Charles in despair beheld himself driven away, without daring to
resist, as he would have done on any other occasion. He ran after
Antony, in order to get back his four sous, saying that they belonged
to him, but Antony only laughed at him. He dared not compel him to
give them back, for Antony had over him the advantage of a scamp, who
laughs at everything that can be said to him, while Charles did not
possess that of an honest man, which consists in having nothing to
conceal, for his conduct had not always been irreproachable.
As he stood there, sad and ashamed, Jacques and Simon happened to
pass by. "Oh," said Simon, in a low voice, "we have got such a
beautiful basket of peaches, which Dame Nicholas was going to carry
into the town, and which we took from off her donkey, while she was
gone to pick up sticks by the side of the park walls. We have hidden
it there in the ditch. Come and see it."
"No, I will not," said Charles.
"Well, they are not for him," replied Jacques, "he has had no trouble
in getting them; he is a cowardly brigand."
"I am not a brigand," said Charles, "and I do not care for your
peaches."
"You were not so squeamish about the sausage, though."
Charles, on any other occasion, would have replied by a blow; but now
he was humbled, and remained silent, and Jacques went away, singing
at the top of his voice, to the air of "_C'est un enfant_," _he's a
child_:--
"He's a coward,
He's a coward."
"Why will you not come?" asked Simon.
"Simon," replied Charles, who wished to reform him, "it is very wrong
to steal, and to keep company with those who steal."
"That's all very fine! but you did not think so yesterday."
"But since then I have bitterly repented of it."
"Very well, you may repent again to-morrow, come along;" and Simon,
who was accustomed to make him do pretty nearly what he pleased,
dragged him along by the arm.
"No, no. I will not go."
"Very well, don't come, then;" and he pushed him rudely back: "I see
very well it's because you won't let me have my revenge."
"But, Simon, how am I to do it? I have no more money."
"You have still the four sous that you won from Louis and me."
Charles related what he had done, and what followed; Simon laughed so
heartily, that Charles almost laughed to see him laughing: however,
he became impatient. "If I could only make him restore them," he said.
"Oh," said Simon, "brigands never restore anything; but come
presently and play at quoits upon the green. Since it is that
rascally Antony who has stolen them from you, we shall easily find
the means of winning them again from him."
"No," said Charles, "I will not go."
"Very well, as you like. I shall win them for myself then."
As Charles, notwithstanding his misfortunes, was rather more
satisfied with himself, he dined better than he had supped on the
previous evening. Nevertheless, he thought it would have been very
pleasant to have won back his money from Antony. The following day
was Sunday, and his uncle gave him the key of his garden, desiring
him to carry it to Madame Brossier, one of his parishioners, who
was very old and infirm. She lived at the distance of four or five
hundred paces from the village, and in going to mass had a much
shorter journey to make, by crossing the Curé's garden, than by going
round by the streets.
Charles set out. His way lay near the green, and as he passed, he
looked towards it, walking more slowly, and endeavouring to discover
what his comrades, whom he saw there assembled, were about. In this
manner he approached them, found that they were playing at quoits,
and drew still nearer, in order to ascertain whether it was Simon who
was winning. The latter observed him, and called to him, inviting
him to go halves with him. Charles at first made no reply; Simon
renewed his proposal: it was against Antony that he was playing, and
Charles therefore agreed, forgetting that he had no right to play,
since he had no money to pay if he lost. This idea occurred to him
in the midst of the game, and he became so terribly alarmed at the
thought of losing, that he could hardly breathe. He watched the game
with anxious attention; and on two occasions he fancied he saw Simon,
with whom he was to share, take an opportunity, while approaching for
the purpose of measuring, to push his quoit in such a way as to make
it appear that he had won, when in reality he had lost. However, he
did not dare to say anything; but whether it was for the sake of not
injuring Simon, or for the sake of not losing, he could not decide,
so much was he confused. He won a sou, and went away, still more
troubled, if possible, than on the previous evening. He thought that
Simon had cheated, and that from this dishonesty had come what he
himself had gained; and that though Antony had stolen the money from
him, still this was no reason why he should steal it in his turn.
He would have been glad to have asked some one whether he had any
right to keep this money, or whether, on the contrary, he ought not
also to return even what Simon had gained, since he had not given
notice that he was cheating. But whom was he to ask? It is one of the
misfortunes of those who have been guilty of any disgraceful act,
that they dare not seek advice, even though it be for the purpose of
repairing their fault. Charles's conscience tormented him so much,
that he tried to distract his thoughts, in order not to feel his
self-reproaches. He therefore began running, to try and shake off
his painful impressions, but on reaching Madame Brossier's door, he
perceived that he had not the key of the garden. He imagined at first
that he must have dropped it while running, and therefore searched
for it for some time, but at last recollecting that he had lent it to
Simon to measure the distance of the quoits, he went back to ask him
for it. Simon, however, was not there, nor Jacques either, and the
others declared that they had not got his key. Charles was going to
run after Simon.
"Don't go," said Antony, "he'll come back presently, and you will
miss him. Let's have a game instead."
Charles was just in a condition for committing faults; he did not
know whether the money he had belonged to him or not, and it would
seem that those who have had the misfortune of rendering their
duties so difficult and complicated, that they no longer know how to
extricate themselves from their embarrassments, are apt to abandon
altogether the care of their conscience, and become reckless, so that
they go on from bad to worse, and thus deprive themselves of the
means of repairing their errors.
Charles played, and lost not only his sou, but four others which he
did not possess; still he wanted his revenge, but Antony refused
to play any longer, and Simon did not return. Charles thought but
little of this, so much was he occupied with his game; however he had
once inquired if Simon was not coming back. "Yes, yes! when the fowls
get teeth," replied Antony, deriding him. Charles had scarcely heard
him. Whilst he was asking for a last game, which would probably have
again made him lose what he did not possess, Jacques arrived at full
speed, and without perceiving Charles, for it was beginning to get
dark, he called out from a distance, though in a suppressed voice,
"It's the key of the garden sure enough, we have tried it, and are
going to fetch some baskets."
Charles perceived that they were talking of his key, and saw clearly
that he had been expressly detained, in order to allow Jacques and
Simon time to take it away. He was going to run after Jacques, but
Antony retained him: "Pay me my four sous first," said he.
"I will pay you them to-morrow, but I must have my key."
"Are you afraid any one will eat your key?"
"No, but I don't want any one to go to my uncle's garden and steal
his fruit, as they did the basket of peaches, and the sausage;" and
he continued to struggle, but Antony kept him back.
"There is a great deal of harm," said Louis "in picking up the fruit
which has fallen, and is rotting on the ground." But Charles, who
knew very well that they would not content themselves with this,
struggled still more violently.
"You will have to let me go in the end," said he, "and then I will
run and tell my uncle to make them give up his key."
"And I will tell him," said Antony, "to make you give me my four
sous."
"Very well! Let me go; I will say nothing about it."
"Swear it on the faith of a brigand."
"But I am not a brigand."
"You are, you are a brigand," exclaimed all the little boys at once,
taking hold of each other's hands, and dancing round him in such a
manner as to prevent him from getting away. "Swear it on the faith
of a brigand." Charles stamped, cried, and made every effort to get
away, but in vain; he was obliged to swear on the faith of a brigand,
that he would not tell, and that he would pay the four sous on the
following day; that is to say, he promised to give what he did not
possess: but his first faults had led him into a bad path, and now he
could not get out of it.
As soon as he got free, he began to run as fast as he could in the
direction of the house, but at some distance he met his uncle, who
stopped him and inquired whether he had given the key to Madame
Brossier. Charles, dismayed and confused, stammered, and could only
repeat:
"The key, the key ... the key, uncle."
"Have you lost it?"
"Yes, uncle," said Charles, delighted at this excuse. The Curé was a
good quiet man, who never got angry: he merely said, "Very well! we
must look for it."
"What uncle, at this hour? it is almost dark."
"We shall have much more difficulty in finding it when it is quite
dark;" and he began to look for it, Charles pretending to do the
same. They met Antony and his companions, who were returning to
the village; the Curé inquired for his key; they replied that they
had not found it, and Charles, filled with indignation, heard them
as they went away, laughing among themselves, and saying, "It
will be found, M. le Curé, it will be found." He saw them running,
and felt convinced that they were hastening to take advantage of
his uncle's absence to effect their purpose. He trembled for his
uncle's beautiful apricot-tree, so laden with fruit that some of the
branches had to be supported; but above all, he trembled for Bébé, a
beautiful little lamb, which the Curé's servant had brought up, and
of which Charles was passionately fond, for it knew him, would run
to him, as far as the length of its cord would allow, the moment it
perceived him, would caress him, and eat from his hand. It was tied
in the garden, and if these good-for-nothing fellows were to take it
away, and hurt it, the poor thing might bleat as much as it pleased,
without any possibility of the servant's hearing it, as the garden
was at some distance from the house, and only connected with it by
a narrow path, passing along the back of the church. He could not
endure the thought. "Uncle," said he, in great agitation, "let me go;
if any one has found the key, he may get into the garden; I will put
something in the lock to prevent them from opening it."
"No! no!" said the Curé, "you would spoil my lock:" Charles had
already set off. The Curé again cried out to him, forbidding him to
put anything into the lock. Charles promised not to touch it, and ran
on, and his uncle, seeing it was getting too dark to leave any chance
of finding the key, went to pay a visit in the village.
Charles reached home, quite out of breath; he found everything
perfectly quiet. Bébé was in her old place, and came to lick his
hand; he breathed more freely, but he was still in constant fear of
hearing the little brigands arrive. What was he to do then? He had
placed himself in the most distressing dilemma in which a man can be
placed, that of either failing in his word, or of allowing a wrong
to be committed, which he had the power of preventing. His uncle had
forbidden him to put anything in the lock, but he thought that if the
ladder which was used for mounting the trees, were placed across the
door, it might hinder its being opened. He had just begun to drag it
along with much difficulty, when he heard several persons speaking
in a low voice outside the wall, and close to the door; he saw that
there was no time to reach it with the ladder, and therefore rushed
forward, that he might at least push it with all his might; but at
that moment the key was put into the lock, and the door suddenly
burst open. Charles was almost thrown down, and he beheld the five
little brigands enter the garden.
"Go back! go back!" he said, "go back, or I'll call out."
"Go and call outside then!" said Jacques, pushing him out of the
garden, the door of which he closed, after having taken out the key.
Charles did in fact cry out, and knock, but they threw a flower-pot
over the wall, which fell upon his shoulder and hurt him a good deal.
He saw another coming, and concluded that he could not stay there.
Being obliged to go round, he made all the haste possible, though his
fears made him tremble; he found the gate of the yard open, ran along
the walk without being seen from the house, and heard Bébé bleating
in so pitiable a manner, that it filled him with terror.
"Tie it tight round her neck," said Jacques; "tie it very tight."
Charles uttered a loud cry. Simon rushed upon him, placed his
hands before his mouth, and aided by Antony, retained them there,
notwithstanding his struggles, while the others endeavoured to
tighten the cord round the neck of the lamb, already half-choked.
Poor Bébé, however, uttered a last and feeble cry; Charles heard
it; despair gave him strength; he tore himself from the hands that
restrained him, and screamed out "Help! help!" He was heard; the
Curé, who had been looking for him, and the servant who was coming to
take in Bébé, hurried to the spot. The little brigands saw themselves
discovered, and fled to different parts of the garden. They tried
to make their escape, but they had closed the door. The servant
had already recognised and boxed the ears of two or three, whilst
Charles, solely occupied with Bébé, untied her so that she could
breathe, and kneeling beside her, kissed her, cried over her, and
tried to induce her to eat the grass he offered her. After having
severely reprimanded the little brigands, and driven them out, the
Curé and the servant returned to Bébé. Charles was surprised to hear
the servant say that there were four of them, Simon's name not being
mentioned. He thought he must have contrived to escape; but as he was
walking along a narrow path behind the others, and leading Bébé, who
was still so much frightened that she would hardly allow herself to
be conducted, he perceived Simon crouched behind a large lilac-tree.
He was at first on the point of crying out, recollecting that it
was he who had placed his hands upon his mouth, while the others
were trying to strangle Bébé; but a feeling of generosity, and the
recollection of his own faults, restrained him. He beckoned to him
to follow quietly, and whilst the Curé and the servant entered the
house, he gave him the means of escaping through the gate of the
yard. On being questioned by the Curé, Charles took the determination
of humbly confessing his faults, and of asking pardon of God, and of
his uncle, who treated him with kindness, but, nevertheless, imposed
a penance upon him. Charles begged him to advance the little sum
which he allowed him monthly, that he might pay Antony, and also
return the money which Simon and himself had won from him, in no
very honourable manner. He wished, besides, to give something to the
pork-butcher. The Curé consented, although he had a great dislike to
see money given to Antony, who would be sure to make a bad use of it.
Nevertheless Charles owed it, and his uncle made him observe, that
the inconveniences of bad conduct often continue long after the fault
has been corrected, and still compel people to do things which they
very much regret. As for the money for the shopkeeper, Charles did
not wish to give it himself, and his uncle approved of this, because
there are faults so disgraceful, that unless we are compelled to
avow them, for the sake of avoiding falsehood, they ought not to be
confessed before any one but God. His uncle promised to give this
money back as a restitution with which he had been intrusted. Charles
expressed his fear that in this case, the quarter from whence it came
might be suspected; but his uncle reminded him, that as he had been
so little afraid of suspicion in doing the wrong, he must brave it
in repairing his fault, and that an irreproachable conduct was the
only means of re-establishing his reputation, which might very well
be injured by this adventure.
[Illustration: The others endeavoured to tighten the cord round
the neck of the lamb, already half choked.--P. 288.]
And it was so, indeed, for some time. The Curé, in his sermon the
following day, having spoken against theft, without naming any
one, and warned the parents to watch over their children who were
acquiring dangerous habits, all those who had children were very
uneasy, and endeavoured to discover what he meant by this. The
servant, notwithstanding her master's injunctions to the contrary,
could not help relating the whole affair. The little brigands were
severely punished by their parents, who, afterwards, however,
asserted that Charles was the worst amongst them, as he had opened
the door to them, and then betrayed them. The little boys, on their
side, insulted him whenever they saw him. Simon was the only one who
was not angry with him. Charles, when he happened to meet him, for
he no longer sought his company, tried to persuade him to reform,
and Simon made many promises to that effect, but he did not keep
them, and he became at last so bad, that Charles was obliged to give
up speaking to him altogether. Neither did he regret doing so, as
Simon soon lost the good qualities which he naturally possessed; for
there is no virtue that can stand against the constant habit of doing
wrong, nor any sentiment which will not, in the end, be entirely
smothered by want of principle.
OLD GENEVIÈVE.
"How stupid you are! How absurdly you have put in that pin! You have
laced me all on one side. Oh! I shall be horribly dressed; this is
unbearable: I never saw anything so awkward."
It was pretty much in this style that Emmeline was in the habit of
speaking to old Geneviève, whose duty it was to wait upon her, since
she had lost her nurse, and after having seen Emmeline quite an
infant, she never expected to be treated by her in this way; but it
had been observed that for some time past, Emmeline, though naturally
kind and gentle, and even rather timid, had nevertheless assumed
with the servants haughty airs, to which she had not previously
been accustomed. She no longer thanked them when they waited upon
her at table, and asked for what she wanted without even saying,
_if you please_. Up to this time, she had never followed her mother
through an antechamber, where the servants rose as they passed,
without acknowledging by a slight bow, this mark of their respect;
but now she seemed to think it would be derogatory to her dignity,
not to pass among them with her head higher than usual. It might,
however, be seen that she blushed a little, and that it required an
effort on her part to assume these manners, which were not natural
to her. Her mother, Madame d'Altier, who began to perceive this
change, had more than once reprimanded her on account of it, so that
Emmeline did not dare to give herself too many of these airs in her
presence. She chiefly affected them when in the society of Madame de
Serres, a young woman of seventeen, who had been a year and a half
married, and who from her childhood, had been greatly spoiled, as
she was very rich and had no parents. Even now she was spoiled by
her mother-in-law, who had been very anxious that she should marry
her son, and also by her husband, who, almost as young as herself,
allowed her to do just what she pleased. As she was not in the habit
of inconveniencing herself in the least for any one, she did so still
less for her servants; consequently she was incessantly complaining
of their insolence, because the severe and imperious manners she
assumed towards them, sometimes led them to forget the respect they
owed her, while the extravagance of her whims rendered them impatient.
Emmeline, who was at that time fourteen years of age, and desirous
of playing the grand lady, imagined that she could not do better
than imitate the manners of her cousin, whom she saw almost every
day, because Madame de Serres, when in Paris, resided in the same
street as Madame d'Altier, and in the country occupied a neighbouring
château. Emmeline had not, however, dared to display the whole of
her impertinence towards her mother's servants, who had been a long
time in the family, and accustomed to be well treated, and who,
the first time she manifested these arrogant and impertinent airs,
would probably have laughed outright at her. She therefore contented
herself with being neither kind nor civil to them. They did not serve
her any the less on this account, because they knew it was their duty
to attend to her; but when they compared her with her mother, who
showed so little anxiety to exercise the right which she really had
to command them, they thought the conduct of Emmeline very ridiculous.
Emmeline, indeed, was sometimes conscious of this, and became
mentally impatient, because she did not dare to subject them to her
authority; but she revenged herself upon Geneviève, who, born on the
estate of M. d'Altier, was accustomed to regard with great respect,
even the little children of the family of her seigneurs; besides,
until lately, she had never had the honour of being completely
attached to the château, though she had been employed there almost
daily during the last twenty years, in some inferior occupations;
consequently, when Madame d'Altier, on her arrival in the country
this year, knowing her respectability, had engaged her to assist
Emmeline in dressing, and to attend to her room, she considered
herself elevated in condition, but without being any the more proud
on this account. She looked upon Emmeline, whom she had not seen for
ten years, as a person whom she was bound to respect, and from whom
she ought to endure everything. When the latter, therefore, thought
proper to exercise her authority over her, by making use of any harsh
expression she could think of (and she would have used many more had
she not been too well brought up to be familiar with them), Geneviève
never replied; she only made all the haste she could, either to get
away, or to avoid irritating her further, and in consequence, she
was only the more awkward, and the more harshly treated.
One day, while she was arranging Emmeline's room, it happened
that the latter wished to send her on an errand into the village;
but as Geneviève continued her occupation, Emmeline became angry,
considering it very strange that she was not obeyed. Geneviève
represented to her that if, after breakfast, when she returned to her
room to draw, she did not find it in order, she would scold her, and
that, nevertheless, it was necessary to have time for everything.
As she was right, Emmeline ordered her to be silent, saying that
she provoked her. Madame d'Altier, who from the adjoining room, had
overheard the conversation, called to her daughter, and said, "Are
you quite sure, Emmeline, that you were right in your discussion with
Geneviève? because, after having assumed such a tone as that with a
servant, it would be extremely annoying to find, in the end, that you
had been wrong."
"But, mamma," replied Emmeline, a little ashamed, "when instead of
doing what I tell her, Geneviève amuses herself with answering me, it
is necessary to stop her."
"You are then certain, before having examined, or even heard her
reasons, that they cannot be good?"
"It seems to me, mamma, that a servant is always wrong in arguing,
instead of doing what she has been ordered to do."
"That is to say, she is wrong even when she is right, and when she is
ordered to do anything which is impossible."
"Oh! mamma, these people always find things impossible, because they
do not like them."
"This is the way your cousin would talk: I wish, Emmeline, you had
spirit enough to invent ridiculous airs for yourself, instead of
assuming those of other people."