Chapter M: Le Chevalier (4)

Just as she had finished her collection, she perceived from the terrace, the peasant who had spoken to her, passing along the road, at the bottom of the park; she called to him and begged him to tell her nurse not to be too much grieved, that she should soon go and see her, for they had promised to allow her to do so.

"Oh! poor woman," said the man, "you will never see her again, Mademoiselle Marie, they are deceiving you, but that is not my business."

With these words he struck his horse, and galloped off. Marie, in the greatest anxiety, threw down her flowers, and ran into the yard, to see if she could find any one who could explain to her what the man meant. She saw the kitchen-maid, who was drawing water from the well, and asked her whether Madame d'Aubecourt had sent the previous evening to inquire about her nurse. "Sent, indeed!" said the girl, "it was not worth while." Marie became dreadfully uneasy, and began to question her, but the girl refused to reply. "But why," said Marie, "why did Peter tell me I should never see her again?"

"I suppose," replied the servant, "he had his own reasons for saying so," and she went away, saying that she must attend to her work. Marie, though it had not yet occurred to her that her nurse was dead, nevertheless was very unhappy, for she perceived that something was concealed from her, and being timid in asking questions, she was at a loss to know how to obtain the information she wanted. At this moment she perceived one of the small doors of the yard open. She had so long been in the habit of running alone in the fields, that she could not believe there was any great harm in doing so, and, accustomed to yield to all her emotions, and never to reflect upon the consequences of her actions, she ran out while the servant's back was turned, determined to go herself and learn something about her nurse.

She walked as fast as she could, agitated with anxiety, at one moment for her nurse, at another for herself. She knew she was doing wrong, but having once begun, she continued. She thought of what Alphonse would say, who, though always ready to excuse her before others, would, nevertheless, scold her afterwards, and sometimes severely enough, and she remembered her promise to him, only a few days before, to be more docile, and more attentive to what Madame d'Aubecourt said to her. She thought, too, that it might be for her want of due submission, that God had thus punished her, for she had yet to learn that it is not in this world that God manifests his judgments. However, she did not think of returning; she felt as if she could not go back; and then the idea of seeing her nurse again, and of comforting her, filled her with anticipations of pleasure, which it was impossible for her to renounce. Poor Marie! the nearer she drew, the more she dwelt upon all this, and the more lively became her joy. The anxieties which had tormented her, began to vanish. She hurried on, reached the village, ran to her nurse's door, and found it closed: she turned pale, but yet without daring to conjecture the truth.

"Has my nurse gone out?" was all she could ask of a neighbour, who was standing at her door, and who looked at her with an air of sadness.

"She has gone out, never to return," was the reply. Marie trembled, and with clasped hands leaned against the wall.

"She was carried to her grave yesterday evening," added the woman.

"To her grave!... Yesterday!... How?... Where have they taken her?"

"To Guicheville; the cemetery is at Guicheville."

Marie experienced an emotion indescribably painful, on learning that, the evening before, and so near to her, the funeral had taken place, without her knowledge. She recollected having heard the tolling of the bells, and it appeared to her, that not to have known it was for her poor nurse they were tolled, was like losing her a second time; then, as the thought of never seeing her again passed before her mind, she sat down on the ground by the door, and wept bitterly.

During this time, the neighbour told her that her nurse had regained her consciousness a few hours before her death, and had prayed to God for her little Marie, and had also spoken of her to the Curé of Guicheville, whom Madame d'Aubecourt had sent to see her. Marie wept still more. The woman tried to induce her to return to Guicheville, but she would not listen to it. At length, after she had cried for a long time, the good woman took her to her cottage, and succeeded in making her drink a little milk, and eat a piece of bread, when, seeing her more calm, she again endeavoured to persuade her to return home. But Marie, who was now capable of reflection, could not endure the idea of facing Madame d'Aubecourt, whom she had disobeyed: still, what was to become of her? Her sorrow for the loss of her nurse was redoubled. "If she were not dead," said she, sobbing, "I should have remained with her." But these regrets were to no purpose: this the neighbour tried to make her understand, and this Marie felt but too well; nevertheless, as her reason did not restrain her when she was about to leave Guicheville, neither did it in the present instance induce her to return, although she knew it was necessary; but Marie had never learned to make use of her reason, to control either her impulses, her wishes, or her antipathies.

At length, the woman perceiving, after two hours of entreaty, that she could gain nothing, and that Marie still continued there, either pensive or crying, without saying a word or deciding on anything, she determined to send to Guicheville, and inform Madame d'Aubecourt; but when she returned from the fields, where she had gone to seek her son to send him with the message, Marie was not to be found. She sought for her in vain through the whole village, and at length learned that she had been seen going along a road which led to Guicheville. She immediately suspected that she must have gone to the cemetery, and in fact Marie had gone there, but not by the direct way, for fear of meeting any of the inmates of the château. As the boy had not yet started, his mother ordered him to take the shortest way to the house, and tell them that it was in the direction of the cemetery they must look for Marie.

During Marie's absence, a terrible scene had been enacted at the château. M. d'Aubecourt, who she imagined would be confined to his room for another week, feeling much better, wished to take advantage of a lovely morning to go and see his garden. As he approached it, leaning on the arm of Mademoiselle Raymond, he perceived Marie's hat half-filled with the flowers which she had collected, and part of which lay scattered on the ground, where she had dropped them, after having spoken to the peasant. He recognised his streaked roses, and his tricoloured geraniums; he picked them up, anxiously examined them, and looked at Mademoiselle Raymond, who, shaking her head, observed, "It is Mademoiselle Marie's hat." He hurried on to his garden; it seemed as if an enemy had passed through it: branches were broken, bushes had been separated in order to get at a flower which happened to be in the midst of them, and one border was quite spoiled, for Marie had fallen upon it with her whole length, and in her fall had broken a young sweetbrier, recently grafted.

M. d'Aubecourt, whose sole occupation and pleasure consisted in his flowers, and who was accustomed to see them respected by every one, was so disturbed at the condition in which he beheld his garden, that the shock, increased, perhaps, by the effect of the air, or by his having walked too fast, made him turn pale, and lean on the arm of Mademoiselle Raymond, saying that he felt faint. Greatly frightened, she called out for assistance. At this moment, Madame d'Aubecourt came up: she was calling for Marie, and very uneasy at not finding her anywhere.

"You want Mademoiselle Marie," said Mademoiselle Raymond: "see what she has done!" and she pointed to M. d'Aubecourt, to the pillaged garden, and to the hat filled with flowers. Madame d'Aubecourt did not in the least understand what all this meant, but she hastened to her father-in-law, who said to her in a feeble voice, "She will kill me." He was carried to his bed, where he remained a long time in the same state. He experienced suffocating paroxysms, which scarcely permitted him to breathe. The gout had mounted to his chest, and they feared every moment that he would be stifled. Madame d'Aubecourt perceiving that the mere name of Marie redoubled his agitation, endeavoured, though in vain, to impose silence on Mademoiselle Raymond, who was incessantly repeating, "It is Mademoiselle Marie who has brought him to this condition." Lucie, quite ignorant of what had happened, came to tell her mother that Marie was nowhere to be found, and that perhaps it would be advisable to send some one to the village, where her nurse had resided.

"Yes! look for her everywhere," said M. d'Aubecourt in a low voice, interrupted by his difficulty of breathing. "Yes! look for her everywhere, in order that she may kill me outright."

Madame d'Aubecourt entreated him to be calm, assuring him that nothing should be done but what he wished, and that Marie should not come into his presence without his permission.

In the mean time, the news of what Mademoiselle Raymond called Marie's wickedness, soon spread through the château. Alphonse was thunderstruck, not that he believed in any bad motive on the part of his cousin, but, accustomed to respect his own duties, he could not conceive how any one could so forget themselves. Lucie, who was beginning to be fond of Marie, felt grieved and anxious; the servants talked over the matter amongst themselves, without much regretting Marie, who had not made herself loved by them; for it is not enough to be kind-hearted, it is necessary to use sufficient reflection to render our kindness agreeable and beneficial to others. Marie, sometimes familiar with the servants, would very often not listen to them when they spoke to her, or would deride their remonstrances. She always laughed when she saw the cook, who was deformed, pass by, and she had several times told the kitchen-maid that she squinted. She had never asked herself whether these remarks gave pain or pleasure to those to whom they were addressed.

Almost the whole of the morning was passed in anxiety, and the man who had been sent to the village, had not returned, when the Curé came to the château, and requested to see Madame d'Aubecourt. As he was leaving the church, after having finished the service, he met the son of the neighbour with whom Marie had spoken, and being acquainted with him, he asked him if he knew what had become of Marie, for he had been informed of her disappearance. The peasant told him what had taken place, and added, that he thought she must be in the cemetery. They immediately went there, and looking over the hedge, they beheld Marie seated on the ground, crying. They saw her kneel down with clasped hands, then kiss the earth, and afterwards seat herself again, and weep, with a depth of sorrow which penetrated them to the soul. It was evident that at that moment Marie believed herself alone in the world, and abandoned by every one. She entreated her nurse to pray for her.

They did not enter the cemetery for fear of frightening her, but the Curé, leaving the peasant as sentinel, went to communicate his discovery to Madame d'Aubecourt. She was very much embarrassed; she could not leave her father-in-law, though he was beginning to recover, for the slightest agitation might cause a relapse, and she was satisfied that neither Mademoiselle Raymond, nor any one belonging to the house, would succeed in inducing Marie to return. She hoped the Curé would be able to effect this, and as she did not wish her to enter the château at the present moment, for fear the news might reach M. d'Aubecourt, she requested the clergyman to take her to his house, where his sister, who had been a nun, now resided with him.

In consequence of this determination, the Curé returned to the cemetery, where he found Marie still in the same attitude. When she saw him, she turned pale and blushed alternately; yet, however she may have stood in awe of him, she felt so completely abandoned, since she no longer dared to return to the château, that she experienced an emotion of joy on seeing some one whom she knew.

"Marie, what have you done?" said the Curé, addressing her with some degree of severity. She hid her face in her hands, and sobbed. "Do you know what has taken place at the château?" he continued. "M. d'Aubecourt has been so overcome by the ingratitude you have evinced in devastating his garden, which you knew was his sole delight, that he has had a relapse, and Madame d'Aubecourt has passed the whole morning agitated by the anguish occasioned by his condition, by her anxiety on account of your flight, and by her grief for the impropriety of your conduct."

"Oh, M. le Curé," exclaimed poor Marie, "it was not from wickedness, I assure you. I wanted to adorn the altar, that God might grant me the grace of curing my poor nurse; and she was already _there_," she said, pointing to the ground, and redoubling her sobs.

The Curé, profoundly touched by her simplicity, seated himself by her side, upon a bank of turf, and said to her with more gentleness, "Do you think, Marie, that the way to please God, and obtain his favours, is to distress your uncle, who has received you into his family, and to disobey Madame d'Aubecourt, who shares with you the little she has reserved for her own children. If anything can afflict the souls of the just, you have distressed that of your poor nurse, who looks down upon you, I hope, from heaven, for she was a worthy woman. She regained her consciousness for some hours before her death. I visited her at the request of Madame d'Aubecourt, and in speaking of you, she said, 'I hope God will not punish me for not having done all that was necessary to restore her sooner to her relations. I loved her so much, that I had not the resolution to separate myself from her. I know very well that a poor woman like me could not give her an education. She has often grieved me also, because she would not go to school, and because I had not the heart to oppose her. Oh, M. le Curé, entreat her for my sake, to learn well, and to be obedient to Madame d'Aubecourt, in order that I may not have to answer before God for her ignorance and her faults.'"

Marie still continued weeping, but less bitterly. She had again knelt down, and clasped her hands; it seemed as if she was listening to her nurse herself, and entreating her forgiveness for the grief she had caused her. After the Curé had admonished her for some time longer, she said to him in a low voice, "M. le Curé, I entreat of you to ask forgiveness for me of Madame d'Aubecourt; beg Alphonse and Lucie to forgive me; say that I will do all they tell me, and learn all they wish."

"I do not know, my child," said the Curé, "whether you will again be permitted to see them. M. d'Aubecourt is so extremely angry with you, that your mere name redoubles his sufferings, and I am afraid you cannot return to the château."

This intelligence struck Marie like a thunderbolt: she had just clung to the idea that she would do all she possibly could to please her relations, and now they abandoned her--cast her off. She uttered cries almost of despair. The Curé had much difficulty in calming her, with the assurance that he would exert himself to obtain her pardon, and that if she would aid him by her good conduct, he hoped to succeed. She allowed herself to be led without resistance. He took her to his own house, and gave her into the charge of his sister, a very worthy woman, though somewhat severe. Her first intention had been to reprimand Marie; but when she saw her so unhappy, and so submissive, she could think of nothing but consoling her.

The Curé returned to the château to give an account of what he had done. Madame d'Aubecourt and Lucie were affected as he had been himself by the sentiments of poor Marie, and Alphonse, with his eyes moist with tears, and at the same time sparkling with joy, exclaimed, "I said so." He had not, however, said anything, but he had thought that Marie could not be altogether in fault. It was arranged that as her return to the château was out of the question for the present, she was to remain as a boarder with the Curé. Madame d'Aubecourt, on leaving Paris, had sold some of her remaining jewels, and had destined the money she received from them for the support of herself and her children. It was out of this small sum that she paid in advance, the first quarter's salary for Marie, for she well knew that the present was not the time to ask M. d'Aubecourt for anything.

Alphonse and Lucie rejoiced at the arrangement, as it did not remove Marie away from them, and Alphonse promised himself to be able to go and continue her reading lessons; but the following day the Curé came to announce to them that his sister had received a letter from her superior, inviting her to rejoin her, and a few other nuns of the same convent, whom she had gathered together. He added that his sister proposed to set out at once, and that if they consented to it, she would take Marie, who would thus pass with her the time of her penitence. Alphonse was on the point of protesting against this proposition, but his mother made him feel the necessity of accepting it, and all three went to take leave of Marie, who was to set out on the following day. Marie was extremely grieved when she learned the mode in which they disposed of her; she felt much more vividly her attachment to her relations since she had been separated from them, and it now seemed to her that she was never to see them again, and she said, crying, "They took me from my nurse in the same way, and she is dead." But she had become docile; and, besides, Madame Sainte Therèse,--such was the name of the Curé's sister,--had something in her manner which awed her a good deal. When she heard of the arrival of Madame d'Aubecourt and her children, she trembled very much, and had she been the Marie of a former time, she would have made her escape; but a look from Madame Sainte Therèse restrained her. Lucie, on entering, went and threw her arms round her neck, and she was so much moved by this mark of affection, when she only expected severity, that she returned the embrace with her whole heart, and began to weep. Alphonse was exceedingly sad, and she scarcely dared to speak to him, or look at him. "Marie," he said, "we are all very grieved at losing you." He could say no more, for his heart was full, and he knew that a man ought not to display his sorrow too much, but Marie clearly perceived that he was not angry with her. Madame d'Aubecourt said to her, "My child, you have occasioned us all very great grief in compelling us to separate ourselves from you, but I hope all will yet be well, and that by your good conduct you will afford us the opportunity of having you back again." Marie kissed her hand tenderly, and assured her that she would conduct herself properly, she had promised it, she said, to God and to her poor nurse.

They were astonished at the change that had been wrought in her by two days of misery and reflection. She save sensible answers to all that was said to her, she remained quiet upon her chair, and already looked to Madame Sainte Therèse from time to time, for fear of saying or doing anything which might displease her. The austere look of this lady somewhat terrified Alphonse and Lucie, on their cousin's account, but they knew that she was a very virtuous person, and that there is nothing really alarming in the severity of the virtuous, because it is never unjust, and can always be avoided by doing one's duty. Alphonse gave Marie a book, in which he begged her to read a page every day for his sake, and he also gave her a little silver pencil-case, for the time when she should be able to write. Lucie gave her her silver thimble, her ornamented scissors, an ivory needlecase, and a _ménagère_, furnished with threads, because Marie had promised to learn to work. Madame d'Aubecourt gave her a linen dress, which she and Lucie had made for her in two days. Marie was greatly consoled by all this kindness, and they separated, all very melancholy, but still loving each other much more truly than they had done during the two months they had passed together, because they were now much more reasonable.

Marie departed; M. d'Aubecourt recovered; and quiet was again restored in the château: but this sending away of Marie was a subject of great surprise in the village, and as Mademoiselle Raymond had not concealed her aversion for her, she was looked upon as its cause. She herself was not liked, and an increased interest was therefore felt in Marie's fate. Philip, the gardener's son, who regretted Marie because she played with him, told all the little boys of the village that Zizi was the cause of Mademoiselle Raymond's antipathy to her, and whenever she passed through the streets with Zizi, she heard them say, "Look, there's the dog that got Mademoiselle Marie sent away!" She therefore did not dare to take him out with her, except into the fields, and this consequently increased her ill feeling towards Marie.

As to M. d'Aubecourt, on the contrary, being kind-hearted, though subject to whims and ill-temper, he had ceased to be irritated against her, now that she was no longer in his way. He permitted Madame d'Aubecourt to talk of her, and even to read to him the letters in which Madame Sainte Therèse gave an account of her good conduct; and, finally, as no one knew better than Madame d'Aubecourt how to persuade people to do what was right, because all were won by her extreme sweetness, while her good sense inspired confidence in her judgment, she induced him to pay the trifling salary of Marie; and he even sent her a dress. It was Alphonse who communicated all this good news to her, at the same time adding, that both his sister and himself endeavoured to do everything they could to please their grandfather, that when he was very much satisfied with them, he might grant them a favour, which would give them more pleasure than anything else in the world, namely, the permission for her to return. He told her that he had begun a pretty landscape for M. d'Aubecourt's fête, which was that of St. Louis, and that Lucie was working him a footstool on which to support his lame foot.

Marie was enchanted at receiving this letter, which she was already sufficiently advanced to read herself. The brother of one of the nuns, who had a garden in the neighbourhood of the place in which she resided, and who was very fond of Marie, had given her two very rare trees; she would have been delighted could she have sent them to M. d'Aubecourt for his fête, but she hardly dared to do so, and besides, how was she to send them?

Madame Sainte Therèse encouraged her, and it so happened, that a relative of one of the nuns had occasion to go, precisely at that time, in the direction of Guicheville. He was kind enough to take the trees with him, and had them carefully secured on all sides, so as to prevent their being too much shaken in the journey. They arrived in very good condition, and were secretly committed to Madame d'Aubecourt, and on the morning of St. Louis's day, M. d'Aubecourt found them at his garden gate, as if they had not dared to enter it. On them was this inscription: _From Marie, repentant, to her benefactor_, written in large letters, with Marie's own hand, for she could as yet only write in large hand. M. d'Aubecourt was so much affected by this present, and its inscription, that he wrote a letter to Marie, in which he told her that he was very much satisfied with the account that had been given him of her conduct, and that if she persevered he should be very glad to see her again at the château. This was a great joy for Madame d'Aubecourt and her children, to whom M. d'Aubecourt read his letter, and they all wrote to Marie. She had sent word to Alphonse by the traveller, that Madame Sainte Therèse had forbidden her to read in the book which he had given her, because it consisted of tales; that this had very much grieved her, and she begged him to choose from among the books which Madame Sainte Therèse did permit her to read, one in which she could every day read more than a page for his sake. She asked Lucie to send her a strip of muslin, which she wished to scallop for her, because she was beginning to work well, and she sent word to Madame d'Aubecourt that she kept for Sundays the dress which she and Lucie had given her, the day of her departure. These messages were faithfully delivered. Alphonse, by his mother's advice, selected for her, _Rollin's Ancient History_. Lucie sent at the first opportunity, two trimmings for handkerchiefs, to be scalloped, one for Marie and another for herself, and Madame d'Aubecourt added an English belt to wear on Sundays with her dress.

From this moment the children redoubled their care and attention to their grandfather. Lucie wrote his letters, under his dictation, and Alphonse, who had found means of constituting himself sole manager of Marie's trees, because he had received the instructions of the man who brought them, entered every day into the garden to attend to them, and he occasionally watered M. d'Aubecourt's flowers, who soon looked to him so much for the care of his garden, that he frequently consulted him as to what was to be done in it. Lucie was also admitted to the council, and Madame d'Aubecourt likewise gave her opinion occasionally. The garden had become the occupation of the whole family, and M. d'Aubecourt received much greater pleasure from it than when he had it all to himself.

One day when they were all together, one watering, another weeding, and a third taking insects from the trees: "I am sure," said Alphonse, replying to his own thoughts, "that Marie would take care of them now with as much pleasure and attention as ourselves."

Lucie blushed and glanced at her brother, not daring to look at M. d'Aubecourt. "Poor Marie!" said Madame d'Aubecourt, with tenderness, though not with any sadness, for she began to feel quite sure that she would return. "We shall see her again, we shall see her again," said M. d'Aubecourt. The subject was not pursued further at that time, but two days afterwards, when they were all in the drawing-room, Madame d'Aubecourt received a letter from Madame Sainte Therèse, who informed her that in the spring of the following year, she intended to pass three or four months with her brother, prior to her settling finally in the place where she then was, and that being anxious that Marie should edify the village of Guicheville, where she had set such a bad example, she would bring her there to make her first communion. Lucie uttered a cry of joy, "Oh! mamma," she said, "we shall make it together!" for it was also in the following year that she was to make her first communion. Alphonse, much affected, looked at his grandfather, "Yes, but," said he, after a moment's silence, "Marie will then go away again."

"After her first communion," said M. d'Aubecourt, "we shall see."

Lucie, who was seated by her grandfather, quietly knelt down on the footstool upon which his feet were placed, and as she gently bent her head over his hands, in order to kiss them, he felt the tears of joy fall upon them. Alphonse was silent, but his hands were tightly clasped together, and an expression of happiness pervaded his whole countenance.

"If she is as good a child as you two," said M. d'Aubecourt, "I shall be delighted to have her back with us."

"Oh! she will be! she will be!" said both the children, their hearts swelling with pleasure. They said no more, fearing to importune M. d'Aubecourt, who loved tranquillity, and had accustomed them to restrain their feelings; but they were very happy.

There was great satisfaction throughout the château; Marie's faults were forgotten, while her disgrace was pitied. Mademoiselle Raymond was the only person who felt any annoyance; not that she was really ill disposed, but when once she took up any prejudices, she seldom overcame them. Besides, the continued reproaches made to her for her dislike of Marie had the effect of increasing it; and as the other servants made a sort of triumph of her return, she was all the more displeased with it. But she had insensibly lost much of her ascendancy over the mind of M. d'Aubecourt, who, now that he was surrounded by more amiable society, was less dependent on her and less afraid of her ill temper; for Madame d'Aubecourt spared him the trouble of giving his orders himself, and thus freed him from a thousand petty annoyances. Mademoiselle Raymond therefore manifested nothing of her displeasure before her superiors, and the end of February, the time fixed for Marie's return, was looked forward to with great impatience.

Marie arrived in the beginning of March. For more than a week, Alphonse and Lucie went every day to wait for the diligence, which passed by the château. At length it stopped, and they saw Marie descend from it. They scarcely recognised her at first, she had grown so much taller, fairer, and handsomer; her bearing was so much improved, and her deportment so modest and reserved. She threw herself into Lucie's arms, and also embraced Alphonse; Madame d'Aubecourt, who had perceived her from the window, hastened to meet her. All the servants ran out; Zizi also ran out barking, because all this commotion displeased him, and besides, he remembered his former aversion for Marie. Philip gave him a blow with a switch, which made him, howl terrifically. Mademoiselle Raymond, who was slowly approaching, rushed towards him, took him in her arms and carried him away, exclaiming, "Poor fellow! you may now consider that your days are numbered." The servants heard this, and glanced slyly at her and Zizi.

Marie was led to the château, and Madame Sainte Therèse, who had gone to her brother's, left word that she should soon come and fetch her. M. d'Aubecourt had given permission for her to be led to him; he was in his garden; she stopped at the gate, timid and embarrassed.

"Go in, Marie, go in," said Alphonse; "we all go there now, and you shall go in and take care of it as we do."

Marie entered, walking with great care, for fear of injuring anything as she passed along. M. d'Aubecourt appeared very glad to see her; she kissed his hand, and he embraced her. They happened to be standing near the two plants which she had given to him. Alphonse showed her how much they had prospered under his care. He also pointed out such trees as were beginning to bud, and all the early flowers which were making their appearance. Marie looked at everything with interest, and found everything very beautiful.

"Yes, but beware of the Feast of Corpus Christi," said M. d'Aubecourt, laughing.

Marie blushed, but her uncle's manner proved to her that he was no longer displeased with her; she again kissed his hand with a charming vivacity, for she still retained her liveliness, though it was now tempered by good sense. She spoke but little,--she had never indeed been talkative, but her replies were to the purpose, only she constantly blushed. She was timid, like a person who had felt the inconvenience of a too great vivacity. Madame Sainte Therèse returned. Marie seemed to feel in her presence that awe which respect inspires; nevertheless, she loved her, and had great confidence in her. Madame Sainte Therèse said that she had come for Marie. This grieved Alphonse and Lucie excessively. They had hoped their cousin would have remained at the château the whole of the day, and they had even been anticipating a further extension of the visit; but Madame Sainte Therèse said that as Marie had commenced the exercises for her first communion, it was necessary that she should remain in retirement until she had made it, and that she was not to go out, except for her walk, nor were her cousins to see her more than once a week. They were obliged to submit to the arrangement. Although Madame d'Aubecourt did not approve of this excessive austerity, which belonged to the customs of the convent in which Madame Sainte Therèse had passed the greater part of her life, she was so virtuous a person, and they were under so many obligations to her for all that she had done for Marie, that they did not consider it right to oppose her. When Marie was gone, Alphonse and Lucie were eloquent in their praises of her deportment, and the grace of her manners: their mother agreed with them, and M. d'Aubecourt also expressed his satisfaction, and consented positively that immediately after her first communion, she should again become an inmate of the château.

It was decided that the first communions of the village should be made on the feast of Corpus Christi, and that until then, Madame d'Aubecourt should go every other Thursday to pass the afternoon at the Curé's house, where Marie expected them with great delight. She saw them besides every Sunday at church, when, of course, she did not speak to them, but they exchanged a few words on coming out, and sometimes, though rarely, they met in their walks; thus they did not lose sight of each other, but were able to converse about their various occupations. Marie had read the whole of her Rollin: Alphonse pointed out to her other historical works, and she gave him an account of what she read. He applied with great zeal to his studies, in order to be able to give her, hereafter, lessons in drawing and English; and Lucie never learned a new stitch, or busied herself with any particular work, without saying, "I will show it to Marie." Every one was happy at Guicheville, and all hoped to be still more so.

The feast of Corpus Christi was drawing near; the two girls, equally inspired with piety and fervour, beheld its approach with mingled joy and fear. Alphonse thought of the happy day which was to bring back Marie, and to exhibit her, as well as his sister, as an example to the young girls of the village. He would have been glad to have signalized it by some fête, but the seriousness and holiness of such a day would not permit of amusement, or even of any distraction. He determined at least to contribute as much as he possibly could to those attentions which were allowable. Madame d'Aubecourt had provided for Lucie and Marie two white dresses, both alike; Alphonse wished them to have veils and sashes also alike. From the money which his grandfather had given him for his new year's gift, and which he had carefully saved for this occasion, he sent to purchase them at the neighbouring town, without saying anything on the subject to Lucie, who did not consider it proper to occupy herself with these matters, and left them all to her mother's care. Madame d'Aubecourt was the only person admitted into his council, and with her permission, the last evening but one before the festival, he sent Philip, with the veil and sash, to Marie, accompanied by a note, in which he begged her to wear them at her first communion.

Philip was very much attached to Alphonse and Marie; this was almost his only merit; in other respects he was coarse, quarrelsome, and insolent, and had an especial aversion to Mademoiselle Raymond; and as he and his father were the only persons in the house who were but slightly dependent upon her, he amused himself by provoking her whenever he could find an opportunity. He never met her with Zizi without making some disagreeable remark about the animal, to which he always added, "It's a great pity they don't let you eat Mademoiselle Marie," at the same time threatening him with his hand. Mademoiselle Raymond would get angry, while he would go off laughing. If he chanced to meet Zizi in a corner, a thing which very rarely happened, because his mistress no longer dared to let him go about, he would tie a branch of thorns to his tail, a stick between his legs, or cover his face with paper; in fact he thought of everything which could displease Mademoiselle Raymond, who thus lived in a state of perpetual apprehension.

As Alphonse was very anxious that Lucie should have the surprise of seeing Marie dressed exactly like herself, he had told Philip to go to the presbytery without being observed, and Philip, who was very fond of doing what he ought not to do, took a fancy to get there by climbing over the wall, which was not very high. When on the top, he perceived Marie, who was reading on a slight elevation which had been raised near the wall, for the purpose of enjoying the very beautiful view which it commanded. He called to her in a low voice, and threw her the packet which Alphonse had confided to him, and was preparing to descend, when he perceived Mademoiselle Raymond walking by the side of the wall, with Zizi panting before her. As she approached, Philip, finding under his hand a piece of flint belonging to the wall, threw it at Zizi, and hid himself among the trees which overhung the wall at this spot: Mademoiselle Raymond, who was stooping down at the moment for the purpose of removing something from Zizi's throat, received the flint on her forehead, where it left rather a large wound. She screamed, and raised her head. Perceiving Marie on the mound, who, having heard her cry, stood up, and was looking at her, she did not doubt that it was she who had thrown the stone. Redoubling her speed, she hastened to the presbytery to complain, without perceiving Philip, who, nevertheless, was not very well concealed, but whom she had no idea of finding there. As to him, the moment she had passed, he jumped down and made his escape as fast as he could. Mademoiselle Raymond found no one at home but Madame Sainte Therèse. The Curé had gone to the neighbouring town on business, and would not return until the following evening. She related to her what had occurred, showing her forehead, which was bleeding, though the wound was not very deep; she also showed the stone, which she had picked up, and which might have killed her. She asserted that it was Marie who had thrown it; but Madame Sainte Therèse could not believe such a thing. She, however, accompanied her to the garden, in search of Marie.

When Marie saw them approaching, she hid her packet under a cluster of rosebushes, for, being as yet unaware of what had occurred, she was afraid that Philip had done something wrong, and in order not to be compelled to say that he had been there, she did not wish what he had brought to be seen; however, she blushed and turned pale alternately, for she was afraid of being questioned, and did not wish to be guilty of an untruth. Madame Sainte Therèse, on coming up to her, was struck with her air of embarrassment, and Mademoiselle Raymond said to her, "See, Mademoiselle Marie, how well you employ the last evening but one before your first communion! After that you will be called a saint in the village. I shall only have to point to my forehead." Saying this, she showed it to Marie, who blushed still more at the thought that Philip could have committed so disgraceful an act.

"Is it possible, Marie," said Madame Sainte Therèse, "that it can be you who have thrown a stone at Mademoiselle Raymond?" and as Marie hesitated, seeking for an answer, she added, "You must surely have hit her unintentionally; but nevertheless, this would be an amusement very unbecoming your age, and the duty for which you are preparing yourself."

"Madame," replied Marie, "I assure you that I have not thrown any stone."

"It seems, then, to have come of its own accord," said Mademoiselle Raymond, in a tone of great asperity, at the same time pointing to the spot where she stood when the stone struck her: it was evident that it could only have come from the garden, and from an elevated position.

Madame Sainte Therèse interrogated Marie with increased severity, and Marie, trembling, could only reply, "I assure you, Madame, that I have not thrown any stone."

"All that I can see in the matter," continued Mademoiselle Raymond, "is that I doubt whether Mademoiselle Marie will make her first communion the day after to-morrow."

"I am very much afraid that she has rendered herself unworthy of doing so," replied Madame Sainte Therèse. Marie began to weep, and Mademoiselle Raymond hastened to relate her adventure at the château, and to say that probably Marie would not make her first communion. She referred to her talent for throwing stones at the cats, as they ran along the leads, and added, "She makes a fine use of it."

Lucie was horrified. Alphonse, quite bewildered, ran to question Philip, and to know whether, when he executed his commission, he had observed anything amiss at the Curé's house, and whether Marie appeared sad. Philip assured him that he had not perceived anything whatever wrong; at the same time carefully avoiding any mention of the means by which he had transmitted the packet to Marie; and he so represented matters, that Alphonse did not suspect anything. Madame d'Aubecourt, being very uneasy, wrote to Madame Sainte Therèse, who replied that she could not at all understand what had happened, but that it seemed to her impossible that Marie should not be greatly in fault: and during the course of the following day, they learned from Gothon, who had received her information from the Curé's servant, that Marie had cried almost all the day, and that Madame Sainte Therèse treated her with great severity, and had even made her fast that morning upon bread and water. In the evening, Lucie went to confession to the Curé, who had returned, and saw Marie coming out of the confessional, sobbing violently. Madame d'Aubecourt went to Madame Sainte Therèse, and asked her whether Marie was to make her first communion on the following day. Madame Sainte Therèse replied, in a sad and severe tone, "I do not at all know."

As they were in the church, nothing more was said. Marie cast upon her cousin, as she passed by, a look which, notwithstanding her tears, expressed a feeling of satisfaction. She whispered something to Madame Sainte Therèse, who led her away, and Lucie entered the confessional. After having finished her confession, she was timidly preparing to ask the Curé what she so much desired to know; but before she could summon courage to begin, he was sent for to a sick person, and hurried away, so that she had no time to speak to him.

She passed the whole of that evening and night in inexpressible anxiety, which was so much the more intense, from the manner in which she reproached herself for every thought which wandered from the sacred duty of the morrow. Then she prayed to God for her cousin, thus uniting her devotion with her anxieties, and the thought of the happiness which was in store for her, with the supplications which she breathed for her dear Marie. The morning came; she dressed herself without speaking, collecting all her thoughts, so as not to allow a single one to escape her which could occasion her any uneasiness. She embraced her brother, and begged the blessing of M. d'Aubecourt and her mother, which they gave her with great joy, and M. d'Aubecourt added, that he blessed her both for himself and for his son. All sighed that he was not present at such a time, and after a moment's silence, they repaired to the church.

The girls who were to make their first communion were already assembled. Lucie, notwithstanding her self-possession, surveyed them with a glance, but Marie was not among them. She turned pale and leaned upon the arm of her mother, who sustained and encouraged her, and telling her to commit her griefs to God, led her into the row of girls, and passed with M. d'Aubecourt into the chapel at the side. Behind the girls, stood Mademoiselle Raymond and Gothon, and the principal people of the village. "I was quite sure she would not be there," said Mademoiselle Raymond. No one answered her, for all were interested in Marie, whom they had often seen in the cemetery during the past months, fervently praying at the foot of the cross which she had begged might be erected over the grave of her poor nurse. Lucie had heard Mademoiselle Raymond's remark, and, violently excited, she prayed to God with all her strength to preserve her from all improper feelings; but her agitation, and the restraint she had imposed upon her thoughts, affected her so much, that she could scarcely support herself. At length, the door of the sacristy opened, and Marie appeared, conducted by the Curé and Madame Sainte Therèse; she came forward with the white veil upon her head, beautiful as an angel, and as pure. A murmur of satisfaction ran through the church. Marie crossed the choir, and, after bending before the altar, went and knelt at the feet of M. and Madame d'Aubecourt, to ask their blessing. "My child," said the Curé to her, sufficiently loud to be heard, "be always as virtuous as you are now, and God also will bless you."

Oh! what joy did Lucie feel! She raised to heaven her eyes moistened with tears, and believed that in the happiness she then experienced, she felt the assurance of divine protection throughout the whole of her future life. M. and Madame d'Aubecourt, deeply affected, bestowed their blessing upon Marie, who knelt before them, while Alphonse, standing behind, his face beaming with joy and triumph, looked at her with as much respect as affection. Madame d'Aubecourt herself led Marie to Lucie's side. The two cousins did not utter a word, nor give more than a single look, but that look reverting to Madame d'Aubecourt before it fell, expressed a degree of happiness which no words could have conveyed, and the eyes of Madame d'Aubecourt replied to those of her children. The long-wished-for moment had arrived at last; the two cousins approached the altar together. Lucie, more feeble, and agitated by so many emotions which she had been forced to repress, was almost on the point of fainting: Marie supported her, her countenance beaming with angelic joy.

Having received the communion, the cousins returned to their places, prayed together, and after having passed a part of the morning in the church, went to dine at the château, where Madame Sainte Therèse and the Curé had been invited. Marie and Lucie talked but little, but it was evident that they were very happy. Alphonse, his relations, the servants, all appeared happy too; but this joy was silent, it seemed as if they feared to disturb the perfect calm which these young souls, pure and sanctified, ought to enjoy. The looks of all were unconsciously turned towards them, and they were waited upon with a kind of respect which could not suggest any sentiments of pride.

After having again gone to church in the afternoon with Lucie, Marie came back with her, to take up her abode at the château. The evening was very happy, and even a little gay. Alphonse ventured to laugh, and the two cousins to smile, In the room in which they slept, and next to the bed occupied by Madame d'Aubecourt, Marie found one exactly like Lucie's. All the furniture was alike; henceforth they were two sisters. From the following day, she shared in all Lucie's occupations, and especially in her care of M. d'Aubecourt, who soon became as fond of her as he was of his grandchildren. Mademoiselle Raymond having fallen ill some time afterwards, Marie, who was very active, and had been accustomed to attend to her poor nurse, rendered her so many services, went so often to her room, to give her her medicines, was so careful each time to caress Zizi, and even occasionally to carry him a bit of sugar to pacify him, that the feelings of both were changed towards her: and if Zizi, who was the most vindictive, still growled at her now and then, he was scolded by his mistress, who begged pardon for him of Marie.

Marie had related to Alphonse and Lucie, but under the strictest secrecy, all that had taken place. She told them that Madame Sainte Therèse, having questioned her to no purpose, had treated her with much severity; that she had said nothing, fearing, that if the truth were known, Philip might be discharged, but that she had been very unhappy during those two days; that at length, the Curé having returned, she took the resolution of consulting him in confession, well assured that he would then say nothing about the matter; and that he advised her to confide what she had done to Madame Sainte Therèse, on her promising inviolable secrecy. This she had done, so that they were reconciled. She, moreover, told Lucie that the reason of her crying so much on leaving the confessional, was because the Curé had exhorted her in a most pathetic manner, in recalling to her mind her poor nurse, who had been carried to the grave precisely on the same day, and at the same hour, the preceding year. Alphonse scolded Philip very severely, and forbade him ever to do any harm to Zizi, or anything which might displease Mademoiselle Raymond. The latter, being freed from annoyance on this point, consoled herself for not being so completely mistress of the château as formerly, by the reflection, that Madame d'Aubecourt and her children, in relieving her of many cares, left her more at liberty. Besides, the regard they had for her on account of her fidelity and attachment, flattered her self-love, so that her ill-humour perceptibly decreased; so that song and laughter were now as frequently heard at Guicheville, as murmuring and scolding had been during many previous years.