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Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).
POPULAR TALES.
Reed and Pardon, Printers, Paternoster-Row, London.
[Illustration: Scaramouche, p. 27.]
POPULAR TALES.
by
MADAME GUIZOT.
Translated from the French by Mrs. L. Burke.
London:
George Routledge & Co.,
Farringdon Street.
1854.
PREFACE.
The favourable reception accorded to our first introduction of Madame
Guizot's Tales to the English Public, leads us to hope that our
youthful readers will welcome with pleasure another volume from the pen
of that talented writer.
This new series will be found in no respect inferior to the former;
one of its tales, certainly, has even a deeper interest than anything
contained in that volume, while the same sound morality, elevation
of sentiment and general refinement of thought, which so strongly
recommend the "Moral Tales" to the sympathies of the Parent and
Teacher, will be found equally to pervade the present series.
TABLE OF CONTENTS.
PAGE
SCARAMOUCHE 1
CECILIA AND NANETTE 37
THREE CHAPTERS FROM THE LIFE OF NADIR 98
THE MOTHER AND DAUGHTER 116
THE DIFFICULT DUTY--MORAL DOUBTS 139
NEW YEAR'S NIGHT 169
THE CURÉ OF CHAVIGNAT 171
THE DOUBLE VOW 231
POOR JOSÉ 237
CAROLINE; OR, THE EFFECTS OF A MISFORTUNE 307
SCARAMOUCHE.
It was a village fair, and Punch with his usual retinue--Judy, the
Beadle, and the Constable--had established himself on one side of the
green; while on the other were to be seen, Martin, the learned ass, and
Peerless Jacquot, the wonderful parrot. Matthieu la Bouteille (such
was the nickname bestowed upon the owner of the ass, a name justified
by the redness of his nose) held Martin by the bridle, while Peerless
Jacquot rested on his shoulder, attached by a chain to his belt. His
wife, surnamed _La Mauricaude_, had undertaken to assemble the company,
and to display Martin's talents. Thomas, the son of La Mauricaude,
a child of eleven years of age, covered with a few rags, which had
once been a pair of trowsers and a shirt, collected, in the remnant
of a hat, the voluntary contributions of the spectators; while in the
background, sad and silent, stood Gervais, a lad of between fourteen
and fifteen years of age, Matthew's son by a former marriage.
"Come, ladies and gentlemen," exclaimed La Mauricaude, in her hoarse
voice, "come and see Martin; he will tell you, ladies and gentlemen,
what you know and what you don't know. Come, ladies and gentlemen, and
hear Peerless Jacquot; he will reply to what you say to him, and to
what you do not say to him." And this joke, constantly repeated by La
Mauricaude in precisely the same tone, always attracted an audience of
pretty nearly the same character.
"Now then, Martin," continued La Mauricaude, as soon as the circle was
formed, "tell this honourable company what o'clock it is." Martin,
whether he did not understand, or did not choose to reply, still
remained motionless. La Mauricaude renewed the question: Martin shook
his ears. "Do you say, Martin, that you cannot see the clock at this
distance?" continued La Mauricaude. "Has any one a watch?" Immediately
an enormous watch was produced from the pocket of a farmer, and placed
under the eyes of Martin, who appeared to consider it attentively.
The whole assembly, like Martin himself, stretched forward with
increased attention. It was just noon by the watch; after a few
moments' reflection, Martin raised his head and uttered three vigorous
_hihons_, to which the crowd responded by a burst of laughter, which
did not in the least appear to disturb Martin. "Oh, oh! Martin," cried
La Mauricaude, "I see you are thinking of three o'clock, the time for
having your oats; but you must wait, so what say you to a game of
cards, in order to pass the time?" And a pack of cards, almost effaced
by dirt, was immediately extracted from a linen bag which hung at La
Mauricaude's right side, and spread out in the midst of the circle,
which drew in closer, in order to enjoy a nearer view of the spectacle
about to be afforded by the talents of Martin. "Now then, Martin; now
then, my boy," continued his instructress, "draw: draw first of all the
knave of hearts, and present it to this honourable company as a sign
of your attachment and respect;" and already the two or three wits of
the crowd had nodded their heads with an air of approbation at this
ingenious compliment, when Martin, after repeated orders, put forth his
right foot, and placed it upon the seven of spades.
At this moment the voice of a parrot was heard in the midst of the
crowd, distinctly pronouncing the words, "That won't do, my good
fellow." It was Peerless Jacquot, who, wearied at not having been
called upon to join in the conversation, repeated one of his favourite
phrases. The appropriateness of his speech restored the good humour
of the company, who were beginning to be disgusted with Martin's
stupidity; and their attention would probably have been bestowed upon
Jacquot, had not Punch's trumpet been at that moment heard, announcing
that the actors were ready and the performances about to commence. At
this signal Martin's audience began to disperse; the ranks thinned,
and the remnant of the hat, which was seen advancing in the hands
of Thomas, effectually drove away those who still lingered from
curiosity or indifference. All took the same direction; and Matthew,
Thomas, La Mauricaude, Martin, and Jacquot followed, with more or
less of ill-humour, the crowd which had deserted them. Gervais alone,
separating from them, went into a neighbouring street to offer his
services, during the fair time, to a farrier engaged in shoeing the
horses of the visitors.
A far different spectacle from any with which Martin could amuse
them, awaited the curious on the other side of the green. An enormous
mastiff had just been unharnessed from a little cart, upon which he
had brought the theatre and company of the Marionettes; and now,
lying down in front of the tent and at the feet of his master, he
seemed to take under his protection those things which had thus far
travelled under his conveyance. Medor's appearance was that of a
useful and well-treated servant; his looks towards his master those
of a confiding friend. Va-bon-train (this was the name of the owner
of the Marionettes) might easily be recognized for an old soldier.
The regularity of his movements added greatly to the effect of
their vivacity; everything happened in its proper turn, and at its
proper time. His utterance was precise without being abrupt, and
the tone of military firmness which he associated with the tricks
of his trade, gave to them a certain degree of dignity. Words taken
from the languages of the different countries through which he had
travelled were mingled, with wonderful gravity and readiness, in the
dialogue of the personages whom he put in action; and scenes in which
he had been personally concerned, either as actor or witness, fired
his imagination, and furnished incidents which enabled him to vary
his representations to an unlimited extent. He was assisted by his
son Michael, a fine lad about the age of Gervais, whom he very much
resembled, although the countenance of the one was as serious as that
of the other was cheerful and animated.
There was nothing strange in this resemblance, for Matthew and
Va-bon-train were brothers, and Michael and Gervais therefore first
cousins. Va-bon-train, whose baptismal name was Vincent, owed his
nickname less to the regularity of his movements than to the vivacity
of his disposition and the promptitude of his determinations. Having
at the age of twenty-five lost his wife, to whom he was much attached,
and who had died in giving birth to Michael, he could not endure even
a temporary grief, and therefore determined, in order to divert his
mind, to enter the army, which he did in the quality of substitute,
leaving the price of his engagement for the support of his son, whom
he confided to the care of Matthew's wife, who had just given birth
to Gervais. She nursed both the children, and brought them up with
an equal tenderness and in good habits, for she was a worthy woman.
They went to the same school, where they learned to read and write,
and were instructed in their religion; they began working together
in Matthew's shop, at his trade of a blacksmith; and, in fine, they
were united by a friendship which was no less ardent on the part of
the lively Michael than on that of the graver Gervais. At the age of
thirteen, Gervais had the misfortune of losing his mother, and almost
at the same time the additional one of being separated from Michael.
Vincent Va-bon-train, who had obtained his discharge, had come for
his son, whose assistance he required in carrying out his enterprise
of the Marionettes, in which he had just engaged. Soon afterwards
Matthew's affairs began to fall into confusion. While his wife lived
she had kept a check on his love of drink, but no sooner was she dead
than he gave himself up to it without restraint. At the tavern he
became acquainted with La Mauricaude, a low, bad-principled woman,
who had followed all sorts of trades. He was foolish enough to marry
her, and they soon squandered the little that remained to him, already
much diminished by his disorderly conduct. Then she persuaded him to
give up the shop, and travel through the country with his ass and
his parrot, assuring him that he would thereby gain a great deal of
money. This wandering kind of life accorded better than regular labour
with Matthew's newly-acquired habits; and he was the more ready to
trust the assurances of his wife, as Va-bon-train had just reappeared
in the country in a prosperous condition, the result of the success
of his Marionettes. Matthew then formed the idea of entering into
partnership with his brother; but the latter was not at all anxious
for the connexion, as Matthew's conduct was not calculated to inspire
him with any confidence. His second marriage had displeased him, and
he disliked La Mauricaude, though he had seen her but casually; but
a soldier is not apt to be deterred by trifles, nor to allow his
antipathies to interfere with his actions; and besides, Matthew had
rendered him a service in bringing up his son Michael. For this he was
grateful, and glad, therefore, to have an opportunity of manifesting
his gratitude. The caravan consequently set out, Michael delighted at
being once more with his beloved Gervais, and Gervais sad at leaving
the respectable and regular course of life which suited him, viz. his
trade of blacksmith, in which, notwithstanding his father's negligence
in instructing him, he had already attained some proficiency. He was
in some degree consoled, however, by the prospect of travelling, and
travelling with Michael; and he was glad to leave a place where the
misconduct of his father had ended in destroying the good reputation
which until then his family had always enjoyed.
Unfortunately, the faults which had destroyed Matthew's reputation
followed him wherever he went. Before the end of the first week, the
two parties had disagreed. The baseness of La Mauricaude, and the
wicked propensities of her son Thomas, who was always better pleased
with stealing a thing than with receiving it as a gift, were soon
discovered to Va-bon-train, in a manner which led him to determine to
break his agreement with them as readily as he had made it; and when
he said to his brother, "We must separate," just as when he said, "We
will go together," the matter was settled, and all opposition was out
of the question. Michael no more thought of opposing his father's
resolution than any one else, he only threw himself weeping into the
arms of Gervais, who pressed his hand sadly, but with resignation,
having at least the comfort of thinking that his uncle would no longer
be a witness of the disgraceful conduct of his family. La Mauricaude
was furious, and declared that she was not to be shaken off in that
easy style; and she determined to follow her brother-in-law, in spite
of himself, in order to profit by the crowd he always attracted, and
to endeavour at the same time to injure him, either by speaking ill of
him in every way she could, or by trying to interrupt his performances,
by the shrieks of the parrot, which she had taught to repeat insulting
phrases, and to imitate the voice of the Marionettes. For two months
she persisted in her resolution, notwithstanding the remonstrances
of Matthew, whose remonstrances, indeed, were usually of very little
avail. At first, Va-bon-train was annoyed with these things; but he
soon reconciled himself to them with his usual promptitude. One day,
however, he said to his brother, "Listen, Matthew: the roads are free;
but let me not hear that you have allowed any one to think that that
toad yonder has the insolence to call herself my sister." So saying,
he showed La Mauricaude the whip with which he was accustomed to give
Medor a slight touch now and then, in order to keep him attentive, and
the handle of which had more than once warned Michael of some failure
in discipline. From that time, Gervais no longer saluted his uncle,
for fear of offending him; and La Mauricaude, notwithstanding her
impudence, did not dare to run the risk of braving him openly. Besides,
she would have found it no easy task to entice away his audience. Who
could enter into competition with "the great, the wonderful, _il vero
Scaramuccia_, Gentlemen, just come direct from Naples,[1] to present
to you, _lustrissimi_, the homage of his colleagues, the _Lazzaroni_?
_Baccia vu_, your hand, _Monsu_ de Scaramouche." And Scaramouche bowed
his head, and raised his hand to his mouth, with a series of movements
capable of making you forget the threads by which they were directed.
"Look, gentlemen, look at Scaramouche, look at him full in the face; it
is indeed Scaramouche; he has not a _sou_, not a _pezzetta_, Gentlemen,
but how happy he is! See him with his mouth extended from ear to ear;
his foot raised, ready to run or jump: but one turn of the hand, one
single turn of the wheel of fortune, and behold the metamorphosis! How
anxious and grieved he looks! He is now the _Signor_ Scaramuccia, he
has become rich, he is counting his money in his hand; he counts, and
now he counts more still, and ever with increased vexation. Oh! what
has happened to him now? His countenance is changed. Oh! what a piteous
face! He weeps; he tears his cap. _Povero Scaramuccia!_ What! _presso
'l denaro!_ Your money has been stolen! Come, come, Scaramouche, _fa
cuore_, take courage. No!... _Ammazarti?_ You want to kill yourself!
Very well then, but first of all a little _Macaroni_. Yes, poor
fellow, he will enjoy his _Macaroni_. See, gentlemen, how piteously he
stretches out his hand, how he eats with tears in his eyes; but, _pian
piano, Scaramuccia_, gently, _vuoi mangiare tutto?_ Would you eat the
whole? Alas! yes; _tutto mangiare_, all, _per morire!_ in order that
he may die! What, die of indigestion! You are joking, Scaramouche;
Macaroni never killed a Lazzarone. Stop, see, he revives again; how he
draws up his leg as a mark of pleasure! How he turns his eyes every
time he opens his mouth to receive _una copiosa_ pinch _di Macaroni_!
_O che gusto! che boccone!_ How delightful! what a mouthful! Make your
minds easy, gentlemen, Scaramouche is alive again." A variety of scenes
succeeded, displaying Scaramouche under numerous aspects, each more
admirable than the former. The last was that in which the German on
duty stopped Scaramouche, with the exclamation _Wer da!_ Scaramouche
replied in Italian, vainly endeavouring to make himself understood, and
avoiding, by dint of suppleness, the terrible bayonet of the German.
Then Punch came up, arguing to as little purpose in French. At length,
the Devil carried away the German, and Punch and Scaramouche went
to enjoy a bottle together. The beauty of the invention drew forth
enthusiastic and universal applause; the politicians of the place
exchanged mysterious glances; and when Scaramouche presented to the
assembled crowd the little saucer which had been placed in his hands,
there was no one who did not hasten to offer his sou, his liard,
or his centime, for the pleasure of receiving a bow or a nod from
Scaramouche.
The crowd slowly dispersed, conversing on the pleasure they had
enjoyed. "His Scaramouche breaks my back," said La Mauricaude, in a
tone of ill-temper.
"I have often told you, wife," replied her husband, "that by persisting
in following them"....
"I have often told you, husband, that you are a fool," was the reply
of La Mauricaude. To Matthew it appeared unanswerable; and Thomas,
at a look from his mother, went off to visit Medor, who received
him politely, and with an air of old acquaintanceship. Va-bon-train
perceived him, cracked his great whip, and Thomas immediately ran away
as fast as he could.
Gervais was passing along the green, leading back to its owner a horse,
which he had helped to shoe. He did not approach, but Medor perceived
him at a distance, got up, wagged his tail, and gave a slight whine,
partly from the delight of seeing him, and partly from annoyance at not
being able to go with him. Gervais gave him a friendly nod. Michael
fondly kissed the great head of Medor, and a smile seemed to brighten
the countenance of Gervais, at this expression of Michael's affection.
It was only in such ways as this that any interchange of thought was
permitted to them.
Though possessed of many good qualities, Va-bon-train had one
defect,--that of forming precipitate judgments, and of being unwilling
to correct them when formed. He came to a decision at once, in order
that a matter might the sooner be settled; and when he had decided, he
did not wish to be disturbed in his opinion, as it took up too much
time to change his mind. The violence done to his feelings in enduring
La Mauricaude for a whole week had so much increased his prejudice,
that it had extended to the whole family. La Mauricaude was a demon,
Matthew a fool, Thomas a rascal, and Gervais a simpleton. These four
judgments once pronounced, were not to be over-ruled. Va-bon-train
was very fond of his son, whose disposition quite accorded with his
own; but he kept him, in military style, under a strict and prompt
obedience, aware that the kind of life he made him follow, might,
without the greatest care, lead a young man into habits of irregularity
and idleness. Fortunately Michael was possessed of good dispositions,
had been well brought up, and preferred to all other company the
society of his father, who amused him with his numerous anecdotes.
Besides, he made it a matter of pride to assist his father as much
as possible, and was never so delighted as when his exertions had
contributed to the success of the day. Va-bon-train's industry was
not confined to his Marionettes; he took advantage of his constant
journeys to carry on a small traffic, purchasing in one canton such
goods as happened to be cheap there, and selling them in some other,
where they were of greater value. He taught Michael how to buy and
sell, and make advantageous speculations; and Michael would have been
perfectly happy in following this kind of busy, useful life, had it not
been for the grief he felt in being unable to share his pleasures with
Gervais. But when, after having slept at the best inn which the town or
village in which they happened to be, afforded, he saw Gervais in the
morning, pale, from having passed a cold or rainy night with no other
shelter than an old barn, his heart was pierced; and, notwithstanding
his father's commands, he found means to get away, and, with a flask
in his hand, hastened to offer a glass of wine to his friend, who
refused it with a shake of the head, but with a friendly look. Michael
sighed; yet this refusal only served to increase his affection for
Gervais; for he well knew that his offer was refused from honourable
feelings, not from pride or rancour. Nor was his mind relieved, except
when Gervais succeeded in finding work; for then he knew that he
would have a good day. When at work, the habitually sad expression of
Gervais' countenance, gave place to an air of animation quite pleasant
to behold; and even Va-bon-train himself had been unable to resist the
temptation of stopping to look at him; and, observing the dexterity
and courage with which he managed the horses, he remarked, "By my
faith, that fellow works well." Then Michael hastened to reply, "Oh!
Gervais is a capital workman;" and he was beginning to add, "and such a
good boy too," when Va-bon-train passed on and spoke of other things.
Michael then contented himself with remaining a little behind, watching
Gervais at work; and when they had exchanged looks, they separated
satisfied.
Up to that time Gervais had been unsuccessful in his efforts to find
a master who would take him into regular employment. There was no one
to be answerable for him; and those with whom he travelled were not of
a character to give him a recommendation. However, he made the best
he could of his wandering life, by endeavouring to perfect himself in
his trade, losing no opportunity of gaining information, and examining
with care the treatment employed in the various maladies of animals,
and all the other operations of the veterinary art. He also managed
to live on his daily earnings, which he economized with the greatest
care, and thereby escaped the necessity of partaking of the ill-gotten
repasts of La Mauricaude and her son. Sometimes even he shared his
own food with his father, whose wretched life was spent in a state of
alternate intoxication and want, giving himself up to drink the moment
he had money, and the next day going without bread. As it suited La
Mauricaude to have some one who could take care of the ass and the
parrot, while she and her son attended to their own affairs, they were
induced to treat Matthew with some degree of consideration, at least
so far as to allow him a share in their profits, of which, however,
they were careful to conceal from him the source, for Matthew, even
in his degraded condition, preserved an instinct of honesty, which
sometimes caused him to say with a significant air, but only when he
was intoxicated, "As for me, I am an honest man;" for when sober, he
had not so much wit. La Mauricaude had several times endeavoured to get
from Gervais the money he earned, but her demands were always firmly
resisted, and Gervais afterwards took especial care not to leave his
money within reach of her or her son. She had likewise tried to breed
dissensions between him and his father; but Matthew respected his son,
and La Mauricaude found that it was not to her interest to excite
too much the attention of Gervais, for his surveillance would have
been very inconvenient to her. She therefore ended by leaving him in
tolerable peace, one reason of which may have been that she saw little
of him, as he usually left the party as soon as it was day, and did not
return until bed-time, when he rarely slept under a roof, unless it was
that of some deserted shed.
The performances of the morning were over, and Va-bon-train stood
chatting at the door of the inn where he had dined with an old friend,
a blacksmith from Lyons. They were then about twenty-five leagues
distant from that town, on the road to Tournon, whither the blacksmith
was going on some private business. Blanchet, such was this person's
name, was clever at his trade, and well to do in the world. The
blacksmith of the village in which they were then staying was a former
apprentice and workman of his, and he had stopped to visit him as he
passed through, and was now on the point of resuming his journey. The
forge was at a short distance from the inn; and Gervais, who had just
left it, as it was getting dark, came up to the spot where Va-bon-train
and Blanchet were conversing. The street was narrow, and, moreover,
partially blocked up by a horse that was tied in front of the inn.
Va-bon-train chancing to turn his head in the direction by which
Gervais was approaching, perceived him coming, and drew back to allow
him to pass. Gervais blushed and hesitated; he had not been so close to
his uncle for two months. At length he passed on, and, without raising
his eyes, bowed to him as he would have done to a stranger, but with an
expression of the most profound respect. Michael's eyes were suffused
with tears, and for a moment those of Va-bon-train followed his nephew,
who, turning round and encountering his uncle's looks, hastily withdrew
his own and continued his way.
"Do you know that lad?" demanded Blanchet.
--"Why?"
"Because yonder at the forge, a short time since, they were talking
about you."
--"And what did he say?" continued Va-bon-train, with an expression of
rising displeasure.
--"He? Nothing:--but one of the men was relating something, I don't
know what, about a woman with whom he had been drinking yesterday,
some two leagues hence, and who told him that you had abandoned your
brother in misfortune. This lad immediately tapped him on the shoulder,
saying, '_Comrade, that is no business of yours. It is always best
not to interfere in family quarrels._' The man was silenced; and I,
learning from what passed, that you were here, for I had not then been
out upon the green, I wished to add my word, so I said, that if you did
leave your brother in misfortune, it must be because he deserved it,
for I well knew the kindness of your heart; whereupon, the young fellow
gave me also my answer, though politely enough however, for he said,
'_Notwithstanding all that, Master Blanchet, it is much better not to
interfere in family affairs_;' and the lad was right as to that; but
from all this I thought he must know you, more especially when, a short
time since, while passing the inn-yard, I saw him enter it, and draw
some water for your dog to drink."
Va-bon-train was visibly moved. Michael, whose heart beat violently,
looked at his father.
"He was at work, then, at the blacksmith's?" demanded the latter with
some degree of emotion.
"Yes; and hard at it too, I can tell you. It is vexatious that you do
not know him. He was anxious to be taken as a regular hand there; but
when asked who would be answerable for him, he replied, '_No one._' Had
it not been for this, I would have engaged him myself, for I am sure he
will turn out a capital workman."
"You think so?"
"Oh! you should see how he sets to work; he would learn more about his
business with me in six months, than with any one else in three years.
But one cannot take him without a recommendation. I heard him say to
one of his companions, that this was the third situation he had lost in
this manner, nor will he ever get one."
"Oh dear!" exclaimed Michael, who could no longer restrain his feelings.
"Well!" said Va-bon-train. "My friend Blanchet will take him on my
recommendation. Take him, friend; I know him, and will be answerable
for him."
"Nonsense! what are you talking about?"
"Nothing; only that I shall see you at Lyons, whither you are
returning:--but when?"
"I shall be there on Monday week."
"And so shall I; and I will come and dine with you: we will arrange
this matter over our glasses. But, at all events, you will take the lad
if I am answerable for him; do not make me break my word."
"No, no; the thing is settled; good bye till Monday week;" and they
parted.
"But Gervais must be told," said Michael, trembling with joy.
"Go, then, and make haste back; tell him to be at Lyons by Monday
week, if possible; but, above all, he must take care that the old toad
knows nothing about it." This was his usual epithet for La Mauricaude.
Michael departed, and Va-bon-train went to a neighbouring tavern, into
which he had seen Matthew and his company enter. The price of a pair of
stockings worth fifty sous, which had been stolen from a shop at the
fair, and sold a quarter-of-an-hour afterwards for twenty, served to
defray the expenses of the party; and Matthew, owing to the cheapness
of the wine that season, was just on the verge of intoxication, when
Va-bon-train, coming up, said to him, "Matthew, there is but one word
between you and me: when I go one way, you must take care and go the
other; if you don't, your old toad and her young one will every morning
get for their breakfast a sound dressing from this whip."
"As for me, Vincent, I am an honest man," stammered Matthew. La
Mauricaude was about to vociferate; and the host took part with his
customer.
"Friend," said Va-bon-train, "when you settle your account with that
hussey, I will not interfere; but look well to the money she gives
you:" and he walked out. As soon as he was gone, La Mauricaude poured
forth a torrent of abuse. Those of her neighbours whose hearts began
to be warmed and their wits clouded by the wine they had taken, agreed
unanimously, that to come and insult in that manner respectable people,
who were quietly taking their glass, without interfering with any one,
was a thing not to be borne: and Matthew again repeated, "As for me,
I am an honest man." The rest, as they looked at La Mauricaude and
her son, made some reflections on Va-bon-train's speech, and the host
thought it high time to demand payment. This completed the ill-humour
of La Mauricaude.
As for Michael, he had hastened to Gervais, and delivered his message.
A sudden flush of surprise and joy suffused the countenance of the
latter, on learning that his uncle would be answerable for him; and
when the voice of Va-bon-train was heard calling his son, the two
friends pressed each other's hands, and parted, each cherishing the
thought of the happiness which was about to dawn for both of them.
All was quiet at the inn where Va-bon-train had taken up his abode for
the night, when, awaking from his first sleep, he thought he heard
Medor in the yard, groaning, and very uneasy. He went down stairs, and
was surprised to find him tied by a cord to a tree that was near the
cart, and so short that he could scarcely move. As he was accustomed to
allow Medor his liberty at night, feeling quite sure that he would make
use of it only to defend more effectually his master's property, he
concluded that some one had thought to render him a service, by tying
up the dog for fear of his escaping; for in the darkness he had not
perceived that the other end of the cord which attached Medor to the
tree, had been passed round his nose, so as to form a kind of muzzle.
Eager to liberate the poor animal, he cut the cord, which was fastened
round his neck by a slip knot, and which, but for the intervention of
his collar, must have strangled him. The cord once cut, the knot gave
way, and, by the aid of his fore paws, Medor was soon freed from his
ignoble fetters. No sooner had he regained his liberty, than he began
to scent with avidity all round the yard, moaning the whole time; then
he dashed against the stable door as if he would break it in. His
master, astonished, opened it for him, supposing, from what he knew of
his instinct, that some suspicious person might be concealed there; but
Medor was contented with running across the stable, still scenting,
to the opposite door, which led into the street, and which, by the
means of this stable, formed one of the entrances to the inn. His
master called him, he came back with reluctance, and, still moaning,
laid down at his feet, as if to solicit a favour; then he ran to the
vehicle, again returned, and rushed with greater violence against the
first door, which his master had in the mean time closed. Astonished
at these manoeuvres, Va-bon-train went to his cart; but everything
was in order, the trunk locked, and nothing apparently to justify the
dog's agitation. Then, presuming that Medor, notwithstanding his good
sense, was, like all dogs and all children, impatient to set out on
his journey, and had been seized with this fancy rather earlier than
usual, he gave him a cut with his whip, sent him back to the cart, and
returned to bed.
The next morning, when he went down, he called Medor, but no Medor
answered. He sought for him everywhere, but without success; he then
recollected what had taken place during the night, and feared that some
one had stolen him.
"Was he there," demanded one of the travellers, "when you went down in
the night to take something from your cart?" Va-bon-train declared that
he had taken nothing from his cart.
"The heat was insufferable," continued the man, "and we had the
window open. One of the workmen from the forge, who slept in my room,
said: 'See, there is some one meddling with the box belonging to the
exhibitor of the Marionettes.' 'His dog does not growl,' said I, 'so it
must be the man himself. Never mind, friend; let us sleep.'"
Va-bon-train hastened to his box, which was still locked; he opened it,
and found everything in disorder: Scaramouche had disappeared, as well
as a dozen of Madras handkerchiefs, the remains of a lot purchased at
the fair of Beaucaire, and the greater part of which had been sold on
his journey. Who could have done this? Va-bon-train remembered having
found a key upon the road, a few days after he had associated himself
with Matthew, and which fitted his trunk. He lost it again the next
day, but had not troubled himself about it. Now he guessed into whose
hands it had fallen, and felt assured that Medor would not have allowed
himself to be approached and led away by any one but an acquaintance.
"That boy who was at work close by, at the blacksmith's," said the
landlord of the inn, "did he not come in here, and give the dog some
drink?"
"He who came with the woman and the ass?" said the hostess. "He seemed
to be a respectable lad."
"_You_ may think so," replied a neighbour; "but when I saw him enter
the stable yonder, after dark, I said to Cateau, What is that little
_vagabond_ going to do there?"
"Gervais!" exclaimed Michael.
"Yes," said the landlord, "he was called Gervais at the blacksmith's."
The flush of anger mounted to the face of Va-bon-train. The idea of
having been duped was added to the annoyance of his loss, and he swore
that he would never again be caught overcoming a prejudice. A less
hasty disposition would have examined whether the innkeeper and the
neighbour were not speaking of different persons, and whether suspicion
ought not more naturally to fall upon Thomas and La Mauricaude. But
the woman whose explanations would have thrown light upon the subject
had gone home, and among those who remained there was no one who had
seen them, or, at all events, who would acknowledge to have done so;
for where there is not some falsehood to complicate matters, it is rare
that truth does not break out, so great is its tendency to manifest
itself.
La Mauricaude, who was never so persuasive as when she had been
drinking, had formed acquaintance with one of the ostlers of the
inn, who, on his side, was easily led by persuasion, when in the
same condition. She had obtained from him a gratuitous place in the
stable for Martin, and, though against his master's express orders, a
corner also for Thomas. Hence, furnished with some of the remains of
the travellers' supper, which he had obtained from his protector, it
was an easy matter for Thomas to enter the yard, and entrap the too
confiding Medor, who had no suspicion of treachery from the hand of an
acquaintance. At the moment when Medor, without abandoning his post,
raised his head to smell what was presented to him, Thomas passed the
muzzle on his nose, and the slip knot round his neck, and the poor
animal found himself tied up to a tree, without having been able to
make the least resistance; for, could he have made any, he would easily
have triumphed over his adversary. Thus master of the field, Thomas had
no difficulty in prosecuting his designs, by means of the key which, at
all risks, he had possessed himself of at the first opportunity that
offered. Martin, taken from the stable before daybreak, carried off the
stolen goods, and scarcely had the morning begun to dawn, when Matthew,
roused from the heavy sleep of intoxication, and, almost unconscious of
what he was doing, left the arch of the bridge, beneath which he had
slept, in the bed of a dried-up stream.
Gervais had obtained, from the blacksmith by whom he had been employed,
the permission to pass the night in his woodhouse, upon a heap of
vine twigs. Awakening from a sleep which, for the first time for two
months, had revived hope in his bosom, he arose with a light heart,
full of eagerness to commence his journey towards his new destination.
The evening before, he had told his father that he was going to leave
him, for the purpose of seeking employment; and Matthew, whose paternal
affections were greatly strengthened after the second bottle, gave him
his benediction, with tears in his eyes, saying, "Go, my son, and gain
an honest living; and wherever you go, you may declare that I am an
honest man." As for La Mauricaude, she troubled herself very little
about him, neither did he wish her to do so. His serious and reserved
disposition had prevented anything like friendly feeling between them.
He walked with a light heart towards Lyons, calculating that in order
to get there, he would require on his journey some little work and
a great deal of frugality; for even by sleeping in sheds, beneath
bridges, or under trees, it was impossible that his twenty-one sous,
the proceeds of his work the day before, and of his previous economy,
should be sufficient for the maintenance of a lad of fifteen, during
the ten days that must yet elapse, before the arrival of that happy
Monday, which was to bring him the protection of his uncle and of
Master Blanchet. But how should he be uneasy about the means of
reaching his destination? He was already there in imagination. He was
about to live with those who, every day and every hour, would recognize
his probity. He was going to have an opportunity of proving his right
to be esteemed, a necessity keenly felt by those who, like him, have
known humiliation without deserving it, and without allowing themselves
to be depressed by its influence. And then, how many delights were
in store for him! That pair of shoes which he carried so carefully
fastened to the end of his stick, whenever he had far to walk, he might
soon be able to wear continually, for he foresaw the time when he
should be in a condition to buy others. Nevertheless, he must endeavour
to make them last until he had purchased a second shirt, so as to avoid
the necessity of going without one occasionally, as was the case, when
of an evening, taking advantage of some secluded nook, he took off the
only one he had, washed it in the stream and dried it on the grass of
the bank. The idea of possessing a pair of stockings to dance in on
holidays presented itself to his imagination in the distant future,
around which crowded in perspective the inexhaustible joys of life.
Then came the thoughts of a more solid happiness, and all the ambitions
of an honourable man. He was able to set up for himself; to work on
his own account; to withdraw his father from the wretched life his
wicked companion forced him to lead, and secure to him a tranquil old
age, due to his son who loved him notwithstanding his irregularities.
Then, his thoughts rushing over intervening years, Gervais would
quicken his steps as if to reach the future, and his imagination
warmed, as the sun rose, and shed its brilliant beams over the horizon.
Whilst abandoning himself to these reveries, he felt something cool
and moist pressing against his hand. It was the nose of Medor; who,
after licking his hand, looked at him and wagged his tail, but with an
expression which seemed to ask a question; and having smelt him from
head to foot, he went on, his nose in the air, and smelling constantly
with the same anxiety. Gervais called him back; Medor stopped, looked
at him with an uneasy expression, and continued his journey in the
same manner. It was quite evident that he was in search of something;
but being ignorant of what had taken place during the night, Gervais
was at a loss to conjecture what it could be. It struck him, that,
separated perhaps by some accident, Medor and his master might now be
in search of each other, and with this idea, he could not suppose that
Va-bon-train was still at the inn, whither Medor would undoubtedly
have returned; it seemed to him, therefore, the best plan, to allow
the animal to obey his instinct, contenting himself with following him
so as to prevent his going astray, and preserve him from the danger of
being taken or killed as a dog without an owner. He rejoiced in the
opportunity thus afforded him of rendering his uncle a service; and,
imagining that Medor had had nothing to eat, he gave him a part of the
bread he had bought for his day's provision, and which the poor thing
devoured with as much appetite as his agitation would permit. They
then continued their journey together, Medor being always in advance,
except when, from time to time, some new fancy seemed to seize him.
Then he would turn as if to retrace his steps, again stop and moan:
alternately swayed by the instinct and affection which drew him towards
his master, and that which hurried him on to the recovery of what had
been confided to his care. Gervais would then call him, and, decided by
the voice of his friend, Medor would return and continue his pursuit.
They journeyed thus for about two hours, when all at once, at a part
where the road, somewhat hollow, wound in such a manner as to prevent
a distant view, Medor, rushing forward, dashed round the corner with
such rapidity that Gervais could not doubt that he had found his
master. Then redoubling his speed, he also advanced trembling between
hope and fear, and was most disagreeably surprised, when, at the turn
of the road, he perceived his father, La Mauricaude, the ass, and
Thomas, in the greatest embarrassment, contending with Medor, who,
without any provocation, and with all the consideration due to old
acquaintanceship, had seized upon Thomas in such a manner, that the boy
found it impossible to disengage himself from the animal's enormous
claws, which, fixed upon the lad's shoulders, served as a support to
Medor, who, by smelling about in all directions, at last discovered an
old cloth bag lined with leather, which was placed upon the back of
the ass, and the cords of which, unhappily for Thomas, had been wound
round his arm. Medor's teeth laboured both at the cords and at the
bag, which he endeavoured to open, almost upsetting Thomas at every
effort; the latter, in despair, and screaming with terror, clung with
all his strength to Martin's pack-saddle. "What is the matter with the
dog?" quietly asked Matthew, who had been a calm spectator of a scene,
which to him had the advantage of rousing him from his apathy. But
La Mauricaude, at once furious and frightened, gave the animal some
violent blows with a stick. Medor, however, did not seem conscious of
them. At length, seizing a large stone, she threw it at him; it struck
him on the hind leg, and he fell howling, dragging down Thomas in his
fall; the ass also was shaken, and even Matthew was astonished. Gervais
only arrived in time to address a word of reproach to La Mauricaude,
who was busied in raising her son: he then ran after Medor, who had
fled, howling, and limping on three legs. He succeeded in catching
him, and found that one of his hind legs was broken. Submissive like a
suffering animal to the friend who seeks to relieve him, Medor lay down
close to him, and allowed him to examine his leg. Fortunately, Gervais
was able to repair the mischief. Naturally kind hearted, it was to that
branch of his business which treats of the cure of animals, that he had
directed his attention with the greatest interest, and he had already
been successful in a case somewhat similar. Matthew, who, when left to
his own free will, was always inclined to sympathise with his son, and
who, moreover, was delighted at having an opportunity of returning for
a moment to his former occupations, willingly assisted his pupil, now
become more skilful than himself. The instruments of his art, treasures
which Gervais carefully preserved, together with some medicines
which he had renewed, or added to, as opportunity permitted, were
found sufficient for the emergency. By the united efforts of the two
operators, whom La Mauricaude also consented to aid, for reasons which
may perhaps be guessed, the leg was well set; and a piece of the last
handkerchief that Gervais possessed, and the enormous rents of which
he had often contemplated with a sigh, served as a bandage to confine
the dressing; and Medor, led by Gervais, was enabled to continue his
journey without much pain.
Somewhat cast down by his accident, however, poor Medor was no longer
able to pursue his search with the same vigour; and besides, during
the operation, Thomas, instructed by his mother, had transferred
Scaramouche, together with the Madras handkerchiefs, into one of
Martin's panniers, where, covered over with straw, they were less
exposed to the keen scent of the animal. Nevertheless, some secret
charm always attracted him to the side on which they were, and Gervais
was astonished at the difficulty which he found in restraining him.
Wishing to divert him from this fancy, and determined to go direct
to Lyons, as the surest place of meeting with his uncle, Gervais
seized the first opportunity offered by their stopping at a tavern,
to separate himself from the troop, with which he had so unluckily
come up. But he was not a little annoyed at perceiving, after a few
moments, that he was followed in the distance by Thomas, who seemed
commissioned to act as a spy upon his movements, while the rest of the
caravan appeared soon afterwards. The fertile genius of La Mauricaude
had immediately suggested to her the advantage to be derived from the
possession of Medor, a magnificent dog in excellent condition, who
might be sold at a very high price. The difficulty was to divert the
vigilance of Gervais, whom at the same time it was necessary to keep
in view, until she had accomplished her design. The following days,
therefore, were passed in a perpetual struggle, Gervais endeavouring to
recover his liberty, and La Mauricaude seeking to prevent his escape
from their odious company. She was singularly seconded by Medor, whose
instinct she aroused by taking advantage of every opportunity that
offered to approach him unobserved, and permit him to get a distant
scent of Scaramouche, the companion of all his travels, the one of all
his master's mimic company with whom he had lived on the most familiar
terms, when Va-bon-train and his son, in their leisure moments, had
endeavoured to invent for him new attitudes, and to rehearse new
performances. Then all Medor's affection would revive, he would rush
with a plaintive cry upon the cords which restrained him; but before
this movement could warn Gervais of what was passing, La Mauricaude
had said to Thomas, "Hide Scaramouche," and Thomas, obedient to his
instructions, had concealed the precious talisman. Matthew, who was
sometimes a witness of these proceedings, demanded the meaning of them;
but they deceived him with a feigned tale, told him to be silent, and
he was so. But in his evening enjoyments at the tavern, purchased
during these days, by the successive sale of the Madras handkerchiefs,
he nightly repeated, with a degree of feeling amounting even to tears,
"As for me, I have nothing to do with all this; for, at all events, it
is certain that I am an honest man."
To the many annoyances which, at this time, fell to the lot of poor
Gervais, was added the far greater one of being unsuccessful in his
attempts to obtain work. In vain had he gone to the right and to the
left, wherever he had been led to hope that it might be procured.
Everywhere his hopes were frustrated, and, at the same time, the
expense of keeping Medor had rapidly accelerated the consumption of
his little store, although the condition of the poor dog sufficiently
attested the frugality of his repasts. It grieved Gervais to the heart
to see his downcast look, and a certain expression of sadness, which
seemed to ask for what it was out of the power of his protector to
bestow; for he had given him all he could give, scarcely reserving
anything for his own support.
In consequence of his many deviations from the high road in these
fruitless endeavours to obtain work, and to escape the inevitable
Mauricaude; they at last reached Saturday, the 21st of August, and were
still eleven leagues from Lyons. It was six o'clock in the evening, and
neither Gervais nor Medor had eaten anything since the previous night.
Exhausted by this fast, as well as by the low diet of the few preceding
days, they walked with difficulty: and yet they had still a league to
go before they could arrive at the village of Auberive, where Gervais
had determined to stop, and where, as a last resource, he intended to
sell his shoes, in order to have the means of reaching Lyons on the
following Monday, the term alike of his hopes and resources. For some
moments he had watched Medor with great anxiety, for he saw that he
was panting more than usual. The day had been excessively oppressive;
and the idea that the want of food, added to the heat and fatigue,
exposed the dog to the danger of madness, presented itself to his
imagination, and filled him with terror. While seated for a moment's
rest, a peasant boy, of about his own age, happened to pass by, eating,
with a good appetite, a piece of bread. This sight roused the desires
of the half-famished Gervais, and Medor raised his now animated eye,
and wanted to run to the boy, to ask him for a portion of his meal.
Unable to resist the temptation he felt, and, above all, the appeal of
the companion of his journey, Gervais asked the lad if he would buy his
shoes, promising that he would sell them cheap.
"How much?" demanded the boy.
"If you have some bread, I will take that, and ten sous besides."
"I have only six sous," replied the rustic, roughly; "and, besides, I
don't want your shoes."
"If you have any bread, comrade," continued Gervais, who could not
resist the hope with which he had just flattered himself, "give it to
me with the six sous, and the shoes shall be yours."
"As for the bread, there is no difficulty about that," replied the
boy; and he took from his bag a piece, weighing about a pound, too
eager to conclude so good a bargain to perceive that he might have
made it still better. Three two-sous pieces terminated the affair, and
two-thirds of the pound of bread were at once set apart as the portion
of Medor, whom Gervais saw, with a melancholy pleasure, devour in a
moment, a piece to which he had nothing to add. Medor's repast, in
fact, was ended, before Gervais had got half through his; and, with a
longing eye, the poor dog watched the piece which the latter held in
his hand, gently whined, and scratched his knee with his great paw, in
order to obtain the little that remained. "You are very hungry, then,
my poor Medor," said Gervais: "well then, this also shall be yours." He
gave him the whole; and the sacrifice was sufficiently great, at that
moment, to make him think he had acquired a right to the affection of
his uncle. He then rose to continue his journey, hoping to be able to
reach Auberive; but, whether from want of food, or because the heat of
the day had exhausted him, after proceeding a few steps, he was obliged
to lean for support against a tree, and, at last, sank to the ground,
almost senseless. Induced either by curiosity or remorse, the young
peasant who had bought the shoes occasionally looked back towards him.
He saw him fall, and returned, but could give no assistance. He spoke
to him, but Gervais was scarcely able to answer. Medor watched his
friend with an uneasy look; and the peasant, who perhaps might have
been little sensible to other evils, was moved by the sight of a misery
which he could understand, and felt some comfort at the thought that,
at all events, Gervais had not been rendered worse by having sold his
shoes for a quarter of their value.
Providence at that moment directed to the spot another traveller, who
came on at a vigorous pace, his coat neatly folded in a handkerchief,
and suspended from a stick which he carried on his shoulder. It was
Master Blanchet. He approached Gervais, but did not at first recognise
him. "Has that boy fainted from hunger?" said he to the young peasant.
"I think he has," replied the lad, "for he had but one bit of bread,
and he gave almost all of it to his dog." Meanwhile, Master Blanchet
drew from his bundle a small flask of brandy, with which he always
took care to be provided when on a journey, and made Gervais swallow
a few drops of it, while the addition of a piece of bread and a slice
of sausage completed his recovery. "A little patience," said Gervais
to Medor, who wanted to share this repast also. "Poor Medor," he
continued, caressing him, "all our troubles are over now," for he had
recognised Master Blanchet, but did not as yet dare to express his
joy except in this indirect manner. Struck by the name of Medor, and
by the voice of Gervais, which was beginning to assume its natural
tone, Blanchet recognized him, was greatly astonished, and put to him
many questions; while the peasant lad, who thought he saw Gervais
glance towards the shoes, which perhaps at that moment he regretted
having parted with so easily, blushed, and walked away, persuaded that
his further stay was no longer necessary to any one, and might be
disadvantageous to himself.
Gervais' tale was simple enough; he had nothing but the truth to tell;
the only difficulty was to explain the nature of his connexion with
Va-bon-train. Seeing that the latter had not acknowledged him as his
nephew, he felt that in their respective positions it was not for him
to be the first to break the silence. Thus, when Blanchet asked him
how he had become known to his friend, Gervais replied, "He will tell
you that himself; it is not my business to speak of his affairs."
Blanchet questioned him on all sides, but without being able to elicit
any further information; nevertheless, his replies displayed so much
integrity, together with so much good sense and caution, that he began
to feel a great respect for him; a feeling which was much increased
after he had examined Medor's paw, which was then in progress of cure,
and which he found perfectly well set. He could not doubt, therefore,
of the talents of Gervais in the different branches of his art. He took
him with him to Auberive, where he intended to pass the night, so as to
reach Lyons without fatigue on the next day but one. Plenty of onion
soup, and a good omelette, procured for Gervais the best meal which
had touched his lips for many a day. Medor was also able to make up for
his previous fast; and, to complete the happiness of Gervais, he found,
at the inn where they stopped, the lad to whom he had sold his shoes.
Master Blanchet commented so loudly on the disgrace of such a bargain
in such circumstances, and his remarks were so fully approved of by
all who heard them, that, whether from fear, or shame, or conscience,
the lad consented to return the shoes at the price which he had given
for them, and even made it a point of honour to refuse the value of
the pound of bread, a sacrifice which procured for him from Blanchet a
good draught of wine and a slice of sausage. Thus everything fell into
order, and Gervais a second time thought himself at the summit of his
hopes; but another day, and another trial, were still to be encountered.
The little room in which Master Blanchet and Gervais slept could not,
manage as they would, accommodate a third guest, of the size of Medor.
He was, therefore, lodged in the stable; and Gervais, confiding in his
new-born happiness, the first earnest of which he had just received,
resigned himself to sleep without any anxiety for the safety of his
protegé; the more so as, since the morning, he had seen nothing of
the odious Mauricaude, and therefore believed himself freed from
her at last. Nevertheless, on the following morning Medor had again
disappeared; whether in consequence of some new stratagem on the part
of La Mauricaude, or from the instinct which urged him to the pursuit
of Scaramouche, or the desire to return to his master, could never be
ascertained. But certain it is, however, that by this new imprudence
he fell into the snare which had long been laid for him; and the first
information which the inquiries of Gervais elicited made it certain,
that it was only by following the traces of La Mauricaude that he
could hope to recover those of Medor. A double affection made success
a necessity for him. He therefore requested the permission of Master
Blanchet, under whose authority he already considered himself, to go
in search of the fugitive; and Blanchet appointed, as their place of
meeting in the evening, the village of Saint Syphorien, or, as it is
sometimes called, Symphorien, situated about four leagues from Lyons,
where he intended to pass the night.
Gervais spent a part of the day in a fruitless search in the
neighbourhood. At length some indications led him to the town of
Vienne; there he lost them; but, on describing the retinue of La
Mauricaude, he was informed, that in all probability she was gone
to Saint Syphorien, as it happened to be its fête day. He made all
possible haste to reach the place, and arrived there about seven
o'clock in the evening. The first object which struck him as he entered
the village was La Mauricaude, in conversation with a man to whom she
seemed on the point of delivering over Medor, who, sorrowfully resigned
to his new condition, appeared cast down by the vicissitudes of his
fate. At the sight of Gervais, however, his animation returned, and he
started as if to rush towards him.
"That is my dog," exclaimed Gervais, who at the moment thought only of
his claims to Medor; and the dog, by the expression of his joy, seemed
anxious to confirm his words.
"'Tis false, you thief," replied La Mauricaude, with her customary
amenity. "Medor!" she added; and, thus addressed, the dog turned his
head, as if to prove that he recognized his name, as well as the voice
by which it was pronounced. "You see very well that he knows me," she
continued, with a volley of abuse and oaths, which we need not repeat.
"Nevertheless, the dog does not belong to you," said Gervais.
"Nor to you either, liar," &c. &c.
The dispute had been carried on in so vehement a tone, that it was
impossible for Gervais to expose the truth of the matter. A third
interest, that of the purchaser of the dog, already compromised by a
considerable sum paid in advance, was here introduced, as a further
complication of the affair, when an exclamation from a terrible voice
announced the approach of Va-bon-train, who, having reached Saint
Syphorien, and learning the cause of the quarrel, came forward to cut
short all disputes. He made his way through the crowd, and had already
his left hand on Medor, while his whip, raised in the other, menaced
Gervais, who, drawing back with indignation, though still with respect,
endeavoured to avoid the necessity of defending himself otherwise than
by words. Nevertheless, had it not been for Medor's transports of
joy, which somewhat embarrassed his master's movements, Va-bon-train
would have been already upon him, and Gervais must have submitted
to the cruel alternative of either failing in respect to his uncle,
or of enduring an ignominious treatment, the bare idea of which was
insupportable to him.
"He is a thief," exclaimed the perfidious Mauricaude, taking advantage
of this opportunity to turn upon another the accusation which she
herself merited. "He said the dog was his!" and several voices
simultaneously repeated, "Yes, he did say so."
"You have been seen all along the road," continued Va-bon-train,
"dragging him after you in spite of his resistance;" and a voice
repeated, "I saw him." It was in vain that Gervais endeavoured to make
himself heard,--the public opinion was against him. Assailed by a
crowd of painful emotions, and distressed above all by the treatment
he received from him whose gratitude he so much merited, he felt his
courage forsake him, and could no longer restrain his tears, tears
which only seemed to be an additional evidence against him. Several
persons interposed between him and his uncle, but he himself no
longer thought of safety; and whilst the efforts of Va-bon-train were
redoubled, in order to get near him, notwithstanding the endeavours of
the crowd to prevent it, Gervais was exhausting his, in demanding as a
suppliant the justice due to his innocence. Michael, whom his father
had pushed away from him, not knowing what to think of his friend, but
deeply distressed at the sight of the misfortunes which overwhelmed
him, and the danger which still threatened him, seemed to appeal to all
around to intercede for a reconciliation which every moment appeared
to render impossible. However, Heaven again came to the assistance
of Gervais, by directing Master Blanchet to the spot. Attracted by
the noise, he came out from the house of a friend with whom he had
supped; and Michael, perceiving him, ran to meet him. The name of
Medor, mingled in the almost unintelligible explanations given by the
agitated Michael, led Blanchet to suppose that his young friend Gervais
might have something to do in the matter; he therefore hastened his
steps, and arrived at the very moment when, by an increased exertion of
strength and anger, Va-bon-train, forcing his way through the crowd,
was about to rush upon Gervais. Blanchet seized him by the shoulders,
and pushed him backwards, saying, "Stop! stop! there's time enough for
anger, but not always for explanation."
Less disposed than ever to profit by this good advice, Va-bon-train
was, in all probability, upon the point of turning his rage against him
who offered it, when a new incident arose to change once more the face
of the affair. Matthew approached the scene of action, and Martin and
Jacquot, under his guidance, were added to the spectators. Jacquot had
not been deaf to certain words, which for several days past had struck
his attentive ears. Encouraged probably by the noise, he began to
repeat, though in a timid and uncertain tone, and as if he were saying
a lesson, which he was not quite sure of knowing,--"Thomas, hide
Scaramouche!"
--"Scaramouche!" repeated Michael, who had heard him; and now Jacquot,
more sure of what he was about, went on, and constantly raising his
voice in proportion as the noise around him increased, and excited him,
his words at length reached the ears of Va-bon-train, who turned round;
while Medor, taking advantage of his first moment of liberty, rushed
upon Martin, and this time rummaging, without obstacle, in the bottom
of the pannier, dragged out the unfortunate Scaramouche, who, all
crippled and disordered as he was, still retained sufficient life to
express by his attitudes the distress of his condition. Medor advanced
and placed him triumphantly in the hands of his master; who, in his
surprise and joy, knew not to which of his two friends to offer his
first caresses. But Medor had not finished his task; and returning to
the pannier, notwithstanding the efforts of La Mauricaude, who hastened
to the defence of her booty, he drew from it the last of the Madras
handkerchiefs, which she had preserved for her own use.
"Infamous old toad!" exclaimed Va-bon-train, "'tis you, then, who have
robbed me." And immediately turning towards Gervais, whom the presence
of Blanchet had encouraged to approach, "Why were you with her?" he
demanded, in a tone which already indicated his desire of finding him
less in fault.
--"I was not with her," said Gervais. "They were not together,"
repeated several of the voices which had at first borne testimony
against him.
"And why did you take away my dog?" again demanded Va-bon-train.
--"In order to bring him back to you, and to prevent him from following
her." Then the accusations began to turn upon La Mauricaude. One
recognized her as having given him on the previous evening a bad
ten-sous piece; another had seen Thomas skulking about his house, and
an hour after, found that a fowl had been stolen. La Mauricaude began
to vociferate, and then to cry as she saw the storm increase, and
direct itself against her; meanwhile Gervais drew near his father, who,
already more than half intoxicated, and hardly able to understand what
he heard, contented himself, without taking any part in the matter, by
affirming, that, "as for him, he was an honest man."
"Get out of my way, you fool!" said his brother, pushing him behind
him; then advancing towards La Mauricaude, who, still vociferating and
crying, was endeavouring to make her escape, amid the hootings which
pursued her, he contented himself with cracking his whip in her ears to
hasten her steps. The crowd by which she was accompanied, diminished
as she retreated, and by degrees the clamours of the little boys, who
alone persisted in following her, died away. These assailants she
dispersed by throwing stones at them, and they afterwards reported that
they had seen both her and her son Thomas join a band of gipsies, who
were on the point of departure. From that time she has never been heard
of.
Quiet was once more restored at Saint Syphorien, and Va-bon-train
received from Blanchet the explanations necessary to establish the good
conduct of his nephew. "But where, in the name of Fortune, did you meet
with him?" continued Blanchet. "He would never tell me."
"What, Gervais!" said Va-bon-train, "will you not acknowledge me for
your uncle?" Michael, transported with joy, once more threw his arms
round the neck of his friend, and Va-bon-train afterwards received the
acknowledgments of his nephew's grateful affection. "Now then, what is
to be done with Matthew," said Va-bon-train--"now that he has got rid
of his old toad?" "He cannot live alone," said Gervais, casting down
his eyes.
"Well, then, let him come with me," continued Va-bon-train; "Martin
will, at all events, be learned enough to carry a part of my baggage,
which is becoming too heavy for Medor. I will teach Jacquot many
capital things, and we shall get on very well together."
These words rendered Gervais completely happy, and the gratitude
inspired by his uncle's kindness towards himself, was far exceeded
by what he now experienced, on account of his father. They went for
Matthew to the tavern, where they found him still drinking, the longer
to defer the moment of payment. This difficulty was removed by his
brother, who thenceforth considered himself as charged with his care.
The arrangement was proposed to him, and he accepted it, just as he
would have done, had he been sober, only that he repeated a little
oftener, and with rather more emotion than usual, "You, Vincent, know
very well, that I at least am an honest man."
They had a joyful supper that night, Medor remaining at the side of the
table, with his head upon his master's knee, which he left only to give
a slight caress to Michael, or a look and a wag of his tail to Gervais.
The following day, before their departure for Lyons, Gervais received
from the generosity of his uncle, the pair of stockings, the shirt, and
the two handkerchiefs, necessary to complete his outfit, and had the
satisfaction of arriving with him at the workshop of Master Blanchet,
not as a poor boy, received almost as an act of charity, but as a good
workman, countenanced and recommended by respectable relatives.
He has justified their hopes and his own, having become Master
Blanchet's head workman; he is about to marry his only daughter,
and his father-in-law, rich enough to retire, has given up to him a
business, which Gervais will not allow to decline under his care.
Matthew, who only needs guidance, contents himself with being a little
merry after his first meal, and a little sleepy after the last. He
hopes to spend a peaceful old age with his son, while Va-bon-train,
who, without being old, is also anxious for repose, has purchased a
small property, married again, and given up his marionettes and the
faithful Medor to his son Michael. Matthew has generously added the
ass, and Jacquot, and has announced for Gervais' wedding-day, "_a
performance for the benefit of friendship, in which is to be seen
the wonderful dispute between peerless Jacquot and the incomparable
Scaramouche_."
CECILIA AND NANETTE;
OR, THE ACCIDENT.
It was in the month of December; the church clock had just struck
five, and the morning was very dark, when one of the servants of the
inn came to inform Madame de Vesac, and her daughter Cecilia, that the
carriage was ready, and that they could continue their journey. They
had left Paris early on the previous day, for the purpose of visiting
the estate of Madame de Vesac, to which she had been called by urgent
business. The distance was a hundred and fifty leagues, and they had
travelled by post; they had been on the road till ten o'clock on the
previous evening, and were now about to resume their journey after
having taken a few hours' repose. Madame de Vesac called her daughter;
Cecilia, terribly sleepy, half opened her eyes, then let her head fall
back again upon her pillow. Her mother was obliged to call a second,
and even a third time, and she awoke up at last, exclaiming "Oh dear!
dear! how disagreeable it is to get up at five o'clock in the morning
at this time of year!" She would have said, had she dared, "Oh dear!
what a misfortune!" for every contradiction or suffering, however
slight, always assumed, with Cecilia, the character of a misfortune. At
every little accident that befel her, she fancied that no one had ever
suffered so much as she did, and really believed that cold, hunger,
thirst, and sleepiness, were with her quite different matters from what
they were with other people. When laughed at for the disproportionate
annoyance which the petty inconveniences of life occasioned her, she
would say "Oh! you do not feel as I feel!" and, indeed, believed so.
Nevertheless, as Cecilia possessed a generous disposition, an elevated
mind, a lively imagination, and a due share of pride, she had a
passionate admiration for high and noble actions, and even a great
desire to imitate them, sometimes saying that she would give everything
in the world for an opportunity of becoming a heroine. "Provided," her
mother would add with a smile, "that your acts of heroism never exposed
you to the chance of being scratched by a thorn, or to the necessity of
walking a few steps in uneasy shoes." And then Cecilia, a little vexed,
would maintain that such things as these had nothing whatever to do
with heroism.
Madame de Vesac had not been able to bring her maid with her, as she
was ill at the time they left home. This rendered their arrivals at
the inns, and especially their departures, more disagreeable, as they
were themselves obliged to pack and unpack their luggage, and attend to
a variety of troublesome details. Madame de Vesac spared her daughter
these inconveniences as far as possible. On the present occasion, she
had allowed her to sleep until the last moment, and when Cecilia awoke,
almost everything was ready for their journey. Still it was necessary
to arrange and pack up her night-things, and see that nothing was
forgotten; and the cold and the darkness had so chilled her courage,
that nothing but shame prevented her from shedding tears at every
effort she made, and every step she took. And yet she was thirteen
years old; but at no age do people cease to be children, if they allow
themselves to attach importance to every whim that may cross their
minds, or to every trifling inconvenience which they may have to
bear. Cecilia had much more trouble, and was much longer about what
she had to do than would have been necessary had she set courageously
to work. "Make haste," repeated her mother every moment, and Cecilia
made haste, but with the air of one who had no heart for what she was
about. To have given herself this, nothing was required but a slight
effort, a slight exertion of her reason: she need only have said,
"What I have to do at present is so far from being beyond my powers,
as I try to persuade myself, that if I felt the least wish to do it I
should find no difficulty in it." But Cecilia did not choose to desire
what would have been so beneficial to her, and, for the sake of saving
herself a single mental effort, sufficient to conquer her repugnance
and idleness, she allowed herself to relapse into them every moment,
and submitted to the continued exertions demanded by every action and
movement.
At last, all was ready; Madame de Vesac and her daughter entered
their carriage and departed. Cecilia's griefs, however, being still
undiminished, the night was so dark, and so cold, and she had so little
courage to resist the feeling of sadness which it induced. She shivered
in her wadded dress, and beneath her two or three shawls; her fur shoes
did not prevent her from complaining of the _deadly coldness_ of her
feet, nor could she sufficiently cover her hands with her dress, though
already encased in fur gloves. At length, in spite of her distress, she
fell asleep, and slept quietly until it was broad daylight. When she
awoke, the sun had already dissipated the thick fog of the morning.
It shone brilliantly over the country covered with snow, and was even
felt through the windows of the carriage. Everything seemed to announce
a fine winter's day, and her heart began to revive. They stopped for
breakfast, and took it in a comfortable warm room, and this completely
restored her energy and cheerfulness. Her mother then began to jest
about the despair she had manifested a few hours before. "I see," she
said, "that for the acts of heroism to which you purpose to devote
yourself, you will be careful to select the months of July and August,
for cold is quite adverse to your virtue."
"But mamma," said Cecilia, "how can you expect one to stir, when one's
fingers are benumbed with cold?"
"Since, though complaining the whole time, you did nevertheless manage
to do so, I presume the thing was possible, but I perceive, at the
same time, that such an effort must have something in it surpassing
the highest courage, and were it not for the terrible fatality which
has subjected you to so severe a trial, I should have been extremely
careful not to have required anything of the kind from you."
"However, it is quite certain, mamma, that one might choose some better
time for travelling than the month of December."
"Not if it happened to be in that month that one had business to attend
to which required travelling. You will one day learn, my child, that
there are things more impossible than enduring the cold, or even than
moving one's fingers when they are benumbed. You remember what Cæsar
said: _It is necessary that I should go, and it is not necessary that I
should live_.
"One might very well expose one's life, on occasions of importance, and
yet not be able to do impossibilities, however important they might be."
"Such as putting in a pin or tying a shoe when one is cold?"
"I do not mean that," replied Cecilia, a little out of humour, "and
besides you will allow, mamma, that our affairs are not of such
importance as those of Cæsar."
"How do you know that? the importance of things is relative; I am
not called upon to overturn the world; such a thing would give me
no pleasure, but I have to settle a matter to which your father
attaches great importance, and to show myself worthy of the confidence
he reposed in me, when, on leaving for the army he placed all his
affairs in my hands; in fine, it is necessary for me that he should
be pleased with me, for on this depends the happiness of my life; and
on your part, it is necessary that you should prove yourself able to
support with courage unavoidable inconveniences. All these things are
important, and yet," added Madame de Vesac, smiling, "I do not think we
run any risk of dying on account of them."
"Oh, no! mamma," said Cecilia, smiling too, "but I assure you that even
Cæsar would have found it very cold this morning."
"I have not the least doubt of it; but Cæsar was such a great man!
Do you know, Cecilia, that if we were to examine with care, I feel
sure that among his great actions we should find many which must have
benumbed his feet and hands."
"In that case," said Cecilia, somewhat drily, "he must have been very
fortunate if he could find matters to attend to which would prevent his
thinking of the cold, for it is certainly very disagreeable."
"Undoubtedly," replied Madame de Vesac, carelessly; "but there are some
persons who can manage to think of every thing. I am persuaded, for
instance, that had you been in Clælia's place, when, flying from the
camp of Porsenna, she crossed the Tiber on horseback, you would have
found it excessively disagreeable, to have been obliged to wet your
feet."
"Well, mamma," said Cecilia with animation, "you ought to be delighted
at that, since you are continually telling me that instead of wishing
to be a heroine, it is quite enough to attend to one's duties merely."
"Certainly; but I who make no pretensions to heroism, find that mere
duty is sometimes quite sufficient to employ all our powers, and that
it is impossible that we can always do what simple duty requires,
unless we have learned to bear cold, fatigue, and even the misfortune
of having to get up at five o'clock in the morning in the month of
December."
"It is nevertheless certain, mamma, that there are things which it is
quite impossible to do, such as walking when one is tired."
"Or moving one's fingers when they are cold, for instance. Undoubtedly
there are things which are impossible to every one, but the difference
I find between Cæsar and you is, that in his case the impossibility
came much later, and that at the degree of fatigue at which you would
say _I cannot walk_, he would have said _I must walk_, and would have
found strength to proceed. You are not aware how much strength people
possess when they really wish to make use of it."
"I assure you, mamma," replied Cecilia, with some slight degree of
temper, "that when I say I cannot do a thing I really cannot."
"I am sure of that, but I should like to know whence arises the
impossibility. Pray think of this at the first opportunity. It is
necessary that I should know whether you are really weaker than other
people."
Cecilia made no reply; she was perfectly persuaded that no one
understood her sufferings, and had never asked herself whether she were
not made like other people, and consequently able to endure what they
endured. The day passed well enough, and when night came she slept.
She was sleeping soundly, when a violent jerk suddenly aroused her.
"Gracious! what is the matter?" she exclaimed. "We are upset," said
Madame de Vesac; and in fact at that moment, the carriage, which had
passed over a large stone, came to the ground with a violent shock,
and turned completely over on one side. Cecilia screamed, and fell
upon her mother. "Do not be frightened," said Madame de Vesac, who,
notwithstanding the inconvenience of her position, thought only of
her daughter. The carriage was stopped, and the postilion dismounted,
and came to their assistance. All this time Cecilia did not cease
screaming. "Where are you hurt?" asked her mother, trembling lest she
should be severely wounded. "Everywhere," replied Cecilia, unconscious
of what she said, the fright had so bewildered her. When the postilion
opened the door which happened to be uppermost, Cecilia knew not what
to do to extricate herself from her position. "Get up," said the
postilion.
"Get up," repeated her mother, but Cecilia replied, "I cannot," without
knowing whether she could or not, for she had not even tried. At last
the postilion, who was active and strong, raising her up, lifted her
out of the carriage, and thus freed her mother from a weight which
almost overpowered her and made her feel ready to faint. Then Madame de
Vesac, in her turn, getting out with the assistance of the postilion,
hastened to her daughter, whom she was delighted to find standing up,
although motionless, and not knowing whether she had a limb of which
she could make use. In a little while, being somewhat reassured by her
mother's voice, Cecilia began to answer the repeated questions put to
her to ascertain where she was hurt. Both her knees were bruised, and
her elbow grazed: she had a slight swelling on the head, a bonnet box
had pressed her side, and her foot, which happened to be under the seat
of the carriage, was a little swelled. "I am so bruised all over that
I cannot move," she said, moving, however, the whole time in every
direction to feel where she was hurt. She asked her mother whether
she, too, were not hurt. "I think," replied Madame de Vesac, "I have
sprained my wrist, for it is very painful, and I cannot use my hand."
"Just like my foot," replied Cecilia, and saying so, she began to walk.
Madame de Vesac smiled, but said nothing. She wrapped her hand in her
shawl, the ends of which she tied round her so as to support her wrist,
and then busied herself with what was to be done. Recovered from the
first shock of their fall, and congratulating themselves on having
escaped so well, they nevertheless found themselves placed in a very
unpleasant predicament. Comtois, the only servant who had accompanied
them, had gone on before, as a courier, to prepare the horses. The
postilion, unable by himself to raise the carriage, was obliged to
go for assistance to the post-house, from which they were still at
a considerable distance. Madame de Vesac and Cecilia, therefore, as
they could not follow him since he went on horseback, nor reach the
post-house alone, as they were ignorant of the way, were obliged to
remain on the road until his return. The night was extremely dark,
and the cold, without being very intense, was sharp and disagreeable.
A sleet was falling, which, as it reached the ground, was converted
into ice. The carriage, completely overturned, afforded no shelter,
and to the other inconveniences of their position, was added that of
being quite alone at ten o'clock at night upon the high road. Madame de
Vesac, however courageous, was not without uneasiness, but she knew it
was useless to give way to it; and when Cecilia, a little terrified,
asked her if they were to remain alone, "You see we must," she replied,
in a tranquil voice, which gave her daughter to understand, that though
she was aware of the inconvenience of the arrangement, she nevertheless
submitted to it with calmness, because it was necessary. Cecilia
herself saw this necessity so plainly that she made no reply; but when
after unharnessing the horses, and securing two of them to a tree, the
postilion mounted the third to go and seek assistance; when she saw him
depart, when the sound of his horse's feet growing fainter and fainter
at last ceased to fall upon her ear, then her heart shrank with terror,
a cold perspiration covered her limbs, and she drew close to her
mother. Madame de Vesac perceived her alarm, but made no remark, well
knowing that nothing so much increases terror as speaking of it. She
merely endeavoured to restore her confidence a little, by giving her,
on her own part, an example of courage and tranquillity.
The wind became more violent, the sleet increased, and a heavy fall of
snow began to mingle with it: Madame De Vesac and her daughter went
over to the side where the carriage offered some defence against the
rain and snow which were beating into their faces; but this shelter did
not long suffice, the gusts of wind became so violent, that Cecilia
was twice on the point of losing her hat, notwithstanding the ribbons
by which it was confined. It was with difficulty that they kept their
shawls around them; the snow assailed them on all sides, melting upon
them, and penetrating their clothes; and they were benumbed by a damp
coldness, from which their inability to move left them no means of
escape. Cecilia did not think of complaining, for no one could have
assisted her; besides, she could not doubt that her mother suffered as
much as herself, and complaints are seldom made except to excite the
pity of those who seem better off than we are, and who, therefore, are
able to think of us rather than of themselves. Cecilia now discovered
how erroneous it is to suppose that any comfort is to be derived from
complaining: perhaps even she suffered less from her position, than
she would have done had she lamented it; but she did not make this
reflection, and it was natural that the necessity of the case should
render her more courageous.
Madame de Vesac, however, fearing lest her daughter should become ill,
from the cold and damp which had penetrated her clothes, proposed to
her to seek shelter in a wood which extended on both sides of the road,
and the trees of which, though divested of their leaves, were at least
sufficiently close to break the violence of the wind and snow; but this
wood was the principal object of Cecilia's dread. Terrified at the
proposition, she could only utter the words, "Oh! mamma, to go into the
wood!"
"Just as you like, my child," said Madame de Vesac, "but," she added,
smiling, "who do you think would come after us in such weather as this?
You may be quite sure there is nobody abroad but ourselves."
Cecilia made no reply, her thoughts terrified her to such a degree that
she dared not utter them, and had she pronounced the word _robbers_, it
would have seemed to her that she was calling them; but at that moment
there came a gust so violent, that the carriage appeared shaken by it;
one of the blinds which happened to be down, was so violently agitated
that the cords snapped, and being no longer upheld it was lifted by the
wind, and struck Cecilia on the head. Seized with terror she sprang
from her place; the storm continued, she was unable to resist it, yet
dared not return to the carriage. Completely bewildered by the wind,
she neither knew where she was, nor what she did: and her mother taking
her by the arm led her into the wood, where she recovered a little
of her self-possession. Here the wind was much less violent, and as
always happens when we look at things closely, Cecilia having entered
the wood felt much less terrified, than while merely considering it
from the road. A copse where there happened to be a few trees, which
still retained their leaves, although it was the month of December,
had protected a few feet of ground from the snow, and afforded
the travellers a shelter from the wet. The double trunk of a tree
furnished them with a support, and they were at least in a situation
where they could await without excessive discomfort the assistance
which could not be far distant, when all at once Cecilia, whose eyes
were turned towards the copse, probably seeing the branches agitated
by the wind, fancied she perceived a figure moving and advancing
towards them. Completely bewildered by fright she seized her mother's
arm, and without saying a word dragged her on, as quickly as she was
able, through the bushes, plunging deeper into the wood to avoid the
terrible objects by which she believed herself pursued. Her mother,
astonished, after having followed her for a few steps endeavoured to
stop her. "Where are you going?" she said. "What is the matter?" But
Cecilia, whose terror was only increased by the sound of her mother's
voice, because she was afraid of its having been heard, continued
to drag her along with an extraordinary degree of strength, and her
mother, who would not leave her, was obliged to follow. At length, by
dint of talking she recalled her to herself; she stopped a moment and
said in a low tremulous voice, "Did you see him?"--"Who?" demanded
Madame de Vesac.--"Among the trees ... a man...." "I have seen no one,
you were mistaken, I assure you."--"Oh! I still hear him...." And she
was once more on the point of starting off, but her mother restrained
her. "My dear Cecilia," she said, greatly distressed at her condition;
"my dear child, be reasonable, take courage; there is no one there, I
assure you there is nothing to fear; confide in me who would not lead
you into danger, and whose judgment is calmer than yours." A little
restored by her mother's words, and the affectionate tone in which they
were uttered, Cecilia, ashamed of her fears, stopped, and restored her
mother's arm, which she still held, to its former position under her
shawl.--"Let us retrace our steps," said Madame de Vesac, "lest we
lose our way." Cecilia did not dare to say anything, but she shuddered
at the idea of again passing so near the copse. At this moment they
heard some one call them, and recognized the voice of Comtois. Cecilia
breathed more freely, and hastened to reply; but Comtois had entered
the wood at another part, and they stood still to discover whence the
voice proceeded.
"It is in that direction, mamma," said Cecilia, who, delighted at the
thought of avoiding the copse, pointed to a road a little more to the
right than the one they were on the point of taking. Madame de Vesac
listened again, and the voice which still continued to call and answer,
seeming, in fact, to proceed from the right, she took the direction
indicated by Cecilia, and calling from time to time to Comtois, they
walked on towards the spot whence the sound was still heard to proceed,
but it seemed sometimes to approach, and sometimes to recede, for it
appeared that Comtois altered his course according to the place where
he thought they must be, and they themselves took first one direction
and then another, without being quite sure which was the right. This
state of uncertainty lasted for some minutes, but at length the voice
sensibly approached, and they heard steps through the trees. "Is that
you, Comtois?" It was he, and Cecilia in a transport of joy was ready
to throw her arms round his neck; she forgot the cold, the sleet, and
the wind; once freed from her former terror she now thought all her
troubles were at an end. Comtois informed them that he had procured
assistance, and that at that moment the men were engaged in raising
the carriage, to which he was going to conduct them. But the question
now was how to find the way, for, intent only on reaching each other,
neither Comtois nor Madame de Vesac had thought of observing their
route. They stopped to listen for some indication from the people at
the carriage, but the wind bore the sounds another way, or when they
did reach them, they were so faint and uncertain, that they concluded
they must have advanced further into the wood than they had supposed.
However, they directed their course towards the side on which they
concluded the high road lay, listening every moment to discover whether
the sounds increased in strength; sometimes Cecilia fancied she heard
voices, and even maintained that she could distinguish that of the
postilion: at other times hearing nothing she became uneasy, but the
joy of having found Comtois sustained her courage. At length she
exclaimed, "Mamma, I see an opening through the trees; that must be
the road." Madame de Vesac looked, and perceived, indeed, a spot where
the trees appeared to separate, but she did not think it was the high
road, and was astonished at not hearing any noise. Cecilia made her
hasten her steps, repeating, as she hurried her on, "There's the road,
there's the road!" Her mother cautioned her not to rejoice too soon;
but she did not listen to her, and was the first to reach a spot, open
indeed, but so surrounded by the wood on all sides, that it afforded no
means of egress, except by a path almost parallel to the one they had
just left. She stood petrified.
"This is not the road," said Madame de Vesac.
"Indeed," said Comtois, "I don't know where we are now."
"What will become of us?" inquired Cecilia in a timid and anxious
voice, but without those exclamations so habitual to her, for in the
present moment of real fear and trouble her thoughts were more occupied
with the situation itself, than with the desire of vividly displaying
what she felt.
"We must endeavour to get out of this place," replied Madame de Vesac.
"The road cannot be far off; but we must take a different direction
from the one we have come by."
They once more stopped to listen and consult together; but they could
hear nothing whatever; and as to the path they were to take, there was
no choice except between the one by which they had come and another
which led in the same direction. Their consultation, therefore, could
not be of long duration. The second path seemed much better than the
one they had left, it was tolerably wide, and pretty well beaten; and
they hence concluded that it must necessarily lead to some frequented
place. They therefore determined to follow it, and recommenced their
journey with renewed courage; but Cecilia perceived that her mother
arranged in a different manner the end of the shawl, with which she
had contrived to support her arm, and that she occasionally carried
her other hand to it; and concluding from this that she must suffer
increased pain, she asked her about it.
"We must not think of this now," said Madame de Vesac; so that Cecilia
was afraid to complain too much of her foot, which was beginning to
give her pain. She only said, "My foot is rather painful." She had
already endured sufficient real trouble during the night, to have
learned to be silent about inconveniences not worth complaining of.
The snow fell with less violence, and the wind was somewhat abated,
so that in the wood the cold was quite bearable. Madame de Vesac
and her daughter, one on each side of Comtois, and supported by his
arm, walked without much difficulty in a path tolerably smooth, and
which the recently fallen snow prevented from being very slippery.
Reanimated by this momentary relief, they pursued this part of their
journey with tolerable cheerfulness, Madame de Vesac averring even that
her arm was less painful since the cold had diminished, and Cecilia
consoling herself with the hopes of soon being able to rest her foot
in the carriage. Comtois from time to time raised his voice and called
to the people at the carriage; but no one answered, and not a sound
reached their ears. Again the travellers began to feel uneasy at thus
continually advancing without any assurance that they were not going
further away from the spot they wished to reach. However, proceed they
must, for there was no reason to suppose that, in retracing their
steps, they would be able to find any better way. At last they came to
a point where the path was crossed by another precisely similar. They
were now in the utmost perplexity, for there was no inducement for
choosing one of the three paths rather than another, except perhaps
that as the one they had come by did not seem to have brought them any
nearer the road, it might be reasonable to choose between the other
two. But on which of them were they to fix?
Comtois attempted to climb a rather tall tree which happened to be at
the entrance of one of the paths, hoping to be able to see from it the
road and the carriage; but, not to mention that his boots did not allow
him to climb with much agility, it happened that the first branch he
clung to was decayed and broke, and he fell, fortunately without being
much hurt; but Madame de Vesac, as well as Cecilia, whose own fall had
rendered her excessively timid, prevented him from making any further
attempt, by representing the frightful situation they would all be
in if any accident befell him. There was no alternative, therefore,
but to proceed, and let chance direct their course. They thought
they remembered that in diverging from the road they had several
times turned a little to the left; they consequently supposed that in
returning they must take the contrary direction. On this, therefore,
they fixed, not without much regret, however, at being unable to
ascertain whither the opposite path led; but it was not a time for
unavailing regrets, and they therefore made up their minds to trust
that they had selected the best.
Nevertheless the spirits of the travellers began again to sink,
Cecilia's foot was considerably swelled, and fatigue had greatly added
to the pain of Madame de Vesac's arm, although her anxiety kept her
in a state of agitation which prevented her feeling it as much as she
would have done in calmer moments. Still this very anxiety was itself
a serious evil: there was no certainty of their finding their way; and
if chance did not guide them better than it had done thus far, she
calculated with terror the number of hours they must pass in the wood,
and the fatigues and sufferings they must endure whilst waiting for the
light.
Cecilia, still more depressed, said nothing, and began to cease
thinking: fatigue and sadness absorbed all her faculties.
The path they had taken terminated in a kind of cross-way, from which
branched off several narrower paths. They fixed upon what appeared the
widest and best; but it soon contracted to such a degree that Madame
de Vesac and her daughter were obliged to resign the arm of Comtois,
and allow him to walk in front and clear the way a little for them. The
density of the wood at this part had kept the ground moist, and this
moisture was now converted into ice, while the snow had been prevented
from falling sufficiently to cover the path. They walked one behind
the other, slipping at every step, and only able to keep themselves
from falling by laying hold of the trees. Every moment their feet
struck against the roots, or were caught in the trailing branches;
and Cecilia, constantly on the point of falling, soon became unable
to restrain her sobs. At last, at a very slippery part, she lost her
footing, and fell upon her knees. A bramble, which happened to be
across the path, caught in her clothes; and when she had succeeded in
extricating her dress from it, it became entangled in her shawl, then
got fastened to her gloves, and deprived her of the use of her hands.
She tried to rise, but no sooner had she put her foot upon the ground
than she slipped and again fell. Worn out as she already was, this
slight accident quite exhausted her courage. Madame de Vesac turned
round to give her her hand; but being near falling herself, she was
obliged to catch hold of a tree: she could only pity and endeavour to
encourage her daughter.
"Mamma," said Cecilia, "I cannot go on; it is impossible."
"My poor child," said Madame de Vesac, "are you quite sure it is
impossible? Think seriously of it; this is not a trial to be made for
pleasure merely, such as I proposed to you a short time since, but an
exertion of courage absolutely indispensable. Only consider, my dear
Cecilia," she added, in the most tender and caressing tone, "we have
nothing but our courage to extricate us from these difficulties;
but with courage I think we have still sufficient strength left to
enable us to go through a great deal. Would it not then be better to
call it forth than weakly to yield to our distress?"
Thus saying, she assisted with her foot to extricate her from the
bramble, while supporting her with her knees. Cecilia made no reply,
but, raising herself up, continued her journey, and, feeling the truth
of her mother's words, she exerted all her strength to avoid future
complaints. Still she wept in silence; a weakness pardonable indeed,
but one, nevertheless, which added to her sufferings, as weakness ever
does.
[Illustration: Cecilia and Nanette, p. 53.]
They at last reached the end of this difficult route, and once more
found themselves at an opening in the wood, where several paths
terminated, but without being any better able to decide which they were
to take. Stopping for a moment to consider, they thought they heard at
no great distance a faint sound, which was not that of the wind. They
listened; "Good heavens!" exclaimed Cecilia, "I think I hear some one
crying;" and she shuddered as she spoke.
They listened again, and fancied they could distinguish the voice of
a child. At length, after looking in every direction, favoured by the
light of the moon, which was beginning to disperse the clouds, they
perceived in a corner, a little within the opening, a figure standing
motionless, and leaning against a tree. Cecilia was frightened, and
clung tightly to the arm of Comtois.
"Let us see what it is," said Madame de Vesac, the more anxiously, as
she still heard the sounds.
On a nearer approach, they discovered that what they had seen was a
poor woman, leaning motionless against a tree, and who had by her side
a little girl about eight years old. The poor creature held something
in her arms, which, as they came closer, they found to be an infant of
about two months old, motionless like the mother. It seemed benumbed
with cold; and its mother, without making any movement, or uttering a
word, stood with her head bent over it, as if to warm it. One could
scarcely say whether they were dead or alive. The voice which had been
heard proceeded from the little girl, who, also motionless by her
mother's side, continued crying in a low tone. At this moment, the
moon rendered them distinctly visible. Madame de Vesac and Cecilia
approached quite close to the woman, but she did not change her
position. They looked at each other and trembled, for they feared that
both mother and infant were dead. At last, Madame de Vesac said to her,
"My good woman, what are you doing here?" She made no answer.
The little girl, who, on perceiving them, began to cry and sob more
violently, pulled her by the skirt, exclaiming, "Mother! mother! some
ladies!"
The poor woman raised her head, and pointed by her looks to her child,
whose face she again covered with her own; they had, however, time
enough to discern the face of the infant, which was pale and still as
death. Madame de Vesac wished to ascertain if it yet lived, but knew
not how to ask the question. At last she said in a low tone, at the
same time laying her hand gently upon him, "He is very cold." "I cannot
get him warm again," said the mother, in a still fainter tone, at the
same time pressing him more closely to her bosom, as if anxious to make
a new effort to impart her warmth to him. "Is he dead?" asked Comtois.
The only reply to these terrible words were cries of despair, as the
unfortunate creature pressed her infant more firmly to her heart.
Madame de Vesac found means of taking its hand: it was cold as ice; but
she felt its pulse, and perceiving it beat, she said with animation,
"No! most assuredly he is not dead; I feel his pulse beat."
"Oh my God!" exclaimed the poor woman, with a stifled sigh, at the same
time raising towards Madame de Vesac eyes beaming with gratitude, and
already beginning to be suffused with tears. But she again immediately
turned them upon her child, whom she passionately kissed.
"Let us take him," said Madame de Vesac; "we are better able to warm
him than you are."
"Give him to me. I will put him under my great coat," said Comtois,
as he unfastened his thick, warm travelling coat. The poor woman
hesitated. "Give him to me," he continued. "I have children of my own.
I know how to manage them."
"Let him take the child," said Madame de Vesac; and the unhappy mother
placed the infant in his arms, wrapping the coat round him. In order
to make room for him, Comtois removed a bottle from one of the inside
pockets.
"Stop!" said he; "this won't hurt him." It was a bottle of brandy; he
opened it, and poured a few drops into the mouth of the child, who
swallowed it.
"He swallows!" exclaimed the mother, in a transport of joy; and the
child began to breathe more freely, and to move its little arms.
"I thought so!" said Comtois; "this would bring the dead to life. It
would do you no harm either, to take a little, my good woman."
The poor creature replied that she did not want anything; but Madame
de Vesac persuaded her to take a little to warm her. Then the little
girl, who since the arrival of Madame de Vesac had ceased crying,
watching all that passed around her, again began to sob, in a low tone,
but sufficiently loud to make herself heard. Cecilia was the first to
observe her, and began to caress her, in order to quiet her, but the
child still continued crying, with her eyes directed to the bottle.
Cecilia asked if a little might not also be given to her, and Comtois
declared that it would do her no harm. "Yes," said Madame de Vesac,
"if she only takes a few drops; but if you give her the bottle, she
will drink too much." Meanwhile the child still cried and watched the
bottle, and her manner was so quiet and gentle, that the heart of
Cecilia was vividly touched. At last, by an effort of which she could
not have believed herself capable, Cecilia took off her glove, and told
the child that she should drink out of her hand; but when the little
girl had done so, she hid her hand again, observing that it was very
cold; but when the child rejected the brandy, saying it burned her
mouth, Cecilia observed to her that it was not worth while to have made
her take off her glove. She was on the point of putting it on again,
when the mother said that a bit of bread would have been much better
for her, as she had eaten nothing since noon. At this the child began
to cry more bitterly.
"Oh, dear!" said Cecilia, "if I had but the bun I bought this morning,
and did not eat."
"Where is it?" asked her mother.
"In the carriage."
"I thought I told you to put it in your bag."
"Yes, but my bag...." She interrupted herself, and uttered a cry of
joy. She had not observed that her bag had remained attached to her
arm. She felt the strings, undid them, opened it, and found the bun. It
was a little crushed, indeed, by her fall, but the pieces were good.
She gave one of them to the mother, who, without saying a word, and
thinking herself unobserved, put it into her pocket. Cecilia again
felt in the bag, and taking off her other glove, asked whether, if she
crumbled a little of the soft part in her hand, they could not make the
infant take some of it.
"What he wants," said Madame de Vesac, "is his mother's milk; but
even supposing she has any for him, he is not at present sufficiently
strong to take it; we must endeavour to reach some inhabited place as
speedily as possible, where we may be able to give him the attention he
requires."
Then the poor woman, who, after a moment of intense joy, felt all her
fears and grief revive, said weeping, "If he only lives until we reach
Chambouri, I have my mother there, and she is very skilful in the care
of children."
"Where is Chambouri?" inquired Madame de Vesac.
"It is a short league from here," replied the poor woman.
"It is the post town," added Comtois. "Do you know the way to it?"
"Do I know the way to it?" said the woman. "I was born there."
"Why did you not go there instead of remaining against that tree?"
"I fell three times upon the ice; the third time my poor baby gave a
scream, and then was silent. At first I thought I had killed him; and
then I thought if I fell again, I should be sure to kill him; besides,
a moment after, finding he did not move, I believed him dead, and had
no heart for anything."
"But now will you conduct us to Chambouri?"
"Certainly, provided we can get there in time," and the poor woman
again began to weep.
"Yes, yes, we shall arrive in time;" said Madame de Vesac; "Comtois
will carry the infant in one arm, and give the other to Cecilia. You
and I," she added, addressing the mother, "will try to keep each other
up."
They proceeded in accordance with this arrangement, Cecilia giving her
hand to the little girl, and the poor mother walking by the side of
her baby, every moment putting her hand upon its head, which was not
covered by Comtois' coat, and redoubling her tears each time she felt
it cold. Madame de Vesac, perceiving this, stopped to untie a small
shawl, which she wore underneath her large one, and gave it to cover
the head of the infant.
"It is indeed very cold," said Cecilia, who was beginning to think of
her own troubles, and who found that by giving her hand to the little
girl, she herself became very cold, from being unable to cover it with
her shawl.
"How long have you been exposed to this cold?" inquired Madame de Vesac
of the poor woman.
"We have not entered a house since noon," she replied. "I hoped to have
reached Chambouri early this evening, but the bad weather and the bad
roads have delayed us; and had it not been for you, my good lady, we
must have passed the night in the wood."
"But would you have been able to endure the cold?" demanded Madame de
Vesac.
"I don't know whether my poor little one would have survived it,"
she replied, with increased emotion, and then began to enumerate his
perfections, as if she had already lost him. "He knew me," she said,
weeping; "even this very morning he looked at me and smiled; the
beautiful sunshine delighted him, and he raised his little arms, as if
he wanted to jump; and then, after the sun had gone down, when, for the
last time, I attempted to nurse him, he looked up at me, and tried to
smile." At these words her tears again flowed with redoubled force.
"He will look at you; he will smile again," said Madame de Vesac.
"Oh!" continued the unhappy mother, "he has suffered so much; he looked
at me, as if for help;" and in calling to mind the sad looks of her
child, she could not restrain her sobs. Then Cecilia again, forgetful
of her own troubles, withdrew her hand from Comtois' arm, and passing
it under that part of his coat which enveloped the child, said to the
mother, "Oh! he is very warm: feel him, he moves his little arms; I am
sure he is comfortable." "Yes, he does move his arms, I can tell you,"
said Comtois; "see, he has pulled off the handkerchief which he had on
his head;" and Cecilia let go the hand of the little girl to re-arrange
the handkerchief. The poor mother knew not how to express her joy
and gratitude; but the little girl, who had remained a short distance
behind them, because Cecilia no longer held her hand, began to cry.
"Come along," then, said her mother; but the poor little thing replied,
"I cannot."
Cecilia went to her, and again took her hand, saying, "You must try to
come along, my dear."
"How long have you been on foot?" inquired Madame de Vesac.
"Since noon," replied the poor woman. "I had no more money to pay
for lodgings; we had eaten all the provisions I had brought for the
journey, and I wanted to reach Chambouri."
"And has the child been walking all that time?"
"Yes, the whole time."
"Cecilia is right, my dear," said Madame de Vesac, addressing the
little girl. "You must try to walk."
"If Comtois were not carrying the baby," said Cecilia, "I would beg him
to take her up."
"Oh! I have another arm," said Comtois; "but then I could not support
you, Miss Cecilia."
"Never mind me," said Cecilia. "I am much better able to walk without
support, than this poor little thing is to continue the journey on
foot."
Comtois then stooped down, and, seating the child upon his arm, raised
her from the ground, saying, "You must take hold of my collar with both
your hands;" to which the child replied, "I cannot."
"Why not?" demanded Cecilia. But on taking her hands to show her how
she must hold the collar, she perceived that they were so cold that
the child could not use them. "Oh dear!" she exclaimed, "she freezes
me even through my gloves." Then, remembering that she had two pairs
on, the outside ones lined with fur, she took them off, and after well
rubbing the child's hands, put them on her; but, finding her still
unable to hold the collar, she made her put her arms round Comtois'
neck. The child, however, still continued to cry. "What is the
matter," asked Cecilia; but she received no answer. "It is her poor
feet," said her mother. "Her chilblains are broken, and yet she has
walked barefoot the whole day; but now that she is no longer walking,
she feels the cold more." Cecilia recollected the socks which she
wore over her shoes; she took them off, and put them upon the feet of
the little girl, who ceased crying. Then, taking the arm of the poor
woman, Madame de Vesac having the other, she walked on courageously,
complaining neither of the cold nor of the ice, though she found much
more difficulty in maintaining her balance now that she was without her
socks.
"My dear Cecilia," said Madame de Vesac, "how much strength we have
found since the moment we thought it impossible to go any further!"
"Oh mamma!" exclaimed Cecilia, satisfied with herself, "an occasion
like this gives one a great deal of strength."
"No, my child: such occasions merely show us all that we actually
possess; and since we do possess it, why not make use of it on all
occasions?"
"But they are not all of such importance."
"It is always important to succeed in what we undertake, and to do so
as speedily and as completely as possible; we ought therefore to make
every effort in our power to ensure success. When we are wanting in
resolution, and think we have not sufficient strength on a trifling
occasion, there is but one thing to be done, and that is to call up all
we should be sure to discover in a case of great emergency."
As she concluded these words they reached the boundary of the wood, and
found themselves at the entrance of the village of Chambouri.
"Here it is," exclaimed Cecilia, in a transport of joy.
"Yes!" said the poor woman; "but my mother lives close to the
post-house, which is at the other end of the village."
"Oh dear!" cried Cecilia, in a mournful tone.
"Should we not be tempted," inquired Madame de Vesac, "to think it
impossible to go any further?"
Cecilia, who was beginning to think so, recollected herself, examined
her powers, and inwardly shuddered at the idea of all that she still
felt able to endure. Trembling at the thought of being exposed to new
trials, she was only re-assured when, after a quarter of an hour's
further walking, she had entered the post-house, and was seated by the
kitchen fire.
They had persuaded the poor woman to accompany them, to warm herself,
and attend to her children, whilst waiting till her mother should be
ready to receive them. The infant had fallen asleep in Comtois' arms,
and when taken from them, the noise, the people, and the lights awoke
him, and he began to cry.
"He cries!" exclaimed the mother, in a transport of joy; and falling
on her knees with clasped hands, in front of Madame de Vesac, to whom
Comtois had given the child, she repeated, "He cries!" while gazing at
him intently, and kissing him. He ceased crying, and, pleased with the
warmth of the fire, looked at his mother and smiled. "That is just how
he looked at me this morning," she exclaimed, and burst into a flood of
tears. They made him take a little milk whilst waiting until his mother
was sufficiently rested to nurse him herself, and the pleasure which
he manifested in taking it was a fresh subject of joy for the poor
woman. Meanwhile Cecilia had taken possession of the little girl; she
placed her upon her knees, and warmed her feet and hands, without even
complaining that by so doing she was prevented from warming her own. At
length the mother of the poor woman, hearing of her daughter's arrival,
came for them and took them home, gratefully thanking Madame de Vesac,
who would not suffer them to depart until they had a comfortable
supper. She ordered her own supper in a private room, and sent for
a skilful surgeon, who happened fortunately to be at Chambouri, and
who set her arm. In the meantime Comtois had gone in search of the
carriage, which he found set to rights, and waiting for them. As he
returned with it, a traveller entered the inn, who proved to be Madame
de Vesac's man of business. He had come from her estate to meet her,
making inquiries for her at every stage on the way, in order to prevent
her going farther, as the affair for which she had been summoned was
arranged. Cecilia therefore retired to rest, with the satisfaction
of knowing that she should not have to continue her journey on the
following morning, as Madame de Vesac announced that since she had
time she should remain a couple of days at the inn, in order to attend
to her arm. The next day they sent for the poor woman, who was full
of joy at being able to exhibit her infant, now beginning to regain
both strength and colour; nor was she ever weary of looking at him and
kissing him. She stated that she had been married at a village some
distance from Chambouri, to a mechanic, who had turned out a worthless
fellow, and, after wasting all their means, had enlisted a short time
before the birth of her infant; and that as soon as she was able to
travel, she had set out in order to return to her mother, who had a
little property, and with whom she intended to live. Madame de Vesac
told her that she should consider herself as godmother to the child,
whose life she had been instrumental in saving, and that she took him
under her protection. But as he must still remain with his mother, who
indeed would not have consented to part with him, she contented herself
with giving her some money to assist in their maintenance, and she also
permitted Cecilia to beg that the little girl, whose name was Nanette,
might be committed to her care.
This proposition was gratefully accepted, and after a few days given
to repose, Madame de Vesac set out on her return to Paris, with Cecilia
and Nanette. From that moment Cecilia looked upon the child as her own,
and so greatly was she delighted with her new possession, that she
could speak of nothing else. Already had she disposed of all her old
dresses in favour of Nanette. Already had she measured her in every
direction, to ascertain whether in a dress stained with ink, and which
she was delighted to part with, there would he sufficient to make
a dress for Nanette, without employing the piece that was stained.
Already had she thought, that by taking from her old black apron the
part she had burned at the stove, there would be enough remaining to
make an apron for Nanette. Already had she made her take off her cap
of quilted cotton, to measure with a string the size of her head, in
order to calculate how much cambric and muslin would be wanted to make
her some neat little caps, while waiting until the return of the warm
weather should enable her to go bare-headed, a habit which Cecilia
intended she should acquire, it being so much more healthy for a
little girl. Several times already had she said to her, "Nanette, hold
yourself up;" but the child, who did not know what was meant by holding
herself up, having never heard such an expression, only bent her head a
little lower, as she always did when embarrassed. Then Cecilia raised
it for her, with a quiet gentleness of manner, mentally repeating, as
she did so, that patience is the first duty of one who wishes to bring
up a child. Madame de Vesac smiled at her gravity; but counselled her,
however, to relax it a little, if she wished to gain the confidence of
her pupil.
Cecilia had formed the most extensive projects for the education of her
protegée. "First of all," she said, "I will teach her to work well;
this is absolutely necessary for a girl. I mean her to learn history
and geography; perhaps even, if she has talent for them, I may teach
her the piano and drawing. I am not sufficiently advanced myself to
carry her very far, but I shall be improving every day, and then, when
I am married and rich, I will give her masters, for I intend her to be
very accomplished:" and Cecilia became more and more excited as she
advanced with her projects and her hopes. Her mother listened to her,
and smiled. Cecilia, perceiving this, was a little annoyed, and asked
whether she were not right in wishing to give Nanette a good education.
"Certainly," replied Madame de Vesac; "that is why I advise you to
commence by teaching her to read."
"That is a matter of course; but perhaps she can read already. Nanette,
can you read?"
The child looked at her, then bent her head without answering. Cecilia
raised her chin with her finger, again repeating, "Can you read?"
But Nanette's only answer was to bend a little lower than before, as
soon as Cecilia had withdrawn her finger. Cecilia, with a look at
her mother, which seemed to say, "What patience one must have with
children!" drew from her bag a book, which she had brought to read on
her journey, and opening it at the title-page, she placed it before
Nanette, and pointing to an A, said, "What is that?" Nanette raised her
eyes, glanced askance at the A, and then cast them down again, without
saying a word. Cecilia repeated, "What is that?" But Nanette continued
silent. "It is an A," said Cecilia, lowering her voice, like one
becoming impatient, and anxious to restrain herself. The child looked
at her earnestly, as if she would have said, "What does it matter to me
if it is an A?" "It is an A," repeated Cecilia; but Nanette only looked
at her without answering. Cecilia was beginning to lose patience, but
she called to mind the self-control her new duties required from her,
and, taking Nanette upon her knees, she began to caress her, saying as
she did so, "Why will you not say A?" Nanette did not stir. "Say A,"
continued Cecilia, "and I will give you this plum." Nanette looked
first at the plum and then at Cecilia, and smiled. Cecilia smiled
too, and repeated, "Say A." Nanette, still smiling, and with her head
bent down, glanced slyly at the plum, and said A in a very low tone.
Cecilia kissed her with delight. When the plum was eaten, she pointed
to another A, but without being able to elicit any opinion on the
matter from Nanette. "Say A," she repeated, in an affectionate manner,
and Nanette looked round to see if there was another plum coming.
However, whether in gratitude for the one she had already eaten, or
from the hope of obtaining another, or from politeness to Cecilia, she
once more consented to say A. This was a new joy for Cecilia, who,
persuaded that Nanette was now quite perfect in the A, and enchanted
at this first triumph in her education, returned with delight to the
former A, expecting her to recognize it immediately; but this time it
was impossible to obtain a syllable from her. Nanette had never seen a
book--did not know what it was, nor what could be its use. She could
not understand this fancy of making her say A. She had said it without
regarding the form of the letter, and without thinking it was the name
of the thing shown to her; and had all the A's in the world been placed
before her, she would not have been any the wiser. After many useless
efforts, Cecilia, completely discouraged, looked at her mother, with an
expression of annoyance, saying, "What shall we do if she will not even
learn to read?"
Madame de Vesac represented to her that she was beginning to despair
very quickly, that it was quite natural that Nanette, astonished at the
novelty of her situation, stunned by the carriage, and timid at finding
herself among strangers, should have a difficulty in understanding what
was shown her, and that it would be better to wait for a quieter time
before commencing her instructions.
Cecilia was a little consoled by these words, and glad, moreover, to
have a sufficient reason for deferring lessons of which, for the
moment, she was heartily tired. However, considering, in the meantime,
that she must endeavour to correct Nanette of whatever faults she might
have, she determined that on the following morning, when they would he
obliged to start at five o'clock, she would not allow her to complain
of being so early awakened, or of the cold; but she had no occasion to
enforce her lessons. Nanette, accustomed to suffering, never murmured
nor complained of anything; and Cecilia was at a loss to know what to
do with a child so gentle and docile as not to need scolding, and so
little intelligent that it was difficult to tell what method to adopt
for her instruction. However, the desire she felt of setting Nanette an
example, and the good opinion she began to entertain of her own sense,
now that she found herself intrusted with the education of another,
prevented her from even thinking of complaining of the cold, or of
the annoyance of being disturbed at five o'clock in the morning. She
busied herself in arranging her things, in order to show Nanette how
to manage; and Nanette, who would rather have packed and unpacked a
dozen parcels than have said A once, endeavoured to obey her, and did
not acquit herself badly. Cecilia testified her satisfaction, and they
resumed their journey, mutually pleased, and, in order to maintain
this good understanding, nothing more was said about the A until their
arrival in Paris.
We may easily imagine how often, after her return home, Cecilia related
the history of Nanette and the forest, and mentioned her intention of
bringing up this little girl. The interest inspired by her narrative,
and the importance she seemed to herself to acquire, whenever
Nanette was asked for, revived those projects of education which the
ill-success of her first attempts had somewhat cooled. Besides, she
had felt so much pleasure in commencing Nanette's wardrobe, in trying
on a dress which she had made for her in two days, and thought it
so delightful to have some one to command and send about her little
commissions in the house, that she became daily more attached to
this species of property. She wished to have Nanette sleep in her
room, that she might be completely under her protection, but this
Madame de Vesac would not permit, as she felt it would give rise to a
thousand inconveniences, which Cecilia, in her eagerness for present
gratification, could not foresee. It was therefore arranged that she
should sleep with Madame de Vesac's maid, and go down to Cecilia's room
every morning to receive the lessons of her young instructress. Cecilia
at first declared that this was not enough, and that if more time was
not allowed, it would be impossible for her to teach Nanette all she
wished her to learn. Her mother, however, advised her to be content
with this as a beginning, promising that, if in a little while, she
still wished it, the time should be increased. The day Cecilia tried
on Nanette's dress and bonnet, which seemed to delight the child very
much, and while still exhibiting the apron she had cut out, she took
advantage of the opportunity to tell her that if she wished to gain all
these pretty things she must learn to read. Nanette did not very well
know what was meant by learning to read, but she had seen Cecilia look
into books, and remembered that it was in a book she was made to say A.
This recollection was by no means agreeable, but as she was becoming
accustomed to obey Cecilia, she consented for once to repeat after her,
first A, then B, then C; and at last, all the letters of the alphabet.
Cecilia made her repeat them two or three times, showing them to her in
the different styles; and greatly pleased at having so easily obtained
Nanette's submission, which she had so much difficulty in doing at the
commencement, she flattered herself that the most important point was
gained, and that her education would now rapidly advance. The same day
she put her fingers on the piano, and Nanette was at first delighted
with the sounds she produced by striking the keys, but she did not find
it quite so amusing to go through the gamut, and repeat after Cecilia a
dozen times, _ut_, _re_, _mi_, _fa_, _sol_, _la_, _si_, _ut_. However,
she obeyed, and all went on to the satisfaction of the teacher. Cecilia
next gave her a thimble, some needles, and a pair of scissors, which
she had bought for her, together with a piece of linen, which she was
to learn to hem. Nanette was farther advanced in this department than
in the others. She had seen her mother work, and had tried to imitate
her. Cecilia was very well pleased with the manner in which she held
her needle, and fixed her hem; and praised her accordingly; and, thus
encouraged, the hem was finished pretty quickly and tolerably well.
At length, after two hours spent in this manner, hours which appeared
to the mistress somewhat tedious, Nanette was dismissed, and Cecilia,
while congratulating herself on the success of her efforts, found,
nevertheless, that the task of education was not the easiest of work.
The next day she resumed her lessons with renewed courage, hoping to
advance still farther than on the preceding one, but she found that
everything had to be begun again. Nanette was as much puzzled to say
A as she had been the first time. She did not recognize one of the
letters, which she had repeated mechanically after Cecilia, who, as
she now made her say them again one after the other, had the utmost
difficulty in getting her to give two or three times by herself the
name of the letter which had been taught her the moment before. At the
piano, when Cecilia wanted her to begin the scale of _ut_, she put her
finger upon _sol_, and when asked the name of the note she had struck,
it was impossible for her to find any name for it: she did not even
understand that the notes had names. Thus, all the success obtained
that day was, that after half-an-hour's study, Nanette named at random
a _fa_ for a _la_, or a _si_ for a _re_. Cecilia became very angry,
and Nanette, who could not bear to be scolded, made so much haste to
finish her hem, in order to escape from her, that when Cecilia examined
it, she found six stitches one over the other, and another half-an-inch
long.
The following days were not much more fortunate; for, on each occasion,
Nanette had forgotten pretty nearly the whole of what little she had
seemed to know on the previous day. As up to that time, she had never
been taught anything, she was not accustomed to apply her mind, or fix
her attention on things of which she did not understand the use, for
it could not be said that she was deficient in sense, or abilities,
for her age. She was by no means awkward, and did all she was capable
of doing carefully enough; for instance, if she carried a light, she
did not, like most children of her age, hold it in such a manner as to
let the grease fall upon the ground; she even took care to snuff it
for fear of sparks, before removing it from one place to another, and
she managed to snuff it without putting it out; if she had to carry
anything rather heavy from one room to another, she first opened the
door and removed whatever might be in her way; or if, while holding a
jug of water, she happened to catch her dress in any object, she did
not, like most children, give a sudden jerk, and spill the water, but
quietly put down her jug, and removed the obstacle. It was evident that
she was accustomed to act, and seek the means of acting in the most
useful manner. Moreover, she rendered a thousand little services to
Mademoiselle Gerard, Madame de Vesac's lady's maid, who was extremely
fond of her, and who, from having her continually with her, contrived,
without tormenting her, to teach her many things which Nanette
willingly learnt.
As to the lessons with Cecilia, they went on worse and worse every day:
the pupil knew not how to learn, nor the mistress how to teach; Cecilia
often lost patience, and Nanette, who saw her only to be scolded and
wearied, feeling but little desire to please her, became at last
careless; besides, after having studied for a few minutes a lesson in
which she took no interest, her ideas became so completely confused by
the irksomeness of her task, that she did not know what she was doing;
so that, after having said her letters, and spelt very well with the
lady's maid, who endeavoured to teach her, in order that she might not
be scolded, when she came to Cecilia everything went wrong, and it was
but an additional annoyance to the latter to find that it was only with
Mademoiselle Gerard that Nanette read well.
Thanks, however, to Mademoiselle Gerard, Nanette did make some progress
in reading and needlework; but as for music, at the end of six weeks
she was no farther advanced than on the first day, and Cecilia, who
entertained the idea of giving her an education which would enable
her to shine in the world, became disgusted with efforts which could
have no higher result than that of fitting her to become a shopkeeper
or a lady's maid. The lessons, therefore, were but a succession of
irritabilities, which prevented Cecilia from seeking the best means
of making herself understood, and which ended by worrying Nanette.
These two hours, so uselessly employed, became equally disagreeable to
mistress and pupil, and both were delighted when any accident occurred
to shorten them; and shortened they often were; for Cecilia, being on
one occasion busy, hurried over all the lessons in half-an-hour, and
this, having once occurred, occurred often. Sometimes, too, she made
Nanette repeat her lesson without listening to her, or put her before
the piano and told her to play, while she went about her own affairs,
so that during this time, Nanette amused herself at her leisure, in
playing whatever happened to suit her fancy. Sometimes, in fine, when
Cecilia was busy with her drawing or anything that amused her, she
would tell Nanette to take her books or her work, and then think no
more about her. Nanette, meanwhile, would either be looking out at the
window or catching flies; and when at last, after half-an-hour had
elapsed, Cecilia observed her, she would scold her for her idleness,
and send her away, saying that she had now no time to attend to her
lessons.
All this took place in Cecilia's room, which was close to her mother's.
For some time Madame de Vesac said nothing; she had never expected
that Cecilia would carry out her projects of education with any
perseverance, and she relied much more upon Mademoiselle Gerard, who
was a respectable and sensible person, and whom she knew to be quite
capable of bringing up Nanette in a manner suited to her station.
Still she did not wish her daughter to get into the habit of doing
carelessly what she undertook, nor to fancy that the duties of the day
were performed when they were only gone through in appearance. Cecilia
herself felt that things were not as they ought to be; so that, after
having several times complained to her mother of the trouble which
Nanette gave, she ceased to speak of the matter. At length one day,
Madame de Vesac, after listening for half-an-hour to Nanette, who was
strumming on the piano according to her own fancy, without receiving
any attention from Cecilia, she asked the latter, if it was by giving
lessons in that style that she hoped to make Nanette a great musician.
Cecilia blushed, for she felt she was wrong; but she assured her
mother, that Nanette had not the slightest taste for music. Madame de
Vesac observed, that, from the way in which she had been taught, it was
impossible to know whether this was the case or not.
"Mamma," said Cecilia, "I assure you she has no talent whatever; and it
is this which has discouraged me."
"But I do not think she displays less inclination to learn to read and
work than other children of her age; and yet I do not see that you are
at all more zealous in these branches of her education."
"Oh, I attended especially to her music. Mademoiselle Gerard can teach
her the rest, as well as I can."
"So then, you have taken Nanette in order to have her brought up by
Mademoiselle Gerard?"
"No, mamma; but I thought Nanette would be able to learn what I wanted
to teach her."
"And because she does not learn what you want to teach her, you do not
think it worth while to teach her what she can learn: to do for her, at
least, all that is in your power."
"But still, mamma, it is, I think, a lucky thing for Nanette that we
have taken her, and I certainly shall always take care of her; but you
must allow that there is no very great pleasure in teaching a little
girl to read and sew, when it is evident that she can learn nothing
more than that."
"To agree with you, I must first know precisely what kind of pleasure
you expected when you took charge of Nanette?"
"The pleasure of being useful to her, by giving her a good education."
"And supposing her incapable of profiting by what you call a good
education, you would not care to be useful to her by giving her at
least such an education as she is capable of receiving."
"At all events, this would not give me so much pleasure."
"And to continue a good action which you have commenced, it is
necessary that you should find it productive of much pleasure to
yourself?"
"No, mamma; but...."
--"But, my child, there are many persons like you in that respect; they
commence a good work with delight, and afterwards abandon it because
their success is not as complete as they had expected."
"You must see, mamma," said Cecilia, a little piqued, "that it was not
for my own advantage that I wished to give lessons to Nanette."
"I believe, indeed, it was for hers, and that you had fully reflected
on the advantage she would derive from them."
"Indeed, mamma, it is a very fine thing for a little peasant girl, who
would have remained ignorant, vulgar, and illiterate all her life, to
be well educated and accomplished, and to be able to become amiable and
agreeable, and fitted to move in elevated society."
"Especially," said Madame de Vesac, smiling, "when she is destined to
move in elevated society."
"Who knows, mamma? a good marriage," resumed Cecilia, with vivacity;
for her imagination was always ready to rush into romantic ideas,
because it is such ideas that require the least reflection.
"Have you seen many of these marriages?" asked her mother.
"Though I may never have seen any, still..."
"Still you suppose, probably, that they are not unfrequent."
"I do not say that, but..."
"But I say," continued her mother, seriously, "that we are not
permitted to amuse ourselves with such child's play, when the welfare
of one of whom we have taken charge is at stake; and if you had
bestowed upon Nanette an education which would make her disdain the
humble career to which she is no doubt destined, you would have
rendered her a very mischievous service."
"So then, mamma, you did not think I ought to give lessons to Nanette?"
"Not at all; but I was quite easy about the matter."
"Besides," said Cecilia, blushing, "here I am always interrupted, and
then two hours for all the lessons are nothing; but we shall be going
into the country in a month, where, if you will allow it, she will be
more frequently with me, and I shall easily find the means of giving
her a proper education."
"Very well," said Madame de Vesac, smiling; for she did not place much
more reliance on her daughter's perseverance in the country than in
Paris. Cecilia did not observe this smile; quite absorbed in her plans
for the future education of Nanette, she began by interrupting it for
the present, as if the good that was to be done at some distant day
exempted her from performing that which was in her power at the actual
moment. She therefore told Nanette, that she would give her no more
lessons until they went into the country; and Nanette, to whom a month
seemed a lifetime, imagined herself for ever freed, both from Cecilia
and her lessons. Cecilia, whose month was taken up with two or three
balls, with purchases, packing, and receiving visits from the friends
who called to bid her good-bye, completely lost the habit of thinking
of Nanette; and this habit she found so unpleasant to resume, that they
had been a whole week in the country when her mother said to her:--
"And Nanette?"
"We are going to recommence our lessons," she replied, somewhat ashamed
at not having done so earlier. "But you know," she added, "that on
arriving in the country there are a thousand things to be done;
besides, I do not think Nanette is very anxious."
"Nor you either, I suspect."
"It certainly does not amuse me much."
"But it will not amuse you more to-morrow than to-day; so that I do not
see you have any more reason to begin to-morrow than you have had for
the last week."
"But still you know, mamma, there is no need of being in a hurry when
there is plenty of time."
"My child, we have never sufficient time before us to do all that ought
to be done, for we can never be sure of time. A thousand accidents may
deprive us of it; therefore we ought always to be anxious to do what
has to be done, just as if we had only the time absolutely necessary
for it. In this uncertainty as to the future, it was as necessary to
have devoted to Nanette's education the week you have lost, as to give
to it that which is to come."
Cecilia made no answer, but resumed her drawing. Madame de Vesac took
up the book she had been reading. After the lapse of half-an-hour,
Cecilia interrupted her occupation, saying, with a heavy sigh, "I am
afraid I shall not succeed."
"In what?" inquired her mother.
"In what we were speaking of a short time since," said Cecilia, wishing
to be understood without being forced to explain; "in Nanette's
education."
"And why should you not succeed, if you desire it?" replied Madame de
Vesac, still reading.
"I cannot manage to make her study properly."
"I do not see why you may not do what another can do;" and the
conversation was again dropped, much to Cecilia's annoyance, for she
had an idea which she was anxious though afraid to express. At length,
after a quarter of an hour's silence, she again continued. "There is
one very simple plan," she said.
"What for?" asked Madame de Vesac, without laying down her book.
"To educate Nanette," said Cecilia, impatiently.
"That plan would be, I think, to give her lessons."
"Mamma, I assure you it is very difficult, extremely difficult. If
you would permit me to send her to the village school she would learn
to read, and they could give her the elementary lessons in writing,
which you know I cannot do; and when we return to Paris she will be
sufficiently advanced for me to continue with her."
"Cecilia," said Madame de Vesac, "if you alone were concerned, I should
not consent to this, for you must acquire the habit of persevering in
what you undertake, and learn to bear the consequences of your own
determinations. But Nanette would suffer from it; because, as you are
neither sufficiently reasonable nor sufficiently patient to adopt the
proper means of ensuring success, you would scold her for learning
badly what you taught her badly, and thus she would be ill brought up
and unhappy. You may therefore send her to school."
Cecilia, delighted at having obtained this permission, hastened to
Mademoiselle Gerard, to beg her to inform the schoolmaster, and
arrange with him the terms of Nanette's tuition. Mademoiselle Gerard,
annoyed at being deprived of Nanette during so many hours in the
morning, and foreseeing that this arrangement would displease her
little pupil, declared that it was unnecessary, and wished to point
out inconveniences in the plan. But Cecilia became angry at the first
word (as always happens when we are not sure of being in the right),
and said that it was Madame de Vesac's wish. The matter was therefore
settled, and Nanette sent to school. For some time, Cecilia took an
interest in her progress, and paid for her instruction cheerfully
enough; and on her birthday, when Nanette recited some complimentary
verses, composed by the schoolmaster, and in which she was styled
her _illustrious benefactress_, Cecilia gave her a new dress, which
Mademoiselle Gerard promised to make. But in course of time Cecilia
had other fancies; and when the first of the month came round, she
was annoyed at having to pay for Nanette's schooling. Mademoiselle
Gerard had several times to remind her that Nanette required shoes;
that she had worn and outgrown those she had; and that the small
quantity of linen, and the caps and petticoats which had been made
for her at first, were insufficient. Madame de Vesac had more than
once contributed to her wardrobe; and Cecilia was one day a little
ashamed at seeing the child in an apron made out of an old dress of
Mademoiselle Gerard's. But in time she got reconciled to this, and
began to see in Nanette only the _protégée_ of the lady's maid. She
never thought of her but when they happened to meet; and they became
almost strangers to each other.
When they were about to return to Paris, Mademoiselle Gerard, whose
health had been much impaired for some time past, was not in a
condition to undertake the journey: so that Madame de Vesac resolved
to leave her in the country until she got well. Mademoiselle Gerard
had become so much accustomed to Nanette, that she could not bear the
thought of parting with her; she therefore asked permission to retain
her. Cecilia, as may be imagined, seconded the request; and Madame de
Vesac, being then without a maid, and seeing that Nanette would only
be an additional inconvenience, thought it as well to leave her with
Mademoiselle Gerard, to whom she would be useful.
Thus was Cecilia, for the moment, relieved from all care of Nanette,
and fully determined to think of her as little as possible, for the
recollection was troublesome, as she could not but feel that she had
not done for her all that she might have done. However, every month
brought Mademoiselle Gerard's bill for Nanette's schooling, and other
necessary expenses incurred on her account. Then came demands for
shoes, linen, &c.; and although Mademoiselle Gerard was in this respect
extremely economical, and not unfrequently assisted Nanette from her
own wardrobe, still Cecilia found these expenses encroach sadly upon
her allowance. Madame de Vesac, unknown to her, willingly undertook
a part of them; but she would not undertake the whole, not thinking
it right that her daughter should feel herself at liberty to transfer
to her a duty which she had voluntarily imposed upon herself; and she
insisted that Cecilia should not neglect the demands of Mademoiselle
Gerard. But it happened that Madame de Vesac's husband was wounded
while with the army, and though the wound was not dangerous, it was
still of sufficient importance to prevent his being removed. His wife
was therefore obliged to set off immediately to attend to him; and not
wishing to take her daughter with her, she left her in the care of
one of her aunts, who had two girls of her own, with whom Cecilia was
delighted to have an opportunity of spending some time.
She had been with them about three days, when she received a letter
from Mademoiselle Gerard. This letter could not have come at a more
unwelcome moment, Cecilia having just taken a fancy to purchase a
bonnet like one bought by her cousin, and imagining that Mademoiselle
Gerard applied to her for money, "Oh!" she said, ill-temperedly, the
moment she recognized the post-mark and handwriting, "I was quite sure
this would not fail me; Mademoiselle Gerard always takes care to write
whenever I want to buy anything for my own pleasure," and she threw
the letter, unopened, upon the mantel-piece, and resumed her drawing,
saying, "I shall read it quite soon enough."
"You had better spare yourself the trouble altogether," said the
youngest of her cousins, who was very thoughtless, and, saying this,
she took the letter, and threw it into the fire. Cecilia uttered a
cry, and hastily rose to regain it, but before she had time to move
her table, reach the fire-place, and seize the tongs, in spite of
her cousin, who, laughing with all her might, endeavoured to prevent
her, the letter was half destroyed. When, after having got it out,
she wished to take hold of it, the flame burned her fingers, so that
she let it fall, and, while vainly endeavouring to extinguish it with
the tongs, her cousin, still laughing, took a large glass of water,
and threw it over it. The letter ceased to burn, but the little that
remained of it, was so blackened and impregnated with the water, that
it was quite illegible, and Cecilia was, therefore, obliged to give up
all thoughts of reading it. She scolded her cousin, telling her that
she should now be obliged to write to Mademoiselle Gerard to know the
contents of her letter, but, meanwhile, she bought the bonnet, and
as, after having done so, she found herself without money, she was in
no great hurry to know what Mademoiselle Gerard had written about;
she, therefore, deferred writing from day to day, until a week or ten
days had passed; then a fortnight elapsed, and the letter was still
forgotten--finally, it remained unwritten at the end of three weeks.
She little knew what was going on at the Château during this time.
Since their departure, the health of Mademoiselle Gerard had been
constantly growing worse, she consequently became more fretful with
every one except Nanette, of whom she was very fond, and who served her
with zeal and intelligence. The only person who remained in the Château
with her was the porter, an old servant named Dubois, a cross-grained,
crabbed old man, though well enough disposed in the main. Mademoiselle
Gerard, like the other servants, had frequently disputes with him, but
as she was a sensible woman, these disputes were soon settled; now,
however, that her temper became soured by illness, their disagreements
increased in frequency and violence. It was part of Dubois' duty to
supply her with everything she wanted, and when marketing for himself
to buy what she required also. She was often discontented with his
purchases, and, besides, if she asked for anything in the least out
of the ordinary course, he told her it was too dear, and that Madame
de Vesac would not permit such extravagance. Then Mademoiselle Gerard
would cry, and bewail her misfortune in being left to the care of
a man who would be the death of her. She had several times written
to Madame de Vesac on the subject, who, well knowing her wishes to
be unreasonable, endeavoured to calm her, and persuade her to wait
patiently until her return; at the same time, she ordered Dubois not
to vex her, as she was an invalid. Whenever the latter received these
commands he became more ill-tempered than usual, because, he said,
Mademoiselle Gerard had got him scolded by his mistress. At length
their disagreements reached such a point, that Dubois would no longer
enter the apartments of Mademoiselle Gerard, who, on her part, declared
that, during the whole course of her life, she would never again speak
to Dubois; so that she sent Nanette to get from him what she wanted.
Poor little Nanette was often very much perplexed, as Mademoiselle
Gerard, always dissatisfied with what Dubois sent her, never failed to
break out into complaints whenever Nanette carried her the meat he had
bought at the market, or the fruit and vegetables he had gathered in
the garden. She declared he had chosen the very worst for her, and that
he wanted to kill her; and such was her weakness on these occasions,
that she would sometimes begin to cry. Nanette, who was very fond of
her, was grieved at seeing her so much distressed, and would stand
looking at her in perfect silence; then Mademoiselle Gerard would kiss
her, and say, "If I were to die, who would take care of you?" for, in
her weakness, she imagined there was no one in the world who would take
an interest in Nanette but herself. The child returned her caresses,
comforting her in her way, and assuring her that she would not die. She
could not understand her friend's distress, but she would have done
much to see her happy. But when Mademoiselle Gerard wanted to send her
to Dubois to complain of what he had given her, she told her she dared
not go, because on two or three occasions he had been so enraged with
her that she was terribly frightened of him. Then she would repeat
for the twentieth time what he had said the day she took back to him
the decayed pears, and how, when she went to tell him that the slices
of beet-root were bad, he flew into a furious passion, saying that
servants were more difficult to please than their masters, then gave
such a kick to his cupboard door, for the purpose of shutting it, and
flung a carrot which he held in his hand with such violence across the
room, that she ran away terrified, for fear of being beaten. She also
repeated all that he had said about Mademoiselle Gerard herself, that
he should never have a moment's peace so long as she was in the house,
and that he would willingly give five pounds out of his own pocket,
if she were only so far out of his way that he might never hear her
name mentioned again. Then Mademoiselle Gerard became alarmed at his
hatred, and could not endure the thought of remaining alone with him
in the Château, saying that unless her mistress returned very soon she
should be lost. If on these occasions Dubois happened to pass near
her apartment, she ran to bolt and barricade the door, as if he were
going to murder her. It was in moments of fever that these ideas took
possession of her mind, and more especially in the evening, because
the room occupied by Dubois was close to her own. The mere idea of
having to pass the night so near him threw her into a frightful state
of agitation. Nanette, without knowing why, shared in her alarm, and as
soon as it began to get dusk she would run and bolt the doors. During
the day they were more calm, and Nanette even amused herself by playing
tricks upon Dubois.
He kept his fruit and other provisions in a room on the ground floor,
one window of which looked upon the court-yard of the Château, and
another into the poultry-yard. When the weather was fine, he used
each morning to open the window that commanded the court-yard, go his
rounds of the kitchen-garden and poultry-yard, and then return and
close the window. Nanette had several times watched for the moment of
his departure, and, taking advantage of his absence, had climbed to
the window, entered the room, carried back the apples he had sent to
Mademoiselle Gerard, and with which she was dissatisfied, and taken
finer ones in their stead. She was careful whilst in the room to watch
for Dubois through the window that looked into the poultry-yard, and
the moment she caught a glimpse of him she made her escape. The first
time this occurred, Mademoiselle Gerard gently reprimanded her for
having gone through the window; but since her illness she had become
too weak to be reasonable in anything, so that a few days later, being
greatly annoyed at again receiving some apples which she declared were
bad, she said to Nanette, "Could you not manage to get others for me?"
Nanette desired nothing better, for she had been much amused with her
first stratagem; she, therefore, again watched for Dubois' departure,
clambered through the window, and accomplished her task with perfect
success, and then diverted Mademoiselle Gerard, to whom her tricks had
become a source of amusement, by mimicking the limping gait and surly
expression of Dubois, as she had seen him returning in the distance.
Nanette, who never took anything for herself, and even for her friend
only made exchanges, did not feel the slightest scruple in respect
to the propriety of her conduct; while to Mademoiselle Gerard, whose
mind had become too far enfeebled to be capable of much reflection, it
never occurred that she was encouraging the child in a bad habit, and
exposing her to suspicion.
One day, when she had sent to Dubois for some dried grapes, she
pretended, as usual, that he had chosen the worst for her, and, as
children always see what they fancy they see, Nanette assured her that
she had really observed him select the worst, and offered her good
friend (as she always named Mademoiselle Gerard) to go and bring some
better ones, from the cupboard in which she knew he always kept them
locked up. Her friend consented, and Nanette having seen Dubois open
the window and depart, started on her expedition. She got into the
room, found the key of the cupboard, and began to make her selection.
She was so busy that it did not occur to her that the door of the
press concealed from her the window which looked upon the poultry-yard,
and consequently, that she could not peep out as usual to see if
Dubois were coming. Two or three times, indeed, she did interrupt
her occupation, to go and look out, but not at the right moment, so
that Dubois passed unperceived, and just when she considered herself
perfectly safe, she heard a voice of thunder exclaiming, "Oh! you
little thief; I have caught you, then!" and saw before the window the
terrible Dubois, barring her passage. For the moment, she thought
herself dead; but, fortunately, Dubois was too fat and too heavy to
be able to get through the window: he could only overwhelm her with
reproaches. Pale and trembling, her heart sinking with fright, she
stood silent and motionless. But, at length, watching the moment when
he went round to the door, she leaped through the window, and ran
round the yard, pursued by Dubois, who, with vehement exclamations,
endeavoured to reach her with his stick. Mademoiselle Gerard, hearing
the noise, opened her window, and seeing the danger of her favourite,
she lost all self-control, and screamed out, "Help! Help! Murder!"
Dubois, furious, raised his eyes, and not knowing much better than
herself what he was about, threatened her with his stick, and then
recommenced his pursuit of Nanette, who by this time had gained the
staircase. He mounted after her, and arrived at the moment when she
and Mademoiselle Gerard were trying to shut the door; he pushed it
open, and forced an entrance, almost upsetting Mademoiselle Gerard, who
threw herself before Nanette, as if to prevent his touching her. Still
more enraged by this movement, which seemed to imply that he intended
to hurt the child, and worse in words than in deeds, he stopped,
suffocated at once by anger and by his chase: then, recovering breath,
he poured forth a volley of invectives, both against Nanette, whom
he called a jade, and against Mademoiselle Gerard, whom he accused
of encouraging her in stealing, and becoming a spy about the house.
Mademoiselle Gerard, trembling at once with fear and indignation, told
him that Nanette did not steal, that she only endeavoured to obtain
something better than he had sent to _poison her_; that she was very
unfortunate in being abandoned to a _monster_ like him, but that her
mistress would soon be back, and do her justice for all this.
"O yes!" said Dubois, "count upon Madame's return, but before she comes
back you will have time to set out for the other world!"
After this piece of brutality, which satisfied his passion, he left
them. Mademoiselle Gerard fell down almost insensible; and the surgeon
who attended her found her, on his arrival, in a high state of fever.
He had, besides, just been informed of M. de Vesac's wound, and of
the departure of his wife, and communicated this intelligence to
Mademoiselle Gerard, who now perceived the import of Dubois' words;
and the idea of having to remain perhaps for six months longer at the
mercy of such a man, filled her mind with a terror and agitation which
it was impossible to subdue. As her imagination was now disordered
by fever, she said that Dubois would kill Nanette; and when the
latter declared that she could never dare ask him for anything again,
Mademoiselle Gerard expected nothing less than to be starved to death.
She determined therefore to go to her brother, who was married and
established as a shopkeeper in a neighbouring town. It was in vain
that the surgeon endeavoured to oppose this caprice, by representing
to her that she was too ill to be removed without danger. Her fever
and agitation increased so much by contradiction, that he found it
necessary to yield to her desire. He therefore sent to the farm for a
horse and cart, settled her with as little inconvenience as possible,
and thus accompanied by Nanette, and taking with her all her effects,
she started for the town, where she arrived almost in a dying state.
She remained several days in this condition; then became a little
better, but was still so feeble that she began to give up all hope of
recovery. Wishing to dispose of the little property she possessed, she
sent for a notary. Her whole wealth consisted in a sum of a thousand
crowns, the fruit of her savings, and which, from her suspicious
character, she had been afraid of placing out at interest, for fear of
being cheated, and therefore always kept in her own possession. She
left two thousand four hundred francs to her brother, and six hundred
to Nanette, with part of her effects. Then, on learning from the
surgeon his belief that Cecilia had remained in Paris, she wrote to
inform her of the condition she was in, begging her to make it known
to Madame de Vesac, and to ask what, in the event of her death, was to
be done with Nanette. This was the letter which Cecilia's cousin threw
into the fire. Mademoiselle Gerard receiving no reply, supposed that
Cecilia had left Paris; and feeling herself growing daily worse, she
got the clergyman who visited her to write a long letter to Madame de
Vesac. In this letter she recommended Nanette to her care, and without
complaining of Dubois, whom the clergyman had prevailed upon her to
forgive, she explained to her mistress that Nanette was not a thief, as
Dubois had accused her of being.
Soon after this letter had been despatched she died; and thus was poor
Nanette left utterly friendless. Mademoiselle Gerard's brother and
his wife were selfish people; they had been annoyed at the affection
she manifested for Nanette, because they were afraid she would leave
her whatever she possessed. They supposed she must have amassed a
considerable sum of money, and were confirmed in this opinion, when
the day after her death they discovered in her apartment the thousand
crowns. Knowing that she had made a will, the husband hastened to
the notary, eager to learn its contents; and when it was opened in
his presence he was very much astonished, and extremely dissatisfied,
at finding that instead of being left a considerable legacy, as he
expected, he should be obliged to give Nanette six hundred francs out
of the thousand crowns, of which he had already taken possession. He
returned home and communicated his information to his wife, who, being
still more selfish than himself, was more enraged. She overwhelmed with
abuse poor little Nanette, who, quite unconscious of what it all meant,
remained terrified and motionless on the spot. Whilst giving vent to
her passion the woman continued to arrange and sweep out her shop, and
being near Nanette, she struck her with the broom, as if to make her
get out of the way. The child ran crying to another corner of the shop.
The broom which kept on its course seemed to pursue her; she jumped
over it, and went to another part of the room, still it was after
her. The activity of the shopkeeper seemed to increase with Nanette's
terrors, and every movement she made was accompanied by threatening
and abusive language. At length, not knowing where to fly for safety,
the poor child ran to the threshold of the door; the woman pushed her
out with her broom, saying, "Yes! yes! be off, you may be quite sure I
shall not take the trouble to run after you;" and she closed the door
upon her. Nanette remained for some time crying outside. At length,
hearing some one about to open the door, and thinking it was her
persecutor coming out to beat her, she ran off as fast as she could.
The street in which she happened to be led to the entrance of the town;
when she had advanced some distance into the country she sat down upon
a stone, and, still crying, began to eat a piece of bread, the remains
of her breakfast, which she happened to have in her hand at the moment
of her expulsion from the shop. A little boy came up to her, and asked
what was the matter. Nanette at first made no reply; he repeated his
question, and she told him that she did not know where to go.
"Come with me to Dame Lapie's," said the little fellow.
"Who is Dame Lapie?" demanded Nanette.
"Why Dame Lapie; she lives in the village yonder, but just now she is
begging on the high road. Come along," and he wanted to take Nanette
by the hand, but she drew back. The little boy was dirty and ragged,
and Nanette had been accustomed to neatness. Moreover the sorrow she
had endured the previous day, the death of her protector, the abuse
of the shopkeeper's wife, and her own precipitate flight, had quite
bewildered her, as is nearly always the case with children when
anything extraordinary is passing around them. At those times, not
knowing what to do, they remain in one spot, without coming to any
decision. Nanette sat there on her stone without knowing what was to
become of her, because at that moment her mind was not sufficiently
clear to enable her to decide on leaving it. After several fruitless
attempts to induce her to accompany him, the little boy left her, and
Nanette remained still seated on the stone. Some time after, however,
on looking towards the town, she saw a woman approaching, whom she
mistook for the shopkeeper; she became afraid, got up, and again went
on, still following the high road.
She walked for a full hour, without knowing whither she went, when at
a turn in the road she perceived an old woman sitting at the foot of
a tree, and surrounded by five or six little children, of from two to
four years of age. The little boy who had spoken to her, and who might
be about seven or eight, was standing talking to the old woman. The
moment he perceived Nanette he pointed her out, saying, "See, there
she is, that is her." Nanette crossed over to the other side of the
road, for she was afraid of every one, but the old woman rose and went
to her. Nanette would have run away, but the woman took her by the
hand, spoke gently to her, and told her not to be frightened, for she
would do her no harm. Nanette looked at her, felt reassured by her kind
expression of countenance, and told her that she had run away from the
town because they wanted to beat her.
"It is your mother who wanted to beat you," said Dame Lapie; "well
never mind, we will settle that; come, we will go and ask her to
forgive you, and then she will not beat you;" saying this, she made
a movement as if wishing to lead her back to the town. Nanette,
terrified, began to scream and struggle, saying that it was not her
mother, and that she would not return to the town. "Well, then, we
will not go, you shall come with us," but Nanette still struggled
to withdraw her hand; Dame Lapie let it go, and as Nanette went on,
contented herself with following and talking to her. "Who will give
you anything to eat to-day?" she demanded. Nanette, crying, replied,
"I don't know." "Where will you sleep to-night?" asked Dame Lapie. "I
don't know," said Nanette, still crying. "Come with me," continued Dame
Lapie, "I promise you we will not return to the town." "Come with us,"
said the little boy, who had also followed her, and Nanette at last
suffered herself to be persuaded. Dame Lapie led her back to the foot
of the tree, gave her a piece of black bread and an apple, and while
eating it, for she was beginning to feel hungry, she recovered her
calmness a little.
Dame Lapie was an old woman to whom the people of the village intrusted
their children, whilst they went to work in the fields. She had always
five or six, whom she went for in the morning, and took home again
at night. The little boy who had spoken to Nanette, and whose name
was Jeannot, was one of those she had taken care of in this way. His
parents dying whilst he was very young, Dame Lapie would not abandon
him, but not being able to support him herself, she sent him to beg.
She herself also went, and sat by the road-side, with the little
children around her, and asked alms of the passers by; and the parents
of the children were either ignorant of this, or did not trouble
themselves about it, especially as Dame Lapie always shared with the
little ones whatever she obtained.
Jeannot seeing Dame Lapie receiving children every day, imagined that
all who had no homes ought to go to her; and therefore he had sought
to lead Nanette to her; and the dame, meeting with a little girl
neatly clad, wandering about alone, without knowing where she went,
was persuaded, notwithstanding Nanette's assertions that she had run
away from her mother, to whom she should be rendering a service by
restoring her. She intended, therefore, as soon as she had learned from
Nanette who were her parents, to go and see them, promising to restore
their daughter, on condition that they would not beat her, for Dame
Lapie could not bear the idea of having children ill treated, or even
annoyed. Meanwhile, when she returned at night to the village, she made
Nanette accompany her, and gave her two of the children to lead; this
amused Nanette, but she was not quite so much diverted, when at night
the dame had nothing to give her for supper but the same kind of black
bread which she had had for dinner, and this too without the apple.
Neither did she feel much inclined to sleep with Dame Lapie, whose
bed was very disagreeable; still it was necessary, and she slept very
soundly after all. Jeannot, as usual, slept upon some straw in a corner
of the hut.
During the night, Dame Lapie was seized with so violent an attack of
rheumatism that she could not move a limb; and, as she was unable to go
to the town, she told Nanette that she must return home to her mother.
Nanette again began to cry, saying that her mother did not live in the
town, that her good friend was dead, and that there remained no one but
of her good friend's sister, and she wanted to beat her; she did not
allude to the Château, for she was still more afraid of Dubois than
of the shopkeeper. Dame Lapie asked where her mother was, but Nanette
scarcely remembered the name of her native village; everything she
said on the subject was so confused, and she cried so much, that the
old woman could make nothing out, and resolved to let the matter rest
for the present. On several occasions, during the following days, she
renewed her questions, but always with the same result; and, too ill to
insist much on the matter, she determined, as soon as she was better,
to go to the town and make inquiries herself.
Nanette, meanwhile, rendered her a thousand little services; she was
gentle and attentive, and delighted in giving pleasure. The constant
attention required by Mademoiselle Gerard had rendered her alive to the
wants of sick people. She also took care of the little children, who
were always brought to Dame Lapie's, and, accompanied by Jeannot, went
out with them upon the road. Jeannot did all he could to cheer her; but
she was sad. She remembered the good dinners she had with Mademoiselle
Gerard, and the black bread became distasteful to her; nevertheless,
there was nothing else for her, and not always enough even of that. On
one occasion, she was obliged to go to bed supperless, and passed a
part of the night in crying; but so as not to be heard by Dame Lapie,
because, whenever the dame saw her crying from hunger, she scolded her,
and asked her why she did not go and beg like Jeannot.
The winter had passed; the spring was very wet; and when it rained,
the water penetrated into Dame Lapie's hut, which was somewhat below
the level of the street. This rendered it very unhealthy. It was also
unhealthy for Nanette to sleep with this old woman, who was an invalid.
Nanette was naturally of a delicate constitution, and the misery in
which her infancy had been passed left her in a state of but very
moderate health at the time she was taken by Madame de Vesac. Under
the care of Mademoiselle Gerard, she recovered her strength, but not
sufficiently to enable her to bear the present relapse into misery.
If Jeannot was able to endure the same inconveniences, it was because
he was of a strong, lively, and active temperament, which prevented
him from yielding to depression; whereas Nanette, mild, quiet, and
even a little inclined to indolence, gave way to discouragement and
sadness--a thing which always increases our troubles. Jeannot besides
was a favourite with the neighbours; every one caressed him, and gave
him something; but they had been greatly displeased by the arrival
of Nanette, and thought it very wrong of Dame Lapie to take charge
of a child of whom she knew nothing, and who, they said, was only
an additional beggar in the village; so that not unfrequently, when
Nanette went into the streets, she heard the women and children crying
out against her. Under the combined influence of grief, unwholesome
food, and want of cleanliness, Nanette soon fell ill. She was seized
with a fever, and in the course of a few days became dreadfully
changed. Dame Lapie, who was now able to leave her bed, and attend to
the children, told her that, as she could not beg, she must at least go
with Jeannot, who would beg for her; and that she would get the more
when it was seen that she was so ill. Jeannot, who was much more quick
and shrewd than Nanette, led her by the hand, and she suffered him to
do so, for she had no longer the strength to resist anything. When
they reached a spot where they could be seen by those who passed along
the road, she seated herself on a stone, or at the foot of a tree, and
Jeannot solicited alms for his little sister who was ill; and, indeed,
she looked so ill and so unhappy, that she excited commiseration, and
obtained for Jeannot additional contributions.
Meantime, Cecilia carried into execution her determination of writing
to Mademoiselle Gerard; but as she, of course, addressed her letter
to the Château, it was received by Dubois, who for some days had no
opportunity of forwarding it to the town, and in the interval learned
that Mademoiselle Gerard was dead. He was then grieved at having
treated her with so much brutality the day before her departure; but
as for Nanette, when told that she had run away from the shopkeeper's,
and had not since been heard of, he took no further trouble in the
matter, quite satisfied in his own mind that she was a thief, and that
they were very fortunate to be rid of her. Of all these matters he sent
an account to Madame de Vesac; but her husband having recovered and
returned to active service, she had just left for Paris, and neither
received this letter nor the one sent to her by Mademoiselle Gerard a
few days prior to her death, and which, having passed through Paris,
had been delayed a considerable time on the way. Madame de Vesac stayed
only a few days at the capital, and then set out with her daughter
for her country-seat, ignorant of all that had lately happened there.
She had made inquiries of Cecilia respecting Mademoiselle Gerard;
and Cecilia being unable to give her any information, was obliged to
confess her negligence. Her mother severely reprimanded her, though
little imagining the misfortunes this negligence had produced.
They were four days on their journey, and while changing horses at
the last post but one, Cecilia descended from the carriage, and
leaving the yard of the inn, went to breathe the fresh air on the high
road. Immediately a little boy came towards her, asking charity for
his little sister who was ill, at the same time pointing her out to
Cecilia, who, in fact, beheld a little girl seated on the ground, with
a dying look, and her head leaning against a stone; at that moment
she was sleeping; her clothes were in rags, and so dirty, that their
colour could scarcely be distinguished. Cecilia, while looking at
her, was seized with pity, and struck by her resemblance to Nanette;
but it never occurred to her that it could be Nanette. Just then she
was called, and giving the little boy a penny, telling him it was
for his sister, she returned to the carriage, her mind filled with
the thought of the poor little girl she had just seen; yet she did
not dare to speak of her to her mother, fearing that by recalling
the memory of Nanette she might revive those reproaches which her
conscience told her she deserved. What, then, was her consternation,
when, on arriving at the Château, she was informed of the death of
Mademoiselle Gerard, and the disappearance of Nanette. While Dubois
was relating these particulars, Madame de Vesac fixed her eyes upon
her daughter, who at one moment looked at her with an expression of
great anxiety, and at the next cast down her eyes ashamed. As soon as
Dubois had left the room, Cecilia, pale and trembling, with clasped
hands, and a look of despair, said to her mother, "Oh! mamma, if it
was that little girl I saw close to the post-house, who looked as if
she were dying." Her mother asked her what grounds she had for such an
idea. Cecilia informed her, and, while doing so, wept bitterly; for
the more she thought of the subject, the less doubt did she entertain
of its being poor little Nanette. "I am sure I recognised her," she
continued; "and now I remember that she wore the blue dress I gave her.
It was all torn, and I could scarcely tell the colour; but it was the
same, I am sure. Poor little Nanette!" And with this, she redoubled her
tears. She entreated that some one might be sent immediately to the
inn, to make inquiries; but it was then too late in the day, and she
dreaded lest the delay of a few hours should render Nanette so much
worse as to be past recovery. Her agitation increased every moment.
Madame de Vesac gave orders that the following morning, as soon as
it was light, some one should go to the post-house, to ascertain if
the people knew anything of the little girl who was begging at the
door on the previous day. Cecilia passed a sleepless night, and rose
the next morning before daybreak; and she was awaiting the return of
the messenger even before he had started. He did return at last, but
without any information. Nanette had never before been at the inn, and
the people had not noticed her, and were at a loss to understand the
object of all these inquiries. Cecilia was in hopes she would return
there during the day, and a messenger was again sent to inquire; but
Nanette did not make her appearance, for the post-house was situated
at a considerable distance from the village in which Dame Lapie lived;
and, in her feeble and suffering condition, the walk had so much
exhausted her that she found it impossible to return. "Oh, mamma,"
exclaimed Cecilia, "perhaps she is dead." At that moment she felt all
the anguish of the most dreadful remorse; her agitation almost threw
her into a fever. Inquiries were made in the town; and the shopkeeper's
wife stated that Nanette had run away, and no one knew what had become
of her. The neighbours were also applied to; and they, disliking the
sister-in-law of Mademoiselle Gerard, and having heard of the will,
said, that to avoid paying the six hundred francs to Nanette, she was
quite capable of forcing her, by her ill treatment, to run away, and
that perhaps even she had turned her out of doors. To this were added
conjectures and rumours, some declaring that a little girl had been
met one night in the fields, almost perished with cold; others saying
that one had been found on the high road, nearly starved to death;
but when questioned further on the point, no one could tell who had
seen this little girl, nor what had become of her; for these were only
false reports, such as are always circulated in cases of disaster.
Cecilia, however, believed them, and they threw her into despair. At
this time, Mademoiselle Gerard's letter reached them; it contained a
complete justification of Nanette, whom Dubois persisted in regarding
as a thief; it also proved that, if Cecilia had written immediately on
the receipt of her first letter, Nanette would not have been lost. This
redoubled Cecilia's distress. To complete it, there arrived another
letter, bearing the post-mark of the village in which Nanette's mother
lived. It was written by the clergyman, at the poor woman's request. In
this letter, she said that they had several times heard--but not until
it was too late,--that Madame de Vesac had passed by. This had very
much grieved her, as she would have been glad to have seen her daughter
for a moment; but she was told that Nanette was not with them, and
feeling extremely uneasy, she entreated Mademoiselle Cecilia--to whom
the letter was addressed--to send her some intelligence of her child.
The clergyman concluded by saying: "God will bless you, my dear young
lady, because you do not abandon the poor." This letter pierced Cecilia
to the heart. She grew thin with grief and anxiety; every time the
door opened, she fancied there was some news of Nanette. Her eyes were
constantly directed towards the avenue, as if she expected to see her
coming; and at night she woke up with a start at the slightest noise,
as if it announced her return. At last her mother resolved that they
would themselves make inquiries in all the neighbouring villages, and
speak to all the clergymen, although still fearing that they were too
late. They therefore set out one afternoon, and as they approached a
village, but a short distance from the town, Cecilia, who was anxiously
looking in every direction, uttered a cry, exclaiming, "Mamma, mamma,
that's her! there she is! I see her! I see the same little boy!" and
she caught hold of the coachman's coat, to make him stop the quicker,
and darting out of the carriage, rushed towards Nanette, who was lying
on the ground, with her head leaning against a tree, seeming scarcely
able to breathe. Cecilia threw herself on the ground by her side,
spoke to her, raised her up, and kissed her. Nanette recognised her,
and began to weep; Cecilia wept also, and taking her upon her knees,
she caressed her, called her her dear Nanette, her poor little Nanette.
The child looked at her with astonishment, while a faint flush animated
her cheeks. Madame de Vesac soon reached the spot. Cecilia wanted to
have Nanette put instantly into the carriage, and taken home; but
Madame de Vesac questioned Jeannot, who stood staring in the utmost
astonishment, utterly unable to comprehend the meaning of what he
saw. While Cecilia was arranging Nanette in the carriage, Madame de
Vesac, conducted by Jeannot, went to Dame Lapie's cottage. The old
woman was sitting at her door, still unable to walk, and related all
she knew about the child. Madame de Vesac gave her some money, and
returned to Cecilia, who was dying with impatience to see Nanette home,
and in a comfortable bed. She got there at last. Cecilia nursed her
with the greatest care, and for a whole week never left her bedside,
frequently rising in the night to ascertain how she was. At last the
surgeon pronounced her out of danger; but it was long before she was
restored to health, and still longer before she recovered from the
sort of stupidity into which she had been thrown by such a series of
misfortunes and suffering. When quite well, Cecilia was desirous of
resuming her education with more regularity than formerly; but this
education had now become still more difficult than at first, and
Cecilia could no longer assume her former authority; for, whenever she
was going to scold Nanette, she remembered how much she had suffered
through her negligence, and dared not say a word. She felt that to have
the right of doing to others all the good we wish, and of ordering
what may be useful to them, we must never have done them any injury.
She therefore sent Nanette to school, and economized her allowance,
in order to be able afterwards to apprentice her to a business. The
brother of Mademoiselle Gerard was made to refund the six hundred
francs; but Cecilia desired that the sum might be kept for a marriage
portion for Nanette, when she was grown up. Madame de Vesac gave
Jeannot a suit of clothes; and Dame Lapie had permission to send every
week to the château for vegetables. Madame de Vesac spent not only this
summer, but the winter also, and the following summer, in the country;
so that Nanette had time to learn to read, and make some progress in
writing. This was a source of great joy to Cecilia, who, for some
time, feared that her mind was totally stupified. In conversing on the
subject with her mother, after she had been relieved of all anxiety in
regard to it, Madame de Vesac said to her: "We never know what injury
we may do when we confer favours heedlessly and solely for our own
pleasure, and without being willing to give ourselves any trouble. This
is not the way to do good. Those whom you neglect, after having led
them to expect assistance, find, when you have abandoned them, that
they had calculated upon you, and are now without resource; so that you
have done them more harm than if you had never aided them."
THREE CHAPTERS IN THE LIFE OF NADIR.
CHAPTER I.
THE ROSE.
In the month of Flowers, in Farsistan, the Land of Roses, three
youths inhaled the perfumed air of the morning, as they sported in
the flower-covered fields, and amid the leaves, sparkling with dew.
Pleasure directed their steps towards the depths of a dark grove, into
which the heat of the first beams of day had not yet penetrated. A
celestial fragrance mingled with the first exhalations of the verdure.
One single sunbeam had pierced the thick foliage, as if to point out,
with its golden finger, a Rose, the loveliest of roses. The dew-drops
bathed it as they passed, or crept, for its refreshment, into its
bosom, coloured with transparent tints of light and shade; and the
zephyr of the grove seemed to have no other care than to balance it
on its delicate stem. Proudly, but timidly, did it raise its head,
expanding like the countenance of a young girl, whose lips scarce dare
to smile, while already happiness is beaming in her eyes.
"Oh! lovely flower," said Zuléiman, "I will carry thee to Schiraz;
this day shalt thou adorn the feast; the poets of Persia shall sing of
thy perfume and thy beauty;" and already was his hand stretched forth
to pluck the Rose.
"Stop!" cried Massour, "why thus cut short the bright hours of its
life? Think, Zuléiman, think how, after shining for a few brief moments
in the crown of a guest, or in the garland destined to adorn the vases
of the feast, consumed by the burning breath of men, and sinking
beneath the vapour of their cups, it will droop that head now so full
of vigour, and let fall, one after the other, its fading petals, until
at night, trodden under foot, it will scarcely leave upon the ground a
faint trace of its existence."
"What matters it," continued the impetuous Zuléiman, "whether it perish
amid the splendours of a court, or upon its slender stem? A single day
is the term of its existence, and that day will at least have been a
glorious one. Poor flower! I will not suffer thee thus to lavish in
forgetfulness thy fragrant odour and soft beauty in this secluded spot,
where thou art scarce known, even to the nightingale and the zephyr."
"And is it not enough," said Massour, "that it should possess an
existence thus fragrant and beautiful, that it should enjoy the
thick shade, and inhale the delicious freshness of this grove; here
peacefully to bloom away its life, here gently to shed its leaves when,
pale but not withered, they fall one by one, as vanish, without pain,
blessings that have been enjoyed, as glide away the last days of a
happy life, softly coloured by remembrance?"
"Wretched happiness," said Zuléiman; "noble flower, thou wilt not
accept it! I see thee swell and unfold thy leaves, proud with the
thought of shining in the world." And a second time he was about to
pluck the flower.
"Stop!" cried Nadir, in his turn seizing the arm of Zuléiman; then
for a moment he was silent, his eyes fixed upon the rose; a painful
anxiety tormented his heart: he shuddered at the thought of abandoning
to such sudden destruction that flower, so brilliant and so happy,
while at the same time he sighed to see it waste, useless and unknown,
the treasures of its precious existence. "Stop! Zuléiman!" he
continued, "let us not thus rashly precipitate things into the abyss of
our wills before examining what may be the destiny marked out for them
by the Father of beings."
At this moment, a sage was seen approaching. The world had no secrets
from him. He understood the language of the birds, and could divine the
thoughts of the flowers. He knew what is still more difficult: how to
select the narrow path of duty in the intricate ways of life, and to
trace out its precise direction; the only rule capable of sustaining
the mind of man, and of guiding his will amidst the uncertainties of
desire. The three youths addressed him at once: "Father," said they,
"enlighten our doubts, unfold to us the destiny of this Rose."
As the sage was about to reply, warlike sounds were heard. Zuléiman
sprang forward, seized his arms, and hurried to range himself beneath
the standard of the Sophi. Massour, with a smile, inhaled the perfume
of the flower which he fancied he had preserved, and returned to the
palace of his father, to enjoy the delights of life.
"My son," said the sage to Nadir, "this is the hour in which thy
grandsire has need of thy assistance, that he may warm himself in the
rays of the morning sun. Let not an old man lose one of those reviving
beams." And Nadir hastened to obey the words of the Sage.
In the evening, his mind still perplexed with the same doubt, Nadir
returned to the grove. The sage was there; and there, also, was the
Rose. Its perfume was beginning to languish; its full-blown leaves
seemed to have exhausted the plenitude of existence, and to be
expending their last powers. "One night, at most, will terminate its
life," said Nadir: "perhaps the morning zephyr is already commissioned
to waft away its remains. Tell me, O father! if, in thus wasting on its
stem, it has fulfilled the destiny appointed for it by the Most High,
and to which it was called by its own nature."
"This morning, my son," resumed the sage, "it might have cast a look of
sadness on the obscure retreat to which Providence had condemned it.
It might have inquired of the Most High, wherefore that rich fragrance
enclosed within its breast; wherefore the ravishing colours with which
it is adorned? but at noon there came a traveller, overpowered by
fatigue; his eyes, distressed by the dazzling brilliancy of the day,
demanded comfort; his sense of smell sought deliverance from the dust
of the road; all his senses required refreshment, all his body called
for repose. Attracted by the fragrance of the Rose, he penetrated
into its retreat; it delighted his eye, and revived his senses; it
remained suspended over his head while he slept, lavishing on him its
rich perfume till the evening; and he departed, refreshed, happy, and
blessing the Rose whose dying fragrance now rises in thankfulness
towards the Most High, for the destiny he had assigned it." Nadir also
raised his thoughts to heaven, and blessed the Lord of nature for the
destiny of the Rose.