compassion, "why do you not love him more? You would then take an
interest in his pleasures."
"No," replied Eugenia warmly; "it is because I love him, that I
cannot endure that he should abandon me, to go and amuse himself and
forget me."
Her disposition became daily more and more morose: a profound
melancholy seemed to take possession of her mind; she no longer took
pleasure in anything, and even her health began to give way. Edward
perceived all this with the deepest grief, but without knowing how
to remedy it. On the other hand, a situation which he had hoped to
obtain had been given to another; an office in which he had been
promised an engagement was never established; the money he had
brought with him from Germany was all gone, and he saw nothing before
him but unhappiness for both. Their mutual friendship would have
alleviated it, but Eugenia's disposition marred everything.
One morning, when she was in the hall, she heard Edward, in the
passage, talking to the cook.
"Catherine," said he, in a low voice, "could you not occasionally
look to my linen? Nothing has been done to it since I have been here,
and soon I shall not have a shirt that is not torn."
"Indeed," cried Catherine, in a very loud voice, probably that
Eugenia might hear her, "I have so much time to amuse myself in that
way! Give them to Mademoiselle Eugenia; she might very well undertake
to keep them in order, but she thinks of nothing but playing the fine
lady."
"Catherine," replied Edward, in a very firm though low voice,
"Eugenia gives you no trouble, she asks no favours of you; and
consequently, what she does, or what she leaves undone, does not
concern you in any manner."
Eugenia, who had approached the door, did not lose a word of this
reply: her heart beat with a joy such as she had not experienced for
a long time. She would gladly have gone and embraced her brother,
but she did not dare to do so; some undefinable feeling restrained
her. However, she opened the door, when a servant came from Fanny's
aunt, to invite Edward to pass the evening with them. He said that he
would go. The heart of Eugenia was again oppressed: she closed the
door. "That does not prevent him from going out to enjoy himself,"
she said. And she threw herself into a chair weeping, and thinking
herself more unhappy than ever. The bare idea of what the cook had
said, threw her into a violent passion, without, however, leading her
to regret her negligence, so much did the thought of her own wrongs
prevent her from thinking of those which she inflicted upon others.
At dinner she was more than usually sad, and Edward appeared sad too.
A short time after they had left the table, he said that he was going
to his own room to study; "And then to spend the evening out?" said
Eugenia, with that tone of bitterness which had become habitual to
her.
"No," said Edward, "I shall not go."
"And by what wonderful chance?"
Edward told her, that when he was going to dress, he had found his
coat so much torn, that he was obliged to resolve on remaining at
home.
"That," said Eugenia, "is what happens to me every day."
"Well, Eugenia," he replied, "if that can console you, it will
henceforward also happen to me every day." With these words, he went
out of the room. Eugenia saw that she had grieved him, and, for the
first time in her life, she thought she might be in the wrong. It
was, also, the first time she had seen Edward sad and unhappy, and
this circumstance so occupied her mind, that she was prevented from
thinking so much of herself. Nevertheless, she was not very sorry
that he was obliged to remain in the house. When she returned to
her room, she heard Catherine, who was very cross with him, crying
out, that Madame did not understand having so many candles burnt,
that there were none in the house, and that she would not give him
any. Until that time, both Edward and Eugenia had bought candles for
themselves, in order to avoid Catherine's ill temper; but now Edward
had no money left. Whilst Catherine went away grumbling, Edward
remained leaning against the wall, with his arms folded, and his head
bent down. He was pale from the effort he had made to prevent himself
from answering Catherine. Although it was beginning to get dark,
Eugenia was so struck with the pallid and melancholy expression of
his usually animated countenance, that at that moment she would have
given the world to prevent his wanting anything. She timidly proposed
to him to come and sit in her room, as she had still some candle
left. He took his book, and commenced reading. Eugenia was careful
not to interrupt him; it seemed as if she were afraid, that by
hearing him speak, she should discover the extent of his melancholy;
and, besides, what she most wished at this time, was to have Edward
to do as he pleased. Two notes of invitation were brought to him, one
to a concert, which was to take place the following day, and to which
he had a great wish to go, the other to a ball, where he was to have
danced with Fanny. He threw them into the fire. "All that is past;"
he said, "I must think no more of it."
Oh, how these words pierced the heart of Eugenia! How she reproached
herself for what she had said, and for the joy she had at first
experienced. Edward went to bed early. As for herself, she could not
sleep all night; she thought how wrong she had been in neglecting
Edward's wardrobe, and she remembered that he had never even
reproached her. She determined not to lose a moment in putting it
in order. If she could also mend his coat! If he could go to the
concert! She waited with great impatience until it was daylight, and
until Edward had gone out in his morning wrapper. She then ran and
took his coat, sought among her wools for one to match it, found one,
and full of zeal, began her work; but the hole was so large, that she
tried in vain to cover it. A dozen times she unpicked what she had
done, and did it over again; but this kind of work upon a worn-out
material only increased the evil. Greatly excited, all flushed and
heated, the more she tried to get on, the less she advanced. At
length, when she had almost lost all hope of success, she heard
Edward return. She began to cry, and when he entered, he saw her with
the coat upon her knees, and her eyes filled with tears.
"Here," said she, "I had hoped you might have been able to go to the
concert, and I have only made the hole larger." Edward embraced her
tenderly; he was delighted to find her attentive, and occupied about
him; he called her his dear, his good Eugenia, but all these marks of
affection only increased her tears. She could not reconcile herself
to the thought of Edward's passing the whole winter without going out.
"I shall be like you then, my dear Eugenia," said Edward.
"Oh, don't think about me."
This was the first time she had made use of such an expression. It
was the first time such a sentiment had entered her heart; but she
had at length discovered that the griefs of those we love are much
more distressing than our own.
As soon as Edward had left her room, she ran to her drawers, gathered
together her few trinkets, and a louis that still remained of the
money that Edward had given her, and wrote to Mademoiselle Benoît,
telling her that she wanted most urgently to see her. Mademoiselle
Benoît came that very evening. Eugenia told her everything, and said
that with her trinkets and this money she must buy a coat for Edward;
but the trinkets were of too little value to answer the purpose.
Eugenia was in despair. Mademoiselle Benoît proposed a plan to her.
"I have taught you to make flowers," she said; "buy some materials,
and I will lend you some instruments, and also assist you. The winter
is coming on, ornaments will be required, we shall sell cheap, and
shall have as many customers as we desire."
Eugenia embraced Mademoiselle Benoît in a transport of joy. All
the vivacity she had formerly employed in making Agatha and her
companions angry, now returned, and she determined to commence on the
following day. She sometimes worked while Edward was present, but the
greater part of her work was executed in his absence. She would not
lose an instant. All her cheerfulness and bloom returned, and Edward
was astonished at the change. He thought it arose from her being no
longer jealous at seeing him go out without her; and notwithstanding
his kindness, he would sometimes have been tempted to be a little
vexed, if the uneasiness she manifested when she saw him sad, and
the industry with which she occupied herself, when not busy with her
flowers, in putting his linen in order, had not led him to forgive
what he regarded as a weakness.
At length, after two months' work, the necessary sum was completed.
The coat was ordered, made, brought home, and placed upon Edward's
bed. Eugenia had learned from Mademoiselle Benoît, that Fanny's aunt
was to give a ball, and she got Edward invited. He came home; she saw
him pass, and trembled for joy. He beheld the coat, and could not
conceive where it came from. Eugenia had no wish to conceal herself.
"It is I!" she exclaimed. "It is from my work--from my flowers; and
here is a note inviting you to a ball at Fanny's this evening."
"What!" said Edward, "are you occupying yourself about my pleasures,
while leading so dreary a life?"
"Oh! do not make yourself uneasy; I have discovered a plan of amusing
myself; I shall work for you."
Edward was deeply moved; he could not express to his sister all the
tenderness he felt for her, nor the esteem with which her conduct
inspired him. She would let him have no peace, however, until he
was dressed; until he had cast aside his old soiled coat, for the
beautiful new one. She was never tired of looking at him, so much
did she think him improved. She arranged his cravat and his hair.
She was anxious that everything should be in order, and she hurried
him to the ball, where she imagined that every one must be delighted
to see him, and she felt inexpressible joy at beholding him depart.
Mademoiselle Benoît, who came that evening to see her, found her as
much animated as if she had been at the ball herself.
"Do you think you love your brother as much now," she said, smiling,
"as when you were annoyed at his leaving you?"
"Oh! a great deal more."
"And have you had to complain of him during these two months?"
"I have never even thought of such a thing."
"I think, indeed, my dear child," said Mademoiselle Benoît, "that
an excellent plan to avoid complaining of people is to endeavour to
render them pleased with us."
Edward returned home early. Eugenia scolded him for doing so; but
he came because he had good news to tell her. Although, from a
feeling of proper pride, he did not like to speak of his happiness,
he, nevertheless, was not proud with Fanny, who was so kind and
sensible; besides, he wanted to tell her what Eugenia had done for
him. Whilst he was relating the affair, one of Fanny's relations,
who was behind them, heard a part of what was said, and wished to
learn the remainder. As he was Fanny's guardian, and a person in whom
she had great confidence, she related the circumstance to him, and
spoke, moreover, of Edward's position. This guardian was an excellent
man; he conversed with Edward, and found that he possessed both
intelligence and good feelings: he was a banker, and he told him that
he would take him into his counting-house and give him a salary: and,
indeed, Edward entered on his new duties the following day. His first
month's salary was partly employed in purchasing a dress for Eugenia.
She was sorry for it, though not excessively so, for the dress was so
pretty, and it was so long since she had a new one. But the following
month he bought her a bonnet to match the dress. This time, she
scolded him seriously.
"Very well," said he, "take my money, and let us spend it in common."
Eugenia became his manager; she bought nothing for herself, but she
was delighted when she could put in order or mend any of Edward's
clothes. She purchased, bargained, and economised for him, and was
so careful of his money, that she would not always let him have some
when he asked for it, so that he sometimes tried to steal a part of
it from her, in order to make her presents.
Edward related to her every evening, what he had seen and what he had
done. If sometimes she felt disposed to be a little vexed because he
returned home rather later than usual, she took one of his shirts to
mend, and thought no more of her ill humour. Mademoiselle Benoît,
finding her once thus occupied, said to her, "You must allow, that
when we make our happiness consist in the attentions which others
bestow upon us, we may often be disappointed, because they are not
always disposed to grant these attentions; whereas, when we make it
consist in what we do for them, we have it always at our own command."
The banker's wife, who was as kind as her husband, had just returned
from a journey; Edward soon spoke to her of Eugenia. She wished to
see her: called on her, took her to her house, where Eugenia even
passed some days with her, while their cousin, delighted at having
saved her favourite canary from a violent attack of the cramp,
troubled herself as little at seeing her go out as she had done at
seeing her stay within, wasting away with _ennui_. The banker's wife
also introduced her to Fanny's aunt, and the two girls were soon
united in the most tender friendship.
The affairs of Edward and Eugenia were arranged, they succeeded to
a small inheritance, and are now in easy circumstances. A marriage
is spoken of between Edward and Fanny, and it is also possible
that Eugenia may marry the banker's son. She is very happy, since
affection has conquered the defects of her character. She still
finds them starting up occasionally, but when she feels disposed to
be irritable, jealous, or exacting, she always succeeds, by dint of
reasoning, in convincing herself that her ill humour is unjust; and
if it be directed against any one she loves, she says, "_I suppose I
do not yet love them sufficiently._"
MARIE;
OR THE FEAST OF CORPUS CHRISTI.
At the commencement of the revolution, Madame d'Aubecourt had
followed her husband into a foreign country. In 1796, she returned to
France, with her two children, Alphonse and Lucie, for, as her name
did not stand on the list of emigrants, she was able to appear there
without danger, and to exert herself to obtain permission for her
husband's return. She remained two years in Paris with this intent;
but at length, having failed in her efforts, and being assured
by her friends that the time was not propitious for her purpose,
she determined to quit the capital and proceed to the seat of her
father-in-law, old M. d'Aubecourt, with whom her husband wished
her to reside, until he was able to rejoin her: besides, having no
resources but the money sent her by her father-in-law, she was glad
to diminish his expenses by residing with him. Every letter which she
received from him, was filled with complaints of the hardness of the
times, and with reflections on her obstinacy, in persevering in such
useless efforts; and to all this he never failed to add, that as for
himself, it would be altogether impossible for him to live in Paris,
since it was difficult enough for him to manage in the country, where
he could eat his own cabbages and potatoes. These complaints were
not suggested by poverty, for M. d'Aubecourt was tolerably rich,
but like the majority of old people, he was disposed to torment
himself on the score of expense, and his daughter-in-law perceived
that however economically she might live in Paris, her only means of
tranquillizing him, was to go and live under his own eyes.
She therefore set out with her children, in the month of January,
1799, for Guicheville, the estate of M. d'Aubecourt. Alphonse was
then fourteen years of age, and Lucie nearly twelve: shut up for
two years in Paris, where her mother, overwhelmed with business,
had but little time to devote to them, they were delighted to go
into the country, and were but little troubled about what she
told them, respecting the great care they would have to take not
to teaze and irritate their grandpapa, whom age and the gout had
rendered habitually discontented and melancholy. They mounted the
diligence full of joy; but as the cold gained upon them, their ideas
sobered down. A night passed in the carriage served to depress
them completely; and when, on the following evening, they reached
the place where they were to leave the diligence, they felt their
hearts as sad as if some terrible misfortune had just befallen them.
Guicheville was still a league distant, and this they must travel
on foot, across a country covered with snow, as M. d'Aubecourt had
only sent a peasant to meet them with an ass to carry their luggage.
When the man proposed starting, Lucie looked at her mother with
a frightened air, as if to ask her if that were possible. Madame
d'Aubecourt observed that as their conductor had managed to come
from Guicheville to the place where they were, there was nothing to
prevent them from going from that place to Guicheville.
As to Alphonse, the moment he regained the freedom of his limbs, he
recovered all his gaiety. He walked on before them, to clear their
way as he said, and to sound the ruts, which he called precipices.
He talked to the ass, and endeavoured to make him bray, and in fact
made such a noise, with his cries of, "_Take care of yourselves,
take care of the bogs!_" that he might have been mistaken for a
whole caravan; he even succeeded so well in cheering Lucie, that, on
arriving at their destination, she had forgotten the cold, the night,
and the snow. Their merry laugh as they crossed the court-yard of
the château, called forth two or three old servants, who, from time
immemorial, had not heard a laugh at Guicheville, and the great dog
barked loudly at it, as at a sound quite unknown to him. They waited
in the hall for some time, when presently M. d'Aubecourt appeared
at the dining-room door, exclaiming, "What a racket!" These words
restored quiet; and seeing all three of them wet and muddy, from head
to foot, he said to Madame d'Aubecourt, "If you had only come six
months ago, as I continually pressed you to do ... but there was no
getting you to listen to reason." Madame d'Aubecourt gently excused
herself, and her father-in-law ushered them into a large room with
yellow wainscoting and red furniture, where, by the side of a small
fire, and a single candle, her children had time to resume all their
sadness. They presently heard Miss Raymond, the housekeeper, scolding
the peasant, who had conducted them, because, he had put their
packages upon a chair instead of upon the table. "See," she said,
in a tone of ill temper, "they have already begun to put my house
into disorder." The instant after, Alphonse, rendered thirsty by the
exercise he had given his legs, went out to get a glass of water, and
perhaps also to obtain a moment's recreation by leaving the room;
he had the misfortune to drink out of his grandfather's glass, and
Mademoiselle Raymond, perceiving it, ran to him, as if the house had
been on fire.
"No one is allowed to drink out of M. d'Aubecourt's glass," she
exclaimed: Alphonse excused himself by saying that he did not know it
was M. d'Aubecourt's glass. Mademoiselle Raymond wished to prove to
him that he ought to have known it; Alphonse replied; Mademoiselle
Raymond became more and more vexed, and Alphonse getting angry in his
turn, answered her in no very polite terms, and then returned to the
dining-room, slamming the door after him with considerable violence.
Mademoiselle Raymond immediately followed him, and shutting the door
with marked precaution, said to M. d'Aubecourt, in a voice still
trembling with passion, "As you dislike any noise with the door, you
will have the kindness to mention it yourself to your grandson; for,
as to me, he will not allow me to speak to him." "What do you say,
Mademoiselle?" replied M. d'Aubecourt, "is this the style in which
children are brought up in the present day? must we bow to them?"
Fortunately Madame d'Aubecourt was by the side of her son; she
pressed his arm to prevent him from answering his grandfather, but
he stamped his feet impatiently, and did not speak a word until
supper-time. At table they ate but little, and spoke still less, and
immediately after Madame d'Aubecourt asked permission to retire. When
they were in the room which she and her daughter were to occupy,
Lucie, who had until then restrained herself, began to cry, and
Alphonse, walking about the room, in great agitation, exclaimed,
"This is a pretty beginning!" then he continued, "Mademoiselle
Raymond had better take care how she speaks to me again in that
style."
"Alphonse," said his mother with some little severity, "remember that
you are in your grandfather's house."
"Yes, but not in Mademoiselle Raymond's."
"You are where it is your grandfather's will that she should be
treated with respect."
"Certainly, when she does not clamour in my ears."
"I believe, indeed, that you would not be guilty of any want of
respect towards her, did she treat you as she ought to do."
"And if she does not, I owe her nothing."
"You owe her all that you owe to the wishes of your grandfather, to
whom you would be greatly wanting in respect, were you capable of
misconducting yourself towards a person who possesses his confidence.
There are persons, Alphonse, whose very caprices we are bound to
respect, for we ought to spare them even their unjust displeasure."
Then she added, with more tenderness, "My dear children, you do not
yet understand what caprice and injustice are; you have never been
accustomed to them, either from your father or me; but you will do
wrong to imagine that you will be able to pass your lives, as you
have hitherto done, without having your rights infringed, or your
actions restrained, when they are proper in themselves. You must now
begin to learn,--you, Alphonse, to repress your hastiness, which may
lead you into many serious faults, and you, Lucie, to overcome your
weakness, which may render you unhappy." Then she added, smiling, "We
will serve together our apprenticeship in patience and courage." Her
children embraced her affectionately; they had unbounded confidence
in her, and besides, there was so much sweetness in her disposition,
that it was impossible to resist her. Lucie was quite consoled by her
mother's words, and Alphonse went to bed, assuring her, however, that
he was so much excited, that he should not be able to sleep the whole
night. Nevertheless, he no sooner laid his head upon his pillow, than
he fell into a sound sleep, which lasted until the following morning.
When he awoke, he was astonished to hear the warbling of the birds,
for he had persuaded himself, since the previous evening, that they
would not dare to sing at Guicheville. As for them, however, deceived
by the warm sun and mild atmosphere, which melted the snow, they
seemed to fancy that the spring was commencing. This idea rendered
them quite joyous, and Alphonse began to be joyous also. He ran about
the park in the _sabots_ which his mother had bought for him on the
previous evening: then he returned for his sister, whom, somewhat
against her inclination, he dragged through the mud of the park,
from which she did not so easily extricate herself as he did. At
first she found her sabots very heavy, and very inconvenient: one of
them she nearly left in a hole, and two or three times she almost
gave up in despair. Alphonse sometimes assisted her; sometimes
laughed at her, promising to harden her to it. He returned home,
pleased with everything, and disposed to put up with a good deal from
Mademoiselle Raymond, whom he found to be better tempered than on the
previous evening.