"If I were only to injure it a little," he thought, "alas! it would

still be better than my poor friend's!"... and he cast a look of

approbation upon the canvas. But soon a thought presented itself, which

dispelled his irresolution, and strengthened his wavering heroism. He

recalled that painful moment when, despised, falsely accused, on

the point of being driven from the house by Barbe, and without hope

of justification, Francisco did not fear to own the truth, and to

re-establish, at his own cost, the honour of the poor little Savoyard.

The honourable career which was now before him commenced from that

moment; all that he was, all that he hoped to be, sprang, in the first

instance, from Francisco's generous confession.... José no longer

hesitated, he resumed his knife, and with a firm hand so erased the

figure that nothing but the sketch remained--and thus nobly repaid the

debt of friendship formerly contracted to his young companion.

[Illustration: José erasing his Figure of Aricia, p. 301.]

Satisfied with himself, and more calm after this trial of strength--an

act of high virtue in a young man of sixteen--José gave the last

touches to the other parts of his picture, and so cleverly managed the

erasure, that nothing more could be inferred from it, than one of those

movements of irritability by no means uncommon among students. He kept

his secret until the day previous to the one on which the pictures were

to be removed. He then called upon Francisco at his father's, and told

him that his figure of Aricia was unfinished, and indeed in a great

measure effaced, and that there was not time to repaint it. Francisco,

recovered from his unjust displeasure, grieved for and blamed his

friend; but, being ignorant of the rule of exclusion, he assured him

that the prize would still be his, and José did not attempt to remove

his impression.

But José had still severe trials to encounter: he foresaw the grief of

Dame Robert, Gabri's disappointment, and finally a whole year's work

before he could again reach the desired goal, which he had so nearly

attained; but the most painful moment was past, and he awaited that in

which Francisco should be triumphant, as the only compensation worthy

of him.

The exhibition of pictures was held, as usual, in a small room on the

basement floor, now appropriated to another use. The artistic crowd

arrived, and was constantly renewed during three entire days; and the

young students, mingling with it, heard alike the censure and praise

unreservedly bestowed, and often even with the knowledge that the

young authors of the works were present. The universal opinion was

in favour of the pictures of José and Francisco; but the spectators

were constantly heard to exclaim, "A figure erased! what a pity! what

madness!"

At length, on the fourth day, after a private conference, the

professors summoned before them the trembling candidates, and José's

sacrifice did not prove unavailing. He heard Francisco Enguehard

proclaimed for the first prize, Rivol for the second, and he scarcely

heard the honourable mention made of himself, notwithstanding the fatal

figure which had excluded him from the competition.

Francisco, surprised and bewildered at such unexpected happiness,

scarcely knew what he was about; he did not hear the felicitations of

his companions, but allowed himself to be led away by José, who made

him run until he reached his father's house.

"He has gained the prize!" cried José, at the foot of the stairs,

"Francisco has gained the prize!" and seeing his friend in the arms

of his parents, who wept while they blessed him, this noble youth was

rewarded by a pleasure more intense and more elevated than any which

his own triumph could have afforded him.

Leaving Francisco in the arms of his happy mother, who was never weary

of looking at him, and who even thought him handsomer, now that the

laurel decked his brow, José bent his steps homeward, and perceived in

the distance Dame Robert and Gabri anxiously awaiting his return.

"He walks rapidly," said Dame Robert; "so much the better, he bears us

good news."--"He looks happy," continued Gabri: "Oh, if he has gained

the prize! at sixteen, too!" and already a smile of joy shone upon the

countenance of this excellent man.

"Congratulate me, my friends," cried José, as he approached them; "I am

happy in my failure; Francisco has gained the prize!"

"Francisco!" exclaimed Dame Robert, letting fall her arms, already

extended to embrace him; "and you? Have you gained nothing? On my word

there must be some abominable trickery in the affair."

"No," replied José smiling, "but be comforted, my good mother, I am

neither depressed nor discouraged, and next year you shall see the

laurels on my brow."

"But," said Gabri, in a tone of vexation, "who obtained the second

prize?"

"Rivol," replied José; "and I might perhaps have had it if ..." and he

looked timidly at Gabri, "if I had not erased my figure of Aricia."

"Yes!" exclaimed Gabri, as if talking to himself, "I was sure of it, I

suspected as much at the exhibition.... José, José, embrace me, my son.

Gracious Heaven! this is the first day I have passed without regretting

the loss of my own noble boys."

Gabri was too familiar with artistic matters not to have divined the

sacrifice which José's friendship had induced him to make, and his

heart was capable of appreciating and rejoicing in it; but Dame Robert,

who understood nothing of the matter, save that her boy was rejected,

gave free vent to her dissatisfaction.

"Indeed, M. Gabri, it is very fine to pet him up after such a failure

as that. Who would have thought it? It was well worth while to be shut

up for two months without uttering a syllable, to let others walk off

with the prize; still your picture was very fine, my boy, though,

to tell you the truth, your female figure was too pale. I told you,

however, not to spare your colours, but young people will always have

their own way."

José smiled, and hastened to tranquillize the good woman. So far as

concerned himself he succeeded without much difficulty; but she was for

some time out of humour with Gabri, whose triumphant air annoyed her,

because she did not understand it. Nor did she gain any information

on the subject, for Gabri was discreet, and would not divulge José's

secret; he did not even seek an explanation from the lad himself;

but his marks of friendship were increased, and he more frequently

repeated, "My son José!"

At the annual meeting of the Academy, when the students publicly

receive the laurel crown, awarded for the merits of their works, José

appeared more pleased than Francisco. He was restless, busying himself

with his friend's toilet, &c.; and, placed in a corner of the room

during the ceremony, the spectators might have imagined, from his

excitement and his looks, when Francisco Enguehard was proclaimed, that

he was the happy father of the young laureate, were it not that his

almost childish features precluded the supposition.

A month after this great epoch for the two friends, they were

separated; Francisco and his parents took the route to Italy; and

José having returned to his studies, pursued them with ardour and

contentment in thinking of the happiness which he had been the means of

securing to three persons.

The year passed, and when again about to compete for the prize, José

wrote to his friend, and told him to expect him in three months from

that date. He felt confidence in himself, and had acquired so much

power, that notwithstanding the merits of seven competitors, all older

than himself, his picture was unanimously declared the best. It was

even so superior to anything usually seen at these competitions, that

it was thought proper to allow the exhibition to remain open several

days longer than usual, in order to gratify the crowd of amateurs who

flocked to see it. Dame Robert fully enjoyed José's triumph, and the

almost equal pleasure of relating its history to her neighbours. Gabri

rubbed his hands, and bent his head while listening to the praises of

the young artist, and the honest Barbe exultingly boasted of having

supplied for this famous picture the finest and the best canvas in his

shop.

José, overwhelmed with honours, and full of joy, set out on his way

to Rome, where he found Francisco, who had still four years remaining

of the five granted by the government. Monsieur and Madame Enguehard

received José as a second son; he lived in the same house with them,

and enjoyed, in all its fulness, the delights of a life devoted to

friendship and the fine arts, in that beautiful land where these arts

so naturally flourish.

Many years have passed away since these events took place. Monsieur

and Madame Barbe, grown rich and old, have retired, and given up

their business to the excellent Gabri. A new generation of artists

and students frequents the shop, and pursues pretty nearly the same

habits as that which preceded it. But it is not in the same spot;

the theatre of José's first exploits no longer exists. The two large

posts may still, indeed, be seen; but Barbe's house has been taken

down, and in its place monkeys and learned birds, attract by their

various tricks, numerous spectators. Francisco Enguehard, steady and

talented, is married, as he wished, to the only daughter of a rich

antiquary, who desired to have for a son-in-law, a man of genius.

Dame Robert has given up her business to her eldest son, and rests

her fingers, if not her tongue, for she is never weary of relating to

any one who will listen to her, how that José was a poor orphan, how

she took him and put him to sleep on her counter, &c., &c. Philip, a

worthy fellow, and a passable tailor, is married and settled, as he

says, in his wife's native province, that is to say in the Marais. The

poor Angevin, still a bad painter, notwithstanding all his efforts and

perseverance, has returned to Angers. There, at least, he has talent,

and directs in his turn the same school which sent him to Paris. He

who was called poor José is now one of our most distinguished artists.

He possesses a respectable fortune, acquired by his talents, and,

what is far more valuable to him, the universal esteem granted to the

most noble character and the most irreproachable conduct. Faithful

alike to delicacy and friendship, Francisco never knew the sacrifice

which obtained for him his crown. José's laurels are suspended in his

magnificent studio, beside his first palette, and his shoeblack's

knife. He watches over Gabri, as a son over a father; listens to the

long stories of the good old Dame Robert, without the least sign of

impatience; and, finally, though young, handsome, and sought after, he

always wears clothes made by Philip, and boasting of little elegance,

with shoes of the same kind from Dame Robert's shop: and this is not

the least remarkable trait in his history.

CAROLINE:

OR, THE EFFECTS OF A MISFORTUNE.

"How delighted I am that Robert is gone!" exclaimed Caroline de

Manzay, as she entered her mother's room; "I never knew anybody so

disagreeable!"

"What!" said Madame de Manzay, "not even Denis?"

"Oh! that is quite different; Denis is teazing and troublesome, meddles

with everything, and is angry when prevented; he jeers and laughs at

one, and becomes passionate and insulting when contradicted; but then

he is a mere child, and one overlooks it."

"You did not seem very ready to do so: you were always quarrelling, and

could say very insulting things yourself sometimes."

"For all that I like him better than Robert."

"Yet Robert never teazed you; he is very reasonable."

"To be sure he is; he is twenty years old: and how proud he is! Because

he is five years older than I am he treats me like a little girl, and

to-day he told me I was a spoiled child."

"Robert is not the first person who has said that, my dear; but for

what reason did he pay you this compliment?"

"It was because Denis, who always takes delight in seeing me vexed,

came to tell me, with an air of triumph, that when we took him and

Robert to the village, we were to go by the road which I do not like. I

said we were not to go that way; he asserted that we were, because he

had heard my father give orders to his forester to wait for him at the

green-gate, that he might see on his way back the fir-trees which are

to be cut. Then I declared that I would not go out at all, and Robert

laughed at me, and insisted that if my father chose it I should be

obliged to go, and to take the road he wished. All this made me angry,

and when papa came up I teazed him so, till he said we should go the

way I liked best, and that he would look at the fir-trees another time.

'Well,' said I to Robert, when my father was at a little distance,

'it is my turn to laugh at you now;' 'I would recommend you not,' he

replied, very contemptuously, 'there is no glory in being a spoiled

child, and in abusing indulgence,' and then he turned his back on me.

Oh! I detest him! So when he got into the carriage I would not say

good-bye, and when he came up to kiss me, I turned my back upon him in

my turn."

"And did that appear to grieve him?"

"He did not care in the least; he began to laugh, and said, 'Adieu,

Caroline, try to become a little more reasonable, you need it greatly.'"

"And how did you part with Denis?"

"Oh, very well, for I spoke to him."

"What did you say to him?"

"I told him I was delighted that he was going away, because he was

so rude; and he replied, that he was quite as glad, because I was so

wilful and captious. In fact, I am not at all fond of Denis, either,

and it is a great relief to be rid of him. It will be a long time, will

it not, before we see him again?"

"Much too long; his guardian thinks of going to America, and taking

Denis with him. God only knows when he will come back."

"Oh! I shall have quite enough of him; he is so insufferable! And

Robert?"

"He is going on his travels for four or five years."

"That is a great blessing."

"But, my dear child, you should reflect that Robert is your father's

nephew, and that Denis is my poor sister's son; they are both of them

your nearest relatives, and ought to be your best friends."

"Fine friends, indeed! the one teazes me, and the other despises me."

"I allow that Denis is fond of teazing, and that Robert is scornful,

but they will out-grow that."

"No, that they won't."

"What! do you, then, really think that Denis, at twenty years old, will

spoil your drawing, or blow out your candle?"

"He will do something as tiresome; and even if he should improve,

Robert will always remain the same."

"I hope not; he will gain with years the gentleness in which he is

deficient. But, even supposing he should not change, you yourself will

alter, and when you are no longer a spoiled child, he will not call you

such."

"I don't know that; he is so unamiable. However, it is all the same to

me; I do not care for his opinion."

"So I perceive, my dear," said her mother, smiling, "you speak of it so

calmly."

At this moment, Caroline heard her father calling her, and ran out

to join him; she was always happy to be his companion, and responded

with all her heart to the passionate affection which he showed her.

Caroline was the only survivor of Monsieur and Madame de Manzay's eight

daughters, and during her infancy her health had been so delicate,

as to cause them the greatest anxiety. Continually agitated by the

fear of losing her, their only thought had been to preserve their

treasure: they trembled lest the slightest opposition should endanger

her fragile existence, or cast a cloud over a life which might have so

short a duration. For some years past, these terrible apprehensions had

ceased, but Caroline had been so long accustomed to have her own way,

that the effect survived the cause. She was accustomed to no other rule

than her caprice, or the prompting of a disposition naturally upright

and generous. When her fancies or her self-love did not interfere,

she was ready to do everything to oblige, and diffused around her all

the cheerfulness natural to her age: but if it at all crossed in her

wishes, nothing could be obtained from her, and even her kindness

of heart was insufficient to conquer her temper. In such unhappy

moments, which were but too frequent, she would answer her mother with

petulance, refuse to walk with her father, or sing him the airs he

loved, and behave roughly to her little brother, whom she nevertheless

loved with all her heart, and considered almost as her own child. Being

ten years old, when Stephen was born, she had never thought of him as a

rival, but as a _protégé_. She was habitually kind and indulgent, and

would spend whole hours in building card-houses for him, or in telling

him stories. It is true she did not like him to amuse himself with

others: as she could not appropriate him to herself, like his parents,

she devoted herself to him; but she did appropriate him, in fact, and

one of the principal causes of her dissatisfaction with Denis was, that

Stephen preferred his stories to hers, and his noisy games to the more

tranquil pleasures procured him by his sister.

"What does it signify, if Stephen enjoys himself better with Denis than

with you?" said Robert to her one day.

"It displeases me."

"But why?"

"Because he is so whimsical; a week ago he was interrupting me

perpetually, to make me tell him over and over again the story of the

Wonderful Cat, and now, when I call him on purpose, he says it wearies

him."

"Naturally enough, when you propose telling it to him at the very time

that Denis is just in the finest part of a story about robbers or

battles."

"And twenty times have I begged Denis not to tell him any more such

stories: but he does not care for a word that is said to him."

"Stephen would be very sorry if he left off, I can assure you: look how

attentive he is."

"Yes, and what am I to do while Stephen is listening to Denis?"

"You might finish the drawing which your father asked for this morning,

and which, as you said, you had not time to complete."

"Indeed I shall not, it is too tiresome; and if anything more is said

about it, I will tear it to pieces."

"Surely not, you are not silly enough to do that."

"And why then should I be silly to tear this drawing? It is my own, I

hope."

"A fine reason truly! The château yonder is mine also. What would you

say if I were to burn it down?"

"There is no resemblance in the two cases."

"In fact, I should be a madman, and you merely a child."

"A child! Do you know that I am fifteen?"

"So they say, but I cannot believe it."

"Why not? I am taller than the gardener's daughter, who is sixteen."

"Yes; but you are not as reasonable as Stephen, who is only five."

"And, how not, pray?"

"Come, do not be angry; you are, perhaps, about as much so, but that is

all I can grant you. Now do not put yourself in a passion, that will

not frighten me; you cannot tear me to pieces like your drawings.

Adieu, make yourself happy: I am going to carry off Denis to hunt, so

you may tell Stephen the story of the Wonderful Cat as many times as

you please."

It was by conversations like these that Robert had drawn upon himself

the animadversions of Caroline. Unaccustomed to any opposition to her

wishes, she could not forgive the harsh manner in which her cousin

contradicted her, and, spoiled as she was by continual marks of

affection, she was astonished at the contemptuous disapprobation which

she had to encounter from one, whose good opinion she was desirous of

obtaining. Never had she heard the name of Robert de Puivaux mentioned

without eulogium. He had completed his studies most successfully, and

had particularly distinguished himself at the Polytechnic School,

which he had just left, after spending two years there, simply for

instruction. His character was extolled, his judgment esteemed, and

his understanding and acquirements were considered by all as beyond

his years; but all these advantages were effaced, in Caroline's mind,

by his ungracious conduct towards herself--or, rather, they served to

render it the more vexatious to her. It must be allowed that Robert

had treated her in a manner far from pleasant. Naturally serious, and

disposed to regulate his conduct on principles of reason and duty,

he could not comprehend the inconsiderateness of Caroline, and the

importance which she attached to her own whims; he had no patience

in seeing everyone yield to her, and was as angry with her for their

weakness as for her own defects; he, therefore, never lost any

opportunity of showing his disapprobation and contempt: and, wholly

engrossed by the unfavourable impressions with which she inspired

him, he did not remark the good qualities which lay hidden under this

petulant exterior, and which the future would develope.

Shortly after the departure of Robert and Denis, Madame de Manzay, who

had been an invalid ever since the birth of Stephen, was suddenly

snatched from her family, after a few days' illness. We will not

attempt to describe this sad event: there are sorrows which can never

be comprehended by those who have not felt them, and which it is

needless to relate to those who know them by experience. The language

of man cannot adequately express all that the soul of man is capable

of feeling, and such feelings are not learned but revealed; a single

moment--one of those moments which are equal to a whole life--can

explain more than years of reflection, and convey to the heart, what

all the knowledge of the mind would be unable to grasp.

A week had elapsed since the death of Madame de Manzay, and her unhappy

family were not yet roused from the first stupor of grief; their hearts

had not yet recovered composure; they had not returned to their usual

habits; no one obeyed, for no one commanded; and each one, engrossed

by his affliction, forgot his duties. There was neither regularity nor

labour; confusion alone reigned in the desolate household. Poor little

Stephen was left all day long to himself; Monsieur de Manzay wandered

about in the park; his daughter shut herself up in her room; and no one

attempted to assist anyone else in supporting the weight of grief, by

which each was oppressed. Caroline, as usual, was weeping in her own

apartment, when an old servant, who had been in the family from the

birth of her father, and who had just seen his master, seated, alone,

in his wife's room, thinking he would like to see his daughter, went to

her, and said, "Pray go, Miss Caroline, to my master. Poor gentleman!

he has no one now but you."

"And Stephen, Peter; you do not reckon him."

"Oh! that is quite another thing, miss; master loves the dear little

fellow with all his heart, but he is not company for him; he cannot

talk with him, and divert his thoughts, as you could. Oh! Miss

Caroline, you are the very image of my good mistress; try then to

resemble her in everything. You cannot remember it, for you were too

young, but when my mistress lost four of her children in one year, and

you alone were left--well, miss, it was she who then consoled master.

He was like one distracted, and said he felt tempted to throw himself

in the water, and the poor lady was obliged to appear perfectly calm,

in order to tranquillize him. I have sometimes seen her leave my

master's room, to go and cry, and then she would return, and urge him

to submit to the will of God; she would make him walk with her, or read

aloud to divert his thoughts; she would even amuse him with music: and

how he loved her in return! Oh! Miss Caroline! you had a treasure in

your mother; endeavour to be as good as she was."

Caroline's sobs prevented her from making any reply; but she held out

her hand to the aged Peter, and rose immediately to follow him to her

father. She was told that he was in the park, and repaired thither;

but, absorbed in her affliction, and in the reflections suggested

by Peter's artless observations, she mistook the path, and did not

perceive her error, for she went on without thinking whither her steps

were directed. For the first time in her life, perhaps, she became

aware that she had a duty to fulfil towards others, and that she was

not placed in this world merely to be loved and indulged. She had

just been told--"_Your father has no one but you._" It was the truth;

but of what use had she been to her father, during the past week? Had

she afforded him consolation or assistance, when, given up to her

own affliction, she had scarcely bestowed a thought on his; when he

had been obliged to try and comfort her, and had sought to do so in

vain; when her tears and cries had shaken the resolution he found it

so difficult to maintain; when she had kept out of his presence, and

abandoned him at the time he most needed her? Was it thus that her

mother had acted, when, struck by misfortune, she had, for the sake of

calming her husband's despair, begun by controlling her own feelings?

Yet who, more than her father, possessed a claim to her active

gratitude, to her affectionate devotion? Her earliest recollections

were associated with his kindness and tenderness. He had consecrated

his leisure to her instruction, relinquished for this purpose studies

in which he took delight, and renounced all recreations but those

which he could share with her; he had made her the companion of his

walks, and allowed her to direct them as she chose. If she wished for

an excursion in the neighbourhood, M. de Manzay would leave all his

occupations to procure this pleasure for her; in a word, he never

refused her a request, and yet her demands had not been few. And what

had she done, on her part, to requite such great affection? How had she

repaid the extreme indulgence of her parents? She loved them heartily,

and they were convinced of this, but she had done nothing more: whilst

they thought only of her, she had never considered them, and had found

it perfectly natural to be continually the recipient of benefits,

without ever giving anything in return. "Oh, how wicked I have been!"

she exclaimed, clasping her hands; "can God ever forgive me, or mamma?"

She threw herself on her knees, and, melting into tears, promised, as

if still in the presence of her whom she could never again behold in

this world, to repair, by her attention to the objects of affection

she had left, the faults which she had committed against her. She

felt that her resolution was accepted and blessed; that the relations

of those who love each other are eternal; and that her mother was

pleased with her earnest endeavours, as she would have been if still

living. She felt that it was her soul which responded to her own, and

inspired her with the love of virtue, the hope of perseverance, the joy

of pardon. She arose, and returned to the château, eager to find her

father, and begin her new part. "Hitherto, he has devoted his life to

me," said she to herself, "now, it shall be my care to live for him;"

and immediately, with the ardour so natural to youth, she depicted

to herself all the various ways in which she could be useful to him,

and was enchanted at the idea of being at last good for something in

the world; no obstacle or difficulty presented itself to her mind, so

natural did the performance of her duty appear to her at this moment.

On approaching the château, she found Stephen sitting quite alone,

under a tree, crying. "What is the matter, Stephen?" she asked, kissing

him.

"I am hungry."

"Hungry! why what o'clock is it?"

"It is twelve o'clock."

"But you have already had your breakfast?"

"No; Mary forgot to make my soup. Nobody thinks about me now that mamma

is gone."

"I will think of you, my dear child. Come with me, I will get you

some breakfast, and tomorrow you shall not have to wait so long." On

entering the house, she inquired for her father. She was told that he

had come in, and had asked for her, and, after waiting some time, had

gone out again. "But he has had his breakfast, I suppose?"

"No, miss, the cook has gone out."

"Things must not go on thus," thought Caroline; "I must have some order

in the household." She perceived at this moment her father coming in,

and hastened to meet him; she was eager to have some conversation with

him, and impart to him her good resolutions; but the very first was,

to attend to others rather than herself, and she therefore sacrificed

to Stephen's appetite her desire of communicating to her father her

new projects. After breakfast, M. de Manzay was going towards his

wife's sitting-room, where he passed all the time which he spent

in-doors. Caroline, who wished to follow him, paused for an instant

at this sight: she never yet had sufficient resolution to enter her

mother's apartment, and trembled at the idea of revisiting a spot

so filled with her image. "But how can I ever be of service to my

father, if I cannot go where it is his desire always to remain? Come,

I must go to him;" and, making an effort to command her feelings, she

went to her father. Surprised and pleased to see her in this room,

where his recollections became almost realities, he embraced her with

even more than his wonted tenderness; and, comparing, with a pleasure

mingled with grief, the portrait of his wife with the features of his

daughter,--"Oh, my child!" he exclaimed at length, his voice checked

by tears, "I have only you now." She threw her arms round him, and for

some time neither father nor daughter could utter a word. At length,

overcoming her emotion, she said, "My dear papa, I have hitherto done

very wrong, but I will endeavour to repair my faults. I have been a

selfish, ungrateful child, and lived only for myself; henceforth my

life shall be devoted to you. Forgive me for having been so useless

to you; forget the past; you shall see that I am no longer the same,

and you shall be satisfied with my conduct. Kiss me, dear papa; I will

correct all my faults, and endeavour to be like mamma."

"God bless you, my child, for having formed such a project! but you are

very young to make even the attempt."

"Not too young, I hope. I shall hardly succeed at first, but the

recollection of mamma will come to my assistance. I know what she used

to do, and I will endeavour to imitate her. I will come and see you in

your study, and be always ready to give up my own occupations to please

you. I will give Stephen his lessons. I will keep the accounts. You

shall see how steady I will be; only try me, papa."

"Do what you like, my child; I am in no state to make any decision;

I can think of nothing. I leave you mistress of the house, of your

brother, of myself. If there are still any peaceful moments in store

for me on this earth, I shall enjoy them through you, and you alone."

"And Stephen, papa, you forget him."

"Poor child! no, I do not forget him; go and bring him here."

Caroline brought her little brother to her father, who took him in his

arms, saying, "Stephen, you loved dear mamma, did you not?"

"With all my heart," replied the child, sobbing.

"And you were also obedient to her. Well, now you must love your

sister, and obey her; she will be a mother to you henceforward."

"Would you like it, Stephen?" asked Caroline, "would you like me to

take care of you, and give you your lessons?"

"Yes, if you promise not to scold me."

"My dear child, I will not scold you; I will try to be kind like mamma."

"Oh, you are very kind already, I am sure," said Stephen, caressing his

sister, "only sometimes you get out of patience, and that frightens me."

"Make yourself easy, I intend to grow better; but you must also be very

good, to please papa, who has so much sorrow."

"Oh! yes; for that I will learn my lessons better than I used to do."

"My beloved children," said M. de Manzay, encircling them both in his

arms, "my dear children, this is the first moment of comfort I have had

for a week past. Go, my own Caroline, assume your new functions; take

possession of the keys; direct, command, re-establish the regularity

which formerly reigned in the house; take the same care of your brother

that he has been accustomed to; but first come to me, that I may give

you my blessing, before the portrait of your mother."

After some moments devoted to these tender and afflicting emotions,

Caroline left the room with Stephen. Her first care was to see if his

apartment was in order: she found it completely stripped of all the

articles which he was in the habit of using.

"What has become of your little table, Stephen?" she enquired.

"Oh! I dare say it is in the garden; I took it there the day before

yesterday, and they have forgotten to bring it in."

"And your arm-chair?"

"I tied it to Turk's tail, for a carriage, and he broke it."

"You might have expected as much, my dear."

"What could I do? I was alone, and tired of doing nothing."

"You have recollected, I hope, to give water to your birds."

"Oh! gracious! I have never given them any but once. Poor creatures!

they must be very thirsty. But, Caroline, do not scold me, it is not

my fault. Every morning, mamma used to ask me if I had taken water and

seeds to my birds, leaves to my rabbits, and grass to my fawn; and now,

who is there to think of all these things?"

"I will. Let us go to your aviary, and I will talk to you by the way."

Caroline then explained to her brother all her plans concerning him.

She told him that he should work with her, and that she would amuse

him, and take care of all his things; in a word, that she would, as

far as possible, supply the place of a mother to him. She had his

books brought into her sitting-room, and such of his playthings as he

had been accustomed to keep in his mother's apartment; she gave him a

shelf in her library, and the lower part of a closet, and established

his little table by the window, as he wished. At first, she intended

to place it elsewhere, for this was her own favourite place; but she

recollected that last year, when she had remarked that her mamma was

happy in being able to enjoy, while sitting at table, the prospect over

the valley, her mother had yielded to her the place she coveted. "I

cannot be so good as mamma," she thought, "unless I do as she did, so I

will remove my table from the window."

Such were the feelings and views with which Caroline undertook

the reformation of her character, and she begun the task with the

blind ardour so natural to youth: that happy privilege bestowed by

Providence, to remove all hesitation from their resolutions, and leave

nothing doubtful but the execution. But this first strong and happy

impulse does not always last; when the sentiment which gave it birth

ceases to be exclusive, things which had been forgotten reappear, the

realities of life and the peculiarities of character resume their

claims, and what we still desire above all things is, nevertheless,

not our sole object. This was precisely the case with Caroline. For a

considerable time her heart was so full of the idea of her great loss,

of the remembrance of her faults, of her affection for her father,

and of the new pleasure of exerting herself for the sake of others,

that she could not form a thought exclusively for herself, and would

have been indignant had she been desired to do so; but when, after the

lapse of several months, life had returned to its uniform course, when

business was again attended to, and all the family had resumed their

usual habits, she perceived how completely her own had been overturned.

The time which she formerly employed, according to her fancy, was no

longer her own; a great part of it was absorbed by her little brother,

and her pursuits were also frequently interrupted by her father. As

long as he had a friend constantly at hand, he might be always disposed

to accommodate himself to the arrangements of his daughter, but now

that this friend was no more, Caroline was required to replace her,

and became his property: their positions were changed, and the effect

of this was perpetually felt, and the more strikingly in proportion as

their first deep affliction subsided by degrees, and M. de Manzay was

able to take some interest in the scenes around him, and his daughter

to enter into her own employments.

It will readily be believed that, in a young person of sixteen, a

change of this nature could not be made easily, or completely carried

out from the first. In order to maintain it, Caroline was obliged to

exert much self-control, and she often failed of success. It would

sometimes happen that she kept her brother waiting to repeat his

lesson, because she was reading an interesting book, or playing an

air that she liked; on other occasions, she would defer the household

accounts for several days whilst she was finishing a drawing, or

completing a piece of embroidery; and occasionally her father could

read so plainly in her countenance that she had no interest in what he

proposed, that he would give up his intention, not without a melancholy

retrospect of the days when whatever he wished became immediately the

earnest object of another. Yet it must also be said that Caroline

acknowledged and regretted all her faults, and very often repaired

them so promptly and so thoroughly, that they almost became a merit,

and led to fresh improvement. Stephen never found her so kind and

patient, or her father so affectionately devoted to him, as when she

had to reproach herself with some act of impatience or caprice; and,

generally speaking, she quickly recovered herself. To give one instance

amongst others:--It was several months after the death of Madame de

Manzay, and everything had been placed as far as possible on its former

footing in the château, and tranquillity and peace, the more valuable

in proportion as happiness is wanting, were reestablished in the house,

when, one day, M. de Manzay entered his daughter's apartment with a

letter in his hand. "Caroline," he said, "would you like Denis to come

and live with us for some time?"

"Oh, no, certainly not. I do not want him; he is insufferable."

"But, my dear, his guardian is lately dead, and Denis, as you know, is

on bad terms with the wife, so that he cannot remain with her: where

can he go, unless he comes to Primini?"

"Let him go where he likes. Why does he make himself detested by every

one? Oh! I should not have a moment's peace if he were here; I would

rather go away myself than remain with him. Pray, papa, write word at

once that you cannot have him."

"I will write and say that _you_ would rather not; for my own part, I

will assuredly not be the person to refuse to receive your mother's

nephew;" and M. de Manzay left the room. Caroline was struck with these

last words, and with the tone in which they were uttered. "_My mother's

nephew_," thought she; "but Denis does not in the least resemble mamma;

he is as unamiable as she was good: yet my father appears to regret

him: perhaps he thinks that Denis will be cured of his faults--but that

cannot be, for he never listens to a word that is said to him. However,

he must not be left in the streets; besides, if my father wishes him to

come here, that is the most important point. Well! I must be patient,

and, after all, he will not eat me."

Caroline rose, after having made these brief reflections, and repaired

to her father's room. He was pacing the apartment with a pensive air,

still holding in his hand the letter which announced the death of

Denis's guardian.

"My dear papa," said she, "I come to request you to invite Denis to

come to us."

"Indeed, my dear."

"Yes; just now I was still more unreasonable than he is: pray be so

kind as to think no more of it, and to write for Denis."

"You are a good girl, and I promise you to prevent him from tormenting

you."

"Oh! no, papa, do not trouble yourself about the matter; I know that

these petty grievances are very annoying to you, and I will find means

to manage. Perhaps he may have learned to behave better than formerly,

and I am certainly less childish than I was a year ago. Make yourself

easy, papa, all shall go on well."

A fortnight after this conversation, Denis arrived at his uncle's

house. He was fifteen, but his reason was not in proportion to his age.

Endowed with great strength and unconquerable activity, he delighted

only in noise and commotion, and, if he was fond of teazing, it was

only to produce this commotion. Anything was acceptable to him but

quiet: the anger of a child, the insults of a servant, the barking of a

dog, all answered his purpose, and he would not have cared to teaze an

animal unless it cried out. During his first visit to Primini, Stephen

had been a great assistance to him. Sometimes he would torment him,

and amuse himself with his anger; sometimes he would divert him, and

laugh at the displeasure which this occasioned to Caroline; and, if

the latter became seriously angry, Denis had attained the height of

his wishes. He was not ill-disposed, but he could not endure _ennui_,

and he knew not how to avoid it by rational occupations. Brought up

in the country, and much spoiled by his guardian, he had taken more

interest in the employments of the labourers, the gardeners, and the

gamekeepers, than in the lessons which he from time to time received

from the masters, who came from the neighbouring town. He never took up

a book, unless he met with accounts of voyages, and battles, tales of

robbers, or ghost stories; and his greatest ambition was to lead the

life of a corsair some day, or to go and live amongst the savages, and

endeavour to be chosen as the chief of a tribe. He was brave, adroit,

and capable of generous actions, but he was violent and wilful, and

through his excessive activity was becoming a torment to himself and

others.

Such was the guest whose arrival Caroline dreaded and certainly not

without reason. When he entered the drawing-room, where all the family

was assembled, he rushed forward so abruptly to embrace his uncle, that

he overturned a table which stood in his way; the lamp which was upon

it fell upon Stephen, struck him severely, and covered him with oil.

He began to cry, and Caroline, running to him, wounded her foot with

a piece of the broken glass. In a word, the arrival of Denis was a

signal for noise and confusion; and, what was still worse, Caroline was

much disposed to be angry with him, and demand whether he would never

learn to be more careful--but she restrained herself, recollecting the

promise she had given to her father that all should go well; and, when

tranquillity was a little restored, she embraced her cousin cordially,

and received him in a very friendly manner. During some days all went

on tolerably well; Denis had so much to see that he did not require

the aid of others to pass away his time; besides, notwithstanding his

rudeness, he was not altogether exempt from that kind of shyness, which

is not unusual with those who can neither conform to the established

usages of society, nor entirely shake off their exactions. He was

always ill at ease with persons with whom he was not completely

familiar; indeed, he generally withdrew when a stranger came in; and

the few days which were required to renew his acquaintance with the

inhabitants of Primini were agreeable enough to them, and very painful

to himself: but this state of things did not long continue, he soon

recovered the freedom of his disposition and manners, and the effect

of this upon the tranquillity of the château was speedily felt. At his

first attacks, Caroline, who had prepared herself to bear everything

with patience, supported her cousin's tricks without complaint, picked

up a dozen times the reel of cotton which he threw down, re-lighted the

taper which he extinguished, or replaced before her piano the chair

which he removed as soon as she left it. One day, however, Denis, weary

of his ineffectual attempts to put her out of temper, after having

tried in vain during the whole of a rainy morning, began to teaze

Stephen, and smeared with ink a picture which he held in his hand. The

child burst into tears, and Caroline, excited by his vexation, and by

the impatience which she had so long curbed, was now seriously angry.

"Leave my room, Denis," she cried, "it really is impossible to live

with you. Not satisfied with trying the whole day to provoke me, you

must now make poor Stephen cry. Go away, I will not have you stay in my

room."

"Then you must put me out of the door yourself, for I shall not stir."

"You will not go! Am I not mistress in my own apartment?"

"Certainly, if you can only make yourself obeyed;" and, so saying,

Denis placed himself in an arm-chair.

"I will go and fetch my father."

"As you please; I am not afraid of my uncle, he is much kinder than you

are."

Caroline hastened to M. de Manzay's room; she was ready to cry, and her

flushed cheeks betrayed her vivid emotion.

"Papa," she said, "will you come and order Denis to quit my room?"

"Why do you wish to turn him out?"

"He teazes me, and makes Stephen cry; it is impossible to have any

peace with him,--he makes me quite miserable."

"Well, then, let him return to Paris."

"No--I only want him to leave my room."

"That would settle the question to-day, but to-morrow he might begin

again; and I will not have to interfere perpetually in your quarrels."

"This is the first time, papa, I have ever applied to you."

"The same thing will be recurring every day. I would rather he should

go--he must be sent to college."

"Send Denis to college, papa! He would be expelled directly."

"So much the worse for him; there will be nothing left for him but to

go to sea; that is, after all, the best profession for him, and I will

not have him render you unhappy."

"But, papa, would it not be better to prevent him from doing so, by

obliging him to behave more reasonably?"

"It would be insufferable to me, to be obliged to be always looking

after him. I require tranquillity. I will send Denis away if you like

it, but to be perpetually watching him is what I cannot do."

"Then," she exclaimed, in tears, "I must be the victim of this

mischievous boy."

"No, certainly; that shall not be the case: he shall go at once. Call

my nephew," said M. de Manzay to a gardener, who was at work in front

of the window.

"He is not in the château, sir," replied the man; "he has just gone

down towards the mill with Master Stephen."

"With Stephen!" repeated M. de Manzay. "What were you telling me then

just now, Caroline?"

"They seem to have made up their quarrel, papa, and I will follow their

example, for I could not suffer Denis to be sent away."

"So much the better, for this time I will pass over his conduct, but at

the very first dispute----

"There shall be none, papa; or, at least, you shall not be troubled

about the matter."

"Thank you, my dear child, embrace me. You are a good girl, and the

joy of your poor father's heart." And M. de Manzay pressed Caroline to

his bosom with the utmost tenderness, grateful for the decision which

spared his weakness. When she had quitted him, she reflected on her

position. She saw clearly that it was in vain to seek from her father

any support against Denis, for, although he had not the same affection

for him as he felt towards herself, he was almost as much afraid of

opposing him: not that Denis was ill-disposed, but he was so eager

about what he wished, and had so determined a will, that his uncle

hesitated to resist him; and it would have been a thousand times less

painful to him to send Denis away, in order to spare his daughter a

moment's uneasiness, than to watch over his conduct, and prevent him

from being so troublesome and disagreeable.

It was, therefore, in herself alone that she must seek a remedy for the

inconveniences occasioned by her cousin's disposition. It was only by

her own calmness and superior sense that she could make him ashamed of

his resolution to teaze her. She had already occasionally experienced

the happy effects of apparent indifference, and he had more than once

desisted from his mischievous tricks, when he found that they did not

attain his object. The only plan, then, was to be habitually so patient

as to weary him out, and induce him to seek amusements less annoying

to others. This being the case, her own tranquillity, and that of her

father, must depend upon herself, and for this it was worth while to

make some efforts. Yes, undoubtedly, it was well worth while, but such

efforts were not so easy as Caroline had imagined, as she quickly found

by experience. She said to herself, beforehand, that, after all, she

need not be so very unhappy, because Denis would gather her choicest

flowers, trample on her flower-beds, disturb her silkworms, or meddle

with her herbal; that domestic tranquillity was more valuable than

these trifles; and that she had but to sacrifice them at once and

entirely: but, if she could bear calmly, though not without a secret

struggle, the malicious tricks which her cousin played her, and was not

angry once in a dozen times that she was tempted to be so, and that

he well deserved it, she could not behold Stephen's vexations with

the same equanimity, and when he began to cry her indignation would

burst forth. This was, however, bad policy; for Denis then enjoyed a

double triumph, which was the more agreeable to him because it was

so easily gained. Poor Caroline had, therefore, to pass many unhappy

moments; and, whether she succeeded in commanding herself or not, she

was continually vexed and agitated, and was every day surprised to find

life so full of hardships, and duty so difficult.

But she had also to encounter other difficulties, which were quite

unexpected, and which she could not overcome by mere force of will, and

a determination to conquer them. The greater part of these difficulties

did not arise from within, from her own habits and disposition, from

her old aversion to contradiction, and still more to restraint;

they came from without, and had their source in the prejudices and

passions of others; and upright intentions and firm resolution were

not sufficient immediately to overcome them. Caroline had excited

many unfavourable prejudices, which, however just in some respects,

were unjust in their exclusive severity: it was necessary for her to

triumph over these,--necessary, but difficult; and she learned to

see how intimate is the connection in our destinies, what lengthened

responsibility may attach to an action, in appearance the most

trivial, and how indispensable it is to act to the best of our ability

in all things, if we would have a conscience free from the fear of

consequences.

Two years had now elapsed since Caroline had lost her mother. M. de

Manzay had regained sufficient self-command to occupy himself with the

education of Stephen. The hunting season detained Denis at a distance

from the château; and Caroline, being now accustomed to the management

of household affairs, was not obliged to devote so much time to them;

and, having become more reasonable, she employed her remaining hours

better, and consequently found more leisure than formerly, although

in reality she had much more to do. She was particularly struck by

the details given in a newspaper of the happy results produced in

the village of L----, by the establishment of a school and working

institution for girls, according to the method of mutual instruction.

All night her head was full of the subject, and the next day, as soon

as she rose, she went and proposed to her father to found a similar

school of industry in the village, near their château, and offered to

undertake its direction.

"We must send for a person who understands the method from one of the

Paris schools," she said, "we can then form the establishment and train

the monitors; when they are sufficiently instructed, the management of

the children will be entrusted to them, and I shall superintend them.

That was the plan adopted at L----."

"I ask nothing better, my dear; it will be useful to the village, and

afford you occupation. Think over the matter again, and, if you persist

in your project, we will speak of it to the curé."

"Why speak to him? It is not his business."

"The education of his parishioners is, in a certain sense, his

business; and his opposition would be a great obstacle."

"But surely he would not oppose it; he ought to be pleased when the

poor are benefited."

"He is no doubt very charitable, but he is also self-willed. You know

I have never been able to hold intercourse with him upon any point

whatever. He would not even recommend a beggar to me."

"Very true, but he cannot refuse our proposal. Oh! how happy I shall be

when the plan is carried into effect."

Caroline had several conversations with her father on the subject,

and was delighted at the idea of being useful to all those little

girls, who were so wretched and so ignorant. The day on which it was

at length decided between them that the school should be established,

she went out full of joy to take a walk. She was musing over her

projects, considering in what manner she could render herself beloved

and respected by the children, and gain their confidence--thought over

the rewards she would give, and the good advice she would address to

them--in a word, she was at this moment quite happy, and foresaw no

difficulty, when she met the curé, who was returning from a visit to a

sick person. He bowed, and would have passed without speaking to her,

but, with the confidence natural to her age and character, she stopped

him saying, "Monsieur le Curé, I have something to tell you."

"Indeed! Miss Caroline; what can it be?" replied the curé, with an air

of surprise and almost of severity. "It appears to me that we have

not much connection with each other, and that you occupy yourself but

little with the sort of affairs that interest me."

"But I wish to occupy myself with them, and that is what I have to tell

you about. My father intends to establish a school of industry in the

village."

"For what purpose? We have already a schoolmistress."

"She is old and half deaf, they say; besides she has not a good method

of teaching."

"How do you know that? You have never visited the school."

"I shall go every day to the new school; I shall be superintendent."

"You understand, then, what is to be taught?"

"I suppose I know how to read and write."

"Yes, but the catechism; you are probably not acquainted with that; for

you do not set a very good example to our young girls."

"How! Monsieur le Curé," exclaimed Caroline, colouring with anger and

vexation; "what do you mean?"

"I mean, young lady, that you often come into church after the service

has begun, and sometimes go away before it is over."

"Oh, Monsieur le Curé, it is a very long time since that has happened."

"I know nothing about that; I have not time to pay attention to the

exact days, but it is really a scandal."

"Monsieur le Curé, I now always remain the whole time. Pray inquire if,

for the last two years, I have not come in very punctually."

"Yes; and do you no longer give bad advice as you used to do formerly?"

"I never gave any one bad advice."

"You forget that, in consequence of your interrupting the gardener's

daughter in her attendance on the catechism, you caused her first

communion to be deferred, and that, when you saw her crying on that

account, you told her it was no great misfortune, and gave her a

neck-handkerchief to console her, so that she ended by saying that it

did not much matter whether she made her first communion then or not,

and that a year sooner or later was all the same to her. Perhaps you do

not recollect also, that when your milkwoman, Dame Joan, wanted to send

her daughter to her old mother, and that Matty did not like going, you

told her that her mother was very ill-natured to oppose her wishes, and

that your parents let you do whatever you pleased."

"But, Monsieur le Curé, I was then a child; it is more than three years

ago."

"You have now, then, become reasonable, I suppose, Caroline?"

"You know I have, Monsieur le Curé.'

"And how should I know it? Have you ever told me so?"

"How could I tell you? We never see you at the château."

"Where, then, could I learn the alteration of which you speak? Have I

seen any effects of it? Do you ever visit our poor? Have you given good

advice to our young girls? Have you procured work for their mothers?

You talk of superintending a school of industry; do you even know how

to hem a duster? It is said that you do not. No, Miss Caroline; go and

play on the piano, work at your embroidery, amuse yourself, but do not

pretend to teach others: there we can do without you."

"Oh! how severe you are, Monsieur le Curé," said poor Caroline.

"I am but just, Miss Caroline. I am aware that this is not the way they

speak to you at the château; but things are not the better for that."

"Why have you not given me good advice? I should have profited by it."

"To be sure I ought to have done so, in order that M. de Manzay might

ridicule it!"

"My father has never ridiculed you, Monsieur le Curé."

"That is hardly probable. He opposes me constantly. Not a week ago he

prevented the municipal council from doing what I requested: he had the

upper hand then, now it is my turn. Good evening, Miss Caroline; you

will not establish your school."

[Illustration: Caroline repulsed by the Curé, p. 332.]

Having thus spoken, the curé bowed, and left her, without waiting for a

reply. The poor child was thunderstruck at finding herself the object

of so much severity, prejudice, and injustice. "What have I done,

then," she exclaimed, in tears, "to give such a bad opinion of me? I

wish well to every one, and no one loves me. Oh, how ill-natured the

world is--nobody has been kind to me but papa and mamma; and mamma is

no longer with us!" Caroline abandoned herself for some time to all the

bitterness of her heart, and was indignant at this malevolence, without

at all considering whether it were altogether gratuitous, or whether

it might not have some foundation. However, as she reflected on the

reproofs of the curé, they brought to her recollection other occasions

on which she might have justly incurred his censure. By continued

reflection and self-examination, she at last perceived, that she

must formerly have given a sufficiently bad opinion of herself to all

the grave heads of the village, and that she had done nothing since

calculated to change that opinion. Fully occupied with her father,

towards whom alone she felt that she had been deficient, and with her

brother, whom she considered as a sacred legacy from her mother, it

had not for a moment occurred to her that strangers might have reason

to complain, or pass an unfavourable judgment upon her conduct; nor

that approbation might be refused, even when her actions deserved it.

"It is quite natural," she said, at length; "why should Monsieur le

Curé suppose that I have corrected my faults? He would not enquire

of my father if I now comply with all his wishes, or ask Stephen if

I am a patient teacher, or Denis whether I bear with him better than

formerly. Since I wish to persuade him of the change which has taken

place in me, I must begin by giving him proofs of it. I will do all

I can, but it will take a long time, for Monsieur le Curé does not

give up his notions very readily. I must ask my father to wait before

he establishes the school." Monsieur de Manzay was surprised, like

his daughter, at the prejudices which existed against her; he loved

her so tenderly, and found in her so many charming qualities, that he

could never have calculated the effects of her faults, and he found

it difficult to conceive that any one could look upon his Caroline

with other eyes than his own. However, he entered into her views,

and readily consented to her wish to postpone the execution of her

benevolent projects, in order to carry them out more effectually.

A few days after that on which the curé had treated her so harshly,

Caroline met him again. He bowed to her with more amenity than on the

former occasion, for he had reproached himself most heartily for having

repulsed with such asperity the good intentions of so young a person,

and one who showed so much enthusiasm. He had besides, made some

inquiries about her during the interval; had spoken to persons who kept

up an intercourse with the château; and all he had heard increased his

regret. He was therefore glad to meet her, and hastened to address her.

"How is your little brother, Miss Caroline?" he inquired; "I hear that

he has a cold."

"Thank you, Monsieur le Curé, he is better to-day." They remained

some moments silent, each wishing to say something, but not knowing

exactly where to begin. Caroline at length broke the silence: "Monsieur

le Curé, you were very hard upon me the other day; but you taught me

something of which I was completely ignorant, and which it was very

necessary I should know. I had forgotten my childish follies, and did

not imagine that others would remember them; you have rendered me a

service by undeceiving me; I entreat you now to assist me in convincing

every one--and yourself especially--that I have altered for the better.

What must I do for this purpose? I am ready to follow your advice."

"My dear young lady," replied the curé with a gentleness which was

unusual to him, "I perceive clearly that you are very much improved,

for formerly you resented the slightest remonstrance, and now you

bear with sweetness even harshness and injustice. I have been really

grieved, I assure you, that I was so hard upon you the other day. When

I was at some distance, I said to myself: Now, here is this child of

sixteen, who was never contradicted in her life, and yet is as patient

as a lamb when severe things are said to her; whilst I, an old priest,

who fifty years ago renounced the world and its passions, am angry

and repulse her good resolutions. Instead of killing the fatted calf,

I shut the door against the returning prodigal; and yet, poor little

thing, she has done no great harm; she can only be reproached with

childish conduct."

"Indeed! Monsieur le Curé," cried Caroline, joyfully, "you really

thought all this? Oh! how grateful I am to you!"

"You have nothing to thank me for, my dear young lady, it is but common

justice. I much wished to pay you a visit at the château, to express my

regret, but I dared not, it is so long since I have seen Monsieur de

Manzay, and I responded so ill last week to his request for additional

seats in the church, that I did not know how he might receive me; but

you are very kind I see, and you will not be offended with an old man

who has not yet learned to command his temper. Oh! my child, you are

young, and in the season of vigour; for the love of God, employ all the

strength you possess in mastering your passions. This is the real duty

of man, as the Scripture says. To be benevolent and compassionate, to

possess a generous heart and an exalted character, to act so as to make

yourself beloved by every one, all this is much in the sight of God

and man, and all this I believe you will be; but still all this is not

sufficient, and, in conjunction with so many good qualities, may exist

great faults, which will prepare for us many regrets. Witness me, for

instance, my dear young lady; I am not good for much, but I may say

that I love my parishioners, and that I desire their welfare with all

my heart. Your father has the best intentions possible, and is full of

compassion for the poor, and yet I ask nothing from him, and take no

advantage of so good a neighbour: and why is this? Because the first

time I met him, four years ago, when he had just completed the purchase

of this estate, I heard him praise the Revolution, and say that it was

a glorious event. From that moment all was at an end between us; he

appeared to my imagination a Jacobin, ready to set fire to our church,

and oblige us again to say mass under the shelter of the woods; and I

would never hear of any intercourse with him. I am no longer of that

opinion, Miss Caroline: I perceive that it is possible to be a very

peaceful, and a very honest man, and yet speak well of the Revolution;

and several times I have been tempted to renew intercourse with

Monsieur de Manzay, but various things have turned out unfavourably.

He had a master removed whom I patronised; he decided the municipal

council to employ upon a road the money which I had asked for a bell;

and when you spoke to me about the school, I fancied it was to oppose

me that he chose to have another in these new methods, of which I know

nothing, and in which, therefore, I could not interfere. There is my

confession, my dear young lady. Now give me your hand, for yourself,

and for Monsieur de Manzay; assure me that you bear me no ill-will; and

tell me what are your projects."

"I have none for the present, Monsieur le Curé," replied Caroline,

greatly moved, as she placed her hand in that of the old man. "I have

no plan, but to follow your advice in everything. Tell me what I must

do, in order to make the villagers forget that I was formerly a very

unreasonable child."

"My dear young lady, you need only be the same at Montfort that you are

at the château. I have asked a great deal about you since the other

day, and have heard much in your favour, but these things are not known

amongst our people, and it is a pity. Observe, Miss Caroline, that you

cannot be useful to our poor people, without becoming acquainted with

them, and making them acquainted with you. Go and see them sometimes;

I assure you that you would become attached to them; and when you are

familiar with their wants and have acquired their confidence, we will

talk of your school, if you like."

At this moment the bell of the château rang for dinner, and Caroline

was obliged to take leave of the curé. They parted on the best

terms possible, and the very next day she began her visits to the

poor inhabitants of Montfort: but her project was not easy of

accomplishment. The curé had not exaggerated the prejudices of which

she was the object; and, to those which affected her personally, were

united other grounds of dislike, of which she was totally innocent.

The arrival of Monsieur de Manzay in this part of the country, had

not been looked on with favour, because he succeeded a proprietor who

was much beloved by the inhabitants, and who had been obliged, by

misfortune, to sell the estate. In order to banish the remembrance of

this unfavourable commencement, Monsieur and Madame de Manzay must

have been to the inhabitants of Montfort all that Monsieur and Madame

de Solanges had been. The latter, without children, without any lively

affections, or high powers of mind, but endowed with that intelligent

activity which is so great a resource in the various relations of

life, took much interest in all the affairs of the peasantry, gave

them advice and assistance, and were to them a sort of visible and

friendly Providence, whose aid they believed could never fail. With

Monsieur and Madame de Manzay all was very different: concentrated in

their domestic circle, in the happiness of conscious mutual affection,

in the care of their children, and in the elevated pleasures derived

from highly cultivated minds, they paid little attention to anything

beyond the very small circle of their affections. They were supposed to

be indifferent, because they were exclusive; proud, because they were

absorbed in themselves: and the departure of Monsieur and Madame de

Solanges was a continued source of regret. Caroline was, therefore, not

received with much pleasure at Montfort, and it often required great

forbearance on her part not to abandon the inhabitants of the village

to their unreasonableness and injustice, and renounce all her plans:

even the curé himself, whom she had seen so well disposed, often fell

back into his old prejudices against her and her family. Sometimes he

would be influenced by the ill-humour of some of the village gossips,

and sometimes the appearance of a dress or bonnet a little fashionable

would induce him to say that Caroline was better fitted for the gay

society of Paris than for the country, and that she would not do as

much good in her whole life, as Madame de Solanges in a single hour.

Sometimes he was angry because she did not compel all the household

to attend church, but left every one at liberty in this respect; at

others, Monsieur de Manzay, as mayor, had to support the rights of the

commune against the encroachments of the curé, and the latter vented

his displeasure on poor Caroline, and would hardly answer her when she

wished to communicate to him her remarks, her views, and her hopes. The

elections, when Monsieur de Manzay voted for the opposition candidate,

retarded the establishment of the school at Montfort three months; not

that the curé interested himself deeply in politics, but his friends

took up the question with so much warmth, that they succeeded in

inflaming him, and for more than six weeks he never set foot in the

château.

Caroline found it difficult, without becoming morose, to fortify

herself against all these obstacles; to maintain calmness under

disappointment, yet keep up the same lively interest in success.

Indeed, I know not if the welfare of the inhabitants of Montfort,

her conviction that she had duties to fulfil towards them, and that

God would not have given her the means, without imposing on her the

obligation of being useful, would always have sufficed to support

her under this arduous struggle--and if she might not, in a moment

of discouragement, have said to herself, that she was no longer

responsible towards persons who rejected all her efforts for their

benefit,--had not another sentiment come to her aid, and softened the

unpleasantness of her enterprise. She had perceived, with sorrow, that

her mother was not beloved at Montfort as she deserved to be. Her

first impulse was that of violent irritation and bitter displeasure

against those who failed to do justice to Madame de Manzay; but a

little reflection corrected this feeling, and she considered that the

best homage she could render to the memory of her mother, would be

to acquire the affection of her neighbours, to such a degree, that

some portion of it might be reflected upon her by whose remembrance

she was guided and encouraged: this idea rendered every sacrifice

and every effort more easy to her; she found nothing difficult, when

the aim was to call down blessings on the name of her mother, and

to efface the unjust prejudice which even death had been unable to

destroy. Her filial efforts were crowned with success; she saw all her

desires accomplished; and became the successor, with the inhabitants

of Montfort, to the attachment which they had retained for Monsieur

and Madame de Solanges. They ceased to regret that Monsieur de Manzay

had come to settle amongst them, and very soon began to congratulate

themselves on that event; for Caroline, who was all-powerful with her

father, induced him to have more intercourse with his neighbours,

and by that means he was frequently able to be of service to them. A

fountain was required in the town. Caroline begged her father to have

one constructed, and to name it after her mother, so that her memory

might be connected, in the minds of the people, with the idea of a

benefit. The curé united with her in the distribution of relief to the

poor: Caroline gave away flax for spinning, potatoes, meal; Monsieur

de Manzay kept in store faggots and turf; and the curé recommended to

them those who were really distressed and deserving of assistance. The

school and the work-room were established, and the children made rapid

progress. Thus, in the course of a few years, the inhabitants of the

château and those of the village found their position, with regard to

each other, completely altered; instead of being grievous and hurtful,

they had been rendered agreeable and useful, through the exertions of a

young girl, who, against the difficulties of the present, drew all her

strength from her regret for the past, and her hopes for the future.

But if the salutary influence of Caroline extended itself abroad, it

was not, on that account, the less active, or the less efficacious, at

home, in the bosom of her own family. In a very few years, everything

at Primini had undergone a change. Monsieur de Manzay, who was formerly

acquainted only with the enjoyments of the heart, and the pleasures of

the intellect, whose life passed away in generous but useless emotions,

in beautiful but sterile conceptions, who never sought to communicate

his ideas to others, and found, in the disinterested contemplation of

truth, sufficient to delight his heart and satisfy his conscience, was,

unknown to himself, raised from this state of careless languor, which

he had looked upon almost as a merit, and learned to consider it a

fault. Caroline, no longer a child, matured by misfortune, and anxious

to associate herself with all the tastes and occupations of her father,

directed towards the subjects which interested him the energy which

had formerly been expended on her own fancies. She very soon became

acquainted with his opinions, and adopted them. But it was not merely

for her personal satisfaction that she entered into them so deeply.

Endowed with great strength of will, and full of the ardour of her

age, it was inconceivable to her, that any one should consider he had

fulfilled his duty to the cause of truth, while yet he did nothing to

promote its triumphs, nor felt the necessity of imparting that of which

he cherished the belief. This disposition in the daughter reacted on

the father. Monsieur de Manzay, at first, contented himself with taking

the steps which Caroline requested, out of complaisance to her. He

expected no other result than the pleasure which she derived from them,

and the affectionate gratitude which she evinced towards him. But, when

success had several times crowned his efforts, when exertions, which

he fancied useless, had brought back to constitutional principles a

neighbour who had been enlisted on the other side, by prejudices easy

to be overcome; when an appeal to the proper authority had obtained

the redress of an illegal act; when a journey to the principal town had

been of essential service to an election, important to the country; or,

when the farmers had consented to adopt new and advantageous methods

of culture, Monsieur de Manzay congratulated himself on having yielded

to the entreaties of his daughter, and began to think that men are

naturally accessible to reason, and that to induce them to submit to

it completely, there is often nothing more required than to present it

to them in their own way. Such a conviction was encouraging, and made

him wish to employ, for the advantage of his neighbours, all those

facilities for serving them which he enjoyed, in the possession of a

superior understanding and extensive knowledge. He became more intimate

with them, and was useful to almost all. Old emigrants, strangers to

what was passing around them, to whom liberty was but revolution, and

monarchy the old _régime_, learned, by their intercourse with him, that

it was possible to be a friend to representative government, without

approving the crimes of the Convention; that a man might love equality,

without being, necessarily, ill-bred; that the king's authority gains

nothing from being served by bad ministers; and that there is no

rebellion in preferring an honest man, brought in by the opposition,

but of good ability, and well-known amongst his fellow-citizens, to a

designing fellow, without merit, who is sent from Paris, or imposed

on the electors by a circular. Young people, on the contrary, led by

discontent with what is around them to admire all that existed thirty

years back, were convinced, by conversing with Monsieur de Manzay, that

everything was not to be regretted in the times of the Revolution or

of the Empire; and that because the past was very different from the

present, it had not the less been often very bad. Aged men, full of

the ideas of the last century, obstinately refused all the demands of

the curé, and applauded themselves on the success of this obstinacy,

as a victory in the good cause; Monsieur de Manzay led them back to

more reasonable sentiments, and the curé, in his turn, ceased to attack

them. In a word, Monsieur de Manzay, from a solitary and unknown man,

became a communicative and influential one; his power of being useful

was thus increased, and consequently his happiness; and for these

advantages he was indebted to his daughter.

Stephen was also a gainer by the new order of ideas which had been

introduced into the family. His sister, convinced by her own experience

of the disadvantages of a too desultory education, felt it to be a

matter of much importance that his should be conducted with regularity.

She prevailed on her father to give him fixed lessons, and to exact

a strict performance of the duties imposed on him; she undertook to

watch over their execution, and devoted to this inspection a large

portion of her time; she also took upon herself the charge of teaching

him many things which it was desirable he should know, and in which

she was capable of giving him instruction. All this was easy, but

there was yet more to be done: knowledge is desirable and necessary,

it is even indispensable; yet it is but one portion, and that not the

most important, of education. Though Stephen's mind was not yet fully

developed, Caroline was extremely desirous to turn all his abilities

to account; but she was still more anxious that his views should be

right, his decisions just, and his character firm: she wished him to

know how to appreciate everything according to its real value, that he

might not passionately attach himself to trivial objects, and that he

should give his whole mind to whatever he had once determined on. To

attain these results, Stephen must not be indulged as she had been,

for she still often felt how naturally the habit of yielding to every

fancy leads to mistakes as to what is of real importance. This point,

however, she found it difficult to obtain from M. de Manzay. How was

he to be induced to give pain to this child, the last pledge of her

whose remembrance constituted his life; how could he resist his wishes,

impose restraints on him, treat him with severity? Perhaps by urging it

very importunately, and asking it as a personal favour, Caroline might

have gained this difficult conquest, and led her father to subdue the

feelings of his heart, and make use of one weakness to combat another;

but she did not have recourse to this dangerous method; her natural

sense of uprightness deterred her from making use of it, and taught her

that truth alone has the privilege of finally triumphing over error;

that one passion is not well vanquished by another; and that though it

be a longer, it is at all events a surer way to appeal to reason, the

sole legitimate and absolute sovereign of our moral nature. It was,

therefore, not by entreaties, but by rational persuasion, that she

succeeded in inducing her father to train Stephen for other aims than

mere present enjoyment, the amusement of the day, or the gratification

of his passing fancies. Nor let it be imagined that Stephen had any

reason to regret this change; on the contrary, his mode of life being

better regulated, afforded him more enjoyment; the necessity of working

gave value to his amusements; he found more happiness in doing what was

right, when he had experienced the effects of the reverse; and he loved

his father and sister all the better for their complaisance, when he

had felt their firmness.

Even Denis himself found his advantage in the reform which had

taken place at Primini. When life flowed on there so tranquilly and

so happily that each seemed to have no other duties than those of

affection, no occupations but those which were required to pass time

agreeably, there was abundance of room for him, and he could abandon

himself to all the impetuosity of his character; but when misfortune

and time had changed the habits of the family--when all was according

to rule, and each hour had its employment, each person his work,--what

remained for him but to make up his mind, and be reasonable like the

others? He had no longer any one to torment, and he scarcely regretted

it, for Caroline's patience had at length wearied him of this singular

amusement; and if he was sometimes a weight upon his cousin, it was

rather from the burthen of his idleness than from any bad intention.

But he required society--idle people; when everybody was occupied he

knew not what to do with himself. He could not pass the whole of his

time in walking, in looking at the haymaking, or in angling; and when

Stephen was studying with his father, Caroline at her school, and the

servants at their work, he must either lounge about wearily by himself,

or find some employment. He resolved one day to try this last plan,

fully resolved that if, after six months' trial, he should find it too

laborious, he would resume his old mode of proceeding, and give up

books for ever. As he had much resolution and strength of character,

and would not do things by halves, he gave himself up completely to his

new project, and voluntarily, without even requiring to be reminded,

he every day devoted eight hours to work. At first he found this

insupportable, and could only console himself for the disgust which he

experienced, by counting the number of days which remained to complete

his term of trial; but by degrees his distaste vanished; he perceived

that there is a vast difference between studying at broken intervals,

like a child and from constraint, and in seeking heartily to acquire

fresh knowledge. For his special employment he had chosen mathematics,

which he had formerly begun to learn, and which would be essential if

he persisted in his design of entering the naval service; but which he

had, nevertheless, thrown aside and neglected. M. de Manzay offered

him his assistance, although convinced that his resolution would not

be of long duration, and that he would not persevere even to the term

which he had prescribed for himself. He was mistaken. Denis, far from

being discouraged, every day became more attached to his new mode of

life, and the fatal epoch passed without his having remarked it. He was

now quite decided upon the continuance of his studies; he was eighteen

years of age, and calculated upon employing one more year in preparing

himself to enter the Polytechnic School. These two years of labour

and of seclusion, the mere idea of which formerly alarmed him to such

a degree that he was ready to relinquish his desire of entering the

navy, he now scarcely dreaded at all; besides which, he felt that he

had sufficient energy to surmount any unpleasant feelings they might

occasion. Whenever he again felt any dismay at the prospect, he would

go and confide his uneasiness to Caroline, now his best friend, whom he

no more thought of teasing than she recollected having been tormented

by him; their childish quarrels were so far from their thoughts, that

they would have been astonished had they been reminded that only four

years had intervened since these puerile disputes.

But if Caroline had forgotten the annoyance which had formerly been

given her by Denis, this was far from being the case with respect to

the contempt with which she had been treated by Robert; she could not

reconcile herself to the idea of his disdainful tone towards her, and

though her own good sense told her that her cousin's censure was justly

founded, yet she could not sufficiently conquer herself to forgive

the manner in which it was shown. Her imagination always represented

Robert, and his intercourse with her, such as she recollected them,

and she did not take into consideration, either the change in herself,

nor that which must have taken place in her cousin; all the praises

which she heard bestowed upon him redoubled her fear at the thought

of meeting him again, and it was with real dread that she awaited his

approaching return.

Robert, on his part, came back full of prejudices against Caroline.

With all the self-sufficiency of a young man of twenty, he had

formerly seen only her defects, and he persisted in the opinion

which he had then formed of her, with an obstinacy which would have

been unpardonable, if his absence, and the little taste he had for

letter-writing, joined to a not ill-founded mistrust of Monsieur de

Manzay's opinion where his daughter was concerned, had not afforded

some excuse for the error of still seeing, in the Caroline of twenty,

the Caroline of fifteen.

The mutual dislike existing between Robert and Caroline was the more to

be regretted as they were destined to pass their lives near each other.

Robert's estate was contiguous to that of Monsieur de Manzay, and it

was with the intention of settling there that he returned from his

travels. Decided to enter upon a completely independent career, which

should allow him the free disposal of his mode of life, he had resolved

to seek in commercial enterprises the means of employing his time and

abilities; he determined to convert his château into a manufactory, and

to add to his position as a landowner that of a merchant. His estate,

which was thickly wooded, and, traversed by a river, was exactly

suited for the establishment of an iron factory;--he promised himself

much satisfaction in setting it on foot, and superintending it, and

calculated upon being very useful to the country by such a measure.

He was not fond of the world, and regretted nothing at Paris but that

brilliant circulation of intellect which is as natural to it as its

atmosphere. No one can say whence it comes, or whither it goes; who is

the giver, or who the receiver; what will be its influence, or what

may be its limit: it is enough that it exists, that it spreads itself

around, that it seizes on all--yes, on all--even on those who deny it,

even on those who condemn it. But although Robert was more than any man

capable of appreciating, and of contributing his share to this noble

pleasure, he was not disposed to purchase it at the price of a life

of idleness, equally devoid of results as of aim. Had the state of

his country opened to him a career in which all his abilities might

be simultaneously developed, in which activity would have required no

sacrifice, but in which his individual progress would have advanced

the public good, he would have given this the preference; but this was

not possible, and Robert had too much strength of character to suppose

that he was exempted from doing that which was good, because he had

a glimpse of something better. He felt confident that a time would

come, when his wishes might be accomplished, and in the course of a

long career he looked forward to the promise of a future for himself

and for his country. But the future is in the hands of God alone, and

our obligations are attached to the present time; to squander it in

the expectation of the future, is to borrow without knowing whether we

have wherewith to pay, and to expose ourselves to the danger of being

some day bankrupt. Robert, therefore, not without some hesitation, but

without regret, fixed on the plan the best suited to his tastes and his

position, and which offered the best employment for his time, whilst

awaiting a more extended career; but he would not enter on his project

lightly, or without acquiring all the knowledge requisite for such an

enterprise. It would not satisfy him to be merely a worker on a grand

scale; even could he have made it profitable, it would have given him

no pleasure; and he was rich enough to entitle him not to consider

money as his sole object. He began, then, by passing two years at the

Polytechnic Institution, which he left with a brilliant reputation. It

was at that period that he spent a short time at Primini, before he

set out on the long tour on which he had determined, in order to see

various countries, and study their manners and institutions; to perfect

himself in living languages; and to examine the different industrial

processes invented and practised beyond the bounds of his own country,

with which it was right that he should be acquainted.

He thus came back to Puivaux at twenty-five years of age, happy to

return to his own country, to revisit the scenes of his childhood,

and renew his family ties; and the only thing that disturbed him was,

the disagreeable recollection which he retained of Caroline. In spite

of his prejudices, she had often presented herself to his mind, and

the remembrance of her caprices could not efface that of her lovely

face, the elegance of her form, and the grace of her movements; the

sweet tones of her voice still vibrated on his ears, and often had he

repeated to himself that it was a great pity she was so insufferable,

for she might have been charming; and then--then--but it must not be

thought of, she possessed neither good sense nor good temper, and from

such a person what could be hoped for?

It was rather late, one evening, when Robert arrived at Primini, where

he was to take up his abode till everything was in order at his own

house. He was not yet expected, but the absence of a friend, whom he

had intended to visit by the way, had shortened his journey; and he

had entered the château, and made his way to the drawing-room, before

his coming was even suspected. He was struck by the scene presented

by the persons there assembled. Monsieur de Manzay was reading aloud,

Stephen was drawing, Denis copying music, and Caroline working at her

embroidery frame. This social employment, this active tranquillity, was

the more striking from its contrast with the former habits of those

present, and its congeniality with his own tastes. He looked on without

stirring, when Caroline chanced to raise her eyes, and exclaimed, "It

is Robert!" Her voice expressed more surprise than pleasure, and, after

having risen hastily, she remained where she was without advancing

towards her cousin. He had already repeatedly embraced his uncle and

Stephen, and shaken hands with Denis, before she could recover herself

sufficiently to speak; she opened her lips and closed them again

without uttering a syllable. Robert, on his side, was ill at ease,

and it is impossible to say how long their embarrassment might have

lasted, if Monsieur de Manzay had not cried out, "Well! what are you

both doing? Are you not glad to see each other again? What are you

thinking about?"

"Will you permit me to embrace you, Caroline?" then said Robert.

"Permit you!" repeated Monsieur de Manzay; "are you such a simpleton as

to ask? I should like to see her refuse, indeed. For I am a terrible

despot, as you well know," he added, caressing his daughter, as he led

her towards Robert. They then embraced, but without much pleasure on

either side; and, under the pretext of giving some orders, Caroline

speedily made her escape from the room.

"My cousin is, then, at the head of your house?" inquired Robert, when

she was gone.

"Yes, certainly, and a capital manager she is, I can assure you."

"I should not have supposed her to be over-gifted with order."

"Formerly she had little enough; but she is greatly changed; you would

not recognise her, my friend."

"She has at least retained her good looks, and she has done well, for

she is really charming."

"Why, then, did you stand there like a post before her?"

"We were not very good friends, formerly, and I was afraid she might

recollect it. By the way, Denis, how do you agree with Caroline?"

"With Caroline! how is it possible to do otherwise than agree with her,

kind as she is?"

"Yet you used to be always quarrelling."

"Oh! that is a long time ago, when I was quite a child; but now, I

would throw myself into the river to give her pleasure."

"Or, what would be more to the purpose, you would work for her--as I

imagine this music is destined for her?"

"Exactly so; but, Robert, do not suppose that I am still the idle

fellow I used to be. I have been quite reformed here, and I am going to

enter the Polytechnic School."

"How! you, who spoke of it with such horror?"

"I tell you that I am quite reformed; for the last four years, nearly,

I have been living at Primini, and as everyone here is occupied, I

was obliged to do like the rest. In the beginning it was exceedingly

wearisome, but afterwards I took delight in the exertion, and so does

everyone. Is it not so, Stephen?"

"How tall Stephen is grown," said Robert; "he was quite a little

fellow, when I went away."

"You must remember that five years have passed since then, and many

events have occurred; but you will have time enough to discover this,

my friend, and for the present you must need refreshment and repose.

Stephen, go and tell your sister that she had better order supper."

At this moment, Caroline entered the room.

"Your apartment is quite ready, Robert," she said; "shall Stephen

conduct you to it, or would you rather take supper immediately?"

"Just as you please, I am quite at your disposal," replied Robert,

in a ceremonious manner, corresponding, perfectly, with the extreme

politeness of Caroline.

They were both of them ill at ease, infinitely more so than they would

have been with total strangers, when a little constraint would have

been natural. In fact, when all is real, there can be no embarrassment.

It is by a false position, and not by a difficult one, that we are

disconcerted. The remainder of the evening passed cheerlessly enough.

Caroline, who usually diffused life and gaiety over the home circle,

was constrained and silent, and took no share in the conversation; her

silence reacted upon Denis, who was accustomed to laugh and jest with

her: Robert reproached himself for the constraint and _ennui_ which he

seemed to have introduced into the house, and promised himself not to

prolong his stay, grieved as he was to find himself like a stranger,

and a troublesome stranger, in his own family. Following up his old

prejudices he laid all the blame of his vexation upon Caroline. "She

is still the same, whatever they may say," thought he to himself;

"she yields completely to the fancy of the moment. Because she is

sorry to see me--yet what harm have I ever done her?--she makes us all

uncomfortable, with her intolerable, ill-humoured airs. I perceive

nothing of that devotion to others--that self-denial, of which my uncle

spoke in his letters. However, I never believed in it, and I was right;

she is, and she always will be, a spoiled child."

The next day affairs assumed a different aspect, but Robert was no

great gainer by the change. Caroline, who had reproached herself for

making the evening pass disagreeably to her father, determined to

overcome the awkwardness which she experienced in Robert's presence,

and, as far as outward appearances were concerned, she succeeded. She

threw off the almost gloomy silence of the preceding evening, replied

gaily to the pleasantries of Denis on the subject, and appeared,

as usual, serene and amiable; but she found it impossible to be at

her ease with Robert. She listened to him with attention, replied

with gentleness, and even addressed her conversation to him when the

opportunity occurred; but it was evident that she did so with effort,

and that she laboured under insufferable constraint with him. Robert

perceived this clearly, and every day added to his vexation; this

negative distinction wounded and annoyed him, and he had to encounter

it perpetually. If Caroline wanted a strong hand to stretch her

embroidery frame, it was to Denis that she applied; if she wished to

gather a flower that was beyond her reach, she would call Denis to her

assistance, even if Robert were close beside her. At table, she might

sometimes forget to help Denis, or attend to Stephen before him, whilst

her scrupulous politeness towards Robert marked the distance between

them. Treated thus as a stranger, and more wounded by Caroline's polite

attention than even by her coldness, Robert found little pleasure at

Primini, and was dissatisfied with his cousin. He felt that their near

relationship gave him a right to more familiar intercourse, whilst

he forgot that he did nothing to promote it; greatly piqued, and

more grieved than he was aware of, to find himself on such bad terms

with Caroline, he took the very way to increase the distance between

them; he was reserved and ceremonious in his conduct towards her, yet

captious, and even ironical. Never did a word of friendly regard drop

from his lips, but he would often complain; and, too proud to own his

vexation, he veiled it under so much bitterness, that he was completely

misunderstood by Caroline, whose heart, accustomed to the full light of

truth, never suspected simulation, or detected what was feigned.

As Robert's stay at Primini was prolonged, he was day after day the

more grieved at the state of his relations with Caroline; seeing her

as he did continually, he could not but acknowledge that she possessed

excellent qualities, great amiability and simplicity of character, and

that she had wonderfully improved since they parted. Although he was

still far from being acquainted with all her worth, he began to think

that it would be very delightful to gain her friendship and possess

her confidence, and also to doubt whether he had ever deserved either

the one or the other. The remembrance of his former wrongs towards her

presented itself to his mind; he recollected how disagreeable had been

his manners, how severe his condemnation; he was no longer surprised at

the coldness of Caroline, and asked himself whether, since his arrival,

he had taken the proper measures to overcome it. His conscience told

him that he had not; his regret augmented, and soon assumed the form

of self-reproach. He accused himself as the sole cause of all this

vexation, and anxiously sought the means of putting an end to the

constraint which was so painful to both, so distressing to himself. One

morning, as he was pondering over the subject whilst taking a walk,

he heard bursts of laughter, and, approaching, saw Caroline and Denis

engaged in watering the flowers, and chatting in the most animated

manner. He joined them, wished them good morning; Caroline resumed her

gravity; Denis recollected that it was the hour to begin his studies,

and left them. Robert and Caroline remained for some moments without

speaking. At last, making an effort, he said, "I have disturbed you,

Caroline; I am sorry for it."

"Why should you think you disturb me, Robert? I can go on watering my

flowers whilst you are here."

"Yes; but you are not laughing as you were just now."

"I have no longer any inclination to do so."

"That is the very thing of which I complain; I always interrupt your

merriment, my dear Caroline; cannot you laugh and chat with me as you

do with Denis?"

"With you, Robert? Oh, that would be very difficult."

"And why? Am I not also your cousin?"

"I do not know you so well as Denis."

"But yesterday, when the curé introduced his nephew, to whom you were

a stranger, you conversed a great deal with him, and appeared to be

amused."

"I am not afraid of M. Julius."

"Are you, then, afraid of me?"

"Yes, certainly: you are so extremely severe."

"Have I found fault with you once since my return?"

"No; but you do not blame me the less in your own thoughts."

"Nay, I assure you I think of you very favourably. Besides, my dear

Caroline, allowing that we are not always of the same opinion, and

that--pardon my frankness--some of the disadvantages which I formerly

remarked may yet remain from your too indulgent education--you possess

so many good qualities, that these slight defects may be easily

overlooked. I, also, have had my faults, and especially towards you;

but, because we are neither of us perfect, need we be other than good

friends? Forget the past, I entreat you, and give me some portion of

your regard."

"With all my heart, Robert," cried Caroline, holding out her hand

to her cousin, who kissed it affectionately. "Believe me, I was far

from supposing that you set any value on my affection. I thought you

despised me." And the tears stood in her eyes. "Let us say no more

about it," she continued, more calmly, "it makes me too unhappy."

"How good and amiable you are, my dear Caroline; I have been very

unjust."

"I shall think of it no more. I was so unreasonable five years ago,

that I quite understand your thinking me very ridiculous."

"Yes; but how harsh I was! Oh, I repent it with all my soul! Pardon me,

I entreat you."

"Pardon you! my dear Robert, what a grand word! Must I, in my turn,

remind you that you are my cousin, and, above all, my senior; and that

I could not allow myself to talk of pardon to you? Come, let us return

to the house; my father will be delighted to see us on such good terms;

for our coldness annoys him, and he scolds me every day--in his way of

scolding, however--for not making myself more agreeable to you." She

took Robert's offered arm, and they went back to the house chatting

familiarly.

This first step once made, a complete change took place in the

nature of the relations between Caroline and Robert. They were both

so simple-minded, so truthful, so upright, that as soon as what

may be called the exterior obstacles which had separated them were

removed, the most perfect confidence was established between them.

There were, besides, so many reasons to bring them together; all their

affections were directed to the same objects: Robert had no relatives

that were not also those of Caroline; their interests were alike;

near neighbours, their exertions were employed for the welfare of the

same persons: the workmen of Robert were the sons, the brothers, the

husbands of Caroline's _protégées_; their opinions agreed, their tastes

were congenial; in a word, everything combined to attract them to each

other, and they could not become intimately acquainted without finding

how exactly they suited each other's tastes. Caroline was never tired

of listening to the accounts which her cousin gave of his travels, or

to the development of his ideas, his projects, and his hopes, of which

he perpetually conversed with her. It was with intense delight that he

contemplated the vivid impressions of so fresh a mind, so youthful a

heart; he was surprised by her good sense, enchanted by her gentleness,

and was particularly charmed with the seriousness and sincerity which

induced her to maintain her own opinion with firmness till the moment

that she was convinced of an error, when she would at once abandon it,

without any subterfuge or embarrassment.

The winter arrived, and passed away in this pleasing intercourse. Its

long days afforded Robert the greater opportunity for attaching himself

to Caroline, and gaining her affections. With the return of spring

he was to quit Primini, and establish himself at Puivaux. Scarcely

six months ago, he had impatiently longed for this period; a little

later, he felt that he looked forward to it without eagerness; and now

that the time approached, he could not contemplate it without dread.

However, by frequently grieving over the matter, and thinking how

dreary life would appear to him without Caroline, he at last arrived

at the conclusion, that he might render it happy through her means, and

that his cousin might perhaps consent to become his wife: she already

showed so much regard and esteem for him, and placed in him so much

confidence; might she not bestow on him still more? Why should not

Caroline return his love?

His addresses were not destined to encounter any obstacles; he had

never been indifferent to Caroline, and had now become extremely dear

to her: the certainty of living in his vicinity had already appeared to

her a happy destiny; what, then, would it be to live for him, to form

his happiness, and receive from him her own; to be the first object

of his thoughts and pursuits; to find such admirable qualities and

such noble faculties devoted entirely to her; in a word, to become the

wife of a man whom she was proud to call her friend, and congratulated

herself on having for a relative?

It may easily be imagined that M. de Manzay was not slow in granting

his consent. He had often dwelt with pleasure on the idea of this

union, and had never abandoned the hope of seeing it take place.

The marriage was celebrated at Montfort by the curé, who had once

thought so ill of Caroline. She was accompanied to the altar by four

young couples, M. de Manzay giving the dowry to the girls selected by

Caroline from amongst her former pupils, whilst Robert supplied the

funds for their establishment. The bridegrooms were workmen employed at

his ironworks, and were to live at Puivaux, whither Robert conducted

Caroline the day after the wedding. Her father followed her thither.

It was impossible for him to live without her, and he would not detain

her from her husband's affairs; but Primini was not neglected. This

place, which was destined for Stephen, was on all accounts much loved

by Caroline; she therefore watched over it with the greatest care, and

thither her walks were habitually directed. The two châteaux belonged

to the same commune, and were situated in the same parish: their

interests were identical, and the good which was undertaken by Monsieur

and Madame de Puivaux was only the continuation of that which had been

effected by Monsieur and Mademoiselle de Manzay.

Reed & Pardon, Printers, Paternoster-row, London.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] The Italian Marionettes are made with a degree of perfection

unequalled in this country.--NOTE by the Author.

[2] These dip-cups, or _pinceliers_, are little boxes of tin used

for cleaning the brushes. The colour-venders repurchase the residue

of these boxes, and the colour thus obtained is employed in the

manufacture of printed goods.

[3] Grimaud signifies a sulky person.

[4] Pasticcio signifies an imitation of the mixed style of various

artists.

[5] Derisive epithets employed to designate one who does not follow

the method and taste of the existing school of art, or who adopts a

finicing style of painting.

[6] Slang terms, indicative of a soft and finicing style of painting.

[7] Croûtes aux épinards, signifying daubs.

[8] Pickled meat, fried.

[9] That is to say, a caricature.

[10] The last entered or the least skilful in the studio.

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Transcriber's note:

Every effort has been made to replicate this text as faithfully

as possible, including some inconsistencies of hyphenation.

Oe-ligatures have been expanded to "oe."

The following is a list of changes made to the original.

The first line is the original line, the second the corrected one.

into one of Martin's paniers, where, covered

into one of Martin's panniers, where, covered

had just flattered himself, "Give it to me with the

had just flattered himself, "give it to me with the

the sound of his horses' feet growing fainter and

the sound of his horse's feet growing fainter and

"lest we lose our way," Cecilia did not dare to say

"lest we lose our way." Cecilia did not dare to say

First of all, she said, I will teach her to work well

"First of all," she said, "I will teach her to work well

B, then C; and at last, all the letters of the aphabet.

B, then C; and at last, all the letters of the alphabet.

Thus, all the success obtained that that day was,

Thus, all the success obtained that day was,

his mind still perplexed with the came doubt,

his mind still perplexed with the same doubt,

"Oh! my father," demanded Nadir, how, amidst

"Oh! my father," demanded Nadir, "how, amidst

I should not say, "To what purpose have I paid my debts?

I should not say, "To what purpose have I paid my debts?"

to find it, for it is in my shoe, under my stocking.

to find it, for it is in my shoe, under my stocking."

"there is master Louis himself, who will tell you that it is

"there is Master Louis himself, who will tell you that it is

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

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

disturb every body, and require to be pitied,--not that

disturb everybody, and require to be pitied,--not that

could not wait on Amelia as attentively as on other occasions,

could not wait on Adela as attentively as on other occasions,

she made it a rule to work, as she had had said, an hour longer

she made it a rule to work, as she had said, an hour longer

My father's, as well as my own name, is Valentin lâ Grimâudière.

My father's, as well as my own name, is Valentin lâ Grimâudière."

the inexperience which he very justly atttributed to him.

the inexperience which he very justly attributed to him.