"Indeed, young lady," replied the Curé, "there are, I assure you, many

persons in that unfortunate predicament. Besides," he added, "it is

possible that a young lady very well brought up, like Miss Juliana, who

just now gave her little brother a kick because her mamma had found

fault with her--it is quite possible, I repeat, that when she grows up

to be a woman, she may pull her little daughter by the ears because her

footman failed to execute a commission properly."

"Oh, she did not hurt me," cried Paul, "I drew back."

"True," said the Curé, "but when it is the mamma who gives the blow

it is not always so easy to draw back. I was once acquainted with a

youth whose aunt was extremely ill-tempered, and who when she was

dissatisfied with one person would vent her anger on another; and I can

assure you, the young gentleman found this anything but agreeable."

"Oh, a story! a story! Monsieur le Curé," exclaimed both the little

boys at once; "pray relate it to us."

"I will," said the Curé, giving a side glance at Juliana, "some day

when nobody is out of humour here, for a certain person might take it

to herself, and I do not wish to be uncivil to any one."

"Oh! pray relate your story, by all means, Monsieur le Curé," said

Juliana, very sharply; "people can take it as they please."

"Young lady," replied the Curé, "when I relate a story, I wish it to be

taken as I please." Juliana was silent, for she clearly perceived that

she had spoken impertinently.

The next day, as soon as the Curé arrived, the little boys failed not

to remind him of the promised story: he did not wait to be pressed, for

he had brought the manuscript with him.

He seated himself at the table where Juliana was at work; she neither

advanced nor drew back her chair. Amadeus placed his as close to the

Curé as possible, and little Paul established himself between his

knees, with upturned eyes and open mouth: the Curé then related what

follows:--

THE QUARRELS.

One day Louis entered his mother's room quite beside himself; his eyes

sparkled with anger, and his whole countenance expressed the strongest

resentment.

"I saw her! there is no gainsaying it, I saw her with my own eyes,"

cried Marianne, the cook, who rushed in after him, and who was almost

as much excited as himself. "Madame Ballier attempted to give him a box

on the ear," she continued; "fortunately he drew back in good time, but

trust me, if he did not feel the wind of it----"

"Had it not been my grand aunt," said Louis, pacing the room with

hasty strides and folded arms; "had it not been my aunt----"

"Oh, he would have strangled her for certain," rejoined Marianne; "I

saw that clearly, and in my opinion she would only have had what she

deserved, the horrid thing."

"Marianne!" said Madame Delong, in a severe tone, and Marianne left

the room shrugging her shoulders. Then addressing her son, "Are you

quite sure, Louis," she said, "that you are not in some degree to

blame?" Louis continued to pace the apartment without making any reply.

Madame Delong repeated the question, but Louis had not yet sufficiently

recovered himself to understand exactly what his mother was saying. At

this moment Madame Ballier made her appearance; she looked confused,

and speaking hurriedly, like a person who is afraid of being prevented

by some disagreeable speech, she said, "Louis, will you go with me to

the play this evening?"

Louis started and appeared surprised; but after a moment's hesitation,

he replied, in a gloomy manner, turning away his head, "No, thank you,

aunt."

"There are two actors arrived from Paris," added Madame Ballier, still

more embarrassed.

"I am aware of it: I saw the notice posted up as I came from the

college, and they are going to perform _The Templars_."

"Well, will you not come?"

"No, aunt," replied Louis again, rather sharply. Excited at once by

resentment and the regret of losing the play, he was about to add some

angry expression, but he restrained himself, and replied in the calmest

tone that he could command, "I have to work for the examination of the

inspectors who are coming this day week."

"Very well, I can go by myself," said Madame Ballier, still more

annoyed. She went to the window as if to look at something, and then

left the room without saying another word.

"If any one else had asked me," said Louis, in a tone of vexation, as

soon as she was gone, "nothing would have delighted me more. Ever since

I read the announcement I have been thinking how much I should like

to see _The Templars_; but," he added, in an altered voice, "I will

not give her the pleasure of thinking she can afford me the slightest

gratification."

His anger increased from the sacrifice which it had induced him to

make. His mother, wishing to calm him a little, said caressingly, as

she took his arm, "But you will give _me_ the gratification, will you

not, of taking a walk with me? I have a headache, and want the air;"

and, seeing that he did not take any notice, she added, with a smile,

"I shall not resign myself to going out without you, so readily as my

aunt does."

Louis never refused his mother anything, and, although only fourteen

years of age, he was so right-minded, and possessed so noble and

generous a disposition, that Madame Delong treated him with entire

confidence, and never, in any thing she required of him, appealed

to any other motive than his own good sense and affection. Louis

immediately took his hat, went to fetch his mother's parasol, and,

without saying a word, offered her his arm to go out. Madame Delong saw

the effort he was making to control himself, and said, "Thank you, my

dear." These words began to restore peace to the soul of Louis. He was

devotedly fond of his mother, and felt proud of being able to make her

life more agreeable and happy. Almost always absent from her husband,

and continually anxious and trembling for the dangers to which his

military life exposed him, Madame Delong required the exertion of much

fortitude to preserve her equanimity; and Louis, witnessing her trials,

had early learned to avoid whatever might render her resignation more

difficult. Very different in character from those children who imagine

they obtain a species of triumph over their superiors when they have

excited their displeasure, Louis took a pride in being able to ward off

troubles and annoyances from his mother. It was not in a few instances,

but in all cases that he was in the habit of doing this. If he gave

her his arm in the street or the fields, he would avoid a rough path

where she might hurt herself, lead her away from the herd of cows she

did not like to venture amongst, or remove the horse she had to pass.

Quick, and even thoughtless in his own case, he became prudent where

his mother was concerned. Madame Delong would observe, with a smile,

"Louis is my protector;" and Louis would smile also, and at the same

time slightly blush, but not from annoyance; at such moments he felt

himself a man, and in a position to be useful to others.

This kind of relation between Louis and his mother had not in the

least diminished the respect due to her maternal authority and the

superiority of her understanding. To this authority Louis submitted the

more cheerfully, because the possibility of her at any time abusing

it never entered his mind. He could not for a moment believe that

his mother could ever be unjust or unreasonable; scarcely could he

even believe that she could ever be mistaken; and if at any time he

hesitated to perform his duty, the moment she said, "My dear, it must

be done," Louis thought he heard the voice of his own conscience.

Nevertheless, since Madame Ballier had become an inmate of the house,

Louis had more frequently experienced the difficulty of submission;

and, upon certain points, all his affection for his mother was

scarcely sufficient to supply what was wanting in his yet immature

reason. Madame Ballier, who was formerly a mercer at Paris, had never

received the advantage of a good education; she was sister to Monsieur

Delong's mother, and when, at twelve years of age, he was left an

orphan, she had given him a home. At fifteen he entered the army,

obtained promotion by his bravery and good conduct, and neglecting

no opportunity of improving himself and acquiring knowledge, he rose

to the rank of colonel, and to the reputation of a distinguished

man. Madame Delong, though without fortune, had been extremely well

educated, and the congeniality of their minds and characters had

established between them the most tender and perfect union.

When, two or three years before the time of our story, Madame Ballier,

then a widow, had retired from business, in rather indifferent

circumstances, Madame Delong proposed to her husband to offer her a

home with them. Monsieur Delong at first hesitated, from the fear

of giving his wife an associate by no means agreeable; but he soon

yielded to the noble motives by which she was influenced in making

this proposal, and to his conviction, that the mingled gentleness and

firmness of her character would greatly diminish the inconveniences

which might otherwise result from such an arrangement. Madame Ballier

accordingly joined the family of her niece in the small town where

the latter resided, in the absence of her husband, and where with a

very moderate income she endeavoured, by strict economy, to meet the

expenses occasioned by the war, and provide for the education of her

son. A good-hearted woman in the main, but often weary of her position,

and, notwithstanding the deference with which she was treated by

Madame Delong, dissatisfied at not being the mistress, Madame Ballier

was frequently out of humour, and found means of showing her temper

on a thousand occasions; for persons who have no taste for serious

occupation are apt to become very fanciful about trifles. The two

greatest sufferers were Louis and his black wolf-dog Barogo: as for

Marianne, a quarrel was not positively disagreeable to her, and it was

a pleasure which Madame Ballier seldom hesitated to afford her. Madame

Delong would by no means have permitted Marianne to fail in respect

to her aunt, but neither did she like that Madame Ballier should

uselessly torment Marianne, an old and faithful servant, who had been

in the family ever since her mistress was born, and who was determined

to end her days in it; both, therefore, were equally interested in

keeping their quarrels secret, and thus being sure of each other, they

observed no mutual consideration; and a coffee-pot placed on the fire

precisely where it would most inconvenience Marianne, or removed at

the very time Madame Ballier wished to have it heated; a commission

given inopportunely, and received with a bad grace, and, above all, the

delinquencies of Robinet, Madame Ballier's cat, who was afraid of mice

and devoured every thing in the larder, kept up a fund of animosity,

and underhand quarrels, which interestingly occupied one half of their

lives.

But between Louis and his aunt, the game was by no means so equal.

As Madame Ballier had no authority whatever over him, she made a

point of contradicting him in everything. His shoes were too tight,

or his trowsers too wide; he wore his hair too short, or his sleeves

too long: and as the next day neither hair, nor sleeves, nor shoes,

nor trowsers, differed in any degree from what they were the night

before, the remarks were repeated with as much acrimony as if Madame

Ballier were herself obliged to wear the things in question. Madame

Delong, perfectly mute during these disputes, in which she never took

any part, was not equally reserved with her son, whom she scrupulously

compelled, much against his inclination, to restrain his conduct within

the bounds of proper respect; but all her authority, and her severe

looks, were scarcely sufficient to effect this, when the injustice fell

upon Barogo, whom Madame Ballier regularly turned out of the room, two

or three times a day saying that he gave her fleas. Louis would then

immediately follow, in order to be with his dear Barogo, and usually

found him engaged in avenging upon Robinet the insults received from

her mistress. Warned by the noise he made in pursuing her favourite,

Madame Ballier would fly to the rescue; snatch up, in her alarm and

anger, a broom, a pair of tongs, or whatever came to hand, as a weapon

against the aggressor, and while the latter made his escape growling,

Madame Ballier, drawn away by a deeper interest, ran to seek and

console her cat. Then Barogo, satisfied with having proved his right of

resistance, by displaying his white teeth through his black moustaches,

would return and take quiet possession of the sitting-room, where he

soon became the object of a fresh contest.

"Why should we be obliged to submit to my aunt's caprices and

ill-humour?" Louis would sometimes exclaim in a fit of uncontrollable

indignation. "Why should we be obliged to live with our relations

at all?" asked Madame Delong one day in reply. "Why should we be

obliged to keep up any ties of kindred? Why should not brothers and

sisters, fathers and children, go each their own way, without troubling

themselves about each other? If I were to become peevish, morose, and

difficult to please, tell me, Louis, would you be obliged to retain any

regard for me?"

"Oh! my dear mother!" cried Louis, wounded at such a supposition.

"My child," replied his mother, "when we once believe that we may

quarrel with our duties, because they are difficult, there is none of

them that may not be brought into question, for there is none of them,

the fulfilment of which may not at some period or other occasion us

some inconvenience. Do you not think a nephew owes to his aunt, and an

_aged_ aunt, respect and complaisance?"

"Undoubtedly, but--"

"But you would prefer that your aunt should be careful to render this

duty more agreeable to you:--this I can conceive; yet a duty is not the

less a duty because it is painful."

"I should think my aunt has duties also," said Louis, with a little

asperity.

"My son," returned his mother, very seriously, "when you have found

out a suitable manner of representing them to her, you will be quite

justified in thinking of them."

"What is to be done, then?" Louis would sometimes exclaim, quite out

of patience at seeing no means of avoiding what he knew not how to

endure. One day, when the heat was extreme, and he was continually

wiping his face during a discussion of this kind, his mother said to

him, "Six or seven years ago, my dear, you would not have been able to

bear such heat as this without repeating every moment, _Oh, how hot it

is!_ but now you scarcely pay any attention to it, because you know

that it is unbecoming in a man not to show himself superior to petty

inconveniences."

Louis was quite old enough to understand his mother's arguments, but

he had not yet acquired sufficient resolution to submit to them. When

his aunt was out of humour with him, he became angry in his turn; if

she wished to subject him to some caprice of hers, he was the more

obstinately bent on a contrary whim; and to make him feel it a matter

of great importance that his hat should remain on the table, it was

only necessary that Madame Ballier should take it into her head to

throw it upon a chair.

When out of his mother's presence, and no longer restrained by her

looks, which habitually followed him, and which he dared not avoid,

Louis was always more disposed to forget himself, and did not often

escape the danger, particularly as he was then more openly attacked

by Madame Ballier, who was no longer held in check by the fear of

disobliging her niece. The last quarrel had been occasioned by one of

those trifles which so often occasioned them, and Louis, exasperated to

the utmost by his aunt's ill-humour, and perhaps not very well disposed

himself that day had taken the liberty to indulge in remarks so little

measured, that the anger of Madame Ballier had gone beyond all bounds.

She was sorry for it afterwards; not that she considered it anything

extraordinary for an aunt to box the ears of a nephew who had spoken

impertinently to her; but such things were not in accordance with the

tone of the family, and although she herself constantly found fault

with her niece, she would not have liked her niece to find fault with

her.

She thought to repair all by the offer of taking Louis to the theatre,

and could not understand his retaining so much resentment as to refuse.

Consequently, she was much out of humour the whole of dinner-time, and

when upon leaving the table a fresh proposal was again met by a refusal

on the part of Louis, she went off shrugging her shoulders with a sigh

of indignation.

She had only just left the room, when in came M. Lebeau, a friend of

Madame Delong's.

"Come, come, my boy!" he said to Louis, "to the theatre:--quick! there

is not a moment to lose, or we shall not find places. Charles and

Eugenia are on the way with their mother; we will overtake them."

Louis and his mother looked at each other without making any reply.

"Well! are you coming?" said M. Lebeau, impatiently. "I do not think

that Louis can go to the play this evening," said Madame Delong, at

length, looking earnestly at her son.

"And why not?"

"He has work to finish."

"I worked hard enough when I was young, and learned my profession as a

notary as well as any one else, but I did not give up my amusement, for

all that. Why, my lad, at your age, when I wanted to go to the play, I

spent the night in work, and there was an end of it."

"That would not be very difficult," said Louis, looking at his mother,

whilst his face was scarlet with anger and anxiety. Madame Delong

suppressed a sigh, called forth by the sight of her son's vexation,

and said to him; "You know very well, my dear, that that is not the

difficulty:" then, turning to M. Lebeau, she added, in a firmer tone,

"It is impossible; Louis has refused to go with his aunt."

"His aunt! his aunt! What then? He has changed his mind; surely he has

a right to be more amused with my children than with his aunt. Come,

come, I will undertake to make her listen to reason, though we do not

generally understand one another particularly well."

Louis seemed in suspense. "M. Lebeau," said Madame Delong, very

seriously; "since it must be confessed, Louis has had a slight quarrel

with his aunt, and it was for that reason that he declined going

with her to the theatre. I do not blame him for it, it was the most

respectful manner of letting his aunt know that she had wounded his

feelings; but I leave him to judge," she added, looking at Louis,

"whether it be becoming in him to go and brave her as it were, and as

if he said to her, 'I did not choose to accept your favours, I can

dispense with them.'"

"Such punctilios are only fit for a girl," cried M. Lebeau. "My dear

friend, I tell you plainly, you will make a milksop of that son of

yours."

"I am not aware," said Madame Delong, still looking at her son, "that

Louis feels himself any the weaker, or the less worthy of esteem, when

he submits to his duty, than when he fails in it in order to follow his

pleasures."

Louis shook his head; he knew very well that his mother was right;

but he found it impossible to make any answer. At this moment Charles

rushed into the room: quite out of patience at not seeing his friend

Louis arrive, he had run to look for him. "Come, make haste!" he cried;

"you will make us lose the first scene, and perhaps even our places."

Louis, with eyes cast down, pressed his hand, and not daring to trust

his voice, said, in a tone scarcely audible,--"I am not going to the

theatre."

"Not going! and why not?" asked Charles, much astonished.

"On account of my aunt."

Charles, in consternation, looked alternately at his father and at

Madame Delong; the latter hastened to observe: "It is a voluntary

sacrifice which my son makes to his sense of propriety, and one which I

hope we shall be able to make up to him another time."

"Another time!" cried M. Lebeau, striking the floor with his cane;

"another time! why, they are going away to-morrow; I tell you they set

off to-morrow."

Louis started. Madame Delong, looking at him, sorrowfully, but firmly,

said, "Is that any reason, my son?" Louis hurried out of the room; he

was choking. Charles left the house in grief, and M. Lebeau, as he took

his departure, repeated, "I always said so; the most sensible woman in

the world knows nothing about bringing up boys."

Madame Delong immediately went to her son's room and found him leaning

against the corner of the mantel-piece; his fortitude was completely

overcome; the poor boy was in tears, and his mother felt much disposed

to join him. As if suddenly struck with resentment upon her entrance,

he exclaimed, "You wished to punish me because I dared to be angry

with my aunt when she tried to box my ears;" and these last words were

uttered in a still more passionate manner.

"To punish you!" said Madame Delong, putting her arm round her son's

neck, "to punish you! Oh, my dear child, it is a very long time since I

have even thought it possible that I could have occasion to punish you!"

The tears of Louis were now flowing abundantly. Madame Delong leant her

head on his shoulder, saying, with much emotion, "My dearest child,

overcome this weakness, I entreat you. What will become of me who have

the responsibility of making you acquainted with your duties, if you

have not resolution enough to fulfil them? How cruel will be my task,

Louis! I have laboured all your life to inspire you with fortitude, in

order that your courage might sustain my own."

"This disappointment cannot grieve you as much as it does me," said

Louis, still a little angry, though already in some degree softened by

his mother's words.

"My dear boy," replied Madame Delong, "if you were now at the theatre,

I should be watching the clock, and although alone, should fear to see

the hours pass, for I should say, 'he is now enjoying himself,' and

that would render my whole evening delightful." Louis kissed her hand.

"But," she continued, "if after having refused your aunt, you had been

weak enough to accompany M. Lebeau, and I weak enough to consent to

your doing so, we should both of us have had our pleasure destroyed;

the sight of your aunt at the play would have disturbed you the whole

time; on your return we should not have dared to converse together on

what would have been a subject of self-reproach to both, and you would

have gone to bed without having anything to relate to me."

Louis was insensibly calmed by the conversation and affection of his

mother; nevertheless, he had some difficulty in applying steadily to

anything during this evening, and he dreamed all night that he had gone

to the theatre, and was wandering round and round the house without

being able to find the entrance, whilst all the time the play was going

on, and he could hear the applause.

Madame Ballier, on her part, had returned home much dissatisfied with

the manner in which she had passed her evening. She had the misfortune

to be seated in a box close to the one occupied by M. Lebeau and his

family: there was already a good deal of bitterness between them, for

M. Lebeau, though a good-natured and upright man, was little disposed

to think that people should inconvenience themselves for the sake

of others; he had never approved of Madame Delong's plan of having

Madame Ballier with her, and consequently had taken an aversion to

the latter almost before he had made her acquaintance. Never would

he consent to show her the slightest attention calculated to attract

her to his house, and as this prevented Madame Delong from visiting

there as frequently as she had previously done, M. Lebeau was the more

dissatisfied; and the grievances of Louis, who was a great favourite

of his, and even those of Barogo, with whom he cultivated a certain

degree of intimacy, did not tend to soften matters. When, upon entering

the theatre, he saw Madame Ballier in the next box to that which his

family had taken, he felt so annoyed that he would have changed his

place had it been possible. His excitement, and the explanations given

to his party in no very low tone, soon informed Madame Ballier of what

had taken place, and the name of "poor Louis," which, at every pause

in their pleasure, was repeated by the children in a tone of regret,

and with a side glance towards her, rendered her evening extremely

disagreeable. On returning home she complained of a headache, and

retired to her own room without seeing any one. The next day she made

no allusion whatever to the play; and if Louis was wrong in somewhat

enjoying this little revenge, he was at all events justified in

congratulating himself on having escaped a similar embarrassment. Two

days afterwards, at the house of M. Lebeau, the latter again attacked

Madame Delong on the subject of the play; Louis defended his mother

with so much eagerness, that M. Lebeau, provoked at finding in him

an opponent, exclaimed, "Young man! this is the way you spoil your

mother." Everybody laughed, and M. Lebeau amongst the rest, while

Madame Delong gave her son a smile of affectionate pride, which seemed

to say, "Persevere, my dear Louis, let us continue to aid each other

in fulfilling our duty."

The Curé here paused. "Is that all?" exclaimed the two little boys.

"That is not a story," said Juliana, drawing up her head with an air of

pretension. "It has neither beginning nor end."

"As to the end," replied the Curé, "I have not told you that my story

was ended: I wished merely to show you how very disagreeable it is for

young persons when their relations happen to be bad-tempered, and at

the same time to point out to you that when such is the case it is the

duty of the young to make every sacrifice rather than displease their

relations."

"It was not very difficult for Louis to do what his mother wished,"

said Juliana, in a tone which betrayed a little vexation; "she always

spoke to him so gently."

"Well! that is good!" cried Amadeus. "The other day when you were in a

passion, and nurse very gently begged you to listen to reason, did you

not tell her to march off with her reason?"

"Mr. Amadeus," replied Juliana, colouring violently, "mind your own

affairs if you please, or I shall tell, in my turn, what naughty words

you made use of in the grove, when papa called you to write your

exercise."

"I see," said the Curé, "that you would neither of you have been as

reasonable as Louis, though he was nothing to boast of."

"Yes," observed Amadeus, "for he obeyed the wishes of his mother only

when she was present."

"I don't behave like him, Monsieur le Curé," said Paul, touching the

clergyman's arm to make him listen to him; "when mamma goes away and

says, 'Paul, don't go near the water,' I don't go near it at all."

"I should like to know," said Juliana, "what would have happened if

Louis had remained for some time _tête-à-tête_ with his aunt?"

"That is precisely the sequel of my story," replied the Curé. The

children having expressed their wish to hear this sequel, the Curé

promised it, and a few days afterwards he thus resumed the adventures

of Louis.

ABSENCE.

Madame Delong received intelligence from Germany which caused her the

greatest affliction. Her husband had been dangerously wounded, and she

immediately set off to attend on him, deeply grieved at the necessity

of leaving her son to his own discretion, as it were, with a person who

was incapable of maintaining any authority over him.

Being also perfectly well aware that whilst Madame Ballier had to

command, and Marianne to obey, there would be little peace in the

household, we may easily imagine what were her parting admonitions,

and what the promises and good resolutions made to conform to them.

But, scarcely was she out of sight, when Madame Ballier, eager to

take possession of her authority, positively exacted of Marianne that

the soup tureen, which from time immemorial had been placed on the

sideboard, should for the future be put away in the closet, and that,

contrary to the practice hitherto observed, the glasses should be

rinsed before the decanters. From this moment all hope of agreement was

at an end; and when Louis returned home to dinner, he found Marianne

in a state of the greatest excitement. "Master Louis," she said, "this

will never do; that woman will drive me out of my senses. I tell you,

Master Louis, we can never go on in this way."

"Louis," said Madame Ballier, very composedly, to her nephew, when he

came to take his place at the dining-table, "I beg you for the future

to be more punctual to the time."

Louis looked at his watch, then at the time-piece, and was much

surprised to find that they did not agree; he had set them together in

the morning, and now perceived that, without any intimation to him,

Madame Ballier had advanced the time-piece after his departure. He

showed his watch, and said coolly, but not without some intention of

annoying, "This is the time by Monsieur Lebeau's clock, which is the

best in the town, and which everybody follows since the town clock has

been out of order."

Madame Ballier replied, pettishly, that Monsieur Lebeau's clock went

like his head, and that the house clock was the one to which he must

conform.

"To render that possible," said Louis, "it ought not to be altered

every moment without necessity."

Silence ensued till about the middle of dinner, when Madame Ballier

said to her nephew, "I hope, Louis, that you do not intend to take

advantage of your mother's absence to run about and idle away your

time, instead of attending to your studies."

"Run about! Where, aunt?" inquired Louis, greatly astonished, for he

was noted for his exactitude in the performance of his duties.

"Why, to Monsieur Lebeau's, for example."

"My mother has given me permission to go there," replied Louis, in a

careless tone.

"Morning and evening?" demanded Madame Ballier, sharply.

"As often as I please," replied Louis, drily.

"As often as you please!" cried Madame Ballier. "Very fine, truly; if

you have permission to do whatever you please, sir, it was not worth my

while to take charge of you."

"You take charge of me, aunt!" exclaimed Louis, in his turn, with an

indignation which completely exasperated Madame Ballier.

"And who, then, is to take charge of you, pray, sir?"

Louis was silent: he had raised a difficult question; for he could not

possibly suppose that at his age he could avoid being responsible for

his conduct to some one or other; nor could he tell Madame Ballier

that it was not to her that he owed this responsibility, as this

would neither have been respectful nor true; for, in fact, if he had

been guilty of any impropriety, if he had neglected his studies, and

spent his time away from home in the absence of his mother, it was

undoubtedly the duty of his aunt to repress such misconduct by every

means in her power. Louis' mistake consisted in not remembering, that

it is not only a duty to yield, in matters of importance, to those who

have a right to exact obedience; but that we ought likewise to yield to

them in trifles also; because it is but reasonable that we should avoid

giving them annoyance.

They again relapsed into silence; but on rising from table Madame

Ballier said to her nephew, at the same time carefully emphasizing

every word, "Notwithstanding all your permissions, you will be so good

as to remember, Master Louis, that I am amenable for you in the absence

of your mother, and that I shall not allow you to commit any follies;

do you understand that?" She took care to close the door as she

pronounced these last words, so as to avoid having to hear any reply

to them. Louis had no thought of answering her; all his ideas were in

confusion. Not having the slightest inclination to commit any follies,

as Madame Ballier expressed it, he was surprised to find himself so

extremely offended at her prohibition of them.

"Do but look at that woman, now," said Marianne, folding her arms, and

fixing her eyes on the door by which Madame Ballier had made her exit.

"If this is the way she begins," resumed Louis, slowly setting down

the glass which in his surprise he had held suspended near his lips.

It seemed as if a thunderbolt had fallen at their feet, so little were

they prepared for their proper course of action, which was simply to

allow things and words of no importance to pass quietly by.

Louis went to M. Lebeau's to console himself for his vexations, by

relating them to Charles and Eugenia. "Let her grumble as much as she

pleases; you take your own way," said Charles.

Eugenia scolded Charles and then Louis. "Ask mamma," she said, "whether

that is the proper manner of behaving to your aunt."

"In what respect, then, do you find I behave so much amiss?" returned

Charles, hastily. "You would do just the same in my place."

"I! by no means; when I want to do anything I ask permission; there is

surely no great trouble in that."

"But what permission have I to ask of her?"

"That you know best,--permission to look out at the window, if she

requires it; it would be no great hardship after all."

"That, certainly, would be very pretty for a boy!" said Charles.

"It would seem, then, that it is more becoming in a boy to be

unreasonable, than it is in a girl?"

"Pshaw! Eugenia," said Louis, ill-humouredly, as he took Charles by

the arm to lead him away from his sister; "you know nothing about the

matter; and besides, what you say is only an affectation."

"I am sure," replied Eugenia, offended in her turn, "that you give

yourself airs; it costs you but little to make rude speeches."

They quarrelled, then became reconciled. Louis found in Eugenia's

advice much that resembled the counsels of his mother; and he was only

the more distressed by dimly perceiving that he was in the wrong,

without exactly knowing how to set himself right. The fact was, that

Louis was disposed to comply with the wishes of his aunt, provided

she required nothing that was troublesome to him; and willing to

treat her with complaisance, provided she never interfered with his

inclinations; which certainly was setting himself no very difficult

task.

A few days after this occurrence, Louis received a letter from his

mother, written at the end of her first day's journey.

"Bear in mind, above all things, my dear son," she said in this letter,

"never to swerve from the respect you owe your aunt. You may sometimes

think she demands a greater degree of submission than she has a right

to exact; yet you must submit to this, in order to please her; for it

is your duty to make her satisfied with you.

"Should you sometimes think she opposes you unreasonably, or from

ill-humour, the best way of showing yourself a man is by not allowing

yourself to be irritated by this conduct; for it is little children

only that people are anxious not to oppose unreasonably, for fear of

spoiling their tempers; but when they become men, they must in their

turn conform to the tempers of others.

"In a short time, my dear son, you will have to conduct yourself

properly, not only towards those who behave well to you, but towards

all with whom you have any intercourse. So long as you are unable to

fulfil your duty, unless you have to deal with just and reasonable

persons, so long will you be unfit to dispense with the guidance of

your father and mother; for you will meet with no one else in the world

who, for the sake of sparing you the commission of a fault, will be

careful to treat you on all occasions with kindness and justice."

The day that Louis received this letter he was more assiduous in his

attentions to his aunt; he took care not to leave the door open when

she was in the draught, and he prevented Barogo from eating up the

food prepared for Robinet--an occurrence which the evening before had

occasioned great offence. Left to himself, Louis was naturally disposed

to be obliging; but he wanted that self-control which can alone secure

us against the caprices of others. He was consequently never so much at

the mercy of his aunt's whims as when he allowed her to put him in a

passion, in spite of his good resolutions. Now, as her caprices became

every day more frequent, in proportion to the effect they produced on

him, and as in proportion to their frequency his resolution became

every day weaker, his desire of maintaining peace soon gave way to a

complete abandonment of himself to all those emotions which naturally

excite discord. The counsels of his mother now produced only a feeling

of irritation, for he had persuaded himself that what she required of

him was impossible. His home became insupportable, and he was always

anxious to escape from it; nor could his mind rest with pleasure on

anything but the idea of the enjoyment which he promised himself in

going to spend the three holidays of Whitsuntide with Madame Lebeau in

the country.

This excursion had been arranged before the departure of Madame Delong.

Louis had often mentioned it, and considered it as a settled affair,

but Madame Ballier took it into her head, as the best possible means of

annoying him, to oblige him to ask specially for her permission.

It had been arranged that on the Saturday preceding Whitsunday Louis

was to dine with M. Lebeau, in order to be ready to set out with the

family for the country immediately afterwards.

On the day in question, the moment before he returned home to dress

for dinner, and make up his little package of what was to be taken

with him, Madame Ballier left the house, carrying with her the keys

of the wardrobe. Louis, greatly annoyed at not finding the keys when

he came in, asked Marianne for them, and then inquired for his aunt.

Marianne had not seen her go out, and knew not where to find her. They

separated in search of her. Louis ran out, boiling with impatience;

and, perceiving her seated on one of the benches in the promenade, he

could scarcely restrain himself sufficiently to avoid demanding his

keys before he came up to her, or ask for them, when he did arrive, in

terms of proper politeness. Madame Ballier quietly inquired what he

wanted them for?

"I want to dress, aunt--I am in a great hurry--pray give them to me

immediately;"--and he held out a hand tremulous with impatience.

"To dress! you never dress but on Sundays," replied Madame Ballier with

the utmost coolness.

"But, aunt! you know I am going into the country."

"I know nothing about it: you have not told me."

"I have spoken of it a hundred times in your presence."

"I am not accustomed," said Madame Ballier, "to take to myself what is

not directly addressed to me."

"Well, then, aunt, I tell you now; I repeat it," replied Louis, with

redoubled vehemence.

"I have an idea, sir," said Madame Ballier, very gravely, and rising at

the same time, "that you will ask me for them in a different manner."

Louis half bent his knee, and in a tone which in his anger he

endeavoured to render derisive, said, "Will my aunt have the kindness,

the magnanimity, the clemency to give me my keys?"

Madame Ballier made a movement as if to go away. Louis threw himself

before her: the clock was striking four, the hour appointed for the

rendezvous at M. Lebeau's. "Aunt," he exclaimed, and without perceiving

that the tone of his voice had become almost menacing: "Aunt, I entreat

you ... where are my keys?"

"In a place," replied Madame Ballier, who on her part was beginning to

lose her self-control; "in a place where you will not get them until it

suits me."

"You will not give them to me, then?"

Madame Ballier walked on without condescending to reply. Louis darted

off like an arrow, taking with him, in his way home, the locksmith

usually employed in the house, who, knowing him, made no difficulty

about opening the drawers; he then dressed himself, made up a small

parcel, and, meeting Marianne, who had just come in, told her to carry

to M. Lebeau, in the course of the day, the rest of his things, that

they might not be locked up again.

Surprised at such an order, and disturbed at seeing all the drawers

open, Marianne would fain have questioned him as to what had occurred,

but he was already at a distance, and she stood at the door gazing

after him in complete bewilderment.

Louis was eager to arrive; eager to shake off the agitation which

tormented him. Since the departure of his mother he had never felt

satisfied with himself, at the present moment he was less so than ever,

and knew not what the future was likely to bring forth, for he had

not the courage to scrutinize the state of his mind. He concealed his

uneasiness as well as he could, not liking to mention to M. Lebeau his

disagreement with his aunt, and the idea of being for three whole days

quite free from his vexations made him speedily forget them. As soon

as dinner was over, it was announced that the asses were at the door.

Louis was appointed to lead Eugenia's, and Charles that intended for

his mother, excepting when M. Lebeau was to take the place of one or

the other, so as to let them, by turns, mount his horse. The weather

was delightful, and the young people, already animated by the prospect

of pleasure, were running down the steps, laughing and jumping, when

Marianne appeared at the door, much excited, and carrying in her arms

a large parcel, which she held out to Louis: "Here, Master Louis," she

said, "here are your clothes; when your aunt saw that I was going to

take them, she threw them in my face, saying that when they were once

out of the house they had better remain so, and you too. Then, said I,

'And I too;' for now that you are gone, Master Louis, she may manage as

she can. I will not set foot in the house till my mistress returns.

Here is the account of every thing left under my care--it may easily be

seen that all is right; besides, she has taken all the keys, and I will

no longer be answerable for anything."

"But, Marianne," said Louis, who was excessively disturbed, "I am not

going away--I am to be absent only two days."

"Oh! indeed! but she declared that you should remain where you

are--that she was going to write to your mother--that she would no

longer be answerable for you--and I don't know what besides."

"You will stay with us," said Charles, with great glee.

"What nonsense!" said Madame Lebeau, impatiently, "his aunt will never

drive him away from the house."

"Oh! as for that, she said that if he came back, she should go away,"

replied Marianne, "not that she will do any such thing--but it is all

the same to me. I remained there only for your sake, Master Louis,

and now I have done with her. Didn't she say it was I that forced the

lock, and that she would take me before the Justice of the Peace! Let

her do so! I am not afraid of her; I am better known in the town than

she is. The Justice of the Peace, indeed! I am at my sister's, in the

next street, let her come for me there:--Good-by, Master Louis."--Then

turning back--"Oh! stay! here is a letter from your mamma, which, with

all this bother, I forgot to give you;" and she went away, repeating to

herself, "The Justice of the Peace! Much I care for her and her Justice

of the Peace!" Thus she went on, becoming more and more irritated every

time this idea recurred to her mind.

Louis was thunderstruck; he turned his mother's letter mechanically in

his hand--it seemed already to pain him, as if it contained a reproach.

"What is all this?" demanded M. Lebeau, who came up in the midst of

Marianne's harangue; and Louis scarcely knew how to give him an

explanation, so trifling was the subject in dispute.

"Come with us all the same," said Charles, in an under-tone, "you can

settle all that on your return."

"Write her a very submissive letter from the country," said Eugenia.

Louis heard not a word that was said, he had just opened his mother's

letter.

"Good Heavens!" he exclaimed, in a tone of grief, whilst he hid his

face in his hands.

"What has happened?--your father!" cried Madame Lebeau, alarmed.

"On the contrary," said Louis, blushing at the exclamation which had

just escaped him, "my father is better;" and he added, in a subdued

tone, "An hour ago this letter would have rendered me extremely happy."

Madame Delong had written to inform her son that her husband was out of

danger, and in a fit state to bear the journey; she was to set out with

him in a few days on his return home, where it would be necessary for

him to remain, to complete his recovery, and to pass the time of his

convalescence, which was expected to be long.

"I shall soon, therefore, my dear son," added Madame Delong, "present

you to your father, who has not seen you these four years. He is

continually speaking of you, and I scarcely dare to reply: I fear to

trust my own affection; I fear to speak of you more favourably than

the event may justify. Nevertheless, dear Louis, I trust he will be

pleased with us. One thing alone disturbs me," she continued, "I am

not satisfied with the tone of your last letter when speaking of your

aunt. My dear child, I must warn you that your father, who is much

weakened by long-continued exertion and severe suffering, is unable to

bear the slightest agitation; it is necessary for him that the whole

house should be as tranquil as the apartment of an invalid. Be on the

watch, therefore, that on his arrival every thing may wear the aspect

of harmony, and nothing arise to disturb him. Examine carefully, my

dear son, whether you have prepared for us the reception I require, and

whether you feel yourself thoroughly disposed to fulfil your duty."

Louis was overwhelmed. "Well!" said M. Lebeau, who was waiting, and who

was not fond of waiting, "Are you coming or not?"

"What will my mother say?" said Louis, who hardly heard the words

addressed to him.

"What will she say? Why, you are not in fault, are you?"

"I really don't know anything at all about it."

"Oh; if you don't know, that is another matter. Come, my boy, you

should always know what you mean or what you don't mean; whether you

are right or whether you are wrong, and then act accordingly."

Louis now presented his mother's letter, not, however, that M. Lebeau

might decide for him, for his resolution was already taken.

"Yes," said M. Lebeau, after having read the letter, "you will do well

to arrange matters if you can;" and Louis, without speaking another

word, took the parcel which Marianne had brought, fastened to it

the one which he had made up to take into the country, and passing

his stick through them, put it on his shoulder, pressed the hand of

Charles, nodded to Eugenia, with a sigh, and walked to the door.

"Is he going away?" asked Charles and Eugenia, in consternation.

"You will come back to us," said M. Lebeau, who liked to make the best

of every thing. Louis again nodded, and departed. He soon heard the

noise of the donkeys as they were mounting, and of M. Lebeau's horse

pawing the ground, impatient to set out; he turned his head, and saw

them all preparing for their departure, but in silence; and he watched

them to the very end of the street, without hearing a single burst of

laughter.

He walked on, without very well knowing what was to be done; he

thought, however, that he must in the first place seek Marianne, and

prevent her from sleeping out of the house; and, afterwards, go and

inform his aunt that it was he who had caused the locks to be forced,

and thus prevent her from going to the Justice of the Peace. He found

Marianne extremely excited, relating what had passed to her sister, who

was vainly endeavouring to pacify her.

"Stop!" she said, when she saw Louis enter; "there is Master Louis

himself, who will tell you that it is quite impossible to live with

that woman."

"But what are you doing here, Master Louis? and your parcel?--you

should not have made me carry it to Monsieur Lebeau's; I would have

brought it straight here myself. My sister will lock it safe up in her

chest, I promise you, Master Louis; you may be quite easy about it."

"But Marianne," repeated Louis several times impatiently, in vain

attempting to interrupt her; "but Marianne, it is not that; I come to

tell you that you must return home."

"Return home! and for what, pray, Master Louis? It was all very well,

whilst you were there; but as for your aunt, she can do well enough

without me, and I can do without her. Go, then, Master Louis, and take

your pleasure in the country; you need not be afraid, we shall not bite

one another in your absence."

"But, Marianne," replied Louis, more and more out of patience, yet

still hesitating to engage himself, "I tell you it is not certain--it

is indeed very possible that I may not go into the country at all."

"How!--not go into the country! Oh! that is quite another affair! It

was well worth while to open the drawers in such a hurry! Well, if

that is the case, I will go and make your bed to-morrow, Master Louis;

you may be very sure I shall not leave your room in disorder; you may

depend upon that beforehand; your bed shall be ready."

"And dinner also, Marianne?"

"Dinner for your aunt? oh! she can dine well enough without me, the

dear creature! If she had nobody to cook her dinner but me, I warrant

you it would not make her ill;" and Marianne's passion beginning to

revive, she talked to herself and to every one around, without their

being able to stop her tongue.

"But listen to me, do, pray, Marianne," cried Louis, almost losing

temper himself; "I tell you that my father and mother are coming."

"What! the colonel!--my mistress!" exclaimed Marianne. "Gracious me!

when?--where are they?" and she seemed ready to run and meet them.

"Oh, not yet, Marianne," said Louis; "but they are on the road; here is

the letter which gives me the intelligence, and you must see that if

they find all the house out of sorts in this manner----"

"Ah yes! you are quite right, Master Louis, that is very true. The

poor colonel!--and my mistress! How happy she must be!--how is he,

now? What! they are really coming!" and the exclamations of Marianne,

mingled and succeeded each other with as much rapidity in her delight

as in her anger. The whole course of her ideas was completely changed,

and perhaps on a closer consideration of the arrival of her master

and mistress, she might feel some uneasiness as to the consequences

of her late conduct, which in the heat of the moment she had not very

attentively examined. There was no difficulty in inducing her to

return. "Must we not be preparing the house for their arrival?" she

said. "Come, Master Louis; duty before all things;--duty before all

things!"

They departed, Marianne carrying the parcels, which she insisted on

taking under her charge. "We are going back," she said, "like traders

who have been unlucky at the fair; we are as heavily laden as when we

set out."

They found the door of the house locked; for, as Marianne was no longer

there to attend to it, Madame Ballier had carried away the key with

her when she went out. This incident, which Louis might have expected,

vexed him exceedingly; he had not yet entirely given up all hopes of

going to join his friends in the country, after having reinstalled

Marianne at home; but this now became, at least, doubtful, and every

moment of delay increased the chance of its being impossible. However,

nothing was to be done but to wait; so Louis seated himself on the

bench at the door, and did wait, but with a degree of bitterness which

every minute of impatience rendered worse. Madame Ballier did not

return till ten o'clock at night. Louis sprang up hastily, and his aunt

uttered a cry of alarm, for she had not seen either him or Marianne

in the dark corner in which they had seated themselves. However, the

servant of one of Madame Ballier's friends, who had accompanied her

home with a lantern, and to whom she had given the key, began to unlock

the door: Louis did not feel sure of being admitted without a contest;

fortunately, however, Barogo, who poked his nose in at the door the

moment it was a little opened, immediately got scent of Robinet, and

pushing it back still farther with his head, bounded into the house,

barking with all his might, as he pursued the cat. Madame Ballier

rushed in after him, Louis followed his aunt, and Marianne followed

him; the door was closed, and every thing fell naturally into its place.

[Illustration: Madame Ballier's Return, p. 200.]

Nevertheless, it was necessary for Louis to come to some explanation

with his aunt. He prepared himself for it, and endeavoured to summon

all the moderation of which he was capable, when he met her at the door

of his room, carrying Robinet in her arms. She asked him sharply why he

had not brought the locksmith to open the street door as well as

that of the wardrobe?

"Since you knew that it was I who had the drawers opened," cried Louis,

his anger already excited, as his principal motive for returning had

been to explain this matter, "why, aunt, did you threaten to take

Marianne before the Justice of the Peace? I came back purposely to

prevent you from making such a scandal."

"You are much needed, truly, young gentleman, to prevent scandals,"

replied Madame Ballier, more and more irritated; "if you came here only

to tell me that, you had better return into the country."

"That is what I purpose doing to-morrow morning," said Louis.

"But not, I beg," replied Madame Ballier, "until I have written a

letter to Monsieur Lebeau, which you will be so good as to deliver to

him, requesting him to take charge of you, as I will have nothing more

to do with you."

"I will carry no such letter!" exclaimed Louis, who again began to

think of the arrival of his father and mother.

"If you do not carry it, I shall send it."

"That will be of no use, for I shall not stay with Monsieur Lebeau."

"If you go there to-morrow you will stay there."

"And what is to compel me to do so?"

"I will compel you; for I will leave this house, and send word to your

mother for what reason I do so."

Louis returned to his room, slamming the door violently. "No," he said,

pacing the room, and stamping till the floor shook; "it is useless

trying: if one wishes to behave properly, she will not let one."

"It is useless trying, that's certain," said Marianne, as she put the

room in order.

* * * * *

The Curé having laid down his manuscript, "Well, tell us," demanded the

children, "did he not go into the country?"

"What would you have done in his place?" inquired the Curé.

Amadeus shook his head, as he replied, "I really do not know; it was

certainly a very puzzling situation."

"Not at all," replied Juliana, in a very decided tone; "I should the

next day have said to my aunt, 'If you still choose to hinder me from

going into the country, I shall remain here, and tell every one that it

is because I am more reasonable than you are.'"

The Curé smiled. "That would have been very agreeable to her, indeed!"

said Amadeus.

"Neither should I have wished it to be agreeable to her," replied

Juliana.

"For my part," said Paul, "I would have written immediately to mamma,

in Germany, to ask her permission to go next day to Monsieur Lebeau's."

Every one laughed at Paul's expedient, and the Curé continued his

narrative.

THE RECONCILIATION.

Louis was left alone in his apartment, in a state of terrible

agitation, and he passed nearly an hour in thinking only of his

annoyance, and giving way to passion, without coming to any decision.

The last words of Marianne rang disagreeably in his ears. "It

is useless to try," he repeated; "Is it, then, impossible to be

reasonable?" and the idea displeased him; for he would rather have

believed that it was impossible. He began to reperuse his mother's

letter; but in his present disposition he several times stopped

impatiently, for he felt as if his mother were there, giving him advice

which he was unwilling to follow. Once he even threw the letter on the

table in a passion; but suddenly recollected, that one day when he

was vexed at some advice which his mother gave him, she said, "My dear

Louis, are you displeased with my advice because it is bad, or because

it is good?" and he acknowledged that people quarrel only with good

advice, because it is that alone which one is obliged to follow.

But although acknowledging to himself that his mother's advice was

good, Louis was not the less inclined to dispute: was he not only to

renounce so great a pleasure, and one, too, on which he had so long

counted, but also give way to his aunt, and especially in a thing so

unreasonable! Then another recollection presented itself. One day

during his childhood, when he had given a kick to Barogo, for not

learning his exercise, saying, "What a stupid brute you are!" his

mother replied, "If he be a brute, why do you expect him to do things

which require reason?" This reflection now struck him, and he said,

"Since my aunt is so unreasonable, it is foolish in me to expect her to

require of me nothing but what is reasonable;" and he added, "If I do

not yield to her in what is unreasonable, I shall never have to yield

at all, for as to other things, I should do them of my own accord."

His agitation began to subside in consequence of the pleasure which

he experienced in feeling himself a reasonable person, and this kind

of pleasure always inspires the wish to become still more so. He

remembered also that his mother had often said to him: "Sensible people

have a great task imposed on them, for they have to be reasonable, not

only for themselves, but for those also who are unreasonable;" and

he began to consider it as something very honourable to feel one's

self intrusted with a duty of this kind. Then he felt a pleasure in

reading over again, not only the last letter which he had received

from his mother, but all she had written to him since her departure.

He was struck with the following sentence: "Your misfortune, my dear

son, consists in your having completely forgotten, in your intercourse

with your aunt, how we ought to conduct ourselves towards those whose

approbation we desire. Now, it appears to me, that approbation is

always desirable, and that there may be some pleasure in gaining it

where it costs an effort." In his present disposition, this idea

particularly struck Louis. "It would be amusing, after all," he said,

"to force my aunt to praise me." His imagination was so excited by this

project, that he could scarcely go to sleep.

The next morning he awoke in the best disposition possible. The

weather was delightful; he heard in the streets sounds indicative of a

festival-day, and this made him feel rather heavy-hearted; but he had

other things to think of, and did not permit these recollections to

distress him. He entered his aunt's room with an air of serenity which

she had not expected. He knew that she had already inquired of Marianne

whether he was going into the country, and had been answered in the

negative. Her demeanour, accordingly, was rather stiff than angry. When

he had informed her of the news which he had received: "It is for this

reason, then, I suppose, young gentleman," she observed, "that you have

put water into your wine."

The colour mounted into Louis' cheeks, but he had so well prepared

himself, that he did not lose his temper; besides, he could not but

acknowledge to himself that his aunt had spoken the truth. "At all

events, aunt," he said, "I should certainly be much grieved, if my

father and mother, on their return, should find you dissatisfied with

me."

Madame Ballier was astonished; she had not calculated on such an

answer, and contented herself with muttering in a low voice, that she

might not appear at a loss, "I shall soon, then, be released from my

charge:" she then hastened to make inquiries respecting the health of

her nephew, and the time of his return; then, presently recurring to

the subject on which it was easy to see she wished to enter without

very well knowing how to begin, she said, in a tone which merely

simulated displeasure, "Then you will have no one to hinder you from

going into the country."

"But you know, aunt," said Louis, gently, "that my mother had granted

me permission to go."

"And for that reason," said Madame Ballier, again growing angry, "you

considered that you might dispense with the permission of every one

else."

"You may see very well, aunt," replied Louis, in the same mild tone,

"that that is not the case, for it was because you did not wish it that

I have not gone; and yet I wanted very much to go," he added, with a

sigh, which was not feigned.

"How he is playing the hypocrite at present!" said Madame Ballier,

turning away her head.

"No, aunt, I am not playing the hypocrite," replied Louis, rather

hastily. "You know very well, that I calculated upon going into the

country, and I expected to enjoy myself extremely, I can assure you."

"Louis," replied Madame Ballier, gravely, "I do not wish to deprive you

of your enjoyment, when you can ask for it in a proper manner." She

evidently expected a reply.

Louis hesitated a moment, and then said, "Well, then, aunt; will you

... permit me to go?" The words cost him an effort, but when they

had passed his lips, he hastened to add, in order to conceal his

repugnance, "I shall be very much obliged to you."

"You may go," said Madame Ballier, somewhat embarrassed herself with

the victory she had gained; and by way of preserving her dignity,

she added, "To say the truth, it is more than you deserve after your

conduct yesterday."

"Come, aunt, let us talk no more of that," said Louis, in a tone of

mingled playfulness and submission; and Madame Ballier, who could

scarcely believe her senses, shrugged up her shoulders, as she said,

"Go, then, and be quick." Louis did not wait to be told a second time.

In running to dress, he met Marianne, and, wild with joy, he seized her

by the shoulders, and spinning her round, cried out, "Marianne, I am

going into the country."

But Marianne was in no laughing mood. Robinet had just overturned a

jug of water, and she had all her kitchen to clean up. She declared

she would wring the cat's neck the very first time she could catch

him; and as she uttered these words, a single door only, and that

scarcely closed, separated her from Madame Ballier. Louis trembled; he

put his hand before her mouth, coaxed her, spoke of the necessity of

maintaining a good understanding in the house, and even read to her

a passage from his mother's letter; and Marianne, quite enchanted,

began to moralize on the duties of servants towards their masters,

which led her on, from one good sentiment to another, till she came to

protestations of attachment to Madame Ballier, and even to Robinet.

Louis had hardly reached his room upstairs, when he heard his aunt

calling to him, "Come, make haste, Louis, you will be killed with the

heat;" and, on going down, he found her brushing his hat: touched with

this mark of kindness, he kissed her hand, whilst Marianne hastened

to take the brush from her. Never had anything of the kind been seen

before in the family.

Louis set off, his heart as light as his heels; he felt not the sun, he

felt nothing but his delight. Quite astonished at his own happiness,

he asked himself if it was legitimate, and after the most strict

self-examination, could find nothing to reproach himself with,--nothing

that had not been prompted by the best intentions; he could not but

wonder how all had been settled with two words, when he had long

been wasting so many in throwing every thing into confusion. He felt

grateful to his aunt for giving way so promptly, and he was pleased

with himself for experiencing this sentiment, for a feeling in harmony

with our duties is something akin to virtue. On his arrival, he saw,

in the distance, Charles standing at the door, and called out so loud,

"Here I am," that Eugenia heard him and ran to the door. M. Lebeau

came also, and Louis plainly perceived that he had been the subject of

conversation since the preceding evening.

"Did your aunt make a great fuss?" inquired M. Lebeau.

"No, no," replied Louis, in a tone which sufficiently marked his

present disposition: in his new plan of conduct towards his aunt, he

would have considered as treachery on his part a word spoken against

her in her absence.

The three days passed delightfully, and yet Louis was not grieved

to see them come to a close. The new task which he had set himself

occupied his mind, and filled it with that interest always accorded

to a project the success of which depends on our own exertions. He

represented to himself the happiness of his mother when, on her

arrival, she would witness the good understanding which had replaced

the appearances of animosity which made her uneasy; he took pleasure

in thinking that she would feel obliged to him for this; and happy in

the idea of being able to procure her this satisfaction, the efforts by

which it was to be obtained began to assume a pleasant aspect in his

mind. On his way homewards, he was surprised to find himself thinking,

with satisfaction, of meeting his aunt, and of seeing her reconciled

to him, and he was consequently a little agitated when he arrived.

It was very near eleven o'clock at night, and Madame Ballier, whose

imagination had not been excited like that of her nephew, received

him ill enough on account of his coming home so late. Louis, though

disconcerted by this reception, was so full of his good sentiments that

he had no difficulty in keeping his temper, and he replied gently

that he was very sorry to have kept his aunt waiting. Madame Ballier,

who had not expected such an answer, had not a word to say in reply.

On the succeeding days, the case was the same: when Madame Ballier

scolded, Louis apologized, so that she ceased to scold, or did so only

from habit. One day, at dinner, she was seen to give a bone to Barogo,

and even advised Louis to make him wear a muzzle, in order to prevent

him from eating the poisoned balls which were thrown into the streets

during the extreme hot weather. Barogo, however, could not endure a

muzzle, and Louis did not like to inconvenience his favourite, so he

replied that Barogo did not go out till late, and after the balls had

been eaten by other dogs. Upon this, Madame Ballier, day after day

returned to the subject of the muzzle, and Louis persisted, with some

warmth, in defending Barogo's opinion. Hence, it happened that Madame

Ballier, having once mentioned the subject, was perpetually recurring

to it indirectly, and with some degree of asperity. Louis had at first

said to himself, "The dog is mine, and it is no concern of my aunt's,"

but he afterwards considered, "If it did concern her, it would be my

duty to do it, since she required it, and, since she has no right to

interfere, I ought to do it to please her." It gave him some pain

to follow this determination, particularly when it was necessary to

overcome the resistance of Barogo, who had not made the same progress

as himself in the art of obliging. "Barogo," he said, as he fastened

on the muzzle, "we must please my aunt;" and, instead of waiting,

as perverse people often do, until his aunt again complained of his

injuring his dog, in order to obtain a triumph over her, he showed her

the muzzle, saying, "Aunt, I have put a muzzle on Barogo," and, as he

was now daily improving, he added, "and he does not mind it nearly

so much as I feared he would." Madame Ballier contented herself with

replying, somewhat ungraciously, "I knew very well it would be so,"

and never failed to remind him every day to put the muzzle on his dog.

But every day, also, at dinner, Barogo received a bit of meat from

Madame Ballier, and as Barogo was sensible of this kindness, and did

not know that it was she who was the cause of his being muzzled, he

began at table to wag his tail, and fix his bright eyes upon her, which

was quite a new thing on his part, and Louis was filled with amazement

to see him. Good sense and gentleness seemed to spring up on all sides

since he had thought of introducing them into the house.

Nevertheless, he one day found Marianne in a fury. Madame Ballier had

just told her that she had seen some ripe cherries, and ordered her to

go and purchase some. Marianne had maintained that they were not ripe,

and protested between her teeth that she would not go, flying into a

violent passion, as if she had been thrust out by the shoulders. Louis,

at first, endeavoured to persuade her that it was not very difficult to

try at least to get some cherries; but this only increased Marianne's

anger. Then he said that he was sure Marianne would do difficult things

for his sake, and that he particularly wished for some cherries.

"Nonsense!" said Marianne, "that is only to prevent your aunt from

making an outcry."

"Yes, Marianne," he replied, smiling, "for fear that my father, who

is on his journey, should hear the noise." Then, gently patting her

on the shoulder, he added, "My good Marianne, you would not wish to

give my father a headache?" Marianne shook her head, told him he was a

wheedler, and went to fetch the cherries.

Since Louis had given up the idea of employing any but gentle means

in the attainment of his wishes, he discovered a vast number of such

means, which would never otherwise have occurred to him. This evening

he found an opportunity of telling Marianne that the cherries were

excellent, and from this point went on to speak of the pleasure it

would give his mother to find there were so much fewer quarrels in

the house; and Marianne was so pleased at having contributed to this

pacification, that the same evening she placed, of her own accord, the

lamp upon the table, instead of on the mantel-piece, a thing she had

never before consented to do, without having been first scolded about

it by Madame Ballier.

Time passed, and M. Delong was approaching home, although slowly,

being obliged to travel by short stages, and to rest frequently. They

had now but one week more to wait, and the day before his arrival was

the fête-day of the village in which M. Lebeau's country house was

situated. This fête was a celebrated one in the neighbourhood; there

was a grand fair, dancing in a pretty meadow, games, and boating on the

river. Louis was to pass the day with the Lebeau family, and promised

himself great pleasure, enhanced by the assurance of still greater

happiness, a few days afterwards, on the arrival of his father and

mother. He had spoken of this party to his aunt, and she had consented

to his going, with an expression of vexation which had not escaped

Louis, but the cause of which he had not courage enough to investigate.

He soon perceived, however, that his aunt was herself embarrassed about

going to this fête. Those persons with whom she was most intimate in

the town were absent; others had made up their parties, which she could

not join, or which did not suit her, and during three days she had a

fund of ill-humour, and Louis a feeling of discomfort, for which he

dared not venture to account. At length he confessed to himself, that

if he was ill at ease, it was because he was not performing his duty;

and from this moment the only question was, how to summon resolution

for its performance: a difficult duty is more than half accomplished

when we have once acknowledged its necessity. Yet, to renounce his

engagement with the Lebeau family, and give up his whole day to his

aunt, was a sacrifice which, three weeks before, would never have

entered his mind. But now that the arrival of his mother drew so

near, he was more than ever engrossed with the desire of proving to

her that he had conducted himself well in her absence; and it would

have been vexatious to spoil all his labour by leaving with his aunt

a sufficiently legitimate cause of complaint. Still he hesitated,

grieved at the idea of relinquishing the delightful prospect in view,

but a letter from his mother put an end to his uncertainty. A sensible

amelioration had permitted M. Delong to hasten his journey, and he

was to arrive the day after the fête. Madame Delong at the same time

mentioned to her son her anxiety respecting his conduct to his aunt,

of which the last letters received from her gave but an indifferent

idea. Louis triumphantly smiled to himself at his mother's fears,

and at the happiness he was preparing for her; and, full of these

delightful thoughts, he so vividly transported himself in imagination

to the day of her arrival, that it was easy for him to leap over that

of the fête. He ran to his aunt, who was already informed by letter

of his father's more speedy arrival, and hastened to propose to take

her to the fête with him. When she objected, by saying that he would

have much more amusement with the family of M. Lebeau, he was on the

point of answering "Very well, aunt;" happily, however, he checked

himself in time, and simply replied that he should have great pleasure

in escorting her; and this was quite true; for at this moment all was

pleasure to him. He then went to M. Lebeau, to excuse himself from his

engagement. M. Lebeau was annoyed, and inquired, "How is it that your

aunt can find no one to take charge of her?"

"All her acquaintances are in the country," replied Louis; "there is

perhaps no one left in town with whom she is so well acquainted as with

yourself."

"And I am not going to take her, I assure you," said M. Lebeau.

"That I am quite aware of," said Louis, somewhat offended in his turn;

for he probably thought that a little good-nature on the part of M.

Lebeau would have settled everything satisfactorily.

"What a pity!" said Eugenia, in a low tone, glancing timidly at her

father: "there is abundance of room in the boat."

"There is no room for any one but ourselves," said M. Lebeau, hastily,

for he had overheard or guessed what she said: "and suppose it should

upset--do you imagine I want to have to run after Madame Ballier?"

"There is no question about the matter," said Louis, still more

displeased; "I am going with my aunt."

"It is the best thing you can do." For the first time M. Lebeau was

offended with Louis, because Louis had placed him in the wrong, and,

for the first time also, Louis found that M. Lebeau was to blame for

his disobliging conduct towards his aunt.

The next day, he would have set out in a somewhat sad mood, had he

not chanced to notice his mother's room, which had been left open for

the purpose of airing it, as well as his father's, which Marianne had

just been putting in order. This recalled his resolution to make every

thing pleasant to his aunt, who, on her side, was all good humour.

Even Barogo, who, in the transports of his joy, leaped several times

upon her, was allowed to do so without being angrily repulsed. Louis,

compelled at the fête to give his arm to his aunt, who could neither

walk fast nor go far, could not help looking at the various groups of

pedestrians so full of vivacity and mirth. People were hastening to

the river-side, and crowding into boats, in order to go and dine on

an island at a short distance, whence they were to return afterwards

to dance in the meadow. Madame Ballier wished to engage a boat, but

there was not one to be had, nor even a place in one. Louis saw, with a

sigh, that he should be obliged to sacrifice his whole day completely,

and Madame Ballier was herself rather disconcerted, not knowing very

well how to pass the time. At some distance they perceived M. Lebeau,

ready to embark with all his family. Louis observed them without

stirring from his place, till M. Lebeau beckoned to him, when he begged

permission from his aunt to go and speak to him.

"Have you a boat?" asked M. Lebeau. Louis replied in the negative.

"Confound it!" said M. Lebeau, with a look of annoyance which Louis

very well understood; for his boat would have accommodated half-a-dozen

more persons.

"Could not your aunt," said M. Lebeau, "join some other party? I see

some of her acquaintance yonder. Then you could join us." Louis could

not forbear looking in the direction pointed out, but immediately

recollecting himself, he replied, "Indeed, Monsieur Lebeau, I could

not think of proposing such a plan to her; you must see yourself that

it would not be right," and he was turning away, but Eugenia held him

gently by his coat.

"Confound it!" repeated M. Lebeau. He stopped, and then suddenly

resumed, "Well, then, if it cannot be otherwise arranged, bring your

aunt with you; we will try and find a place for her."

Louis hesitated, not knowing whether he ought to accept the invitation.

"Go, Charles, and propose it to her," said Madame Lebeau, who had long

wished to see an end to the bickerings between her husband and Madame

Ballier; and Eugenia, without waiting for a command, set off with

Charles to invite Madame Ballier to come into their boat, adding, like

a person of discretion as she was, that her mother would herself have

come, had she not to take care of her little sister. Madame Ballier

made a few difficulties, just sufficient to support her dignity; but

Louis came up, took her arm, and cutting short all objections, had no

sooner said, "Come, let us make haste, pray," than they were already

on the way, Madame Ballier walking as fast as she could, and Charles

with Eugenia running and skipping before them with cries of triumph.

The bustle of arrival, and of entering the boat, saved Madame Ballier

the embarrassment of showing either too much eagerness or too much

resentment; and M. Lebeau, in saying to her, "Come, Madame Ballier,

place yourself there, quite at your ease," was not more abrupt in

his manner than he would have been to one whose society was the most

agreeable to him. Madame Lebeau was all kindness and attention, and

Eugenia hastened to place under her feet the board which was laid

across the bottom of the boat, to preserve the ladies from the wet.

Louis, meanwhile, pressed the hand of M. Lebeau, with an expression

which moved him. "Come," said the latter, "you are a good boy; I am

very glad to have given you pleasure;" and off they went.

The day passed delightfully. They dined on the island. M. Lebeau

exerted himself to amuse Madame Ballier. Madame Ballier was soon in

high spirits, and her gaiety quite accorded with that of M. Lebeau.

On rising from table they were the best friends in the world; and M.

Lebeau said to Louis, "After all, your aunt is at heart a good sort of

woman." "No doubt of it," replied Louis, in a tone which showed that he

would not have the good qualities of his aunt called in question. On

bringing her amongst his friends, he had taken care that his friends

should be agreeable to her. His attentions naturally attracted those

of others, and the kind Eugenia seemed to have no thought but that of

seconding him. As to Madame Ballier, she was good-nature itself; she

remained as late as they wished at the dancing, and scarcely complained

of fatigue on their way home, particularly as Louis took care to say

something laughable, whenever they came to any bad parts in the road.

To crown all, on entering the house, they found a letter announcing the

exact hour at which they might expect their friends the next day; and

Madame Ballier declared that she would herself carry the intelligence

to M. Lebeau, to whom she owed this civility, as he had been so

extremely obliging to her.

The morning came at last; then noon; then four o'clock; then they heard

the sound of the carriage; then it stopped. How often had they repeated

to themselves that they must restrain their joy to avoid overpowering

the invalid; yet, at the moment the doors were opened, and that they

rushed down stairs, the excitement was so great, that Barogo began to

bark, Robinet took to flight, and Marianne knew not where she was;

but all was hushed at the sight of M. Delong, who, still feeble, and

deprived of the use of his limbs, required support on all sides, and

of Madame Delong, pale and worn out by the sufferings of her husband.

The invalid was carried upstairs so gently that even the steps of

those who bore him were inaudible. They seated him in an easy-chair,

and quietly placed themselves around him. Louis, standing before his

father, sometimes raised his eyes to him, and then cast them down as he

encountered those of his father examining him attentively. His heart

beat, for this first interview with a father who had left him a mere

child and now found him almost a man, was to him a great and imposing

moment. Madame Delong, with a mixture of anxiety and confidence, looked

alternately at her son and at her husband. At length, Madame Ballier,

who willingly translated into words these mute scenes, said to the

colonel,--"I can assure you, nephew, that you have a very amiable son;"

and then addressing herself to Madame Delong; "You cannot imagine,

niece, how much he has improved during your absence."

Louis eagerly kissed his mother's hand, whose pale features were now

lit up with a flush of joy. This moment convinced her that they had not

ceased to understand each other.

"Louis," said M. Delong, as he held out his hand to him, "your mother

has told me much good of you; I know she thinks still more, and I am

always disposed to think as she does." Louis, in stooping his head over

his father's hand, half bent one knee in this first act of gratitude

towards a parent whose approbation he so ardently desired. His eyes

then met those of his mother. The necessity of restraining their

feelings rendered them only the more intense. This was a moment which

could never be forgotten.

M. Lebeau came in, and declared that as soon as the colonel could bear

another removal, he must come and establish himself at his house in the

country, and in the sequel of his speech he included in his invitation

Madame Ballier, who graciously bowed her acquiescence. Madame Delong

looked with astonishment at her son, who smiled, and Madame Ballier

having quitted the apartment; "This wizard, Louis," he said to Madame

Delong, "has absolutely forced me to be on good terms with his aunt;"

then turning to M. Delong, he added--"Colonel, this son of yours will

be a remarkable man; remember, I tell you so."

How happy was Madame Delong, and with what heartfelt pleasure did

the eyes of Louis meet the delighted looks of his mother, which were

constantly fixed upon him! Nor was their felicity momentary. Louis

found no difficulty in acknowledging to her his faults, because he had

repaired them. He confessed how greatly he had felt relieved since,

instead of seeking out failings in his aunt, he had been engaged in

considering her good qualities, and the respect he owed her of which

he had been too forgetful; for children and young people are not

sufficiently aware of the harm they do, when, even without talking

to others, their thoughts are occupied in examining the defects of

those to whom they owe respect, instead of going backward, like the

children of Noah, to cover them with their mantle. Louis had learnt

by experience, that when we look at things as they really are, it

is almost always possible to find something good in persons of whom

at first we were disposed to think only evil. He gradually attached

himself to his aunt through his desire of pleasing her; and Madame

Ballier, on her side, acquired so strong an affection for him, that she

would not suffer any one to blame him or oppose him in her presence;

and when he found her in dispute with Marianne or Barogo, he had only

to interpose, and all was at an end. This new mode of proceeding has

brought back peace into the domestic circle of Madame Delong, and Louis

continually experiences the advantage of having acquired the power of

self-control, which is the surest means of obtaining influence over

others; for he who advances thoughtfully, observing carefully where he

steps, instead of following his humour and heedlessly rushing into any

mire that may obstruct his path, is sure to become at last the leader

of his party.

When the Curé had concluded his story, he raised his head, took off his

spectacles, and looking round at the children, said, "Well, now, which

would you rather be,--Madame Ballier or Louis?"

"Oh! there is no great difficulty in deciding that question," replied

Amadeus.

"You know, Monsieur le Curé," said Paul, "that everybody would like

better to be an amiable person than one who is not so."

"I think," remarked Juliana, with her disdainful tone, "it was hardly

worth while to ask such a question."

"Indeed," said the Curé; "for my part, I thought that there were

persons to be met with occasionally, who would rather not be amiable."

Juliana shrugged her shoulders, and Amadeus burst into a loud laugh.

"Ah! that is Juliana," cried Paul, jumping about, and clapping his

hands.

"By no means," replied the Curé; "for I perceive that Miss Juliana is

displeased when any one appears to think her less amiable than usual,

and this proves that she wishes to be amiable."

Juliana blushed: she was not sure whether the Curé was speaking in

jest or in earnest, for it was perfectly true that many times when

her ill-humour was over, she felt sorry for having given way to it,

especially in the presence of persons who appeared shocked by it.

"Oh, yes!" said Amadeus, "when she has done any thing foolish she is

so vexed that it makes her immediately do something else just as bad.

Don't you remember this morning, Juliana, throwing your work into

Zemira's porringer, because mamma had rung for you twice whilst you

were busy undoing a knot in your thread?"

"Yes, and only think! Monsieur le Curé," cried Paul; "she was so

angry--so very angry, at having wetted her work with the water in

the porringer, that when I picked it up to bring it back to her, she

snatched it out of my hands, and scratched my finger so with her

needle."

And Paul, excited by the recollection of his misfortune, pointed to the

scratch on his finger, whilst Juliana could hardly restrain her tears,

so much was she ashamed and grieved that her fault should be made known

to the Curé.

"You know very well I did not do it on purpose," she said, in a broken

voice; "but Amadeus is always finding fault with me;" and her tears

began to flow in earnest.

"Come, calm yourself, my good girl," said the Curé, in an affectionate

tone; "these little folks do not know how vexatious it is to a sensible

young lady to feel that she has not been quite so reasonable as she

ought to have been: but I will teach you how to silence them."

Juliana shook her head with a sigh.

"You shall hear my story," added the Curé, "which shall be for you

alone, and we will afterwards discuss the matter."

The next day the Curé brought the following tale, which he read to

Juliana in private, because he perceived, that as she was growing

up, the best way of gaining her confidence was to avoid wounding her

self-love, more especially in the presence of her brothers, who, in

this case, especially, would not have failed to draw comparisons

extremely disagreeable to her.

THE PRINCESS.

"This is really insupportable," said Adela, walking, in a hurried

manner, from the window overlooking the court, to the terrace which led

into the garden.

"What is the matter?" said her mother, who entered at the moment and

overheard her.

"Why, you see, mamma," replied Adela, a little confused, "it is past

ten o'clock,--(it was five minutes over the hour,)--and papa is not

returned from hunting. We shall never get our breakfast."

"Do you think so? that would be very unfortunate, certainly."

"But papa said he would be back by ten o'clock."

"Certainly, five minutes longer are too much to be endured."

"Mamma! I am hungry."

"Well, my dear, you are not obliged to wait for our breakfast; the

bread is upon the table, you can take as much as you please; it is

surely better to breakfast upon dry bread than bear any longer what is

_insupportable_."

Adela made no reply; for she must have confessed that although she was

hungry enough to complain, she was not hungry enough to breakfast on

dry bread, which would have been a proof that she was complaining about

a mere trifle. This was Adela's chief defect. The least disappointment

appeared to her, to use her habitual expression, insupportable. For the

slightest indisposition or hurt, she would lament, disturb everybody,

and require to be pitied,--not that she so much feared pain, but that

whatever incommoded or put her the least out of her way, seemed to

her the most grievous and extraordinary thing possible. She must be

attended to at the very moment appointed, even things that did not

depend on any one must fall out precisely as she desired, or all was

wrong. Her nurse used to laugh at her, and say that it was very wrong

of the rain to come on the day she wished to go out; for it seemed,

in fact, as if every thing must happen so as to suit her convenience

and fancy; nor did she seem able to bear the consequences even of what

she had most desired, as soon as they occasioned her the slightest

inconvenience. Thus, for example, she would take a long walk, and as

soon as she began to feel fatigued, she would complain as if others

were in fault. She would repeat fifty times over, "This tiresome

château will never come," for she seemed almost to believe that the

château ought to come to her. She considered herself much aggrieved

when her mother would not permit her to hang on her arm, or lean on her

sister's shoulder; for her only concern was for herself. Thus she could

not conceive why they should do without the carriage when the horses

were engaged in helping to bring home the hay; or why her nurse was

not ready to dress her, when she had been sent out on a message to the

village. Her little sister Amelia would sometimes say, "Adela is always

sure of having some one to love her, for she loves herself so well."

This remark Amelia had probably heard from some of the servants, for

those even who were attached to Adela, in consequence of the kindness

of her parents, were so provoked by her ill-humour and exacting

disposition, that they lost no opportunity of laughing at her expense.

Her mother endeavoured to make her feel the absurdity of her conduct,

and when she heard her complain of some trifling inconvenience, as for

example, of being obliged to fetch her bonnet, which Amelia had taken

up stairs to their room, by mistake, she said to her:

"Adela, does it hurt your feet to walk up stairs to your room?"

"No, mamma; but----"

"Or perhaps you are afraid of meeting by the way a wolf that will eat

you up?"

Adela would have shrugged her shoulders if she had dared.

"Surely, my dear, it must cause you some great pain, otherwise you

would not be so displeased about the matter."

"But, mamma! it puts me out of the way."

"And does it hurt you to be put out of the way?"

"I don't like it."

"Why not, if it does you no harm?"

Adela could find nothing more to say, excepting that "Amelia might

have spared herself the trouble of taking it up stairs." Then Madame

de Vaucourt would no longer listen to her; she merely took care that

no one should suffer from her ill-humour, or pay any attention to

it. However, it often happened that the servants, in order to get

rid of her, did immediately what she required, and little Amelia

who loved above all things to laugh and be merry, and who hated to

hear complaints, was extremely afraid of doing any thing that might

displease her sister.

Monsieur and Madame de Vaucourt saw very little society in the country.

It happened, however, that a Polish Princess, with whom they had been

formerly acquainted, having arrived in Paris, sent them word that she

would come and spend a week with them. At this news the children were

in the greatest commotion. Adela, like most little girls, imagined that

a princess must be a very extraordinary personage, and Amelia could

not picture her otherwise than in dresses embroidered with gold. Adela

had no doubt that her mother would order a new bonnet for her on the

occasion, and inquired how she was to dress during the princess' visit.

She was astonished when her mother, laughing at her, told her she was

to dress just as usual. "What, mamma! even in my common cambric frock

for the morning?" Her mother assured her that she saw nothing in her

dress that required change. This time Adela was indeed out of humour;

she was seriously grieved even, but she dared not show her feelings,

because she saw that she should be laughed at. However, during the

whole week which preceded the arrival of the princess, she was more

than ever inclined to indulge in her habitual complaints, crying out,

whenever any one came near her, that they would soil her dress, and

screaming aloud if a drop of rain touched her bonnet. Little Amelia

said it was because she was afraid it would not be nice enough for the

arrival of the princess, and also remarked that her sister, who could

never be persuaded to put on a pair of shoes in the least worn down at

heel, pretending that she could not walk in them, during this whole

week wore none but old shoes, in order to keep the new ones for the

arrival of the princess.

At last the princess came. The little girls, who were upon the terrace,

were greatly astonished to find her dressed much in the same style as

their mamma, but then she had a coat of arms on her carriage, and the

liveries of her servants were richly laced; this greatly impressed

Adela, who had besides been so long prepared to consider her as a

person of great importance, that she could not give up the idea she

had formed. When therefore little Stanislas, the son of the princess,

trod on her foot, in coming up the steps, Adela, for the first time in

her life, bore the accident without a murmur. Nay, more, for when her

sister happened accidentally to strike her elbow in passing quickly

into the drawing-room after the princess, in order to obtain a better

view of her, Adela opened her lips to complain, but immediately checked

herself, on finding that the princess looked round at the moment.

Scarcely had they entered the room when the princess' little dog

put its paws into Adela's work-basket, threw down her thimble, her

scissors, and needle-case, and scampered about the room, carrying her

work in his mouth, and shaking it about his ears. Amelia screamed.

On ordinary occasions such a misfortune would have been a subject of

distress and lamentation for an hour, but Adela did not give way to

anger. She picked up all her things, ran after the dog, but not too

hastily, for fear of appearing out of temper, and although when she at

last caught him, she was quite crimson with impatience, she did not say

a single word to Stanislas, who was laughing heartily at the trouble

she had to get back her work. Stanislas asked to go into the garden,

and upon Madame de Vaucourt's desiring her daughters to accompany him,

Adela did not begin by replying that he could go very well by himself.

When in the garden, Stanislas, who was a spoiled child, threw sand into

her shoes, without her uttering a complaint, and on her return to the

drawing-room the first thing he did was to seat himself in the chair

which she had appropriated to herself, and which was a continual source

of disputes between her and her sister, whom she would never allow to

sit in it, except by Madame de Vaucourt's express command. Amelia,

who began to be on familiar terms with Stanislas, pulled him by the

arm, saying, "Come away, that is my sister's chair," and Adela, quite

ashamed, touched her sister's arm, and whispered to her to mind her own

business.

"But he is upon your chair," said Amelia.

"What is that to you?"

"Oh! very well, then I shall sit there after him;" and as soon as

Stanislas quitted the chair, she took possession of it, while Adela,

in the presence of the princess, did not even think of preventing her.

Amelia soon left the chair, to run and take from Stanislas her sister's

draught-board, which he was preparing to open. "I want to play with the

draughts," cried the little fellow, while Amelia exclaimed in return,

"But my sister will not let any one touch them." Adela, quite alarmed

at the idea the princess might form of her, hastened to take the

draught-board from the hands of Amelia and gave it to Stanislas.

"Very well, then, I shall play with them too," said Amelia. Stanislas

began to roll the draughts about on the floor. Amelia at first tried

to check him, and then began rolling them still faster herself. When

he was tired of playing with them, she wished to persuade him to put

them away in order, but he dragged her to the garden, and called out

from the door, that they must leave the draughts where they were, as

he meant to come back and play with them again. The next day two of

them were missing. Amelia came to tell the news, looking terribly

frightened, and as no one seemed to listen with much attention, she

said, "But they belong to my sister's draught-board?"

"What does that signify?" said Adela quickly.

"Ah! if I had lost them!" said Amelia: but a sign from her sister

imposed silence on her.

"Adela seems very gentle and sensible," observed the princess. Adela

cast down her eyes, not daring to look at her mother or sister.

All this lasted several days. At table, Madame de Vaucourt's old

servant, who was not very alert, and had more to do than usual, could

not wait on Adela as attentively as on other occasions, and was

surprised not to hear her say sharply, "Chambéri, do you not mean

to give me a plate?" He remarked to her, "Gracious! Miss Adela, how

gentle and well-behaved you have become lately!" "That is because

she is afraid of the princess," said the mischievous little Amelia,

laughing. Adela, who began to lose patience, was sometimes on the point

of forgetting herself, but Amelia would then take flight and run into

the drawing-room, laughing, as she knew that Adela would not venture

to scold her there, while Stanislas, of whom she had made an intimate

friend, joined in her laughter without understanding its cause. Adela,

though burning with impatience, endeavoured to smile lest some

indiscretion on Amelia's part might betray to others the cause of her

ill-humour. Her temper, however, would have obtained the mastery at

last; and she was beginning sometimes to treat Stanislas and the little

dog rather harshly, when, fortunately, the princess took her departure.

For the first few days afterwards the effect of the habit which Adela

had acquired of restraining her temper was still visible; but as Amelia

had also got the habit of fearing her less, and laughing at her, it

was not long before the old disputes were renewed. They first began

about the chair, which Amelia took without ceremony, even removing her

sister's work, which had been left there, as if to keep the place in

her absence.

Adela became angry. "I thought that fancy was over?" said Madame de

Vaucourt.

"Oh, mamma," replied Amelia, "that was only on account of the princess."

Madame de Vaucourt observed that Adela must have felt there was

something very absurd in such childishness, since she was ashamed to

show it before the princess; and she hoped, therefore, that they should

hear no more of it. The argument was unanswerable, and besides Madame

de Vaucourt's tone forbade reply. Adela therefore contented herself

with leaving the room, slamming the door with all her might. Her mother

called her back.

"My dear," she said, "when the princess was here you used to shut the

doors gently, and as that proves to me that you can do so without great

inconvenience, I beg you will do it in future."

Thus obliged to close the door quietly, Adela went into the garden to

exhale her ill-temper, since she saw that it was now determined to

allow no excuse for it. During their evening walk, it happened that the

path they had to take was very dirty. Adela said it was insupportable.

"Surely," replied her mother, "you do not mean to let that disturb you?

The other day when we were walking with the princess, the mud was ten

times as bad, yet you never made the least complaint."

"I found it very disagreeable though."

"Why then did you not complain?"

"It was not necessary."

"And is it necessary to-day?"

"Must one never say a word then about what is unpleasant?" replied

Adela in a very impatient tone.

"I would ask you that question, my dear; you best know the reasons

which induced you to refrain from murmuring whilst the princess was

present."

After some reflection, Adela could find nothing better to say than that

her mother had enjoined her to behave well before strangers. Madame

de Vaucourt observed that she had enjoined her to behave well at all

times. "But," she added, "since you think you ought to refrain from

complaints in order to maintain a proper appearance before strangers,

why did you, when you cut yourself the other day, whilst the princess

was present, say that you were hurt, and hold your finger in water, and

then keep it wrapped up in a handkerchief for an hour?"

"But, mamma, it pained me very much."

"You believe then that one may complain before strangers of things

which give real pain? Suppose now that you had received a letter from

the school, saying that your brother was ill, would you not have

thought it allowable to show your grief on such an occasion before the

princess?"

"Yes, indeed, mamma," replied Adela quickly.

"You see then that when we suffer real evils we may complain of them

before strangers, it is only when things are too trifling to deserve

notice, that it is ridiculous to make complaints in their presence, and

since they do not deserve notice, it is just as ridiculous to complain

of them when strangers are not present."

Adela might not perhaps have been convinced by this reasoning, but

thenceforth whenever she said that anything was _insupportable_, her

mother replied, "You did not find it so when the princess was here."

Nor would Amelia suffer herself to be harshly treated without talking

of the princess: even Chambéri, if Adela scolded him, would say, "Ah!

Miss Adela, I see we want the princess here again." Adela began to be

terribly annoyed with this raillery; then she got frightened, lest from

its being so often repeated it might at last reach the ears of the

princess; so that to avoid these constant allusions to her name, she

endeavoured to be less impatient. When she had once become convinced

that it was possible to repress her angry feelings, she found it was

easy to do so; she perceived that three fourths of the things which

vexed her, were in reality of no consequence to her, and that the only

real harm she experienced from them, was that which she inflicted

on herself by losing her temper. Some years afterwards, she saw the

princess again, and could not help blushing a little when she thought

of all the taunts which her first visit had brought upon her; but these

things were now forgotten by her friends, for Adela had ceased to be a

grumbler.

* * * * *

"Well!" said the Curé to Juliana, when he had finished his story. "What

do you think of it?"

"I think," replied Juliana, a little discontented, "that she was a very

ridiculous girl with her princess."

"What! ridiculous for correcting herself?"

"No, but for doing so on account of the princess."

"When we correct our faults it must be for some motive."

"There are many more important motives," said Juliana a little proudly,

"which ought to have induced her to correct herself."

"Since you are so well acquainted with these things, Miss Juliana, let

me know them," said the Curé, "and we will make a story about them."

"A story?" asked Juliana, uncertain whether to laugh or be offended.

"Certainly: I shall begin it from the point where Miss Juliana made the

discovery that there were many good reasons for inducing her to correct

her faults, and I shall terminate it by saying--Miss Juliana, whose

only serious fault was that of losing her temper when anything was

disagreeable to her, corrected herself completely, and became a most

amiable young lady."

At this moment, the two little boys, quite disappointed that the

Curé would not admit them to his conversation with Juliana, came to

teaze him to tell them at least the story. "You shall hear it," he

said, "when you have quite left off tormenting your sister," for in

correcting Juliana he would not encourage bad habits in her brothers;

then turning towards her, "you know now, Miss Juliana, what you have to

do in order to silence them."

"That will not be giving them much trouble, at all events," said

Juliana.

"But who will have the advantage?" said the Curé; and Juliana appeared

pleased at the idea of being some day free from a defect which made her

pass many unhappy moments; besides she felt touched and flattered by

the pains which the Curé took to be useful to her.

It began to rain; Juliana, whose bonnet was almost new, was anxious to

return to the house; but before they could reach it they had to cross

a large flower garden, and in an instant the shower became so violent

that it was impossible to escape it. Juliana, in running, caught in

some trellis work, which tore her dress and threw her down. The Curé,

though not running, came up however in time to assist her in rising,

and thinking her much disposed to be angry, said to her, "Providence

has soon given you an opportunity, Miss Juliana, of introducing a fine

passage into our story."

Juliana had sufficient command over herself to make no reply, and that

was a great deal for her, as besides spoiling her bonnet, and tearing

her frock, she was covered with dirt from head to foot, and had also

hurt her knee in her fall. The Curé gave her his arm to assist her

to the house, and she might have remarked that although by touching

her he had soiled the sleeve and skirt of his coat, and that on their

way she had accidentally splashed some water into his shoe and almost

filled it, he did not show the slightest mark of displeasure. When,

however, they entered the drawing-room, and Zemira came jumping upon

her to testify his joy at seeing her again, she was very near giving

him a kick, but she checked herself, and the Curé who observed this,

said to her, "I shall write on my tablets that Zemira did _not_ receive

a kick." If Juliana smiled, it was perhaps against her will, and her

brothers, who now entered and began laughing when they saw the plight

she was in, would no doubt have felt the weight of her long repressed

vexation, if the Curé had not said, "I perceive, Miss Juliana, that

these little rogues will not deserve to hear the story of the princess,

till you have succeeded in curing them of their faults." Juliana made

her escape to her own room, where she changed her dress, not, it is

suspected, without more than once showing her impatience to her nurse,

who was eagerly busied in assisting her. At all events it is certain

that when she came down stairs, and her mother had complimented her on

the patience with which she had endured her accident, Juliana could not

help blushing.

From that day forward, whenever the Curé came to the château, he asked

Juliana if there was anything to be added to the story; sometimes

Juliana shook her head, having nothing good to relate; at others,

she would smile, because she felt satisfied with herself. On such

occasions, she liked to converse with the Curé about the temptations

to which she had been exposed; but in recounting them she found them

far less serious than they had appeared at the time, and felt more

completely how foolish it would have been to have yielded to them.

This confirmed her in her good resolutions; and she was further

confirmed in them by the satisfaction which her friends testified

in her improvement. She afterwards went with her parents to Paris,

and remained there three years; during which time she kept up a

regular correspondence with the Curé of Chavignat. On her return

she was seventeen, and felt happy in the thought that he would find

her cured of her childish fault. Amadeus, instead of teazing, now

treated her with respect, for she no longer scolded him unjustly;

he was consequently accustomed to listen to her when she warned him

gently of any fault. Neither did she make any difficulty in relating

to him the story of the princess; and Amadeus, when talking of it to

the Curé on the day of his return, said, "At all events Juliana was

never so disagreeable as that;" and the good Curé rejoiced to find

that Juliana's defects were so well concealed that they had even been

forgotten. During this time Juliana was looking for her bag, which she

had mislaid, and although it was half-an-hour before she could find

it, and Paul was all the while tormenting her with a thousand childish

tricks, she was not in the least put out of temper.

"Since my story is so well ended, Miss Juliana," said the Curé, when

she had found her bag, "pray inform me how you have managed to bring

things to so satisfactory a conclusion."

Juliana blushed and smiled as she replied, "By being always, thanks to

you, Monsieur le Curé, so full of the desire of being reasonable, that

it drove out of my head whatever might have prevented me from keeping

my resolution."

THE DOUBLE VOW.

Henry was a youth of fifteen, which is as much as to say that he had

good intentions, but did not always carry them out in practice. He

loved his father and his tutor, but he loved his pleasures still more;

he would have done anything to make them happy, but he did not give

them the greatest of all happiness, that of seeing him docile and

well-conducted. The impetuosity of his disposition often drew from

those he loved bitter tears, which in the end made his own flow. His

life was thus divided between faults and repentance; and his good

intentions were so continually rendered useless by reprehensible

actions, that his friends at last gave up all hopes of his amendment.

His father, the Count of A----, was constantly thinking, with

increasing anxiety, of the time when Henry must leave him to enter

the university, or to travel. The paths of vice would then present

themselves to him under the most seductive aspects, and there would no

longer be the hand of a father to restrain or his voice to call him

back; he might fall deeper and deeper into error, and return to the

paternal mansion with a heart corrupted, despoiled of its purity and

elevation, and incapable even of that feeling which is at least the

reflection of virtue--repentance.

The count was of a mild but feeble character, and his health was

delicate; the death of the countess, his wife, had mined beneath

his feet the ground on which he rested. Henry, on the return of his

father's birthday, fancied that he could hear a secret voice saying

to him, "The fragile layer of earth which bears thy father, and

separates him from thy mother's ashes, will soon crumble away, and he

will disappear from thy view without carrying with him to the tomb the

hope of thy amendment." This day he shed burning tears; but what avail

tears and softened feelings when they do not produce amendment? He

went into the park where stood the tomb of his mother, together with

the empty sepulchre which, during an illness, his father had caused to

be constructed for himself. There, he made a solemn vow to combat the

violence of his temper and his love of pleasure; but, alas! I should

too deeply grieve my young readers were I to relate in detail how only

a few days before that appointed for his going to the university, he

was guilty of a fault which cruelly pierced the heart of his unhappy

father, already so deeply wounded. The count fell ill, and was confined

to his bed without being able to flatter himself with the hope that he

might witness the return of his son to virtue, before he was called

upon to exchange his melancholy couch for the bed of stone which

awaited him in the park.

I will not then describe to you either the fault or the regret of

Henry; but in passing a severe judgment on his errors you may as well

extend it also to those of which at any time you may yourselves have

been guilty. What child can approach the dying bed of his parents,

without saying to himself, "Alas! if I have not deprived them of whole

years of life, who knows by how many weeks or days I may not have

shortened their term? I may perhaps have added to the sufferings which

now I would so gladly have mitigated, and my follies may have closed

before their time those eyes which, but for me, might still enjoy the

light of day!" It is because the fatal consequences of our faults

are concealed from view that reckless mortals are so bold in the

commission of crimes: man gives free scope to the ungoverned desires

of his heart, as he might let loose a set of ferocious animals; he

permits them under favour of the darkness to wander amongst mankind;

but he sees not how many innocent people are wounded or torn to pieces:

he madly flings around him burning brands, lighted by guilty passions,

and when he has already sunk into the tomb, the neighbouring houses on

which the fatal spark has alighted, burst into flames, and the dense

column of smoke hovers over the place of his repose like a monument

raised to his shame.

Henry, when all hope of recovery was at an end, could no longer support

the melancholy and care-worn aspect of his father: he remained in

the adjacent chamber, and there, whilst the count's ebbing life was

struggling against repeated fainting-fits, he addressed his silent

prayers to Heaven, closed his eyes to the future, and dreaded, like the

explosion of a terrible shell, those first awful words, "_He is dead._"

The time, however, came when he must present himself before his father,

take leave of him, receive his forgiveness, and give him his promise of

amendment.