means, had been to sell a piece of lace, which she had just finished
for herself. Having succeeded in disposing of it, she continued this
kind of work. She could not devote to it as much time as she wished,
having to attend to the domestic arrangements, and to wait upon
Madame d'Alin, who was not accustomed to do anything for herself.
Occasionally also she had to read aloud to Madame d'Alin, who was
sometimes a little vexed that she could not do so more frequently.
Victorine often felt annoyed at being disturbed from her work, but
she did not display this feeling; for she knew that her godmother was
so kind, that had she perceived it, she would have deprived herself
of many pleasures and dispensed with many services, which habit had
rendered necessary to her.
Notwithstanding these interruptions, Victorine's labour was
sufficient to provide for their ordinary wants; but it was only
just sufficient. The least additional expense would have deranged
everything, and since they had been in Germany, their wardrobes
had not been renewed. Madame d'Alin suffered no inconvenience on
this account, because she went out so rarely that her dresses were
but little used, so that the clothes she had brought with her were
sufficient for a long time; but Victorine's stock, never very
considerable, was soon exhausted, and the poor girl, notwithstanding
her good sense, was not insensible to the annoyance of going out in
a dress the different parts of which did not well match the pattern,
and the sleeves of which only reached half way down her arm; for
she had grown. Madame d'Alin, who was kindness itself, and who was
extremely fond of Victorine, endeavoured to improve matters by giving
her some of her own dresses; but the dresses of Madame d'Alin, who
was small and thin, while Victorine was very tall and rather stout,
suited her still worse than those which had, at least, been made for
her; and although her godmother's bonnet and old mantle preserved her
from the cold and rain, they gave her so strange an appearance, that
she could not help being a little uncomfortable when she had to go
into the streets thus muffled up, and especially when she entered the
shop where she sold her lace. She longed for the time when she should
be able to buy a dress and bonnet in the fashion of the country, and
as everything was very cheap there, and Victorine had no desire to
dress expensively, she hoped to be able to accomplish her wish for a
sum of about a louis.
The possession of this louis, then, was the object of her ambition:
she thought of it night and day, and pictured to herself the
delight she should feel the first time she went out dressed like
other people: but she must first be able to spare a louis, and
to accomplish this was no easy matter; for Victorine, from the
situation in which she was placed, and the whole responsibility
of which devolved upon her, had acquired such habits of economy,
that she would never have run the risk of spending so considerable
a sum, without having in advance sufficient money and work for
several months. She had then put a louis aside, but determined not
to purchase her dress and bonnet until she had collected a certain
sum. At first she was very far from the point, then some weeks of
cheapness and the talent which she had acquired for economy enabled
her to increase her store. Sometimes it augmented so rapidly that
she hoped to see it soon complete; but all at once the price of
vegetables was raised, or the bushel of charcoal had gone more
quickly: then the treasure ceased to increase: Victorine no longer
knew when it would be complete, and the slightest accident which
happened to diminish it made her lose all hope. Then would she add
another patch to her dress, which, in the anticipation of a new one,
she had a little neglected, and for several days her heart would be
sad, and she would feel some difficulty in working with her usual
diligence and pleasure.
One day when she happened to be in a happier mood, she carried her
work to the dealer, who, in paying her, said, "See! here is some
of the money of your own country." And he showed her the louis.
Victorine, on beholding it, was greatly moved; it was so long since
she had seen a French coin. Oh! how she longed to possess it! But
it was in vain that she calculated; the sum owing to her in the
currency of the country did not amount to a louis. At last she begged
the shopkeeper to save it for her, promising in a short time to
bring sufficient work to make up the amount. In fact, the desire
of possessing this louis redoubled her energies. Shortly afterwards
she went to obtain it, brought it away with great delight, and as
everything was referred to her favourite idea, she determined to
purchase with it her dress and bonnet, as soon as she was able.
This was the louis d'or which she had put by, and which she kept so
carefully.
The increased quantity of work which she had for some time executed,
in order to obtain it the sooner, together with a few weeks
favourable to her economy, brought her near the accomplishment of
her wishes. At length the day arrived when the work she was to take
home would complete the necessary amount, provided the provisions
she had to purchase did not exceed a certain price. The provisions
happened to be cheap, and Victorine, overjoyed, stopped on her way
back at the shop of a linendraper with whom she was acquainted, and
selected a pattern, in order to increase the pleasure she would have
in buying it; and perhaps, also, that she might the sooner have the
gratification of telling some one that she was going to purchase a
dress. She had not yet communicated her intention to Madame d'Alin,
but she felt quite sure of her approbation. After having made her
choice, she returned home, almost running, to leave her provisions,
and to fetch her louis. On entering, she opened the door so hastily,
that Madame d'Alin, who did not expect her, started, and her
spectacles, which were lying on her knee, fell, and both the glasses
were broken. "Good heavens!" exclaimed Madame d'Alin, partly from
fright, and partly from the vexation she felt at having broken her
glasses. As for Victorine, she remained motionless. The pleasure
which she had promised herself was so great, that her vexation was
proportionally extreme. At length, taking the spectacles from the
hands of Madame d'Alin, with a movement of impatience, which she
could not control, she said, "Now, then, there are some glasses to be
bought!"
"No, my child," replied Madame d'Alin, mildly, "I will do without
them." Victorine felt that she had done wrong; and telling her
godmother, in a tone of greater gentleness, that she could not do
without glasses, she went out to replace them. However, in calling
on the linendraper to tell him that she should not buy the dress,
she had to turn away her head, that he might not see the tears which
started to her eyes.
She purchased the glasses, returned home, and was greatly astonished
at finding with Madame d'Alin a man, whom she did not at first
recognize, so little did she think it possible for him to be there.
It was the steward of the little estate on which Madame d'Alin
usually resided. He had come from France for the purpose of informing
his mistress that there was no longer the slightest danger in
returning; that she had not been put upon the list of emigrants; that
her tenant, who was an honest man, had punctually paid his rent; and
that he himself, having been unable to transmit to her the money,
had allowed it to accumulate, and had now come to seek her, in order
that she might return home. Madame d'Alin, while listening to him,
was agitated between hope and fear; and as for Victorine, she was so
troubled, that she knew not what she felt. Though she had longed to
revisit France, yet this had appeared to her a thing so impossible,
that she had never dwelt upon the idea; but from this moment it took
such possession of her mind, that she could think of nothing else,
and her entreaties and arguments, added to those of the steward,
as well as the representations of several of the friends of Madame
d'Alin, from whom he had brought letters, which her spectacles now
enabled her to read, made her resolve on returning. The day was
fixed for their departure; and Victorine, for whom her godmother
immediately bought a dress and bonnet, having no need of her louis
for this purpose, reserved it, in order to buy, when she got back to
France, something which might afford her very great pleasure.
On her return, she was for a long time unable to decide on the manner
in which she should employ it. Madame d'Alin, who regarded her as her
own child, supplied her abundantly with everything she required, and
as she was too much accustomed to economy to have any very strong
fancies, she always kept it for some better opportunity than had as
yet presented itself. Besides, when after some stay in Paris, they
returned to the little estate of Madame d'Alin, Victorine was placed
at the head of her household, and as she found many things which
required to be put in order, she was too much occupied to think about
spending her louis. At length, one of her relatives, a servant, in
a town a few leagues distant, having occasion to visit her, spoke
of the difficulty she felt in managing with her low wages, having
her mother to support, whose strength no longer permitted her to do
much. Victorine thought that the best use she could make of her
louis, was to give it to her friend; the latter promised to send it
as soon as possible to her mother, who was called _Old Mathurine_,
and who resided two leagues distant from her. As to Victorine, she
shortly after married the son of the honest steward, who had so well
preserved the fortune of his mistress. While Madame d'Alin lived,
they took care of her, as if they had been her own children, and at
her death, she left them a considerable part of her property.
You see, continued M. de Cideville, how much time and trouble are
sometimes required in order to obtain a louis d'or. The following
story will show you how many vexations might sometimes be avoided by
the possession of a sum much less considerable.
THE TEMPTATIONS.
Madame de Livonne, after having been in affluent circumstances, had
fallen into, a state of great poverty. Being left a widow, with her
daughter Euphemia, who was about twelve years of age, and having
only distant relations, who were far from wealthy, and to whom she
did not wish to be a burden, she took the reasonable and courageous
resolution of providing, by her own exertions, for herself and
daughter. She therefore established herself in a small town where
she was unknown, that she might be able to live as she pleased,
without being obliged to go into company, or receive visits. She
applied herself to plain work, with Euphemia, who was gentle and
reasonable, and who loved her mother, whom she had seen very unhappy,
so tenderly, that provided she saw her tranquil, nothing troubled
her. It was not because Euphemia did not, at first, experience much
difficulty in accustoming herself to certain privations which daily
increased, or to duties somewhat repugnant to her feelings; but
she found her mother so ready to neglect herself on her account,
and so anxious to spare her as much as possible everything that
was disagreeable, that she felt eager to anticipate her, and made
a pleasure of what would otherwise have been a pain. Thus, for
instance, she had no fancy for counting the linen, or washing the
dishes, but if she could manage to be the first to see the laundress,
she hastened to give her the clothes, delighted with the thought that
her mother would not have to do it; and after dinner she generally
contrived to surprise her, by washing and arranging the things before
Madame de Livonne rose from table, who, upon seeing what was done,
would embrace her child with the greatest tenderness.
With the happiness which these attentions caused, would sometimes
mingle a feeling of melancholy and uneasiness, relative to the
future prospects of Euphemia; but Madame de Livonne possessed so
much fortitude, that she was enabled to overcome her fears, and to
place her trust in Providence. Besides, there could not well be any
sadness where Euphemia was, for she laughed and sung over all she
did, and her mother, who was still young, and had a pleasing voice,
often joined in her songs. In the evening, when the weather was fine,
they walked into the country, and Euphemia, after having been shut
up all day, enjoyed with transport the beauty of the weather and
the freshness of the air; and, satisfied with having worked with
diligence, she thought with pleasure of the duties of the succeeding
day. To see and hear her, one would have imagined that she was the
happiest creature in the world; and in truth she was happy, for she
did nothing wrong, she had no fancies that tormented her, she was
never wearied, and always spent her time in useful occupations.
Madame de Livonne was so economical, and proportioned so well her
expenses to her means, that since they had been compelled to work
for their living, they had never been embarrassed. But she was taken
ill, even dangerously so. However, Euphemia's joy, when she beheld
her convalescent, was so great, that she could scarcely think of the
situation in which they were soon to be placed. Almost all their
money had been spent during the time that Madame de Livonne had
been unable to work, and when Euphemia, occupied in nursing her,
her heart always heavy, and her eyes full of tears, was scarcely
able to work either. It was not what the poor child had eaten during
this time that cost much, but medicines and nourishing food had been
required for her mother. Several persons of the town who esteemed
Madame de Livonne, on account of her fortitude and her virtues, had,
indeed, sent her various things, of which she stood in need, but this
assistance ceased as soon as she was better, and she herself even,
in order not to encroach upon their kindness, had assured them that
such things were no longer necessary for her. They therefore found
themselves in such a state of destitution, that as soon as Madame de
Livonne had, in some degree, regained her strength, she determined
to go to a town, about two leagues distant from where they lived, in
order to collect some money for work sent home before her illness.
They set out very early one morning, and when just on the point of
starting, the daughter of Mathurine called upon them. It was in this
town that she was in service, and her mother lived in the one to
which they were going. She was acquainted with them, as they worked
for her mistress, and being aware of their intended journey, she
begged them to carry to her mother the louis d'or that Victorine had
given her. They willingly took charge of it, and set off full of
spirits. Euphemia was so delighted to breathe the morning air, that,
although repeatedly reminded by her mother that they had four leagues
to walk during the day, she could not refrain from jumping about, and
running on before, and into the fields, on each side of the road; so
that when the heat increased, she became very thirsty, and the more
so as she had eaten, while skipping about, a large piece of bread.
Her mother exhorted her to bear the inconvenience with patience, as
there was no means of procuring anything to drink. Euphemia said no
more about it, as she did not wish to grieve her mother needlessly;
but presently she uttered a cry of joy.
"Oh, mamma, there is a man selling gooseberries; we can buy a pound
to refresh ourselves."
"My poor child," said her mother, "you know we have no money."
"I thought," replied Euphemia, timidly, "that they would not be very
dear."
"But I have no money at all, my dear Euphemia; none whatever."
"I thought, mamma, that this man might change for us old Mathurine's
louis d'or, and when we arrived, we could give her her money,
together with what we had borrowed from it."
"But we have neither the permission of Mathurine, nor of her
daughter, to borrow from this money; it was not given us for that
purpose."
"Oh! I am quite sure," continued Euphemia, in a sorrowful tone, "that
if they knew how thirsty I am, they would gladly lend us sufficient
to buy a pound of gooseberries."
"My poor child," replied her mother, still more sorrowfully, "we can
be sure only of our own will, and dispose only of that which belongs
to us. As this money does not belong to us, is it not the same as if
we had not got it at all?"
As she spoke, she put her arms round her daughter's neck, and
embraced her tenderly, regarding her with a look of distress, as if
to entreat her not to persist in a request which she could not grant.
Euphemia kissed her mother's hand, and turned away her head, that she
might not see the basket of gooseberries which was passing by them at
the moment; and hearing her mother sigh heavily, she determined not
to give her any more uneasiness.
"Are you still very thirsty?" said Madame de Livonne to her, some
time afterwards.
"Yes, mamma;" and she added, "this is like the child of Hagar in the
desert." But seeing that her comparison brought tears to her mother's
eyes, she continued gaily, "But I shall not die of it," and she began
to skip about, in order to show that she was not overcome by the heat
and thirst. Nevertheless, she was very much flushed, and her mother,
looking at her with great anxiety, saw that she was really suffering.
She stopped, and looked around her. "Listen, Euphemia," said she to
her daughter; "it is possible that behind this rising ground, which
overhangs the road, we may find a hollow, and perhaps some water. Get
up and see."
Euphemia ascended, and at first saw nothing but a vast plain covered
with corn, without a tree, without the least verdure indicative of
water. For the moment, she felt ready to cry; she stood on tiptoe,
and notwithstanding the heat of the sun, which was shining full upon
her head, she could not make up her mind to come down and resign
the hope of quenching her thirst. At length she heard a dog bark
not far from the spot where she stood. After hearing it several
times, she remarked that the sound always proceeded from the same
place, and that it was, moreover, the voice of a large dog, and not
that of a shepherd's dog. She judged that the animal must be at the
door of some dwelling, and running in the direction of the sound,
she discovered, to her extreme joy, a house which had been hidden
by the elevation on which she stood. She announced the news to her
mother, who telling her to go on, followed after her. Before Madame
de Livonne arrived, Euphemia had drunk off a large glass of water,
with a little wine in it, which a good-natured woman had given her,
although Euphemia at first refused the wine, as she had no money to
pay for it. She also asked for a glass for her mother, and ran to
meet her; and Madame de Livonne, delighted at seeing the poor child
refreshed and comforted, forgot half her own fatigues.
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
Curé 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 Curé, 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.