in company. One day, however, when two or three of her schoolfellows
had come to dine at Madame de Vallonay's, the Curé of the Vallonay
estate, being in Paris on business, dined there also. He was a very
worthy and sensible man, who said many excellent things, though in
a rather more tedious manner than other people, while he introduced
into his conversation old proverbs, very useful to remember, but
which appeared to Julia excessively ridiculous, because she was
unaccustomed to this style of speaking. Moreover, she had never
before seen the Curé, and it was her habit always to discover
something extraordinary in persons whom she saw for the first time.
Her companions were as foolish as herself. Before dinner they amused
themselves by mimicking the gestures of the Curé, whom they saw
from an adjoining apartment, walking up and down the drawing-room
with M. de Vallonay; this had put them into such a mocking humour,
that during the whole of dinner, there was a constant succession of
whisperings and laughings, for which they sought a thousand frivolous
pretexts. Sometimes it was the dog who scratched himself in a droll
manner, or who, in putting his paw upon Julia's knee to beg for
something to eat, pulled her napkin, or else Emily had drunk out of
her glass, or had taken her fork or her bread. Madame de Vallonay,
though excessively annoyed, was nevertheless fearful of allowing her
displeasure to be visible, lest the Curé should suspect its cause,
but in the evening, when the company had departed, she scolded her
daughter very seriously, and made her feel the rudeness, and even
absurdity, of such conduct, and assured her that if such a thing
occurred again, she would not allow her to associate with companions,
who encouraged her in such disagreeable habits. Finally, as she was
anxious to accustom her to reflect upon the motives of her actions,
she asked her what there was so very remarkable in the conversation
of the Curé de Vallonay.
"Oh! mamma, he said everything so oddly."
"As, for example:"--
"Well, mamma, he took the trouble of telling me that more flies were
to be caught with a spoonful of honey than with a barrel of vinegar."
"And, it appears to me, Julia, that this maxim was never better
applied; and it would have been a fortunate thing had it recalled
to your mind at that moment, that love is gained by doing what is
pleasing to others, not by mockery and disagreeable behaviour."
"And then he recited to papa, who apparently knew it very well
beforehand, that verse of La Fontaine--
"Plus fait douceur que violence."
Gentleness does more than violence.
"Which means...?" asked Madame de Vallonay.
"Which means ... which means...." And Julia, probably rather annoyed
by the conversation, was entirely taken up with pulling with all her
strength the string of her bag, which had become entangled with the
key of her work-box.
"Which means," continued Madame de Vallonay, "that you would do much
better, were you gently to untie the knot in that string, instead
of tightening it as you are doing, by pulling it in this irritable
manner. I see, Julia, that you will often require to be reminded of
the Curé's proverbs."
"But, nevertheless, mamma, they are things which everybody knows, and
it was that which wearied me, and made me laugh with those girls."
"Which everybody knows? which you, Julia, know, do you not?"
"I assure you I do, mamma."
"You, who might learn something from every one! You, who might find
something instructive in the story of Madame Croque-Mitaine, if
indeed, you were capable of understanding it!"
"The story of Madame Croque-Mitaine!" exclaimed Julia, very much
piqued: "that story for babies, which my cousin brought the other day
for my little sister?"
"Exactly so, the one he made for her, when I showed him that bad
engraving which I had given her, and which represented Madame
Croque-Mitaine, with her bag and stick, threatening all the little
children that she will take them away, if they are not good."
"What, mamma! and you really believe that I should learn something
from that story?"
"No, because I am not sure that you have penetration enough to
understand its utility. Come, let us see, here is the paper, read
it..., come, read on."
"Oh! mamma."
"Oh! my child, you will have the kindness to read it aloud to me; if
my dignity is not hurt by hearing it, surely yours need not be so by
reading it."
Julia, half-laughing, half-pouting, took the manuscript, and read
aloud the following story:
MADAME CROQUE-MITAINE:
A TALE.
"Come away! come away, Paul," said little Louisa to her youngest
brother, "we have more time than we want; the shop where they sell
flowers and toys is at the end of the next street; mamma is dressing,
and before she has finished we shall be back again, you with your
whip, and I with my nosegay, and we will bring back one for mamma
too, which will please her."
Taking Paul by the hand, she walked off with him as fast as their
little legs could carry them. Louisa was nine years old, and Paul
only seven, and they were two of the prettiest children imaginable.
Louisa was dressed in a frock of snow-white cambric, and a
rose-coloured sash encircled her little waist. As she walked along,
she admired her red shoes, while her fair hair fell in ringlets over
her shoulders. Paul's hair was neither less fair nor less beautiful;
he wore a nankeen dress, quite new, an embroidered waistcoat, and an
open worked shirt; but all these were nothing in comparison with the
pleasure which awaited them. Their mother had promised to take them
to the fair of Saint Cloud, and they were to set out in an hour. In
the country, where, up to the present time, they had resided, they
had been permitted to run about in the park, and sometimes even into
the village; since they had come to Paris, however, they had been
forbidden ever to venture beyond the carriage-gate, but the habit of
attending to these injunctions was not yet confirmed, and besides,
Louisa wanted to have a bouquet to take with her to Saint Cloud, and
Paul wanted a whip, that he might whip his papa's horses, for he had
promised to take him by his side in front of the calèche, and they
hastened to buy these things unknown to their mother, with the money
that she had just given them for their week's allowance.
All the passers-by stopped to look at them: "What pretty children!"
they said, "how can they be allowed to go in the streets alone at
their age?" And Louisa pulled Paul by the hand, in order to walk
faster, so as not to hear them. A cabriolet which was coming very
quickly behind them, made them redouble their haste. "Let us run
fast," said Louisa, "here comes a cabriolet," but the cabriolet also
ran, and Louisa, in her fright, turned to the right instead of to the
left, and passed the flower-shop without perceiving it. The cabriolet
still followed them, every instant drawing nearer; the noise of the
wheels so bewildered Louisa, that thinking it was upon her heels, she
rushed into another street. The vehicle took the same direction, and
in turning round, the horse trotting in the middle of the gutter,
sent up such a shower of mud and water, that our two terrified
children were completely covered by it.
Paul instantly burst into tears: "My embroidered waistcoat is
spoiled," he exclaimed.
"Be quiet," said Louisa, "we shall be observed," and she cast an
anxious and melancholy look, sometimes around her, and sometimes on
her cambric dress, which was even more splashed than Paul's waistcoat.
"Shall we soon reach the toy-shop?" asked Paul, still crying, though
in a lower tone.
"We have only to go back," said Louisa, "for I think we have come too
far; if we take the same way back, we shall soon be there," and she
pulled Paul still more forcibly, while she kept close up to the wall,
in the hope of not being seen; nevertheless, she did not know how she
could venture to enter the toy-shop, or return home to her mother,
with her dress in this condition.
All the streets seemed alike, and a child knows only the one in
which it lives. Louisa did not return through the same streets by
which the cabriolet had followed her. The farther she went, the more
uneasy did she become, at not reaching the shop, and she dragged
Paul's arm, who, not being able to walk so fast, said to her, "Don't
go so fast, you hurt me." They went down a little street, which
somewhat resembled one in the neighbourhood of their own house
through which Louisa had sometimes passed, but at the end of it they
found no passage, and instead of their road, they beheld ... Madame
Croque-Mitaine, rummaging with her crook in a heap of rags.
You know Madame Croque-Mitaine. You have seen her humped back, her
red eyes, her pointed nose, her dark and wrinkled face, her dirty and
withered hands, her petticoat of all colours, her sabots, her bag,
and that long stick with which she turns up and examines every heap
of rubbish she meets with.
At the noise made by the two children in running, she raised her
head, looked at them, and guessed, without much difficulty, from
their frightened looks, and by the tears which still flowed down
Paul's cheeks, and the sobs which swelled the bosom of Louisa, that
they ought not to be where they were.
"What are you doing here?" she asked of them.
Louisa, without replying, leaned against the railing, holding Paul
still more firmly.
"Have you a tongue?" continued Madame Croque-Mitaine. "You have at
all events very good legs to run with," and she took Louisa by the
hand, saying, "Hold up your head, my little one, what has happened to
you?"
Louisa was so unaccustomed to speak to persons whom she did not
know; the stories which her nurse had been foolish enough to repeat
to her about old women who take away little children; the wrinkles,
the ill-tempered look, the costume, and the first words addressed
to her by Madame Croque-Mitaine, had so much terrified her, that
notwithstanding the softened tone in which she now spoke to her,
Louisa did not dare either to raise her eyes, or to reply.
"Well," said the old woman, "I see that I shall not get a word from
them, nevertheless, I will not leave the poor children here. Will
you," she said, addressing Paul, "will you tell me where you come
from, and where you are going to? Are you also dumb like your sister?"
"We are going to the toy-shop," said Paul.
"And we have lost our way," rejoined Louisa, who began to feel a
little less afraid of Madame Croque-Mitaine.
"Your mamma, surely, did not allow you to go out?" continued the old
woman.
Louisa cast down her eyes.
"Well! well! you must first come to my house, in order that I may get
rid of some of this mud for you; you are almost as dirty as I am."
"No! no!" exclaimed Louisa, who began again to be frightened at the
recollection of the stories of her nurse.
"What do you mean by '_No_?' Are you afraid that I shall eat you? Oh!
I see they have made you afraid of Madame Croque-Mitaine; but make
yourself easy, she is not so bad as they have told you."
And, indeed, this Madame Croque-Mitaine was only what they all are;
that is a poor old woman, who had no other means of gaining a living,
than by picking up rags here and there, and selling them afterwards
to persons as poor as herself.
She threw her stick into her bag, took the two children by the hand,
who still walked with hesitating steps, and went down one of the
narrow streets.
Every one looked with astonishment, both at the conductor, and those
whom she conducted; their pretty dresses, all splashed as they
were, nevertheless formed a singular contrast with hers, and it was
quite evident, by their looks of shame, that they had met with some
accident, occasioned by their own fault.
"I verily believe," said a man, "that those are the two children I
met some time since, and who were walking along so gaily, holding
each other by the hand."
"What has happened to them?" asked another.
Louisa wished, notwithstanding the fear which she had not yet
entirely overcome, to hasten the steps of Madame Croque-Mitaine, in
order to escape from the looks of the curious.
"Stop! stop!" said the old woman, "do not pull me so much, I have my
sack to carry, and I cannot go so fast."
At last they arrived in front of a dirty little house, into
which they entered, through a door half-mouldered away. Madame
Croque-Mitaine opened it, and made the children go in before her. She
followed them, put down her sack, and called her daughter, saying,
"Charlotte, bring some water and a cloth here, to wash these poor
little creatures." Charlotte came out of a corner where she was
spinning some coarse hemp; her clothes were as ragged as those of her
mother, and she was only two or three years older than Louisa; but
when the latter saw her, she felt a little more confidence. Charlotte
washed Louisa, while the old woman did the same service for little
Paul. The cloth was very coarse, and the maids not very careful. Paul
cried, and said they rubbed him too hard, but Louisa was too much
ashamed to venture any complaint.
When this operation was over, "Now," said the old woman, "you will
tell me where you live, that I may take you home."
"In the Rue d'Anjou," said Louisa, immediately.
"Ha! ha! You can speak now without waiting to be pressed; come along,
then; it is not very far from here," and she set off with the two
children, who were now quite comforted.
As she had left her sack at home, they could walk faster. When once
they had reached the Rue d'Anjou, Louisa went direct to her own door.
They found, on entering, the whole house in commotion. They had been
sought for ever since they had left. All the servants had dispersed
themselves in different directions in search of them; and their
mother, in great anxiety, had also gone out to look for them. The
moment the portress saw them, she uttered a cry of joy, and ascended
with them to the apartments. "Here they are! here they are!" she
cried out from a distance, to the nurse, who was quite in despair
at not having watched them more carefully; and Louisa ran and threw
herself into her arms, crying with shame, fear, and pleasure. At the
same moment their mother returned, a prey to the deepest anguish.
Transported with joy at finding them again, she never thought of
scolding them as they deserved. "What has happened to you? What have
you done?" she asked, taking them upon her knees, and covering them
with tears and kisses.
"They lost their way, madame," said Madame Croque-Mitaine, for
Louisa did not dare to reply. "I met them in a _cul-de-sac_, at some
distance from here: the little girl told me that she was going to buy
nosegays for herself and you, and a whip for her brother; but surely
it must have been without your permission."
"Good heavens, yes!" replied the mother, still trembling, "and is it
you, good woman, who have brought them back to me?"
"Yes, madame, but I first went and washed them at my house. No doubt
they must have been splashed by a coach; if you had only seen the
state they were in!" And Louisa, greatly ashamed, would have been
glad to hide her dress, which was covered with mud; while Paul, on
the contrary, showed his waistcoat to his mother, saying, "But,
mamma, I shall want another waistcoat to go to Saint Cloud."
"Oh, my dears," said their mother, "no Saint Cloud for this day. I
am still trembling with the fright you have caused me. It is already
late, and your papa is still seeking for you. If you had not ventured
out alone, and without my permission, you would neither have been
splashed nor lost, and we should now have been on our way to Saint
Cloud; it is right you should be punished for your fault; go then and
change your clothes."
Paul was very much disposed to cry and pout; but Louisa, feeling the
justice of her mother's words, took his hand, and left the room with
him, followed by her nurse.
Their mother remained with Madame Croque-Mitaine. "These poor
children were very much afraid of me, madame," said the old woman.
"They would scarcely go with me, and I had great difficulty in
inducing them to enter my hovel."
"How much I am indebted to you!" replied the mother. "Had it not been
for you, they would not now be here, and God only knows what might
have happened to them. Oh, how much I owe you!"
"Oh, nothing at all, madame; if my daughter had lost herself, and you
had chanced to find her, you would have done as much for her."
"Have you a daughter, my good woman?"
"Yes, one twelve years old, may it please you, madame; Charlotte is
very pretty, though I say so."
Louisa returned at this moment.
"Louisa," asked her mother, "did you see little Charlotte?"
"Oh yes, mamma, it was she who washed me."
"Well, shall we go and pay her a visit?"
"Oh yes, mamma, I should like that very much."
"Come, then, with me, my child."
Louisa followed her mother into her room, and, at her suggestion,
hastily made up a packet containing two dresses, still very good;
some underclothing, a cap, two handkerchiefs, and two pair of
stockings.
"Come, then, let us take these things to Charlotte," said her mother;
and Louisa, greatly delighted, exclaimed, "Oh, mamma, I think they
will just fit her; she is not much bigger than I am."
"Will you conduct us to your house, my good woman," said the mother
to Madame Croque-Mitaine, who was greatly rejoiced by this visit.
"Charlotte will not have gone out, will she?" demanded Louisa,
blushing.
"No! certainly not," replied the old dame, "she never goes out
without my permission;" and they quickly descended.
Their walk did not occupy much time. Louisa almost ran. As they
entered the house, Madame Croque-Mitaine made numberless apologies
for the dirty floor, and the worn-out door. Louisa had already gone
to look for Charlotte, in the corner where she was spinning. The
little girl was rather ashamed of coming so badly dressed into the
presence of such a grand lady.
"Come forward, miss," said her mother. "Make a courtesy; this is the
mamma of Mademoiselle Louisa, whom you washed a short time since. Oh,
I assure you, madame, she did it very cheerfully," and Charlotte,
not daring to look up at such a great lady, glanced at Louisa, and
smiled. The latter wanted immediately to dress her in her frock, to
put on her white stockings, a handkerchief, and a cap, in order that
she might have the pleasure of looking at her.
"Let her do that, herself," said her mother; "she will dress herself
when she likes. Tell me, my little girl, would you like to come and
live near Louisa?"
Charlotte looked at her mother, as if to ask her what she ought to
reply.
"Answer, child," said the latter.
"You shall not leave your mother," continued the lady, "for I have a
proposition to make to her. My doorkeeper is going away, and I have
not yet engaged another in her place. Would you like to take the
lodge, my good woman? We do not keep late hours at my house, and you
will not have much trouble."
Madame Croque-Mitaine was overjoyed at this offer; it was a good and
secure situation, and she accepted it with the most lively gratitude.
It was agreed that she should enter upon her duties on the following
day, and Louisa returned home with her mother. Her father, who had
just come in, scolded her a little for what she had done, a fault of
which she had not at first felt the full extent; and Louisa, while
acknowledging her fault, said, nevertheless, that her nurse ought not
to have told her bad stories about Madame Croque-Mitaine, and that
she was much better pleased at having had an opportunity of doing a
service to Charlotte than if she had gone to St. Cloud.
* * * * *
"Well, my child," said Madame de Vallonay to Julia, when she had
finished reading, "what useful reflections do you deduce from the
story of Madame Croque-Mitaine?" Julia smiled, but said nothing, as
if she imagined that her mother was laughing at her. But Madame de
Vallonay having pressed for an answer, she said, with a contemptuous
expression, "Indeed, mamma, if you made me read it, in order to teach
me not to be afraid of old women, who go about picking up rags in the
streets, I think I knew that much before."
"And do you see nothing else in it?"
"What! mamma, that we ought not to be disobedient? this is a thing
one scarcely needs to learn at my age."
"I am very glad," said Madame de Vallonay, smiling, with a slight
tinge of sarcasm, "that this lesson has become quite useless to you.
But cannot you see any others?"
"What others can there be?"
"As for that, my child, I will not point them out to you. You might
then find that I was only repeating what all the world knows. Look
for them yourself."
With these words, Madame de Vallonay went to her husband's study, as
she wished to speak with him, and left Julia with her work, her books
of history, and her sonata to practise. When she returned, it was ten
o'clock, and as she opened the door, Julia screamed and started from
her chair greatly frightened.
"What is the matter, my dear?" said her mother.
"Oh! nothing, mamma, I was only frightened."
"Frightened at what?"
"Because you startled me."
"What childish nonsense! Come, it is late, you must go to bed."
"Are you coming, mamma?"
"No, I have a letter to write."
"Well, mamma, I will wait until you have finished it."
"No, I wish you to go to bed."
"But, mamma, if you will let me, as I pass by, I will carry your desk
and lamp into your bedroom, you will be able to write there more
comfortably."
"No, my dear, I shall write much more comfortably here. Cannot you go
to bed without me?"
Julia did not move. She looked at the wax taper, which her mother
told her to take, with an expression of dismay, and without lighting
it, and seemed from time to time, to listen anxiously in the
direction of the door. Her mother could not conceive what was the
matter with her.
"Indeed, my dear," she said, smiling, "I think you must be afraid of
meeting Madame Croque-Mitaine by the way."
Julia smiled too, though with some embarrassment, and confessed that
she had been reading in a book which lay upon the table, a story of
robbers and assassins, which terrified her so much that she had not
courage to go alone to her room, which was separated from the boudoir
by the drawing-room and her mother's bedroom.
"We had agreed, Julia, that you should not read anything without my
permission. I think it would not have been quite so useless if Madame
Croque-Mitaine had taught you not to disobey."
"Mamma, I did not think I was doing much harm, because it was a book
for young people, and you had already allowed me to read some of the
tales."
"You should have waited until I had given you permission to read
the whole, and the story of Madame Croque-Mitaine ought to have
taught you, that children should not undertake to interpret the
wishes of their parents, as they can seldom understand the reasons
on which they are founded. Louisa and Paul, like you, thought they
were doing no great harm, and like you, too, they fell into the
very inconvenience from which it was intended to preserve them. Go,
my child, go to bed, and if your fear prevents you from sleeping,
you can reflect on the moral contained in the story of Madame
Croque-Mitaine."
Julia saw she had no alternative; she lighted the taper as slowly as
she could, and as she went out, left the door of the boudoir open;
but her mother called her back to shut it. Then, seeing herself
alone, she began to walk so fast that the taper went out at the door
of her room. She was obliged to retrace her steps. When she reached
her room a second time, her heart beat violently; she started at
every creaking of the floor, nor could she go to sleep, until her
mother came. These absurd fears tormented her for two or three days,
though she did not dare to speak of them, for fear of being again
reminded of Madame Croque-Mitaine; but she had not yet escaped from
her.
One of Julia's companions had been presented with two little white
mice, the prettiest little things imaginable. They were inclosed in a
large glass-case, through which they could be seen; a kind of little
wheel had been suspended from the lid, which they turned round with
their paws, like squirrels, in trying to climb upon it, and thus they
fancied they were travelling a great distance. As her friend could
not carry them with her to school, where she had still to remain for
a year, Julia begged that she would lend them to her for that time,
promising to take great care of them; and, indeed, she attended to
them herself. Her mother would not allow her to have animals to be
taken care of by the servants, for she thought such things can amuse
only when one attends to them oneself, and that if they do not amuse,
they are not worth the trouble of having. Julia gave them their
food frequently enough, but she frequently forgot to shut the case;
then they made their escape. They had hitherto been always caught,
but one day, when they were out enjoying themselves, and when Julia,
according to custom, had been so careless as to leave her door open,
a cat entered, and Julia, who returned at that moment, saw her eating
one of the mice without any power of preventing it. She was in
despair, and exclaimed twenty times, "Oh! the vile cat! the horrid
cat!" and declared that had she known this, she would never have
taken charge of the mice.
"My dear child," said her mother, when she was a little pacified,
"all your misfortune comes from your not having again read, at that
time, the story of Madame Croque-Mitaine."
"But, mamma," said Julia impatiently, "what could that have to do
with it?"