herself into the well! It was I took the money."
Babet and Madame Pallois stood motionless with astonishment. Françou
still continued prostrate on the ground, sobbing violently. Babet
raised her up, though she herself could scarcely stand.
Madame Pallois made her sit down; then, turning to Françou, "Are you
quite sure that what you say is true, Françou?" she asked, somewhat
sternly.
"Ask my father," said Françou, hiding her face against the wall.
"And what have you done with it?"
"My father took it from me," she replied, sobbing. "I begged him to
give it back to me, but he has spent it. I brought all this to give
you instead, but Babet says it is worth nothing." At these words her
sobs were redoubled.
"Babet," continued Madame Pallois, turning towards the poor girl,
who, unable to support her joy, was leaning against the wall,
breathing with difficulty: "can you forgive me, for accusing you of
so disgraceful an act? Will you permit me to kiss you?"
Babet seized the hand of her mistress, then ran to Françou, who had
again fallen on the ground, and presented her to Madame Pallois,
begging her to forgive her.
"No! no!" exclaimed Françoise; "poor Bernard!"
"Françou," said Madame Pallois, "I am going to Bernard's cottage. You
must come with me."
"Oh! no, no," cried Françou, "I would rather die first."
"I insist upon it, Françou; come, dry your eyes, and follow me."
Françou dared not resist. Madame Pallois took her by the hand, and
was compelled to support her at every instant. At last they arrived.
Bernard came to the door.
"Madame," said he in a tone of the deepest affliction, "you must
permit me to fetch the doctor in the course of the morning; my wife
is in despair, and thinks that he alone can save her."
"Let us go in," said Madame Pallois. At this moment she dropped the
hand of Françou, who immediately made her escape, and ran off with
all her might. By the time she reached the gate of the village, her
mind was made up. The physician's house was situated only a short
distance from Cavignat. Françou knew it; she ran there as fast as her
strength would permit, and soon reached it.
"Oh," she cried to the physician, sobbing, "come and relieve poor
Bernard's wife; Madame Pallois had only one half-crown to pay for
your visit, and I took it. If you do not come, she will die. Do,
pray, come;" she continued, clasping her hands, and dragging him by
his dressing-gown. Greatly astonished, and affected by the condition
in which he saw her, the physician interrogated her, and she related
what had occurred, with every sign of the deepest despair. He
consoled her, and promised to go and see the wife of poor Bernard
without making any charge for his visit. Transported with joy,
Françou wanted him to set off in his dressing-gown and nightcap,
but he represented to her that he should be able to go much quicker
in his gig, and that he could dress himself while the horse was
harnessed. He had great difficulty in making her listen to reason,
but at last the horse was put to, and the gig drove off.
They arrived, and entered the house. Françou kept behind the
physician, not daring to come forward, and as the attention of every
one was fixed on the patient, who was in a state of great suffering,
Françou remained for a time unnoticed. When the invalid was a little
more tranquil, and the physician had given his advice, Madame Pallois
asked him how it happened that he had arrived so quickly, and why
Bernard had not returned with him.
"I have not seen Bernard," said the doctor. "I was called by this
little angel," he added, turning to Françou, on whom Madame Pallois
had just cast a stern look. He then related what had taken place.
Madame Pallois reflected for a moment; then, calling Françou,
"Promise me," she said, "that this shall be the last time, and I will
forgive you." Françou promised, and she kept her word. Besides, she
was no longer subjected to the same temptations. The knaveries of
Jacques were discovered, and he was obliged to fly from the village
for fear of being arrested as a smuggler. It was also ascertained
that Françou was not his daughter; he had said so while intoxicated,
and Françou, on being questioned, confirmed the statement.
The physician asked to take her into his service, to milk the cow
and attend to the fowls. As he was a very excellent and strictly
honest man, and treated her well, she had nothing but good examples
before her. His wife instructed her in her religious duties, and she
regularly attended the catechism of M. le Curé, at Cavignat, and when
she had reflected more on what she had done, she could not look Babet
in the face without blushing; especially as Babet had told her that
she had bitterly repented of her wish to throw herself into the well,
which was a thing so strictly forbidden, and for which M. le Curé had
great difficulty in giving her absolution.
"Poor Babet!" said Mélanie, with a heavy sigh, for she had scarcely
breathed during the termination of the story.
"Poor Françou!" said Eugène, "she would certainly have died of grief
if Babet had thrown herself into the well."
"My children," said Madame d'Inville, "thank God for having given you
good parents, and remember, Mélanie, when they take so much pains to
give you good habits, how unreasonable it is not to pay attention to
them, or to say when you are told to do anything, '_I don't want to
do this_,' or '_I won't do that_.'"
At this moment, Mélanie saw a poor man passing with a little girl.
"Oh! dear grandmamma," said she, "that is just like the story of
Jacques. I am sure that little girl is not his daughter."
"And why not, my child?"
"Oh! see, he has such a bad look."
"Because you fancy so, because he is in rags, and appears to be ill.
Look at me, Mélanie; just imagine, if I were covered with rags, and
had been laid up with fever for a week, do you think I should look
very well?"
"Oh! dear grandmamma!"
"He is old; I too am old; and whereas I take my granddaughter out to
walk for her pleasure, he, on the contrary, takes his out to beg for
her bread."
"Do you think so, grandmamma?"
"It is at least possible, my dear; and as we know nothing to the
contrary, we have no right to regard as dishonest a man who may be
quite the reverse, and who has so much need of our good opinion."
Mélanie carried to the poor man a sou which Madame d'Inville had
given her, and, touched by her grandmamma's words, she added another
from her own store.
M. LE CHEVALIER.
"Stop them! Stop them!" was re-echoed through the Rue St. Honoré.
"Madame la Marquise is running down the street! This way! Madame la
Vicomtesse is dragging her dress through the mud! Oh! M. le Baron
has lost his wig! and M. le Chevalier?... William, where is M. le
Chevalier?"
And William ran right and left, endeavouring to bring back a number
of dressed-up dogs, such as are seen parading the streets, in little
carriages. They had just escaped from their kennel, while their
owners were occupied with their morning toilet. This toilet was a
tedious and difficult affair, for whilst they were washing one, the
one which had just gone through the operation, never failed to go and
put his paws into the gutter. While M. le Baron was made to stand on
his hind feet, in order to have his fore paws put through the sleeves
of his coat, Madame la Marquise, seizing the first opportunity to
make use of her legs, set off running all round the yard, in her
petticoat, which being then much too long, and getting entangled
between her legs, threw her down; and whilst they ran after her, all
the others would make their escape, half-dressed in their finery. On
the present occasion, the gate of the yard happened accidentally to
be opened, while one of these scenes was enacted, and all the dogs
made their escape into the street, troubling themselves very little
as to the state in which they appeared before the eyes of the public.
However, William, the owner's son, had succeeded in catching almost
all of them, and, saving the loss of M. le Baron's wig, and the
unfortunate accident which had happened to the hat and feathers of
Madame la Vicomtesse, when she rolled in a heap of rubbish, and the
rent which Madame la Marquise had made in her blue petticoat, all
would have been set to rights, if M. le Chevalier could have been
found. M. le Chevalier was a very important personage. He was the
only one who was able to waltz with Madame la Présidente. Everybody
was delighted to see them take each other by the neck, with their
fore paws, and dance in time on their hind feet. Now, Madame la
Présidente could not waltz all alone; thus two talents were lost
at the same time. The owner was in despair; he was to go that day
to Clichi, to the fair of St. Médard, and he built his chief hopes
of success upon the waltz. But it was in vain that William went to
every house in the neighbourhood, asking whether any one had seen
M. le Chevalier. "And who is M. le Chevalier?" he was everywhere
asked; and William replied, "He has a yellow waistcoat, no trousers,
pointed ears, a sword at his side, and his tail is bald at the end."
Notwithstanding this luminous description, no one could give him any
information respecting M. le Chevalier. At length, as it was growing
late, the master decided on setting off with the rest of his troop,
telling William to follow him with M. le Chevalier, if he succeeded
in finding him.
William had a second time searched all the streets in the vicinity,
and was returning home sorrowfully, when he met one of his neighbours
coming from market. He asked her, as he had done every one else,
whether she could give him any information about M. le Chevalier.
"Bah!" said she, "has he not returned? This morning, when your dogs
ran away, I was just going to market, and I saw him enter the alley
opposite, and go into M. Bucquet's, the linendraper. Has he really
not come back, then? Oh, I'll wager that it is little Roussel who has
kept him."
George Roussel lived with his father and mother in the house of
M. Bucquet; he was a good boy, and very fond of his parents, and
he also gave great satisfaction at school, where he regularly
attended, as day-scholar: in other respects, however, he was the most
mischief-loving urchin imaginable. As his father, who was employed
at a banker's, and his mother, who gave lessons in writing, passed
much of their time away from home, George was quite his own master
out of school hours, and this time he employed in playing tricks on
the neighbours; nor was it sufficient for him to spend in this manner
the hours of daylight, the night also was often employed in similar
practices. He slept at the back of the house, in a small room, the
windows of which looked upon the roofs and leads. Through this window
he passed to go and hunt the cats, and when he succeeded in catching
two or three, he tied them together by their tails. Then when every
one was asleep, he would throw them into the house, through a
staircase window opening upon the same leads, and run with all speed
to his own room as soon as he perceived that the neighbours were
awakened by the frightful uproar which they made in their unavailing
efforts to get loose. Immediately all the doors would open, every
one rushing out to know what could be the matter. Then they would
run after the cats, which, of course, did not suffer themselves to
be easily caught, but kept crying and mewing, as if they had been
burned, and scratching every one who attempted to separate them.
Another time, a neighbour's dog would return to his mistress, covered
with oil, from the ears to the tail, so that no one could touch
him without being greased, nor could he approach anything without
leaving on it a stain. On a cold winter's day, George would contrive
to attach a piece of ice to the handle of a door-bell, and the first
person who wanted to ring would snatch his hand away, struck with
cold and surprise; or else he would cut the wire attached to the
bell, so that people would pull for a quarter of an hour without
producing any effect. He also hampered the locks, and hid the keys,
if they happened to be left in the doors; and, in fact, every day
brought fresh complaints; but they were of little use. George was an
only child, born when his parents were already advanced in life, and
after they had been married many years without having any children.
M. and Madame Roussel loved him, therefore, with such a foolish
fondness, that they overlooked all his faults. When complaints were
made of him to M. Roussel, he would shrug his shoulders, and say,
"Well, youth must have its day." Nevertheless, he scolded George a
little, for the gratification of the neighbours, but afterwards he
had the weakness to laugh at his tricks. Madame Roussel was still
more unreasonable, for she became so angry when complaints were made
of her son, that no one dared to speak to her on the subject. Had
they not been very good tenants, and very punctual in their payments,
though their rent was high, M. Bucquet would have given them notice
to leave twenty times over, so disagreeable had George become to the
whole house.
Besides, everything that happened was laid to his charge; if any one
slipped on the stairs by treading on a cherrystone, it was always
George who had scattered them through malice: not a pane of glass
was broken in the hall or passages, but it was always George who had
done it; in fact, his reputation was spread throughout the entire
neighbourhood. William had heard him spoken of, and could not doubt
that the conjecture of his acquaintance was well founded, and the
more so as another neighbour asserted that he had heard George a few
days before saying to little Bucquet, "Wouldn't it be nice, Joseph,
to have a dog like that? We should get a famous price for it!"
In consequence of this information, William went to M. Bucquet's, and
asked him in what part of the house M. Roussel lived, as he wanted to
inquire for his dog, which had been taken by little Roussel.
"He would be likely enough to do so," said M. Bucquet; "but I think
he went out with his father before your dogs took the liberty of
walking off. Is it not so, Joseph?"
Joseph, who was occupied in arranging a box of gloves over the
counter, answered "Yes," without raising his head, and William did
not perceive that he blushed very much. As it was known that M. le
Chevalier had really entered the house, William begged permission
to go and inquire of all the lodgers. No one had seen him; but on
passing by a door that was locked, and which he supposed to be that
belonging to M. Roussel, he knocked very loudly, and then listened
attentively. At the second knock, he thought he heard a bark, and
fancied he recognised the voice of M. le Chevalier. Transported with
joy, he hastened down again, and was astonished at seeing Joseph,
who had softly followed him at some distance, endeavouring to make
his escape the moment he was observed. William returned to the shop,
exclaiming, "He is there; M. le Chevalier is there. I have heard
him bark;" and seeing Joseph re-enter the shop, he added, "Yes, and
I'll wager that M. Joseph knows very well that he is in M. Roussel's
apartments."
"Indeed!" said M. Bucquet, "I should like to see him interfering with
the tricks of that little rascal George. You may rest assured that he
has not meddled with your dog. If he had, I should very soon settle
him."
William inquired whether M. Roussel would be long away, and was
informed that he was gone to Clichi for the fête, to pass the day
with his brother, who was steward of the château, and that he would
not return till the evening. William wanted to have the door forced;
but M. Bucquet would not consent to such a thing. William therefore
determined to carry the intelligence he had received to his father,
purposing to return immediately, and place himself as sentinel at M.
Roussel's door, in order to prevent anything being removed without
his permission. Meanwhile he begged the neighbours to watch, in case
M. Roussel returned during his absence; and they promised to do so.
His departure relieved Joseph from a heavy burden, for it was he who
had taken the dog. He had long shared in George's mischievous tricks
without any one being aware of it. As he stood in great awe of his
father, who sometimes treated him very severely, he had been for a
long time extremely quiet and orderly, but at length the example
and the solicitations of George, who was dying to have a companion
in his sports, had led him away, without rendering him any the more
courageous. Younger and weaker than George, he preferred such tricks
as were of a secret and underhand character, while George delighted
in more daring exploits. If a falsehood was to be told, it was
Joseph always who undertook to tell it, and George, who had never
spoken anything but the truth to his own parents, did not consider
how wrong it was to be continually leading Joseph to deceive his. He
had shown him the way by the leads, in order that he might enter the
room in which he slept without passing by the apartments occupied by
M. and Madame Roussel. The morning that M. le Chevalier had entered
the alley, Joseph met him at the foot of the stairs, and thinking
it a capital opportunity, he took him up, and carried him by way of
the leads into George's room, never doubting that the latter, like
himself, would be enchanted at the prospect of having him to sell. He
had felt very much alarmed while William was knocking; but George's
room being separated from the outside door by three other rooms,
all the doors of which were closed, William had heard but faintly
the barking of M. le Chevalier. It had been his first intention to
watch for George on his return from Clichi, and tell him what he had
done, in order that he might prevent any one from entering his room
until the dog had been disposed of; for he generally left George to
extricate himself, as well as he could, out of the scrapes in which
he not unfrequently placed him. However, after William's departure,
thinking that the dog would most certainly be reclaimed, and that
it would be impossible to conceal him, he determined to repass the
leads, fetch him, and turn him out of the house. As soon, therefore,
as he saw his father occupied, he ran up the stairs, and passing
through the window, he reached M. Roussel's rooms, and thinking that
perhaps he might only have taken the key without locking the door
outside, he hoped to be able to open it from within and turn out
the dog, without being suspected. But he found the door locked, so
that it was necessary to return by the usual way. At this moment,
he heard his father's voice, calling him at the foot of the stairs.
M. le Chevalier had concealed himself under a bed, from which it
was impossible for Joseph to make him move. Besides, how was he to
return through the staircase window with the dog? His father might
be coming up, and see him; it was quite hazardous enough to get back
alone. Joseph decided, therefore, on taking this latter course,
leaving M. le Chevalier in quiet possession of the post to which he
had retreated. He found his father and mother waiting for him at the
bottom of the stairs, and told them that he had been to listen at M.
Roussel's door in order to ascertain whether the dog was there. As
it was Sunday, they closed the shop, and went out to dine. Joseph
accompanied them, somewhat uneasy as to what might be the result of
this affair, but still hoping to return sufficiently early to tell
George, and determined, at all events, to deny having the least share
in the theft.
Meanwhile, George, who knew nothing of the matter, was amusing
himself at Clichi to his heart's content. In the morning, he had
rowed upon the Seine, in a boat belonging to the château. Afterwards,
he had witnessed the target-shooting, had run at the ring, and
balanced himself in the swing. After dinner, he returned to see the
various exhibitions in the square. In one corner were the puppets;
in another, William's dogs, notwithstanding the absence of M. le
Chevalier, attracted round them a large concourse of spectators.
George saw them from a distance and recognised them; he hastened
immediately to the spot, called his father, mother, uncle, and all
the company, to whom he was delighted to introduce his friends the
dogs. He mingled with the spectators, explained everything, in fact
did the honours. "I know them," he said, "they live opposite to
us." He enumerated their various talents and expatiated upon their
acquirements, calling each by his own name, as people do in speaking
of persons with whom they are very anxious to appear particularly
connected. "This is M. le Baron," said he, "do you see Madame la
Vicomtesse? it is she who executes the lady's-chain with Madame la
Présidente; and M. le Chevalier? Oh! where is M. le Chevalier?"
At this exclamation, which reawakened all William's regrets, he
turned his head, recognised George, and pointed him out to his
father. The latter approached George in a very rough manner. "Ah!
ah!" said he, "it is you then who have stolen my dog?" "Ladies and
gentlemen," he continued, "you would have been still more gratified
if this thief had not stolen from me a new dog which I hoped to have
had the honour of presenting to you. A most admirable dog! Ladies
and gentlemen, had you beheld him, you would have said his equal was
nowhere to be found."
At this epithet of _thief_, George, though he could not understand
how it was applicable to himself, became red with anger. M. Roussel
and the uncle looked at each other, and with great warmth commanded
the owner of the dogs to explain himself. He recommenced his
grievances and invectives, and swore that they should pay the value
of what he had lost by M. le Chevalier, who assuredly would have
tripled the receipts. George, his father, and his uncle replied,
became warm, and at length got into a rage, whilst poor Madame
Roussel, greatly agitated, wanted to get away. The master of the
dogs, on his side, vociferated louder and louder, and began to
gesticulate. In the heat of the dispute, William, who had finished
his collection, came to his father's aid. "It is he," he exclaimed,
pointing to George; "he stole him in order to sell him; I heard M. le
Chevalier bark in his room."
"That's false," said George, accompanying his reply with a blow,
which upset all the money that William had collected in his hat. The
latter wanted both to pick up the money and return the blow at the
same time, but George did not give him the opportunity, for he fell
upon him with redoubled violence. William then seriously thought of
defending himself.
D'Aumale est plus ardent, plus fort, plus furieux;
Turenne est plus adroit, et moins impétueux.
_La Henriade._
D'Aumale is more ardent, stronger, more furious;
Turenne, less impetuous, displays more skill.
George gave most blows, but William was more skilful in parrying,
and while his hands were employed against George, he endeavoured
with his feet to keep off the little boys, who had rushed to pick
up the money. One of these, in order to escape a kick which he
perceived was likely to fall to his share, took hold of William by
the leg, and thus threw him on the ground, while George, who was
holding him by the hair, fell with him. They were picked up, and
separated. The owner of the dogs now swore that they should not only
pay for the loss of M. le Chevalier's day's work, but the amount of
the collection also. M. Roussel insisted on knowing positively what
it was they complained of. Madame Roussel, more dead than alive,
wished to have the man paid, in order to get away; and her husband
consented, provided the dog was found in their apartments, of which
he showed the key, and which he also promised should not be opened,
except in the presence of the owner of the dogs, whom he invited to
return with him to Paris. "And we shall see," said George, doubling
his fist at William, whom he promised himself to pay off in a very
different manner.