seeing Marie dressed exactly like herself, he had told Philip to go
to the presbytery without being observed, and Philip, who was very
fond of doing what he ought not to do, took a fancy to get there by
climbing over the wall, which was not very high. When on the top,
he perceived Marie, who was reading on a slight elevation which had
been raised near the wall, for the purpose of enjoying the very
beautiful view which it commanded. He called to her in a low voice,
and threw her the packet which Alphonse had confided to him, and
was preparing to descend, when he perceived Mademoiselle Raymond
walking by the side of the wall, with Zizi panting before her. As
she approached, Philip, finding under his hand a piece of flint
belonging to the wall, threw it at Zizi, and hid himself among the
trees which overhung the wall at this spot: Mademoiselle Raymond, who
was stooping down at the moment for the purpose of removing something
from Zizi's throat, received the flint on her forehead, where it left
rather a large wound. She screamed, and raised her head. Perceiving
Marie on the mound, who, having heard her cry, stood up, and was
looking at her, she did not doubt that it was she who had thrown
the stone. Redoubling her speed, she hastened to the presbytery to
complain, without perceiving Philip, who, nevertheless, was not very
well concealed, but whom she had no idea of finding there. As to
him, the moment she had passed, he jumped down and made his escape
as fast as he could. Mademoiselle Raymond found no one at home but
Madame Sainte Therèse. The Curé had gone to the neighbouring town
on business, and would not return until the following evening. She
related to her what had occurred, showing her forehead, which was
bleeding, though the wound was not very deep; she also showed the
stone, which she had picked up, and which might have killed her.
She asserted that it was Marie who had thrown it; but Madame Sainte
Therèse could not believe such a thing. She, however, accompanied her
to the garden, in search of Marie.
When Marie saw them approaching, she hid her packet under a cluster
of rosebushes, for, being as yet unaware of what had occurred, she
was afraid that Philip had done something wrong, and in order not
to be compelled to say that he had been there, she did not wish what
he had brought to be seen; however, she blushed and turned pale
alternately, for she was afraid of being questioned, and did not
wish to be guilty of an untruth. Madame Sainte Therèse, on coming up
to her, was struck with her air of embarrassment, and Mademoiselle
Raymond said to her, "See, Mademoiselle Marie, how well you employ
the last evening but one before your first communion! After that you
will be called a saint in the village. I shall only have to point to
my forehead." Saying this, she showed it to Marie, who blushed still
more at the thought that Philip could have committed so disgraceful
an act.
"Is it possible, Marie," said Madame Sainte Therèse, "that it can be
you who have thrown a stone at Mademoiselle Raymond?" and as Marie
hesitated, seeking for an answer, she added, "You must surely have
hit her unintentionally; but nevertheless, this would be an amusement
very unbecoming your age, and the duty for which you are preparing
yourself."
"Madame," replied Marie, "I assure you that I have not thrown any
stone."
"It seems, then, to have come of its own accord," said Mademoiselle
Raymond, in a tone of great asperity, at the same time pointing to
the spot where she stood when the stone struck her: it was evident
that it could only have come from the garden, and from an elevated
position.
Madame Sainte Therèse interrogated Marie with increased severity, and
Marie, trembling, could only reply, "I assure you, Madame, that I
have not thrown any stone."
"All that I can see in the matter," continued Mademoiselle Raymond,
"is that I doubt whether Mademoiselle Marie will make her first
communion the day after to-morrow."
"I am very much afraid that she has rendered herself unworthy of
doing so," replied Madame Sainte Therèse. Marie began to weep, and
Mademoiselle Raymond hastened to relate her adventure at the château,
and to say that probably Marie would not make her first communion.
She referred to her talent for throwing stones at the cats, as they
ran along the leads, and added, "She makes a fine use of it."
Lucie was horrified. Alphonse, quite bewildered, ran to question
Philip, and to know whether, when he executed his commission, he
had observed anything amiss at the Curé's house, and whether Marie
appeared sad. Philip assured him that he had not perceived anything
whatever wrong; at the same time carefully avoiding any mention of
the means by which he had transmitted the packet to Marie; and he so
represented matters, that Alphonse did not suspect anything. Madame
d'Aubecourt, being very uneasy, wrote to Madame Sainte Therèse, who
replied that she could not at all understand what had happened, but
that it seemed to her impossible that Marie should not be greatly in
fault: and during the course of the following day, they learned from
Gothon, who had received her information from the Curé's servant,
that Marie had cried almost all the day, and that Madame Sainte
Therèse treated her with great severity, and had even made her fast
that morning upon bread and water. In the evening, Lucie went to
confession to the Curé, who had returned, and saw Marie coming out
of the confessional, sobbing violently. Madame d'Aubecourt went to
Madame Sainte Therèse, and asked her whether Marie was to make her
first communion on the following day. Madame Sainte Therèse replied,
in a sad and severe tone, "I do not at all know."
As they were in the church, nothing more was said. Marie cast upon
her cousin, as she passed by, a look which, notwithstanding her
tears, expressed a feeling of satisfaction. She whispered something
to Madame Sainte Therèse, who led her away, and Lucie entered the
confessional. After having finished her confession, she was timidly
preparing to ask the Curé what she so much desired to know; but
before she could summon courage to begin, he was sent for to a sick
person, and hurried away, so that she had no time to speak to him.
She passed the whole of that evening and night in inexpressible
anxiety, which was so much the more intense, from the manner in which
she reproached herself for every thought which wandered from the
sacred duty of the morrow. Then she prayed to God for her cousin,
thus uniting her devotion with her anxieties, and the thought of
the happiness which was in store for her, with the supplications
which she breathed for her dear Marie. The morning came; she dressed
herself without speaking, collecting all her thoughts, so as not
to allow a single one to escape her which could occasion her any
uneasiness. She embraced her brother, and begged the blessing of M.
d'Aubecourt and her mother, which they gave her with great joy, and
M. d'Aubecourt added, that he blessed her both for himself and for
his son. All sighed that he was not present at such a time, and
after a moment's silence, they repaired to the church.
The girls who were to make their first communion were already
assembled. Lucie, notwithstanding her self-possession, surveyed
them with a glance, but Marie was not among them. She turned pale
and leaned upon the arm of her mother, who sustained and encouraged
her, and telling her to commit her griefs to God, led her into the
row of girls, and passed with M. d'Aubecourt into the chapel at the
side. Behind the girls, stood Mademoiselle Raymond and Gothon, and
the principal people of the village. "I was quite sure she would not
be there," said Mademoiselle Raymond. No one answered her, for all
were interested in Marie, whom they had often seen in the cemetery
during the past months, fervently praying at the foot of the cross
which she had begged might be erected over the grave of her poor
nurse. Lucie had heard Mademoiselle Raymond's remark, and, violently
excited, she prayed to God with all her strength to preserve her
from all improper feelings; but her agitation, and the restraint she
had imposed upon her thoughts, affected her so much, that she could
scarcely support herself. At length, the door of the sacristy opened,
and Marie appeared, conducted by the Curé and Madame Sainte Therèse;
she came forward with the white veil upon her head, beautiful as an
angel, and as pure. A murmur of satisfaction ran through the church.
Marie crossed the choir, and, after bending before the altar, went
and knelt at the feet of M. and Madame d'Aubecourt, to ask their
blessing. "My child," said the Curé to her, sufficiently loud to be
heard, "be always as virtuous as you are now, and God also will bless
you."
Oh! what joy did Lucie feel! She raised to heaven her eyes moistened
with tears, and believed that in the happiness she then experienced,
she felt the assurance of divine protection throughout the whole of
her future life. M. and Madame d'Aubecourt, deeply affected, bestowed
their blessing upon Marie, who knelt before them, while Alphonse,
standing behind, his face beaming with joy and triumph, looked at
her with as much respect as affection. Madame d'Aubecourt herself
led Marie to Lucie's side. The two cousins did not utter a word,
nor give more than a single look, but that look reverting to Madame
d'Aubecourt before it fell, expressed a degree of happiness which no
words could have conveyed, and the eyes of Madame d'Aubecourt replied
to those of her children. The long-wished-for moment had arrived at
last; the two cousins approached the altar together. Lucie, more
feeble, and agitated by so many emotions which she had been forced to
repress, was almost on the point of fainting: Marie supported her,
her countenance beaming with angelic joy.
Having received the communion, the cousins returned to their places,
prayed together, and after having passed a part of the morning in the
church, went to dine at the château, where Madame Sainte Therèse and
the Curé had been invited. Marie and Lucie talked but little, but it
was evident that they were very happy. Alphonse, his relations, the
servants, all appeared happy too; but this joy was silent, it seemed
as if they feared to disturb the perfect calm which these young
souls, pure and sanctified, ought to enjoy. The looks of all were
unconsciously turned towards them, and they were waited upon with a
kind of respect which could not suggest any sentiments of pride.
After having again gone to church in the afternoon with Lucie, Marie
came back with her, to take up her abode at the château. The evening
was very happy, and even a little gay. Alphonse ventured to laugh,
and the two cousins to smile, In the room in which they slept, and
next to the bed occupied by Madame d'Aubecourt, Marie found one
exactly like Lucie's. All the furniture was alike; henceforth they
were two sisters. From the following day, she shared in all Lucie's
occupations, and especially in her care of M. d'Aubecourt, who soon
became as fond of her as he was of his grandchildren. Mademoiselle
Raymond having fallen ill some time afterwards, Marie, who was
very active, and had been accustomed to attend to her poor nurse,
rendered her so many services, went so often to her room, to give
her her medicines, was so careful each time to caress Zizi, and even
occasionally to carry him a bit of sugar to pacify him, that the
feelings of both were changed towards her: and if Zizi, who was the
most vindictive, still growled at her now and then, he was scolded by
his mistress, who begged pardon for him of Marie.
Marie had related to Alphonse and Lucie, but under the strictest
secrecy, all that had taken place. She told them that Madame Sainte
Therèse, having questioned her to no purpose, had treated her with
much severity; that she had said nothing, fearing, that if the
truth were known, Philip might be discharged, but that she had been
very unhappy during those two days; that at length, the Curé having
returned, she took the resolution of consulting him in confession,
well assured that he would then say nothing about the matter; and
that he advised her to confide what she had done to Madame Sainte
Therèse, on her promising inviolable secrecy. This she had done, so
that they were reconciled. She, moreover, told Lucie that the reason
of her crying so much on leaving the confessional, was because the
Curé had exhorted her in a most pathetic manner, in recalling to her
mind her poor nurse, who had been carried to the grave precisely on
the same day, and at the same hour, the preceding year. Alphonse
scolded Philip very severely, and forbade him ever to do any harm to
Zizi, or anything which might displease Mademoiselle Raymond. The
latter, being freed from annoyance on this point, consoled herself
for not being so completely mistress of the château as formerly,
by the reflection, that Madame d'Aubecourt and her children, in
relieving her of many cares, left her more at liberty. Besides, the
regard they had for her on account of her fidelity and attachment,
flattered her self-love, so that her ill-humour perceptibly
decreased; so that song and laughter were now as frequently heard at
Guicheville, as murmuring and scolding had been during many previous
years.
M. d'Aubecourt returned to France. He found but little of his
property remaining, but still sufficient for the support of his wife
and children. Marie, on the contrary, had become rich: her right
had been recognised, not only to her mother's fortune, but even
to that of her father also, as he had died before the laws against
the emigrants had been enacted. The elder M. d'Aubecourt was her
guardian, and as, though a minor, she enjoyed a considerable income,
she found a thousand opportunities of making this family, which was
so dear to her, partake in its enjoyment; in fine, in order to unite
herself entirely to it, she is going to marry Alphonse, who loves her
every day with a deeper affection, because every day she becomes more
amiable. Lucie is transported with joy at the prospect of becoming in
reality Marie's sister: Madame d'Aubecourt is also very happy, and
Marie finds that the only thing wanted to render her own happiness
complete, is the power of making her poor nurse a partaker in her
joy. Every year she has a service celebrated for her at Guicheville,
and all the family look upon it as a duty to assist at it, in order
to show respect to the memory of one who so generously protected the
childhood of Marie.
THE LITTLE BRIGANDS.
"Peter, Jacques, Louis, Simon, listen! listen!" cried Antony to
his companions, a set of little vagabonds belonging to the village
of Marcieux, who were playing at quoits upon the village green. A
postchaise had just passed by, from which had been thrown a paper,
containing the remains of a pie. Antony had immediately seized it:
it chanced to be the _Journal de l'Empire_, of the 22nd of February,
1812, and as he was able to read, for he was the son of the village
schoolmaster, he had discovered, while eating the crumbs which it
contained, the following paragraph:--
"_Berne, January 26th, 1812._--A certain number of students, of the
second and third classes of our college, between the ages of twelve
and thirteen years, who had read during their hours of recreation,
romantic tales of brigands, formed themselves into a company, elected
a captain and officers, and gave themselves the names of different
brigands. They had secret meetings, in which they smoked, held their
orgies, and bound themselves by oath to preserve secrecy in all their
operations, &c."
This was what he wished to read to his comrades. "Oh! brigands!
brigands!" they all exclaimed, after having heard it. "That's
capital! Let us all be brigands. Charles, will you be one?" they
cried to the Curé's nephew, who was coming up at the time.
"What is it? what is it? Oh, yes, I don't mind," said Charles,
without knowing what they wanted. Charles was a good boy, but he had
one great fault, and that was disobedience to his uncle, the Curé,
who had forbidden him to associate with the other little boys of the
village, almost all of whom were mischievous and bad. Instead of
obeying this order, he stopped whenever he could find an opportunity,
to play with one or other of them; he even made appointments to meet
them at different places, through which he would have to pass, when
his uncle sent him out on any commission. When in their company, they
led him into many follies, which he did not willingly commit, but
he was unable to resist their persuasions. He was very angry when
he saw them throw stones to bring down the fruit, or walk in the
fields of ripe corn, or spoil the asparagus-beds: on these occasions,
he declared he would never play with them again, but he invariably
returned, nevertheless. He now said he would be a brigand because he
thought it was a game.
It was first determined that they must have sticks; they therefore
ran to a heap of faggots, and drew out from it some of the thickest
branches. Charles urged in vain, that these faggots belonged to his
uncle, the Curé, who had purchased them that morning; they replied,
that brigands were not afraid of curés, and that all the curés in
the world had only to come to them, and they would find their match.
Charles laughed at all these follies, and Simon, the one of whom he
was most fond, because he was gay and good-natured, although a very
naughty boy, having selected a stick for him, he took it. Then they
began brandishing their sticks, raising their heads, and assuming as
wicked an expression as they possibly could, after which they began
to deliberate on what was to be done next.
"We must first of all swear that we are brigands," said Antony, "and
then," added he, referring to the paper, "then we'll steal everything
we can find, and we'll hold our orgies."
"We'll steal!" repeated Charles, who was beginning to find this
rather an extraordinary kind of game.
"Certainly, since we are brigands."
"I won't steal."
"Oh, you'll steal, you'll steal," cried all the little boys. "You are
a brigand, so you must steal."
"I will _not_ steal."
"What does it signify to us," said Simon, who was always anxious
to accommodate matters, "if you won't steal, so much the worse for
yourself, that's all."
"Yes, if you are such a fool," said the others, "so much the worse
for yourself--you'll get nothing."
"But what is the meaning of holding orgies?" said one of the troop.
Charles explained that it meant to get tipsy.
"Ah! yes, and to smoke too," said Antony, again consulting his
paper; "we will go together to the tavern."
"Of course they'll let you go there!" said Charles.
"Oh, brigands are not afraid of anything, and besides no one will
know it. We'll go to Troux, that's a league from here. Brigands don't
want leave, they do just what they please, and set every one at
defiance." And the little wretches again brandished their sticks in
the air with greater fierceness than before.
"Come," said Antony, "we must swear that we are brigands."
"Nonsense!" said Charles, "let us leave off this stupid game, and
play at quoits. Simon, come and play at quoits; I owe you a revenge,
you know," and Simon was willing enough to go and have his revenge;
but he was withheld by the others, who told him he must take the
oath, and that Charles might go if he liked, because he was a fool.
Charles ought to have gone; nevertheless he remained. Antony said
they must have some wine; and as he had been reading history in an
old Latin and French book, which his father used in teaching Latin,
he said that they would do as the conspirators of former times had
done, that is, they would put a little of their blood into the wine,
and afterwards drink it, and then they would be bound to be brigands
all their lives. This they thought would be delightful.
"But how shall we get blood?" said one of them.
"Oh, we must prick our fingers," said another. "I have a large pin
which fastens my trousers."
They agreed to make use of the pin, each one determining in his
own mind not to go very deep. But they wanted some wine; this was
a great embarrassment. They asked Louis, who was the son of the
wine-merchant, to go and steal some from his father's cellar. Louis
replied that he would not go in the daylight, for fear of being seen,
and beaten. They said that, for a brigand, he was very cowardly;
still none of them would go in his stead. At length Simon, who was
the most daring, went and begged some of the innkeeper's servant,
who liked him because, when he met her in the streets, heavily
laden, he assisted her in carrying her jugs. She gave him a little
that remained at the bottom of a measure, and he carried it off
triumphantly in an old broken sabot, into which he had poured it.
Antony was the first to prick his finger, but as he felt it hurt him,
he said that it bled quite enough, although it did not bleed at all.
The others then pretended to prick their fingers, and they shook them
very much, as if they really had bled a great deal. Charles alone
refused to imitate them, and Jacques struck him violently with the
pin, and caused the blood to flow. He was very angry, and fought
with Jacques. Simon took his part, and beat Jacques. Charles, being
in a rage, wanted to upset the wine, which was in the sabot, but
the others prevented him, and told him he refused to drink and take
the oath, because he was a traitor, and wanted to inform against
them. Even Simon himself said, that if he did not drink with them,
it would prove that he was a traitor. This was painful to Charles,
especially as Simon had just been defending him. "You promised to
be a brigand," they all cried. Charles assured them that he had no
wish to inform against them but that he would not be a brigand. They
again exclaimed, with greater vehemence, "You must be a brigand, you
promised to be one," and Simon held the sabot to his mouth. Charles
resisted, but they asserted that he had drunk, and therefore was a
brigand. He went away very angry, declaring that it was not true.
However, he did not long retain his anger against Simon, who on the
following day waited for him as he passed down the street, for the
purpose of telling him to come and see a large sausage which they had
found the means of snatching from the hooks of a pork-butcher's shop
in the village. Charles at first positively refused to go, but Simon
said so much about the size of the sausage, that he became curious to
see what it really was. He therefore went in the afternoon upon the
green, where they were eating it. It was indeed very large. They told
him how they had managed to get it, their fear of being seen by the
shopkeeper, and the tales with which Simon had amused him outside the
shop, while one of them stole into it. All this made Charles laugh,
and he so completely forgot the evil of such actions, that when they
invited him to taste the sausage, he took a piece and ate it. But he
had no sooner swallowed it, than he felt distressed at what he had
done. He immediately left them without saying a word, and the more
he thought of it, the more he was tormented. His anxiety increased
after he got home, for his uncle made him repeat the lesson in the
catechism, which on that day happened to fall on the commandment,
"_Thou shalt not steal_."
His uncle explained to him that those who took what did not belong to
them, were not the only thieves, but that those also were such who
bought without paying, whose expenses were greater than their means,
who borrowed what it was not possible for them to return, and above
all, those who profited by what others had stolen.
Charles became pale and red by turns; fortunately for him, it
was getting dark, and his uncle did not observe his agitation.
He made no reply, and as soon as he could get away, he went and
concealed himself, in order to give vent to his tears. At supper
he ate nothing, saying that he was sick, and in truth the piece of
sausage he had taken, had made him feel ill. He could not sleep; his
conscience reproached him with having participated in the theft,
since he had profited by it, and he felt that he could no longer tell
them that they had done wrong, since they would say, "That, however,
did not prevent you from eating some of the sausage."
He knew, and his uncle had often repeated it to him, that one cannot
hope for forgiveness from God, without at least returning the value
of what has been stolen. He would most willingly have given the
little he possessed to be delivered from so heavy a burden; but
how was he to make the butcher accept it? It would be necessary to
explain everything, and accuse his companions. This he would not
have thought of doing, even if he had not considered himself bound
by his promise; he therefore determined to go and lay the four sous,
which was all the money he possessed, upon the door-step of the
pork-butcher's shop, thinking that he would take them up, supposing
them to belong to him. He passed before the door two or three times,
without daring to carry his plan into execution; at last, at a moment
when he was not perceived, he laid them on the threshold, and ran
away to the corner of the street, in order to see what would happen.
He had no sooner stationed himself there, than he saw Antony come up,
who, prowling about the shop, and perceiving that its owner's back
was turned, stooped down to pick up the money. Charles rushed upon
him to prevent him. Antony struggled, and the shopkeeper turned round
at the noise. "What are you doing in front of my shop?" he exclaimed,
in an angry tone; for he remembered what had been stolen from him.
"What does M. Charles mean by lurking about here for a whole hour? Be
off with you; I do not accuse you, M. Charles, but I don't want any
one in front of my shop."