Moral Tales
by Madame Guizot · English · Gutenberg #47485 · 684,107 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Moral Tales
Author: Madame Guizot
Translator: Mrs. L. Burke
Release date: November 29, 2014 [eBook #47485]
Most recently updated: October 24, 2024
Language: English
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MORAL TALES ***
[Illustration: "Shall I relate to you the history of that
particular louis,--all the adventures it has met with, and to how
many uses it has been applied?"--P. 3.]
MORAL TALES
BY
MADAME GUIZOT
TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH
BY
MRS. L. BURKE
LONDON
GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS
THE BROADWAY, LUDGATE
NEW YORK: 416 BROOME STREET
PREFACE.
The writings of Madame Guizot are highly celebrated in France, and
though something of this celebrity may be due to her position as
the wife of an illustrious statesman and historian, it must also be
remembered, that this very position was calculated to draw forth a
severer criticism than would usually be passed on one less favourably
circumstanced. But the works themselves have merits of far too
decided an order not to command attention in any case, and they
especially deserve the notice of English parents, from their entire
freedom from the exaggeration of sentiment and love of effect, so
often justly complained of in a certain portion of the Literature of
France.
In her Tales, it has been the aim of Madame Guizot to secure the
attention of her youthful readers by an attractive narrative, in
which the chief personages are children like themselves, and the
events and situations such as might occur in their own experience,
and then to lead their minds to important conclusions by the natural
course of the story, and without the repulsive intervention of mere
lecturing or argumentation; and we think it will be admitted, that
in the present series, she has been eminently successful. These
Tales are so simple and natural, that they may be understood by even
younger children than they are actually intended for, while at the
same time they are so full of good sense, and touch so vividly those
springs of action which influence alike both the young and the old,
that many of them will be read with as much interest, and sometimes
even with as much advantage, by the parent as by the child. Though
perfectly unpretending in structure and language, the most fastidious
taste will acknowledge them to be the productions of a highly refined
and cultivated mind, while they equally display all the charms of an
affectionate and parental disposition, conjoined with a lofty, though
a gentle and rational morality.
It is only necessary to observe, in conclusion, that the Translator
has endeavoured to preserve throughout the simplicity of style which
distinguishes the original, and to convey its meaning with all the
fidelity which the difference of the two idioms would permit. A few
unimportant expressions have been modified or omitted as unsuitable
to English taste, or likely to convey, in translation, a different
impression from that actually intended, but beyond this no liberty
has been taken with the text.
CONTENTS.
THE HISTORY OF A LOUIS D'OR _Page_ 1
FRANÇOU 120
M. LE CHEVALIER 142
EUDOXIA; OR LEGITIMATE PRIDE 158
EDWARD AND EUGENIA; OR THE EMBROIDERED BAG
AND THE NEW COAT 185
MARIE; OR THE FEAST OF CORPUS CHRISTI 212
THE LITTLE BRIGANDS 272
OLD GENEVIÈVE 291
JULIA; OR THE STORY OF MADAME CROQUE-MITAINE 309
AGLAÏA AND LEONTINE; OR MANOEUVRING 332
OH! OH! OH! A TALE 359
HELEN; OR THE FAILURE 370
ARMAND; OR THE INDEPENDENT LITTLE BOY 381
THE SECRET OF COURAGE 406
THE DREAM; AN EASTERN TALE 417
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
THE HISTORY OF A LOUIS D'OR--_Frontispiece_.
LITTLE PETER _Page_ 27
THE TEMPTATIONS 92
EUDOXIA 176
MARIA AND THE CURÉ 248
THE LITTLE BRIGANDS 288
LOUIS AND THE OLD SOLDIER 364
ARMAND, THE INDEPENDENT BOY 402
MORAL TALES.
THE HISTORY OF A LOUIS D'OR.
Ernestine was passing with her mother through the arcades of the
Palais Royal, stopping at every shop, longing for all she saw, now
and then sighing heavily, and at each moment making the happiness
of life consist in the possession of some attractive object, the
remembrance of which was effaced the moment after by some other,
destined in like manner to be as speedily forgotten. She was,
however, more especially interested by a toy-shop; not that Ernestine
had any wish for dolls, little carts, or bureaus, in which she could
not even have put her thimble, the drawers were so small: she was,
indeed, too old for that, for she was already eleven; but the sight
of a moving picture, in which were to be seen two men fighting, a dog
turning a spit, a laundress, a paviour, and a stonecutter, inspired
her with a fancy, which appeared to her much more reasonable. She
stopped her mamma in order to examine it more leisurely, and her
mother was kind enough to indulge her; but the picture was then
motionless. Ernestine thought it would be delightful to see all those
figures in action, especially the dog turning the spit, and asked if
it would not be possible to beg of the shopkeeper to wind it up.
"Certainly not," replied Madame de Cideville, "he did not place it
there for the amusement of the passers-by; he would think I wished to
purchase it."
"It would surely be very dear?" said Ernestine.
"One louis," replied the shopkeeper, who had overheard her.
"Oh! mamma," whispered Ernestine, "how cheap!" for she had imagined
that a thing so beautiful, and so ingenious, must have cost an
enormous sum. "How delightful it would be," she continued, "to obtain
that for one louis!"
"There are," said her mother, "many better ways of employing it;"
and she passed on, to the great vexation of Ernestine, who wondered
to herself how it could happen that her parents, who were so rich,
did not think it proper to spend a louis on so charming a thing as
a moving picture, in which a dog was to be seen turning a spit: for
Ernestine, like all children, and upon this point she was more than
usually inconsiderate even for her age, thought her parents much
richer than they really were; besides, she was not aware that there
is no fortune, however large, which justifies unnecessary expense. On
reaching home, she spoke to her father about the picture.
"Only fancy, papa, it might have been had for one louis. Oh! how
happy I should have been if I had had a louis of my own!"
"You would not surely have spent it upon that?" replied her father.
"Oh! papa, how could I have spent it on anything more delightful?"
"Doubtless," replied M. de Cideville, "it would have been quite
impossible to have found anything more delightful; but you might have
found something more useful."
"For a louis, papa! What is there so very useful that can be bought
for one louis?"
As she said these words, Ernestine tossed in her hands her mamma's
purse, which Madame de Cideville, on entering, had laid upon the
table. A louis d'or fell out of it. "See," said Ernestine, as she
picked it up, "to what very important use can this little yellow
thing be put?"
"To what use?" replied her father; "if I were to tell you all the
important uses to which it might be applied, all the trouble that is
sometimes required to gain it, all the danger there is in spending it
badly, all the good it may do to those who are in want of it, all the
evil it may make them commit in order to obtain it, you would wonder
how any one could be even tempted to throw it away upon useless
objects. Shall I relate to you the history of that particular louis,
all the adventures it has met with, and to how many uses it has been
applied?"
"Oh! yes, papa; but how came you to know all this?"
"That I will tell you afterwards. At present I want you to look at it
merely; it is not very ancient, it belongs to the coinage of 1787,
so that it is scarcely five-and-twenty years old. Now, listen to all
that has happened to it."
Ernestine drew a chair to her father's side, that she might listen
more attentively, and M. de Cideville began thus:--
I will not tell you how much labour and time were required to
extract from the earth the small quantity of gold of which this
louis is composed, to separate it from the other substances which
are generally found mixed with it, to melt it, to coin it, &c. It
was in the year 1787, that it came for the first time into the
Royal treasury, and that it was afterwards given out, in payment of
a regiment, to which, I know not by what chance, several months'
arrears were due. As the soldiers received five sous a day, this
louis served to discharge what was owing for more than three months'
pay to a poor fellow who, had there been war, might, during this
time, have fought in a dozen battles, have been killed, or at least
wounded, have died of hunger in a besieged city, perished at sea,
or been eaten by savages, had he been sent to fight in America.
But as it was a time of peace, he had only caught an inflammation
on the chest, in consequence of having had to mount guard during
one of the severest nights of winter, and afterwards a cutaneous
disease, from having slept in the hospital in the same bed with
a comrade who had it. At length he recovered, and as he was an
industrious and well-conducted man, and had managed by his occupation
of barber to the regiment, to make some little savings, he was
able, notwithstanding what I have mentioned, to send this louis to
his father, a poor peasant, at that very moment on the point of
being imprisoned for a debt of one louis, which he could not pay.
The creditor was on the spot, threatening him, and announcing his
determination of sending for the sheriff's officer: the peasant's
second son, the brother of the soldier, furious at seeing his father
thus menaced, had taken up a hatchet with which he was going to
kill the creditor, notwithstanding the interposition of his mother,
who, uttering piercing cries, rushed forward to prevent him, and
was thrown down by him, without his perceiving it, so violent
was his passion. The person who had brought the louis from the
soldier, arrived in the midst of this tumult. She had, at first,
much difficulty in making herself heard; but when they did begin to
understand what she was saying, peace was restored. The father paid
his creditor, the son rejoiced that he had not killed him, and thus
this louis d'or saved a man's life, probably the lives of two men;
for the son would have been punished for his crime: perhaps, indeed,
it saved a whole family, for the father and mother, who had only this
son to assist them in their labours, would, in all probability, have
died of misery and grief.
The creditor who had exacted this louis with so much severity,
belonged to the same village, and was really in absolute want of the
money, because, his harvest having failed, he had not the necessary
provisions for his family during the winter. Had the soldier's
louis not arrived, however, it would have been useless for him to
have put the father in prison; he would have gained nothing, as the
old man possessed nothing; but with this louis he bought twenty or
five-and-twenty bushels of potatoes, which were then very cheap, and
these served to support himself and his children.
The woman, however, from whom he had purchased the potatoes, and who
belonged to another village, having the imprudence to cross in the
dark a wood, through which the road to her house lay, three villains
of the neighbourhood in which she had sold her potatoes, who had
seen her receive the louis, agreed to wait for her in the wood, and
rob her of it. When, therefore, she had penetrated into the thicket,
they burst upon her, threw her from her horse, took the louis, and
were about to tear off her clothes, and perhaps kill her, when,
fancying they heard a noise, they ran off in different directions.
He who held the louis, endeavoured to escape from his companions,
that he might not share it with them; but they met him that same
evening at a tavern where he was spending it in drink. They demanded
their share, quarrelled, fought, and discovered all their secrets.
They were arrested and sent to the galleys. The tavern-keeper
interposed in the lawsuit; he wished to have the louis, as it had
been spent at his house; the woman who sold the potatoes, and who
had recovered and again mounted her horse, also claimed it, as it
had been stolen from her. I know not whether they were indemnified,
but the louis, after having served as a proof of the theft, because
it was the only one in the country, none of this particular coinage
having been before introduced there, passed into the hands of an old
lawyer, who quarrelled with an elderly lady, after a friendship of
thirty years, because she had won it of him at piquet, during the
course of six months, and had told him, besides, that he did not
know how to play. This old lady sent it as a new-year's gift to one
of her little granddaughters in Paris, who was saved by it from a
very considerable annoyance. Her brother, who, though treated with
a good deal of severity, was, nevertheless, very disobedient and
ill-behaved, had taken from her father's library, notwithstanding his
having been forbidden to touch it, a book which contained prints;
while reading it, he had let an inkstand fall upon it, and in order
that he might not be suspected, had carried it into the anteroom. All
this he communicated to his sister, as a great secret, making her
solemnly promise to say nothing about it, so that the servant might
be suspected. As her father was very particular about his books, the
young girl knew that the servant would be dismissed; still she could
not denounce her brother. The book had been put in the anteroom,
during the evening, and she wept all night at the thought of what
was to happen next day; for she was extremely kind and just. In the
morning, on awaking, the first thing she beheld was the louis, which
had been put upon her bed as a present from her grandmamma; her joy
was extreme, and she immediately sent for a copy of the book, as her
brother, who had also received a louis, finding himself screened,
would not spend his in this manner. However, she consoled herself, by
thinking of the terrible pain she would have experienced in seeing
an innocent person punished, without daring to justify him. The
book cost exactly one louis; this louis passed into the hands of a
librarian, and had a great influence on the destiny of a little boy,
whose history I am about to relate to you.
LITTLE PETER.
Little Peter, when ten years old, had entered the service of M.
Dubourg, a worthy man, who passed his life in the study of Greek and
Latin, and was so much taken up with what happened three thousand
years ago, that he did not even think of troubling himself with
what was actually passing around him; for he was consoled for every
inconvenience, provided he could apply to it an example or a maxim
drawn from antiquity. If he cut his finger, or hurt his foot, his
first movement was an exclamation of impatience, but immediately
afterwards he checked himself and grew calm, saying, "The philosopher
Epictetus suffered his leg to be broken by his master, who was
beating him, without making any complaint beyond these words: '_I
told you you would break my leg._'" One day, while dining in town,
he found himself in company with some very ill-bred military men,
who could talk of nothing but the stories of their regiment, and
the number of bottles of wine they had drunk at a mess dinner. The
mistress of the house, in order to make him some kind of apology for
a conversation which wearied him, said, laughing, "You must allow, M.
Dubourg, that I have made you dine in very bad company."
"Madame," replied M. Dubourg, "Alcibiades knew how to accommodate
himself to every grade of society, to every company, and even to the
customs of every nation;" and in order to follow the example of
Alcibiades, he commenced talking to them of the battle of Salamis,
and the feasts of Bacchus. As to the rest, M. Dubourg only dined out
six times a year; this was a rule which he had laid down for himself,
however numerous might be the invitations which he received. The
only irregularity he allowed himself was in the periods. Thus, for
instance, he might one year dine out on the 6th of March, and the
following year on the 7th or the 10th; it might even happen that
he accepted two invitations in the same month, though as a general
rule he placed them as nearly as possible at equal distances; but if
by any extraordinary chance, the six dinners were expended by the
month of July, no consideration would induce him to dine away from
home during the rest of the year. His expenditure was regulated as
strictly as his manner of life. With a very small income, M. Dubourg
wished to live in such a manner as to be perfectly independent of
every one, and especially so as never to be reduced to the necessity
of borrowing, which he regarded as the greatest of all faults;
"for," said he, "one can never be sufficiently sure of repaying."
Thus, his dinners were furnished by a restaurateur, who, for the
same sum, brought him every day the same thing. On one occasion the
restaurateur wished to increase his charge. "It is all the same to
me," said M. Dubourg, "I shall take less; Diogenes was able, by mere
philosophy, to bring himself to drink out of his hand, although he
had still a wooden cup of which he might have made use." It was
probably less out of respect for philosophy, than from the fear of
disobliging a customer, that the restaurateur, by the means of
certain arrangements, agreed to furnish him, for the old price, a
dinner of pretty nearly the same kind.
The other expenses of the day were calculated with the same
precision, so that, without ever counting, M. Dubourg, had always a
year's income in advance, and was consequently never inconvenienced
by having to wait for his returns. He had, besides, a sum in reserve
for extraordinary cases; such as an illness, an accident, or even
a goblet broken, or a bottle of ink overturned, &c. It might also
happen, on a rainy day, that he had to pay for crossing a stream upon
a plank, or, in winter, to give a sous to the little sweeper who
cleaned the crossing; all these expenses fell upon the extraordinary
fund, for as to coaches, M. Dubourg had only hired two during the
whole course of thirty years. One was to pay a visit to a rich man
from whom he had accepted an invitation to dinner, and to whose
house he was told he must not go splashed. This broke off their
acquaintance, and he never would go again, however much he was
pressed. The other he took when going to declare his sentiments to a
young lady whom he had been persuaded to fancy himself desirous of
marrying. He took it for fear that the wind should shake the powder
out of his hair, and it gave him an opportunity of reflecting, as
he proceeded, on the disorders into which the passions lead us. On
arriving at the young lady's house, he paid the coachman, returned
home on foot, and renounced for ever the idea of marrying. His
reserved fund was always maintained in the same state, by means of
a portion of his income regularly set apart for this purpose. When
it did not happen to be all spent by the end of the year, M. Dubourg
gave the remainder to the poor, otherwise, he neither gave nor lent;
for he said that "it is not proper to give unless we are certain
of not being obliged to ask, and that he who, in order to lend,
exposes himself to the chance of being obliged to borrow, places his
integrity at the mercy of a bad paymaster." It may be seen then, that
with some follies, M. Dubourg was a man highly to be esteemed for his
integrity.
Little Peter passed with him the happiest of lives. Provided he
was careful not to arrange the books that were scattered or heaped
together upon the desk or floor, which M. Dubourg called disarranging
them; provided he took care to sweep the room only once a fortnight,
when M. Dubourg had taken away certain fine editions, which he did
not wish to have exposed to the dust; provided he was careful never
to remove the cobwebs, that he might not run the risk of upsetting
the busts of Homer, of Plato, of Aristotle, of Cicero, of Virgil,
&c., which adorned the top of the library, little Peter might do
pretty nearly what he pleased. If he happened to be out at the hour
at which the restaurateur brought, every day, M. Dubourg's dinner,
so that it had to be left at the door, M. Dubourg having forbidden
the man ever to ring, for fear of interrupting his studies, and if
M. Dubourg found his dinner quite cold, or partly eaten by the cat,
Peter merely excused himself by saying, that he had been detained
by some business. Then M. Dubourg would say to him: "It is quite
natural, Peter, that you should occupy yourself principally with your
own affairs; you are not my slave; I have not purchased you with
my money: but were you my slave, the case would be very different."
Then, whilst taking his dinner, he would explain to him the duties
and condition of slaves; and how it was that their masters possessed
over them the power of life and death, which was indeed but just,
since they had purchased them; "But as for me, Peter," he would add,
"I am not permitted to do you the least harm, for you are not my
slave." And, in fact, he would not give him a caning, even when he
learned his Latin grammar badly; this was, nevertheless, the greatest
annoyance Peter could cause M. Dubourg; who, on this point, sometimes
got into violent passions, quite at variance with his general
character; for he could not understand how it was possible for any
one to dislike so excellent a thing as the Latin grammar. This
dislike, however, was very sincere on the part of little Peter, who
had no fancy for study, and who, though he had learned to read and to
write, had done so much against his will. When M. Dubourg, who did
not wish any one to live with him without understanding Latin, first
put an _Accidence_ into his hand, his parents were delighted at the
idea of his making, as they thought, little Peter a learned man like
himself; but Peter had not the slightest wish to resemble M. Dubourg,
who passed the whole day in poring over books; who often only half
dined, for fear of allowing a Greek passage to escape him, the
meaning of which he was beginning to seize; who took water, scarcely
coloured, because wine disturbed the judgment, and had, he said,
caused Alexander the Great to commit many crimes; and who, finally,
as his only pleasure, walked for two hours every day in the gardens
of the Tuileries, with three other learned men, who, on their part,
met there for the purpose of conversing together, after the manner of
the Peripaticians.
Little Peter, fancying that Latin led to nothing better than this,
could not perceive in it anything very attractive, and only learned
his Accidence, ill or well as the case might be, for the sake of
pleasing M. Dubourg, who wept with joy when he had repeated his
lesson well. He read, however, with tolerable pleasure, some books of
history which M. Dubourg had lent him, and he passed the remainder
of his time with his parents, to whom M. Dubourg had promised to
send him for several hours each day, and to whom Peter, according to
custom, remitted a very considerable portion of the hundred francs
which he annually received as his wages; for they said that, having
consented to place him with M. Dubourg at an age in which his labour
might have been useful to them in their trade of braziers, they ought
to be indemnified, in some other manner, for the expenses he had
occasioned them in his childhood. Little Peter, better fed and better
clothed than he could have been at home, ought to have considered
himself very well off; but he was discontented, because he could not
run about like other boys of his age, and because he had not the free
disposal of his money; in fact he regretted all the follies which
he could not commit, and then the Rudiments greatly disgusted him.
Besides, little Peter affected to be ambitious; he must make his
fortune, and that was an impossibility so long as he remained with
M. Dubourg. He related his troubles to a little groom with whom
he became acquainted, from having seen him at the door of a house,
situated between the residence of M. Dubourg and his father's shop.
One day this groom, whose name was John, told him that if he wished
he would procure him a good situation, with a young gentleman, a
friend of his master, who was in want of a groom. He would have to
take his meals with the other servants of the family, as long as
the young gentleman resided with his parents, and receive a hundred
francs a year, as with M. Dubourg, besides a louis d'or for his
new-year's gift, not to mention the perquisites, which, according to
John's account, would amount to three times as much as his wages.
Peter felt himself greatly tempted by the louis d'or, which he hoped
to keep for himself, and by the livery, which he thought much finer
than his grey jacket, forgetting, that from his grey jacket he might
pass to a better dress without the change being remarked, whereas
livery is a costume which once seen upon a person is never forgotten.
John had taught him to groom a horse, and this pleased him much more
than the Rudiments; he thought it would be very delightful to have to
groom one every day, and, besides, it seemed to him that he should
have his own way much more. However, he told John that the thing
was impossible; that he could not leave M. Dubourg; but as he went
along he could think of nothing else. His parents, seeing him thus
preoccupied, said to him a dozen times, "Peter, are you ill?" He
replied that he was not, and left them much earlier than usual, to go
and find John; not that he knew what answer to give him, but simply
that he might hear him talk of the situation, of the louis d'or, of
the perquisites, and of the horse.
The desire he felt to obtain the situation increased at every moment.
John told him that nothing was easier; that he had only to allow him
to speak to M. and Madame Jerôme,--these were the parents of little
Peter; and that he would make them listen to reason. Peter took him
at his word, and told him to come with him. John went, and as he was
a boy of great determination, he represented, in glowing colours, to
M. and Madame Jerôme, all the advantages of the situation which he
proposed, with the exception, however, of the louis d'or, to which
Peter had begged him not to allude, as he wished to keep it for
himself. "But see, Madame Jerôme," said John, "the master he will
have, lays aside his clothes almost new, and I will wager that, every
year, Peter will be able to bring a suit to M. Jerôme; but that is on
condition that you let him have a little more of his wages."
"We shall see, we shall see," said Madame Jerôme, who was quite
captivated with the idea of her husband's having a smart coat to walk
out with her on a Sunday. M. Jerôme urged that Peter could not leave
M. Dubourg, who bestowed so much pains on his education. "Excellent!"
replied Madame Jerôme; "no doubt Peter will be very well off when
he is as learned as M. Dubourg. They say in the neighbourhood, that
that is not the way to get bread." And as Madame Jerôme always made
her husband do just what she pleased, it was agreed that Peter should
accept the situation. John went to his master to solicit it; the
latter mentioned it to his friend, who sent for little Peter, and as
he was without a servant, it was arranged, that if Peter brought him
a good character from M. Dubourg, he should enter his service the
following day.
Peter returned home to M. Dubourg, whose dinner had been waiting at
the door a quarter of an hour. He was so bewildered, that in laying
the cloth, he put the chair on the side of the window instead of on
that of the door, a thing which had not been done for five-and-twenty
years; and he forgot, when giving M. Dubourg something to drink, that
it was an inviolable rule with him to put the wine into the glass
before the water. His master looked at him with astonishment, saying,
"Are you ill, Peter?" He again replied that he was not, and continued
his duties; but he was completely embarrassed, and the more so as M.
Dubourg spoke to him with even more than his usual kindness, calling
him _my child_, his term of endearment for those whom he particularly
liked. He said to him, "You will soon be thirteen years old; this is
precisely the age at which the Romans took the _Prætexta_. I even
think that I might find instances in which it was taken earlier,
though, indeed, this may have been in corrupt times. But no matter: I
think I can in conscience, allow you to leave off your grey jacket.
Since you have been with me, I have made it a rule never to dust the
covers of my books with my sleeve, as I was accustomed to do, and I
have only failed once, and then through pure forgetfulness. Besides,
although this coat has nearly served its time, for I buy one every
three years, it is in a sufficiently good condition to be done up
for you. And," added M. Dubourg, patting him on the head with an air
of gaiety, "you will look like a little gentleman."
Little Peter felt extremely troubled; this kindness, and then this
coat, which was to make him look like a gentleman, had completely
upset all his ideas. He left the room as soon as he could, and did
not enter it again that evening. The following morning, Madame Jerôme
came to inform M. Dubourg that her son wished to leave him, and to
ask him for a character. However great was his astonishment, he only
uttered these words: "Little Peter is not my slave; I have no right
to detain him against his will." He promised the character, and when
Madame Jerôme was gone, he called Peter, who had not dared to show
himself. "Peter," said he, "if you were my slave, you would deserve
to be beaten with rods, or even worse, for wishing to leave your
master; but you are not my slave, therefore you may go."
He said this in a tone of so much feeling, that little Peter, already
much moved, began to cry. "Why do you wish to leave me, my child?"
continued M. Dubourg; "you will forget all you know, with another
master."
"Oh! Sir," said Peter, shaking his head, "it is not my lot to be a
learned man."
"You are mistaken, Peter; you are mistaken, my child. If you could
once get over the rule of _que retranché_, you would get on very
well." And thereupon he began to cite to him, with great earnestness,
the examples of many celebrated men, who had at first displayed but
little talent, but who afterwards astonished the world by the extent
of their learning. "You have the opportunity of becoming what they
were, Peter," exclaimed M. Dubourg, "and yet you renounce it." He was
so sure of his case, and spoke with so much enthusiasm, that little
Peter, quite carried away, felt himself on the point of losing his
fortune.
"Oh! Sir," he exclaimed, "only consent to give me one louis more a
year, and I will remain with you all my life."
At these words, the enthusiasm of M. Dubourg was changed into
consternation. "If that is what is required," said he, "it is
impossible. You know yourself, that it is impossible." Peter remained
silent and confounded, for he knew that his master, before engaging
him, had refused a boy who asked him five louis, because this would
have occasioned an irregularity of twenty francs in the expenses
of the year. He retired in confusion. M. Dubourg, without uttering
another word, gave him a favourable character, to which, however, he
considered himself obliged, as a matter of conscience, to add, that
Peter had always shown but little inclination for the Latin grammar.
Little Peter soon got over his vexation; he thought himself so fine
in his livery, especially when John had taught him some of his
grand airs, that he was as proud of it as if there had really been
some merit or honour in wearing it, and when, by chance, he had
to drive his master's cabriolet through the streets, he would not
have exchanged conditions with any of those triumphant heroes whose
history M. Dubourg had made him read. One day when he was behind this
cabriolet, he saw M. Dubourg in danger of being knocked down by the
horse, and cried out, "Take care, take care!" in a louder, though
less imperious tone than usual. M. Dubourg recognised the voice,
and looked up. Peter did not very well know whether to be pleased
or ashamed, that he should thus be seen by him in all his glory. M.
Dubourg gave a heavy sigh: "Is it possible," he said, "that a person
who was beginning to understand the Latin grammar could mount behind
a cabriolet!" And he continued his way home, in a thoughtful mood.
As for Peter, he did not think of the circumstance very long, he
only thought of amusing himself. John had taught him, according to
his own account, the best means of doing so; that is, he took him
to the public-house, and to places where cards and billiards were
played. There he lost his money, and when his master paid him his
first quarter's wages, he owed the whole of it. For three days, he
did not dare to go near his parents; for he knew very well that they
would require their share. At length, John advised him to say, that
he was to be paid only every six months, assuring him that by that
time he would regain all that he had lost. On the contrary, he lost
more, and only got deeper in debt. At the end of the six months, he
said that he had been mistaken, and that his master paid only once
a year. His parents began to disbelieve him, and, besides, the coat
that John had promised to M. Jerôme was not forthcoming. If Peter had
received perquisites, he had sold them to obtain money. Still his
debts increased daily; he dared not pass down the street in which a
certain tavern-keeper lived, because he had had drink in his house,
for which he had not paid; in the neighbouring street a petty dealer
in hardware, from whom he had obtained, on credit, a chain of false
gold, in order to appear to wear a watch, insulted him every time
he saw him. At every moment, he met comrades to whom he was still
indebted, for money which they had won from him, while his parents,
on the other hand, were very much displeased with him, and threatened
to go and ask his master whether he told them the truth. Little Peter
knew not where to hide his head.
One morning his master's mother, who was almost as precise a person
as M. Dubourg, gave him eighteen francs to carry to a shopkeeper, to
whom she owed the balance of an account, for some things purchased
of him the previous evening. Peter went out, proceeding with great
precaution and looking on every side, as he was accustomed to do,
since he had become constantly fearful of meeting persons to whom
he owed money. He was absolutely obliged to pass through the street
in which the hardware-dealer lived; he looked out from a distance,
saw him engaged in conversation, and hoped to pass by unperceived.
But as he approached, the person with whom he was talking turned
round. It was the tavern-keeper, who called to him, and demanded his
money, in no very polite terms. The hardware-man joined him, and
they placed themselves in the middle of the street, so as to prevent
him from passing, telling him that he must pay them. Peter glided
between the wall and a carriage, which was standing there, and ran on
with all his might; he heard them cry after him, that it was well to
have good legs when one had not a good conscience, but that he might
spare himself the trouble of running away, as they would catch him
again. As he continued his flight, and was rapidly turning a corner,
he ran against a man who was coming towards him. This man turned
out to be a groom of his acquaintance, to whom he owed some money,
won at cards. He was half-intoxicated, and seizing little Peter by
the collar, and swearing at him, said that he must have his money,
for the publican demanded it of him, and that he would drag Peter
before him and beat him until he had paid it. Peter defended himself
with all his strength. A crowd gathered round, and allowed them to
continue. At length he heard some one cry out, "Villain, leave off
beating that child!" He recognised the voice of M. Dubourg, and saw
him, with uplifted cane, approaching to his assistance. The fear
of being recognised, gave him even more strength than the fear of
being beaten; he tore himself out of the hands of the groom, who had
likewise turned round, on hearing himself thus spoken to, and whom M.
Dubourg, with his cane still upraised, prevented from following Peter.
Peter, who now continued his flight with even greater rapidity than
before, came at last to a street where he no longer saw any one
likely to recognise him, and sat down trembling, upon a bench, not
knowing what was to become of him. He had heard the groom also say
that he would catch him, and he had no doubt that he was watching
for his return. On raising his eyes, he perceived that he was before
a tavern to which his comrades had taken him to play at cards, and
where he had seen one of them win a hundred francs. His heart beat
high at the idea of gaining as much, and a detestable thought took
possession of his mind. Perhaps in hazarding thirty sous only of the
eighteen francs with which he had been intrusted, he might regain
all that he owed; but if he happened to lose! This reflection made
him tremble. He went away; then returned, the temptation increasing
every moment. At last, picking up a stone, he said to himself, "If
in throwing this against the wall, I hit the mark that I see there,
it will be a sign that I shall win!" He placed himself very near
the wall, that he might not miss it, threw the stone, hit the spot,
and went in. He was so excited, that he scarcely knew what he was
about. Never before had he committed so bad an action, nor would he
have committed it now, doubtless, had he been in his right mind.
But it is one of the consequences of bad actions that they place us
in circumstances which disturb the judgment, and deprive it of the
strength necessary for directing our conduct. Had any one, at this
moment, told Peter that he was committing the act of a thief, he
would have trembled from head to foot; yet such was, nevertheless,
the fact; but he did not think of it. At first he only hazarded
thirty sous, and won: he won again, and fancied himself already rich.
Had he stopped there, he would have had, if not sufficient to get out
of difficulty, at least enough to satisfy, in some degree, one or two
of his creditors; but by doing this, he would have been rewarded for
his fault, and by a law of Providence, evil-doers never know how to
stop at the point where their faults would be unattended with danger.
He who, in doing wrong, relies upon his prudence to protect him from
exposure, always finds himself deceived; the love of gain, or of
pleasure, ends by dragging him on to the action which is to bring
about his punishment. Peter was desirous of gaining more, and he lost
not only what he had won, but his stake also. The hopes that he had
at first formed, rendered him only the more ardent in the game, and,
besides, how was he to replace the thirty sous? He hazarded thirty
more, lost them, then more; at last the whole eighteen francs are
gone. He left the house in despair, and wandered through the streets
unconsciously, neither knowing where he was, nor what he was doing,
still less what he intended to do. He heard it strike four o'clock,
and remembered that at five he had to wait at table. He would be
asked by his mistress's mother whether he had paid the eighteen
francs, and though for some time past he had got into the habit of
telling falsehoods, his conscience accused him so vehemently, that
he felt he should not be able to reply. However, like a man who
throws himself into a river without knowing whether he shall get out
of it again, he took, mechanically, the way to the house; but as
he approached it, he fancied he saw the shop girl belonging to the
tradesman, to whom he had been ordered to carry the eighteen francs,
coming out of it. He had no doubt that she had been to ask for the
money, and feeling that it would be quite impossible for him to enter
again his master's dwelling, he turned away, and recommenced running,
without knowing whither he went. It was winter: night came on, and
he at last stopped, and sat down upon a step, and felt that he was
without a home. Nothing in the world would have induced him to
return to his parents, and it would have been equally impossible for
him to expose himself to the look of the honest M. Dubourg. The cold
increased with the night, and it began to freeze rather severely.
Peter had eaten nothing since the morning, and though his heart was
oppressed, yet hunger began to make itself felt at last. All he could
do, however, was to weep; for what resource was left to him in the
world? At times this hunger, cold, suffering, and despair weighed so
heavily upon him, that he would start up, and run away, whither he
knew not, but determined to find some spot where he should suffer
less. Then again, he would suddenly stop; for he felt that he had not
the courage to show himself anywhere, or to endure the questions or
the looks of any one; so he would slowly return, sit down again, and
weep anew, while the cold wind, blowing upon his face, froze up the
traces of his tears.
At last, overcome by fatigue and exhaustion, he fell asleep, or
rather he became numbed; his state was a kind of half-sleep,
which, although leaving him no distinct ideas, still left him the
consciousness of the cold and hunger, and grief. In the middle of the
night, he was awakened by some one who shook him violently. He opened
his eyes, and saw around him several armed men. It was the watch,
who finding a child asleep in the street, wanted to know why he was
there, and to whom he belonged. Peter had at first some difficulty
in collecting his ideas, and when he had succeeded in doing so, he
only felt the more vividly the impossibility of replying. He dared
not say to whom he belonged. He cried, and entreated them to leave
him there, as he was doing no harm to any one. They would not listen
to him, but told him that he must go to the guardhouse. One of them
took him by the shoulders, and as he resisted, another gave him a
blow across the legs to make him proceed. Peter walked on trembling.
The snow began to fall so heavily, that they could scarcely see their
way, and added to this, the wind was so strong, that it extinguished
all the lamps, and drove the snow full into their faces. At length,
the soldier who held little Peter had his cap blown off by a violent
gust, and left him in order to run after it. The others, blinded by
the snow, got dispersed; they sought each other; they called out. As
to Peter, stupified by the wind, the snow, and all that had happened
to him, he knew not where he was, what he was doing, or what he ought
to do. Motionless on the spot where he had been left, he heard the
soldiers inquiring for him, and asking whether he had not escaped.
This brought him to himself, and finding one of them approaching, he
drew back softly, in order to get as near as possible to the wall. As
he retired farther and farther, he was still unable to feel the wall,
and at last perceived that he had entered a bye-street, which the
thickness of the snow had prevented him from seeing. He then walked
faster, and soon ceasing to hear the soldiers, he regained a little
courage, and after many windings, he at last stopped, and crouched
down at the corner of an old building.
After remaining there some time, he again fell asleep, and when he
awoke day was breaking. He tried to get up, but the cold and the
uneasy posture in which he had remained, had so benumbed his limbs,
that he could not move a step, nor even stretch his legs; while the
violent effort which he made in order to move forward, threw him to
the ground. In falling, his head struck the curbstone so violently
that he become unconscious. He did not, however, altogether faint,
and after a short time he had a confused perception of persons
speaking and acting around him. It also seemed to him that he was
taken up and carried away; but all was so indistinct that he had
no proper consciousness of anything. He had neither any fear of
what was going to happen to him, nor any wish to be better, nor any
recollection of what he had done. He came to himself, however, by
degrees, and his first sensation was a violent oppression of the
heart. Poor little fellow! this is a feeling which he will henceforth
always experience, as often as he calls to mind what he has done.
At present he does not call this to mind, he simply feels that he
has committed a terrible fault. He also feels that he is suffering
in every part of his body, but, at the same time, he perceives
that he is in a bed, and in a room; at length he regained complete
consciousness and saw that he was at M. Dubourg's, and that M.
Dubourg and his mother Madame Jerôme were by his side.
His first impulse on perceiving them was to hide his head in the
bedclothes and weep. As soon as his mother saw that he was conscious,
she asked him what had happened to him, and why he had fled from his
master. She told him that, finding he did not return during the day,
they had sent at night to inquire for him at her house; that this
had made her very uneasy, and that she had gone to his master's
early in the morning, and learning that he had not slept there, she
had run in great terror to M. Dubourg, who told her that he had not
seen him; and finally, that on leaving his house, she had found
him at the corner of the street stretched upon the ground, totally
insensible, and surrounded by several women of the neighbourhood,
who were exclaiming, "Oh! it is little Peter! What can have happened
to him! What will Mother Jerôme say! He must have been drinking, and
got intoxicated, and the cold has seized him." At the same time, the
woman who attended to M. Dubourg's house had gone to tell him the
news, and he in great uneasiness came out in his dressing-gown and
nightcap, a thing which had never happened to him before in the whole
course of his life.
[Illustration: She had found him at the corner of the street,
totally insensible, and surrounded by several women of the
neighbourhood--P. 27.]
At the conclusion of this recital, intermingled with reproofs, Madame
Jerôme renewed her questions; but little Peter wept without replying.
The physician who had been sent for, now arrived, and told them that
he must not be tormented, as a severe fever was coming on; and indeed
a violent excitement soon succeeded to the weakness from which he
had just recovered. His fault represented itself to him in the most
frightful colours, and threw him into fits of despair, of which they
were at a loss to conjecture the cause. At length, when Madame Jerôme
had gone home to inform her husband of what had happened, and of
the necessity there was of her remaining to nurse Peter, he raised
himself in his bed, and throwing himself on his knees, with clasped
hands called M. Dubourg, and said to him, "Oh! M. Dubourg, I have
committed a great crime." M. Dubourg, thinking him delirious, told
him to keep himself quiet, and lie down again. "No, M. Dubourg,"
he repeated, "I have committed a great crime." And then with the
quickness and volubility which the fever gave him, he related all
that had passed, but with so much minuteness of detail, that it was
impossible to consider what he said as the effect of delirium. M.
Dubourg made him he down again, and stood before him pale and shocked.
"Oh! Peter, Peter!" said he at last, with a deep sigh, "I had so
earnestly hoped to have been able to keep you with me!"
Peter, without listening to him, uttered aloud all that the torments
of his conscience dictated; he said that his master's mother would
have him apprehended, and in moments when his reason wandered more
than usual, he declared that the guard were in pursuit of him. M.
Dubourg, after reflecting for some time, went to his secretary,
counted his money, closed his desk again, and Madame Jerôme returning
at the same moment, he related to her what he had just learned,
adding, "Madame Jerôme, little Peter, according to his own account,
has committed a great crime, which prevents my keeping him with me
as I had hoped to do, for I had provided the necessary means. My
mind has never been easy, from the day I saw him behind a cursed
cabriolet. He had offered to remain with me for one louis more a
year, and I thought of procuring it by my labour. You see, Madame
Jerôme, how valuable and profitable a thing is learning. I had indeed
made it a rule never to publish anything; but I considered that
there were works which might be written, without compromising one's
tranquillity. I have composed an almanac, in which I have recorded
the feasts and epochs of the year among the ancients. It cannot but
be very interesting to know, that on such a day began the Ides of
March, or, as the case may be, the Feasts of Ceres. I demanded of
the publisher one louis for it, that being all I stood in need of.
He gave it immediately, and will give me the same every year, for
a similar almanac." M. Dubourg was going on to explain to Madame
Jerôme how he would manage to insure accuracy, notwithstanding the
irregularity of the ancient calendar; "but," said he, "it is not
necessary for you to know all this:" and then added, "I had intended
this louis for little Peter. I can dispose of it in his favour, and
the more easily as we are now at the end of the year, and I have in
my reserved fund more than sufficient to defray the expenses of his
illness. I was afraid at first that I should be encouraging vice; but
I have since considered that the evil is now done, and that it is the
innocent who has suffered from it. Take, then, this louis, Madame
Jerôme, and carry the eighteen francs to the shopkeeper." This,
said M. de Cideville, was the precise louis d'or whose history I am
relating to you.
Madame Jerôme, he continued, had been waiting anxiously for the end
of this discourse, which she did not very well understand, but which
she had not ventured to interrupt. As she was a very honest woman,
the conduct of her son had so overwhelmed her with grief and shame,
that she almost threw herself at the feet of M. Dubourg, to thank him
for affording her the means of repairing it without being obliged to
pay a sum very considerable for a poor woman burdened with a family.
She hastened out, though not without addressing some reproaches to
her son, who scarcely understood them, and ran to pay the shopkeeper.
As it happened, no inquiries had been made of him, nor had he, on
his part, sent for the money. Peter, therefore, had been mistaken,
and as yet nothing was known about the affair. His mother, on her
return, found him better; the fever had begun to abate, and he was
also comforted by the intelligence she brought. But if he had escaped
exposure, he could not escape from the remorse of his own conscience,
or from the reproaches of his mother, who was inconsolable. Her
lamentations, however, distressed him less than the cold and serious
manner of M. Dubourg, who no longer approached his bed, or spoke to
him, but took care that he should want for nothing, without ever
directly asking him what he wished to have. Little Peter had, more
than once, shed bitter tears on this account, and to this grief was
added, when he began to recover, the fear of returning to his father,
who had come to see him during his illness, and who, being a man of
great integrity, had severely reprimanded, and even threatened him.
Peter entreated his mother to ask M. Dubourg to keep him. M. Dubourg
at first refused; but Madame Jerôme having promised him that Peter
should not go out, and that he should study the whole of the day, he
went to consult his Xenophon, and saw that Socrates in his youth had
been addicted to every vice; there was reason therefore, for hoping
that labour would reform little Peter, as it had reformed Socrates.
Peter was obliged to keep his word. His illness had left a debility
which long continued, and he was further restrained from going out
by the fear of meeting those to whom he owed money. Study being his
only amusement, he ended by becoming fond of it: and as he possessed
good abilities, his progress was such as to give his master much
satisfaction. But the honest M. Dubourg was ill at ease with Peter,
and no longer spoke to him with his accustomed familiarity. Peter
felt this, and was unhappy: then he redoubled his efforts to improve.
One day, having made a translation which gave M. Dubourg great
satisfaction, the latter promised, that if he continued to improve,
he would have the coat, which he still kept for him, arranged. Peter,
after much hesitation, begged to be allowed to sell it instead, so
that its price, together with the louis which he was to receive
at the end of the year, might serve to pay a part, at least, of
his debts. M. Dubourg consented, and was greatly pleased that this
idea had occurred to him. While waiting, therefore, for two years,
until the new coat had served its time, he continued to wear his
old grey jacket, which he was obliged to mend almost every day, and
the sleeves of which had become about four inches too short. But
during this time he succeeded in completely gaining the friendship
of M. Dubourg, who, having received a small legacy, employed it in
increasing the salary of Peter, whom he elevated to the rank of his
secretary. From this moment he treated him as a son; but Peter, who
was now called M. Jerôme, could not perceive, without profound grief,
that whenever any allusion was made in his presence to a defect of
probity, M. Dubourg blushed, cast down his eyes, and did not dare
to look at him. As for himself, whenever anything was mentioned
that could have reference to his fault, he felt a severe pang shoot
through his heart. When money was concerned, he was timid, always
trembling, lest his honesty should be suspected. He did not dare,
for several years, to propose to M. Dubourg that he should spare
him the trouble of carrying the money to the restaurateur at the
end of each month. The first time his master intrusted him with it,
he was delighted, but still felt humiliated by the very pleasure he
experienced. However, he became accustomed to it: a life of steady
honesty has at last restored to him the confidence which every man of
honour ought to possess; but he will not dare to relate this history
to his children for their instruction, until he has become so old,
and so respectable, that he is no longer the same person as little
Peter, and he will always remember, that to M. Dubourg, and his louis
d'or, he owes the preservation of his character.
CONTINUATION OF THE HISTORY OF A LOUIS D'OR.
One day after breakfast, M. de Cideville having a leisure hour,
Ernestine begged him to continue the history of the louis d'or, and
he began thus:--
The shopkeeper to whom Madame Jerôme had carried the louis, was just
going out as she gave it to him. He took it, returned her in change
a six-franc piece, which was lying on the counter, gave the louis
to his wife to be locked up, and departed. As the woman was on the
point of putting it by, she heard her little girl, a child of two
years old, screaming so violently in the adjoining room, that she
thought she must have fallen into the fire. She ran to her, and found
that she had only caught her finger in a door. Having succeeded in
pacifying her, she returned to lock up the louis, but it was not to
be found. Her shopwoman, Louisa, searched for it also, with great
uneasiness. No one had entered the shop; she had been alone, and
she felt persuaded that her mistress, who did not much like her,
and who often quarrelled with her without just cause, would accuse
her of having taken it: nor was she mistaken. It was in vain that
she asserted her innocence, that she emptied her pockets, and even
undressed herself in the presence of her mistress, to prove to her
that she had not concealed it. She was not to be convinced, and she
was the more enraged from knowing that her husband would be angry
with her for not having locked it up immediately. On his return, she
related what had happened, and expressed her confidence that Louisa
had taken the money. He was not so sure of that, however, for he
knew her to be an honest girl; but he was out of temper, and Louisa
suffered for it, and was dismissed.
She went away heart-broken, yet carrying with her, without being
aware of it, the louis d'or in her shoe. At the moment that her
mistress, hearing the cries of her little girl, ran to her aid, she
laid the louis upon the counter, on which Louisa had mounted for the
purpose of arranging a bandbox, placed very high. She wore thick
shoes, to which, in order to render them still stronger, and better
suited for keeping out the damp, she had had another sole put; but
this sole, which was not very good, was worn out at the side, and
Louisa, making a false step upon the counter with these heavy shoes,
the louis was forced into the opening between the two soles. She
felt, as she descended, something catch at her foot, but imagined it
to be a nail coming out of her shoe, and as she was very active, and
did not willingly interrupt anything upon which she was engaged, she
merely struck her foot against the bottom of the counter, in order to
drive in what inconvenienced her. This made the louis enter entirely
into the opening, and as high heels were then worn, the action of the
foot made it slip towards the toe, where it was no longer felt, and
Louisa wandered through Paris in search of a new situation, carrying
with her everywhere this louis which had driven her from her old one.
Not having a character from her master, she could not obtain an
engagement. She was an orphan, and had no relations in Paris, so that
to avoid perishing from want, she was obliged to station herself at
the corner of a street, as a mender of old clothes. This occupation
was a very painful one for Louisa, who had been well brought up,
her parents having been respectable tradespeople, who had failed,
and died in poverty. It had required all the gentleness of her
disposition to enable her to live with the wife of the shopkeeper,
by whom she was badly treated, but as she was a well-conducted
girl, she endured everything in order to continue in a respectable
situation. Now, she was compelled to hear the oaths of the street
people, and the talk of drunkards, who often addressed her in a very
disagreeable manner, to say nothing of the cold, the wind, and the
rain, from which she suffered greatly; but as her occupation did not
require much walking, she had not worn out her shoes, so that she
always carried about with her the louis which had occasioned her so
much harm.
One day, in spring, when the sun had been very warm, there came on
suddenly a terrible storm, which, in a few minutes, swelled the
kennels to such a degree, that in several places they touched the
walls of the street. Louisa had left her station to take refuge under
an opposite doorway, where she found herself by the side of a lady,
dressed in a manner which indicated affluence. She was not young,
appeared to be in bad health, and was much embarrassed about having
to cross, in her thin shoes, the deep pools of water formed before
her. She was not in the habit of going on foot; but this morning, the
weather being very fine, and the church in which she usually heard
mass, being near her residence, she had not ordered her carriage in
going to it. Having found it, however, very full, she went to another
at some distance, and while there, had sent her servant on an errand.
She had returned alone, had been overtaken by the storm, and was much
afraid that the damp would bring on a severe cold, from which she
was but just recovered. "If I had only some other shoes!" she said.
Louisa very timidly offered hers.
"But what will you do?" asked the lady.
"Oh, I can go barefoot," replied Louisa; "but you, madam, cannot
possibly go in those shoes." And Louisa really believed what she
said, for poor people, accustomed to see us surrounded with so many
conveniences, which they manage to do without, sometimes imagine it
would be impossible for us to support things which they endure as a
matter of course. But although they entertain this opinion, we ought
not to share it. We must not persuade ourselves that their skins are
much less sensitive than our own, nor that they are constituted in a
different manner to ourselves; but, accustomed to pain, they do not
exaggerate it, and thus endure, without much suffering, things which
we should think it impossible for us even to attempt, and which,
nevertheless, would not do us more harm than they do them.
However, continued M. de Cideville, in the present case, it was not
so. Louisa was young, and in good health, the lady aged, and an
invalid. It was quite reasonable, therefore, that she should accept
Louisa's offer, and she did so. Louisa making many apologies for not
being able to present her shoes in better condition, accompanied her
barefoot, and supported her, as she could not walk very well in such
large and heavy shoes. When they reached the lady's residence, she
made Louisa go in, in order to dry herself, and at the same time to
reward her for the service she had rendered her. She also ordered
her shoes to be dried before they were returned to her. They were
placed near the kitchen fire; Louisa likewise seated herself there,
and while talking with the servants, the kitchen-maid took one of the
shoes in order to clean it, and accidentally raised up the outer sole
which the water had almost entirely detached. The louis d'or fell
out. For a moment Louisa was as much astonished as the rest, but
she suddenly uttered a cry of joy, for she remembered that something
had entered her shoe on the day she had been accused of taking the
louis. She related her story, and the servants, greatly astonished,
went and told it to their mistress. Louisa entreated the lady to
give her a certificate of what had happened, that she might get a
character from her master, and thus be able to obtain a situation.
The lady caused inquiries to be made, not only at the shopkeeper's,
where she learned that Louisa's account was entirely true, but also
in the neighbourhood, where she had always been regarded as a very
honest girl, and where no one believed that she had stolen the louis.
The lady also perceived by her manners and conversation, that she
was much superior to the station in which she had found her; she
therefore took her into her service, in order to assist her lady's
maid, who was old and infirm. She sent to the shopkeeper the amount
of his louis in silver, and gave to Louisa the louis d'or, which had
occasioned her so much injury, and so much good.
As often happens with uneducated persons, Louisa was superstitious.
She imagined that her good fortune was attached to this louis d'or,
which she had so long carried about her, without being aware of it.
She therefore would not think of spending it, but still continued
to carry it about her. It happened that her mistress while going
to her country seat, which lay at some considerable distance from
Paris, turned aside, for a few leagues, in order to spend a day with
a friend, whose house was nearly on her route. She left Louisa at
the post-house, with her luggage, where she was to take her up the
following morning. As Louisa had nothing to do, she seated herself
upon a bench before the door which faced the high road. Presently she
beheld a young man riding up to the house, at full speed. He rode so
rapidly that the postilion, by whom he was accompanied, could not
keep pace with him, and was obliged to follow at some considerable
distance behind. He was pale, apparently much fatigued, and also
greatly agitated. He alighted from his horse, and ordered another
to be saddled immediately; the ostlers could not make sufficient
haste. As he was preparing to remount, he sought for money to
defray his expenses, but he had not his purse. He searched all his
pockets, and then perceived that at the last stage but one, where he
had been obliged to change everything, in consequence of his horse
having thrown him into a ditch full of water, he had forgotten his
portmanteau, his purse, and his watch. He was greatly distressed and
agitated. "What!" he exclaimed, "not a louis upon me! A louis would
save my life." He inquired for the master of the inn, and was told
that he was in the fields, and that there was no one in the house
except his son, a lad of fifteen, and some postilions. "Can you not,"
he said, "find one louis to lend me? I will give you a cheque for
ten." The men looked at each other without replying. He told them he
was the Count de Marville, and that he was going two leagues further
on. His wife was lying there ill, very ill, without a physician, and
surrounded by persons who did not understand her constitution, and
who were giving her remedies quite unsuitable to her state. The news
had reached him at Paris: he had consulted his physician, and in
order not to lose time, had taken post horses and travelled night
and day. His servant, too weak to follow him, had been obliged to
stop by the way, and as for himself, he had just travelled a double
post, so that he was four leagues from the place where he had left
his luggage, and had not a single louis to continue his journey, and
save, perhaps, the life of his wife. But to all this, the men made
no reply; they merely dispersed; the very agitation of the count
destroyed their confidence in what he said. Besides, the postilion
who had accompanied him, and to whom he had promised a liberal
reward, in order to induce him to ride a double stage, was extremely
dissatisfied, at not being even paid his hire, and complained, swore,
and threatened to appeal to the mayor of the place. M. de Marville
thought of nothing but the delay, and in his anxiety it seemed to him
that the loss of a single hour might be fatal to his wife. Louisa
heard all this; she knew the name of de Marville, having heard it
mentioned by her mistress. She thought of her louis; it was the only
money she had about her, for in travelling she placed the little she
possessed in the care of her mistress, except the louis, which she
could not part with. She thought it very hard to give it up: still it
had drawn her from a state of so much misery, that she felt it would
be a sin not to allow another to be benefited by it when it was in
her power to do so. Taking it, therefore, out of the little pocket
in which she always carried it, she offered it to M. de Marville,
who, greatly delighted, asked her name, and promised that she should
hear from him; then paying the postilion, and remounting his horse,
he rode off; while Louisa, though she did not repent of what she had
done, felt, nevertheless, a little uneasy, and the more so as the
people of the inn assured her that she would never see her money
again.
The following day, her mind was set at rest, by the return of her
mistress, who was acquainted with M. de Marville, and had learned
that his wife was in fact lying very ill, at the distance of two
leagues from where they were. Louisa's sole anxiety now was to regain
her louis, which was still at the post-house where M. de Marville had
changed it, and it became henceforward more precious than ever in
her estimation. M. de Marville did not forget what he owed her. He
had found his wife extremely ill, and whether from the good effects
of his treatment, or from some other cause, he had the delight of
seeing her restored to health. He attributed her cure to Louisa, and
as he was extremely attached to his wife, he considered himself under
great obligations to one whom he regarded as her preserver. He went
to see her at the seat of her mistress, repaid the louis, and also
settled upon her a small annuity. On this occasion, his man-servant,
who had some property, became acquainted with Louisa. He married her,
and shortly after entered into the service of the same mistress. As
he was a reasonable man, he wished her to spend the louis, for he
knew that it was ridiculous to imagine that anything of this kind
could bring good fortune; but Louisa would only consent to part with
it, in payment of the first two months' nursing of her first child.
The nurse of this child was a tenant of M. d'Auvray, the father of a
little girl called _Aloïse_. To him she gave the louis, when paying
the rent of her farm, and you shall presently see what use was made
of it.
THE RENT.
Aloïse had for some time been very uneasy. Janette, the woman who
used to bring her every other day a bunch of fresh chickweed for
her bird, had not been near her for a whole week, and each time she
thought of it, she said to her nurse, "I am sure my poor little
_Kiss_ will be ill, for want of some chickweed, for there is no shade
in his cage when he is at the window, and the sun is shining over his
head." And Aloïse actually feared that her bird would receive a _coup
de soleil_. This fear, indeed, did not often occupy her thoughts,
only whenever she went to talk to Kiss, she would say, "This naughty
Janette, will she never come?"
Janette arrived at last, and Aloïse, when she saw her, gave her a
good scolding, and hastily seizing a bunch of chickweed, and without
giving herself the time to unfasten it, she tore a handful, and
carried it to her bird, saying, "Poor Kiss! the sun is dreadfully
hot!"
"Oh yes! Miss," said Janette, "it is indeed very hot, especially when
one has just recovered from a fever."
"Have you had a fever?" asked Aloïse, whose whole attention was now
turned to Janette, and whom, indeed, she perceived to be very much
altered. Janette told her that her illness had been caused by grief,
for her rent was due, and she was unable to pay it, and her landlord
had threatened to turn her and her three children out of doors, and
take away her bed, which was all she possessed in the world.
"What," said Aloïse, "have you no chairs?"
Janette replied that she had had two wooden stools and a table, but
that during the winter before last, which was that of 1789, she had
been forced to burn them, for the cold was so intense, that one
morning she found one of her children almost dead. A short time
previously, she had lost her husband, after a long illness, which had
exhausted all their resources, so that this was the third quarter's
rent which she had been unable to pay. Her landlord had given her
some further indulgence, but now told her, that if she did not pay
by the next quarter, both she and her children should be turned into
the street. "And well will it be for us," continued Janette, "if we
find there a little straw on which to lie down and die, for we are
too miserable to be taken in by any one." Saying this, she began
to cry, and Aloïse, who was extremely kind and compassionate, felt
ready to cry also. She asked Janette if her rent was very high. It
was six francs a quarter. Three quarters were due, a louis would,
therefore, be owing in July; and this was a sum which she could not
possibly hope to pay, for her only means of living was the sale of
her chickweed, together with a few flowers in summer, and some baked
apples in the winter, all which was scarcely sufficient to find food
for her children. She added that during her illness, they must have
died of hunger, had it not been for the charity of some neighbours,
and that she was now hastening home in order to get them some bread,
as they had eaten nothing all day. Aloïse took from her drawer forty
sous, which was all that remained of her month's allowance, for
as she was very careless, she was never rich. These she gave to
Janette, and the nurse added twenty more, thus making in all half
a crown. The nurse also gave her, for the children, some old shoes
which Aloïse had cast aside, and poor Janette went away delighted,
forgetting for the time her unhappy condition, for the poor sometimes
endure such pressing hardships, that when they find themselves for a
moment freed from them, the happiness which they experience prevents
them from thinking of the misery which awaits them.
After Janette's departure, Aloïse and her nurse continued talking
of her for a long time. Aloïse would gladly have saved from her
allowance eight francs a month, in order to make up the louis
required by Janette, but this was impossible; she had lost her new
gloves, and was obliged to buy others; a new pair of prunella shoes
was to be brought home to her on the first of the month, to replace
those she had spoiled by imprudently walking in the mud; besides,
her thimble, her needles, her scissors, her thread, all of which she
was constantly losing through her want of order, formed a source of
considerable expense. Although she was eleven years of age, nothing
had been able to cure her of this want of order, a defect which
resulted from great vivacity, and from the fact, that when once an
idea had taken possession of her mind, it so completely engrossed it
that, for the moment, it was impossible for her to think of anything
else. At present, it was Janette who occupied her thoughts. She
would have been delighted to have had a louis to give her by the
time her rent became due, but she did not dare to ask her parents
for it, for she saw that, without being in any way embarrassed,
they nevertheless lived with a certain degree of economy; besides,
she knew them to be so kind, that if they could do anything, they
would do it without being asked. When she went down to her mother's
room, she spoke of Janette, of her grief for her, and of her desire
to assist her. Twenty times she went over her calculations aloud, in
order to let it be understood that she could not do so out of her
allowance. Twenty times she repeated, "This poor Janette says that
she must die upon straw, if she cannot pay her rent." Her mother,
Madame d'Auvray, was writing, and her father was occupied in looking
over some prints; neither of them appeared to hear her. Aloïse was
in despair, for when she once wished for anything, she had no rest
until she had either obtained it, or forgotten it. She was told that
her drawing-master was waiting for her. Quite taken up with Janette
and her grief, she left, as was almost invariably the case with her,
her work upon the chair, her pincushion under it, her thimble on the
table, and her scissors on the ground. Her mother called her back.
"Aloïse," said she, "will you never put away your work of your own
accord, and without my being obliged to remind you of it?" Aloïse
replied mournfully that she was thinking of something else.
"Of Janette, was it not?" said her father. "Well, then, since you are
so anxious to get her out of trouble, let us make a bargain. Whenever
you put away your work without being reminded of it by your mother, I
will give you ten sous; in forty-eight days, therefore, you will be
able to gain the louis, which will not be required by Janette for
three months."
Oh! how delighted was Aloïse. She threw herself into her father's
arms; her heart was freed from a heavy load.
"But," said M. d'Auvray, "in order that the agreement may be equal,
it is necessary that you should pay something whenever you fail. It
would be just to demand from you ten sous, but," added he, smiling,
"I do not wish to make too hard a bargain for poor Janette; I will,
therefore, only require of you five sous; but mind, I shall show no
mercy, and you must not expect a fraction of the louis, unless you
gain the whole. Here it is," said he, as he took it out of his pocket
and placed it in a drawer of Madame d'Auvray's secretary; "now try to
gain it."
Aloïse promised that it should be hers; her parents seemed to doubt
it. It was, however, agreed, that Madame d'Auvray and Aloïse should
each keep an account, in order to secure accuracy. And Aloïse was
so pleased, and so eager to communicate the arrangement to her
nurse, that she ran out of the room without putting away her work.
Fortunately, she remembered it at the door; she ran back again,
seized upon it, and beheld her father laughing heartily. "At all
events," she exclaimed, "mamma did not remind me of it," and for once
the excuse was admitted.
For some time Aloïse was very exact, and the more so as she had
related the affair to Janette, who without daring to remind her
of it, now and then dropped a word concerning her landlord, who
was a very severe man. During a whole month the work had only been
forgotten six times; thus, in twenty-four days, Aloïse had gained
her ten sous, but as there were six days of negligence, during each
of which she had lost five sous, there remained six times five, or
three times ten sous, to be deducted from what she had gained; she
had, therefore, secured but twenty-one, out of the forty-eight days.
But Aloïse did not reckon in this manner. As her carelessness
extended to everything, she sometimes forgot that on the six days on
which she had not put away her work, she had not gained her ten sous;
at other times she forgot that on these days she had lost five also,
so that she never considered that she had lost more than five or
ten sous, on those days on which her negligence had really made her
lose fifteen. At the end of the month, her mother had the greatest
difficulty in the world to make her understand this calculation,
and when she did understand it, she forgot it again. She had begun
to keep her account in writing, and then had neglected it; she
begged her mother to let her examine hers; she did so, at the same
time warning her that it was for the last time. Aloïse recommenced
writing, but lost her paper; she then tried to reckon mentally, but
got confused in her calculations. Unfortunately, also, the hour
for her dancing lesson, which she took in her mother's apartment,
was changed, and now fell at the time that Janette called; she
therefore saw her less frequently, and began to forget her a little:
nevertheless the orderly habits which she had begun to contract were
tolerably well kept up. She often put her work away, but she also
frequently neglected it: still it seemed to her that she had attended
to it so many times, that she felt quite easy on the subject, and
did not even think of examining the day of the month.
One morning she rose extremely happy; she was going to spend a day in
the country. The party had been long arranged, and Aloïse had drawn a
brilliant picture of the pleasure which she anticipated from it. The
weather, too, was delightful. She had just finished dressing, when
a man came to her room in the garb of a workman; he wore a leathern
apron and a woollen cap, which he scarcely raised as he entered. He
appeared very much out of humour, and said in a rough manner to the
nurse, that he had come on account of the woman who had served her
with chickweed for her birds; that he was her landlord; that she
owed him four quarters' rent, which she was unable to pay, and had
entreated him to go and see if any one there could assist her. "It
is not my business," he added in a surly tone, "to go about begging
for my rent. However, I was willing to see if anything was to be got.
If not, let her be prepared; to-morrow, the eighth of July, she must
quit. At all events, her moving will not be a very heavy one!"
Aloïse trembled in every limb, at finding herself in the same room
with this terrible landlord, of whom she had so often heard Janette
speak, and whose manner was not calculated to tranquillize her fears.
Not daring to address him herself, she whispered to her nurse, that
she would go and ask her mamma for the louis.
"But have you gained it?" said the nurse.
"Oh! certainly," said Aloïse, and yet she began to be very much
afraid she had not. She drew herself in as much as possible, in
order to pass between the door and the man who stood beside it, and
who terrified her so much that she would not have dared to ask him to
move. She ran quite flushed and breathless into her mother's room,
and asked for the louis.
"But does it belong to you?" said her mother. "I do not think it
does."
"Oh, mamma," replied Aloïse, turning pale, "I have put away my work
more than forty-eight times."
"Yes, my child, but the days on which you have not put it away?"
"Mamma, I have put it away very often, I assure you."
"We shall see;" and Madame d'Auvray took the account from her
secretary. "You have put it away sixty times," said she to her
daughter.
"You see, mamma!" cried Aloïse, delighted.
"Yes, but you have neglected it thirty-one times, for the month of
May has thirty-one days."
"Oh! mamma, that does not make...."
"My dear! thirty-one days, at five sous a day, make seven livres
fifteen sous, which are to be deducted from the thirty francs that
you have gained. Thus thirty-five sous are still wanting to complete
the louis." Aloïse turned pale and clasped her hands.
"Is it possible," she said, "that for thirty-five sous...."
"My child," said her mother, "you remember your agreement with your
father."
"Oh! mamma! for thirty-five sous! and this poor Janette!"
"You knew very well what would be the consequence," said her mother;
"I can do nothing in the matter."
Aloïse wept bitterly. Her father coming in, asked the reason. Madame
d'Auvray told him, and Aloïse raised her hands towards him with
supplicating looks.
"My child," said M. d'Auvray, "when I make a bargain I keep to it,
and I require that others should act in the same manner towards me.
You have not chosen to fulfil the conditions of this agreement,
therefore let us say no more about it."
When M. d'Auvray had once said a thing, it was settled. Aloïse did
not dare to reply, but she remained weeping. "The horses are ready,"
said M. d'Auvray, "we must set off; come, go and fetch your bonnet."
Aloïse then knew that all hope was lost, and she could not restrain
her sobs. "Go and get your bonnet," said her father in a firmer tone,
and her mother led her gently to the door. She remained outside the
room, leaning against the wall, unable to move a step, and crying
most bitterly. Her nurse entered softly, and asked whether she had
got the money, as the man was becoming impatient. Indeed Aloïse
heard him in the hall speaking to the servant, in the same surly
ill-tempered tone. He said he had not time to wait; that it was very
disagreeable and inconvenient to be sent there for nothing; and that
Janette might rest assured she would have to be off pretty quickly.
The tears of Aloïse were redoubled; her nurse endeavoured to console
her, and the old servant who was passing at the moment, not knowing
the cause of her grief, told her that she was going to amuse herself
in the country, and would soon forget her trouble.
"To amuse myself!" cried Aloïse, "to amuse myself!" And she
remembered that during this time Janette would be in despair, and
turned into the street with her three children.
"Oh! dear," she exclaimed, "could they not have punished me in some
other manner?"
"Listen," said her nurse, "suppose you were to ask for some other
punishment?"
Aloïse turned towards her a hesitating and frightened look. She
saw very well that she was going to propose to her to give up her
visit to the country; and although she promised herself very little
pleasure from it, she had not the courage to renounce it. But the
servant came to tell her that the man was tired of waiting, and was
going away. And in fact she heard him open the door, saying in a loud
voice, "She shall pay for having made me come here for nothing."
Aloïse with clasped hands, entreated the servant to run after him
and stop him for a moment, and told her nurse to go and beg of her
parents to change her punishment, and instead of it to deprive her
of the pleasure of going into the country. The nurse having done so,
Madame d'Auvray came out immediately and said to her daughter,
"My child, our wish is not to punish you, but to fix in your
mind something of consequence which we have not yet succeeded in
impressing on it. Do you think the regret you will feel in not going
into the country with us, will have sufficient effect upon you, to
make you remember to be a little more orderly in what you do?"
"Oh! mamma," said Aloïse, "I do assure you that the grief I have
had, and that which I shall still have," she added, redoubling her
tears, "in not going into the country, will make me well remember it."
"Very well, then," said Madame d'Auvray, and she gave her the louis,
which Aloïse charged her nurse to carry to the man. As for herself,
she remained leaning against the door, through which her mother had
returned into her room. Her nurse, having ordered the kitchen-maid to
follow the man, and carry the louis to Janette, found her there still
crying; and told her that as she had taken her course, she ought to
show more courage, and dry up her tears, and go and bid farewell to
her parents, who would otherwise think she was sulking, which would
not be proper. Aloïse dried her eyes, and endeavouring to restrain
herself, entered the room. As she approached her father, in order
to kiss him, he took her on his knee, and said, "My dear Aloïse, is
there no way of engraving still more deeply on your memory, that
which you ought not to forget?" Aloïse looked at him. "Would it not
be," he continued, "by taking you with us into the country, relying
upon the promise which you will give us never again to forget to put
your work away?"
"Never!" said Aloïse, with an agitated look; "but if I should forget
it on some occasion?"
"I am sure that you will not do so," replied her mother; "your
promise, the recollection of our indulgence, all this will force you
to remember it."
"But, oh dear! oh dear! if after all I were to forget it!"
"Well," said her father, kissing her, "we wish to force you to
remember it."
Aloïse was greatly affected by all this kindness; but she felt
tormented by the fear of not keeping the promise on which her parents
relied; and whilst her nurse, who had heard what was said, ran
joyfully to fetch her bonnet, she remained pensive, leaning against
the window. At length, turning eagerly to her mother, "Mamma," she
said, "I will beg of God every day in my prayers to give me grace to
keep my promise."
"That will be an excellent means," replied her mother, "make use of
it at once;" and Aloïse raised her eyes to heaven and her heart to
God, and felt encouraged. Nevertheless she preserved throughout the
day, amidst the amusements of the country, something of the emotions
which had agitated her in the morning. At night she did not forget
to renew her prayer; the next morning she thought of it on waking,
and in order not to forget it, she imposed upon herself the rule of
attending to it before she did anything else. She succeeded, by this
means, in impressing upon her mind the duty prescribed to her. Once
only, did she seem on the point of going away without arranging her
work.
"Aloïse," said her mother, "have you said your prayers this morning?"
This question reminded her both of her prayer, which, indeed, for
some time past, she had said with less attention, as she now thought
herself secure, and also of her promise, which she had run the risk
of forgetting; and she was so much terrified that she never again
fell into the same danger. One day when her mother was speaking to
her about the manner in which she had corrected herself, she said
timidly, "But, mamma, in order to correct me, you surely would not
have had the heart to allow poor Janette to be turned out of doors?"
Her mother smiled and said, "You must at all events allow that
you are at present very happy for having been afraid of this."
Aloïse assented. The louis d'or had enabled her to acquire a good
habit, from which she derived more advantages than she had at first
expected; for the money which she saved, by not having constantly to
replace things lost through carelessness, gave her the means of doing
something additional for Janette, for whom also work was found, as
well as various little commissions, so that she and her children were
no longer in danger of dying of hunger, or of being turned out of
their miserable garret.
Here M. de Cideville, being obliged to go out, interrupted his
narrative, deferring its continuation to another day.
CONTINUATION OF THE HISTORY OF A LOUIS D'OR
M. de Cideville having one day, of his own accord, continued the
history of the louis d'or, said to his daughter, You have already
seen, by the several adventures which I have related, of what
importance may be, under certain circumstances, a sum apparently so
trifling as a louis d'or. You will soon see all the advantages which
may be derived from it; but I must first tell you in what manner it
passed out of the hands of the landlord, to whom Janette had given
it in payment of her rent.
This landlord was a shoemaker; his house was very small, very
disagreeable, and very dirty, as may be imagined by the sum paid
by Janette for rent, and he was himself the porter. He was very
avaricious, and would not go to the expense of keeping it in a
moderately decent condition, or even of repairing it, so that it was
occupied only by very poor people, or by those who had been guilty of
bad actions, for, provided his tenants paid him, he did not trouble
himself about their honesty. There was one among them, named Roch,
whom he knew to be a rogue, and who had several times concealed
stolen goods. The shoemaker shut his eyes to this, because on these
occasions he almost always received some little present. One day, as
the shoemaker was looking in the narrow court, which separated his
house from that of his neighbour, for old pieces of linen sometimes
thrown there, and of which, after having washed them, he made use
as linings for his shoes, he stooped down to pick up one of them,
when his pipe, which he had in his mouth, caught in something, and
slipping from him, fell through a grating into his neighbour's
cellar. He would have been glad to have gone and asked for it, but he
did not dare to do so, for misers are always ashamed of those actions
which their avarice leads them to commit. Whilst leaning over the
grating, in the hope that it might have lodged on the slope of the
wall within, and that he should be able to regain it, there suddenly
burst from the opening such a volume of smoke, that he was nearly
stifled. The pipe had fallen upon some straw, recently unpacked, and
which, not having yet imbibed the damp of the cellar, caught fire
almost immediately. The shoemaker knew very well what was likely to
follow, and ran away, in order that he might not be suspected as the
cause of the mischief; but trembling for his own house, to which
the fire might extend, he gave an alarm, saying that he perceived a
strong smell of smoke; and in order that assistance might be promptly
rendered, he guided the people so well in the direction of the fire,
that the truth was immediately suspected.
The flames quickly spread to a heap of faggots, thence to a quantity
of goods which were near, and before there was time to suppress them,
they had injured the building. The landlord entered a process against
the shoemaker, in order to make him pay the damages, saying that it
was he who had set the place on fire, which, indeed, there was every
reason for suspecting. It was known that he was in the habit of
searching in the court for rags, and suchlike things, that happened
to be thrown from the windows. There had also been found in the ashes
underneath the grating and on the spot occupied by the heap of straw,
the remains of a pipe which had not been consumed. It was observed
that when the shoemaker gave the information, he was without his
pipe, a thing quite extraordinary for him. He was also known to have
bought a new one on the same day, and every one was aware that he was
not a man to buy a new pipe if he had an old one in his possession.
It was then more than probable that it was his pipe which had fallen
into the cellar, and set it on fire. Besides, two persons believed
that they had seen him, from a distance, going out of the court.
The shoemaker had nothing to oppose to these charges, but the
assertion that he was not on the spot when the place took fire; but
in order to have this assertion received, he must find witnesses who
would consent to give a false testimony. He thought Roch might do
him this service, and he reminded him of all the indulgence which
he had granted to him. Roch made no objections; he was so great a
knave, that he seemed to take a pleasure in doing what was wrong. He
simply demanded, as the reward of this service, that the shoemaker
should introduce and recommend him, as a servant, to M. de la Fère,
a gentleman for whom the shoemaker worked, and who at that time was
in want of a servant. Roch was very desirous of getting this place,
but quite at a loss as to the means of doing so, as he could find no
one willing to give him a character. The shoemaker consented; for we
can never ask others to do what is wrong for us without being obliged
to do at least as much for them in return. But two witnesses were
requisite. Roch undertook to procure another, on condition that the
shoemaker should give him a louis d'or.
The latter, at first, made many objections; for he valued his money
more than his conscience, but there was no alternative in the case.
He therefore gave him the very louis d'or that Janette had paid him,
and Roch and his comrade both affirmed on oath, that the shoemaker
was returning home in their company, at the time that he perceived
from the street the smell of the smoke then issuing from the court.
They also affirmed, that during their walk, a porter had knocked
against him so roughly, that his pipe was thrown out of his mouth,
and that in stepping forward to gain his balance, he had trodden upon
it, and crushed it. To give their assertions a greater appearance
of truth, they repeated the remarks which they pretended to have
made upon the occasion. The shoemaker gained his cause. Roch kept
the louis, giving only twelve francs to his comrade, and entered the
service of M. de la Fère, who was on the point of leaving France,
where, like many others, he did not consider himself in safety; for
it was the close of the year 1792. Neither his man-servant nor his
wife's maid was willing to accompany them; so that being in a great
hurry to leave, they were compelled to take Roch without inquiry, and
upon the sole recommendation of the shoemaker, whom they believed
to be an honest man. They were desirous of obtaining gold for their
journey, as being more convenient than silver, and at that time the
value of the louis d'or was high, for it was much in request, as many
families were leaving France for the same cause as M. de la Fère.
Roch therefore sold to his master the louis which he had received
from the shoemaker. It thus came into the possession of M. de la
Fère, and you shall see presently all that it produced. As for Roch,
before his departure with M. de la Fère, he defrauded the shoemaker
out of the amount of a rather heavy bill which his master had ordered
him to pay. He produced a false receipt, and kept the money. The
shoemaker did not become aware of his departure till several days
afterwards, and thus found himself punished for recommending a
rogue. We must now see what the louis produced in the hands of its
new possessor.
THE WEEK.
It was at the commencement of the year 1793, that M. de la Fère,
accompanied by his wife, his son Raymond, a lad of fifteen, and his
daughter Juliette, who was thirteen, his servant Roch, and his wife's
new maid, left France, to establish themselves in a small town in
Germany. They had brought with them sufficient money to enable them,
if necessary, to remain away for several years, and the more easily,
as having chosen a town in which no French had as yet arrived, and
where they were not acquainted with any Germans, they hoped to lead
the kind of life which suited them, without being obliged to incur
greater expenses than they wished. Thus they hoped, by means of a
reasonable, but not inconvenient economy, to pass the period of
trouble in comfort and tranquillity, attending to the education of
their children, who, delighted with the change of scene, thought only
of enjoying the various new objects which their journey presented to
them.
Although much afflicted at leaving their country, and deeply grieved
for the misfortunes which were daily occurring there, M. and Madame
de la Fère would not depress the spirits of their children, by
recurring to events over which they had no control; but on the
contrary, they procured for them such pleasures as were compatible
with their situation. They had somewhat prolonged their journey, in
order to show them various interesting objects situated at a short
distance from their route, and had been settled in the town in which
they intended to reside only a few days, when their host, M. Fiddler,
spoke of a rather curious kind of fair which was then being held at
some distance from that place. They hired one of the carriages of the
country, and wishing to take advantage of the opportunity which the
occasion afforded of enjoying the scenery of the neighbourhood, which
was very beautiful, they set out early, carrying with them sufficient
provisions to enable them to pass the whole day in the fields. It
was in the month of June; they prolonged their walks so much, that
it was ten o'clock in the evening when they reached town. They were
surprised, on arriving, to find that the servant, whom they had left
in the house, did not come to assist them. They supposed that he must
have gone to the fair on his own account, together with the maid,
whom they also called for in vain. They were at a loss to get in, as
the door of the house was locked, M. Fiddler having also gone to the
fair. At last, a little boy who had been left in charge of it, and
who likewise had been amusing himself, came back, opened the door,
and procured a light from a neighbour, who presented to M. de la Fère
a letter which had arrived during his absence. M. de la Fère stopped
to read it, and then entered the house, so completely absorbed, that
he did not notice the exclamations of distress which were uttered by
his wife and children. At last they ran to him, spoke to him, roused
him from his abstraction, and showed him all their cupboards open
and emptied, the secretary forced, and their money and jewels carried
off: there was nothing left. Roch and the maid, who had also been
taken without sufficient inquiry, and who was an equally ill-disposed
person, had several times, during their journey, given them cause for
distrusting them, and it was their intention to send them back to
France. They had apparently suspected this intention, and profited
by their absence to rob them. This they could very easily do, as the
pavilion, which was the part of the residence occupied by M. and
Madame de la Fère, was separated from the rest of the house, and on
one side opened upon the fields. On this side, the open doors and
windows showed traces of their flight; but there was no possibility
of following them at that hour, nor any hope of otherwise arresting
them. The town was situated on the frontiers of two small German
states, and there was no doubt that they had entered the neighbouring
one, as, from several circumstances which were then recollected, it
might be presumed that they had taken their precautions beforehand.
However, M. de la Fère went to the magistrate of the town to lodge
his complaints, and to take the necessary proceedings.
When he returned, his family had not yet had time to recover from
their consternation. Juliette was crying, and her mother, though
herself overwhelmed with grief, was endeavouring to soothe her;
Raymond, who understood German, was talking to M. Fiddler, who
hearing of their misfortune on his return from the fair, had hastened
with great kindness to offer them his assistance. All this Raymond
communicated to his mother and sister. M. de la Fère also thanked him
in German, for M. Fiddler did not understand French, and told him
that though they had indeed experienced a most serious misfortune, he
hoped, nevertheless, that they would be able to extricate themselves
from it; and M. Fiddler, who was very considerate, fearing to be
importunate, immediately retired.
When they were alone, assembled round a candle which M. Fiddler had
lent them, M. de la Fère, after tenderly embracing his wife and
children, made them sit down by him, and remained for some time
silent, as if he knew not what to say to them.
At length Raymond, who had heard his father's reply to M. Fiddler,
broke the silence.
"Papa," he said, "you told M. Fiddler that we should be able to
extricate ourselves from our difficulties; does the letter, which you
have just received, say that money will be sent to us from France?"
"On the contrary, my child."
"What! on the contrary?" exclaimed Madame de la Fère, with a movement
of alarm. Her husband pressed her hand, and she restrained herself.
He had accustomed her to preserve her self-command in the presence of
their children, in order not to give them exaggerated ideas of what
might happen to them.
"My beloved friends," continued M. de la Fère, taking his daughter
on his knees, and retaining the hand of his wife within his own,
"we must not rely, at least for a very long time to come, on any
assistance from France; for all our property is seized, and God only
knows when we shall regain possession of it."
Madame de la Fère turned pale, but said nothing. Juliette wept and
trembled, and Raymond, leaning on the back of a chair, listened
attentively to his father, whose calm and firm manner completely
reassured him. M. de la Fère continued--
"Of all our effects there remains absolutely nothing, but what we
have upon us, and a small trunk of linen, which I see in the corner
there, and which they seem to have forgotten. Of all our money, there
remains but this louis d'or," said he, holding it up, "which I had in
my pocket."
"Good heavens," exclaimed Juliette, in a tone of despair, "what will
become of us?"
Her father pressed her in his arms. "Have a little patience, sister,"
said Raymond, quickly. He saw that his father had something to
propose, and whatever it might be, he was eager to execute it. M. de
la Fère continued--
"A louis, my dears, may still become a resource, provided one knows
how to turn it to account. We cannot live without work: we must,
therefore, find the means of working."
Madame de la Fère replied, that she and her daughter could embroider,
and that M. Fiddler would be able to recommend them in the town.
"Yes," replied M. de la Fère, "but that is not sufficient. Before
these recommendations have produced their effect, before we receive
work, and before that work is finished, our louis d'or may very
easily be spent; and my watch, which is the only thing left us that
we can sell, for they have taken Raymond's, will not afford us a very
considerable resource: we must, therefore, devise some plan for not
exhausting too rapidly our means of existence."
Juliette said that M. Fiddler, who had so kindly offered his aid,
would be able to assist them until their work afforded them the means
of living.
"We must only accept assistance from others," said M. de la Fère,
"when we can do absolutely nothing for ourselves. Do you feel the
courage to impose upon yourselves, for one week only, the most severe
privations?"
All answered "Yes!" "Even if it be to live on bread and water,"
said Raymond. M. de la Fère pressed his son's hand with an air of
satisfaction. But Juliette turned towards her father with a somewhat
terrified expression, and Madame de la Fère looked first upon her
husband, and then upon her children, and could not restrain a few
tears. M. de la Fère, making a great effort to preserve his firmness,
said to them:
"Listen, my dears, and I hope you will agree with me, that a week's
courage is a very trifling matter, if it can insure our preservation.
This is my calculation. Our rent is paid three months in advance. We
have in the trunk as much linen as we shall want for three weeks,
without requiring anything washed; as it is summer, we shall not need
any fire; the days being long, if we get up and go to bed with the
sun, there will be no necessity for candles; thus, without expending
anything, we are secured on all these points, from all suffering, and
indeed from every real inconvenience, for more than a week. We have
only our food to pay for. In limiting ourselves for a week only to
what is absolutely necessary,--to bread, my dear Juliette," said he,
tenderly embracing his daughter, whom he still held upon his knee,
"it will be possible for us to employ a part of this louis on the
purchase of materials to enable you to embroider, and myself and
Raymond to paint boxes and screens, and various other things which M.
Fiddler doubtless will enable us to sell. In a week we shall probably
have gained something by our labour. If we are compelled to wait
longer, I have still my watch, and I will answer for it, that before
its price is expended, we shall be free from anxiety."
Raymond, animated by the manner in which his father pronounced these
words, embraced his mother, and then his sister, who was still
weeping a little. "Consider, Juliette," he said, "a week is so soon
over!"
Hitherto, indeed, Raymond had always been much more of an epicure
than his sister, and much more eager in the pursuit of what pleased
him; but at the same time, he had more determination, and was
better able to make a sacrifice, where any great object was to be
attained. Besides, the present moment had inspired him with what a
great misfortune ought always to inspire a man--an increased amount
of sense and courage; whilst Juliette, on the contrary, somewhat
overcome by the fatigues of the day, had not been able to recover
from the surprise and terror of the first moment. Their ill-lighted
room gave her melancholy impressions, everything seemed dark around
her, and she felt excessively unhappy, without being exactly able
to tell why. The caresses of her parents calmed her a little;
her mother made her go to bed, and she soon sunk into that sound
sleep which grief usually produces at her age; and on awakening the
following morning, she felt entirely reanimated. Her mother had
already made the purchases necessary for commencing work. It had been
the fashion in France, for some time before their departure, to wear
lawn handkerchiefs, embroidered in coloured silks; and this custom,
though now rather antiquated, had not yet reached the town in which
they were residing, although its inhabitants affected to follow the
French fashions. She bought sufficient lawn for a handkerchief,
silks to embroider it, and some card-board and colours for her
husband and son. These cost rather less than fourteen francs; the
remaining ten were carefully reserved for the maintenance of the
family. Madame de la Fère felt her heart a little oppressed when she
beheld this trifling sum, but the recollection of the watch gave her
confidence that her children would not want for bread; and besides,
accustomed to rely upon her husband, of whose courage and firmness
she was well aware, so long as she saw him tranquil, she could not
feel very uneasy. As M. de la Fère was returning with the bread he
had purchased for the family, he met M. Fiddler, who expressed his
grief for the inconveniences which he suffered, and once more offered
his services. M. de la Fère again thanked him, promising that if he
really stood in need of assistance, it would be to him that he would
apply; and M. Fiddler, being a man of the greatest discretion, did
not press the matter further.
When Juliette entered the room in which the family was assembled, she
found her mother and Raymond already occupied in arranging an old
embroidery-frame, which they had found in a corner of the apartment,
while M. de la Fère was drawing upon the piece of lawn, the wreath
with which it was to be embroidered. The sun shone brilliantly
into the apartment, which looked out upon a magnificent landscape,
and Juliette, forgetting the troubles of the previous evening, set
herself gaily to assist her mother and brother. The wreath was soon
drawn, the frame soon mounted; the tasks were distributed, and
each commenced his labour. During this time, M. de la Fère began
to design the ornaments for a work-box, whilst Raymond, who was
tolerably adroit, cut and gummed the card-board, and even assisted
his father in the less difficult ornaments. After working for some
time, Juliette began to feel hungry. She was afraid to say anything
as yet; Raymond, however, having asked his father if it was not time
for breakfast, opened a cupboard in which the bread had been placed,
and exclaimed, laughing, "Behold our week's provisions!" then he cut
for his mother and sister some slices of bread, which he assured
them had been selected with great care. As to himself, he separated
his own into five or six pieces, calling one a cutlet, another a
leg of mutton, and so on. This made them laugh, and thenceforth
they constantly amused themselves, while eating their bread, with
bestowing upon it the names of the most refined dishes.
Although Madame de la Fère often made Juliette leave her work and
walk with her brother in the road that passed beneath their windows,
yet in three days the handkerchief was embroidered, and M. de la
Fère, on his part, had completed a box, the top of which, painted in
bistre, represented one of the points of view to be seen from his
window, while the sides were ornamented with arabesques, also in
bistre. M. Fiddler, to whom M. and Madame de la Fère had communicated
their determination of living by their labour, recommended them to a
lady in the town, the only one who understood French. Madame de la
Fère called upon her, accompanied by Juliette, who although somewhat
ashamed at being presented under such circumstances, nevertheless
felt a certain degree of pride, in thinking that her work should be
of some consequence. The German lady, to whom M. Fiddler had related
their misfortunes, received them with great kindness. She purchased
the handkerchief, at the price of a louis, in the money of the
country, and also the work-box for twelve francs, and told Madame
de la Fère that she would enable her to sell others. They returned
delighted. "Mamma," said Juliette, on their way home, "since we
have been so successful, I think for to-day at least, we might have
something to eat with our bread."
Madame de la Fère replied that that must depend upon her father; but
when, after relating their success, Juliette renewed her proposition;
"My dears," said M. de la Fère, looking at his children, for Raymond
had listened to his sister's proposition with great attention,
"if we break our fast to-day, it will be more difficult to keep
it to-morrow, and if we do not maintain it until the end of the
week, the fruit of our courage will be lost, for we shall still be
inconvenienced to purchase the materials necessary for continuing
our labours; whereas our having a little in advance will make us
quite comfortable."
"Come," said Raymond, running to the cupboard, and cutting a large
slice of bread, "here is my sturgeon pasty for this day."
"My dear Juliette," said M. de la Fère to his daughter, who seemed a
little sad, "it is merely an advice which I have given you. The money
which we possess is in part gained by your labour, and it would be
unjust to prevent you from spending it according to your fancy; if
you wish; we will give you your share, and you can do what you please
with it." Juliette threw her arms round her father's neck, and told
him that she always wished to do as he did, and whatever he pleased;
and the money was immediately employed in purchasing new materials.
If Juliette had rather more difficulty, on this day, and the
following ones, in eating her bread, to which her brother in vain
gave the most tempting names, she consoled herself by calculating
with her mother, the number of hours, of minutes even, which must
intervene before the close of the last day; and then how many
minutes were required to work a flower. This shortened the time;
for when Juliette had not finished her task in the period which she
had allotted to it, she found the time pass much too quickly. She
was greatly delighted that the watch had not been sold, and felt a
certain pride in thinking that they might be able to preserve it by
their industry.
As constant work suggests methods of abridging labour, they this
time finished, in five days, two handkerchiefs and three boxes, and
to complete their happiness, on the evening of the eighth day, the
German lady sent to inquire if any more were ready. She had given a
party on the previous evening; her handkerchief had been admired;
she had shown her box also, and several of her friends expressed a
wish to purchase similar articles of both kinds. When Madame de la
Fère and her daughter called upon her the following morning, she
not only took all that were finished, but gave orders for a fresh
supply. Juliette could not contain her joy. She had eaten her dry
bread very cheerfully before starting, thinking that, according to
all appearances, they would have a better dinner; and now on their
return, she assisted her mother in preparing it; she could never have
believed it possible for her to have experienced so much pleasure as
she now felt, in peeling onions, touching greasy spoons, or broiling
herself in skimming saucepans, on a hot summer's day. Her mother
wished that, for this day, she should entirely lay aside all other
work. Raymond and she, therefore, passed the morning in laughing till
tears came into their eyes, at the thousand absurdities which their
joy prompted them to utter; and M. and Madame de la Fère, delighted
at seeing them so happy, forgot for a time that they had ever
experienced sorrow.
With what delight Juliette helped her brother to set the table,
to lay the cloth, to place the covers and plates lent them by M.
Fiddler. Just at the moment that she was about to serve up the
dinner, she heard exclamations of joy from Raymond, who came running
to tell her that the Chevalier de Villon, an old friend of his
father, whom they had not seen for several years, as he had left
France a long time before them, had just arrived in the town, and was
coming to dine with them. "How fortunate!" said Raymond, "that he did
not come yesterday;" and he ran out to rejoin the chevalier.
"He comes to diminish our dinner," said Juliette, in a tone of ill
temper, which she was not able to control; for it seemed to her
that the least alteration must interfere with the happiness she
anticipated.
"Juliette," said her mother, "if during the past week you had found a
friend, who was willing to share his dinner with you, you would have
been very glad, even though you thought that he would thereby deprive
himself of something."
"It is because I think M. de Villon does not stand in need of it,"
said Juliette, completely ashamed of what she had said. At this
moment the chevalier entered, his clothes in rags, and himself so
pale and so thin, that Madame de la Fère, on beholding him, could not
suppress a cry of grief; as for him, with his Gascon vivacity, he ran
to embrace her.
"You see," said he, "to what I am reduced. This is _now_ the uniform
of a French gentleman, my dear Madame. Why I am not sure that I have
eaten anything these two days."
Madame de la Fère turned to Juliette, who with a supplicating look
seemed to entreat her to forget what she had said. The chevalier sat
down, for he could scarcely stand; nevertheless his gaiety never
forsook him, as long as his strength remained; but they felt that
it was sinking with every sentence. Juliette laid a cover for him,
and placed a chair at the table, for he was so much fatigued that
he seemed scarcely able to move. When the soup was served, and the
chevalier, with his accustomed politeness, wished to pass to her the
first plate, she entreated him to keep it with so much earnestness,
that he could not refuse. She then raised her eyes to her mother as
if to ask forgiveness: Madame de la Fère smiled, and joy returned
to Juliette's heart. She was at length helped in her turn, and
thought she had never enjoyed anything so much; while Raymond, who,
until then, fancied he disliked carrots and turnips, did not leave
a single bit of them upon his plate. A piece of beef, and a dish of
vegetables, appeared to all this family a magnificent repast. How
happy the poor chevalier felt, at finding himself once more seated,
and at table, and in the midst of his friends! How he amused Raymond
and Juliette, by relating his campaigns and adventures! M. Fiddler,
knowing that M. de la Fère had a friend to dinner, had requested
permission to send in a couple of bottles of good wine, and M. de
la Fère, who was no longer afraid of being obliged to have recourse
to compassion, considered that he ought not to refuse a friendly
present. The wine completely restored to the chevalier his strength,
his originality, and even his hopes. By the time the dinner was
over, he had completely forgotten that he had not a sou, that he had
not a shirt, that his shoes were without soles, and his coat almost
without sleeves; his friends had equally forgotten it, for on this
day no one thought of the future, and it passed away in the enjoyment
of a degree of happiness of which those who have never suffered can
form no conception. At night, M. Fiddler lent them a bed, and the
chevalier slept in the room occupied by M. de la Fère and Raymond,
who could hardly sleep from the joy he felt at having a new companion.
The following morning, M. de la Fère said to the chevalier: "Well!
you remain with us; but every one in this house works,--what can you
do?"
"Faith, not much," said the chevalier. "I can attend to the house, go
of errands, and see to the cooking, when there is any," for they had
related to him the history of the eight days' fast. "Oh, I forgot,"
he continued, "I have a marvellous talent for mending old clothes.
Look!" and he showed them his coat, which was hanging in tatters at
all points. Every one laughed; but on a closer examination, they
found, that if indeed the chevalier's coat was thus torn, it had
been previously well mended. "This," said he, "is the only talent
I have as yet needed; set me to work, and perhaps some other will
spring up." It was agreed that, for the present, he should confine
himself to the exercise of his talents as a tailor, upon the remains
of his coat, in order to make it look somewhat more respectable,
while he was waiting for a better; and that he should undertake the
rough work, while the family was occupied in executing the orders,
which were now numerous and pressing. A few days after, M. Fiddler
consented to let them have, instead of the pavilion which they
occupied, and which was unsuited to their present circumstances, a
much smaller dwelling, to which was attached a little garden; this
the chevalier undertook to cultivate, and it supplied them with
some fruit and vegetables. He also prepared the card-board for the
boxes and screens, and even chimney ornaments, and pendule cases,
which were made by M. de la Fère and his son. These productions, as
well as those of Madame de la Fère, became quite the fashion in the
country. The chevalier took them to the neighbouring fairs, where,
at the same time, he found opportunities of making more advantageous
purchases than in the town. M. de la Fère gave him a per-centage
on all he bought and sold for him, so that in a short time he was
able to carry on a small trade on his own account, in which he
displayed considerable ability. Raymond often accompanied him in
these excursions, and thus began to acquire a knowledge of business.
As for Madame de la Fère, who added to her skill in embroidery, a
talent for millinery, she had soon so much to do that she was obliged
to take work-women, and she opened a shop, to which people came from
all parts, to get the French fashions, of which the chevalier, by
his activity, contrived to obtain for her the patterns. When their
circumstances had so much improved, that there was no longer any
danger of another fast, M. de la Fère said to Raymond and Juliette,
"My children, you have hitherto worked for the benefit of the
community, it is but just that you should also work for yourselves;
I give you each a louis d'or, you now know what it is capable of
producing, turn it to profit on your own account."
They did turn it to so good a use, that it served for their
maintenance during the remainder of the time they continued abroad.
M. and Madame de la Fère, when they returned to France, had acquired
by their industry, a sufficient sum to repurchase a portion of
their property which had been sold, and the Chevalier de Villon,
who remained with them, was in a condition to pay them a small sum
annually. As to Raymond, he had acquired habits of business and
industry, and Juliette those of activity and economy. She had also
learned never to close her heart to the miseries of others, as
sometimes happens with those who are very much engrossed by their own
trials; but it was in the midst of the anxieties of a most painful
position, that Juliette had seen how little it sometimes costs to
alleviate a great misfortune, and it was the louis d'or which had
taught her all this.
CONTINUATION OF THE HISTORY OF A LOUIS D'OR.
The louis d'or paid by Madame de la Fère to the merchant from whom
she had bought the lawn for her first handkerchiefs, was passed by
him to a fellow-tradesman, who was going to another town of Germany,
where he was established as a dealer in lace. Among the workpeople
who supplied him, was a young girl named _Victorine_, a refugee like
M. and Madame de la Fère. Victorine worked for the support of her
godmother, Madame d'Alin, an elderly person who had formerly been
well off; but the dread of the revolution had seized upon her to such
a degree, that almost at the very outbreak she precipitately quitted
France, without taking any precautions to preserve her property, and
without any money but what she happened to have at the moment for her
current expenses. Thinking only of flight, she took no one with her
but her godchild Victorine, the daughter of one of her old servants,
whom she had brought up. She had had her instructed in every kind of
female employment; and when they fell into misfortune, Victorine,
who, though scarcely seventeen years of age, possessed both sense and
courage, set herself vigorously to work for her godmother, whom age,
delicate health, and weakness of character, rendered incapable of
overcoming the difficulties of such a situation.
The first thought of Victorine, when they found themselves without
means, had been to sell a piece of lace, which she had just finished
for herself. Having succeeded in disposing of it, she continued this
kind of work. She could not devote to it as much time as she wished,
having to attend to the domestic arrangements, and to wait upon
Madame d'Alin, who was not accustomed to do anything for herself.
Occasionally also she had to read aloud to Madame d'Alin, who was
sometimes a little vexed that she could not do so more frequently.
Victorine often felt annoyed at being disturbed from her work, but
she did not display this feeling; for she knew that her godmother was
so kind, that had she perceived it, she would have deprived herself
of many pleasures and dispensed with many services, which habit had
rendered necessary to her.
Notwithstanding these interruptions, Victorine's labour was
sufficient to provide for their ordinary wants; but it was only
just sufficient. The least additional expense would have deranged
everything, and since they had been in Germany, their wardrobes
had not been renewed. Madame d'Alin suffered no inconvenience on
this account, because she went out so rarely that her dresses were
but little used, so that the clothes she had brought with her were
sufficient for a long time; but Victorine's stock, never very
considerable, was soon exhausted, and the poor girl, notwithstanding
her good sense, was not insensible to the annoyance of going out in
a dress the different parts of which did not well match the pattern,
and the sleeves of which only reached half way down her arm; for
she had grown. Madame d'Alin, who was kindness itself, and who was
extremely fond of Victorine, endeavoured to improve matters by giving
her some of her own dresses; but the dresses of Madame d'Alin, who
was small and thin, while Victorine was very tall and rather stout,
suited her still worse than those which had, at least, been made for
her; and although her godmother's bonnet and old mantle preserved her
from the cold and rain, they gave her so strange an appearance, that
she could not help being a little uncomfortable when she had to go
into the streets thus muffled up, and especially when she entered the
shop where she sold her lace. She longed for the time when she should
be able to buy a dress and bonnet in the fashion of the country, and
as everything was very cheap there, and Victorine had no desire to
dress expensively, she hoped to be able to accomplish her wish for a
sum of about a louis.
The possession of this louis, then, was the object of her ambition:
she thought of it night and day, and pictured to herself the
delight she should feel the first time she went out dressed like
other people: but she must first be able to spare a louis, and
to accomplish this was no easy matter; for Victorine, from the
situation in which she was placed, and the whole responsibility
of which devolved upon her, had acquired such habits of economy,
that she would never have run the risk of spending so considerable
a sum, without having in advance sufficient money and work for
several months. She had then put a louis aside, but determined not
to purchase her dress and bonnet until she had collected a certain
sum. At first she was very far from the point, then some weeks of
cheapness and the talent which she had acquired for economy enabled
her to increase her store. Sometimes it augmented so rapidly that
she hoped to see it soon complete; but all at once the price of
vegetables was raised, or the bushel of charcoal had gone more
quickly: then the treasure ceased to increase: Victorine no longer
knew when it would be complete, and the slightest accident which
happened to diminish it made her lose all hope. Then would she add
another patch to her dress, which, in the anticipation of a new one,
she had a little neglected, and for several days her heart would be
sad, and she would feel some difficulty in working with her usual
diligence and pleasure.
One day when she happened to be in a happier mood, she carried her
work to the dealer, who, in paying her, said, "See! here is some
of the money of your own country." And he showed her the louis.
Victorine, on beholding it, was greatly moved; it was so long since
she had seen a French coin. Oh! how she longed to possess it! But
it was in vain that she calculated; the sum owing to her in the
currency of the country did not amount to a louis. At last she begged
the shopkeeper to save it for her, promising in a short time to
bring sufficient work to make up the amount. In fact, the desire
of possessing this louis redoubled her energies. Shortly afterwards
she went to obtain it, brought it away with great delight, and as
everything was referred to her favourite idea, she determined to
purchase with it her dress and bonnet, as soon as she was able.
This was the louis d'or which she had put by, and which she kept so
carefully.
The increased quantity of work which she had for some time executed,
in order to obtain it the sooner, together with a few weeks
favourable to her economy, brought her near the accomplishment of
her wishes. At length the day arrived when the work she was to take
home would complete the necessary amount, provided the provisions
she had to purchase did not exceed a certain price. The provisions
happened to be cheap, and Victorine, overjoyed, stopped on her way
back at the shop of a linendraper with whom she was acquainted, and
selected a pattern, in order to increase the pleasure she would have
in buying it; and perhaps, also, that she might the sooner have the
gratification of telling some one that she was going to purchase a
dress. She had not yet communicated her intention to Madame d'Alin,
but she felt quite sure of her approbation. After having made her
choice, she returned home, almost running, to leave her provisions,
and to fetch her louis. On entering, she opened the door so hastily,
that Madame d'Alin, who did not expect her, started, and her
spectacles, which were lying on her knee, fell, and both the glasses
were broken. "Good heavens!" exclaimed Madame d'Alin, partly from
fright, and partly from the vexation she felt at having broken her
glasses. As for Victorine, she remained motionless. The pleasure
which she had promised herself was so great, that her vexation was
proportionally extreme. At length, taking the spectacles from the
hands of Madame d'Alin, with a movement of impatience, which she
could not control, she said, "Now, then, there are some glasses to be
bought!"
"No, my child," replied Madame d'Alin, mildly, "I will do without
them." Victorine felt that she had done wrong; and telling her
godmother, in a tone of greater gentleness, that she could not do
without glasses, she went out to replace them. However, in calling
on the linendraper to tell him that she should not buy the dress,
she had to turn away her head, that he might not see the tears which
started to her eyes.
She purchased the glasses, returned home, and was greatly astonished
at finding with Madame d'Alin a man, whom she did not at first
recognize, so little did she think it possible for him to be there.
It was the steward of the little estate on which Madame d'Alin
usually resided. He had come from France for the purpose of informing
his mistress that there was no longer the slightest danger in
returning; that she had not been put upon the list of emigrants; that
her tenant, who was an honest man, had punctually paid his rent; and
that he himself, having been unable to transmit to her the money,
had allowed it to accumulate, and had now come to seek her, in order
that she might return home. Madame d'Alin, while listening to him,
was agitated between hope and fear; and as for Victorine, she was so
troubled, that she knew not what she felt. Though she had longed to
revisit France, yet this had appeared to her a thing so impossible,
that she had never dwelt upon the idea; but from this moment it took
such possession of her mind, that she could think of nothing else,
and her entreaties and arguments, added to those of the steward,
as well as the representations of several of the friends of Madame
d'Alin, from whom he had brought letters, which her spectacles now
enabled her to read, made her resolve on returning. The day was
fixed for their departure; and Victorine, for whom her godmother
immediately bought a dress and bonnet, having no need of her louis
for this purpose, reserved it, in order to buy, when she got back to
France, something which might afford her very great pleasure.
On her return, she was for a long time unable to decide on the manner
in which she should employ it. Madame d'Alin, who regarded her as her
own child, supplied her abundantly with everything she required, and
as she was too much accustomed to economy to have any very strong
fancies, she always kept it for some better opportunity than had as
yet presented itself. Besides, when after some stay in Paris, they
returned to the little estate of Madame d'Alin, Victorine was placed
at the head of her household, and as she found many things which
required to be put in order, she was too much occupied to think about
spending her louis. At length, one of her relatives, a servant, in
a town a few leagues distant, having occasion to visit her, spoke
of the difficulty she felt in managing with her low wages, having
her mother to support, whose strength no longer permitted her to do
much. Victorine thought that the best use she could make of her
louis, was to give it to her friend; the latter promised to send it
as soon as possible to her mother, who was called _Old Mathurine_,
and who resided two leagues distant from her. As to Victorine, she
shortly after married the son of the honest steward, who had so well
preserved the fortune of his mistress. While Madame d'Alin lived,
they took care of her, as if they had been her own children, and at
her death, she left them a considerable part of her property.
You see, continued M. de Cideville, how much time and trouble are
sometimes required in order to obtain a louis d'or. The following
story will show you how many vexations might sometimes be avoided by
the possession of a sum much less considerable.
THE TEMPTATIONS.
Madame de Livonne, after having been in affluent circumstances, had
fallen into, a state of great poverty. Being left a widow, with her
daughter Euphemia, who was about twelve years of age, and having
only distant relations, who were far from wealthy, and to whom she
did not wish to be a burden, she took the reasonable and courageous
resolution of providing, by her own exertions, for herself and
daughter. She therefore established herself in a small town where
she was unknown, that she might be able to live as she pleased,
without being obliged to go into company, or receive visits. She
applied herself to plain work, with Euphemia, who was gentle and
reasonable, and who loved her mother, whom she had seen very unhappy,
so tenderly, that provided she saw her tranquil, nothing troubled
her. It was not because Euphemia did not, at first, experience much
difficulty in accustoming herself to certain privations which daily
increased, or to duties somewhat repugnant to her feelings; but
she found her mother so ready to neglect herself on her account,
and so anxious to spare her as much as possible everything that
was disagreeable, that she felt eager to anticipate her, and made
a pleasure of what would otherwise have been a pain. Thus, for
instance, she had no fancy for counting the linen, or washing the
dishes, but if she could manage to be the first to see the laundress,
she hastened to give her the clothes, delighted with the thought that
her mother would not have to do it; and after dinner she generally
contrived to surprise her, by washing and arranging the things before
Madame de Livonne rose from table, who, upon seeing what was done,
would embrace her child with the greatest tenderness.
With the happiness which these attentions caused, would sometimes
mingle a feeling of melancholy and uneasiness, relative to the
future prospects of Euphemia; but Madame de Livonne possessed so
much fortitude, that she was enabled to overcome her fears, and to
place her trust in Providence. Besides, there could not well be any
sadness where Euphemia was, for she laughed and sung over all she
did, and her mother, who was still young, and had a pleasing voice,
often joined in her songs. In the evening, when the weather was fine,
they walked into the country, and Euphemia, after having been shut
up all day, enjoyed with transport the beauty of the weather and
the freshness of the air; and, satisfied with having worked with
diligence, she thought with pleasure of the duties of the succeeding
day. To see and hear her, one would have imagined that she was the
happiest creature in the world; and in truth she was happy, for she
did nothing wrong, she had no fancies that tormented her, she was
never wearied, and always spent her time in useful occupations.
Madame de Livonne was so economical, and proportioned so well her
expenses to her means, that since they had been compelled to work
for their living, they had never been embarrassed. But she was taken
ill, even dangerously so. However, Euphemia's joy, when she beheld
her convalescent, was so great, that she could scarcely think of the
situation in which they were soon to be placed. Almost all their
money had been spent during the time that Madame de Livonne had
been unable to work, and when Euphemia, occupied in nursing her,
her heart always heavy, and her eyes full of tears, was scarcely
able to work either. It was not what the poor child had eaten during
this time that cost much, but medicines and nourishing food had been
required for her mother. Several persons of the town who esteemed
Madame de Livonne, on account of her fortitude and her virtues, had,
indeed, sent her various things, of which she stood in need, but this
assistance ceased as soon as she was better, and she herself even,
in order not to encroach upon their kindness, had assured them that
such things were no longer necessary for her. They therefore found
themselves in such a state of destitution, that as soon as Madame de
Livonne had, in some degree, regained her strength, she determined
to go to a town, about two leagues distant from where they lived, in
order to collect some money for work sent home before her illness.
They set out very early one morning, and when just on the point of
starting, the daughter of Mathurine called upon them. It was in this
town that she was in service, and her mother lived in the one to
which they were going. She was acquainted with them, as they worked
for her mistress, and being aware of their intended journey, she
begged them to carry to her mother the louis d'or that Victorine had
given her. They willingly took charge of it, and set off full of
spirits. Euphemia was so delighted to breathe the morning air, that,
although repeatedly reminded by her mother that they had four leagues
to walk during the day, she could not refrain from jumping about, and
running on before, and into the fields, on each side of the road; so
that when the heat increased, she became very thirsty, and the more
so as she had eaten, while skipping about, a large piece of bread.
Her mother exhorted her to bear the inconvenience with patience, as
there was no means of procuring anything to drink. Euphemia said no
more about it, as she did not wish to grieve her mother needlessly;
but presently she uttered a cry of joy.
"Oh, mamma, there is a man selling gooseberries; we can buy a pound
to refresh ourselves."
"My poor child," said her mother, "you know we have no money."
"I thought," replied Euphemia, timidly, "that they would not be very
dear."
"But I have no money at all, my dear Euphemia; none whatever."
"I thought, mamma, that this man might change for us old Mathurine's
louis d'or, and when we arrived, we could give her her money,
together with what we had borrowed from it."
"But we have neither the permission of Mathurine, nor of her
daughter, to borrow from this money; it was not given us for that
purpose."
"Oh! I am quite sure," continued Euphemia, in a sorrowful tone, "that
if they knew how thirsty I am, they would gladly lend us sufficient
to buy a pound of gooseberries."
"My poor child," replied her mother, still more sorrowfully, "we can
be sure only of our own will, and dispose only of that which belongs
to us. As this money does not belong to us, is it not the same as if
we had not got it at all?"
As she spoke, she put her arms round her daughter's neck, and
embraced her tenderly, regarding her with a look of distress, as if
to entreat her not to persist in a request which she could not grant.
Euphemia kissed her mother's hand, and turned away her head, that she
might not see the basket of gooseberries which was passing by them at
the moment; and hearing her mother sigh heavily, she determined not
to give her any more uneasiness.
"Are you still very thirsty?" said Madame de Livonne to her, some
time afterwards.
"Yes, mamma;" and she added, "this is like the child of Hagar in the
desert." But seeing that her comparison brought tears to her mother's
eyes, she continued gaily, "But I shall not die of it," and she began
to skip about, in order to show that she was not overcome by the heat
and thirst. Nevertheless, she was very much flushed, and her mother,
looking at her with great anxiety, saw that she was really suffering.
She stopped, and looked around her. "Listen, Euphemia," said she to
her daughter; "it is possible that behind this rising ground, which
overhangs the road, we may find a hollow, and perhaps some water. Get
up and see."
Euphemia ascended, and at first saw nothing but a vast plain covered
with corn, without a tree, without the least verdure indicative of
water. For the moment, she felt ready to cry; she stood on tiptoe,
and notwithstanding the heat of the sun, which was shining full upon
her head, she could not make up her mind to come down and resign
the hope of quenching her thirst. At length she heard a dog bark
not far from the spot where she stood. After hearing it several
times, she remarked that the sound always proceeded from the same
place, and that it was, moreover, the voice of a large dog, and not
that of a shepherd's dog. She judged that the animal must be at the
door of some dwelling, and running in the direction of the sound,
she discovered, to her extreme joy, a house which had been hidden
by the elevation on which she stood. She announced the news to her
mother, who telling her to go on, followed after her. Before Madame
de Livonne arrived, Euphemia had drunk off a large glass of water,
with a little wine in it, which a good-natured woman had given her,
although Euphemia at first refused the wine, as she had no money to
pay for it. She also asked for a glass for her mother, and ran to
meet her; and Madame de Livonne, delighted at seeing the poor child
refreshed and comforted, forgot half her own fatigues.
Having fully rested and refreshed themselves, and warmly thanked
their kind entertainer, they again set out on their journey, by a
path which she had pointed out to them, as shorter and pleasanter
than the high road. Euphemia, quite reanimated, could not refrain
from congratulating herself on her good fortune, and a little also on
her cleverness, in having inferred that there was a house there.
"You must allow," said her mother, "that you would not have shown so
much discrimination, had you not been so thirsty. Necessity is the
parent of invention."
"Oh, most certainly," replied Euphemia, "if I had eaten the
gooseberries, we should not have sought for something to drink, and I
should not have had that good glass of wine and water, which has done
me so much more good."
Whilst thus conversing, a poor woman approached them, carrying an
infant, which was very pale, and so weak, that it could not hold up
its head; she herself was frightfully emaciated, and her eyes were
red and hollow from weeping; she asked them for alms.
"Good Heavens! we have nothing," said Euphemia, in a most sorrowful
tone.
"Only enough to buy something for my poor child, who has had no milk
for two days! only enough to save it from dying!"
"I have nothing in the world," said Madame de Livonne, with
inexpressible anguish. The poor woman sat down on the ground and
burst into tears. Euphemia, her heart torn with grief, clasped
her hands and exclaimed, "Mamma, mamma, shall we leave this poor
child and its mother to die of hunger? Would not that be worse than
borrowing from Mathurine's money? We are still near the house; let me
go and change the louis." Madame de Livonne cast down her eyes, and
for a moment appeared to reflect.
"Euphemia," said she, "have you forgotten that as this money does not
belong to us, it is the same as if it were not in our possession?"
Euphemia began to cry bitterly, hiding her face in her hands. The
poor woman, seeing them stop, got up and again approached Madame de
Livonne.
"For the love of God," she exclaimed, "and that he may preserve your
young lady, take pity on my poor child!"
"Tell me," said Madame de Livonne, "have you sufficient strength to
reach the town?" The poor woman replied that she had, and Madame de
Livonne, drawing from her pocket the cover of a letter, on the back
of which she wrote a few lines in pencil, told her to take it to the
Curé of the town in which she resided, promising her that he would
give her assistance. Euphemia, hearing the poor woman thank her
mother, felt courage at last to turn to her her tearful face. The
expression of her pity seemed to shed a gleam of comfort over the
heart of this unhappy creature. She looked alternately at Euphemia
and at her child, as if to tell him also to thank her. Euphemia just
then remembering that she had in her bag a piece of bread, left from
her breakfast, gave it to the poor woman, who went away loading them
with blessings, for she plainly saw that they had done for her all
that was in their power. They continued their journey: their minds
were relieved, but they were serious. Euphemia could talk of nothing
but the poor woman. "You see, my child," said her mother, "that there
are sometimes terrible temptations in life."
"Oh, mamma! so terrible that I do not know how it is possible to
resist them."
"By fully persuading ourselves that there is nothing truly impossible
but a breach of duty."
"But, mamma, if you had not been able to write to the Curé, could you
have made up your mind to allow this poor woman to die, rather than
change Mathurine's louis?"
"I would rather have begged for her."
This reply, in proving to Euphemia that resources are never wanting
to him who has the courage to employ all those which are allowable,
calmed a little the alarm inspired by the severity of certain duties.
At length they reached the town. One of the two persons with whom
Madame de Livonne had business, lived at its entrance, and she
felt a little uneasy at seeing the shutters of the house closed.
Nevertheless she made inquiries. A servant, the only one remaining
in the house, informed her that her mistress was gone to see her
sister, who was ill, and living at a distance of thirty leagues.
Euphemia looked at her mother with dismay; however, she thought it
very fortunate that they had not touched Mathurine's louis. They then
went to the other customer; but she no longer resided in the town. A
neighbour told them that she had only stayed there a short time, and
that no one knew where she was gone to. On receiving this reply,
Madame de Livonne sat down on a step. Her daughter saw her turn pale,
and lean for support, as if she was going to faint; and indeed it
was only her courage which had until then supported her against the
debility left by her malady, the fatigues of the journey, and the
vexation occasioned by her first disappointment. Now her strength
entirely gave way, and she fainted outright. Euphemia, trembling, and
in despair, embraced her as long as she was able, and called her,
and shook her, in order to make her revive. She was afraid to leave
her for the purpose of seeking assistance; brought up in habits of
self-restraint, she dared not cry out, and no one happened to be
passing by; every one was in the fields. At length, the neighbour who
had spoken to them again coming out, Euphemia called her, and pointed
to her mother. Two other old women also come up and gave their aid in
restoring her to consciousness. Madame de Livonne opened her eyes,
and turned them upon her daughter, who kneeling by her side, kissed
her hands, and exclaimed in a transport of joy, "Mamma, here I am;"
for at this moment she thought of nothing but the happiness of being
once more restored to each other.
However, she soon become very anxious about their return home; but
her mother told her not to torment herself, as she would soon recover
her strength; and yet at every moment she seemed on the point of
fainting again. Every time she closed her eyes, Euphemia turned pale
and was ready to burst into tears, but restrained herself, in order
not to grieve her mother, and clasping her hands, she murmured in
a suppressed voice, "My God! what shall we do? how are we to get
home?" One of the women told her that a coach would be passing in two
hours which would take them back, but Euphemia knew very well that
they had no money to pay for their places, and besides she thought
that it would be impossible for her mother, weak as she was, to
continue her journey without taking some refreshment. However, she
had not once thought of making use of Mathurine's money; but at last
it occurred to her that if she were to carry it to her, she might
perhaps lend them a part of it. Delighted with this idea, she forgot
her timidity, and hastily searching for the louis in her mother's
pocket, and begging one of the women to accompany her to Mathurine's
house, she looked at her mother for permission. Madame de Livonne by
a sign gave her consent, and Euphemia set off, walking so quickly
that the woman who accompanied her had some difficulty in following
her. Her heart beat violently as she reached the house; the door
was locked; Mathurine had gone four leagues off to assist in the
harvest, and was not to return until the following day. Euphemia
looked at the person who gave her this information without uttering
a word. She was unable to speak, for her heart was bursting, and her
ideas were confused to such a degree, on receiving an intelligence
which destroyed her last hope, that, happily for her, she no longer
felt all the misery of her situation. She returned slowly, looking
mechanically around her, as if seeking some one who might give her
aid; but all she saw seemed poorer than herself, though she felt that
at that moment there were none of them so wretched. Presently the
air resounded with the cracking of postilions' whips; a travelling
carriage drove up, and stopped at the inn: it occupied the whole of
the narrow street, and obliged Euphemia and her companion to stop.
A lady, her husband and daughter, and a lady's-maid, descended from
it, and were quickly surrounded by poor asking for alms. This sight
made Euphemia weep, without very well knowing why. She watched them,
and listened to the lady's soft voice; she looked at her husband,
whose countenance was good and amiable, and at the young girl, who
was nearly of her own age; she could not make up her mind to pass on.
At last she heard the husband, in a tone of kindness, say to the poor
who were begging, "My children, I can give you nothing here; but come
to Béville, ask for the château, and you shall have work."
A thought suddenly struck Euphemia: they might perchance give her
work too. She rushed into the yard, regardless of the horses that
were crossing it, and stood before the lady, who was just entering
the house; but once in her presence, she stopped, cast down her eyes,
and was afraid to speak. Madame de Béville, such was the lady's name,
seeing before her a young girl neatly dressed and in tears, asked her
kindly what she wanted. Euphemia hesitated, stammered, but at length
the thought that her mother was waiting for her, and perhaps uneasy,
forced her to make an effort, and with clasped hands, and downcast
eyes, for she dared not look at Madame de Béville, she said in a low
voice, "Let me have some work too."
"Some work, my child? certainly I will, but how--what sort of work?"
[Illustration: Madame de Béville, seeing before her a young
girl neatly dressed, and in tears, asked her kindly what she
wanted.--P. 92.]
Euphemia could not reply; the little girl then approached her, and
said in the most encouraging tone, "Come, speak to mamma."
Euphemia took courage, and addressing Madame de Béville in her
former manner, said, "But I want to be paid in advance, immediately;
and then," she added, raising her head, and in a tone of great
earnestness, "then, I will work for you as long and as much as you
please."
She stopped, trembling. Madame de Béville questioned her with great
kindness, and Euphemia related her troubles; but while speaking,
the louis d'or, which she held in her hand, fell to the ground. The
little girl picked it up, and returned it to her, blushing, grieved
at the thought that Euphemia had been trying to deceive them.
"My child," said Madame de Béville, in a reproachful tone, "why did
you tell me that you had no money?"
"It is not ours," replied Euphemia with simplicity, "it has been
intrusted to us for another, and therefore we cannot touch it."
The young girl, much moved, looked at Madame de Béville, who kissed
Euphemia, and asked to be conducted to the place where she had left
her mother. At this moment, Madame de Livonne entered the yard,
supported by M. de Béville, who had recognised her from having often
seen her in Paris, and who begged his wife to join him in persuading
her to pass a few days with them, in order to regain her strength.
Madame de Béville, deeply affected by Euphemia's narrative, pressed
the hand of Madame de Livonne, entreating her, in the kindest manner,
to accompany them. Madame de Livonne turned to Euphemia, who smiled
at her with a look of entreaty; the little girl had already taken
her by the arm to lead her away. Madame de Livonne could no longer
hesitate, and they entered the carriage of Madame de Béville, whose
horses had arrived to conduct them to the château, which was only
a few leagues distant. Euphemia could not contain her joy when she
saw her mother seated in that comfortable carriage, and surrounded
by persons who took care of her; and her pleasure was enhanced by
the thought of the delightful time they should pass at Béville. The
following day the louis was sent to Mathurine by a confidential
person.
Madame de Livonne only required rest, and was soon perfectly
restored. M. and Madame de Béville, greatly pleased with the
principles she had impressed upon the mind of her daughter, and
knowing besides that she was well educated, and very talented, told
her that, as they could not obtain in the country, where they lived
the greater part of the year, such masters as they wished for their
daughter, they would be delighted if she would remain with them, and
assist them in her education. Madame de Livonne, although for herself
she would have preferred her independence, nevertheless accepted
a proposition, which insured to Euphemia a happier existence, and
probably, also, a valuable protection.
As to Euphemia, she was delighted beyond measure at the thought
of having to live with Mademoiselle de Béville, with whom she had
already formed a most intimate friendship; and while rejoicing with
her mother at this good fortune, she remarked that it would not have
happened to them, if they had been so weak as to change Mathurine's
louis d'or.
"We have done our duty," she added, "and God has rewarded us."
"My child," said her mother, "our present situation is a blessing
bestowed on us by God, but not a reward."
"And why so, mamma?"
"Because this is not the kind of recompense he assigns to the
fulfilment of duty. Do you remember the lines I made you read to me
the other day from an English book?--
'What! then is the reward of virtue bread?'[A]
[A] Pope. "Essay on Man."
"It is not by giving to the virtuous the means of living, that God
rewards them, but by giving them the satisfaction of having done
their duty, and obeyed his will. This, sometimes, is their only
reward in the present world; sometimes, even, they are unhappy during
the whole of their lives: do you suppose from this that God is unjust
to them?"
"No, mamma."
"And do you not think that among these virtuous yet afflicted people,
there must have been many who have had much more difficult duties to
fulfil than ours, and who have fulfilled them without obtaining those
things which you look upon as a reward?"
"Oh, certainly, mamma."
"It is not, then, probable, that God has wished to reward us, in
preference to others, who have better merited a recompense."
"But, mamma, nevertheless, it is because we have done our duty, that
we are now so happy."
"Yes, my child; and things like this should often happen, for a
very simple reason. God, who has willed that the accomplishment of
our duties should be rewarded by peace of mind, has also permitted
that happiness should usually be the portion of those who take the
most pains to attain it. Now, it is certain, that he who feels no
hesitation in neglecting his duty, will not, in a case of emergency,
trouble himself with the search of any more difficult resource than
this."
"That is quite clear."
"Whereas, he who is anxious not to fail in his duty, will exert all
the energies of his mind, in order to discover some other means of
success; and as the Gospel says, '_Seek, and ye shall find_.' Thus
it may often happen, that the efforts we make to avoid a breach of
duty, enable us to discover many important resources, which would not
otherwise have occurred to us."
"Yes, mamma, just as with the pound of gooseberries. And if, also,
when I saw you so ill, I had considered myself justified in making
use of Mathurine's louis, I should not have thought of addressing
myself to Madame de Béville, which has been so much more advantageous
to us."
At this moment, the poor woman whom they had met upon the road
presented herself. Her child was quite restored, and she herself,
though still very thin, appeared happy. The Curé had at first
relieved her, and afterwards sent her to a manufactory, where she
obtained employment. Assured of a subsistence, she had come to
announce her happiness to those who had been the means of procuring
it, and to bring her child for Mademoiselle Euphemia to kiss, _now
that he had become handsome again_.
"Mamma! mamma," said Euphemia, overwhelming it with caresses, "it is
still because you would not change Mathurine's louis, that you sent
them to the Curé. Oh! how much good this louis has done us!"
* * * * *
Here M. de Cideville paused.
"Is that all?" asked Ernestine.
"Yes," replied her father, "I think that is the whole history of the
louis d'or; and that from old Mathurine it has come to me, without
any adventures."
"And now, papa," said Ernestine, "you forbade me to question you
until the end of the story; but is it not true, that you do not know
whether all the adventures you have related, have really happened to
the louis d'or you showed me?"
M. de Cideville smiled, and said, "It is true that I do not exactly
know whether these adventures have really happened; but you must
allow that they are possible." Ernestine assented.
"You must also allow, that if some of them are rather romantic,
some at least are probable, and may have occurred without any very
extraordinary combination of accidents." She again assented.
"Well, then, my child," replied M. de Cideville, "it is partly
for want of knowing the truth, and partly for want of sufficient
imagination to supply its place, that I have not related many other
histories, all more simple and more interesting than my own, in
which you might have seen a louis d'or, or even a much smaller sum,
prevent the greatest misfortunes. Picture to yourself a family
which had eaten nothing for three days: can you imagine the delight
with which they would receive a louis d'or, which would afford them
time to await, without dying, such other assistance as might save
them entirely? And again, the unhappy wretch whose reason has been
so far disturbed by excess of misery, that he is led to attempt his
own life, can you doubt that a louis d'or, by delaying the moment,
would often give him time to return to calmer feelings, and seek some
better resource than an act of crime? I give you only two examples,
but I repeat, that there are thousands remaining, of which it would
be impossible to think, without losing every wish to spend such a sum
in a frivolous manner."
"But, papa," said Ernestine, "is it then never allowable to spend a
louis on pleasure?"
"My child," said M. de Cideville, "if we impose upon ourselves
restrictions too severe, on one point, we run the risk of failing in
others. There are duties proportioned to every situation in life. It
is proper that those who enjoy a certain degree of affluence, should
occupy in the world a position suitable to their means, and also
that they should mix in society, which they cannot do without some
expense; for it is highly important that society should be kept up,
since it binds men together, and gives them opportunities of mutually
instructing each other. It is also good for the poor, because the
expenses of the rich give them the means of exerting their industry,
and maintaining their families. It is necessary, too, that those
employed in important labours, as I am every morning in my study,
should be able sometimes to repose the mind by occupations of a less
serious nature, as otherwise they would end by losing the means of
fulfilling the duties of their station. It is for reasons of this
kind that many expenses which do not appear directly useful, are
nevertheless proper and necessary. But a mind accustomed to judge
of the real value of things, will easily draw a distinction between
money spent in this manner, and that which is _thrown into the sea_,
as the saying is; and while such a person will never feel tempted
to indulge in expenses of the latter kind, he will permit himself
to enjoy the others without remorse. I know very well, my dear
Ernestine, that you may easily deceive yourself in regard to your
pleasures: at your age, every pleasure appears of great importance;
but I am anxious that you should at least understand the value of
what you bestow upon it; therefore, I promise to give you this louis
as soon as you have found a really useful means of employing it."
Ernestine, quite enchanted, promised to seek one; we shall see
whether she succeeded in her search.
CONCLUSION OF THE HISTORY OF A LOUIS D'OR.
For a whole week, Ernestine could think of nothing but her louis, and
the use she was to make of it, but she found none that suited her.
The stories which her father had related, made her reflect on what
might really be useful, and as her parents supplied her abundantly
with everything necessary, and even interested themselves in her
pleasures, whenever they were reasonable, she saw nothing that could
justify her in spending it on herself; besides, she had determined
to apply it to some benevolent purpose. But, at her age, she was
ignorant of the best means of doing good. She often met poor people,
and delighted in relieving them; but as her little monthly allowance
was almost sufficient for these acts of charity, she would have been
very sorry to have expended her louis upon them. Besides, she did
not know whether one of these poor people was in greater need than
another, nor could she tell how to ascertain this; she therefore
experienced great anxiety on this head; but the arrival of the season
of gaiety dissipated her cares. She went to five or six balls; she
had never danced so much in her life, and her head was so completely
turned with joy, that she forgot her louis; for, of course, she would
never have thought of spending it upon her toilette. At length the
time arrived for their departure into the country; and seeing her
father paying some money at the inn, she recollected her louis d'or,
and mentioned it to him. M. de Cideville told her that it was in the
country she would find the best means of employing it to advantage,
as it was there that the greatest amount of good might be done, with
the smallest amount of money.
They had only been a few days at Saulaye, the estate of M. de
Cideville, when Ernestine came running to her father, quite out
of breath, to tell him that she required her louis, for that one
of the villagers, named Marianne, whom he knew very well, as she
had assisted at his haymaking the previous year, had just had her
leg broken in the fields, by a kick from a horse. The surgeon of
the neighbouring town, who was also the medical attendant at the
château, happened fortunately to pass by while she lay upon the
ground, screaming dreadfully. He set the leg immediately, and had her
taken home. But this was not all; Marianne would require remedies,
and she was very poor; her husband was in the army, and she had
only a very small garden and her labour to depend upon, for the
maintenance of herself and a little girl, eight years of age. It was,
therefore, absolutely necessary to assist her.
M. de Cideville agreed to this. "But," said he to his daughter, "have
you well considered the manner of employing your louis, so as to
render it as beneficial to her as possible?"
"If I give it to her, papa, she will be able to buy what is necessary
with it."
"Do you think she will be able to buy much?"
"Oh! dear, no; but that is always the way."
"But if you could so employ it as to make it yield a considerable
profit to her? Do you remember the advantages which the family of M.
de la Fère derived from a louis d'or?"
"Yes, papa, but their history is not true," said Ernestine, quickly.
"It is quite sufficient that it is possible."
"Yes; but if it be necessary," said Ernestine, with a sorrowful
and embarrassed look, "to bring oneself, as they did, to bread and
water...."
"You are not reduced to this extremity: this is one of those
resolutions which we ought to have the courage to take, when
necessity demands them, but which would be ridiculous when
unnecessary?"
These words restored Ernestine's cheerfulness. "Whilst we are
talking," said she to her father, caressing him, "poor Marianne does
not know that we are coming to her aid."
Her father reassured her. M. de Cideville had been informed of the
accident before Ernestine came to tell him, and had given orders to
the housekeeper, who was a confidential person, to attend for the
moment Marianne's wants. "But henceforward," said M. de Cideville,
"it is to you we look for her being taken care of, and for seeing
that she wants for nothing: do you think your louis will be
sufficient for this?"
"Good gracious, no! What is to be done?"
"What do you think she will stand in need of?"
"Why, first of all, she must be nursed, for she can do nothing for
herself, and Suzette, her daughter, is too young to attend upon her."
"She has many neighbours about her, and I am sure they will relieve
each other in nursing, and taking care of her, as long as it is
necessary. You already see how much these poor women can do without
the aid of money."
"Yes, but I cannot do what they do."
"Therefore you ought to do something else. Will she not require
medicines?"
"We must buy some for her."
"The greater part of the herbs, of which her draughts and poultices
will probably be composed, grow wild in the fields: we know them, and
will teach you to distinguish them also. If you like to employ your
walks in seeking for them, you may, I think, easily gather a good
provision of such of them as are most required, and we will show them
to the surgeon, in order to be quite sure that we are not mistaken."
"There, again, is the surgeon! I never thought of him; he, too, must
be paid."
"He attends the château, and receives a certain sum annually; we
treat him well, and he is satisfied with us; besides, he is a very
worthy man, and attends gratuitously to the poor of the village, as
much from humanity as from the wish to oblige us; while some presents
from our produce, as a cask of our wine, for instance, enable us,
from time to time, to testify our gratitude to him."
"But, papa, it is you and other people who do all this; it is not I."
"You can do but little of yourself, my child, since you have neither
strength, nor wealth; but it is precisely because you are dependent
on us for all your wants, that you ought to count among your
resources the pleasure we feel in obliging you, in everything that is
reasonable, and the predisposition which people feel to comply with
your requests, when you ask for what is proper."
"Oh papa, to ask! but that is so difficult. I should never have the
courage to do that."
"It is in this, my child, that the greatest merit of charity often
consists. I could relate to you many admirable stories on this
subject. In order to do good, we must often be able to conquer
our pride, which makes us dislike to have recourse to others;
our idleness, which makes us dislike exertion; our indolence or
thoughtlessness, which makes us lose a thousand things which would
be useful. We must learn to do much, with little means; otherwise,
we shall never manage to accomplish anything of importance. Those
who only give money soon exhaust all they have to give, whereas
the contrivances of charity, in aid of the unfortunate, are
inexhaustible."
"Dear papa, I shall beg you to teach me to find the herbs; but I
assure you I am very much afraid I shall not be able to discover
anything else."
"You will see: meanwhile, here is your louis; if you take my advice,
you will not spend it, except in the purchase of such things as
you cannot otherwise obtain. As for the others, seek the means of
procuring them. In a house of any consideration there are always
many things which may be given away without any positive expense,
as they would be otherwise lost, or nearly so. You can ask us for
these, and in this way, we will aid you, with the greatest pleasure,
in succouring poor Marianne, whom from this moment I place under your
care."
Ernestine, though a little frightened at a duty, which she was afraid
of not fulfilling in a proper manner, still felt proud and happy in
having some one under her protection. Madame de Cideville entering
at this moment, her husband informed her of the important charge he
had committed to her daughter; and as a servant came to say that
Marguerite, one of the women who took care of Marianne, wanted some
old linen for her, Madame de Cideville said, "It is to Ernestine you
must apply."
Ernestine looked at her mother, with an air of utter astonishment.
"But, mamma," she said, "I have no old linen."
"And you cannot think of any means of procuring some?"
"Madame Bastien" (this was the housekeeper's name) "has plenty; the
old sheets and napkins belonging to the house serve her for making
bandages; but she is always angry when any one applies for them. Last
year, when my nurse hurt her foot, she hardly even dared to ask her
for any."
"Nevertheless, you must endeavour to obtain some between this and
to-morrow, for to-morrow they will be needed for Marianne."
"Mamma, if you were to tell Madame Bastien to give me some?"
"She would give them to you, most assuredly; but do you think she
would do so with less ill-humour? She is well aware that I wish her
to give to all who require it, but as she has sometimes to supply
a great many persons, she is afraid that each will take too much;
perhaps too she likes to show her authority a little; therefore, you
may be quite sure that whatever she does, she will do it with a much
better grace for the sake of obliging you, than she would if I were
to order it."
As Ernestine was going out, she met Marguerite, and told her that she
would endeavour to have some linen to send her, for the following
day. Marguerite replied that it was absolutely necessary, for without
it she could not change Marianne's poultices. Ernestine was very
much embarrassed; she was afraid of Madame Bastien, who had been in
the family thirty years, and possessed great authority. The servants
feared her, because she was exact and economical, and Ernestine,
without knowing why, did the same. At that moment, she would have
been very glad if her papa and mamma had themselves undertaken to
provide for Marianne's wants. She saw in this charge a host of
embarrassments, from which she knew not how to extricate herself, but
she did not dare to say so. While standing, thoughtfully, on the spot
where Marguerite had left her, she saw Madame Bastien approaching.
She blushed, for she thought of what she had to ask her, and stooped
down as if to look at her _Hortensia_, which was placed upon the
step, at the side of the yard. Madame Bastien stopped to look at it,
and remarked that it was very beautiful. Ernestine, who was anxious
to prolong the conversation, showed her two slips from it which she
had planted the preceding year; they each bore two buds which were
beginning to swell. Madame Bastien admired these also.
"Will you accept of them?" asked Ernestine, with eagerness. Madame
Bastien refused, saying she did not like to deprive her of them.
"Oh yes! yes!" said Ernestine, and taking the two pots under her
arm she lightly descended the steps and ran to place them on the
window of the lower room, where Madame Bastien usually worked. Madame
Bastien followed her, thanking her very much for this present, with
which she seemed to be greatly pleased, and at the same time admiring
the hortensias. Ernestine went and got some water for them, wiped the
leaves, and changed the sticks intended for their support, but which
were beginning to be too short for them. Madame Bastien hardly knew
how to thank her sufficiently for so much attention.
"Madame Bastien," said Ernestine, as she tied the last prop, "could
you not give me some old linen for poor Marianne? Mamma has given me
permission to ask you for some."
"Very willingly," said Madame Bastien, in the best-humoured manner
in the world; "the poor woman shall have as much as she requires;
she is laid up for a long time;" and she took Ernestine to the linen
closet, where she made up a large parcel, which Ernestine, her heart
bounding with joy, carried off, and hastened to show it triumphantly
to her mother, who allowed her to take it herself to Marianne. Whilst
waiting on the step for her nurse, she saw Suzette, Marianne's little
girl, enter the yard, walking slowly by the side of the wall, looking
first on one side, and then on the other, as if fearful, yet anxious
to be seen. Ernestine descended a few steps and called to her.
"How is your mother?" she asked. "Pretty well," replied Suzette, with
a heavy sigh.
"What are you looking for?"
"Nothing;" and this _nothing_ was followed by a sigh still heavier
than the former. She began to look at Ernestine's flowers, and said,
"What beautiful flowers!" then, as if continuing the conversation,
she added:
"I have had no dinner to-day."
"You have had no dinner?"
"No, and I don't think I shall get any."
"Why not?"
"Because mother cannot give me any."
"Stay, then," said Ernestine, and running to her mother, she
exclaimed, "Mamma, here is Suzette, and she has had no dinner."
"Very well, my child, something must be done for her."
"Yes, mamma; do you think," and she hesitated--"do you think it would
be a positive expense if Suzette were to be fed here? It seems to me
that there is sufficient in the pantry...."
"I think, my dear, there is; there would only be the bread...."
"Oh, yes; but, mamma, they bake at home for the servants; would it be
necessary to bake more on account of Suzette?"
"I think not, provided at least that you will not waste it as you are
in the habit of doing, by cutting large slices to give to Turc, who
ought to have only the fragments."
Ernestine promised, and Madame de Cideville consented to Suzette's
being fed at the château, during her mother's illness. While now
waiting for her dinner, Ernestine got her a piece of bread, to which
she added, as it was the first time, a little gingerbread cake which
she brought from her own room, as it belonged to her. In passing by
Turc, who as soon as he saw her, came out of his kennel, and got as
near to her as the length of his chain would permit, all the time
wagging his tail and lowering his ears: "My poor Turc," said she,
"you will have nothing now but the pieces." Nevertheless she begged
Suzette to give him a bit of her bread, as a mark of friendship, and
promised herself to go and look for some in the piece-basket, in
order not to forfeit Turc's good graces.
She would carry the bundle of linen herself, although it was rather
heavy. Fortunately, Marianne lived quite close to the château.
On reaching her house, all flushed with pleasure as well as
embarrassment, she said, "Here, Marianne, here is some old linen I
have got for you."
"I assure you," said the nurse, "she was very anxious to bring it to
you."
"It is very kind, Mademoiselle Ernestine," said one of the women who
was there, "to come and comfort poor people."
This speech gratified Ernestine, but embarrassed her still more.
Children, and especially girls, are timid with the poor, because
they have seen little of them, are unaccustomed to their manners and
language, and do not know how to talk to them. This timidity, which
they do not sufficiently endeavour to overcome, often causes them to
be accused of haughtiness. Fortunately for Ernestine, Suzette, who
had followed her, came forward eating, with good appetite, a piece of
bread. She was asked where she got it, and replied that Mademoiselle
Ernestine had given it to her.
"I have asked mamma," said Ernestine, addressing Marianne, "to let
her be fed at the château, all the time you are ill."
"This is just what was wanted to cure her," said the woman who had
before spoken, "for she has done nothing for a long time but cry, and
say, '_Who will take care of my poor child?_' I told her that if she
tormented herself in that manner her blood would be curdled."
"Suzette shall want for nothing, my poor Marianne," said Ernestine,
with great earnestness, "nor you either, I hope."
Joy and gratitude were painted on the suffering countenance of
Marianne; she clasped her hands under the bedclothes, for she had
been forbidden to move. An old woman who was seated near her bed, let
fall her crutch, and taking the hand of Ernestine within her own,
said to her, "You are a good young lady, and God will bless you."
Ernestine was so moved, that tears almost came to her eyes. She now
felt more at her ease and her nurse having questioned the women who
were there as to what had been done, and what ordered by the surgeon,
she joined in the conversation, and in a short time her embarrassment
quite vanished. When she left, Marianne raised her feeble voice to
bless her; and the old woman again said, "You are a good young lady."
The other woman followed her to the door and looked after her. She
felt that they would talk about her in that poor cottage, and say
that she was good, and this thought made her experience a pleasure
which had hitherto been unknown to her. Suzette, who followed her
like her shadow, she considered as under her especial protection,
and she seemed to herself to be older and more reasonable, now that
she was able to protect some one. At this moment, she would not
have exchanged the pleasure of having Marianne under her charge for
all the enjoyments in the world. She hastened to communicate to her
parents all the joy she experienced, and they shared it with her. She
told her mother that there was still one thing which she had to beg
of her, but she hoped that it would be the last. It was some broth
for Marianne; "I could easily," she said, "boil her some meat, but
then I should require wood, and besides meat would not be good for
her. If the broth were made for two days, it would turn at the first
storm; and, besides, it would give more trouble to her neighbours.
Perhaps some could be sent to her from here without increasing the
expense."
"I see," said her mother, smiling, "that you begin to understand what
you are about." This was the result of her conversation with the
women who took care of Marianne. Madame de Cideville permitted her
to ask M. François the cook for some broth, and M. François promised
to give her some with great pleasure, provided Mademoiselle Ernestine
did not incessantly say to him, "M. François, do not so often give us
melted butter with asparagus in it;" "M. François, the spinach had no
taste to-day;" or else, "I do not like pease soup!"
Ernestine promised to be satisfied with everything, and she was, at
all events, perfectly satisfied with her day's work.
In the afternoon, she gathered in the fields several of the herbs
which she had been told might be required for Marianne. She also
learned to distinguish a few which grew in the uncultivated parts of
the park, and even in the crevices of the walls. They were shown to
the surgeon, who thought many of them very good; some others were
necessary, and these he promised to supply himself; Ernestine asked
him the price. "Nothing to you, my dear young lady," he replied, "I
do not wish to ruin so pretty a sister of charity." Ernestine blushed
and thanked him, and from that moment treated him with a degree of
respect and politeness, which charmed the good doctor so much, that
he redoubled his attentions to Marianne. He gave Ernestine an account
of her condition, and told her what was necessary to be done, and
Ernestine thanked him in a manner which completely won his heart. He
joked with her, she laughed with him; they became the best friends
imaginable. One day a rather expensive drug was wanted: Ernestine
insisted on paying for it; he would not allow it; "I am also an
apothecary," he said; "I prepare that myself."
"Yes, but you would sell it."
"That is not certain. There are drugs which must be prepared in
advance, in order that they may always be ready in case of need, and
which, nevertheless, if kept too long, run the risk of being spoiled.
This risk we are obliged to charge against those who have money, by
making them pay a higher price, which is but just; but it is also
just that the poor should profit by it in receiving for nothing what
might otherwise be spoiled."
Ernestine was satisfied with the surgeon's arguments, but she told
her mother that as she wished to make him a present which would not
be very expensive to her, she had determined to embroider a waistcoat
for him, which would suit his portly person wonderfully well. Her
mother approved of her idea, and even assisted her, and when the
waistcoat was completed, the surgeon was invited to dinner. Ernestine
placed it under his napkin, and it gave him so much pleasure, that
there was certainly nothing in the world which he would not have done
to oblige his little sister of charity, as he always called her.
From the moment that Marianne began to improve, she had required
soup, and the surgeon wished it to be made of lighter bread than that
which was baked for the servants, that it might not injure a stomach
weakened as much by want as by illness. Ernestine, at first, bought
some, but she afterwards remarked that large pieces were frequently
left from that served at their own table, which no one made use of,
and which were only thrown into the refuse-basket. She had, at first,
some scruples as to the propriety of making use of these.
"Mamma," said she to Madame de Cideville, "is it not wrong to collect
pieces for Marianne as we do for Turc?"
"It is not at all the same thing, my child; for they ought only to
be given to Turc, on the supposition that they cannot be put to
any other use. If you gave them to Marianne only because they were
refused by every one else, that would undoubtedly be wrong, for you
know that God punished the wicked rich man, because he did nothing
for Lazarus, except permitting him to eat the crumbs that fell from
his table. Instead of performing an act of charity, you would show a
cruel and odious contempt of the poor; but so far from its being a
contempt of Marianne, that you collect this bread, you do it, on the
contrary, for the sake of having additional means of benefiting her."
Ernestine, though thus encouraged by her mother, nevertheless felt
rather embarrassed when she carried these pieces to Marianne, after
having cut them as neatly as possible. She wished to take them
herself, although Suzette was her usual messenger in these cases, and
she blushed, as she showed them to the neighbour who was to prepare
the soup. The latter showed them to Marianne, who seemed much pleased
at the prospect of having such pieces every day, and Ernestine
saw plainly that where there is real kindness, there is never any
danger of hurting the feelings of those whom we oblige; it is only
intentional slight, or inattention, which can really wound. From this
time Ernestine carefully made the round of the table each day, after
breakfast, and after dinner, and sometimes, in order that she might
carry to Marianne a little loaf quite whole, she said at breakfast
that she preferred the household bread with her milk and butter.
Under all this care, the health of Marianne improved daily, but
Ernestine looked with anxiety to the moment when her patient would
again have to provide for herself and daughter, more especially as
during her illness she had been obliged to neglect her little garden,
which supplied her with vegetables. One day Ernestine saw Geneviève,
the daughter of Jacques, the gardener, returning from catechism,
crying. She was to make her first communion this year, and went to
catechism to be instructed; but as she had no mother, and as her
father had not time to hear her repeat her lesson, Geneviève, who was
naturally indolent, always learned it badly, and was reprimanded.
Ernestine, who was much more advanced, although younger than
Geneviève, offered to go over her lessons with her, and by dint of
pains at last succeeded in fixing them in her mind. Her only object,
at first, had been to be useful to Geneviève, but the same day, the
gardener having asked her how Marianne was getting on, she replied,
"Pretty well, but I am afraid her garden is doing very badly, for no
one takes care of it."
"We must see to that," said Jacques, and Ernestine smiled graciously
as he went away. The next day, while in the garden hearing Geneviève
her lesson, she saw Jacques returning from Marianne's, in whose
garden he had been planting a few cabbages. He ordered Geneviève to
go in the afternoon, and pull up the weeds, and promised Ernestine,
who thanked him warmly, to take care of it as long as it might be
necessary. She put Geneviève in a condition to receive her first
communion, and when on leaving the church, Geneviève came to thank
her, Ernestine experienced great delight, and a very pardonable
pride, in seeing herself already useful to several people.
She was rewarded for her benevolence to Marianne in more ways than
one; for as she had often favours to ask for, she became obliging to
every one, and displayed a degree of attention and kindness which she
had never previously manifested, so that every one became eager to
gratify her. Her nurse, especially, had never before been so pleased
with her, and hardly knew how to express her satisfaction. She took
her to Marianne as often as she wished, and offered to teach Suzette
to work; they also taught her to take care of her mother, as soon as
she became convalescent, in order that her neighbours might return to
their own affairs. They showed her, besides, how to weed and water
the garden. Ernestine made her do this under her own superintendence,
while one of the servants of the château, whom she politely begged to
assist them, drew the buckets of water from the well. Ernestine often
watered it herself; it was her chief recreation, for she no longer
took pleasure in childish sports.
The serious and useful occupations in which she was engaged, inspired
her with rational tastes, and she could no longer amuse herself with
childish frivolities. At the same time, she had never felt so happy
or less disposed to _ennui_; for when she had nothing else to do, she
would take her knitting, and make a petticoat for Marianne, or she
would arrange an old dress for Suzette, or work for herself; for her
mother had promised her that the money she saved by making her own
dresses, should be spent in wine for Marianne.
At length the time arrived when Marianne was allowed to get up. "I
cannot yet walk," said she to Ernestine, "but I am able to work.
If I had some hemp, I could spin." Ernestine bought her some, and
Marianne, who was very industrious, and terribly wearied from having
so long remained idle, spun from morning till night. She sent the
thread to a weaver, who, in exchange, gave her a certain quantity of
coarse linen cloth, which Madame de Cideville purchased of her for
the use of the kitchen. She procured some fresh hemp, and began to
spin again. A short time after Marianne's accident, Ernestine had
bought for her a little pig, which she had obtained very cheap. A
sty had been made for it in the yard of the château, out of some old
planks, and it was fed from the refuse of the kitchen. Ernestine had
taught Suzette to collect for it everything that could serve as food,
and as it was now grown large, she gave it to Marianne. The garden
had afforded a good crop of potatoes, and Ernestine was able to
return to Paris, at the beginning of the winter, without any anxiety
about the subsistence of her protegée, whose health was now quite
re-established.
"Well, are you satisfied with the use you have made of your louis?"
said M. de Cideville, when they were in the carriage. Ernestine threw
her arms round her father's neck. This louis had made her so happy!
It is true she had spent something additional, and had besides been
well assisted.
"You have laid us under contribution for Marianne," said M. de
Cideville, smiling. "When you are older, you will know that we ought
not to concentrate the whole of our benevolence on a single object,
but endeavour to make all the unfortunate who are within our reach,
partakers of our bounty."
"But, papa, I was only able to take care of Marianne."
"Undoubtedly, and I am not blaming you; but as you will hereafter
have greater means, you will, I hope, know how to combine your
resources in such a manner that many may be benefited by them.
Meanwhile, you have made so good a use of your louis, that I promise
to give you one every three months, to be disposed of in a similar
manner."
Ernestine clapped her hands with an exclamation of surprise and joy,
and again threw herself into her father's arms.
"But remember," he said, "that this sum ought to form the smallest
portion of the means you employ in doing good, and that you ought
only to have recourse to it when you cannot manage otherwise."
Ernestine assured him that this was her intention, and that she would
be very careful to spare her money.
"We ought to spare expense," replied her father, "whenever we can
supply its place by care, industry, and order. The true use of money
is to give us those things which we could not otherwise obtain; for
instance, we cannot make our own shoes or clothes; therefore, we pay
for having them made; and according to the usages of society, we
cannot enjoy a certain position, and still wait upon ourselves; we
therefore pay, in order to have servants. But a lady who, instead of
taking care of her own household, and superintending her servants,
pays another to do it in her place, makes but a bad use of her money;
for it is absurd to employ it in purchasing from others what we can
do ourselves. The same may be said of those who, instead of employing
their activity and care in doing good, only make use of their money.
They spend a great deal, and accomplish very little; for he who does
everything with money, has never sufficient."
"It seems to me," said Ernestine, "that we also lose the pleasure
of doing good; for if I had had ten louis to give to Marianne, they
would not have afforded me so much happiness as the care which you
have allowed me to take of her all the summer."
M. de Cideville informed his daughter, that there were many persons
who believed they could render themselves happy by getting rid of
everything which occasioned them the slightest trouble, but who, on
the contrary, gave themselves up to the most frightful _ennui_. He
told her that this happened to all those who shrank from struggling
with the first difficulties and annoyances of a project: and, in
fact, Ernestine remembered that, at the first moment, she would
gladly have transferred to her parents, had she dared to do so, the
care of providing for Marianne's wants, and thus have lost all the
happiness she had since enjoyed.
Ernestine has grown up. It is usually on her father's estate that she
employs, every year, the four louis, and especially the astonishing
talent she has acquired of doing a great deal of good with very
little money. She is adored by every one in the village, and as she
has rendered services to many among them, she readily obtains from
them assistance for those who stand in need of it. Thus her resources
multiply. She has sown, in a corner of her father's park, those
medicinal plants which are most generally required, and has also
learned to dry them. She hopes that Suzette, who is becoming a pretty
good workwoman, will soon, under her direction, be able to instruct
the other girls of the village. She and her nurse have also taught
her to read. As for herself, she endeavours to learn everything which
can aid her in doing good, without spending too much money, and she
laughs very heartily when she calls to mind the regret she once felt
at not being able to spend a louis on a moving picture.
FRANÇOU.
As Madame d'Inville was one day walking along the Boulevard,
accompanied by her grandson Eugène, and her granddaughter Mélanie,
they saw a concourse of people collected, in the form of a circle,
around one of those men who perform difficult and perilous feats. He
had with him a little girl, dressed partly as a boy and partly as a
girl. Her hair was arranged in female fashion, as was the upper part
of her dress, but the lower part terminated in trousers. This little
girl was walking upon her hands, with her head downwards, and her
feet in the air, and performing a variety of tricks, which amused
the children very much, so that Madame d'Inville was kind enough to
stop and look at them for some time. At length, after giving them
some money, she went away. It was not that Madame d'Inville felt much
pleasure in giving to persons who follow useless occupations; but as
her grandchildren had been much amused, she thought it but right to
pay for the pleasure they had received.
As they were walking along, Mélanie expressed her admiration of the
dress of the little girl, all covered with spangles and chains of
different colours. Eugène remarked that it was all dirty and torn,
and that most of the things she saw glittering were nothing more than
strips of gilt paper. Nevertheless, Mélanie appeared to be so dazzled
with this costume, that her grandmamma jestingly proposed that she
should go and take the little girl's place. Mélanie exclaimed against
this, and Eugène said, "Probably Mélanie would not mind being beaten,
as perhaps that poor little thing is every morning, before putting on
her beautiful dress."
"And why beaten?" asked Mélanie.
"To make her work. You saw the other day that man who was making the
dogs dance, and you remember how sorry you were when he beat one of
them, because he would not make a bow in the minuet. Well, it must be
pretty nearly the same thing in the present case."
"It is quite bad enough to beat a dog," said Mélanie. "I hope people
don't beat their children in the same way."
"Perhaps the little girl," continued Madame d'Inville, "does not
belong to this mountebank. Sometimes poor people, not being able to
maintain their children, confide them to the first person who will
take charge of them, and who hopes to gain something by making them
work. These poor children, removed from their parents, learn nothing
good, and are often unhappy. I knew one...."
"You knew one, dear grandmamma!" cried both the children at once.
"It was a little girl," said Madame d'Inville, "who was taken away
from her native province by a fortune-teller; she was in danger of
perishing of hunger, and of being crippled, and what is much worse,
she ran the risk of becoming a thief."
"Oh! dear! how much I should like to know her history!" said Mélanie.
As they had reached the Champs-Elysées, Madame d'Inville sat down,
the two children seated themselves on the stool which she put under
her feet, and, holding each other round the neck, to avoid falling,
they listened to the history of Françou.
Françou, whose real name was Françoise, had lost her parents before
she was five years old. They were so poor, that they had left nothing
whatever for the maintenance of their child, and Françoise was placed
with her uncle, her father's brother, who being himself very poor and
having lost his wife, found it quite difficult enough to provide for
the two little boys which she had left him, without the additional
charge of a little girl. While he was grieving over this matter,
there came into the village in which he lived a man named Jacques,
whom he knew from having worked with him at the harvest, during the
previous year.
Jacques was a native of _Auvergne_, and a long way from his own
province, for what was formerly called Auvergne, is, as you remember,
Eugène, that part of the country where the departments of the
Puy-de-Dôme, du Cantal, &c., are now situated, and he was then in
Maine, which is at present the department of the Sarthe. The natives
of Auvergne are much in the habit of travelling beyond the limits of
their own province. They leave it, while very young, to make what
they call their _Tour of France_. As long as they are little, they
sweep chimneys, like the Savoyards, and more than half of those
children we meet with in the streets and call Savoyards, are really
natives of Auvergne: they also go of errands in the town, and work
in the country when they can get any to do. Many are travelling
blacksmiths, and you may often meet them, carrying on their shoulders
old shovels, old tongs, or old pots, which they buy, mend, and sell
again. When they have gained a little money, they return to their own
country, and marry. They are generally very honest and industrious
people, but Jacques did not resemble them.
He thought himself possessed of more wit than others, because,
instead of working, he invented a thousand deceptions to get a
living. Sometimes he told fortunes, that is to say, he foretold what
would happen to people, on the next day, or the following days, as if
he really knew, and he found many foolish enough to believe him and
to pay for his predictions. At other times, he would make up little
bundles of herbs, which he gathered in the fields, and sell them to
the country people, as certain remedies for the tooth-ache, or the
bite of a mad dog. He would then go and spend in drink, the money
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