Roussel giving his arm to his wife, who could not support herself:
the master of the dogs and M. Roussel at one moment talking
angrily, at another more reasonably, and William and George, who
were carefully kept apart, gesticulating at a distance, and often
accompanying their gestures with words, for want of better means of
annoyance. With them came many persons returning to Paris after the
fête, who were curious to see the termination of this affair, while
all the little boys of the village ran after them, trotting with
their bare feet in the dust.
The troop reached Paris very much diminished, but sufficiently
considerable to attract the attention of the passers by, and to be
followed by a crowd of idle people. M. Bucquet, who beheld all this
assemblage collected at his house, asked what it was all about;
and while they were giving him an explanation, Joseph found an
opportunity of taking George on one side, and relating to him the
whole affair. George was furious, and commanded him to go at once and
take the dog away, which Joseph refused to do for fear of being seen.
"I will say that it was you," exclaimed George.
"I will say that you tell a falsehood," replied Joseph.
George took him by the ears in order to force him up stairs.
"I'll scream," said Joseph.
George, notwithstanding his anger, saw that there was but one course
to be pursued. He left Joseph, ran up stairs, attained the leads,
entered his room and sought for the dog, determined, if requisite,
to pass the night with him upon the roof; but he sought in vain.
As Joseph had left the doors open, M. le Chevalier had had all the
apartments at his disposal. Where could he be hidden? It was getting
dusk, and the dog was small, George could not perceive him anywhere,
and he was persuading himself that Joseph had been making game of
him, and was about returning by the way that he had entered, when
the animal scenting his master at the door, rushed from under a bed,
howling most lamentably.
"Do you hear?" exclaimed the owner.
"It is impossible," exclaimed M. Roussel, precipitately opening the
door. He stood perfectly stupified when he beheld his son and the dog
in the middle of the room, without being able to understand in the
least by what means they had got there.
"I knew it would be so," said William triumphantly.
George, stifled with shame and anger, and rendered furious by the
invectives with which he was overwhelmed from all sides, protested
that it was not he, but Joseph who did it. The neighbours, delighted
at finding him in fault, were indignant that he should throw the
blame upon another. M. Bucquet, who knew that if Joseph were the
culprit, he should have to pay the damages, flew into a violent
passion with George; and Madame Bucquet, terrified lest her husband
should beat Joseph, became still louder and more violent in her
invectives: M. Roussel thought that, right or wrong, he ought to take
his son's part; William and his father were clamouring to be paid,
and M. le Chevalier howled like a dog who had had no dinner.
In the midst of this fearful uproar, a venerable clergyman who lived
in the house came up. Every one respected him, and he was the only
person on whom George had not dared to play his tricks. He made
every effort to restore peace, but when he had stilled the tumult
for a moment, some voice was raised, every one replied, and the
whole thing was renewed. At length he succeeded in persuading the
people to disperse, with the exception of the owner of the dogs, who
wanted to take M. Roussel before the magistrate to make him pay. M.
Roussel did not desire anything better, and George was anxious to
accompany them, in order to justify himself, but Madame Roussel wept
and entreated her husband to pay: and the clergyman reminded him that
he had promised to do so if the dog was discovered on his premises:
he was therefore obliged to submit; and then the master of the dogs,
perfectly satisfied, went away, holding M. le Chevalier under his
arm, and saying, "Monsieur, Madame, very sorry to have troubled you."
M. and Madame Roussel retired to their own rooms, together with the
clergyman, whom they had invited to accompany them. George sat in a
corner, tearing his hair in despair. They asked him the truth of the
story, which he explained, and M. Roussel and his wife were terribly
enraged against Joseph.
"But," said the clergyman, "who taught him to pass by the leads?"
George agreed that it was he.
"And who accustomed him to do these mischievous tricks?"
George was compelled again to own that he had done so.
"Behold the effect of bad example!" continued the clergyman; "evil
is done without very bad intentions, but he whom we instruct in
committing it, learns the evil without heeding the intentions. Joseph
has seen you keep dogs in your possession, in order to set their
masters hunting for them, and he thought it quite as reasonable
to conceal one in order to sell it: therefore, it is you who are
answerable for all that he has done."
George had nothing to say. The clergyman lectured him for some time
longer, and left him completely ashamed of himself, and determined to
correct his faults: but his parents were obliged to leave the house
and the neighbourhood, for George could never go into the streets,
without hearing himself called a _dog-stealer_. For a time it was
the same at school also, where some of the other boys had related
the story; but as he was very much liked, and besides one of the
strongest, his explanation and a few blows soon re-established him in
the esteem of his companions.
In the end, the truth was discovered in the neighbourhood also, but
it was long before the prejudices against him were quite overcome.
As for Joseph, it is asserted that he was well beaten by his father,
but this only corrected him of the desire of playing tricks on his
neighbours. He continued all his life a coward from disposition, and
a liar from the instructions of George; therefore, whenever George
heard any evil of him, he felt pained, because he knew that he had
increased the number of his bad habits.
EUDOXIA;
OR LEGITIMATE PRIDE.
Madame d'Aubonne beheld her daughter Eudoxia, who had attained
the age of thirteen, increase every day in judgment, talent, and
good dispositions of all kinds. It was with a feeling of intense
happiness, that she discovered in her the germ and hope of every
virtue. Nothing was wanting to Eudoxia, but the consciousness that
virtues were given to us for our own practice, and not for the
purpose of judging the conduct of others. Her own earnest love of all
that was good, and her constant endeavour to do what she considered
best, disposed her to blame others with severity, and to exact from
them a rectitude, equal to that which she herself displayed in all
her actions.
Though Eudoxia was too reserved, and even too timid to express her
opinions to any one but her mother, to whom she confided everything,
and who, on her part, had the most entire confidence in her daughter,
nevertheless Madame d'Aubonne carefully opposed this tendency; for
she knew that it was not sufficient to watch over words only,
but that we must also regulate our thoughts; and those of Eudoxia
appeared to her, in this respect, neither just nor reasonable.
However, she had rarely occasion to reprimand her on this account,
for with the exception of her cousin Constance, who was much younger
than herself, and to whom, as she was very fond of her, she was,
consequently, more indulgent, she saw scarcely any but older persons,
and such as she would never have presumed to censure.
Madame d'Aubonne had resided many years in the country, attending
to her invalid father; having had the misfortune to lose him, she
returned, to Paris, which she again left, for the purpose of passing
a couple of months at Romecourt, with Madame de Rivry, an old friend,
who resided there with her daughter Julia, whom Eudoxia scarcely
knew, not having seen her for six years.
Madame d'Aubonne found at Romecourt her aunt, Madame de Croissy,
who was to spend there the same time as herself. Madame de Croissy
was educating her two granddaughters, Adèle and Honorine, with whom
Eudoxia was as little acquainted as with Julia, although they were
her cousins. Her timidity, therefore, made her look with much terror
on this new society, especially as the other three girls, though much
about her own age, were very far from being as reasonable as herself.
Julia, though at heart a very good-dispositioned child, was very
much spoiled by her mother, and sometimes answered her with a degree
of impertinence which made every one present shrug their shoulders.
Adèle regarded an untruth as the simplest thing in the world; she
told falsehoods in sport; she told them in earnest; she even told
them at the very moment in which she might have been convicted of the
fallacy of her assertions.
As to Honorine, she was a perfect wild colt, without discipline,
without reflection; never for a moment dreaming that her fancies
could meet with the slightest opposition, nor that those things which
gave her pleasure could be attended with any inconvenience. Madame de
Croissy troubled herself very little about their education; provided
they made no noise, and did not attempt to join in conversation,
she always considered girls to be quite sufficiently well brought
up; therefore she habitually left them with the servants, and felt
annoyed, that at Romecourt they were almost always kept in the
drawing-room, because Eudoxia and Julia were very little away from
their mothers.
This plan was equally disagreeable to the two girls, but little
accustomed to the society of their grandmamma, who, when at home,
never concerned herself about them, any further than to tell them to
hold themselves upright whenever she thought of it, or to be silent
whenever their voices were heard above a whisper. They would have
been much better pleased if left with their grandmother's servants,
with whom they were accustomed to associate, provided, however, that
they could have had Julia with them; for as to Eudoxia, they cared
very little for her.
It is true that she had not been very amiable towards them,
for she was quite horrified at their giddy manners, their want
of obedience, and their tone of mockery, to which she was not
accustomed. Astonished beyond measure, at their ignorance of almost
every principle which, from her childhood, she had been taught to
respect, she blushed to the eyes when she beheld Honorine reading
without scruple a letter which she found open, playing tricks with
the gardener's son, or standing at the park railing, in front of
the high road, chatting with all the little boys and girls of the
village. She trembled when she saw Adèle, even at her grandmamma's
side, and under her very spectacles, cut the needleful with which
she was embroidering, in order to shorten it, and be able to say
that her task was finished. Nor, in fine, could she recover from her
surprise, when she saw that the very moment in which Julia received
an order from her mother to do anything, was precisely that which
she selected for doing the opposite. At these times she imagined
herself transported into a new world, where all was strange and
incomprehensible to her: she avoided conversing with her companions,
as she had nothing to say which would be agreeable to their tastes;
and, besides, she would scarcely have known how to reply to them, had
they spoken to her. She therefore left them as soon as she was able,
and took refuge with her mother.
The others easily perceived, that though Eudoxia said nothing to
them, she did not approve of their conduct; they were, therefore,
very ill at ease in her society, and in no way pleased when Madame
d'Aubonne, who was anxious that Eudoxia should accustom herself to
live with others, adapt herself to their habits, and tolerate their
defects, sent her to share in their amusements and conversation.
Neither was Eudoxia at all agreeable to Madame de Croissy, whose
principles of education had so little affinity with those of Madame
d'Aubonne, and whose grandchildren bore no resemblance to her
daughter. As Madame de Croissy was the sister of Madame d'Aubonne's
father, she had paid him a visit a short time before his death, but
unaccompanied by her grandchildren. On that occasion she had seen
Eudoxia, whose good qualities and happy dispositions were extolled by
every one in the neighbourhood in which the family resided. As Madame
de Croissy had never heard her grandchildren so praised, she felt
annoyed; and, besides, she considered that Madame d'Aubonne conversed
a great deal too much with her daughter, reasoned with her too much,
and altogether occupied herself too much about her, though this was
never at the expense of others. She therefore told every one, and
was herself firmly persuaded that Madame d'Aubonne "would never make
anything of this little prodigy but a little pedant."
Her annoyance had been redoubled since she had been in the country,
by the striking contrast which the conduct of Eudoxia presented
to that of her cousins; therefore, in her quality of grand-aunt,
she perpetually contradicted her, either directly or by indirect
allusions. Her looks were turned to her at every moment, as if she
were watching her, and ready to seize instantly upon the slightest
fault which might escape her. Nor did she ever call her anything
but _Mademoiselle_ Eudoxia. Eudoxia would, therefore, have found
but very little enjoyment in the country, had it not been for the
happiness she felt in conversing with her mother, who spoke to her as
a reasonable person, and who, even when reprimanding her, concealed
nothing of her affection, nor even, we may add, of her respect; for
with the exception of this want of toleration, which marred a little
her good qualities, Eudoxia merited all the respect that a child of
her years could merit.
One morning the four girls were at work in the drawing-room. Eudoxia,
at her mother's side, occupied herself diligently with what she was
engaged upon; the other three, collected in a corner, talked, laughed
in an under tone, dropped their work, forgot to pick it up, and
never did three stitches successively; and even when told to go on,
they did so for a moment only, and with every indication of languor
and _ennui_. Eudoxia, from time to time, looked at them, and then
at her mother, with an expression which sufficiently explained her
sentiments. Madame de Croissy caught one of these glances, and was
led to notice her granddaughters.
"Have the kindness to continue your work, young ladies," she said to
them, very harshly. "Do you not see how much you shock Mademoiselle
Eudoxia?"
Adèle and Honorine pretended to go on with their work, and Eudoxia,
greatly confused, cast down her eyes, and did not dare to raise them
again during the time they remained in the drawing-room. When they
had retired to their own apartment, Madame d'Aubonne observed,
"You were very much occupied with those young ladies."
"Oh! mamma, they were so foolish."
"And do you derive pleasure from foolish things or persons?"
"Quite the reverse, mamma, I assure you."
"Think again, my child; it cannot be _quite the reverse_; for they
made you raise your eyes from your work more than twenty times, and
yet I know that your work interested you."
"Nevertheless, I assure you, mamma, it was not pleasure that I felt."
"It was at least a great interest; and did not this interest
arise from the satisfaction you experienced at seeing them more
unreasonable than yourself?"
"Oh, mamma!"
"Come, my dear Eudoxia, it is in the examination of our evil emotions
that courage is required, the good ones are easily discovered. Ask
your conscience what it thinks of the matter."
"Mamma," said Eudoxia, somewhat confused, "I assure you that I did
not at first think it was that."
"I believe you, my child; it is a feeling which steals upon us
unperceived. Many persons experience it as well as you, and imagine
that the bad actions of others increase the merit of their own. But
tell me, my dear Eudoxia, would there not be still greater pleasure
in being superior to such persons, than in merely being superior to
your companions in industry and attention?"
Eudoxia assented to this, and promised to attend to it. She was
always happy when any duty was pointed out to her, so great was the
pleasure she felt in endeavouring to accomplish it. Having gone down
to fetch something from an apartment adjoining the drawing-room, the
door of which was open, she heard Madame de Croissy observe to Madame
de Rivry,--
"I have always said that Mademoiselle Eudoxia would never be anything
but a little pedant."
Madame de Rivry, although she liked Eudoxia, agreed that she busied
herself much more in finding fault with her companions, than in
making herself agreeable to them.
"That would be compromising her dignity," replied Madame de Croissy.
From that moment Eudoxia endeavoured to overcome her dislike and
timidity. She mingled more frequently in the amusements of her
companions, and at last took pleasure in them. But being now more
at her ease with her playfellows, she told them more freely what
she thought, and when she could not make them listen to reason, she
would leave them with emotions of impatience, which she was unable to
control.
"But why do you get impatient?" said her mother to her one day; "do
they fail in their duty towards you, by not being as reasonable as
you are?"
"No, mamma, but they fail in their duty to themselves, when they are
so unreasonable, and it is that which irritates me."
"Listen, Eudoxia," continued her mother, "do you remember how
irritable you used to be with your cousin Constance, because she
paid so little attention to what she did, and broke everything that
came in her way? One day you happened, by a carelessness of the same
kind, to upset the table on which my writing-desk was placed; and I
remember that from that time you have never been impatient with her."
"Oh! no, mamma, I assure you."
"Did you consider the fault of less importance because you happened
to commit it yourself?"
"Quite the reverse, mamma, but that showed me that it was more
difficult to avoid it than I had at first imagined."
"This is what experience teaches us every day, my child, with regard
to faults which we have not as yet committed. Thus," she added,
laughing, "I do not despair of seeing you indulgent towards these
young ladies, if one day you discover by the same means, that it
is difficult not to be an arguer, like Julia; a story-teller, like
Adèle; and a lover of mischief, like Honorine."
"As to that mamma," replied Eudoxia, warmly, "that is what I shall
never learn."
"Are you quite sure, my child?"--"Oh! quite sure."
"Are you then so differently constituted, as to be able to persuade
yourself, that what appears to them so easy, would be impossible to
you?"
"It must be so," said Eudoxia, really piqued.
"How then, in that case," said her mother, smiling, "can you expect
them to do the same things as yourself? You do not expect Julia, who
is much smaller than you are, to reach as high as you do; you only
expect this from Honorine, who is as tall as yourself."
"But, mamma," replied Eudoxia, after reflecting for a moment,
"perhaps, then, as they are less reasonable, they are not obliged to
do as much as other people."
"It would be very wrong for them to think so, my child, for every
one ought to do as much good as lies in his power; but every one is
likewise enjoined to inquire into his own duties, and not into those
of others; therefore attend only to your own. Do you consider it just
and reasonable to enjoy the pleasure of feeling that you are better
than they are, and at the same time to get impatient with them,
because they are not as good as yourself?"
"Mamma, are we then permitted to consider ourselves better than other
people?"
"Yes, my child; for to think ourselves better than others is simply
to feel that we possess more strength, more reason, more means of
doing good, and consequently to consider ourselves bound to do more
than them."
This conversation gave Eudoxia a feeling of satisfaction which
rendered her more indulgent, and more patient with her companions;
but in this indulgence there might perhaps be discovered a slight
degree of pride; it had something of the kindness of a superior being
always thinking of keeping herself sufficiently above others to avoid
being hurt by their not acting with as much propriety as herself.
Eudoxia insensibly acquired the habit of considering her companions
as children, and almost of treating them as such. One day when
the four girls were working together, they compared their various
performances, and Honorine's, which was like Eudoxia's, happened to
be much worse done.
"That is a very difficult stitch," said she, with the same air as if
she were making an excuse for a child of six years old.
It did not occur to her that the remark was equally applicable to
herself. The others burst out laughing.
"Be quiet," said Honorine, "do you not see that Eudoxia has the
kindness to protect me?"
Eudoxia felt so much hurt that the tears started to her eyes. She was
satisfied with herself, and believed she had a right to be so, and
yet she met with nothing but injustice and mockery. She again began
to withdraw herself from her companions.
Her mother perceived this, and inquired the reason. Eudoxia felt some
difficulty in confessing it, though she considered herself in the
right. The ridicule that had been cast upon her had given rise to a
species of shame. At last, however, she stated the cause.
"You were, then, very much hurt, were you not?" asked Madame
d'Aubonne, "because Honorine appeared to think that you affected to
protect her? It seems that you would have considered such a thing
very ridiculous."
"Oh! mamma, it is not necessary that a thing should be ridiculous for
them to laugh at it."
"But tell me, Eudoxia, if by chance they had ridiculed you because
you love me, because you listen to me, because you do all that I
desire, would that have given you pain?"
"No, indeed, mamma, I should have laughed at them then, in my turn."
"And why did you not pursue the same course when they laughed at
the manner you assumed towards Honorine? If you thought that this
patronizing manner was the most suitable, what did it matter to you
that they should think otherwise? Are you not more reasonable than
they are, consequently better able to judge of what is right?"
"Mamma," said Eudoxia, after a moment's silence, "I now think I was
wrong in manifesting towards Honorine a manner which displeased her,
but I only wished to show indulgence for the faults she had made in
her work."
"My dear child, we ought to be indulgent towards the faults of every
one, but we ought not to let this indulgence be manifest to those
whose conduct does not concern us, unless they wish us to do so; for
otherwise, as it is not our business to reprimand them, so neither is
it to pardon them. This is an office which we have no right to assume
without their permission."
"But what then is to be done, mamma, when they commit faults?"
"Try not to see them, if possible, and instead of pardoning, try to
diminish them; endeavour to discover in Honorine's work all that is
good, so that what is bad may be forgotten; but to do this you must
not be very glad that your work has been found better than hers;
your whole pride should consist in being superior to these trifling
advantages."
Eudoxia profited by her mother's advice, and became every day more
gentle and sociable. Madame de Croissy had scarcely anything to
say against her, and her companions began to take pleasure in her
society. She was completely in their confidence, at least as much
as she desired to be; and when she saw the fears and vexations to
which their inconsiderate conduct often exposed them, when she saw
them blush at the least word that could have any reference to a
fault which they had concealed, and even found them manifest towards
herself a species of deference which they no longer refused to her
good sense, when it was not exercised at their expense, she felt
daily more and more, how great is the pleasure of self-respect.
"And yet," said her mother, "you are still very far from knowing
its full value; this you will not ascertain until you have paid its
price, until you have purchased it by painful sacrifices."
Eudoxia could not conceive that any sacrifices could be difficult
which conferred such an advantage.