was surrounded, "I am with these ladies." Leontine blushed, bowed,
and went away, with an air of considerable annoyance. Aglaïa's
refusal had a very good effect; nothing was now thought of but
Leontine. She was examined at every turn of the walk, with a degree
of attention which ended in embarrassing her very much, though she
affected an air of _hauteur_ which disconcerted no one. The next
Thursday, Madame Lacour was again surrounded by most of her friends.
There were some few complaints and expostulations, but the lovers
of peace interfered, and put a stop to them as quickly as possible,
and at last everything went on as formerly. When the princesses
were gone, Leontine wished to renew her intimacy with Aglaïa, but
the latter sent word that she could not go out; though with her
grandmamma's permission, she invited her to their party. Leontine,
to while away her time, twice accepted the invitation, but she
felt no enjoyment. Surrounded by persons who were entire strangers
to the manners to which she was accustomed, she knew not how to
act towards them, and was continually doing something amiss. A
fortnight previously, Aglaïa would have proclaimed silence, in order
that she might be heard, but now she had discovered that it was not
her good opinion which it was of consequence to obtain. Leontine,
dissatisfied, ceased to seek her society, and ended by being so
completely wearied, that she obtained her father's permission to
pass the remainder of the summer with one of her aunts. Aglaïa's
companions still kept up, for some time, a little of their resentment
against her, but she was sustained by the friendship of Hortense and
Gustave, to whom she attached herself more and more, and at last she
felt at a loss to conceive how she could for a moment have preferred,
to the happiness she found in their society, the discomfort and
constraint to which she had submitted in the company of Leontine.
OH! OH! OH!
A TALE.
"Oh! Oh! Oh!" cried little Louis, "see, my tooth moves again, I
cannot eat;" and he put his breakfast down upon the table.
"And it will continue to move until it is taken out," said his mother.
"I don't want to have it taken out, it would hurt me so."
"Do not complain then of its being loose."
"But I can't eat."
"In that case let me take it out, it is only a first tooth, and has
scarcely any hold."
"Oh! indeed! It has scarcely any hold! I am sure it has very long
fangs."
"As you prefer to let it remain, you must put up with the annoyance
it causes you."
Louis did not reply, and his mother urged him no further; she
wished to direct and mould the inclinations of her children, not to
constrain them; she therefore gave few commands or prohibitions. A
command cannot correct a fault, nor can a prohibition prevent an
inclination to disobedience; therefore she preferred to wait with
patience, and teach her children to correct themselves. Louis again
tried to eat his breakfast, but his tooth clattered and shook at
every mouthful, and being persuaded that by moving it, it hurt him,
he put down his bread and his apple, and went to play with Fidèle.
Fidèle was a charming dog, of a very gentle disposition, and
accustomed to allow himself to be tormented, without manifesting any
displeasure. Louis took him by the paws: "There, stand up, Fidèle;
make a bow; give me your paw; no, not that, the other one;" and
Fidèle obeyed him with the best grace imaginable, though this kind of
sport did not at all please him. With a docile dog, almost anything
may be done. Louis, in order to prolong his game, took it into his
head to take hold of Fidèle by the tail, and thus to force him to
rise upon his fore-paws, and then to turn a somerset. At the first
attempt, Fidèle contented himself with resisting, with a slight growl
merely; at the second, the growl became louder, but at the third,
Louis pulled his tail so violently, that Fidèle, quite angry, turned
upon him and slightly bit his little finger. "Oh! oh! oh!" cried
Louis, "the horrid dog has bitten me; mamma! Fidèle has bitten me;
oh! how my finger pains me!"
"Let me see, my boy; oh! that's nothing, I can hardly see the mark of
his teeth; what were you doing to him?"
"I only took hold of his tail, to teach him to turn a somerset, but
he wouldn't stand on his fore-paws."
"You certainly hurt him much more by pulling his tail, than he has
hurt you by his bite; why do you expect him to be more patient than
you are?"
"I will never play with him again."
"You can do as you like as to that, he will not complain."
Louis went away, and as he passed by Fidèle, the dog began to growl.
"Go away," said the child, "I don't wish to be bitten again," and
he held his little finger in his other hand, as if it had been
dreadfully wounded. He went to look for his little sister Henriette,
to come and play with him, but she had just pricked her finger with
her needle, and being as little able to bear pain as himself, she
received his proposition with a very bad grace. "Let me alone," she
said, "I have pricked my finger," and she watched the blood which
scarcely tinged the water into which she had plunged it.
"That's a funny sort of a wound!" said Louis, "Why the blood doesn't
come!"--"A funny sort of a wound? Oh! you shall see if it is so
funny," and she immediately pricked him with the needle, which she
still held in her hand. "Oh! oh! oh! nurse, Henrietta has pricked
me, give me a glass of water, oh!" The nurse brought him the water
without looking at him, she was leaning her head upon her left hand.
"Just look, nurse, how she has pricked me."
"What am I to look at? What a terrible affair: what would you say if
you had such a tooth-ache as I have?"
"Have you the tooth-ache?"
"Yes: I have had no sleep these three nights, and I shall certainly
go to-morrow and have the tooth which torments me taken out; for I
don't want to let my work lie there," and she went and resumed her
sewing.
When Louis, after having well squeezed his finger, could make no more
blood flow from it, he was greatly embarrassed. How was he to amuse
himself? Fidèle still growled at him, Henriette was out of temper,
and his nurse had the tooth-ache and was busy; every one was taken
up with his own sufferings. Louis did not find the house very gay;
he therefore went back to his mother, who, at all events, was not a
grumbler. At this moment he heard on the stairs the voice of little
Charles, one of his companions. He rushed forward to open the door.
Charles, accompanied by his tutor, had come to ask him to join him
and five or six other boys of his age, in a walk to the Canal de
l'Ourcq, to see the skating. Louis, transported with joy, obtained
his mother's consent: he put on his great coat and his fur gloves,
and they set off.
It was the middle of winter, but the weather was dry, and the sun
brilliant. The little boys ran and jumped about the whole of the way.
Louis did the same at first, but by degrees he felt his nose getting
cold, and one of his hands was fully employed in holding it and
keeping it warm. His fingers soon became numb; he put the hand he was
not using into his pocket, and complained of being obliged to leave
the other exposed to the air; then his feet became cold. It was quite
useless to tell him that if he ran about, he would soon get warm
again.
"How am I to run," he replied, "when my feet are frozen?"
He dragged himself along, with great difficulty, by the side of the
tutor, slipping at every step, notwithstanding the slowness of his
pace, and every now and then withdrawing his hand from his nose to
breathe upon his fingers, and then hurriedly replacing it, with an
appearance of the utmost concern. They reached the side of the canal,
which was covered with skaters, who, with a free and unrestrained
air, with head erect, and arms sometimes crossed, sometimes in
motion, glided rapidly over the smooth expanse, on which the timid
walker could scarcely maintain his footing.
The children, with the permission of their guide, went down upon the
ice in order to have a slide. Louis suffered himself to be persuaded
to follow them, and soon, by sliding in the same place, they had
formed a long path, as polished as a mirror, over which, after taking
a slight run, they glided with the rapidity of lightning. Louis had
not yet dared to venture upon it.
"Come, Louis, have a slide," said one of his companions, "how can you
avoid being frozen if you do not move about?"
Louis made up his mind to do so; he took a run of a few steps,
reached the glistening path, and ventured on it, still holding his
nose with one hand and keeping the other in his pocket. He proceeded,
and maintained his equilibrium; but a mischievous little boy, who was
more used to this sport, rushed after him, and reaching him before
he got to the end, gave him a push, which made him fall with some
violence upon the ice.
"Oh! oh! oh!" exclaimed Louis. "Oh! oh! oh! who has thrown me down?
I can't get up; help me to get up. Oh! oh!" and he continued on the
spot where he had fallen, because he would not make use of one of
his hands to lean upon the ice. His companions laughed both at his
awkwardness and his misfortune. The tutor went to him, raised him
up, and endeavoured to console him, telling him that such falls only
gave a little pain, which was soon over. But Louis cried, and became
angry, left the canal, and went and stood against a tree, which was
growing on the banks, turning his back to the skaters. An old soldier
passed by him, laughing heartily.
"What a pity I have a wooden leg!" He had one, in fact. "What is the
matter with you, my little friend," he said to Louis, seeing his
loneliness and melancholy. "Why are you not down there with the rest?"
"But can I skate?"
"You do not know how to skate? Go quickly then and learn; I wish I
were your age, to be able to do the same: at all events you can amuse
yourself by sliding."
"Yes, to have them push me, and throw me down."
"Well, if they push you, you can push them in return, and if you
fall, you can get up again."
"Yes, and freeze my hands by putting them upon the ice."
"Oh! you are afraid of freezing your hands; poor child! what would
you have done, if, like me, you had fallen into a deep ditch, in the
midst of a battle, and when it was intensely cold?"
"Into a ditch? Oh! they would soon have come and taken me out."
"You think so, do you? but I can tell you, that before any one would
have come and taken you out, you would have been frozen to death.
Oh! if I had not broken my leg, how I should have returned to the
action!"
[Illustration: "What is the matter with you, my little friend?" he
said to Louis, seeing his depression and melancholy.--P. 364.]
"If your leg was broken, how did you get out of the ditch?"
"The deuce! would you have had me remain in it? It was not very
comfortable there, I assure you. I dragged myself along upon my
hands, and in less than five minutes I was out of it."
"And what did they do to your leg afterwards?"
"What did they do to it? why, they cut it off; thank God! no harm
came of it; and I manage to get along pretty well upon my wooden leg.
Come along, my little friend, we will both go upon the ice; you shall
learn to slide, and I will protect you from being pushed."
Louis, who had been interested and cheered by the conversation of the
pensioner, followed him. The tutor, who had overheard what was said,
allowed him to do so. He walked at first upon the ice with great
precaution; the good soldier allowed him to hold his hand for a few
minutes.
"Now," said he, "you must go alone. You have your two legs, and I am
going to look at you. Forward, march!"
Louis began to slide.
"Take your hand out of your pocket," cried the pensioner, "and let go
of your nose; are you afraid it will fall off? Make use of your arms
to balance yourself; hold up your head; stretch out your leg; bravo!
that's the way; leave yourself free, unbutton your great coat, don't
you see how it hinders you?"
Louis unbuttoned his coat, stretched out his arms, and allowed
himself to go on without fear. In a quarter of an hour he had learned
to slide as well as any of the little boys on the canal.
"Listen," said the pensioner, "let us join your comrades; they have
not seen you. You shall go upon their slide, and in your turn push
the boy who threw you down a little while ago. Keep yourself up, at
all events."
They made a slight circuit; the moment arrived; Louis started.
"Ha! ha! here's Louis," was exclaimed from all sides. He reached his
adversary in the middle of the slide, pushed him, made him come down
with considerable force, then turned round, and finished his course
in grand style; while the other, somewhat ashamed, got up without
saying a word.
"Who taught you to slide?" asked all the children.
"I did, young gentlemen," said the man with the wooden leg, "and I
warrant you he is not afraid of any of you now."
The boys, very much astonished, resumed their sports, and Louis
maintained his place amongst them very well. When the hour for
departure came, he went to say good bye to his friend the pensioner,
who pressing his hand warmly, said, "Good bye, comrade, till we meet
again; if I happen to be here when you return, I will teach you to
skate."
As they went home, Louis did not complain of the cold, did not put
his hands in his pockets, left his nose exposed to the air, ran
about like the rest, and reached the house not only without having
grumbled, but without having suffered. As he was running towards his
mother to tell her his tale, he saw her talking to a poor old woman,
who was crying, and who seemed to be asking assistance. "Oh! madame,"
said she, "you could never imagine what my Jacques has done. He
is my only support, and though he is not yet fourteen, he works so
well at his master's, who is the carpenter at the corner, that every
evening he brings me home tenpence for his day's wages. We have
nothing but that to live upon, for it is very little I can do. Well,
about a fortnight ago, my poor Jacques had the misfortune to put his
wrist out of joint, in carrying a wainscoting. He came home in great
trouble; fortunately I had saved during six months ten shillings,
to buy him a waistcoat. I gave them to him, and told him to go
immediately and have his wrist set by the surgeon of the district,
who is very clever. He went out, and I supposed that he had done
so. Nothing of the kind. He was afraid that it would cost too much.
Our neighbour, the blacksmith, offered to set it for half a crown;
he allowed him to do so, and brought me home the remainder, saying
that he had not been asked for more; but certainly his wrist must
have been badly set, for since that time, it has been swelling, and
getting numb; and on looking at it, I saw clearly that the bones were
not in their right place. By dint of questioning, I at last got the
truth from him. We have been to the surgeon, who says that it can be
cured, but that it will take a long time, and much medicine, and we
have no means of getting any, as my poor Jacques has not worked for a
fortnight, and will not be able to work for a long time to come. In
God's name, madame, you, who are so good, have pity on us!" Here the
poor woman ceased.
Louis had listened to her with great attention. His mother, very much
affected herself, observed how this recital led him to reflect upon
his own want of fortitude in bearing pain; she did not know that he
had already begun to be ashamed of it. "My good woman," she said,
"give yourself no uneasiness, as your son can be cured, he shall be
cured. Let us go for him. I will take him myself to the surgeon's,
who will again examine his arm, and I will pay the expenses of the
treatment. Will you come, Louis?"
"Oh! yes, mamma, I want to see Jacques very much."
Henriette, who was working at her embroidery, in a corner of the
drawing-room, exclaimed, "And I too, mamma."
"Yes, you too, my child; come, be quick, Jacques's cure must not be
delayed."
They set off at once. There were no complaints of the cold during the
whole of the way. On arriving, they found Jacques employed in making
the handle of a tool with his remaining hand. His mother informed
him, with tears of joy, of the success of her visit. "He did not want
me to apply to you, madame," she added; "he said that other people
ought not to be tormented with his troubles." Jacques advanced, and
expressed his thanks, with some embarrassment.
"It must have given you a great deal of pain, Jacques, did it not?"
"Oh! not much, madame, if I could only have worked!"
"Come, come, cheer up, you shall be cured as soon as possible.
You are a good and a brave boy;" and Jacques bowed with an air of
increased embarrassment.
They went to the surgeon's, who was not acquainted with Jacques's
whole history, because he would not allow his mother to relate it
at their former visit. As soon as he learned it, he took the most
lively interest in the courageous child, and his attentions were
soon efficacious. At the end of a fortnight, the swelling began to
decrease. They were obliged to prevent Jacques from working so soon
as he wished, but they gave him hope that it would not be long before
he was again in a condition to handle the plane; and in the mean time
he wanted for nothing. Louis, on his return home, said to his mother,
"Mamma, tie a thread round my tooth," and he immediately pulled it
out himself, having learned by the example of the pensioner, as well
as by that of Jacques, never to cry out, "Oh! oh! oh!" for so slight
a cause as a little cold, or a prick of a pin.
HELEN;
OR THE FAILURE.
"Take care, Helen!" said Madame d'Aubigny, to her daughter, "when you
are going one way, you are looking another; in this manner you will
never go straight anywhere."
And such was exactly the case. Whether in the street, or on the
promenade or even when running in the fields, Helen seldom thought
of looking before her, or watching her steps; her attention was
constantly directed to one side or the other, to see if any one
noticed her; and when she fancied herself observed, she gave herself
all sorts of airs and graces. Often when at the Tuileries, she was so
completely absorbed in endeavouring to give a graceful turn to her
head, or in casting down her eyes, when she considered it suitable
to do so, or in looking at the leaves with an air of abstraction,
according as one or other of these different movements appeared to
her best calculated to attract attention, that she struck against a
tree, or against some one coming in an opposite direction. Often when
wishing to jump gracefully over a pool of water, she fell into the
middle of it, and was covered with mud. In fine, Helen did nothing
in a simple manner, like other people, and merely for having the
thing done; she neither walked, nor ate, nor drank, for the sake of
walking, or eating, or drinking, but in order that people might see
the grace she was able to throw into all her movements; and had there
been any one to observe her while sleeping, she would certainly have
contrived the means of sleeping gracefully.
She little thought how much all these efforts tended to defeat the
very object which she had in view, and yet she might easily have
perceived, that if, while doing one thing, her thoughts were on
another, it was quite impossible that she should do the thing well,
and consequently impossible that she should be favourably noticed.
If, when she saw some one entering the room, in whose eyes she wished
to appear agreeable, she began to talk with greater animation to
the person near her; if she threw more vivacity into her gestures,
and made her gaiety more conspicuous, still, as she was not really
amused, but only supposed that she had the appearance of being so,
her laugh was not hearty, her gestures were unnatural, and her gaiety
so obviously forced, that no one could possibly fancy that she was
really gay, while the pretence of being so occupied her thoughts. In
like manner, no one who saw her bestowing alms would have supposed
that she was really kind-hearted, and yet Helen gave when she was
not observed, and she gave with good will; but if there happened to
be any one near to notice her, it was no longer of the poor that she
thought, but of the pleasure of being seen bestowing alms. Her pity
then assumed an appearance of exaggeration and eagerness, which made
it quite apparent that her object was to display it. Her eyes indeed
expressed compassion, but instead of being fixed upon the beggar,
they were turned towards the persons present, so that it might have
been said that it was they, and not the beggar, who had caused her
emotion.
Madame d'Aubigny had continually reprimanded her daughter for
this tendency, which she had displayed from her childhood, and
had succeeded in correcting the most absurd and gross of her
affectations; and Helen herself, as she advanced in age, became more
skilful in detecting such as were likely to appear too glaring; but
as her affectations also increased in number, she merely took a
little more pains to conceal them, without being able to persuade
herself that, while she had them at all, they could not possibly be
concealed. "My child," her mother would sometimes say to her, "there
is but one way of obtaining praise, and that is by acting well; and
as there is nothing commendable in an action done for the sake of
commendation, it is impossible that such actions should secure you
praise: rest assured, therefore, that to make praise and reputation
your aim, is a certain way of never obtaining it." Helen felt, to
some extent, the truth of these remarks, and she promised herself to
conceal her vanity with greater care, but it returned at the first
opportunity; and besides, where is the girl who fully believes all
her mother says to her?
In the same house with Madame d'Aubigny, there lodged one of her
relations, Madame de Villemontier, whose daughter Cecilia was
Helen's particular friend. Cecilia was so full of kindness and
simplicity, that she did not even perceive Helen's affectation,
and was continually disputing on this subject with the old Abbé
Rivière, the former preceptor of M. de Villemontier, Cecilia's
father, and who, after having educated his son, and resided with
him at the college, where he finished his studies, had returned to
take up his abode in the house, where he was respected as a father,
and where he occupied himself in the education of Cecilia, whom he
loved as his own child. They never quarrelled, except on Helen's
account, whose affectation appeared so absurd to the Abbé Rivière,
that he was incessantly ridiculing it. Accustomed to speak exactly
what he thought, he did not restrain himself in her presence, though
there was all the more necessity for doing so, as Helen, who had
always heard him spoken of with great consideration at Madame de
Villemontier's, and had witnessed the pleasure caused by his return,
and the respect with which he was treated, felt extremely anxious
to gain his good opinion. This desire was increased by the praises
he constantly bestowed on Cecilia. It was not that she was jealous;
for, notwithstanding her vanity, she was incapable of any meanness,
she only thought that she merited the same praises as her friend,
and indeed, she would have done so, had she not sought for them.
But her desire of being noticed by the Abbé Rivière destroyed all
the means she would have had of gaining his esteem; therefore, did
he torment her with provoking jokes, which had only the effect of
rendering her more anxious to gain his approbation, and induced her
to make redoubled, though always awkward and misdirected efforts to
obtain it. The Abbé was a very well-informed man. Helen could not
be so foolish as to make a parade, in his presence, of the small
amount of knowledge which a girl of her age is capable of possessing;
but she never allowed a day to pass without finding some indirect
means of alluding to her love of study. Some remark was made about
walking: she said that she took very little pleasure in it, without
a book: it was also one of her greatest griefs that her mother would
not permit her to read before going to bed; and then she related how,
during the morning, she had so completely forgotten herself, that
three hours had passed without her being conscious of it. The Abbé
pretended not to hear her; this was one of his mischievous ways; then
she emphasized, and varied her expression. "Yes," she said, as if
speaking to herself, "I commenced at a quarter to one, and when, for
the first time, I looked at the timepiece, it was four o'clock; so
that more than three hours had elapsed without my having perceived
them."
"There was nothing lost, however," said the Abbé, "for you took very
good notice of them afterwards."
Helen became silent, but she did not the less begin again on the
following day.
What the Abbé most praised in Cecilia's conduct, was her attention
to her mother, who was in very delicate health. One evening, Madame
d'Aubigny happened to faint. Helen, who was in the habit of taking
her work, and sitting with Madame de Villemontier almost every
evening, did not come down on this occasion, except for a moment,
to relate the accident, and to have the pleasure of speaking of the
anxiety which it had caused her. She began by expatiating so much
upon the alarm she felt, when she beheld her mother pale and almost
unconscious, that the Abbé could not help saying, "I see clearly all
that Mademoiselle Helen has suffered from her mother's accident, but
I should like to know what Madame d'Aubigny has suffered."