Moral Tales 8

Moral Tales 8

"It is not just now, and it is only for a few days," replied Edward. "Would you not have taken advantage of a similar offer if it had presented itself to you?" "Oh! as to that, no such offer would have been made to me." "And is it then on this account that you are sorry I should profit by it?" said Edward, with still more gentleness than before. Eugenia began to cry: she felt the injustice of that egotism, which could not endure that those she loved should enjoy any pleasure which she did not share; but it was in her heart, and she did not know how to conquer it. Edward kissed her, comforted her, and passed the whole evening with her, talking to her of their affairs, of his projects, and of a thousand other rational subjects. Eugenia, quite delighted, thought, when she went to bed, that no one could have a more amiable brother than herself. The following days passed off very well. He had proposed to her to employ a part of their mornings in reading English together, and this they had done; but as he was very anxious to gain information, he had been advised to attend some of the public lectures, and to visit the manufactories. The mornings being thus taken up, he proposed to defer the English until the evening; but Eugenia, who was displeased that the lesson did not take precedence of everything else, replied that she did not like studying at night. Edward said no more about the matter. By degrees he ceased altogether to speak about his affairs. He would have had the greatest pleasure in giving her an account of his proceedings, but Eugenia was always annoyed at those occupations which took him away from home, and listened to his accounts of them in so cold and listless a manner, and sometimes even she was so much displeased, that, fancying she took no interest in his pleasures, he soon became silent, and did not again recur to them. Certain of not being able to speak a word without giving her pain, he became uncomfortable and constrained in her society. In the evening, after having spent some time behind the piquet-table of his cousin, in studying his words, he either retired to his room, or went out. As for Eugenia, she could never go out, for her cousin was subject to rheumatism, and would not have dared to expose herself to the air; and, besides, would not have put herself out of the way on Eugenia's account. Tears often started into Edward's eyes, when he looked upon his sister, and thought of the melancholy life she led; but if he wished to speak a kind word to her, she repulsed him with so much asperity, that he renounced the hope of ever being able to render her happy. As he was extremely sensible for his age, his father's friends had introduced him into several families, where he had been well received, and was sometimes invited to spend the evening with them. The idea that he could amuse himself while she was wearied to death, threw Eugenia into despair. The house that he mostly frequented, was that of Fanny's aunt, with whom Fanny had resided since she left school, as her mother had been long dead. Eugenia was indignant that Fanny had not sought to renew their acquaintance, though Edward had assured her that she had the greatest wish to do so, but was not permitted by her aunt, on account of their old cousin, whom she did not like. Eugenia persuaded herself, however, that Fanny had not done as much as she could have done. She was angry with the aunt, with the niece, and with Edward, who took pleasure in their society, and who no longer dared to speak to her of Fanny's amiability and kindness, as on two or three occasions he had attempted to do. Eugenia sometimes saw Mademoiselle Benoit. This lady was the governess who had so vainly endeavoured to make her more reasonable. Her griefs were the only topic of their conversation, and Edward was the text. "Oh! my poor Eugenia," said Mademoiselle Benoit, with an air of compassion, "why do you not love him more? You would then take an interest in his pleasures." "No," replied Eugenia warmly; "it is because I love him, that I cannot endure that he should abandon me, to go and amuse himself and forget me." Her disposition became daily more and more morose: a profound melancholy seemed to take possession of her mind; she no longer took pleasure in anything, and even her health began to give way. Edward perceived all this with the deepest grief, but without knowing how to remedy it. On the other hand, a situation which he had hoped to obtain had been given to another; an office in which he had been promised an engagement was never established; the money he had brought with him from Germany was all gone, and he saw nothing before him but unhappiness for both. Their mutual friendship would have alleviated it, but Eugenia's disposition marred everything. One morning, when she was in the hall, she heard Edward, in the passage, talking to the cook. "Catherine," said he, in a low voice, "could you not occasionally look to my linen? Nothing has been done to it since I have been here, and soon I shall not have a shirt that is not torn." "Indeed," cried Catherine, in a very loud voice, probably that Eugenia might hear her, "I have so much time to amuse myself in that way! Give them to Mademoiselle Eugenia; she might very well undertake to keep them in order, but she thinks of nothing but playing the fine lady." "Catherine," replied Edward, in a very firm though low voice, "Eugenia gives you no trouble, she asks no favours of you; and consequently, what she does, or what she leaves undone, does not concern you in any manner." Eugenia, who had approached the door, did not lose a word of this reply: her heart beat with a joy such as she had not experienced for a long time. She would gladly have gone and embraced her brother, but she did not dare to do so; some undefinable feeling restrained her. However, she opened the door, when a servant came from Fanny's aunt, to invite Edward to pass the evening with them. He said that he would go. The heart of Eugenia was again oppressed: she closed the door. "That does not prevent him from going out to enjoy himself," she said. And she threw herself into a chair weeping, and thinking herself more unhappy than ever. The bare idea of what the cook had said, threw her into a violent passion, without, however, leading her to regret her negligence, so much did the thought of her own wrongs prevent her from thinking of those which she inflicted upon others. At dinner she was more than usually sad, and Edward appeared sad too. A short time after they had left the table, he said that he was going to his own room to study; "And then to spend the evening out?" said Eugenia, with that tone of bitterness which had become habitual to her. "No," said Edward, "I shall not go." "And by what wonderful chance?" Edward told her, that when he was going to dress, he had found his coat so much torn, that he was obliged to resolve on remaining at home. "That," said Eugenia, "is what happens to me every day." "Well, Eugenia," he replied, "if that can console you, it will henceforward also happen to me every day." With these words, he went out of the room. Eugenia saw that she had grieved him, and, for the first time in her life, she thought she might be in the wrong. It was, also, the first time she had seen Edward sad and unhappy, and this circumstance so occupied her mind, that she was prevented from thinking so much of herself. Nevertheless, she was not very sorry that he was obliged to remain in the house. When she returned to her room, she heard Catherine, who was very cross with him, crying out, that Madame did not understand having so many candles burnt, that there were none in the house, and that she would not give him any. Until that time, both Edward and Eugenia had bought candles for themselves, in order to avoid Catherine's ill temper; but now Edward had no money left. Whilst Catherine went away grumbling, Edward remained leaning against the wall, with his arms folded, and his head bent down. He was pale from the effort he had made to prevent himself from answering Catherine. Although it was beginning to get dark, Eugenia was so struck with the pallid and melancholy expression of his usually animated countenance, that at that moment she would have given the world to prevent his wanting anything. She timidly proposed to him to come and sit in her room, as she had still some candle left. He took his book, and commenced reading. Eugenia was careful not to interrupt him; it seemed as if she were afraid, that by hearing him speak, she should discover the extent of his melancholy; and, besides, what she most wished at this time, was to have Edward to do as he pleased. Two notes of invitation were brought to him, one to a concert, which was to take place the following day, and to which he had a great wish to go, the other to a ball, where he was to have danced with Fanny. He threw them into the fire. "All that is past;" he said, "I must think no more of it." Oh, how these words pierced the heart of Eugenia! How she reproached herself for what she had said, and for the joy she had at first experienced. Edward went to bed early. As for herself, she could not sleep all night; she thought how wrong she had been in neglecting Edward's wardrobe, and she remembered that he had never even reproached her. She determined not to lose a moment in putting it in order. If she could also mend his coat! If he could go to the concert! She waited with great impatience until it was daylight, and until Edward had gone out in his morning wrapper. She then ran and took his coat, sought among her wools for one to match it, found one, and full of zeal, began her work; but the hole was so large, that she tried in vain to cover it. A dozen times she unpicked what she had done, and did it over again; but this kind of work upon a worn-out material only increased the evil. Greatly excited, all flushed and heated, the more she tried to get on, the less she advanced. At length, when she had almost lost all hope of success, she heard Edward return. She began to cry, and when he entered, he saw her with the coat upon her knees, and her eyes filled with tears. "Here," said she, "I had hoped you might have been able to go to the concert, and I have only made the hole larger." Edward embraced her tenderly; he was delighted to find her attentive, and occupied about him; he called her his dear, his good Eugenia, but all these marks of affection only increased her tears. She could not reconcile herself to the thought of Edward's passing the whole winter without going out. "I shall be like you then, my dear Eugenia," said Edward. "Oh, don't think about me." This was the first time she had made use of such an expression. It was the first time such a sentiment had entered her heart; but she had at length discovered that the griefs of those we love are much more distressing than our own. As soon as Edward had left her room, she ran to her drawers, gathered together her few trinkets, and a louis that still remained of the money that Edward had given her, and wrote to Mademoiselle Benoit, telling her that she wanted most urgently to see her. Mademoiselle Benoit came that very evening. Eugenia told her everything, and said that with her trinkets and this money she must buy a coat for Edward; but the trinkets were of too little value to answer the purpose. Eugenia was in despair. Mademoiselle Benoit proposed a plan to her. "I have taught you to make flowers," she said; "buy some materials, and I will lend you some instruments, and also assist you. The winter is coming on, ornaments will be required, we shall sell cheap, and shall have as many customers as we desire." Eugenia embraced Mademoiselle Benoit in a transport of joy. All the vivacity she had formerly employed in making Agatha and her companions angry, now returned, and she determined to commence on the following day. She sometimes worked while Edward was present, but the greater part of her work was executed in his absence. She would not lose an instant. All her cheerfulness and bloom returned, and Edward was astonished at the change. He thought it arose from her being no longer jealous at seeing him go out without her; and notwithstanding his kindness, he would sometimes have been tempted to be a little vexed, if the uneasiness she manifested when she saw him sad, and the industry with which she occupied herself, when not busy with her flowers, in putting his linen in order, had not led him to forgive what he regarded as a weakness. At length, after two months' work, the necessary sum was completed. The coat was ordered, made, brought home, and placed upon Edward's bed. Eugenia had learned from Mademoiselle Benoit, that Fanny's aunt was to give a ball, and she got Edward invited. He came home; she saw him pass, and trembled for joy. He beheld the coat, and could not conceive where it came from. Eugenia had no wish to conceal herself. "It is I!" she exclaimed. "It is from my work--from my flowers; and here is a note inviting you to a ball at Fanny's this evening." "What!" said Edward, "are you occupying yourself about my pleasures, while leading so dreary a life?" "Oh! do not make yourself uneasy; I have discovered a plan of amusing myself; I shall work for you." Edward was deeply moved; he could not express to his sister all the tenderness he felt for her, nor the esteem with which her conduct inspired him. She would let him have no peace, however, until he was dressed; until he had cast aside his old soiled coat, for the beautiful new one. She was never tired of looking at him, so much did she think him improved. She arranged his cravat and his hair. She was anxious that everything should be in order, and she hurried him to the ball, where she imagined that every one must be delighted to see him, and she felt inexpressible joy at beholding him depart. Mademoiselle Benoit, who came that evening to see her, found her as much animated as if she had been at the ball herself. "Do you think you love your brother as much now," she said, smiling, "as when you were annoyed at his leaving you?" "Oh! a great deal more." "And have you had to complain of him during these two months?" "I have never even thought of such a thing." "I think, indeed, my dear child," said Mademoiselle Benoit, "that an excellent plan to avoid complaining of people is to endeavour to render them pleased with us." Edward returned home early. Eugenia scolded him for doing so; but he came because he had good news to tell her. Although, from a feeling of proper pride, he did not like to speak of his happiness, he, nevertheless, was not proud with Fanny, who was so kind and sensible; besides, he wanted to tell her what Eugenia had done for him. Whilst he was relating the affair, one of Fanny's relations, who was behind them, heard a part of what was said, and wished to learn the remainder. As he was Fanny's guardian, and a person in whom she had great confidence, she related the circumstance to him, and spoke, moreover, of Edward's position. This guardian was an excellent man; he conversed with Edward, and found that he possessed both intelligence and good feelings: he was a banker, and he told him that he would take him into his counting-house and give him a salary: and, indeed, Edward entered on his new duties the following day. His first month's salary was partly employed in purchasing a dress for Eugenia. She was sorry for it, though not excessively so, for the dress was so pretty, and it was so long since she had a new one. But the following month he bought her a bonnet to match the dress. This time, she scolded him seriously. "Very well," said he, "take my money, and let us spend it in common." Eugenia became his manager; she bought nothing for herself, but she was delighted when she could put in order or mend any of Edward's clothes. She purchased, bargained, and economised for him, and was so careful of his money, that she would not always let him have some when he asked for it, so that he sometimes tried to steal a part of it from her, in order to make her presents. Edward related to her every evening, what he had seen and what he had done. If sometimes she felt disposed to be a little vexed because he returned home rather later than usual, she took one of his shirts to mend, and thought no more of her ill humour. Mademoiselle Benoit, finding her once thus occupied, said to her, "You must allow, that when we make our happiness consist in the attentions which others bestow upon us, we may often be disappointed, because they are not always disposed to grant these attentions; whereas, when we make it consist in what we do for them, we have it always at our own command." The banker's wife, who was as kind as her husband, had just returned from a journey; Edward soon spoke to her of Eugenia. She wished to see her: called on her, took her to her house, where Eugenia even passed some days with her, while their cousin, delighted at having saved her favourite canary from a violent attack of the cramp, troubled herself as little at seeing her go out as she had done at seeing her stay within, wasting away with _ennui_. The banker's wife also introduced her to Fanny's aunt, and the two girls were soon united in the most tender friendship. The affairs of Edward and Eugenia were arranged, they succeeded to a small inheritance, and are now in easy circumstances. A marriage is spoken of between Edward and Fanny, and it is also possible that Eugenia may marry the banker's son. She is very happy, since affection has conquered the defects of her character. She still finds them starting up occasionally, but when she feels disposed to be irritable, jealous, or exacting, she always succeeds, by dint of reasoning, in convincing herself that her ill humour is unjust; and if it be directed against any one she loves, she says, "_I suppose I do not yet love them sufficiently._" MARIE; OR THE FEAST OF CORPUS CHRISTI. At the commencement of the revolution, Madame d'Aubecourt had followed her husband into a foreign country. In 1796, she returned to France, with her two children, Alphonse and Lucie, for, as her name did not stand on the list of emigrants, she was able to appear there without danger, and to exert herself to obtain permission for her husband's return. She remained two years in Paris with this intent; but at length, having failed in her efforts, and being assured by her friends that the time was not propitious for her purpose, she determined to quit the capital and proceed to the seat of her father-in-law, old M. d'Aubecourt, with whom her husband wished her to reside, until he was able to rejoin her: besides, having no resources but the money sent her by her father-in-law, she was glad to diminish his expenses by residing with him. Every letter which she received from him, was filled with complaints of the hardness of the times, and with reflections on her obstinacy, in persevering in such useless efforts; and to all this he never failed to add, that as for himself, it would be altogether impossible for him to live in Paris, since it was difficult enough for him to manage in the country, where he could eat his own cabbages and potatoes. These complaints were not suggested by poverty, for M. d'Aubecourt was tolerably rich, but like the majority of old people, he was disposed to torment himself on the score of expense, and his daughter-in-law perceived that however economically she might live in Paris, her only means of tranquillizing him, was to go and live under his own eyes. She therefore set out with her children, in the month of January, 1799, for Guicheville, the estate of M. d'Aubecourt. Alphonse was then fourteen years of age, and Lucie nearly twelve: shut up for two years in Paris, where her mother, overwhelmed with business, had but little time to devote to them, they were delighted to go into the country, and were but little troubled about what she told them, respecting the great care they would have to take not to teaze and irritate their grandpapa, whom age and the gout had rendered habitually discontented and melancholy. They mounted the diligence full of joy; but as the cold gained upon them, their ideas sobered down. A night passed in the carriage served to depress them completely; and when, on the following evening, they reached the place where they were to leave the diligence, they felt their hearts as sad as if some terrible misfortune had just befallen them. Guicheville was still a league distant, and this they must travel on foot, across a country covered with snow, as M. d'Aubecourt had only sent a peasant to meet them with an ass to carry their luggage. When the man proposed starting, Lucie looked at her mother with a frightened air, as if to ask her if that were possible. Madame d'Aubecourt observed that as their conductor had managed to come from Guicheville to the place where they were, there was nothing to prevent them from going from that place to Guicheville. As to Alphonse, the moment he regained the freedom of his limbs, he recovered all his gaiety. He walked on before them, to clear their way as he said, and to sound the ruts, which he called precipices. He talked to the ass, and endeavoured to make him bray, and in fact made such a noise, with his cries of, "_Take care of yourselves, take care of the bogs!_" that he might have been mistaken for a whole caravan; he even succeeded so well in cheering Lucie, that, on arriving at their destination, she had forgotten the cold, the night, and the snow. Their merry laugh as they crossed the court-yard of the chateau, called forth two or three old servants, who, from time immemorial, had not heard a laugh at Guicheville, and the great dog barked loudly at it, as at a sound quite unknown to him. They waited in the hall for some time, when presently M. d'Aubecourt appeared at the dining-room door, exclaiming, "What a racket!" These words restored quiet; and seeing all three of them wet and muddy, from head to foot, he said to Madame d'Aubecourt, "If you had only come six months ago, as I continually pressed you to do ... but there was no getting you to listen to reason." Madame d'Aubecourt gently excused herself, and her father-in-law ushered them into a large room with yellow wainscoting and red furniture, where, by the side of a small fire, and a single candle, her children had time to resume all their sadness. They presently heard Miss Raymond, the housekeeper, scolding the peasant, who had conducted them, because, he had put their packages upon a chair instead of upon the table. "See," she said, in a tone of ill temper, "they have already begun to put my house into disorder." The instant after, Alphonse, rendered thirsty by the exercise he had given his legs, went out to get a glass of water, and perhaps also to obtain a moment's recreation by leaving the room; he had the misfortune to drink out of his grandfather's glass, and Mademoiselle Raymond, perceiving it, ran to him, as if the house had been on fire. "No one is allowed to drink out of M. d'Aubecourt's glass," she exclaimed: Alphonse excused himself by saying that he did not know it was M. d'Aubecourt's glass. Mademoiselle Raymond wished to prove to him that he ought to have known it; Alphonse replied; Mademoiselle Raymond became more and more vexed, and Alphonse getting angry in his turn, answered her in no very polite terms, and then returned to the dining-room, slamming the door after him with considerable violence. Mademoiselle Raymond immediately followed him, and shutting the door with marked precaution, said to M. d'Aubecourt, in a voice still trembling with passion, "As you dislike any noise with the door, you will have the kindness to mention it yourself to your grandson; for, as to me, he will not allow me to speak to him." "What do you say, Mademoiselle?" replied M. d'Aubecourt, "is this the style in which children are brought up in the present day? must we bow to them?" Fortunately Madame d'Aubecourt was by the side of her son; she pressed his arm to prevent him from answering his grandfather, but he stamped his feet impatiently, and did not speak a word until supper-time. At table they ate but little, and spoke still less, and immediately after Madame d'Aubecourt asked permission to retire. When they were in the room which she and her daughter were to occupy, Lucie, who had until then restrained herself, began to cry, and Alphonse, walking about the room, in great agitation, exclaimed, "This is a pretty beginning!" then he continued, "Mademoiselle Raymond had better take care how she speaks to me again in that style." "Alphonse," said his mother with some little severity, "remember that you are in your grandfather's house." "Yes, but not in Mademoiselle Raymond's." "You are where it is your grandfather's will that she should be treated with respect." "Certainly, when she does not clamour in my ears." "I believe, indeed, that you would not be guilty of any want of respect towards her, did she treat you as she ought to do." "And if she does not, I owe her nothing." "You owe her all that you owe to the wishes of your grandfather, to whom you would be greatly wanting in respect, were you capable of misconducting yourself towards a person who possesses his confidence. There are persons, Alphonse, whose very caprices we are bound to respect, for we ought to spare them even their unjust displeasure." Then she added, with more tenderness, "My dear children, you do not yet understand what caprice and injustice are; you have never been accustomed to them, either from your father or me; but you will do wrong to imagine that you will be able to pass your lives, as you have hitherto done, without having your rights infringed, or your actions restrained, when they are proper in themselves. You must now begin to learn,--you, Alphonse, to repress your hastiness, which may lead you into many serious faults, and you, Lucie, to overcome your weakness, which may render you unhappy." Then she added, smiling, "We will serve together our apprenticeship in patience and courage." Her children embraced her affectionately; they had unbounded confidence in her, and besides, there was so much sweetness in her disposition, that it was impossible to resist her. Lucie was quite consoled by her mother's words, and Alphonse went to bed, assuring her, however, that he was so much excited, that he should not be able to sleep the whole night. Nevertheless, he no sooner laid his head upon his pillow, than he fell into a sound sleep, which lasted until the following morning. When he awoke, he was astonished to hear the warbling of the birds, for he had persuaded himself, since the previous evening, that they would not dare to sing at Guicheville. As for them, however, deceived by the warm sun and mild atmosphere, which melted the snow, they seemed to fancy that the spring was commencing. This idea rendered them quite joyous, and Alphonse began to be joyous also. He ran about the park in the _sabots_ which his mother had bought for him on the previous evening: then he returned for his sister, whom, somewhat against her inclination, he dragged through the mud of the park, from which she did not so easily extricate herself as he did. At first she found her sabots very heavy, and very inconvenient: one of them she nearly left in a hole, and two or three times she almost gave up in despair. Alphonse sometimes assisted her; sometimes laughed at her, promising to harden her to it. He returned home, pleased with everything, and disposed to put up with a good deal from Mademoiselle Raymond, whom he found to be better tempered than on the previous evening. Madame d'Aubecourt had not brought a maid with her. Mademoiselle Raymond, therefore, proposed that she should take into her service a young girl named Gothon, who was her goddaughter, and Madame d'Aubecourt accepted this proposal with her usual grace and sweetness, saying that, recommended by Mademoiselle Raymond, she was sure she would suit her. Mademoiselle Raymond, enchanted, drew herself up, bewildered herself in complimentary phrases, and ended by saying that Mademoiselle Lucie had her mother's sweet look, and that M. Alphonse, though a little hasty, was very amiable. M. d'Aubecourt's temper experienced the good effects of this return to a friendly understanding. When Mademoiselle Raymond was out of humour, every one in the house was so likewise, for every one was scolded. She was naturally kind-hearted, but easily offended. Subject to prejudices, and being accustomed to have her own way, she feared everything that might interfere with her authority. But when she saw that Madame d'Aubecourt interfered with nothing in the house, she laid aside all the bitterness which had at first been produced by her arrival. M. d'Aubecourt, who had hesitated between the desire of spending less money, and the dread of the confusion which might result from the establishment of his daughter-in-law at the chateau, was comforted when he learned that Madame d'Aubecourt had refused to pay any visits in the neighbourhood, alleging that her present situation, and that of her husband, did not permit of her seeing any one. Besides, she was careful to conform to all his habits, so that everything went on smoothly, provided that Alphonse and Lucie scarcely spoke at dinner, because M. d'Aubecourt, accustomed to take his meals alone, asserted that noise interfered with his digestion; provided they were careful never to exceed a smile, for a burst of laughter would make M. d'Aubecourt start as violently as a pistol-shot; and provided they never entered his private garden, which he cultivated himself, and where every day he counted the buds and the branches. He could not without trembling see Alphonse, who was always impulsive and ever bustling from side to side, go into it, or even Lucie, whose shawl might accidentally catch and break some of the branches as she passed by. Madame d'Aubecourt had been about six weeks at Guicheville, when she received a letter from her husband, informing her that one of their relations, little Adelaide d'Orly, was living at a village two leagues off. Adelaide was at that time about the age of Lucie; she had lost her mother at her birth, and had been placed at nurse with a peasant, on the estate of M. d'Orly. As she was extremely delicate, and had been benefited by the country air, she was left there a long time. The revolution having broken out, her father left France, and not being able to carry with him a child who was only three years old, he thought it best to leave her, for the present, with her nurse, hoping to be able to return soon, and take her away. Things turned out otherwise, however: M. d'Orly died soon after his arrival in a foreign land; his property was sold, and Adelaide's nurse having lost her husband, married again, and left the province, taking Adelaide with her, as she was now her sole protector. For a long time it was not known where she had gone to, but at last it was ascertained, and M. d'Aubecourt, who had received information of it from another relative, begged his wife to see her. M. d'Orly was the nephew of old M. d'Aubecourt, and had been an intimate friend of his son's, whom at his death, he had entreated to take care of his daughter. M. d'Aubecourt had several times mentioned the matter in his letters to his father, but the latter had remained silent on the subject, from which the son had concluded that he was ignorant of the fate of the child. Such, however, was not the case, for the nurse having discovered, the year before, that he was Adelaide's grand-uncle, had come to see him. M. d'Aubecourt, who feared everything that might put him out of his way, or lead to expense, had tried to persuade himself that she had made a false statement, and that Adelaide was really dead, as had been rumoured. Mademoiselle Raymond, who did not like children, confirmed him in this opinion, which possibly she believed to be well founded, for we are always tempted to believe what we desire to be true. The nurse having met with an indifferent reception, and, besides, not caring to have Adelaide, whom she loved as her own child, taken from her, did not insist further, and the child, therefore, remained with her. As soon as Madame d'Aubecourt had received this intelligence, she communicated it to her father-in-law, at the same time informing him of her intention of going to see Adelaide. M. d'Aubecourt appeared embarrassed, and Mademoiselle Raymond, who happened to be in the room, assured her that the roads were very bad, and that she would never be able to get there. Madame d'Aubecourt saw plainly that they were already in possession of the information which she had supposed herself the first to communicate, and she also perceived that her project was not very agreeable to M. d'Aubecourt; nevertheless, however great might be her desire to oblige him, she did not consider herself justified in renouncing her intention. Her extreme gentleness of disposition, did not prevent her from possessing great firmness in everything that she considered a duty. She set out then, one morning, with Lucie, who was enchanted at making acquaintance with her cousin, and with Alphonse, who was delighted at having to travel four leagues on foot. As they approached the village, they asked each other what kind of person their cousin was likely to be, brought up as she was among the peasantry. "Perhaps something like that," said Alphonse, pointing to a young girl, who, in company with two or three little boys, ran out to see them pass. There was a pool of water by the side of the road where they were walking, and the children, in order to see them closer, ran into it, splashing them all over. Alphonse wanted to throw stones at them, but his mother prevented him. "It would be a good joke," said he, "if it turned out to be my cousin, at whom I was going to throw stones." Lucie exclaimed against such an idea, and one of the little boys having called the girl _Marie_, she was comforted by thinking that it was not her cousin Adelaide d'Orly, whom she had seen dabbling about with a troop of little idle urchins. On reaching the cottage, in which Adelaide's nurse lived, they found her laid up with an illness resulting from debility, and from which she had suffered for six months. Madame d'Aubecourt having given her name, the poor woman recognised her, and said she was thankful to see her before she died, and that finding herself unable to go out, it had been her intention to ask the mayor to write to M. d'Aubecourt, "for," said she, "my child" (it was thus she always called Adelaide) "will have no one to look to when I am gone." She had lost her second husband; and had no children of her own, and she did not doubt that her brother-in-law would come and take possession of everything, and turn her child out of doors, who would not then have even bread to eat, for she had nothing to leave her; and the poor woman began to weep. She added, that she had been to see M. d'Aubecourt, who would not listen to her, and she went on to complain of the cruelty of Adelaide's relations, who thus left her a burden upon a poor woman like her. Madame d'Aubecourt interrupted her to inquire whether she had any documents. The nurse showed her an attestation from the mayor and twelve of the principal inhabitants of the parish which she had left, certifying that the child whom she took with her, was truly the daughter of M. d'Orly, and baptized under the name of _Marie Adelaide_, and also another from the mayor of the parish in which she was now residing, certifying that the girl living with her under the name of _Marie_, was the same that she brought with her into the parish, and whose age and description corresponded exactly with those of _Marie Adelaide d'Orly_. "Marie," exclaimed Lucie, when she heard this name. "Yes, indeed," said the nurse, "the Holy Virgin is her true patron; she has saved her in a dangerous illness: this is her only name in the village." Lucie and her brother looked at each other, and Alphonse began to laugh, amused at the idea of having been on the point of throwing stones at his cousin. At this moment Marie made her appearance, singing in a loud voice, and carrying a faggot, which she had gathered. She threw it down as she entered, and was somewhat astonished on seeing with her nurse the very ladies whom she had splashed, and the young gentleman who was going to throw stones at her. "Embrace your cousin, Marie," said the nurse, "if Mademoiselle will be so good as to allow you." Marie did not advance a step, nor Lucie either. "Oh! she also was made to wear fine clothes," continued the nurse, "but what more could a poor woman like me do?" Madame d'Aubecourt assured her that all the family were under great obligations to her, and Lucie, on a sign from her mother, went, blushing, and embraced her cousin. It was not pride that had at first withheld her, but the idea of having a peasant cousin had astonished her; and everything that astonished, also embarrassed her. Marie, equally surprised, had allowed herself to be kissed, without moving, or without returning the salutation. Madame d'Aubecourt took her by the hand, and drew her kindly towards her, remarking how much she resembled her father. The resemblance, in fact, was striking. Marie was very pretty; she had fine dark, brilliant, though at the same time very soft eyes; but the way in which she had been brought up, had given a certain brusquerie to her manners. She had beautiful teeth, and would have had a pretty smile, had it not been spoiled by awkwardness, shyness, and the habit of making grimaces. Her complexion, somewhat sun-burnt, was animated, and glowing with health; she was well formed, tall for her age, and had it not been for her awkward carriage, would have displayed nobility even under her coarse dress. It was impossible to make her raise her head, or answer a single word to Madame d'Aubecourt's questions. Her nurse was in despair: "That is the way with her," she said; "if she takes a thing into her head, you will never get it out of it;" and she began scolding Marie, who did not appear in the slightest degree moved by what she said. Madame d'Aubecourt made an excuse for her, on account of her embarrassment, and said that she had a gentle look. The nurse immediately began praising her with as much warmth as she had displayed in scolding her. Marie smiled, and looked at her with affection, but still without saying a word, or stirring from her place. Madame d'Aubecourt promised the nurse that she should soon hear from her again, and took away the documents relating to Marie, and which the nurse, with some hesitation, confided to her. She felt sure that she should be able to induce her father-in-law to receive Marie; he was her nearest relative in France, and it was quite impossible that he should not feel what duty required of him in regard to her; still she well knew how much annoyance this would cause him. The children could talk of nothing else during their return to Guicheville, and M. d'Aubecourt awaited, with some anxiety, the result of the visit. He had nothing to oppose to the proofs she brought with her; nevertheless he said that further information was necessary. Madame d'Aubecourt wrote to every one whom she thought likely to give her any. All agreed with the first. There was, therefore, no longer any doubt of Marie's being really Adelaide d'Orly. Then M. d'Aubecourt said, "I will think of it;" but the nurse, feeling herself worse, and not hearing from Madame d'Aubecourt, who had been prevented from going to see her, by a severe cold, had got the mayor to write to M. d'Aubecourt. It was also known, since Marie had been talked about at the chateau, how much people complained in the neighbourhood, of his neglect of his grandniece. Madame d'Aubecourt's visit to the nurse had spread the intelligence, that at last he was going to receive her. He heard this mentioned by the Registrar, by the Cure, and especially by Mademoiselle Raymond, who was much annoyed at it, and who, consequently, was perpetually talking of it. In order, therefore, to get rid of a subject which tormented him, he gave his consent in a moment of impatience, and Madame d'Aubecourt hastened to take advantage of it, for she felt extremely anxious about the situation of Marie, and grieved that so much time should not merely be lost to her education, but actually employed in giving her a bad one. Having sent to inform the nurse of the day on which she would fetch Marie, Madame d'Aubecourt and her children set off one morning, mounted upon donkeys. The one that was to carry Marie, being mounted by a peasant girl, whom Madame d'Aubecourt had engaged to attend the nurse during her illness, which she was grieved to see would not be of long duration. As she could not reward her for all that she had done for Marie, she wished at least to do all that was in her power for her. She had already sent her some medicines suited to her condition, and some provisions rather more delicate than those to which she was accustomed, and she had learned with great satisfaction, that this good woman was in comparatively easy circumstances. When they reached the cottage they found the door locked. They knocked, but remained for some time unanswered, and Madame d'Aubecourt began to feel excessively uneasy, for she feared the nurse might be dead, and in that case what had become of Marie? At length, the nurse herself, notwithstanding her debility, came and opened the door, telling them that she had been obliged to fasten it, as on the previous day, Marie, imagining that it was the one fixed for her departure, had fled from the house, and did not return until night, and she had been anxious to prevent the recurrence of the same thing on that day. Marie was standing in a corner, her eyes swoln and red with crying. She no longer wept, but stood perfectly motionless, and silent. Madame d'Aubecourt approached, and gently endeavoured to induce her to accompany them, promising that she should return to see her nurse. Lucie and Alphonse went to kiss her, but she still continued fixed and silent. Her nurse exhorted her, scolded her, and then began to grieve and weep at the idea of losing her. But all this did not extract a single syllable from Marie, only when she saw her nurse weep the tears rolled down her own cheeks. At length, Madame d'Aubecourt seeing that nothing was to be gained by these means, went over to her, and taking her by the arm, said in a firm tone, "Come, come, Marie, this will not do; have the kindness to come with me immediately." Astonished at this authoritative tone, to which she was not accustomed, Marie allowed herself to be led. Alphonse took her other arm, saying, "Come along, cousin." But when she came near her nurse, she threw her arms round her, weeping and sobbing as if her heart would break. The nurse wept as violently as the child, and Madame d'Aubecourt, though herself greatly affected, was nevertheless obliged to exercise her authority in order to separate them. At length Marie was mounted on her donkey, she went on in silence, only now and then allowing large tears to escape from her eyes. By degrees, however, she began to laugh at the caracoles which Alphonse endeavoured to make his animal perform. All at once Lucie's donkey began to bray, and was going to lie down. Marie jumped off hers before either of the others, and ran to Lucie's assistance, who was crying out and unable to retain her seat. She scolded and beat the animal, and at length reduced him to obedience; but perceiving that he was about to recommence, she insisted that Lucie should mount hers, which was more gentle, saying that she would soon manage the other. This little incident established a good understanding between the two cousins. Marie began to be cheerful, and to defy Alphonse in the race, and had quite forgotten her griefs and troubles, when, on arriving at Guicheville, the sight of Mademoiselle Raymond and M. d'Aubecourt, again rendered her silent and motionless. She was, however, soon roused by Mademoiselle Raymond's dog, who came forward barking with all his might. Like the generality of dogs brought up in the house, he had a great antipathy to ill-dressed people, and Marie's dress quite shocked him. He rushed upon her as if about to bite her, but Marie gave him so violent a kick, that it sent him howling into the middle of the room. Mademoiselle Raymond ran forward and took him up in her arms, with a movement of anger which sufficiently announced all she was going to say, and which she would have said without hesitation, had not the presence of Madame d'Aubecourt in some degree restrained her. Alphonse forestalled her by saying, that if her dog had been better brought up, he would not have drawn such treatment upon himself. Mademoiselle Raymond could no longer contain herself. Madame d'Aubecourt, by a sign, imposed silence upon her son, who was about to reply. This sign, though not addressed to Mademoiselle Raymond, nevertheless obliged her also to restrain her feelings, and she left the room, carrying with her her dog and her resentment.