the back of which she wrote a few lines in pencil, told her to take it to the Cure of the town in which she resided, promising her that he would give her assistance. Euphemia, hearing the poor woman thank her mother, felt courage at last to turn to her her tearful face. The expression of her pity seemed to shed a gleam of comfort over the heart of this unhappy creature. She looked alternately at Euphemia and at her child, as if to tell him also to thank her. Euphemia just then remembering that she had in her bag a piece of bread, left from her breakfast, gave it to the poor woman, who went away loading them with blessings, for she plainly saw that they had done for her all that was in their power. They continued their journey: their minds were relieved, but they were serious. Euphemia could talk of nothing but the poor woman. "You see, my child," said her mother, "that there are sometimes terrible temptations in life." "Oh, mamma! so terrible that I do not know how it is possible to resist them." "By fully persuading ourselves that there is nothing truly impossible but a breach of duty." "But, mamma, if you had not been able to write to the Cure, could you have made up your mind to allow this poor woman to die, rather than change Mathurine's louis?" "I would rather have begged for her." This reply, in proving to Euphemia that resources are never wanting to him who has the courage to employ all those which are allowable, calmed a little the alarm inspired by the severity of certain duties. At length they reached the town. One of the two persons with whom Madame de Livonne had business, lived at its entrance, and she felt a little uneasy at seeing the shutters of the house closed. Nevertheless she made inquiries. A servant, the only one remaining in the house, informed her that her mistress was gone to see her sister, who was ill, and living at a distance of thirty leagues. Euphemia looked at her mother with dismay; however, she thought it very fortunate that they had not touched Mathurine's louis. They then went to the other customer; but she no longer resided in the town. A neighbour told them that she had only stayed there a short time, and that no one knew where she was gone to. On receiving this reply, Madame de Livonne sat down on a step. Her daughter saw her turn pale, and lean for support, as if she was going to faint; and indeed it was only her courage which had until then supported her against the debility left by her malady, the fatigues of the journey, and the vexation occasioned by her first disappointment. Now her strength entirely gave way, and she fainted outright. Euphemia, trembling, and in despair, embraced her as long as she was able, and called her, and shook her, in order to make her revive. She was afraid to leave her for the purpose of seeking assistance; brought up in habits of self-restraint, she dared not cry out, and no one happened to be passing by; every one was in the fields. At length, the neighbour who had spoken to them again coming out, Euphemia called her, and pointed to her mother. Two other old women also come up and gave their aid in restoring her to consciousness. Madame de Livonne opened her eyes, and turned them upon her daughter, who kneeling by her side, kissed her hands, and exclaimed in a transport of joy, "Mamma, here I am;" for at this moment she thought of nothing but the happiness of being once more restored to each other. However, she soon become very anxious about their return home; but her mother told her not to torment herself, as she would soon recover her strength; and yet at every moment she seemed on the point of fainting again. Every time she closed her eyes, Euphemia turned pale and was ready to burst into tears, but restrained herself, in order not to grieve her mother, and clasping her hands, she murmured in a suppressed voice, "My God! what shall we do? how are we to get home?" One of the women told her that a coach would be passing in two hours which would take them back, but Euphemia knew very well that they had no money to pay for their places, and besides she thought that it would be impossible for her mother, weak as she was, to continue her journey without taking some refreshment. However, she had not once thought of making use of Mathurine's money; but at last it occurred to her that if she were to carry it to her, she might perhaps lend them a part of it. Delighted with this idea, she forgot her timidity, and hastily searching for the louis in her mother's pocket, and begging one of the women to accompany her to Mathurine's house, she looked at her mother for permission. Madame de Livonne by a sign gave her consent, and Euphemia set off, walking so quickly that the woman who accompanied her had some difficulty in following her. Her heart beat violently as she reached the house; the door was locked; Mathurine had gone four leagues off to assist in the harvest, and was not to return until the following day. Euphemia looked at the person who gave her this information without uttering a word. She was unable to speak, for her heart was bursting, and her ideas were confused to such a degree, on receiving an intelligence which destroyed her last hope, that, happily for her, she no longer felt all the misery of her situation. She returned slowly, looking mechanically around her, as if seeking some one who might give her aid; but all she saw seemed poorer than herself, though she felt that at that moment there were none of them so wretched. Presently the air resounded with the cracking of postilions' whips; a travelling carriage drove up, and stopped at the inn: it occupied the whole of the narrow street, and obliged Euphemia and her companion to stop. A lady, her husband and daughter, and a lady's-maid, descended from it, and were quickly surrounded by poor asking for alms. This sight made Euphemia weep, without very well knowing why. She watched them, and listened to the lady's soft voice; she looked at her husband, whose countenance was good and amiable, and at the young girl, who was nearly of her own age; she could not make up her mind to pass on. At last she heard the husband, in a tone of kindness, say to the poor who were begging, "My children, I can give you nothing here; but come to Beville, ask for the chateau, and you shall have work." A thought suddenly struck Euphemia: they might perchance give her work too. She rushed into the yard, regardless of the horses that were crossing it, and stood before the lady, who was just entering the house; but once in her presence, she stopped, cast down her eyes, and was afraid to speak. Madame de Beville, such was the lady's name, seeing before her a young girl neatly dressed and in tears, asked her kindly what she wanted. Euphemia hesitated, stammered, but at length the thought that her mother was waiting for her, and perhaps uneasy, forced her to make an effort, and with clasped hands, and downcast eyes, for she dared not look at Madame de Beville, she said in a low voice, "Let me have some work too." "Some work, my child? certainly I will, but how--what sort of work?"   [Illustration: Madame de Beville, seeing before her a young   girl neatly dressed, and in tears, asked her kindly what she   wanted.--P. 92.] Euphemia could not reply; the little girl then approached her, and said in the most encouraging tone, "Come, speak to mamma." Euphemia took courage, and addressing Madame de Beville in her former manner, said, "But I want to be paid in advance, immediately; and then," she added, raising her head, and in a tone of great earnestness, "then, I will work for you as long and as much as you please." She stopped, trembling. Madame de Beville questioned her with great kindness, and Euphemia related her troubles; but while speaking, the louis d'or, which she held in her hand, fell to the ground. The little girl picked it up, and returned it to her, blushing, grieved at the thought that Euphemia had been trying to deceive them. "My child," said Madame de Beville, in a reproachful tone, "why did you tell me that you had no money?" "It is not ours," replied Euphemia with simplicity, "it has been intrusted to us for another, and therefore we cannot touch it." The young girl, much moved, looked at Madame de Beville, who kissed Euphemia, and asked to be conducted to the place where she had left her mother. At this moment, Madame de Livonne entered the yard, supported by M. de Beville, who had recognised her from having often seen her in Paris, and who begged his wife to join him in persuading her to pass a few days with them, in order to regain her strength. Madame de Beville, deeply affected by Euphemia's narrative, pressed the hand of Madame de Livonne, entreating her, in the kindest manner, to accompany them. Madame de Livonne turned to Euphemia, who smiled at her with a look of entreaty; the little girl had already taken her by the arm to lead her away. Madame de Livonne could no longer hesitate, and they entered the carriage of Madame de Beville, whose horses had arrived to conduct them to the chateau, which was only a few leagues distant. Euphemia could not contain her joy when she saw her mother seated in that comfortable carriage, and surrounded by persons who took care of her; and her pleasure was enhanced by the thought of the delightful time they should pass at Beville. The following day the louis was sent to Mathurine by a confidential person. Madame de Livonne only required rest, and was soon perfectly restored. M. and Madame de Beville, greatly pleased with the principles she had impressed upon the mind of her daughter, and knowing besides that she was well educated, and very talented, told her that, as they could not obtain in the country, where they lived the greater part of the year, such masters as they wished for their daughter, they would be delighted if she would remain with them, and assist them in her education. Madame de Livonne, although for herself she would have preferred her independence, nevertheless accepted a proposition, which insured to Euphemia a happier existence, and probably, also, a valuable protection. As to Euphemia, she was delighted beyond measure at the thought of having to live with Mademoiselle de Beville, with whom she had already formed a most intimate friendship; and while rejoicing with her mother at this good fortune, she remarked that it would not have happened to them, if they had been so weak as to change Mathurine's louis d'or. "We have done our duty," she added, "and God has rewarded us." "My child," said her mother, "our present situation is a blessing bestowed on us by God, but not a reward." "And why so, mamma?" "Because this is not the kind of recompense he assigns to the fulfilment of duty. Do you remember the lines I made you read to me the other day from an English book?--     'What! then is the reward of virtue bread?'[A]   [A] Pope. "Essay on Man." "It is not by giving to the virtuous the means of living, that God rewards them, but by giving them the satisfaction of having done their duty, and obeyed his will. This, sometimes, is their only reward in the present world; sometimes, even, they are unhappy during the whole of their lives: do you suppose from this that God is unjust to them?" "No, mamma." "And do you not think that among these virtuous yet afflicted people, there must have been many who have had much more difficult duties to fulfil than ours, and who have fulfilled them without obtaining those things which you look upon as a reward?" "Oh, certainly, mamma." "It is not, then, probable, that God has wished to reward us, in preference to others, who have better merited a recompense." "But, mamma, nevertheless, it is because we have done our duty, that we are now so happy." "Yes, my child; and things like this should often happen, for a very simple reason. God, who has willed that the accomplishment of our duties should be rewarded by peace of mind, has also permitted that happiness should usually be the portion of those who take the most pains to attain it. Now, it is certain, that he who feels no hesitation in neglecting his duty, will not, in a case of emergency, trouble himself with the search of any more difficult resource than this." "That is quite clear." "Whereas, he who is anxious not to fail in his duty, will exert all the energies of his mind, in order to discover some other means of success; and as the Gospel says, '_Seek, and ye shall find_.' Thus it may often happen, that the efforts we make to avoid a breach of duty, enable us to discover many important resources, which would not otherwise have occurred to us." "Yes, mamma, just as with the pound of gooseberries. And if, also, when I saw you so ill, I had considered myself justified in making use of Mathurine's louis, I should not have thought of addressing myself to Madame de Beville, which has been so much more advantageous to us." At this moment, the poor woman whom they had met upon the road presented herself. Her child was quite restored, and she herself, though still very thin, appeared happy. The Cure had at first relieved her, and afterwards sent her to a manufactory, where she obtained employment. Assured of a subsistence, she had come to announce her happiness to those who had been the means of procuring it, and to bring her child for Mademoiselle Euphemia to kiss, _now that he had become handsome again_. "Mamma! mamma," said Euphemia, overwhelming it with caresses, "it is still because you would not change Mathurine's louis, that you sent them to the Cure. Oh! how much good this louis has done us!"        *       *       *       *       * Here M. de Cideville paused. "Is that all?" asked Ernestine. "Yes," replied her father, "I think that is the whole history of the louis d'or; and that from old Mathurine it has come to me, without any adventures." "And now, papa," said Ernestine, "you forbade me to question you until the end of the story; but is it not true, that you do not know whether all the adventures you have related, have really happened to the louis d'or you showed me?" M. de Cideville smiled, and said, "It is true that I do not exactly know whether these adventures have really happened; but you must allow that they are possible." Ernestine assented. "You must also allow, that if some of them are rather romantic, some at least are probable, and may have occurred without any very extraordinary combination of accidents." She again assented. "Well, then, my child," replied M. de Cideville, "it is partly for want of knowing the truth, and partly for want of sufficient imagination to supply its place, that I have not related many other histories, all more simple and more interesting than my own, in which you might have seen a louis d'or, or even a much smaller sum, prevent the greatest misfortunes. Picture to yourself a family which had eaten nothing for three days: can you imagine the delight with which they would receive a louis d'or, which would afford them time to await, without dying, such other assistance as might save them entirely? And again, the unhappy wretch whose reason has been so far disturbed by excess of misery, that he is led to attempt his own life, can you doubt that a louis d'or, by delaying the moment, would often give him time to return to calmer feelings, and seek some better resource than an act of crime? I give you only two examples, but I repeat, that there are thousands remaining, of which it would be impossible to think, without losing every wish to spend such a sum in a frivolous manner." "But, papa," said Ernestine, "is it then never allowable to spend a louis on pleasure?" "My child," said M. de Cideville, "if we impose upon ourselves restrictions too severe, on one point, we run the risk of failing in others. There are duties proportioned to every situation in life. It is proper that those who enjoy a certain degree of affluence, should occupy in the world a position suitable to their means, and also that they should mix in society, which they cannot do without some expense; for it is highly important that society should be kept up, since it binds men together, and gives them opportunities of mutually instructing each other. It is also good for the poor, because the expenses of the rich give them the means of exerting their industry, and maintaining their families. It is necessary, too, that those employed in important labours, as I am every morning in my study, should be able sometimes to repose the mind by occupations of a less serious nature, as otherwise they would end by losing the means of fulfilling the duties of their station. It is for reasons of this kind that many expenses which do not appear directly useful, are nevertheless proper and necessary. But a mind accustomed to judge of the real value of things, will easily draw a distinction between money spent in this manner, and that which is _thrown into the sea_, as the saying is; and while such a person will never feel tempted to indulge in expenses of the latter kind, he will permit himself to enjoy the others without remorse. I know very well, my dear Ernestine, that you may easily deceive yourself in regard to your pleasures: at your age, every pleasure appears of great importance; but I am anxious that you should at least understand the value of what you bestow upon it; therefore, I promise to give you this louis as soon as you have found a really useful means of employing it." Ernestine, quite enchanted, promised to seek one; we shall see whether she succeeded in her search. CONCLUSION OF THE HISTORY OF A LOUIS D'OR. For a whole week, Ernestine could think of nothing but her louis, and the use she was to make of it, but she found none that suited her. The stories which her father had related, made her reflect on what might really be useful, and as her parents supplied her abundantly with everything necessary, and even interested themselves in her pleasures, whenever they were reasonable, she saw nothing that could justify her in spending it on herself; besides, she had determined to apply it to some benevolent purpose. But, at her age, she was ignorant of the best means of doing good. She often met poor people, and delighted in relieving them; but as her little monthly allowance was almost sufficient for these acts of charity, she would have been very sorry to have expended her louis upon them. Besides, she did not know whether one of these poor people was in greater need than another, nor could she tell how to ascertain this; she therefore experienced great anxiety on this head; but the arrival of the season of gaiety dissipated her cares. She went to five or six balls; she had never danced so much in her life, and her head was so completely turned with joy, that she forgot her louis; for, of course, she would never have thought of spending it upon her toilette. At length the time arrived for their departure into the country; and seeing her father paying some money at the inn, she recollected her louis d'or, and mentioned it to him. M. de Cideville told her that it was in the country she would find the best means of employing it to advantage, as it was there that the greatest amount of good might be done, with the smallest amount of money. They had only been a few days at Saulaye, the estate of M. de Cideville, when Ernestine came running to her father, quite out of breath, to tell him that she required her louis, for that one of the villagers, named Marianne, whom he knew very well, as she had assisted at his haymaking the previous year, had just had her leg broken in the fields, by a kick from a horse. The surgeon of the neighbouring town, who was also the medical attendant at the chateau, happened fortunately to pass by while she lay upon the ground, screaming dreadfully. He set the leg immediately, and had her taken home. But this was not all; Marianne would require remedies, and she was very poor; her husband was in the army, and she had only a very small garden and her labour to depend upon, for the maintenance of herself and a little girl, eight years of age. It was, therefore, absolutely necessary to assist her. M. de Cideville agreed to this. "But," said he to his daughter, "have you well considered the manner of employing your louis, so as to render it as beneficial to her as possible?" "If I give it to her, papa, she will be able to buy what is necessary with it." "Do you think she will be able to buy much?" "Oh! dear, no; but that is always the way." "But if you could so employ it as to make it yield a considerable profit to her? Do you remember the advantages which the family of M. de la Fere derived from a louis d'or?" "Yes, papa, but their history is not true," said Ernestine, quickly. "It is quite sufficient that it is possible." "Yes; but if it be necessary," said Ernestine, with a sorrowful and embarrassed look, "to bring oneself, as they did, to bread and water...." "You are not reduced to this extremity: this is one of those resolutions which we ought to have the courage to take, when necessity demands them, but which would be ridiculous when unnecessary?" These words restored Ernestine's cheerfulness. "Whilst we are talking," said she to her father, caressing him, "poor Marianne does not know that we are coming to her aid." Her father reassured her. M. de Cideville had been informed of the accident before Ernestine came to tell him, and had given orders to the housekeeper, who was a confidential person, to attend for the moment Marianne's wants. "But henceforward," said M. de Cideville, "it is to you we look for her being taken care of, and for seeing that she wants for nothing: do you think your louis will be sufficient for this?" "Good gracious, no! What is to be done?" "What do you think she will stand in need of?" "Why, first of all, she must be nursed, for she can do nothing for herself, and Suzette, her daughter, is too young to attend upon her." "She has many neighbours about her, and I am sure they will relieve each other in nursing, and taking care of her, as long as it is necessary. You already see how much these poor women can do without the aid of money." "Yes, but I cannot do what they do." "Therefore you ought to do something else. Will she not require medicines?" "We must buy some for her." "The greater part of the herbs, of which her draughts and poultices will probably be composed, grow wild in the fields: we know them, and will teach you to distinguish them also. If you like to employ your walks in seeking for them, you may, I think, easily gather a good provision of such of them as are most required, and we will show them to the surgeon, in order to be quite sure that we are not mistaken." "There, again, is the surgeon! I never thought of him; he, too, must be paid." "He attends the chateau, and receives a certain sum annually; we treat him well, and he is satisfied with us; besides, he is a very worthy man, and attends gratuitously to the poor of the village, as much from humanity as from the wish to oblige us; while some presents from our produce, as a cask of our wine, for instance, enable us, from time to time, to testify our gratitude to him." "But, papa, it is you and other people who do all this; it is not I." "You can do but little of yourself, my child, since you have neither strength, nor wealth; but it is precisely because you are dependent on us for all your wants, that you ought to count among your resources the pleasure we feel in obliging you, in everything that is reasonable, and the predisposition which people feel to comply with your requests, when you ask for what is proper." "Oh papa, to ask! but that is so difficult. I should never have the courage to do that." "It is in this, my child, that the greatest merit of charity often consists. I could relate to you many admirable stories on this subject. In order to do good, we must often be able to conquer our pride, which makes us dislike to have recourse to others; our idleness, which makes us dislike exertion; our indolence or thoughtlessness, which makes us lose a thousand things which would be useful. We must learn to do much, with little means; otherwise, we shall never manage to accomplish anything of importance. Those who only give money soon exhaust all they have to give, whereas the contrivances of charity, in aid of the unfortunate, are inexhaustible." "Dear papa, I shall beg you to teach me to find the herbs; but I assure you I am very much afraid I shall not be able to discover anything else." "You will see: meanwhile, here is your louis; if you take my advice, you will not spend it, except in the purchase of such things as you cannot otherwise obtain. As for the others, seek the means of procuring them. In a house of any consideration there are always many things which may be given away without any positive expense, as they would be otherwise lost, or nearly so. You can ask us for these, and in this way, we will aid you, with the greatest pleasure, in succouring poor Marianne, whom from this moment I place under your care." Ernestine, though a little frightened at a duty, which she was afraid of not fulfilling in a proper manner, still felt proud and happy in having some one under her protection. Madame de Cideville entering at this moment, her husband informed her of the important charge he had committed to her daughter; and as a servant came to say that Marguerite, one of the women who took care of Marianne, wanted some old linen for her, Madame de Cideville said, "It is to Ernestine you must apply." Ernestine looked at her mother, with an air of utter astonishment. "But, mamma," she said, "I have no old linen." "And you cannot think of any means of procuring some?" "Madame Bastien" (this was the housekeeper's name) "has plenty; the old sheets and napkins belonging to the house serve her for making bandages; but she is always angry when any one applies for them. Last year, when my nurse hurt her foot, she hardly even dared to ask her for any." "Nevertheless, you must endeavour to obtain some between this and to-morrow, for to-morrow they will be needed for Marianne." "Mamma, if you were to tell Madame Bastien to give me some?" "She would give them to you, most assuredly; but do you think she would do so with less ill-humour? She is well aware that I wish her to give to all who require it, but as she has sometimes to supply a great many persons, she is afraid that each will take too much; perhaps too she likes to show her authority a little; therefore, you may be quite sure that whatever she does, she will do it with a much better grace for the sake of obliging you, than she would if I were to order it." As Ernestine was going out, she met Marguerite, and told her that she would endeavour to have some linen to send her, for the following day. Marguerite replied that it was absolutely necessary, for without it she could not change Marianne's poultices. Ernestine was very much embarrassed; she was afraid of Madame Bastien, who had been in the family thirty years, and possessed great authority. The servants feared her, because she was exact and economical, and Ernestine, without knowing why, did the same. At that moment, she would have been very glad if her papa and mamma had themselves undertaken to provide for Marianne's wants. She saw in this charge a host of embarrassments, from which she knew not how to extricate herself, but she did not dare to say so. While standing, thoughtfully, on the spot where Marguerite had left her, she saw Madame Bastien approaching. She blushed, for she thought of what she had to ask her, and stooped down as if to look at her _Hortensia_, which was placed upon the step, at the side of the yard. Madame Bastien stopped to look at it, and remarked that it was very beautiful. Ernestine, who was anxious to prolong the conversation, showed her two slips from it which she had planted the preceding year; they each bore two buds which were beginning to swell. Madame Bastien admired these also. "Will you accept of them?" asked Ernestine, with eagerness. Madame Bastien refused, saying she did not like to deprive her of them. "Oh yes! yes!" said Ernestine, and taking the two pots under her arm she lightly descended the steps and ran to place them on the window of the lower room, where Madame Bastien usually worked. Madame Bastien followed her, thanking her very much for this present, with which she seemed to be greatly pleased, and at the same time admiring the hortensias. Ernestine went and got some water for them, wiped the leaves, and changed the sticks intended for their support, but which were beginning to be too short for them. Madame Bastien hardly knew how to thank her sufficiently for so much attention. "Madame Bastien," said Ernestine, as she tied the last prop, "could you not give me some old linen for poor Marianne? Mamma has given me permission to ask you for some." "Very willingly," said Madame Bastien, in the best-humoured manner in the world; "the poor woman shall have as much as she requires; she is laid up for a long time;" and she took Ernestine to the linen closet, where she made up a large parcel, which Ernestine, her heart bounding with joy, carried off, and hastened to show it triumphantly to her mother, who allowed her to take it herself to Marianne. Whilst waiting on the step for her nurse, she saw Suzette, Marianne's little girl, enter the yard, walking slowly by the side of the wall, looking first on one side, and then on the other, as if fearful, yet anxious to be seen. Ernestine descended a few steps and called to her. "How is your mother?" she asked. "Pretty well," replied Suzette, with a heavy sigh. "What are you looking for?" "Nothing;" and this _nothing_ was followed by a sigh still heavier than the former. She began to look at Ernestine's flowers, and said, "What beautiful flowers!" then, as if continuing the conversation, she added: "I have had no dinner to-day." "You have had no dinner?" "No, and I don't think I shall get any." "Why not?" "Because mother cannot give me any." "Stay, then," said Ernestine, and running to her mother, she exclaimed, "Mamma, here is Suzette, and she has had no dinner." "Very well, my child, something must be done for her." "Yes, mamma; do you think," and she hesitated--"do you think it would be a positive expense if Suzette were to be fed here? It seems to me that there is sufficient in the pantry...." "I think, my dear, there is; there would only be the bread...." "Oh, yes; but, mamma, they bake at home for the servants; would it be necessary to bake more on account of Suzette?" "I think not, provided at least that you will not waste it as you are in the habit of doing, by cutting large slices to give to Turc, who ought to have only the fragments." Ernestine promised, and Madame de Cideville consented to Suzette's being fed at the chateau, during her mother's illness. While now waiting for her dinner, Ernestine got her a piece of bread, to which she added, as it was the first time, a little gingerbread cake which she brought from her own room, as it belonged to her. In passing by Turc, who as soon as he saw her, came out of his kennel, and got as near to her as the length of his chain would permit, all the time wagging his tail and lowering his ears: "My poor Turc," said she, "you will have nothing now but the pieces." Nevertheless she begged Suzette to give him a bit of her bread, as a mark of friendship, and promised herself to go and look for some in the piece-basket, in order not to forfeit Turc's good graces. She would carry the bundle of linen herself, although it was rather heavy. Fortunately, Marianne lived quite close to the chateau. On reaching her house, all flushed with pleasure as well as embarrassment, she said, "Here, Marianne, here is some old linen I have got for you." "I assure you," said the nurse, "she was very anxious to bring it to you." "It is very kind, Mademoiselle Ernestine," said one of the women who was there, "to come and comfort poor people." This speech gratified Ernestine, but embarrassed her still more. Children, and especially girls, are timid with the poor, because they have seen little of them, are unaccustomed to their manners and language, and do not know how to talk to them. This timidity, which they do not sufficiently endeavour to overcome, often causes them to be accused of haughtiness. Fortunately for Ernestine, Suzette, who had followed her, came forward eating, with good appetite, a piece of bread. She was asked where she got it, and replied that Mademoiselle Ernestine had given it to her. "I have asked mamma," said Ernestine, addressing Marianne, "to let her be fed at the chateau, all the time you are ill." "This is just what was wanted to cure her," said the woman who had before spoken, "for she has done nothing for a long time but cry, and say, '_Who will take care of my poor child?_' I told her that if she tormented herself in that manner her blood would be curdled." "Suzette shall want for nothing, my poor Marianne," said Ernestine, with great earnestness, "nor you either, I hope." Joy and gratitude were painted on the suffering countenance of Marianne; she clasped her hands under the bedclothes, for she had been forbidden to move. An old woman who was seated near her bed, let fall her crutch, and taking the hand of Ernestine within her own, said to her, "You are a good young lady, and God will bless you." Ernestine was so moved, that tears almost came to her eyes. She now felt more at her ease and her nurse having questioned the women who were there as to what had been done, and what ordered by the surgeon, she joined in the conversation, and in a short time her embarrassment quite vanished. When she left, Marianne raised her feeble voice to bless her; and the old woman again said, "You are a good young lady." The other woman followed her to the door and looked after her. She felt that they would talk about her in that poor cottage, and say that she was good, and this thought made her experience a pleasure which had hitherto been unknown to her. Suzette, who followed her like her shadow, she considered as under her especial protection, and she seemed to herself to be older and more reasonable, now that she was able to protect some one. At this moment, she would not have exchanged the pleasure of having Marianne under her charge for all the enjoyments in the world. She hastened to communicate to her parents all the joy she experienced, and they shared it with her. She told her mother that there was still one thing which she had to beg of her, but she hoped that it would be the last. It was some broth for Marianne; "I could easily," she said, "boil her some meat, but then I should require wood, and besides meat would not be good for her. If the broth were made for two days, it would turn at the first storm; and, besides, it would give more trouble to her neighbours. Perhaps some could be sent to her from here without increasing the expense." "I see," said her mother, smiling, "that you begin to understand what you are about." This was the result of her conversation with the women who took care of Marianne. Madame de Cideville permitted her to ask M. Francois the cook for some broth, and M. Francois promised to give her some with great pleasure, provided Mademoiselle Ernestine did not incessantly say to him, "M. Francois, do not so often give us melted butter with asparagus in it;" "M. Francois, the spinach had no taste to-day;" or else, "I do not like pease soup!" Ernestine promised to be satisfied with everything, and she was, at all events, perfectly satisfied with her day's work. In the afternoon, she gathered in the fields several of the herbs which she had been told might be required for Marianne. She also learned to distinguish a few which grew in the uncultivated parts of the park, and even in the crevices of the walls. They were shown to the surgeon, who thought many of them very good; some others were necessary, and these he promised to supply himself; Ernestine asked him the price. "Nothing to you, my dear young lady," he replied, "I do not wish to ruin so pretty a sister of charity." Ernestine blushed and thanked him, and from that moment treated him with a degree of respect and politeness, which charmed the good doctor so much, that he redoubled his attentions to Marianne. He gave Ernestine an account of her condition, and told her what was necessary to be done, and Ernestine thanked him in a manner which completely won his heart. He joked with her, she laughed with him; they became the best friends imaginable. One day a rather expensive drug was wanted: Ernestine insisted on paying for it; he would not allow it; "I am also an apothecary," he said; "I prepare that myself." "Yes, but you would sell it." "That is not certain. There are drugs which must be prepared in advance, in order that they may always be ready in case of need, and which, nevertheless, if kept too long, run the risk of being spoiled. This risk we are obliged to charge against those who have money, by making them pay a higher price, which is but just; but it is also just that the poor should profit by it in receiving for nothing what might otherwise be spoiled." Ernestine was satisfied with the surgeon's arguments, but she told her mother that as she wished to make him a present which would not be very expensive to her, she had determined to embroider a waistcoat for him, which would suit his portly person wonderfully well. Her mother approved of her idea, and even assisted her, and when the waistcoat was completed, the surgeon was invited to dinner. Ernestine placed it under his napkin, and it gave him so much pleasure, that there was certainly nothing in the world which he would not have done to oblige his little sister of charity, as he always called her. From the moment that Marianne began to improve, she had required soup, and the surgeon wished it to be made of lighter bread than that which was baked for the servants, that it might not injure a stomach weakened as much by want as by illness. Ernestine, at first, bought some, but she afterwards remarked that large pieces were frequently left from that served at their own table, which no one made use of, and which were only thrown into the refuse-basket. She had, at first, some scruples as to the propriety of making use of these. "Mamma," said she to Madame de Cideville, "is it not wrong to collect pieces for Marianne as we do for Turc?" "It is not at all the same thing, my child; for they ought only to be given to Turc, on the supposition that they cannot be put to any other use. If you gave them to Marianne only because they were refused by every one else, that would undoubtedly be wrong, for you know that God punished the wicked rich man, because he did nothing for Lazarus, except permitting him to eat the crumbs that fell from his table. Instead of performing an act of charity, you would show a cruel and odious contempt of the poor; but so far from its being a contempt of Marianne, that you collect this bread, you do it, on the contrary, for the sake of having additional means of benefiting her." Ernestine, though thus encouraged by her mother, nevertheless felt rather embarrassed when she carried these pieces to Marianne, after having cut them as neatly as possible. She wished to take them herself, although Suzette was her usual messenger in these cases, and she blushed, as she showed them to the neighbour who was to prepare the soup. The latter showed them to Marianne, who seemed much pleased at the prospect of having such pieces every day, and Ernestine saw plainly that where there is real kindness, there is never any danger of hurting the feelings of those whom we oblige; it is only intentional slight, or inattention, which can really wound. From this time Ernestine carefully made the round of the table each day, after breakfast, and after dinner, and sometimes, in order that she might carry to Marianne a little loaf quite whole, she said at breakfast that she preferred the household bread with her milk and butter.