insisted that her daughter should go as usual, and pass the evening
with Madame de Villemontier. She entered with an air of languor and
fatigue, saying that she was very sleepy, in order that they might
understand that she had passed a bad night. As the questions to
which she was anxious to reply, were not put to her, she endeavoured
to lead to them in another way. She observed that the weather was
delightful at five o'clock that morning: that her mother had been
very restless until two, but that at three o'clock she slept quietly;
from which it was evident that Helen must have got up at these
various hours, for the purpose of ascertaining how her mother was.
Several times she requested to know the hour, saying that although
her mamma had given her permission to remain until ten o'clock,
she should certainly return to her at nine. She inquired again at
half-past eight, and again at a quarter to nine. During this time,
Cecilia, without being observed, had two or three times raised her
eyes to the clock. A minute before nine she rang the bell; her mother
asked her why she did so. "You know, mamma," said Cecilia, "that it
is time for you to take your broth." Helen immediately jumped up,
with a loud exclamation, and put away her work in a great hurry, for
fear of staying beyond the hour.
"These two young ladies," said some one present, "are very punctual,
and very attentive."
"Yes," murmured the Abbé, between his teeth, and looking at Helen,
with a provoking smile, "Cecilia is wonderfully careful of her
mother, and Mademoiselle Helen of her reputation."
Helen blushed and hastened to depart, dreading some fresh sarcasm;
but Madame de Villemontier, having requested the Abbé to accompany
her, and to bring word how Madame d'Aubigny was, he took the candle
and followed her. She walked so fast, that he could not keep up with
her. "Wait for me," said he, quite out of breath, as they drew near,
"you will break your neck."
"I am so anxious to know how mamma is!"
"How fortunate you are," said the Abbé, taking her arm, "to be able
in the midst of your anxiety, to think of so many other things! As
for me, if any one of whom I am very fond was ill, I should be so
taken up with his illness, that it would be impossible for me to
notice what I did for him, still less to think of making others
observe it; but women are so strong minded."
"Really, M. l'Abbé," said Helen, whom this remark embarrassed, "you
can never let a minute pass without tormenting me!"
"That is to say, without admiring you. We admire others for their
general conduct; we love and admire them because they have acted with
propriety, during a long space of time, and on various occasions; but
we must admire Mademoiselle Helen on every occasion. Every action,
every thought, every movement of hers, demands an eulogium."
And the mischievous Abbé, with his eyes fixed upon Helen, and holding
the candle in such a position as fully to display the sarcastic
expression of his countenance, stopped at every step, and emphasized
every word, prolonging as much as possible both his remarks and his
journey. They did, however, at last reach the apartments of Madame
d'Aubigny, and Helen was delighted to free herself from his arm, and
make her escape. The Abbé's raillery greatly pained her, but still
she saw beneath it so much kind feeling, that she could not be angry
with him. He, on the other hand, touched by the gentleness with which
she received his reproofs, and the desire she manifested to gain his
esteem, felt anxious to correct her, especially as he perceived that,
notwithstanding her affectation, she was really kind-hearted and
sensible.
Madame d'Aubigny had an old servant who was rough and ill-tempered,
although he was all day long reading moral and religious books.
She had allowed him to have with him a little nephew, to whom he
pretended to give a good education. This man's sole talent for
teaching consisted in beating little François when he did not know
his lesson in history or in the catechism; and François, to whom this
plan did not impart any taste for study, never knew a word of it,
and was consequently beaten every day. One morning, Helen saw him
coming down stairs sobbing loudly; he had just received his usual
correction, and was to receive twice as much if he did not know his
lesson when his uncle, who had gone out on an errand, returned. Helen
advised him to make haste and learn it; the boy said he could not.
"Come, come," said Helen, "we will learn it together, then," and
she led him into the room, where she set to work so diligently to
make him repeat it, that the Abbé Rivière, who came to see Madame
d'Aubigny, entered without her hearing him.
"Make haste," said she to François, "so that no one may know that it
was I who taught it to you."
"Ha!" said the Abbé, "I have at last caught you doing good for its
own sake."
Helen blushed with pleasure; this was the first time she had ever
heard him seriously praise her. But at the same moment, vanity
usurped the place of the good feelings which had animated her: her
manners ceased to be natural, and though she continued precisely the
same occupation, it was evident that she was no longer actuated by
the same motive.
"Well! well!" said the Abbé, "I am going away, resume your natural
simplicity, no one is going to look at you."
In the evening, at Madame Villemontier's, Helen found an opportunity
of speaking of François. The Abbé shook his head, aware of what
was coming; and Helen, who had her eye upon him, understood him,
and checked herself. However, her tendency got the better of her
discretion, and half an hour afterwards she returned to the same
subject, though in an indirect manner. The Abbé happened to be near
her: "Stop, stop," said he in a whisper, touching her elbow, "I see
you want me to relate it, and, indeed, it is best that I should," and
hereupon he began:--
"This morning, François ..." and he assumed a manner so emphatic and
comical, that Helen did all she could to make him desist: "Let me go
on," he whispered, "and when there is anything that you wish to be
made known or particularly remarked, merely give me a sign."
Helen, ashamed, pretended not to understand him, but yet could
not keep from laughing. It may easily be imagined that she lost
all desire of speaking of François during that evening, and from
that moment, the Abbé, as he had told her, assumed the part of
trumpeter. As soon as she opened her lips to insinuate anything to
her own advantage, he immediately caught the word, and broke forth
into a pompous panegyric. If her movements indicated any desire of
attracting attention, "Look!" he would say, "what grace Mademoiselle
Helen displays in all her movements." If she uttered a loud and
forced laugh, "I beg you will observe," he said to every one, "How
gay Mademoiselle Helen is to-day:" then he would afterwards approach
her and whisper, "Have I fulfilled my functions properly? I shall do
better another time," he would add, "but you do not give me notice,
and I can only speak of what I perceive," and nothing escaped him;
still there was mixed up with all this, something so comic, and at
the same time so kind, that Helen, at once annoyed, embarrassed, and
obliged to laugh, insensibly corrected herself, as well from her
dread of the Abbé's remarks, as from his presenting her affected
manners in a light so ridiculous, that she could not help being
herself struck by their absurdity.
She has at last succeeded in entirely correcting herself of them,
and she endeavours to gratify her self-love by more substantial and
reasonable pleasures, than that of having people observing her at
every moment of the day, and of directing attention to her most
insignificant actions. She acknowledges that she owes this change
to the Abbé Rivière, and says, that if all the young girls who feel
disposed to give themselves affected airs, had, in like manner, an
Abbé Rivière at their side, to show them, at each repetition of them,
the impression which they produce on those who witness them, they
would not long take the trouble of making themselves ridiculous.
ARMAND;
OR THE INDEPENDENT LITTLE BOY.
M. de Saint Marsin, on entering one day into the apartment of his
son Armand, found him in a violent passion, and heard him say to his
tutor, the Abbé Durand, "Very well! Of course I shall obey you; I
must do so, because you are the strongest, but I can tell you that
I do not recognise your right to compel me, and I shall hate you as
unjust, and a tyrant."
After this speech, on turning round with a movement of irritability,
he perceived his father standing at the door, which he had found
open, and looking at him with a calm and attentive countenance.
Armand turned pale, then blushed; he feared and respected his father,
who, though exceedingly kind, had something very imposing both in
countenance and manner, so that he had never dared to resist him
directly, or put himself in a passion in his presence. Dismayed, and
with downcast eyes, he awaited what M. de Saint Marsin was going to
say; when the latter, having entered, sat down near the table, upon
which Armand had been writing, and which formed the subject of his
quarrel, for the Abbé Durand had insisted on his removing from the
window, as it diverted his attention from his work.
"Armand," said M. de Saint Marsin, in a serious but calm tone, "you
think, then, that no one has a right to force you to obey?"
"Papa," said Armand, confused, "I did not say that to you."
"But you did say it to me, for the power which M. l'Abbé possesses,
he holds directly from me, his rights are founded upon mine, and
these I have transmitted to him. Are you not aware of this?"
Armand was well aware of it, but he could not make up his mind to
obey the Abbé Durand, as he did his father; or rather obedience was
in all cases extremely disagreeable to him, and fear alone prevented
him from manifesting his sentiments before M. de Saint Marsin; for
Armand, because he was thirteen years of age, and possessed of
some intelligence, considered himself a very important personage,
and his pride was habitually wounded, because he was not allowed
to follow his own inclinations: he therefore rebelled against what
he was commanded to do, not because he considered it unreasonable,
but simply because it was commanded, and he several times hinted
to the Abbé Durand, that if parents ruled their children, it was
simply because they were the strongest, and not because they had
any legitimate right to do so. M. de Saint Marsin, who was aware
of all this, was very glad to have an opportunity of coming to an
understanding with him on the subject.
"Tell me," he continued, "in what respect I commit an injustice, in
obliging you to obey me, and I am ready to repair it."
Armand was confused, but his father, having encouraged him to reply,
he said, "I do not say, papa, that you commit an act of injustice
towards me, only I do not exactly see how it can be just for parents
to compel their children to follow their wishes; for children have
_wills_ as well as parents, and they have as much right to follow
them as their parents have to follow theirs."
"I suppose it is because children, not being reasonable, it is
necessary that their parents should be reasonable for them, and
compel them to be so too."
"But," said Armand, hesitatingly, "if they do not wish to be
reasonable, it seems to me that that is their affair; and I cannot
understand how any one can have the right of compelling them to be
so."
"You therefore consider, Armand, that if a child of two years of
age took a fancy to put his hand into the fire, or to climb up to a
window at the risk of falling out of it, that no one would have a
right to prevent him from doing so."
"Oh, papa, what a difference!"
"I see none: the rights of a child of two years of age, appear to
me quite as sacred as those of a child of thirteen; or if you admit
that age makes any difference, then you must allow that a child of
thirteen ought to have less than a man of twenty."
Armand shook his head, and remained unconvinced; his father having
encouraged him to state his opinion, "I have no doubt," he replied,
"that there are some good reasons to oppose to this, although I
cannot discover them; but even allowing that it may be to the
advantage of children to be forced to obey, still I do not see how
any one can have a right to benefit another against his will."
"Well, then, Armand, you do not wish me to force you to be reasonable
by obeying me."
"Oh, papa, I did not say that, but...."
"But I understand it very well; and as I do not wish that you should
be able to consider me unjust, I promise you that I will not again
compel you to obey me until you tell me you wish me to do so."
"Until I wish you to force me to obey you, papa?" said Armand,
half-laughing and half-pouting, as if he imagined that his father was
ridiculing him. "You know it is impossible that I should ever wish
that."
"That remains to be proved, my son. I wish to have the pleasure of
seeing it; and from this moment, I resign my authority, until you
request me to resume it. You must make up your mind to do the same,
my dear Abbé," said M. de Saint Marsin, addressing the Abbé Durand.
"Your rights cease at the same time as mine."
The Abbé, who understood the intentions of M. de Saint Marsin,
smiled, and promised to conform to them. As for M. de Saint Marsin,
he still retained his grave expression, and Armand looked from one
to the other, with an air of uncertainty, as if to ascertain whether
they were in earnest or not. "I do not know," continued his father,
"what was the act of obedience so exceedingly displeasing to Armand,
but after these new arrangements, he ought to be exempted from it."
"That is a matter of course," replied the Abbé.
"Come, my boy," said M. de Saint Marsin, "use your liberty without
restraint, and do not think of renouncing it until you are quite sure
that you no longer wish to retain it, for I warn you that then, in
my turn, I shall exercise my authority without scruple."
Armand saw him depart with a stupified look, and could not bring
himself to believe what he had heard. As the first essay of his
liberty, he replaced by the side of the window the table which he had
begun to remove from it, and the Abbé Durand, who took up a book,
allowed him to do so without appearing to notice him; he merely
observed, when Armand sat down to continue his exercise, "I do not
know why you take so much trouble to settle yourself so comfortably,
for I suppose, that now you are master of your own actions, we shall
have but few lessons."
"I do not know, sir," replied Armand, "on what grounds you imagine
that. I should think I am not so much of a baby as to require to be
put into leading-strings, and you may rest assured I shall require no
force to induce me to do what I know to be reasonable."
"Very well!" said the Abbé, and continued his reading, while Armand,
in order to prove his assertion, never once looked towards the
window, but did his exercise twice as rapidly and twice as well as
usual. The Abbé complimented him upon it, and added, "I hope your
liberty will always answer as well as it has done on this occasion."
Armand was enchanted, but his pleasure was somewhat diminished in the
evening, when, on asking his tutor whether they should go out for a
walk, the Abbé replied, "Certainly not, for if you took it into your
head to walk faster than me, or run about, or go through a different
street to that which I wished to take, I should have no power to
prevent you, and I am too old and too stout to run after you. I
cannot undertake to conduct through the streets a giddy fellow, over
whom I possess no authority." Armand became angry, and contended that
the Abbé was unreasonable. At last he said, "Very well, I promise not
to walk faster than you do, and to go just where you please."--"That
is all very well," replied the Abbé; "but you might take some fancy
into your head, which I ought to oppose, and as I have no power to
restrain you, you might bring me into trouble."
"I am willing to promise obedience during our walk," said Armand.
"Very well! I will go and inform M. de Saint Marsin, that you
renounce the treaty, and wish to replace yourself under authority
again."
"No! no! it is only for the period of our walk."
"So," replied the Abbé, "you not only wish to follow your own will,
but you want to make me do the same. You wish me to resume my
authority when it suits you, and to relinquish it when you no longer
desire it. I must say in my turn, no! no! no! If I consent to resume
my authority, it will be to continue it; therefore, my dear Armand,
you must make up your mind, either to renounce the treaty, or to give
up your walk for the future."
"But papa wishes me to walk," replied Armand drily.
"Yes, but he does not require me to walk with you, when I can be of
no use to you. He has no right over my actions, except in so far as
he gives me a right over yours. When he intrusted to me a part of
his authority, it was quite natural that he should prescribe the
manner in which he wished me to exercise it. Now that he intrusts
nothing to me, of what have I to render him an account?"
"As to that," said Armand, "I do not know what should prevent my
going out by myself."
"No one in the world will hinder you. You are as free as the air."
"The proof that I am not so," replied Armand carelessly,--"the proof
that this is all a fairy tale, is, that I am still with you, M.
l'Abbé."
"Not at all," said the Abbé calmly, "it is your father's wish that I
should give you lessons, as long as you are disposed to take them,
but this does not bind you to anything: it is also his wish, that
as long as I remain with him, I should share the apartment which he
gives you; he has a right to do what he pleases with it, and I have a
right to comply with his wishes if I choose to do so. As to the rest,
you can do in it whatever you think best, provided you do not annoy
me, for in that case, I shall exercise the right of the strongest,
and endeavour to prevent you. With this exception, you may go out or
you may remain, just as you please; it is all the same to me. I shall
see you do the things which I have heretofore forbidden, without
troubling myself in the slightest degree. And if you wish that we
should not speak to each other, or even look at each other, I do not
ask for anything better: that will be exceedingly convenient to me."
"Why, M. l'Abbé, you are carrying things to extremes!"
"Not in the least, everything is quite natural. What interest would
you have me take in your conduct, when I am not responsible for it?"
"I thought you had more friendship for me."
"I have as much as I can have. Are you of any use to me? Can I talk
to you as to a friend, of the books which I read, and which you would
not understand? Can I speak to you of the ideas which interest me?
You, whom a serious book sends to sleep, and who feel no interest in
history, except for its battles? Can you render me any service? Can I
rely on you, in any case in which I may stand in need of good advice,
or useful aid?"
"So, I perceive that people are loved only when they can be useful.
This truly is admirable morality and friendship!"
"I beg your pardon; we also love people because we can be useful to
them; we become attached to them because they have need of us, and it
is on this account that we are fond of children. We are interested in
what they do, from the hope we entertain of teaching them to do well:
we love them, notwithstanding their faults, because we believe that
we possess the power of correcting those faults; but the moment you
deprive me of all influence over your conduct, the moment I become
useless to you, what interest can I have in troubling myself about
you?"
"But we have passed many years together. You have seen me every day."
"If we are to become attached to a child, merely from seeing him
every day, why am I not equally attached to Henry, the porter's son,
who waits upon us? I have seen him for as long a time; he has never
refused to do anything I asked him: he has given me no annoyance; I
always find him in good humour; he renders me a thousand services,
and is far more useful to me than you can be."
"Nevertheless, it would be rather strange if you liked Henry better
than me."
"If up to the present time I have liked you better than him, it is
because, as you were confided to my care, the submission you were
obliged to render me gave you the desire of pleasing me, and this
made you deserve my friendship; and because also, as your interests
were confided to me, I acted for you as I would have acted for
myself, and even with more zeal than I could have felt in my own
case. But now that you have undertaken to think for yourself, I have
nothing more to do but to think for myself."
Armand had nothing to reply; he thought to himself that the way to
force those on whom he was dependent to have as much affection for
him, as when he was under their authority, was to conduct himself as
well, as if he were still obliged to obey them, and he determined to
adopt this method. But Armand did not yet possess either sufficient
sense, or sufficient firmness of character, to adhere to such
resolutions, and it was precisely this which rendered it necessary
for him to be guided and controlled by the will of others; left to
himself, he was not as yet capable of meriting their affection.
Many children will, doubtless, be astonished, that Armand did not
profit by his liberty to throw aside his studies, run about alone,
and do a thousand absurdities; but Armand had been well brought up,
and his disposition was good, notwithstanding the caprices which
occasionally passed through his brain; and at thirteen years of age,
though children have not always sufficient strength to do what is
right, they begin, at least, to know what is right, and to desire
to be regarded as rational beings; and, besides, notwithstanding
all his fine arguments, he had acquired the habit of obedience, and
would have found it very difficult to oppose directly, any command
of his father or tutor, in such a way that it might come to their
knowledge. However, the following morning, he thought his liberty
might surely extend so far as to send and buy a rasher of ham for his
breakfast, a thing of which he was very fond, but which he was very
rarely allowed to have. He wanted to send Henry for it; but Henry,
who at that moment had something else to do, said that he could not
go. He was usually rather insolent to Armand, who, on his part, often
became excessively angry with him, because he did not obey him as
readily as M. de Saint Marsin or the Abbé Durand. On the present
occasion, elated by the new importance which he thought he had
acquired, he assumed a more imperious tone, and expressed his anger
more loudly than usual, but this only increased Henry's ridicule. He
even affected to lecture Armand, saying that M. de Saint Marsin did
not allow him to send out of the house for anything, and reminded him
that he had been already scolded for that very thing.
"What does that matter to you," said Armand, still more angrily,
"have I not a right to send you where I please?"
"No, my son," replied M. de Saint Marsin, who happened to be passing
at the moment, "Henry is not under your orders, but under mine."
"But, papa, do you not wish him to wait upon me?"
"Undoubtedly, my son, he has my commands to that effect, and I trust
he will not neglect them; but he will wait upon you according to the
orders I give him, and not according to those you give him."
"Nevertheless, papa, it is necessary that I should ask him for what I
want."
"You need only let me know what you want, and what I tell him to do
for you he will do."
"But I think, papa, you have often allowed me to give him my commands
myself."
"That was at a time when there were things which I could allow you
to do, because there were others which I could forbid. I could
then, without danger, allow you to have some authority in my house,
because, as you could only do what I pleased, your authority was
subordinate to mine. I did not fear that you would give my servants
any orders at variance with my wishes, since I had the right to
forbid your doing anything which displeased me; but now that you
are at liberty to do whatever suits you, if I gave you the right
of commanding my servants, it might suit you to send them to all
the four corners of Paris, at the very moment that I required their
services here, and I should have no means of preventing you. You
might tell them to go to the right while I told them to go to the
left; there would be two masters in the house, and that would never
answer. Impress this fact upon your mind, my son, that you can have
no authority over any one, unless I give it to you, and that I
cannot give it to you, unless I have the power of compelling you to
make a reasonable use of it." Then, turning to the boy, who while
pretending to be busily occupied in cleaning Armand's shoes, was, in
reality, amusing himself all the while with what was passing,--
"Listen, Henry; you will do with great care for Armand's service,
everything which I order you, but you will do nothing whatever that
he orders."
"It is well worth while to be free," said Armand, discontentedly.