side, upon a bank of turf, and said to her with more gentleness, "Do
you think, Marie, that the way to please God, and obtain his favours,
is to distress your uncle, who has received you into his family, and
to disobey Madame d'Aubecourt, who shares with you the little she
has reserved for her own children. If anything can afflict the souls
of the just, you have distressed that of your poor nurse, who looks
down upon you, I hope, from heaven, for she was a worthy woman. She
regained her consciousness for some hours before her death. I visited
her at the request of Madame d'Aubecourt, and in speaking of you,
she said, 'I hope God will not punish me for not having done all
that was necessary to restore her sooner to her relations. I loved
her so much, that I had not the resolution to separate myself from
her. I know very well that a poor woman like me could not give her an
education. She has often grieved me also, because she would not go
to school, and because I had not the heart to oppose her. Oh, M. le
Curé, entreat her for my sake, to learn well, and to be obedient to
Madame d'Aubecourt, in order that I may not have to answer before God
for her ignorance and her faults.'"
Marie still continued weeping, but less bitterly. She had again knelt
down, and clasped her hands; it seemed as if she was listening to her
nurse herself, and entreating her forgiveness for the grief she had
caused her. After the Curé had admonished her for some time longer,
she said to him in a low voice, "M. le Curé, I entreat of you to ask
forgiveness for me of Madame d'Aubecourt; beg Alphonse and Lucie to
forgive me; say that I will do all they tell me, and learn all they
wish."
"I do not know, my child," said the Curé, "whether you will again be
permitted to see them. M. d'Aubecourt is so extremely angry with you,
that your mere name redoubles his sufferings, and I am afraid you
cannot return to the château."
This intelligence struck Marie like a thunderbolt: she had just clung
to the idea that she would do all she possibly could to please her
relations, and now they abandoned her--cast her off. She uttered
cries almost of despair. The Curé had much difficulty in calming
her, with the assurance that he would exert himself to obtain her
pardon, and that if she would aid him by her good conduct, he hoped
to succeed. She allowed herself to be led without resistance. He took
her to his own house, and gave her into the charge of his sister, a
very worthy woman, though somewhat severe. Her first intention had
been to reprimand Marie; but when she saw her so unhappy, and so
submissive, she could think of nothing but consoling her.
The Curé returned to the château to give an account of what he had
done. Madame d'Aubecourt and Lucie were affected as he had been
himself by the sentiments of poor Marie, and Alphonse, with his eyes
moist with tears, and at the same time sparkling with joy, exclaimed,
"I said so." He had not, however, said anything, but he had thought
that Marie could not be altogether in fault. It was arranged that as
her return to the château was out of the question for the present,
she was to remain as a boarder with the Curé. Madame d'Aubecourt,
on leaving Paris, had sold some of her remaining jewels, and had
destined the money she received from them for the support of herself
and her children. It was out of this small sum that she paid in
advance, the first quarter's salary for Marie, for she well knew that
the present was not the time to ask M. d'Aubecourt for anything.
Alphonse and Lucie rejoiced at the arrangement, as it did not remove
Marie away from them, and Alphonse promised himself to be able to
go and continue her reading lessons; but the following day the Curé
came to announce to them that his sister had received a letter from
her superior, inviting her to rejoin her, and a few other nuns of
the same convent, whom she had gathered together. He added that his
sister proposed to set out at once, and that if they consented to
it, she would take Marie, who would thus pass with her the time of
her penitence. Alphonse was on the point of protesting against this
proposition, but his mother made him feel the necessity of accepting
it, and all three went to take leave of Marie, who was to set out on
the following day. Marie was extremely grieved when she learned the
mode in which they disposed of her; she felt much more vividly her
attachment to her relations since she had been separated from them,
and it now seemed to her that she was never to see them again, and
she said, crying, "They took me from my nurse in the same way, and
she is dead." But she had become docile; and, besides, Madame Sainte
Therèse,--such was the name of the Curé's sister,--had something in
her manner which awed her a good deal. When she heard of the arrival
of Madame d'Aubecourt and her children, she trembled very much,
and had she been the Marie of a former time, she would have made
her escape; but a look from Madame Sainte Therèse restrained her.
Lucie, on entering, went and threw her arms round her neck, and she
was so much moved by this mark of affection, when she only expected
severity, that she returned the embrace with her whole heart, and
began to weep. Alphonse was exceedingly sad, and she scarcely dared
to speak to him, or look at him. "Marie," he said, "we are all very
grieved at losing you." He could say no more, for his heart was full,
and he knew that a man ought not to display his sorrow too much,
but Marie clearly perceived that he was not angry with her. Madame
d'Aubecourt said to her, "My child, you have occasioned us all very
great grief in compelling us to separate ourselves from you, but I
hope all will yet be well, and that by your good conduct you will
afford us the opportunity of having you back again." Marie kissed
her hand tenderly, and assured her that she would conduct herself
properly, she had promised it, she said, to God and to her poor nurse.
They were astonished at the change that had been wrought in her by
two days of misery and reflection. She save sensible answers to
all that was said to her, she remained quiet upon her chair, and
already looked to Madame Sainte Therèse from time to time, for fear
of saying or doing anything which might displease her. The austere
look of this lady somewhat terrified Alphonse and Lucie, on their
cousin's account, but they knew that she was a very virtuous person,
and that there is nothing really alarming in the severity of the
virtuous, because it is never unjust, and can always be avoided by
doing one's duty. Alphonse gave Marie a book, in which he begged her
to read a page every day for his sake, and he also gave her a little
silver pencil-case, for the time when she should be able to write.
Lucie gave her her silver thimble, her ornamented scissors, an ivory
needlecase, and a _ménagère_, furnished with threads, because Marie
had promised to learn to work. Madame d'Aubecourt gave her a linen
dress, which she and Lucie had made for her in two days. Marie was
greatly consoled by all this kindness, and they separated, all very
melancholy, but still loving each other much more truly than they had
done during the two months they had passed together, because they
were now much more reasonable.
Marie departed; M. d'Aubecourt recovered; and quiet was again
restored in the château: but this sending away of Marie was a subject
of great surprise in the village, and as Mademoiselle Raymond had
not concealed her aversion for her, she was looked upon as its cause.
She herself was not liked, and an increased interest was therefore
felt in Marie's fate. Philip, the gardener's son, who regretted Marie
because she played with him, told all the little boys of the village
that Zizi was the cause of Mademoiselle Raymond's antipathy to her,
and whenever she passed through the streets with Zizi, she heard them
say, "Look, there's the dog that got Mademoiselle Marie sent away!"
She therefore did not dare to take him out with her, except into the
fields, and this consequently increased her ill feeling towards Marie.
As to M. d'Aubecourt, on the contrary, being kind-hearted, though
subject to whims and ill-temper, he had ceased to be irritated
against her, now that she was no longer in his way. He permitted
Madame d'Aubecourt to talk of her, and even to read to him the
letters in which Madame Sainte Therèse gave an account of her good
conduct; and, finally, as no one knew better than Madame d'Aubecourt
how to persuade people to do what was right, because all were won by
her extreme sweetness, while her good sense inspired confidence in
her judgment, she induced him to pay the trifling salary of Marie;
and he even sent her a dress. It was Alphonse who communicated
all this good news to her, at the same time adding, that both his
sister and himself endeavoured to do everything they could to please
their grandfather, that when he was very much satisfied with them,
he might grant them a favour, which would give them more pleasure
than anything else in the world, namely, the permission for her to
return. He told her that he had begun a pretty landscape for M.
d'Aubecourt's fête, which was that of St. Louis, and that Lucie was
working him a footstool on which to support his lame foot.
Marie was enchanted at receiving this letter, which she was already
sufficiently advanced to read herself. The brother of one of the
nuns, who had a garden in the neighbourhood of the place in which she
resided, and who was very fond of Marie, had given her two very rare
trees; she would have been delighted could she have sent them to M.
d'Aubecourt for his fête, but she hardly dared to do so, and besides,
how was she to send them?
Madame Sainte Therèse encouraged her, and it so happened, that a
relative of one of the nuns had occasion to go, precisely at that
time, in the direction of Guicheville. He was kind enough to take
the trees with him, and had them carefully secured on all sides,
so as to prevent their being too much shaken in the journey. They
arrived in very good condition, and were secretly committed to Madame
d'Aubecourt, and on the morning of St. Louis's day, M. d'Aubecourt
found them at his garden gate, as if they had not dared to enter
it. On them was this inscription: _From Marie, repentant, to her
benefactor_, written in large letters, with Marie's own hand, for she
could as yet only write in large hand. M. d'Aubecourt was so much
affected by this present, and its inscription, that he wrote a letter
to Marie, in which he told her that he was very much satisfied with
the account that had been given him of her conduct, and that if she
persevered he should be very glad to see her again at the château.
This was a great joy for Madame d'Aubecourt and her children, to
whom M. d'Aubecourt read his letter, and they all wrote to Marie.
She had sent word to Alphonse by the traveller, that Madame Sainte
Therèse had forbidden her to read in the book which he had given
her, because it consisted of tales; that this had very much grieved
her, and she begged him to choose from among the books which Madame
Sainte Therèse did permit her to read, one in which she could every
day read more than a page for his sake. She asked Lucie to send her a
strip of muslin, which she wished to scallop for her, because she was
beginning to work well, and she sent word to Madame d'Aubecourt that
she kept for Sundays the dress which she and Lucie had given her,
the day of her departure. These messages were faithfully delivered.
Alphonse, by his mother's advice, selected for her, _Rollin's
Ancient History_. Lucie sent at the first opportunity, two trimmings
for handkerchiefs, to be scalloped, one for Marie and another for
herself, and Madame d'Aubecourt added an English belt to wear on
Sundays with her dress.
From this moment the children redoubled their care and attention to
their grandfather. Lucie wrote his letters, under his dictation, and
Alphonse, who had found means of constituting himself sole manager
of Marie's trees, because he had received the instructions of the
man who brought them, entered every day into the garden to attend
to them, and he occasionally watered M. d'Aubecourt's flowers, who
soon looked to him so much for the care of his garden, that he
frequently consulted him as to what was to be done in it. Lucie was
also admitted to the council, and Madame d'Aubecourt likewise gave
her opinion occasionally. The garden had become the occupation of the
whole family, and M. d'Aubecourt received much greater pleasure from
it than when he had it all to himself.
One day when they were all together, one watering, another weeding,
and a third taking insects from the trees: "I am sure," said
Alphonse, replying to his own thoughts, "that Marie would take care
of them now with as much pleasure and attention as ourselves."
Lucie blushed and glanced at her brother, not daring to look at M.
d'Aubecourt. "Poor Marie!" said Madame d'Aubecourt, with tenderness,
though not with any sadness, for she began to feel quite sure
that she would return. "We shall see her again, we shall see her
again," said M. d'Aubecourt. The subject was not pursued further
at that time, but two days afterwards, when they were all in the
drawing-room, Madame d'Aubecourt received a letter from Madame Sainte
Therèse, who informed her that in the spring of the following year,
she intended to pass three or four months with her brother, prior to
her settling finally in the place where she then was, and that being
anxious that Marie should edify the village of Guicheville, where she
had set such a bad example, she would bring her there to make her
first communion. Lucie uttered a cry of joy, "Oh! mamma," she said,
"we shall make it together!" for it was also in the following year
that she was to make her first communion. Alphonse, much affected,
looked at his grandfather, "Yes, but," said he, after a moment's
silence, "Marie will then go away again."
"After her first communion," said M. d'Aubecourt, "we shall see."
Lucie, who was seated by her grandfather, quietly knelt down on the
footstool upon which his feet were placed, and as she gently bent
her head over his hands, in order to kiss them, he felt the tears of
joy fall upon them. Alphonse was silent, but his hands were tightly
clasped together, and an expression of happiness pervaded his whole
countenance.
"If she is as good a child as you two," said M. d'Aubecourt, "I shall
be delighted to have her back with us."
"Oh! she will be! she will be!" said both the children, their hearts
swelling with pleasure. They said no more, fearing to importune M.
d'Aubecourt, who loved tranquillity, and had accustomed them to
restrain their feelings; but they were very happy.
There was great satisfaction throughout the château; Marie's faults
were forgotten, while her disgrace was pitied. Mademoiselle Raymond
was the only person who felt any annoyance; not that she was really
ill disposed, but when once she took up any prejudices, she seldom
overcame them. Besides, the continued reproaches made to her for
her dislike of Marie had the effect of increasing it; and as the
other servants made a sort of triumph of her return, she was all the
more displeased with it. But she had insensibly lost much of her
ascendancy over the mind of M. d'Aubecourt, who, now that he was
surrounded by more amiable society, was less dependent on her and
less afraid of her ill temper; for Madame d'Aubecourt spared him the
trouble of giving his orders himself, and thus freed him from a
thousand petty annoyances. Mademoiselle Raymond therefore manifested
nothing of her displeasure before her superiors, and the end of
February, the time fixed for Marie's return, was looked forward to
with great impatience.
Marie arrived in the beginning of March. For more than a week,
Alphonse and Lucie went every day to wait for the diligence, which
passed by the château. At length it stopped, and they saw Marie
descend from it. They scarcely recognised her at first, she had
grown so much taller, fairer, and handsomer; her bearing was so
much improved, and her deportment so modest and reserved. She threw
herself into Lucie's arms, and also embraced Alphonse; Madame
d'Aubecourt, who had perceived her from the window, hastened to meet
her. All the servants ran out; Zizi also ran out barking, because all
this commotion displeased him, and besides, he remembered his former
aversion for Marie. Philip gave him a blow with a switch, which
made him, howl terrifically. Mademoiselle Raymond, who was slowly
approaching, rushed towards him, took him in her arms and carried him
away, exclaiming, "Poor fellow! you may now consider that your days
are numbered." The servants heard this, and glanced slyly at her and
Zizi.
Marie was led to the château, and Madame Sainte Therèse, who had gone
to her brother's, left word that she should soon come and fetch her.
M. d'Aubecourt had given permission for her to be led to him; he was
in his garden; she stopped at the gate, timid and embarrassed.
"Go in, Marie, go in," said Alphonse; "we all go there now, and you
shall go in and take care of it as we do."
Marie entered, walking with great care, for fear of injuring
anything as she passed along. M. d'Aubecourt appeared very glad to
see her; she kissed his hand, and he embraced her. They happened
to be standing near the two plants which she had given to him.
Alphonse showed her how much they had prospered under his care. He
also pointed out such trees as were beginning to bud, and all the
early flowers which were making their appearance. Marie looked at
everything with interest, and found everything very beautiful.
"Yes, but beware of the Feast of Corpus Christi," said M.
d'Aubecourt, laughing.
Marie blushed, but her uncle's manner proved to her that he was
no longer displeased with her; she again kissed his hand with a
charming vivacity, for she still retained her liveliness, though it
was now tempered by good sense. She spoke but little,--she had never
indeed been talkative, but her replies were to the purpose, only
she constantly blushed. She was timid, like a person who had felt
the inconvenience of a too great vivacity. Madame Sainte Therèse
returned. Marie seemed to feel in her presence that awe which respect
inspires; nevertheless, she loved her, and had great confidence in
her. Madame Sainte Therèse said that she had come for Marie. This
grieved Alphonse and Lucie excessively. They had hoped their cousin
would have remained at the château the whole of the day, and they
had even been anticipating a further extension of the visit; but
Madame Sainte Therèse said that as Marie had commenced the exercises
for her first communion, it was necessary that she should remain in
retirement until she had made it, and that she was not to go out,
except for her walk, nor were her cousins to see her more than once
a week. They were obliged to submit to the arrangement. Although
Madame d'Aubecourt did not approve of this excessive austerity,
which belonged to the customs of the convent in which Madame Sainte
Therèse had passed the greater part of her life, she was so virtuous
a person, and they were under so many obligations to her for all that
she had done for Marie, that they did not consider it right to oppose
her. When Marie was gone, Alphonse and Lucie were eloquent in their
praises of her deportment, and the grace of her manners: their mother
agreed with them, and M. d'Aubecourt also expressed his satisfaction,
and consented positively that immediately after her first communion,
she should again become an inmate of the château.
It was decided that the first communions of the village should be
made on the feast of Corpus Christi, and that until then, Madame
d'Aubecourt should go every other Thursday to pass the afternoon at
the Curé's house, where Marie expected them with great delight. She
saw them besides every Sunday at church, when, of course, she did
not speak to them, but they exchanged a few words on coming out, and
sometimes, though rarely, they met in their walks; thus they did
not lose sight of each other, but were able to converse about their
various occupations. Marie had read the whole of her Rollin: Alphonse
pointed out to her other historical works, and she gave him an
account of what she read. He applied with great zeal to his studies,
in order to be able to give her, hereafter, lessons in drawing and
English; and Lucie never learned a new stitch, or busied herself with
any particular work, without saying, "I will show it to Marie." Every
one was happy at Guicheville, and all hoped to be still more so.
The feast of Corpus Christi was drawing near; the two girls, equally
inspired with piety and fervour, beheld its approach with mingled
joy and fear. Alphonse thought of the happy day which was to bring
back Marie, and to exhibit her, as well as his sister, as an example
to the young girls of the village. He would have been glad to have
signalized it by some fête, but the seriousness and holiness of such
a day would not permit of amusement, or even of any distraction.
He determined at least to contribute as much as he possibly could
to those attentions which were allowable. Madame d'Aubecourt had
provided for Lucie and Marie two white dresses, both alike; Alphonse
wished them to have veils and sashes also alike. From the money
which his grandfather had given him for his new year's gift, and
which he had carefully saved for this occasion, he sent to purchase
them at the neighbouring town, without saying anything on the
subject to Lucie, who did not consider it proper to occupy herself
with these matters, and left them all to her mother's care. Madame
d'Aubecourt was the only person admitted into his council, and with
her permission, the last evening but one before the festival, he sent
Philip, with the veil and sash, to Marie, accompanied by a note, in
which he begged her to wear them at her first communion.
Philip was very much attached to Alphonse and Marie; this was almost
his only merit; in other respects he was coarse, quarrelsome, and
insolent, and had an especial aversion to Mademoiselle Raymond; and
as he and his father were the only persons in the house who were
but slightly dependent upon her, he amused himself by provoking her
whenever he could find an opportunity. He never met her with Zizi
without making some disagreeable remark about the animal, to which he
always added, "It's a great pity they don't let you eat Mademoiselle
Marie," at the same time threatening him with his hand. Mademoiselle
Raymond would get angry, while he would go off laughing. If he
chanced to meet Zizi in a corner, a thing which very rarely happened,
because his mistress no longer dared to let him go about, he would
tie a branch of thorns to his tail, a stick between his legs, or
cover his face with paper; in fact he thought of everything which
could displease Mademoiselle Raymond, who thus lived in a state of
perpetual apprehension.