felt that the only means of making anything of Marie was by gaining
her confidence, which could only be done by degrees; by seldom
quitting her, by taking an interest in what amused and pleased her,
by endeavouring to give her an interest in things with which she was
as yet unacquainted, by talking to her, in order to oblige her to
reflect, and thus implant some ideas in her mind, which was naturally
quick enough, but totally devoid of culture. Could she have followed
her own wishes, she would, in the first instance, have overlooked all
faults arising from impetuosity, want of reflection, or ignorance,
reserving her severity for grave occasions, or rather without making
use of any severity, she might have succeeded in leading Marie by the
sole desire of giving her satisfaction. Whereas, instead of that,
obliged to be incessantly scolding her for faults slight enough in
themselves, but seriously annoying to M. d'Aubecourt, she had no
means of insisting, with particular emphasis, on more important
matters. Besides, it happened that, for the first time in his life,
M. d'Aubecourt had a violent attack of the gout, and as he was unable
to walk, the society of his daughter-in-law had become indispensable
to him, and she seldom quitted his room; so that Marie was more
than ever left to herself, with no other guardian or preceptor than
Alphonse.
Nor was he altogether useless to her. Her want of sense rendered him
more reasonable: the defects of her education made him appreciate the
advantages he had derived from his own; he corrected her whenever
she made use of any vulgar expressions; he taught her to speak
French, and scolded her if she happened to repeat any word for which
she had already been reprimanded, and by his mother's advice he
made her repeat the reading lesson which Madame d'Aubecourt gave
him every morning. Marie took great pleasure in doing everything
required by Alphonse, who was fond of her, and liked to be with her,
and whose presence never embarrassed her, as he had similar tastes
with herself. Therefore, when she had read well, and he perceived
she took pains to pronounce the words he had taught her, he would
not patiently suffer her to be found fault with; and he was fond of
boasting of her dexterity and intelligence in their games, and of the
vivacity and at the same time gentleness of her disposition.
And in truth, as he observed to his mother, no one had ever
seen Marie in a passion, nor had she ever been known to exhibit
any impatience at being kept waiting, or any irritability when
contradicted. Always ready to oblige, the ball of worsted had no
sooner fallen on the floor, than she had picked it up, and she was
always the first to run and fetch Madame d'Aubecourt's handkerchief
from the other end of the room. If, while eating her breakfast, she
saw any poor person, she was sure to give him almost the whole of her
bread; and one day, when a cat had flown at Zizi, and was biting him,
Marie, notwithstanding the scratching and anger of the animal, tore
him from Zizi's back, where he had already drawn blood, and threw him
to a great distance; at the same time becoming angry with Alphonse,
for the first time in her life, because he laughed at Zizi's
predicament, instead of trying to extricate him. Alphonse laughed
still more at his cousin's anger, but he related the circumstance
to his mother. Lucie, who had also seen what Marie had done, told
Gothon of it, and she informed Mademoiselle Raymond; but Mademoiselle
Raymond was so much excited against Marie, that she would not have
been moved by anything that came from her, even had Zizi himself
related it to her.
However, these various manifestations of Marie's kindness began
to increase her cousin's affection for her. The feast of Corpus
Christi was drawing near, and Lucy had worked for several days with
great industry upon an ornament, designed for the altar which was
to be erected in the court-yard of the château. Marie had watched
her working with much pleasure; she had a great respect for the
ceremonies of the church, and this was about the whole amount of
the religious education her nurse had been able to impart to her.
Deprived for a long time of the clergy and the mass, the poor woman
had regretted them exceedingly, and when the practices of religion
were re-established, she experienced great delight, in which Marie
shared, though without very well knowing why, for her knowledge did
not extend very far; but she was always angry when the little boys of
the village made use of any irreligious expressions, and told them
that God would punish them. She had learned by heart the prayers, in
order to sing them at church with the priests, and Lucie was somewhat
embarrassed by this, because it attracted attention to them; but
Madame d'Aubecourt allowed her to continue the practice, as she sung
with earnestness, and was thereby kept quiet in church. She was fond
of going to church, because her nurse had told her to pray for her;
and now she thought she was performing a meritorious act, in standing
by Lucie's frame, while the latter worked the ornament for the altar,
and assisting her by cutting her silks, threading her needles, and
handing her the scissors.
Since the day that she made her escape into the fields in order to
avoid returning to Guicheville, she had never been allowed to visit
her nurse; this favour was denied under pretence of punishing her,
but in reality because the poor woman was so ill that she no longer
seemed conscious of anything. Madame d'Aubecourt had been several
times to see her, but without being recognised. She took care that
she wanted nothing that could alleviate her condition, but she was
anxious to spare Marie so sad a scene. Marie, taken up with a crowd
of objects, only thought of her nurse occasionally, and then she
manifested great impatience to go and see her. She had no idea of
her being in danger, and flattered herself, as she had been led to
expect, that when she recovered, she would come to Guicheville. The
evening before the fête, being in the yard, she saw a peasant who had
come from the village in which her nurse lived. She ran to him, asked
him how her nurse was, and whether she would soon be able to come to
Guicheville.
"Oh! poor woman," said the peasant, shaking his head, "she will go
nowhere but to the other world, every one says that she will not be
long here."
Marie was struck as with a thunderbolt. This idea had never occurred
to her. Pale and trembling, she asked the man whether her nurse had
got worse, and how and when she had become so.
"Oh! Mademoiselle Marie," said he, "ever since you left her she has
been declining; that is what has brought her to the state she is in."
He was, however, wrong in this opinion, for during the few conscious
moments that she had enjoyed since Marie's departure, she had greatly
rejoiced that her mind was at rest on her account, but what the man
had said was the rumour of the village. Marie, weeping and sobbing,
ran to find Alphonse, for she was afraid to address herself directly
to Madame d'Aubecourt, and she entreated him to ask his mother to
let her go and see her nurse. "I will come back," she said, clasping
her hands; "tell her that I promise to come back the moment Gothon
tells me." Alphonse much moved, rose to beg his mother to grant the
permission which Marie solicited; he met his sister, who whispered to
him that they had just learnt that the nurse had died the previous
evening,--the peasant had slept at the town, and therefore was not
aware of what had happened. Marie, who followed Alphonse at some
distance, saw him stop to speak to Lucie, and exclaimed, "Oh! do
not prevent him from asking if I may go to see her, I promise you I
will return." Her look was so suppliant, and the expression of her
sorrow so intense, that Lucie had great difficulty in restraining her
tears while listening to her. They made a sign to her to tranquillize
herself, and hastened to their mother to state her request.
Madame d'Aubecourt did not wish to inform her at that moment of
her nurse's death, for though Marie had usually excellent health,
yet during the last few days she had exhibited, on two or three
occasions, feverish symptoms, consequent upon her rapid growth,
and Madame d'Aubecourt was afraid that this intelligence might be
injurious to her. She hastened to Marie and endeavoured to calm
her, promising that in a few days she should do as she wished, but
that at the present moment it was impossible, as Gothon, Lucie, and
herself were busy in working for the festival of the following day.
She assured her also, that it was quite a mistake to suppose that
it was her departure which had made her nurse so ill, and at length
she succeeded in tranquillizing her a little. But for the first time
in her life, Marie experienced a sorrow which fixed itself upon her
heart, and would not leave it. She thought of her poor nurse, of the
last time she had embraced her, of her grief when she saw her depart,
and then she uttered cries of anguish. She prayed to God, and several
times in the night she woke Lucie, by repeating, in an under-tone,
as she kneeled on her bed, all the prayers she knew. She thought
that the following day, being a grand festival, it would be the most
favourable time to beg of God to restore her nurse to health, and
as her devotion was not very rational, she imagined that to merit
this grace, the best thing she could do was to contribute to the
adornment of the altar, which was to be erected in the court-yard
of the château. She therefore rose before it was light, and left
her room unheard, for the purpose of seeking, in a particular part
of the park, for some flowers which she had observed growing there,
and of which she intended to make some bouquets and garlands; but on
reaching the spot, she perceived, to her great grief, that a heavy
rain which had fallen the evening before, had destroyed all the
blossoms on the trees. She could not find a single branch that was
not faded, and in the rest of the park there were scarcely any but
lofty trees. She saw no chance of meeting with anything of which she
could make a bouquet. Whilst looking about, however, she passed by M.
d'Aubecourt's garden, which at daybreak exhaled a delightful perfume;
she thought that if she were to take a few flowers they would not be
missed. She began by gathering them cautiously, in different places;
then, when she had plucked a very beautiful one, another like it was
requisite to form a pendant, on the other side of the altar; thus
her zeal, and her love of symmetry, led her at every moment into
fresh temptations, and then she remembered that M. d'Aubecourt had
the gout, that he could not leave the house, and would not see his
flowers, that they would be of no use to any one and that no one
would know what she had done: at last she forgot all prudence, and
the garden was almost entirely stripped.
Just as she had finished her collection, she perceived from the
terrace, the peasant who had spoken to her, passing along the road,
at the bottom of the park; she called to him and begged him to tell
her nurse not to be too much grieved, that she should soon go and see
her, for they had promised to allow her to do so.
"Oh! poor woman," said the man, "you will never see her again,
Mademoiselle Marie, they are deceiving you, but that is not my
business."
With these words he struck his horse, and galloped off. Marie, in
the greatest anxiety, threw down her flowers, and ran into the yard,
to see if she could find any one who could explain to her what the
man meant. She saw the kitchen-maid, who was drawing water from the
well, and asked her whether Madame d'Aubecourt had sent the previous
evening to inquire about her nurse. "Sent, indeed!" said the girl,
"it was not worth while." Marie became dreadfully uneasy, and began
to question her, but the girl refused to reply. "But why," said
Marie, "why did Peter tell me I should never see her again?"
"I suppose," replied the servant, "he had his own reasons for saying
so," and she went away, saying that she must attend to her work.
Marie, though it had not yet occurred to her that her nurse was dead,
nevertheless was very unhappy, for she perceived that something was
concealed from her, and being timid in asking questions, she was at a
loss to know how to obtain the information she wanted. At this moment
she perceived one of the small doors of the yard open. She had so
long been in the habit of running alone in the fields, that she could
not believe there was any great harm in doing so, and, accustomed to
yield to all her emotions, and never to reflect upon the consequences
of her actions, she ran out while the servant's back was turned,
determined to go herself and learn something about her nurse.
She walked as fast as she could, agitated with anxiety, at one
moment for her nurse, at another for herself. She knew she was doing
wrong, but having once begun, she continued. She thought of what
Alphonse would say, who, though always ready to excuse her before
others, would, nevertheless, scold her afterwards, and sometimes
severely enough, and she remembered her promise to him, only a few
days before, to be more docile, and more attentive to what Madame
d'Aubecourt said to her. She thought, too, that it might be for her
want of due submission, that God had thus punished her, for she had
yet to learn that it is not in this world that God manifests his
judgments. However, she did not think of returning; she felt as if
she could not go back; and then the idea of seeing her nurse again,
and of comforting her, filled her with anticipations of pleasure,
which it was impossible for her to renounce. Poor Marie! the nearer
she drew, the more she dwelt upon all this, and the more lively
became her joy. The anxieties which had tormented her, began to
vanish. She hurried on, reached the village, ran to her nurse's door,
and found it closed: she turned pale, but yet without daring to
conjecture the truth.
"Has my nurse gone out?" was all she could ask of a neighbour, who
was standing at her door, and who looked at her with an air of
sadness.
"She has gone out, never to return," was the reply. Marie trembled,
and with clasped hands leaned against the wall.
"She was carried to her grave yesterday evening," added the woman.
"To her grave!... Yesterday!... How?... Where have they taken her?"
"To Guicheville; the cemetery is at Guicheville."
Marie experienced an emotion indescribably painful, on learning that,
the evening before, and so near to her, the funeral had taken place,
without her knowledge. She recollected having heard the tolling of
the bells, and it appeared to her, that not to have known it was for
her poor nurse they were tolled, was like losing her a second time;
then, as the thought of never seeing her again passed before her
mind, she sat down on the ground by the door, and wept bitterly.
During this time, the neighbour told her that her nurse had regained
her consciousness a few hours before her death, and had prayed to
God for her little Marie, and had also spoken of her to the Curé of
Guicheville, whom Madame d'Aubecourt had sent to see her. Marie wept
still more. The woman tried to induce her to return to Guicheville,
but she would not listen to it. At length, after she had cried for
a long time, the good woman took her to her cottage, and succeeded
in making her drink a little milk, and eat a piece of bread, when,
seeing her more calm, she again endeavoured to persuade her to return
home. But Marie, who was now capable of reflection, could not endure
the idea of facing Madame d'Aubecourt, whom she had disobeyed: still,
what was to become of her? Her sorrow for the loss of her nurse was
redoubled. "If she were not dead," said she, sobbing, "I should have
remained with her." But these regrets were to no purpose: this the
neighbour tried to make her understand, and this Marie felt but too
well; nevertheless, as her reason did not restrain her when she was
about to leave Guicheville, neither did it in the present instance
induce her to return, although she knew it was necessary; but Marie
had never learned to make use of her reason, to control either her
impulses, her wishes, or her antipathies.
At length, the woman perceiving, after two hours of entreaty, that
she could gain nothing, and that Marie still continued there, either
pensive or crying, without saying a word or deciding on anything, she
determined to send to Guicheville, and inform Madame d'Aubecourt; but
when she returned from the fields, where she had gone to seek her son
to send him with the message, Marie was not to be found. She sought
for her in vain through the whole village, and at length learned that
she had been seen going along a road which led to Guicheville. She
immediately suspected that she must have gone to the cemetery, and
in fact Marie had gone there, but not by the direct way, for fear
of meeting any of the inmates of the château. As the boy had not
yet started, his mother ordered him to take the shortest way to the
house, and tell them that it was in the direction of the cemetery
they must look for Marie.
During Marie's absence, a terrible scene had been enacted at the
château. M. d'Aubecourt, who she imagined would be confined to his
room for another week, feeling much better, wished to take advantage
of a lovely morning to go and see his garden. As he approached it,
leaning on the arm of Mademoiselle Raymond, he perceived Marie's hat
half-filled with the flowers which she had collected, and part of
which lay scattered on the ground, where she had dropped them, after
having spoken to the peasant. He recognised his streaked roses, and
his tricoloured geraniums; he picked them up, anxiously examined
them, and looked at Mademoiselle Raymond, who, shaking her head,
observed, "It is Mademoiselle Marie's hat." He hurried on to his
garden; it seemed as if an enemy had passed through it: branches
were broken, bushes had been separated in order to get at a flower
which happened to be in the midst of them, and one border was quite
spoiled, for Marie had fallen upon it with her whole length, and in
her fall had broken a young sweetbrier, recently grafted.
M. d'Aubecourt, whose sole occupation and pleasure consisted in his
flowers, and who was accustomed to see them respected by every one,
was so disturbed at the condition in which he beheld his garden, that
the shock, increased, perhaps, by the effect of the air, or by his
having walked too fast, made him turn pale, and lean on the arm of
Mademoiselle Raymond, saying that he felt faint. Greatly frightened,
she called out for assistance. At this moment, Madame d'Aubecourt
came up: she was calling for Marie, and very uneasy at not finding
her anywhere.
"You want Mademoiselle Marie," said Mademoiselle Raymond: "see what
she has done!" and she pointed to M. d'Aubecourt, to the pillaged
garden, and to the hat filled with flowers. Madame d'Aubecourt did
not in the least understand what all this meant, but she hastened
to her father-in-law, who said to her in a feeble voice, "She will
kill me." He was carried to his bed, where he remained a long time in
the same state. He experienced suffocating paroxysms, which scarcely
permitted him to breathe. The gout had mounted to his chest, and they
feared every moment that he would be stifled. Madame d'Aubecourt
perceiving that the mere name of Marie redoubled his agitation,
endeavoured, though in vain, to impose silence on Mademoiselle
Raymond, who was incessantly repeating, "It is Mademoiselle Marie who
has brought him to this condition." Lucie, quite ignorant of what
had happened, came to tell her mother that Marie was nowhere to be
found, and that perhaps it would be advisable to send some one to the
village, where her nurse had resided.
"Yes! look for her everywhere," said M. d'Aubecourt in a low voice,
interrupted by his difficulty of breathing. "Yes! look for her
everywhere, in order that she may kill me outright."
Madame d'Aubecourt entreated him to be calm, assuring him that
nothing should be done but what he wished, and that Marie should not
come into his presence without his permission.
In the mean time, the news of what Mademoiselle Raymond called
Marie's wickedness, soon spread through the château. Alphonse was
thunderstruck, not that he believed in any bad motive on the part
of his cousin, but, accustomed to respect his own duties, he could
not conceive how any one could so forget themselves. Lucie, who was
beginning to be fond of Marie, felt grieved and anxious; the servants
talked over the matter amongst themselves, without much regretting
Marie, who had not made herself loved by them; for it is not enough
to be kind-hearted, it is necessary to use sufficient reflection
to render our kindness agreeable and beneficial to others. Marie,
sometimes familiar with the servants, would very often not listen to
them when they spoke to her, or would deride their remonstrances. She
always laughed when she saw the cook, who was deformed, pass by, and
she had several times told the kitchen-maid that she squinted. She
had never asked herself whether these remarks gave pain or pleasure
to those to whom they were addressed.
Almost the whole of the morning was passed in anxiety, and the man
who had been sent to the village, had not returned, when the Curé
came to the château, and requested to see Madame d'Aubecourt. As he
was leaving the church, after having finished the service, he met the
son of the neighbour with whom Marie had spoken, and being acquainted
with him, he asked him if he knew what had become of Marie, for he
had been informed of her disappearance. The peasant told him what had
taken place, and added, that he thought she must be in the cemetery.
They immediately went there, and looking over the hedge, they beheld
Marie seated on the ground, crying. They saw her kneel down with
clasped hands, then kiss the earth, and afterwards seat herself
again, and weep, with a depth of sorrow which penetrated them to the
soul. It was evident that at that moment Marie believed herself alone
in the world, and abandoned by every one. She entreated her nurse to
pray for her.
They did not enter the cemetery for fear of frightening her, but
the Curé, leaving the peasant as sentinel, went to communicate his
discovery to Madame d'Aubecourt. She was very much embarrassed;
she could not leave her father-in-law, though he was beginning to
recover, for the slightest agitation might cause a relapse, and
she was satisfied that neither Mademoiselle Raymond, nor any one
belonging to the house, would succeed in inducing Marie to return.
She hoped the Curé would be able to effect this, and as she did not
wish her to enter the château at the present moment, for fear the
news might reach M. d'Aubecourt, she requested the clergyman to take
her to his house, where his sister, who had been a nun, now resided
with him.
In consequence of this determination, the Curé returned to the
cemetery, where he found Marie still in the same attitude. When she
saw him, she turned pale and blushed alternately; yet, however she
may have stood in awe of him, she felt so completely abandoned, since
she no longer dared to return to the château, that she experienced an
emotion of joy on seeing some one whom she knew.
"Marie, what have you done?" said the Curé, addressing her with some
degree of severity. She hid her face in her hands, and sobbed. "Do
you know what has taken place at the château?" he continued. "M.
d'Aubecourt has been so overcome by the ingratitude you have evinced
in devastating his garden, which you knew was his sole delight,
that he has had a relapse, and Madame d'Aubecourt has passed the
whole morning agitated by the anguish occasioned by his condition,
by her anxiety on account of your flight, and by her grief for the
impropriety of your conduct."
"Oh, M. le Curé," exclaimed poor Marie, "it was not from wickedness,
I assure you. I wanted to adorn the altar, that God might grant me
the grace of curing my poor nurse; and she was already _there_," she
said, pointing to the ground, and redoubling her sobs.
[Illustration: The Curé, profoundly touched by her simplicity,
seated himself by her side, upon a bank of turf.--P. 248.]