Madame de Livonne had business, lived at its entrance, and she
felt a little uneasy at seeing the shutters of the house closed.
Nevertheless she made inquiries. A servant, the only one remaining
in the house, informed her that her mistress was gone to see her
sister, who was ill, and living at a distance of thirty leagues.
Euphemia looked at her mother with dismay; however, she thought it
very fortunate that they had not touched Mathurine's louis. They then
went to the other customer; but she no longer resided in the town. A
neighbour told them that she had only stayed there a short time, and
that no one knew where she was gone to. On receiving this reply,
Madame de Livonne sat down on a step. Her daughter saw her turn pale,
and lean for support, as if she was going to faint; and indeed it
was only her courage which had until then supported her against the
debility left by her malady, the fatigues of the journey, and the
vexation occasioned by her first disappointment. Now her strength
entirely gave way, and she fainted outright. Euphemia, trembling, and
in despair, embraced her as long as she was able, and called her,
and shook her, in order to make her revive. She was afraid to leave
her for the purpose of seeking assistance; brought up in habits of
self-restraint, she dared not cry out, and no one happened to be
passing by; every one was in the fields. At length, the neighbour who
had spoken to them again coming out, Euphemia called her, and pointed
to her mother. Two other old women also come up and gave their aid in
restoring her to consciousness. Madame de Livonne opened her eyes,
and turned them upon her daughter, who kneeling by her side, kissed
her hands, and exclaimed in a transport of joy, "Mamma, here I am;"
for at this moment she thought of nothing but the happiness of being
once more restored to each other.
However, she soon become very anxious about their return home; but
her mother told her not to torment herself, as she would soon recover
her strength; and yet at every moment she seemed on the point of
fainting again. Every time she closed her eyes, Euphemia turned pale
and was ready to burst into tears, but restrained herself, in order
not to grieve her mother, and clasping her hands, she murmured in
a suppressed voice, "My God! what shall we do? how are we to get
home?" One of the women told her that a coach would be passing in two
hours which would take them back, but Euphemia knew very well that
they had no money to pay for their places, and besides she thought
that it would be impossible for her mother, weak as she was, to
continue her journey without taking some refreshment. However, she
had not once thought of making use of Mathurine's money; but at last
it occurred to her that if she were to carry it to her, she might
perhaps lend them a part of it. Delighted with this idea, she forgot
her timidity, and hastily searching for the louis in her mother's
pocket, and begging one of the women to accompany her to Mathurine's
house, she looked at her mother for permission. Madame de Livonne by
a sign gave her consent, and Euphemia set off, walking so quickly
that the woman who accompanied her had some difficulty in following
her. Her heart beat violently as she reached the house; the door
was locked; Mathurine had gone four leagues off to assist in the
harvest, and was not to return until the following day. Euphemia
looked at the person who gave her this information without uttering
a word. She was unable to speak, for her heart was bursting, and her
ideas were confused to such a degree, on receiving an intelligence
which destroyed her last hope, that, happily for her, she no longer
felt all the misery of her situation. She returned slowly, looking
mechanically around her, as if seeking some one who might give her
aid; but all she saw seemed poorer than herself, though she felt that
at that moment there were none of them so wretched. Presently the
air resounded with the cracking of postilions' whips; a travelling
carriage drove up, and stopped at the inn: it occupied the whole of
the narrow street, and obliged Euphemia and her companion to stop.
A lady, her husband and daughter, and a lady's-maid, descended from
it, and were quickly surrounded by poor asking for alms. This sight
made Euphemia weep, without very well knowing why. She watched them,
and listened to the lady's soft voice; she looked at her husband,
whose countenance was good and amiable, and at the young girl, who
was nearly of her own age; she could not make up her mind to pass on.
At last she heard the husband, in a tone of kindness, say to the poor
who were begging, "My children, I can give you nothing here; but come
to Béville, ask for the château, and you shall have work."
A thought suddenly struck Euphemia: they might perchance give her
work too. She rushed into the yard, regardless of the horses that
were crossing it, and stood before the lady, who was just entering
the house; but once in her presence, she stopped, cast down her eyes,
and was afraid to speak. Madame de Béville, such was the lady's name,
seeing before her a young girl neatly dressed and in tears, asked her
kindly what she wanted. Euphemia hesitated, stammered, but at length
the thought that her mother was waiting for her, and perhaps uneasy,
forced her to make an effort, and with clasped hands, and downcast
eyes, for she dared not look at Madame de Béville, she said in a low
voice, "Let me have some work too."
"Some work, my child? certainly I will, but how--what sort of work?"
[Illustration: Madame de Béville, seeing before her a young
girl neatly dressed, and in tears, asked her kindly what she
wanted.--P. 92.]
Euphemia could not reply; the little girl then approached her, and
said in the most encouraging tone, "Come, speak to mamma."
Euphemia took courage, and addressing Madame de Béville in her
former manner, said, "But I want to be paid in advance, immediately;
and then," she added, raising her head, and in a tone of great
earnestness, "then, I will work for you as long and as much as you
please."
She stopped, trembling. Madame de Béville questioned her with great
kindness, and Euphemia related her troubles; but while speaking,
the louis d'or, which she held in her hand, fell to the ground. The
little girl picked it up, and returned it to her, blushing, grieved
at the thought that Euphemia had been trying to deceive them.
"My child," said Madame de Béville, in a reproachful tone, "why did
you tell me that you had no money?"
"It is not ours," replied Euphemia with simplicity, "it has been
intrusted to us for another, and therefore we cannot touch it."
The young girl, much moved, looked at Madame de Béville, who kissed
Euphemia, and asked to be conducted to the place where she had left
her mother. At this moment, Madame de Livonne entered the yard,
supported by M. de Béville, who had recognised her from having often
seen her in Paris, and who begged his wife to join him in persuading
her to pass a few days with them, in order to regain her strength.
Madame de Béville, deeply affected by Euphemia's narrative, pressed
the hand of Madame de Livonne, entreating her, in the kindest manner,
to accompany them. Madame de Livonne turned to Euphemia, who smiled
at her with a look of entreaty; the little girl had already taken
her by the arm to lead her away. Madame de Livonne could no longer
hesitate, and they entered the carriage of Madame de Béville, whose
horses had arrived to conduct them to the château, which was only
a few leagues distant. Euphemia could not contain her joy when she
saw her mother seated in that comfortable carriage, and surrounded
by persons who took care of her; and her pleasure was enhanced by
the thought of the delightful time they should pass at Béville. The
following day the louis was sent to Mathurine by a confidential
person.
Madame de Livonne only required rest, and was soon perfectly
restored. M. and Madame de Béville, greatly pleased with the
principles she had impressed upon the mind of her daughter, and
knowing besides that she was well educated, and very talented, told
her that, as they could not obtain in the country, where they lived
the greater part of the year, such masters as they wished for their
daughter, they would be delighted if she would remain with them, and
assist them in her education. Madame de Livonne, although for herself
she would have preferred her independence, nevertheless accepted
a proposition, which insured to Euphemia a happier existence, and
probably, also, a valuable protection.
As to Euphemia, she was delighted beyond measure at the thought
of having to live with Mademoiselle de Béville, with whom she had
already formed a most intimate friendship; and while rejoicing with
her mother at this good fortune, she remarked that it would not have
happened to them, if they had been so weak as to change Mathurine's
louis d'or.
"We have done our duty," she added, "and God has rewarded us."
"My child," said her mother, "our present situation is a blessing
bestowed on us by God, but not a reward."
"And why so, mamma?"
"Because this is not the kind of recompense he assigns to the
fulfilment of duty. Do you remember the lines I made you read to me
the other day from an English book?--
'What! then is the reward of virtue bread?'[A]
[A] Pope. "Essay on Man."
"It is not by giving to the virtuous the means of living, that God
rewards them, but by giving them the satisfaction of having done
their duty, and obeyed his will. This, sometimes, is their only
reward in the present world; sometimes, even, they are unhappy during
the whole of their lives: do you suppose from this that God is unjust
to them?"
"No, mamma."
"And do you not think that among these virtuous yet afflicted people,
there must have been many who have had much more difficult duties to
fulfil than ours, and who have fulfilled them without obtaining those
things which you look upon as a reward?"
"Oh, certainly, mamma."
"It is not, then, probable, that God has wished to reward us, in
preference to others, who have better merited a recompense."
"But, mamma, nevertheless, it is because we have done our duty, that
we are now so happy."
"Yes, my child; and things like this should often happen, for a
very simple reason. God, who has willed that the accomplishment of
our duties should be rewarded by peace of mind, has also permitted
that happiness should usually be the portion of those who take the
most pains to attain it. Now, it is certain, that he who feels no
hesitation in neglecting his duty, will not, in a case of emergency,
trouble himself with the search of any more difficult resource than
this."
"That is quite clear."
"Whereas, he who is anxious not to fail in his duty, will exert all
the energies of his mind, in order to discover some other means of
success; and as the Gospel says, '_Seek, and ye shall find_.' Thus
it may often happen, that the efforts we make to avoid a breach of
duty, enable us to discover many important resources, which would not
otherwise have occurred to us."
"Yes, mamma, just as with the pound of gooseberries. And if, also,
when I saw you so ill, I had considered myself justified in making
use of Mathurine's louis, I should not have thought of addressing
myself to Madame de Béville, which has been so much more advantageous
to us."
At this moment, the poor woman whom they had met upon the road
presented herself. Her child was quite restored, and she herself,
though still very thin, appeared happy. The Curé had at first
relieved her, and afterwards sent her to a manufactory, where she
obtained employment. Assured of a subsistence, she had come to
announce her happiness to those who had been the means of procuring
it, and to bring her child for Mademoiselle Euphemia to kiss, _now
that he had become handsome again_.
"Mamma! mamma," said Euphemia, overwhelming it with caresses, "it is
still because you would not change Mathurine's louis, that you sent
them to the Curé. Oh! how much good this louis has done us!"
* * * * *
Here M. de Cideville paused.
"Is that all?" asked Ernestine.
"Yes," replied her father, "I think that is the whole history of the
louis d'or; and that from old Mathurine it has come to me, without
any adventures."
"And now, papa," said Ernestine, "you forbade me to question you
until the end of the story; but is it not true, that you do not know
whether all the adventures you have related, have really happened to
the louis d'or you showed me?"
M. de Cideville smiled, and said, "It is true that I do not exactly
know whether these adventures have really happened; but you must
allow that they are possible." Ernestine assented.
"You must also allow, that if some of them are rather romantic,
some at least are probable, and may have occurred without any very
extraordinary combination of accidents." She again assented.
"Well, then, my child," replied M. de Cideville, "it is partly
for want of knowing the truth, and partly for want of sufficient
imagination to supply its place, that I have not related many other
histories, all more simple and more interesting than my own, in
which you might have seen a louis d'or, or even a much smaller sum,
prevent the greatest misfortunes. Picture to yourself a family
which had eaten nothing for three days: can you imagine the delight
with which they would receive a louis d'or, which would afford them
time to await, without dying, such other assistance as might save
them entirely? And again, the unhappy wretch whose reason has been
so far disturbed by excess of misery, that he is led to attempt his
own life, can you doubt that a louis d'or, by delaying the moment,
would often give him time to return to calmer feelings, and seek some
better resource than an act of crime? I give you only two examples,
but I repeat, that there are thousands remaining, of which it would
be impossible to think, without losing every wish to spend such a sum
in a frivolous manner."
"But, papa," said Ernestine, "is it then never allowable to spend a
louis on pleasure?"
"My child," said M. de Cideville, "if we impose upon ourselves
restrictions too severe, on one point, we run the risk of failing in
others. There are duties proportioned to every situation in life. It
is proper that those who enjoy a certain degree of affluence, should
occupy in the world a position suitable to their means, and also
that they should mix in society, which they cannot do without some
expense; for it is highly important that society should be kept up,
since it binds men together, and gives them opportunities of mutually
instructing each other. It is also good for the poor, because the
expenses of the rich give them the means of exerting their industry,
and maintaining their families. It is necessary, too, that those
employed in important labours, as I am every morning in my study,
should be able sometimes to repose the mind by occupations of a less
serious nature, as otherwise they would end by losing the means of
fulfilling the duties of their station. It is for reasons of this
kind that many expenses which do not appear directly useful, are
nevertheless proper and necessary. But a mind accustomed to judge
of the real value of things, will easily draw a distinction between
money spent in this manner, and that which is _thrown into the sea_,
as the saying is; and while such a person will never feel tempted
to indulge in expenses of the latter kind, he will permit himself
to enjoy the others without remorse. I know very well, my dear
Ernestine, that you may easily deceive yourself in regard to your
pleasures: at your age, every pleasure appears of great importance;
but I am anxious that you should at least understand the value of
what you bestow upon it; therefore, I promise to give you this louis
as soon as you have found a really useful means of employing it."
Ernestine, quite enchanted, promised to seek one; we shall see
whether she succeeded in her search.
CONCLUSION OF THE HISTORY OF A LOUIS D'OR.
For a whole week, Ernestine could think of nothing but her louis, and
the use she was to make of it, but she found none that suited her.
The stories which her father had related, made her reflect on what
might really be useful, and as her parents supplied her abundantly
with everything necessary, and even interested themselves in her
pleasures, whenever they were reasonable, she saw nothing that could
justify her in spending it on herself; besides, she had determined
to apply it to some benevolent purpose. But, at her age, she was
ignorant of the best means of doing good. She often met poor people,
and delighted in relieving them; but as her little monthly allowance
was almost sufficient for these acts of charity, she would have been
very sorry to have expended her louis upon them. Besides, she did
not know whether one of these poor people was in greater need than
another, nor could she tell how to ascertain this; she therefore
experienced great anxiety on this head; but the arrival of the season
of gaiety dissipated her cares. She went to five or six balls; she
had never danced so much in her life, and her head was so completely
turned with joy, that she forgot her louis; for, of course, she would
never have thought of spending it upon her toilette. At length the
time arrived for their departure into the country; and seeing her
father paying some money at the inn, she recollected her louis d'or,
and mentioned it to him. M. de Cideville told her that it was in the
country she would find the best means of employing it to advantage,
as it was there that the greatest amount of good might be done, with
the smallest amount of money.
They had only been a few days at Saulaye, the estate of M. de
Cideville, when Ernestine came running to her father, quite out
of breath, to tell him that she required her louis, for that one
of the villagers, named Marianne, whom he knew very well, as she
had assisted at his haymaking the previous year, had just had her
leg broken in the fields, by a kick from a horse. The surgeon of
the neighbouring town, who was also the medical attendant at the
château, happened fortunately to pass by while she lay upon the
ground, screaming dreadfully. He set the leg immediately, and had her
taken home. But this was not all; Marianne would require remedies,
and she was very poor; her husband was in the army, and she had
only a very small garden and her labour to depend upon, for the
maintenance of herself and a little girl, eight years of age. It was,
therefore, absolutely necessary to assist her.
M. de Cideville agreed to this. "But," said he to his daughter, "have
you well considered the manner of employing your louis, so as to
render it as beneficial to her as possible?"
"If I give it to her, papa, she will be able to buy what is necessary
with it."
"Do you think she will be able to buy much?"
"Oh! dear, no; but that is always the way."
"But if you could so employ it as to make it yield a considerable
profit to her? Do you remember the advantages which the family of M.
de la Fère derived from a louis d'or?"
"Yes, papa, but their history is not true," said Ernestine, quickly.
"It is quite sufficient that it is possible."
"Yes; but if it be necessary," said Ernestine, with a sorrowful
and embarrassed look, "to bring oneself, as they did, to bread and
water...."
"You are not reduced to this extremity: this is one of those
resolutions which we ought to have the courage to take, when
necessity demands them, but which would be ridiculous when
unnecessary?"
These words restored Ernestine's cheerfulness. "Whilst we are
talking," said she to her father, caressing him, "poor Marianne does
not know that we are coming to her aid."
Her father reassured her. M. de Cideville had been informed of the
accident before Ernestine came to tell him, and had given orders to
the housekeeper, who was a confidential person, to attend for the
moment Marianne's wants. "But henceforward," said M. de Cideville,
"it is to you we look for her being taken care of, and for seeing
that she wants for nothing: do you think your louis will be
sufficient for this?"
"Good gracious, no! What is to be done?"
"What do you think she will stand in need of?"
"Why, first of all, she must be nursed, for she can do nothing for
herself, and Suzette, her daughter, is too young to attend upon her."
"She has many neighbours about her, and I am sure they will relieve
each other in nursing, and taking care of her, as long as it is
necessary. You already see how much these poor women can do without
the aid of money."
"Yes, but I cannot do what they do."
"Therefore you ought to do something else. Will she not require
medicines?"
"We must buy some for her."
"The greater part of the herbs, of which her draughts and poultices
will probably be composed, grow wild in the fields: we know them, and
will teach you to distinguish them also. If you like to employ your
walks in seeking for them, you may, I think, easily gather a good
provision of such of them as are most required, and we will show them
to the surgeon, in order to be quite sure that we are not mistaken."
"There, again, is the surgeon! I never thought of him; he, too, must
be paid."
"He attends the château, and receives a certain sum annually; we
treat him well, and he is satisfied with us; besides, he is a very
worthy man, and attends gratuitously to the poor of the village, as
much from humanity as from the wish to oblige us; while some presents
from our produce, as a cask of our wine, for instance, enable us,
from time to time, to testify our gratitude to him."
"But, papa, it is you and other people who do all this; it is not I."
"You can do but little of yourself, my child, since you have neither
strength, nor wealth; but it is precisely because you are dependent
on us for all your wants, that you ought to count among your
resources the pleasure we feel in obliging you, in everything that is
reasonable, and the predisposition which people feel to comply with
your requests, when you ask for what is proper."
"Oh papa, to ask! but that is so difficult. I should never have the
courage to do that."
"It is in this, my child, that the greatest merit of charity often
consists. I could relate to you many admirable stories on this
subject. In order to do good, we must often be able to conquer
our pride, which makes us dislike to have recourse to others;
our idleness, which makes us dislike exertion; our indolence or
thoughtlessness, which makes us lose a thousand things which would
be useful. We must learn to do much, with little means; otherwise,
we shall never manage to accomplish anything of importance. Those
who only give money soon exhaust all they have to give, whereas
the contrivances of charity, in aid of the unfortunate, are
inexhaustible."
"Dear papa, I shall beg you to teach me to find the herbs; but I
assure you I am very much afraid I shall not be able to discover
anything else."
"You will see: meanwhile, here is your louis; if you take my advice,
you will not spend it, except in the purchase of such things as
you cannot otherwise obtain. As for the others, seek the means of
procuring them. In a house of any consideration there are always
many things which may be given away without any positive expense,
as they would be otherwise lost, or nearly so. You can ask us for
these, and in this way, we will aid you, with the greatest pleasure,
in succouring poor Marianne, whom from this moment I place under your
care."
Ernestine, though a little frightened at a duty, which she was afraid
of not fulfilling in a proper manner, still felt proud and happy in
having some one under her protection. Madame de Cideville entering
at this moment, her husband informed her of the important charge he
had committed to her daughter; and as a servant came to say that
Marguerite, one of the women who took care of Marianne, wanted some
old linen for her, Madame de Cideville said, "It is to Ernestine you
must apply."
Ernestine looked at her mother, with an air of utter astonishment.
"But, mamma," she said, "I have no old linen."
"And you cannot think of any means of procuring some?"
"Madame Bastien" (this was the housekeeper's name) "has plenty; the
old sheets and napkins belonging to the house serve her for making
bandages; but she is always angry when any one applies for them. Last
year, when my nurse hurt her foot, she hardly even dared to ask her
for any."
"Nevertheless, you must endeavour to obtain some between this and
to-morrow, for to-morrow they will be needed for Marianne."
"Mamma, if you were to tell Madame Bastien to give me some?"
"She would give them to you, most assuredly; but do you think she
would do so with less ill-humour? She is well aware that I wish her
to give to all who require it, but as she has sometimes to supply
a great many persons, she is afraid that each will take too much;
perhaps too she likes to show her authority a little; therefore, you
may be quite sure that whatever she does, she will do it with a much
better grace for the sake of obliging you, than she would if I were
to order it."