M. LE CHEVALIER.
"Stop them! Stop them!" was re-echoed
through the Rue St. Honore. "Madame la Marquise is running down the street!
This way! Madame la Vicomtesse is dragging her dress through the mud! Oh! M.
le Baron has lost his wig! and M. le Chevalier?... William, where is M.
le Chevalier?"
And William ran right and left, endeavouring to bring
back a number of dressed-up dogs, such as are seen parading the streets, in
little carriages. They had just escaped from their kennel, while
their owners were occupied with their morning toilet. This toilet was
a tedious and difficult affair, for whilst they were washing one, the one
which had just gone through the operation, never failed to go and put his
paws into the gutter. While M. le Baron was made to stand on his hind feet,
in order to have his fore paws put through the sleeves of his coat, Madame la
Marquise, seizing the first opportunity to make use of her legs, set off
running all round the yard, in her petticoat, which being then much too long,
and getting entangled between her legs, threw her down; and whilst they ran
after her, all the others would make their escape, half-dressed in their
finery. On the present occasion, the gate of the yard happened accidentally
to be opened, while one of these scenes was enacted, and all the dogs made
their escape into the street, troubling themselves very little as to the
state in which they appeared before the eyes of the public.
However,
William, the owner's son, had succeeded in catching almost all of them, and,
saving the loss of M. le Baron's wig, and the unfortunate accident which had
happened to the hat and feathers of Madame la Vicomtesse, when she rolled in
a heap of rubbish, and the rent which Madame la Marquise had made in her blue
petticoat, all would have been set to rights, if M. le Chevalier could have
been found. M. le Chevalier was a very important personage. He was
the only one who was able to waltz with Madame la Presidente.
Everybody was delighted to see them take each other by the neck, with
their fore paws, and dance in time on their hind feet. Now, Madame
la Presidente could not waltz all alone; thus two talents were lost at the
same time. The owner was in despair; he was to go that day to Clichi, to the
fair of St. Medard, and he built his chief hopes of success upon the waltz.
But it was in vain that William went to every house in the neighbourhood,
asking whether any one had seen M. le Chevalier. "And who is M. le
Chevalier?" he was everywhere asked; and William replied, "He has a yellow
waistcoat, no trousers, pointed ears, a sword at his side, and his tail is
bald at the end." Notwithstanding this luminous description, no one could
give him any information respecting M. le Chevalier. At length, as it was
growing late, the master decided on setting off with the rest of his
troop, telling William to follow him with M. le Chevalier, if he
succeeded in finding him.
William had a second time searched all the
streets in the vicinity, and was returning home sorrowfully, when he met one
of his neighbours coming from market. He asked her, as he had done every one
else, whether she could give him any information about M. le
Chevalier.
"Bah!" said she, "has he not returned? This morning, when your
dogs ran away, I was just going to market, and I saw him enter the
alley opposite, and go into M. Bucquet's, the linendraper. Has he
really not come back, then? Oh, I'll wager that it is little Roussel who
has kept him."
George Roussel lived with his father and mother in the
house of M. Bucquet; he was a good boy, and very fond of his parents,
and he also gave great satisfaction at school, where he
regularly attended, as day-scholar: in other respects, however, he was the
most mischief-loving urchin imaginable. As his father, who was employed at
a banker's, and his mother, who gave lessons in writing, passed much of their
time away from home, George was quite his own master out of school hours, and
this time he employed in playing tricks on the neighbours; nor was it
sufficient for him to spend in this manner the hours of daylight, the night
also was often employed in similar practices. He slept at the back of the
house, in a small room, the windows of which looked upon the roofs and leads.
Through this window he passed to go and hunt the cats, and when he succeeded
in catching two or three, he tied them together by their tails. Then when
every one was asleep, he would throw them into the house, through
a staircase window opening upon the same leads, and run with all speed to
his own room as soon as he perceived that the neighbours were awakened by the
frightful uproar which they made in their unavailing efforts to get loose.
Immediately all the doors would open, every one rushing out to know what
could be the matter. Then they would run after the cats, which, of course,
did not suffer themselves to be easily caught, but kept crying and mewing, as
if they had been burned, and scratching every one who attempted to separate
them. Another time, a neighbour's dog would return to his mistress,
covered with oil, from the ears to the tail, so that no one could
touch him without being greased, nor could he approach anything
without leaving on it a stain. On a cold winter's day, George would
contrive to attach a piece of ice to the handle of a door-bell, and the
first person who wanted to ring would snatch his hand away, struck
with cold and surprise; or else he would cut the wire attached to
the bell, so that people would pull for a quarter of an hour
without producing any effect. He also hampered the locks, and hid the
keys, if they happened to be left in the doors; and, in fact, every
day brought fresh complaints; but they were of little use. George was
an only child, born when his parents were already advanced in life,
and after they had been married many years without having any children. M.
and Madame Roussel loved him, therefore, with such a foolish fondness, that
they overlooked all his faults. When complaints were made of him to M.
Roussel, he would shrug his shoulders, and say, "Well, youth must have its
day." Nevertheless, he scolded George a little, for the gratification of the
neighbours, but afterwards he had the weakness to laugh at his tricks. Madame
Roussel was still more unreasonable, for she became so angry when complaints
were made of her son, that no one dared to speak to her on the subject.
Had they not been very good tenants, and very punctual in their
payments, though their rent was high, M. Bucquet would have given them
notice to leave twenty times over, so disagreeable had George become to
the whole house.
Besides, everything that happened was laid to his
charge; if any one slipped on the stairs by treading on a cherrystone, it was
always George who had scattered them through malice: not a pane of
glass was broken in the hall or passages, but it was always George who
had done it; in fact, his reputation was spread throughout the
entire neighbourhood. William had heard him spoken of, and could not
doubt that the conjecture of his acquaintance was well founded, and
the more so as another neighbour asserted that he had heard George a
few days before saying to little Bucquet, "Wouldn't it be nice, Joseph, to
have a dog like that? We should get a famous price for it!"
In
consequence of this information, William went to M. Bucquet's, and asked him
in what part of the house M. Roussel lived, as he wanted to inquire for his
dog, which had been taken by little Roussel.
"He would be likely enough
to do so," said M. Bucquet; "but I think he went out with his father before
your dogs took the liberty of walking off. Is it not so,
Joseph?"
Joseph, who was occupied in arranging a box of gloves over
the counter, answered "Yes," without raising his head, and William did not
perceive that he blushed very much. As it was known that M. le Chevalier had
really entered the house, William begged permission to go and inquire of all
the lodgers. No one had seen him; but on passing by a door that was locked,
and which he supposed to be that belonging to M. Roussel, he knocked very
loudly, and then listened attentively. At the second knock, he thought he
heard a bark, and fancied he recognised the voice of M. le Chevalier.
Transported with joy, he hastened down again, and was astonished at seeing
Joseph, who had softly followed him at some distance, endeavouring to
make his escape the moment he was observed. William returned to the
shop, exclaiming, "He is there; M. le Chevalier is there. I have heard him
bark;" and seeing Joseph re-enter the shop, he added, "Yes, and I'll wager
that M. Joseph knows very well that he is in M.
Roussel's apartments."
"Indeed!" said M. Bucquet, "I should like to
see him interfering with the tricks of that little rascal George. You may
rest assured that he has not meddled with your dog. If he had, I should very
soon settle him."
William inquired whether M. Roussel would be long
away, and was informed that he was gone to Clichi for the fete, to pass the
day with his brother, who was steward of the chateau, and that he
would not return till the evening. William wanted to have the door
forced; but M. Bucquet would not consent to such a thing. William
therefore determined to carry the intelligence he had received to his
father, purposing to return immediately, and place himself as sentinel at
M. Roussel's door, in order to prevent anything being removed without his
permission. Meanwhile he begged the neighbours to watch, in case M. Roussel
returned during his absence; and they promised to do so.
His departure
relieved Joseph from a heavy burden, for it was he who had taken the dog. He
had long shared in George's mischievous tricks without any one being aware of
it. As he stood in great awe of his father, who sometimes treated him very
severely, he had been for a long time extremely quiet and orderly, but at
length the example and the solicitations of George, who was dying to have a
companion in his sports, had led him away, without rendering him any the
more courageous. Younger and weaker than George, he preferred such
tricks as were of a secret and underhand character, while George
delighted in more daring exploits. If a falsehood was to be told, it
was Joseph always who undertook to tell it, and George, who had
never spoken anything but the truth to his own parents, did not
consider how wrong it was to be continually leading Joseph to deceive his.
He had shown him the way by the leads, in order that he might enter
the room in which he slept without passing by the apartments occupied
by M. and Madame Roussel. The morning that M. le Chevalier had entered the
alley, Joseph met him at the foot of the stairs, and thinking it a capital
opportunity, he took him up, and carried him by way of the leads into
George's room, never doubting that the latter, like himself, would be
enchanted at the prospect of having him to sell. He had felt very much
alarmed while William was knocking; but George's room being separated from
the outside door by three other rooms, all the doors of which were closed,
William had heard but faintly the barking of M. le Chevalier. It had been his
first intention to watch for George on his return from Clichi, and tell him
what he had done, in order that he might prevent any one from entering his
room until the dog had been disposed of; for he generally left George
to extricate himself, as well as he could, out of the scrapes in which he
not unfrequently placed him. However, after William's departure, thinking
that the dog would most certainly be reclaimed, and that it would be
impossible to conceal him, he determined to repass the leads, fetch him, and
turn him out of the house. As soon, therefore, as he saw his father occupied,
he ran up the stairs, and passing through the window, he reached M. Roussel's
rooms, and thinking that perhaps he might only have taken the key without
locking the door outside, he hoped to be able to open it from within and turn
out the dog, without being suspected. But he found the door locked,
so that it was necessary to return by the usual way. At this moment, he
heard his father's voice, calling him at the foot of the stairs. M. le
Chevalier had concealed himself under a bed, from which it was impossible for
Joseph to make him move. Besides, how was he to return through the staircase
window with the dog? His father might be coming up, and see him; it was quite
hazardous enough to get back alone. Joseph decided, therefore, on taking this
latter course, leaving M. le Chevalier in quiet possession of the post to
which he had retreated. He found his father and mother waiting for him at
the bottom of the stairs, and told them that he had been to listen at
M. Roussel's door in order to ascertain whether the dog was there. As it
was Sunday, they closed the shop, and went out to dine. Joseph accompanied
them, somewhat uneasy as to what might be the result of this affair, but
still hoping to return sufficiently early to tell George, and determined, at
all events, to deny having the least share in the theft.
Meanwhile,
George, who knew nothing of the matter, was amusing himself at Clichi to his
heart's content. In the morning, he had rowed upon the Seine, in a boat
belonging to the chateau. Afterwards, he had witnessed the target-shooting,
had run at the ring, and balanced himself in the swing. After dinner, he
returned to see the various exhibitions in the square. In one corner were the
puppets; in another, William's dogs, notwithstanding the absence of M.
le Chevalier, attracted round them a large concourse of spectators. George
saw them from a distance and recognised them; he hastened immediately to the
spot, called his father, mother, uncle, and all the company, to whom he was
delighted to introduce his friends the dogs. He mingled with the spectators,
explained everything, in fact did the honours. "I know them," he said, "they
live opposite to us." He enumerated their various talents and expatiated upon
their acquirements, calling each by his own name, as people do in
speaking of persons with whom they are very anxious to appear
particularly connected. "This is M. le Baron," said he, "do you see Madame
la Vicomtesse? it is she who executes the lady's-chain with Madame
la Presidente; and M. le Chevalier? Oh! where is M. le Chevalier?"
At
this exclamation, which reawakened all William's regrets, he turned his head,
recognised George, and pointed him out to his father. The latter approached
George in a very rough manner. "Ah! ah!" said he, "it is you then who have
stolen my dog?" "Ladies and gentlemen," he continued, "you would have been
still more gratified if this thief had not stolen from me a new dog which I
hoped to have had the honour of presenting to you. A most admirable dog!
Ladies and gentlemen, had you beheld him, you would have said his equal
was nowhere to be found."
At this epithet of _thief_, George, though
he could not understand how it was applicable to himself, became red with
anger. M. Roussel and the uncle looked at each other, and with great warmth
commanded the owner of the dogs to explain himself. He recommenced
his grievances and invectives, and swore that they should pay the value of
what he had lost by M. le Chevalier, who assuredly would have tripled the
receipts. George, his father, and his uncle replied, became warm, and at
length got into a rage, whilst poor Madame Roussel, greatly agitated, wanted
to get away. The master of the dogs, on his side, vociferated louder and
louder, and began to gesticulate. In the heat of the dispute, William, who
had finished his collection, came to his father's aid. "It is he," he
exclaimed, pointing to George; "he stole him in order to sell him; I heard M.
le Chevalier bark in his room."
"That's false," said George,
accompanying his reply with a blow, which upset all the money that William
had collected in his hat. The latter wanted both to pick up the money and
return the blow at the same time, but George did not give him the
opportunity, for he fell upon him with redoubled violence. William then
seriously thought of defending himself.
D'Aumale est plus ardent,
plus fort, plus furieux; Turenne est plus adroit, et moins
impetueux. _La
Henriade._
D'Aumale is more ardent, stronger, more
furious; Turenne, less impetuous, displays more skill.
George gave
most blows, but William was more skilful in parrying, and while his hands
were employed against George, he endeavoured with his feet to keep off the
little boys, who had rushed to pick up the money. One of these, in order to
escape a kick which he perceived was likely to fall to his share, took hold
of William by the leg, and thus threw him on the ground, while George, who
was holding him by the hair, fell with him. They were picked up,
and separated. The owner of the dogs now swore that they should not
only pay for the loss of M. le Chevalier's day's work, but the amount
of the collection also. M. Roussel insisted on knowing positively what it
was they complained of. Madame Roussel, more dead than alive, wished to have
the man paid, in order to get away; and her husband consented, provided the
dog was found in their apartments, of which he showed the key, and which he
also promised should not be opened, except in the presence of the owner of
the dogs, whom he invited to return with him to Paris. "And we shall see,"
said George, doubling his fist at William, whom he promised himself to pay
off in a very different manner.
They all returned, William dragging
the dogs in their carriage; M. Roussel giving his arm to his wife, who could
not support herself: the master of the dogs and M. Roussel at one moment
talking angrily, at another more reasonably, and William and George,
who were carefully kept apart, gesticulating at a distance, and
often accompanying their gestures with words, for want of better means
of annoyance. With them came many persons returning to Paris after
the fete, who were curious to see the termination of this affair,
while all the little boys of the village ran after them, trotting
with their bare feet in the dust.
The troop reached Paris very much
diminished, but sufficiently considerable to attract the attention of the
passers by, and to be followed by a crowd of idle people. M. Bucquet, who
beheld all this assemblage collected at his house, asked what it was all
about; and while they were giving him an explanation, Joseph found
an opportunity of taking George on one side, and relating to him the whole
affair. George was furious, and commanded him to go at once and take the dog
away, which Joseph refused to do for fear of being seen.
"I will say that
it was you," exclaimed George.
"I will say that you tell a falsehood,"
replied Joseph.
George took him by the ears in order to force him up
stairs.
"I'll scream," said Joseph.
George, notwithstanding his
anger, saw that there was but one course to be pursued. He left Joseph, ran
up stairs, attained the leads, entered his room and sought for the dog,
determined, if requisite, to pass the night with him upon the roof; but he
sought in vain. As Joseph had left the doors open, M. le Chevalier had had
all the apartments at his disposal. Where could he be hidden? It was
getting dusk, and the dog was small, George could not perceive him
anywhere, and he was persuading himself that Joseph had been making game
of him, and was about returning by the way that he had entered, when the
animal scenting his master at the door, rushed from under a bed, howling most
lamentably.
"Do you hear?" exclaimed the owner.
"It is
impossible," exclaimed M. Roussel, precipitately opening the door. He stood
perfectly stupified when he beheld his son and the dog in the middle of the
room, without being able to understand in the least by what means they had
got there.
"I knew it would be so," said William
triumphantly.
George, stifled with shame and anger, and rendered furious
by the invectives with which he was overwhelmed from all sides,
protested that it was not he, but Joseph who did it. The neighbours,
delighted at finding him in fault, were indignant that he should throw
the blame upon another. M. Bucquet, who knew that if Joseph were
the culprit, he should have to pay the damages, flew into a
violent passion with George; and Madame Bucquet, terrified lest her
husband should beat Joseph, became still louder and more violent in
her invectives: M. Roussel thought that, right or wrong, he ought to
take his son's part; William and his father were clamouring to be
paid, and M. le Chevalier howled like a dog who had had no dinner.
In
the midst of this fearful uproar, a venerable clergyman who lived in the
house came up. Every one respected him, and he was the only person on whom
George had not dared to play his tricks. He made every effort to restore
peace, but when he had stilled the tumult for a moment, some voice was
raised, every one replied, and the whole thing was renewed. At length he
succeeded in persuading the people to disperse, with the exception of the
owner of the dogs, who wanted to take M. Roussel before the magistrate to
make him pay. M. Roussel did not desire anything better, and George was
anxious to accompany them, in order to justify himself, but Madame Roussel
wept and entreated her husband to pay: and the clergyman reminded him
that he had promised to do so if the dog was discovered on his
premises: he was therefore obliged to submit; and then the master of the
dogs, perfectly satisfied, went away, holding M. le Chevalier under
his arm, and saying, "Monsieur, Madame, very sorry to have troubled
you."
M. and Madame Roussel retired to their own rooms, together with
the clergyman, whom they had invited to accompany them. George sat in
a corner, tearing his hair in despair. They asked him the truth of
the story, which he explained, and M. Roussel and his wife were
terribly enraged against Joseph.
"But," said the clergyman, "who
taught him to pass by the leads?"
George agreed that it was
he.
"And who accustomed him to do these mischievous
tricks?"
George was compelled again to own that he had done
so.
"Behold the effect of bad example!" continued the clergyman;
"evil is done without very bad intentions, but he whom we instruct
in committing it, learns the evil without heeding the intentions.
Joseph has seen you keep dogs in your possession, in order to set
their masters hunting for them, and he thought it quite as reasonable to
conceal one in order to sell it: therefore, it is you who are answerable for
all that he has done."
George had nothing to say. The clergyman lectured
him for some time longer, and left him completely ashamed of himself, and
determined to correct his faults: but his parents were obliged to leave the
house and the neighbourhood, for George could never go into the
streets, without hearing himself called a _dog-stealer_. For a time it
was the same at school also, where some of the other boys had related the
story; but as he was very much liked, and besides one of the strongest, his
explanation and a few blows soon re-established him in the esteem of his
companions.
In the end, the truth was discovered in the neighbourhood
also, but it was long before the prejudices against him were quite
overcome. As for Joseph, it is asserted that he was well beaten by his
father, but this only corrected him of the desire of playing tricks on
his neighbours. He continued all his life a coward from disposition, and a
liar from the instructions of George; therefore, whenever George heard any
evil of him, he felt pained, because he knew that he had increased the number
of his bad habits.
EUDOXIA;
OR LEGITIMATE
PRIDE.
Madame d'Aubonne beheld her daughter Eudoxia, who had
attained the age of thirteen, increase every day in judgment, talent,
and good dispositions of all kinds. It was with a feeling of
intense happiness, that she discovered in her the germ and hope of
every virtue. Nothing was wanting to Eudoxia, but the consciousness
that virtues were given to us for our own practice, and not for
the purpose of judging the conduct of others. Her own earnest love of
all that was good, and her constant endeavour to do what she
considered best, disposed her to blame others with severity, and to exact
from them a rectitude, equal to that which she herself displayed in
all her actions.
Though Eudoxia was too reserved, and even too timid
to express her opinions to any one but her mother, to whom she confided
everything, and who, on her part, had the most entire confidence in her
daughter, nevertheless Madame d'Aubonne carefully opposed this tendency;
for she knew that it was not sufficient to watch over words only, but that
we must also regulate our thoughts; and those of Eudoxia appeared to her, in
this respect, neither just nor reasonable. However, she had rarely occasion
to reprimand her on this account, for with the exception of her cousin
Constance, who was much younger than herself, and to whom, as she was very
fond of her, she was, consequently, more indulgent, she saw scarcely any but
older persons, and such as she would never have presumed to
censure.
Madame d'Aubonne had resided many years in the country,
attending to her invalid father; having had the misfortune to lose him,
she returned, to Paris, which she again left, for the purpose of passing a
couple of months at Romecourt, with Madame de Rivry, an old friend, who
resided there with her daughter Julia, whom Eudoxia scarcely knew, not having
seen her for six years.
Madame d'Aubonne found at Romecourt her aunt,
Madame de Croissy, who was to spend there the same time as herself. Madame de
Croissy was educating her two granddaughters, Adele and Honorine, with
whom Eudoxia was as little acquainted as with Julia, although they
were her cousins. Her timidity, therefore, made her look with much
terror on this new society, especially as the other three girls, though
much about her own age, were very far from being as reasonable as
herself.
Julia, though at heart a very good-dispositioned child, was
very much spoiled by her mother, and sometimes answered her with a
degree of impertinence which made every one present shrug their
shoulders. Adele regarded an untruth as the simplest thing in the world;
she told falsehoods in sport; she told them in earnest; she even told them
at the very moment in which she might have been convicted of the fallacy of
her assertions.
As to Honorine, she was a perfect wild colt, without
discipline, without reflection; never for a moment dreaming that her
fancies could meet with the slightest opposition, nor that those things
which gave her pleasure could be attended with any inconvenience. Madame
de Croissy troubled herself very little about their education;
provided they made no noise, and did not attempt to join in
conversation, she always considered girls to be quite sufficiently well
brought up; therefore she habitually left them with the servants, and
felt annoyed, that at Romecourt they were almost always kept in
the drawing-room, because Eudoxia and Julia were very little away
from their mothers.
This plan was equally disagreeable to the two
girls, but little accustomed to the society of their grandmamma, who, when at
home, never concerned herself about them, any further than to tell them
to hold themselves upright whenever she thought of it, or to be
silent whenever their voices were heard above a whisper. They would
have been much better pleased if left with their grandmother's
servants, with whom they were accustomed to associate, provided, however,
that they could have had Julia with them; for as to Eudoxia, they
cared very little for her.
It is true that she had not been very
amiable towards them, for she was quite horrified at their giddy manners,
their want of obedience, and their tone of mockery, to which she was
not accustomed. Astonished beyond measure, at their ignorance of
almost every principle which, from her childhood, she had been taught
to respect, she blushed to the eyes when she beheld Honorine
reading without scruple a letter which she found open, playing tricks
with the gardener's son, or standing at the park railing, in front of the
high road, chatting with all the little boys and girls of the village. She
trembled when she saw Adele, even at her grandmamma's side, and under her
very spectacles, cut the needleful with which she was embroidering, in order
to shorten it, and be able to say that her task was finished. Nor, in fine,
could she recover from her surprise, when she saw that the very moment in
which Julia received an order from her mother to do anything, was precisely
that which she selected for doing the opposite. At these times she
imagined herself transported into a new world, where all was strange
and incomprehensible to her: she avoided conversing with her
companions, as she had nothing to say which would be agreeable to their
tastes; and, besides, she would scarcely have known how to reply to them,
had they spoken to her. She therefore left them as soon as she was
able, and took refuge with her mother.
The others easily perceived,
that though Eudoxia said nothing to them, she did not approve of their
conduct; they were, therefore, very ill at ease in her society, and in no way
pleased when Madame d'Aubonne, who was anxious that Eudoxia should accustom
herself to live with others, adapt herself to their habits, and tolerate
their defects, sent her to share in their amusements and
conversation.
Neither was Eudoxia at all agreeable to Madame de Croissy,
whose principles of education had so little affinity with those of
Madame d'Aubonne, and whose grandchildren bore no resemblance to
her daughter. As Madame de Croissy was the sister of Madame
d'Aubonne's father, she had paid him a visit a short time before his death,
but unaccompanied by her grandchildren. On that occasion she had
seen Eudoxia, whose good qualities and happy dispositions were extolled
by every one in the neighbourhood in which the family resided. As
Madame de Croissy had never heard her grandchildren so praised, she
felt annoyed; and, besides, she considered that Madame d'Aubonne
conversed a great deal too much with her daughter, reasoned with her too
much, and altogether occupied herself too much about her, though this
was never at the expense of others. She therefore told every one, and was
herself firmly persuaded that Madame d'Aubonne "would never make anything of
this little prodigy but a little pedant."
Her annoyance had been
redoubled since she had been in the country, by the striking contrast which
the conduct of Eudoxia presented to that of her cousins; therefore, in her
quality of grand-aunt, she perpetually contradicted her, either directly or
by indirect allusions. Her looks were turned to her at every moment, as if
she were watching her, and ready to seize instantly upon the
slightest fault which might escape her. Nor did she ever call her
anything but _Mademoiselle_ Eudoxia. Eudoxia would, therefore, have
found but very little enjoyment in the country, had it not been for
the happiness she felt in conversing with her mother, who spoke to her
as a reasonable person, and who, even when reprimanding her,
concealed nothing of her affection, nor even, we may add, of her respect;
for with the exception of this want of toleration, which marred a
little her good qualities, Eudoxia merited all the respect that a child
of her years could merit.
One morning the four girls were at work in
the drawing-room. Eudoxia, at her mother's side, occupied herself diligently
with what she was engaged upon; the other three, collected in a corner,
talked, laughed in an under tone, dropped their work, forgot to pick it up,
and never did three stitches successively; and even when told to go
on, they did so for a moment only, and with every indication of
languor and _ennui_. Eudoxia, from time to time, looked at them, and
then at her mother, with an expression which sufficiently explained
her sentiments. Madame de Croissy caught one of these glances, and was led
to notice her granddaughters.
"Have the kindness to continue your work,
young ladies," she said to them, very harshly. "Do you not see how much you
shock Mademoiselle Eudoxia?"
Adele and Honorine pretended to go on
with their work, and Eudoxia, greatly confused, cast down her eyes, and did
not dare to raise them again during the time they remained in the
drawing-room. When they had retired to their own apartment, Madame d'Aubonne
observed,
"You were very much occupied with those young
ladies."
"Oh! mamma, they were so foolish."
"And do you derive
pleasure from foolish things or persons?"
"Quite the reverse, mamma, I
assure you."
"Think again, my child; it cannot be _quite the reverse_;
for they made you raise your eyes from your work more than twenty times,
and yet I know that your work interested you."
"Nevertheless, I assure
you, mamma, it was not pleasure that I felt."
"It was at least a great
interest; and did not this interest arise from the satisfaction you
experienced at seeing them more unreasonable than yourself?"
"Oh,
mamma!"
"Come, my dear Eudoxia, it is in the examination of our evil
emotions that courage is required, the good ones are easily discovered.
Ask your conscience what it thinks of the matter."
"Mamma," said
Eudoxia, somewhat confused, "I assure you that I did not at first think it
was that."
"I believe you, my child; it is a feeling which steals upon
us unperceived. Many persons experience it as well as you, and
imagine that the bad actions of others increase the merit of their own.
But tell me, my dear Eudoxia, would there not be still greater pleasure in
being superior to such persons, than in merely being superior to your
companions in industry and attention?"
Eudoxia assented to this, and
promised to attend to it. She was always happy when any duty was pointed out
to her, so great was the pleasure she felt in endeavouring to accomplish it.
Having gone down to fetch something from an apartment adjoining the
drawing-room, the door of which was open, she heard Madame de Croissy observe
to Madame de Rivry,--
"I have always said that Mademoiselle Eudoxia
would never be anything but a little pedant."
Madame de Rivry,
although she liked Eudoxia, agreed that she busied herself much more in
finding fault with her companions, than in making herself agreeable to
them.
"That would be compromising her dignity," replied Madame de
Croissy.
From that moment Eudoxia endeavoured to overcome her dislike
and timidity. She mingled more frequently in the amusements of
her companions, and at last took pleasure in them. But being now more at
her ease with her playfellows, she told them more freely what she thought,
and when she could not make them listen to reason, she would leave them with
emotions of impatience, which she was unable to control.
"But why do
you get impatient?" said her mother to her one day; "do they fail in their
duty towards you, by not being as reasonable as you are?"
"No, mamma,
but they fail in their duty to themselves, when they are so unreasonable, and
it is that which irritates me."
"Listen, Eudoxia," continued her mother,
"do you remember how irritable you used to be with your cousin Constance,
because she paid so little attention to what she did, and broke everything
that came in her way? One day you happened, by a carelessness of the
same kind, to upset the table on which my writing-desk was placed; and
I remember that from that time you have never been impatient with
her."
"Oh! no, mamma, I assure you."
"Did you consider the fault
of less importance because you happened to commit it yourself?"
"Quite
the reverse, mamma, but that showed me that it was more difficult to avoid it
than I had at first imagined."
"This is what experience teaches us every
day, my child, with regard to faults which we have not as yet committed.
Thus," she added, laughing, "I do not despair of seeing you indulgent towards
these young ladies, if one day you discover by the same means, that it is
difficult not to be an arguer, like Julia; a story-teller, like Adele; and a
lover of mischief, like Honorine."
"As to that mamma," replied Eudoxia,
warmly, "that is what I shall never learn."
"Are you quite sure, my
child?"--"Oh! quite sure."
"Are you then so differently constituted, as
to be able to persuade yourself, that what appears to them so easy, would be
impossible to you?"
"It must be so," said Eudoxia, really
piqued.
"How then, in that case," said her mother, smiling, "can you
expect them to do the same things as yourself? You do not expect Julia,
who is much smaller than you are, to reach as high as you do; you
only expect this from Honorine, who is as tall as yourself."
"But,
mamma," replied Eudoxia, after reflecting for a moment, "perhaps, then, as
they are less reasonable, they are not obliged to do as much as other
people."
"It would be very wrong for them to think so, my child, for
every one ought to do as much good as lies in his power; but every one
is likewise enjoined to inquire into his own duties, and not into those of
others; therefore attend only to your own. Do you consider it just and
reasonable to enjoy the pleasure of feeling that you are better than they
are, and at the same time to get impatient with them, because they are not as
good as yourself?"
"Mamma, are we then permitted to consider ourselves
better than other people?"
"Yes, my child; for to think ourselves
better than others is simply to feel that we possess more strength, more
reason, more means of doing good, and consequently to consider ourselves
bound to do more than them."
This conversation gave Eudoxia a feeling
of satisfaction which rendered her more indulgent, and more patient with her
companions; but in this indulgence there might perhaps be discovered a
slight degree of pride; it had something of the kindness of a superior
being always thinking of keeping herself sufficiently above others to
avoid being hurt by their not acting with as much propriety as
herself.
Eudoxia insensibly acquired the habit of considering her
companions as children, and almost of treating them as such. One day
when the four girls were working together, they compared their
various performances, and Honorine's, which was like Eudoxia's, happened
to be much worse done.
"That is a very difficult stitch," said she,
with the same air as if she were making an excuse for a child of six years
old.
It did not occur to her that the remark was equally applicable
to herself. The others burst out laughing.
"Be quiet," said Honorine,
"do you not see that Eudoxia has the kindness to protect me?"
Eudoxia
felt so much hurt that the tears started to her eyes. She was satisfied with
herself, and believed she had a right to be so, and yet she met with nothing
but injustice and mockery. She again began to withdraw herself from her
companions.
Her mother perceived this, and inquired the reason. Eudoxia
felt some difficulty in confessing it, though she considered herself in
the right. The ridicule that had been cast upon her had given rise to
a species of shame. At last, however, she stated the cause.
"You were,
then, very much hurt, were you not?" asked Madame d'Aubonne, "because
Honorine appeared to think that you affected to protect her? It seems that
you would have considered such a thing very ridiculous."
"Oh! mamma,
it is not necessary that a thing should be ridiculous for them to laugh at
it."
"But tell me, Eudoxia, if by chance they had ridiculed you
because you love me, because you listen to me, because you do all that
I desire, would that have given you pain?"
"No, indeed, mamma, I
should have laughed at them then, in my turn."
"And why did you not
pursue the same course when they laughed at the manner you assumed towards
Honorine? If you thought that this patronizing manner was the most suitable,
what did it matter to you that they should think otherwise? Are you not more
reasonable than they are, consequently better able to judge of what is
right?"
"Mamma," said Eudoxia, after a moment's silence, "I now think I
was wrong in manifesting towards Honorine a manner which displeased
her, but I only wished to show indulgence for the faults she had made
in her work."
"My dear child, we ought to be indulgent towards the
faults of every one, but we ought not to let this indulgence be manifest to
those whose conduct does not concern us, unless they wish us to do so;
for otherwise, as it is not our business to reprimand them, so neither
is it to pardon them. This is an office which we have no right to
assume without their permission."
"But what then is to be done, mamma,
when they commit faults?"
"Try not to see them, if possible, and instead
of pardoning, try to diminish them; endeavour to discover in Honorine's work
all that is good, so that what is bad may be forgotten; but to do this you
must not be very glad that your work has been found better than hers; your
whole pride should consist in being superior to these
trifling advantages."
Eudoxia profited by her mother's advice, and
became every day more gentle and sociable. Madame de Croissy had scarcely
anything to say against her, and her companions began to take pleasure in
her society. She was completely in their confidence, at least as much as
she desired to be; and when she saw the fears and vexations to which their
inconsiderate conduct often exposed them, when she saw them blush at the
least word that could have any reference to a fault which they had concealed,
and even found them manifest towards herself a species of deference which
they no longer refused to her good sense, when it was not exercised at their
expense, she felt daily more and more, how great is the pleasure of
self-respect.
"And yet," said her mother, "you are still very far from
knowing its full value; this you will not ascertain until you have paid
its price, until you have purchased it by painful sacrifices."
Eudoxia
could not conceive that any sacrifices could be difficult which conferred
such an advantage.
Madame de Rivry, who was extremely kind, and who took
great interest in the amusements of young people, proposed to visit a very
beautiful park, situated about four leagues from Romecourt; they were to
spend the day there, and return home in the evening.
Eudoxia and her
companions were delighted at the thought of this party; but on the evening
before it was to take place, when they were thinking of the arrangement of
the carriages, they found that Madame de Rivry's caleche would only hold four
persons, therefore as it was necessary that she herself should be one of the
four, the whole of the girls could not be with her; one of them must
necessarily go in Madame de Croissy's carriage, with that lady and Madame
d'Aubonne. This made a great difference in the pleasure of the
journey.
Madame de Rivry, obliged to do the honours of her house,
decided that it must be Julia who was to go in the carriage. Julia
exclaimed loudly against this, and declared she would much prefer not going
at all. She answered her mother in the disrespectful manner which
she always assumed when anything displeased her, and said that it was very
convenient for her mother, who was going in the caleche, to put her to be
wearied to death in the carriage.
Madame de Rivry endeavoured in vain to
induce her daughter to listen to reason; but as her indulgence did not extend
so far as to make her forget what she owed to others, she resisted all her
complaints.
Madame de Croissy offered to take one of her grandchildren
with her, but this offer was not made with any emphasis, as she was
desirous of seeing justice done, and would have been very sorry if, on
this occasion, Madame de Rivry had yielded to her daughter.
Madame d'Aubonne said nothing, for she saw that it would have been
quite useless.
Julia sulked, and even cried, the whole afternoon. She
was so much accustomed to have her own way, that the slightest contradiction
was a violent grief to her. During their walk she was constantly
wiping her eyes, while Madame de Rivry tried to console her, but to
no purpose. This distressed Eudoxia so much, that she whispered to
her mother, "If I dared, I would beg Madame de Rivry to give my place
to Julia."
"It would do no good," said her mother; "but if you like,
as you have a slight cold, I will say to-morrow that I should prefer your
not going in the caleche, I think that will be better."
"Oh no,
mamma," said Eudoxia quickly, "I assure you the caleche will not do my cold
any harm."
"I agree with you, my child, that the inconvenience is not
of sufficient importance to deprive you of this pleasure, neither should I
have proposed it to you, had I not thought that you wished to give up your place
to Julia." |
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