Chapter M: Le Chevalier (5)

M. d'Aubecourt returned to France. He found but little of his property remaining, but still sufficient for the support of his wife and children. Marie, on the contrary, had become rich: her right had been recognised, not only to her mother's fortune, but even to that of her father also, as he had died before the laws against the emigrants had been enacted. The elder M. d'Aubecourt was her guardian, and as, though a minor, she enjoyed a considerable income, she found a thousand opportunities of making this family, which was so dear to her, partake in its enjoyment; in fine, in order to unite herself entirely to it, she is going to marry Alphonse, who loves her every day with a deeper affection, because every day she becomes more amiable. Lucie is transported with joy at the prospect of becoming in reality Marie's sister: Madame d'Aubecourt is also very happy, and Marie finds that the only thing wanted to render her own happiness complete, is the power of making her poor nurse a partaker in her joy. Every year she has a service celebrated for her at Guicheville, and all the family look upon it as a duty to assist at it, in order to show respect to the memory of one who so generously protected the childhood of Marie.

THE LITTLE BRIGANDS.

"Peter, Jacques, Louis, Simon, listen! listen!" cried Antony to his companions, a set of little vagabonds belonging to the village of Marcieux, who were playing at quoits upon the village green. A postchaise had just passed by, from which had been thrown a paper, containing the remains of a pie. Antony had immediately seized it: it chanced to be the _Journal de l'Empire_, of the 22nd of February, 1812, and as he was able to read, for he was the son of the village schoolmaster, he had discovered, while eating the crumbs which it contained, the following paragraph:--

"_Berne, January 26th, 1812._--A certain number of students, of the second and third classes of our college, between the ages of twelve and thirteen years, who had read during their hours of recreation, romantic tales of brigands, formed themselves into a company, elected a captain and officers, and gave themselves the names of different brigands. They had secret meetings, in which they smoked, held their orgies, and bound themselves by oath to preserve secrecy in all their operations, &c."

This was what he wished to read to his comrades. "Oh! brigands! brigands!" they all exclaimed, after having heard it. "That's capital! Let us all be brigands. Charles, will you be one?" they cried to the Curé's nephew, who was coming up at the time.

"What is it? what is it? Oh, yes, I don't mind," said Charles, without knowing what they wanted. Charles was a good boy, but he had one great fault, and that was disobedience to his uncle, the Curé, who had forbidden him to associate with the other little boys of the village, almost all of whom were mischievous and bad. Instead of obeying this order, he stopped whenever he could find an opportunity, to play with one or other of them; he even made appointments to meet them at different places, through which he would have to pass, when his uncle sent him out on any commission. When in their company, they led him into many follies, which he did not willingly commit, but he was unable to resist their persuasions. He was very angry when he saw them throw stones to bring down the fruit, or walk in the fields of ripe corn, or spoil the asparagus-beds: on these occasions, he declared he would never play with them again, but he invariably returned, nevertheless. He now said he would be a brigand because he thought it was a game.

It was first determined that they must have sticks; they therefore ran to a heap of faggots, and drew out from it some of the thickest branches. Charles urged in vain, that these faggots belonged to his uncle, the Curé, who had purchased them that morning; they replied, that brigands were not afraid of curés, and that all the curés in the world had only to come to them, and they would find their match. Charles laughed at all these follies, and Simon, the one of whom he was most fond, because he was gay and good-natured, although a very naughty boy, having selected a stick for him, he took it. Then they began brandishing their sticks, raising their heads, and assuming as wicked an expression as they possibly could, after which they began to deliberate on what was to be done next.

"We must first of all swear that we are brigands," said Antony, "and then," added he, referring to the paper, "then we'll steal everything we can find, and we'll hold our orgies."

"We'll steal!" repeated Charles, who was beginning to find this rather an extraordinary kind of game.

"Certainly, since we are brigands."

"I won't steal."

"Oh, you'll steal, you'll steal," cried all the little boys. "You are a brigand, so you must steal."

"I will _not_ steal."

"What does it signify to us," said Simon, who was always anxious to accommodate matters, "if you won't steal, so much the worse for yourself, that's all."

"Yes, if you are such a fool," said the others, "so much the worse for yourself--you'll get nothing."

"But what is the meaning of holding orgies?" said one of the troop. Charles explained that it meant to get tipsy.

"Ah! yes, and to smoke too," said Antony, again consulting his paper; "we will go together to the tavern."

"Of course they'll let you go there!" said Charles.

"Oh, brigands are not afraid of anything, and besides no one will know it. We'll go to Troux, that's a league from here. Brigands don't want leave, they do just what they please, and set every one at defiance." And the little wretches again brandished their sticks in the air with greater fierceness than before.

"Come," said Antony, "we must swear that we are brigands."

"Nonsense!" said Charles, "let us leave off this stupid game, and play at quoits. Simon, come and play at quoits; I owe you a revenge, you know," and Simon was willing enough to go and have his revenge; but he was withheld by the others, who told him he must take the oath, and that Charles might go if he liked, because he was a fool. Charles ought to have gone; nevertheless he remained. Antony said they must have some wine; and as he had been reading history in an old Latin and French book, which his father used in teaching Latin, he said that they would do as the conspirators of former times had done, that is, they would put a little of their blood into the wine, and afterwards drink it, and then they would be bound to be brigands all their lives. This they thought would be delightful.

"But how shall we get blood?" said one of them.

"Oh, we must prick our fingers," said another. "I have a large pin which fastens my trousers."

They agreed to make use of the pin, each one determining in his own mind not to go very deep. But they wanted some wine; this was a great embarrassment. They asked Louis, who was the son of the wine-merchant, to go and steal some from his father's cellar. Louis replied that he would not go in the daylight, for fear of being seen, and beaten. They said that, for a brigand, he was very cowardly; still none of them would go in his stead. At length Simon, who was the most daring, went and begged some of the innkeeper's servant, who liked him because, when he met her in the streets, heavily laden, he assisted her in carrying her jugs. She gave him a little that remained at the bottom of a measure, and he carried it off triumphantly in an old broken sabot, into which he had poured it. Antony was the first to prick his finger, but as he felt it hurt him, he said that it bled quite enough, although it did not bleed at all. The others then pretended to prick their fingers, and they shook them very much, as if they really had bled a great deal. Charles alone refused to imitate them, and Jacques struck him violently with the pin, and caused the blood to flow. He was very angry, and fought with Jacques. Simon took his part, and beat Jacques. Charles, being in a rage, wanted to upset the wine, which was in the sabot, but the others prevented him, and told him he refused to drink and take the oath, because he was a traitor, and wanted to inform against them. Even Simon himself said, that if he did not drink with them, it would prove that he was a traitor. This was painful to Charles, especially as Simon had just been defending him. "You promised to be a brigand," they all cried. Charles assured them that he had no wish to inform against them but that he would not be a brigand. They again exclaimed, with greater vehemence, "You must be a brigand, you promised to be one," and Simon held the sabot to his mouth. Charles resisted, but they asserted that he had drunk, and therefore was a brigand. He went away very angry, declaring that it was not true.

However, he did not long retain his anger against Simon, who on the following day waited for him as he passed down the street, for the purpose of telling him to come and see a large sausage which they had found the means of snatching from the hooks of a pork-butcher's shop in the village. Charles at first positively refused to go, but Simon said so much about the size of the sausage, that he became curious to see what it really was. He therefore went in the afternoon upon the green, where they were eating it. It was indeed very large. They told him how they had managed to get it, their fear of being seen by the shopkeeper, and the tales with which Simon had amused him outside the shop, while one of them stole into it. All this made Charles laugh, and he so completely forgot the evil of such actions, that when they invited him to taste the sausage, he took a piece and ate it. But he had no sooner swallowed it, than he felt distressed at what he had done. He immediately left them without saying a word, and the more he thought of it, the more he was tormented. His anxiety increased after he got home, for his uncle made him repeat the lesson in the catechism, which on that day happened to fall on the commandment, "_Thou shalt not steal_."

His uncle explained to him that those who took what did not belong to them, were not the only thieves, but that those also were such who bought without paying, whose expenses were greater than their means, who borrowed what it was not possible for them to return, and above all, those who profited by what others had stolen.

Charles became pale and red by turns; fortunately for him, it was getting dark, and his uncle did not observe his agitation. He made no reply, and as soon as he could get away, he went and concealed himself, in order to give vent to his tears. At supper he ate nothing, saying that he was sick, and in truth the piece of sausage he had taken, had made him feel ill. He could not sleep; his conscience reproached him with having participated in the theft, since he had profited by it, and he felt that he could no longer tell them that they had done wrong, since they would say, "That, however, did not prevent you from eating some of the sausage."

He knew, and his uncle had often repeated it to him, that one cannot hope for forgiveness from God, without at least returning the value of what has been stolen. He would most willingly have given the little he possessed to be delivered from so heavy a burden; but how was he to make the butcher accept it? It would be necessary to explain everything, and accuse his companions. This he would not have thought of doing, even if he had not considered himself bound by his promise; he therefore determined to go and lay the four sous, which was all the money he possessed, upon the door-step of the pork-butcher's shop, thinking that he would take them up, supposing them to belong to him. He passed before the door two or three times, without daring to carry his plan into execution; at last, at a moment when he was not perceived, he laid them on the threshold, and ran away to the corner of the street, in order to see what would happen. He had no sooner stationed himself there, than he saw Antony come up, who, prowling about the shop, and perceiving that its owner's back was turned, stooped down to pick up the money. Charles rushed upon him to prevent him. Antony struggled, and the shopkeeper turned round at the noise. "What are you doing in front of my shop?" he exclaimed, in an angry tone; for he remembered what had been stolen from him. "What does M. Charles mean by lurking about here for a whole hour? Be off with you; I do not accuse you, M. Charles, but I don't want any one in front of my shop."

"He ought to be accused as much as any one else," said Antony, and Charles in despair beheld himself driven away, without daring to resist, as he would have done on any other occasion. He ran after Antony, in order to get back his four sous, saying that they belonged to him, but Antony only laughed at him. He dared not compel him to give them back, for Antony had over him the advantage of a scamp, who laughs at everything that can be said to him, while Charles did not possess that of an honest man, which consists in having nothing to conceal, for his conduct had not always been irreproachable.

As he stood there, sad and ashamed, Jacques and Simon happened to pass by. "Oh," said Simon, in a low voice, "we have got such a beautiful basket of peaches, which Dame Nicholas was going to carry into the town, and which we took from off her donkey, while she was gone to pick up sticks by the side of the park walls. We have hidden it there in the ditch. Come and see it."

"No, I will not," said Charles.

"Well, they are not for him," replied Jacques, "he has had no trouble in getting them; he is a cowardly brigand."

"I am not a brigand," said Charles, "and I do not care for your peaches."

"You were not so squeamish about the sausage, though."

Charles, on any other occasion, would have replied by a blow; but now he was humbled, and remained silent, and Jacques went away, singing at the top of his voice, to the air of "_C'est un enfant_," _he's a child_:--

"He's a coward,
He's a coward."

"Why will you not come?" asked Simon.

"Simon," replied Charles, who wished to reform him, "it is very wrong to steal, and to keep company with those who steal."

"That's all very fine! but you did not think so yesterday."

"But since then I have bitterly repented of it."

"Very well, you may repent again to-morrow, come along;" and Simon, who was accustomed to make him do pretty nearly what he pleased, dragged him along by the arm.

"No, no. I will not go."

"Very well, don't come, then;" and he pushed him rudely back: "I see very well it's because you won't let me have my revenge."

"But, Simon, how am I to do it? I have no more money."

"You have still the four sous that you won from Louis and me."

Charles related what he had done, and what followed; Simon laughed so heartily, that Charles almost laughed to see him laughing: however, he became impatient. "If I could only make him restore them," he said.

"Oh," said Simon, "brigands never restore anything; but come presently and play at quoits upon the green. Since it is that rascally Antony who has stolen them from you, we shall easily find the means of winning them again from him."

"No," said Charles, "I will not go."

"Very well, as you like. I shall win them for myself then."

As Charles, notwithstanding his misfortunes, was rather more satisfied with himself, he dined better than he had supped on the previous evening. Nevertheless, he thought it would have been very pleasant to have won back his money from Antony. The following day was Sunday, and his uncle gave him the key of his garden, desiring him to carry it to Madame Brossier, one of his parishioners, who was very old and infirm. She lived at the distance of four or five hundred paces from the village, and in going to mass had a much shorter journey to make, by crossing the Curé's garden, than by going round by the streets.

Charles set out. His way lay near the green, and as he passed, he looked towards it, walking more slowly, and endeavouring to discover what his comrades, whom he saw there assembled, were about. In this manner he approached them, found that they were playing at quoits, and drew still nearer, in order to ascertain whether it was Simon who was winning. The latter observed him, and called to him, inviting him to go halves with him. Charles at first made no reply; Simon renewed his proposal: it was against Antony that he was playing, and Charles therefore agreed, forgetting that he had no right to play, since he had no money to pay if he lost. This idea occurred to him in the midst of the game, and he became so terribly alarmed at the thought of losing, that he could hardly breathe. He watched the game with anxious attention; and on two occasions he fancied he saw Simon, with whom he was to share, take an opportunity, while approaching for the purpose of measuring, to push his quoit in such a way as to make it appear that he had won, when in reality he had lost. However, he did not dare to say anything; but whether it was for the sake of not injuring Simon, or for the sake of not losing, he could not decide, so much was he confused. He won a sou, and went away, still more troubled, if possible, than on the previous evening. He thought that Simon had cheated, and that from this dishonesty had come what he himself had gained; and that though Antony had stolen the money from him, still this was no reason why he should steal it in his turn. He would have been glad to have asked some one whether he had any right to keep this money, or whether, on the contrary, he ought not also to return even what Simon had gained, since he had not given notice that he was cheating. But whom was he to ask? It is one of the misfortunes of those who have been guilty of any disgraceful act, that they dare not seek advice, even though it be for the purpose of repairing their fault. Charles's conscience tormented him so much, that he tried to distract his thoughts, in order not to feel his self-reproaches. He therefore began running, to try and shake off his painful impressions, but on reaching Madame Brossier's door, he perceived that he had not the key of the garden. He imagined at first that he must have dropped it while running, and therefore searched for it for some time, but at last recollecting that he had lent it to Simon to measure the distance of the quoits, he went back to ask him for it. Simon, however, was not there, nor Jacques either, and the others declared that they had not got his key. Charles was going to run after Simon.

"Don't go," said Antony, "he'll come back presently, and you will miss him. Let's have a game instead."

Charles was just in a condition for committing faults; he did not know whether the money he had belonged to him or not, and it would seem that those who have had the misfortune of rendering their duties so difficult and complicated, that they no longer know how to extricate themselves from their embarrassments, are apt to abandon altogether the care of their conscience, and become reckless, so that they go on from bad to worse, and thus deprive themselves of the means of repairing their errors.

Charles played, and lost not only his sou, but four others which he did not possess; still he wanted his revenge, but Antony refused to play any longer, and Simon did not return. Charles thought but little of this, so much was he occupied with his game; however he had once inquired if Simon was not coming back. "Yes, yes! when the fowls get teeth," replied Antony, deriding him. Charles had scarcely heard him. Whilst he was asking for a last game, which would probably have again made him lose what he did not possess, Jacques arrived at full speed, and without perceiving Charles, for it was beginning to get dark, he called out from a distance, though in a suppressed voice, "It's the key of the garden sure enough, we have tried it, and are going to fetch some baskets."

Charles perceived that they were talking of his key, and saw clearly that he had been expressly detained, in order to allow Jacques and Simon time to take it away. He was going to run after Jacques, but Antony retained him: "Pay me my four sous first," said he.

"I will pay you them to-morrow, but I must have my key."

"Are you afraid any one will eat your key?"

"No, but I don't want any one to go to my uncle's garden and steal his fruit, as they did the basket of peaches, and the sausage;" and he continued to struggle, but Antony kept him back.

"There is a great deal of harm," said Louis "in picking up the fruit which has fallen, and is rotting on the ground." But Charles, who knew very well that they would not content themselves with this, struggled still more violently.

"You will have to let me go in the end," said he, "and then I will run and tell my uncle to make them give up his key."

"And I will tell him," said Antony, "to make you give me my four sous."

"Very well! Let me go; I will say nothing about it."

"Swear it on the faith of a brigand."

"But I am not a brigand."

"You are, you are a brigand," exclaimed all the little boys at once, taking hold of each other's hands, and dancing round him in such a manner as to prevent him from getting away. "Swear it on the faith of a brigand." Charles stamped, cried, and made every effort to get away, but in vain; he was obliged to swear on the faith of a brigand, that he would not tell, and that he would pay the four sous on the following day; that is to say, he promised to give what he did not possess: but his first faults had led him into a bad path, and now he could not get out of it.

As soon as he got free, he began to run as fast as he could in the direction of the house, but at some distance he met his uncle, who stopped him and inquired whether he had given the key to Madame Brossier. Charles, dismayed and confused, stammered, and could only repeat:

"The key, the key ... the key, uncle."

"Have you lost it?"

"Yes, uncle," said Charles, delighted at this excuse. The Curé was a good quiet man, who never got angry: he merely said, "Very well! we must look for it."

"What uncle, at this hour? it is almost dark."

"We shall have much more difficulty in finding it when it is quite dark;" and he began to look for it, Charles pretending to do the same. They met Antony and his companions, who were returning to the village; the Curé inquired for his key; they replied that they had not found it, and Charles, filled with indignation, heard them as they went away, laughing among themselves, and saying, "It will be found, M. le Curé, it will be found." He saw them running, and felt convinced that they were hastening to take advantage of his uncle's absence to effect their purpose. He trembled for his uncle's beautiful apricot-tree, so laden with fruit that some of the branches had to be supported; but above all, he trembled for Bébé, a beautiful little lamb, which the Curé's servant had brought up, and of which Charles was passionately fond, for it knew him, would run to him, as far as the length of its cord would allow, the moment it perceived him, would caress him, and eat from his hand. It was tied in the garden, and if these good-for-nothing fellows were to take it away, and hurt it, the poor thing might bleat as much as it pleased, without any possibility of the servant's hearing it, as the garden was at some distance from the house, and only connected with it by a narrow path, passing along the back of the church. He could not endure the thought. "Uncle," said he, in great agitation, "let me go; if any one has found the key, he may get into the garden; I will put something in the lock to prevent them from opening it."

"No! no!" said the Curé, "you would spoil my lock:" Charles had already set off. The Curé again cried out to him, forbidding him to put anything into the lock. Charles promised not to touch it, and ran on, and his uncle, seeing it was getting too dark to leave any chance of finding the key, went to pay a visit in the village.

Charles reached home, quite out of breath; he found everything perfectly quiet. Bébé was in her old place, and came to lick his hand; he breathed more freely, but he was still in constant fear of hearing the little brigands arrive. What was he to do then? He had placed himself in the most distressing dilemma in which a man can be placed, that of either failing in his word, or of allowing a wrong to be committed, which he had the power of preventing. His uncle had forbidden him to put anything in the lock, but he thought that if the ladder which was used for mounting the trees, were placed across the door, it might hinder its being opened. He had just begun to drag it along with much difficulty, when he heard several persons speaking in a low voice outside the wall, and close to the door; he saw that there was no time to reach it with the ladder, and therefore rushed forward, that he might at least push it with all his might; but at that moment the key was put into the lock, and the door suddenly burst open. Charles was almost thrown down, and he beheld the five little brigands enter the garden.

"Go back! go back!" he said, "go back, or I'll call out."

"Go and call outside then!" said Jacques, pushing him out of the garden, the door of which he closed, after having taken out the key. Charles did in fact cry out, and knock, but they threw a flower-pot over the wall, which fell upon his shoulder and hurt him a good deal. He saw another coming, and concluded that he could not stay there. Being obliged to go round, he made all the haste possible, though his fears made him tremble; he found the gate of the yard open, ran along the walk without being seen from the house, and heard Bébé bleating in so pitiable a manner, that it filled him with terror.

"Tie it tight round her neck," said Jacques; "tie it very tight." Charles uttered a loud cry. Simon rushed upon him, placed his hands before his mouth, and aided by Antony, retained them there, notwithstanding his struggles, while the others endeavoured to tighten the cord round the neck of the lamb, already half-choked. Poor Bébé, however, uttered a last and feeble cry; Charles heard it; despair gave him strength; he tore himself from the hands that restrained him, and screamed out "Help! help!" He was heard; the Curé, who had been looking for him, and the servant who was coming to take in Bébé, hurried to the spot. The little brigands saw themselves discovered, and fled to different parts of the garden. They tried to make their escape, but they had closed the door. The servant had already recognised and boxed the ears of two or three, whilst Charles, solely occupied with Bébé, untied her so that she could breathe, and kneeling beside her, kissed her, cried over her, and tried to induce her to eat the grass he offered her. After having severely reprimanded the little brigands, and driven them out, the Curé and the servant returned to Bébé. Charles was surprised to hear the servant say that there were four of them, Simon's name not being mentioned. He thought he must have contrived to escape; but as he was walking along a narrow path behind the others, and leading Bébé, who was still so much frightened that she would hardly allow herself to be conducted, he perceived Simon crouched behind a large lilac-tree. He was at first on the point of crying out, recollecting that it was he who had placed his hands upon his mouth, while the others were trying to strangle Bébé; but a feeling of generosity, and the recollection of his own faults, restrained him. He beckoned to him to follow quietly, and whilst the Curé and the servant entered the house, he gave him the means of escaping through the gate of the yard. On being questioned by the Curé, Charles took the determination of humbly confessing his faults, and of asking pardon of God, and of his uncle, who treated him with kindness, but, nevertheless, imposed a penance upon him. Charles begged him to advance the little sum which he allowed him monthly, that he might pay Antony, and also return the money which Simon and himself had won from him, in no very honourable manner. He wished, besides, to give something to the pork-butcher. The Curé consented, although he had a great dislike to see money given to Antony, who would be sure to make a bad use of it. Nevertheless Charles owed it, and his uncle made him observe, that the inconveniences of bad conduct often continue long after the fault has been corrected, and still compel people to do things which they very much regret. As for the money for the shopkeeper, Charles did not wish to give it himself, and his uncle approved of this, because there are faults so disgraceful, that unless we are compelled to avow them, for the sake of avoiding falsehood, they ought not to be confessed before any one but God. His uncle promised to give this money back as a restitution with which he had been intrusted. Charles expressed his fear that in this case, the quarter from whence it came might be suspected; but his uncle reminded him, that as he had been so little afraid of suspicion in doing the wrong, he must brave it in repairing his fault, and that an irreproachable conduct was the only means of re-establishing his reputation, which might very well be injured by this adventure.

And it was so, indeed, for some time. The Curé, in his sermon the following day, having spoken against theft, without naming any one, and warned the parents to watch over their children who were acquiring dangerous habits, all those who had children were very uneasy, and endeavoured to discover what he meant by this. The servant, notwithstanding her master's injunctions to the contrary, could not help relating the whole affair. The little brigands were severely punished by their parents, who, afterwards, however, asserted that Charles was the worst amongst them, as he had opened the door to them, and then betrayed them. The little boys, on their side, insulted him whenever they saw him. Simon was the only one who was not angry with him. Charles, when he happened to meet him, for he no longer sought his company, tried to persuade him to reform, and Simon made many promises to that effect, but he did not keep them, and he became at last so bad, that Charles was obliged to give up speaking to him altogether. Neither did he regret doing so, as Simon soon lost the good qualities which he naturally possessed; for there is no virtue that can stand against the constant habit of doing wrong, nor any sentiment which will not, in the end, be entirely smothered by want of principle.

OLD GENEVIÈVE.

"How stupid you are! How absurdly you have put in that pin! You have laced me all on one side. Oh! I shall be horribly dressed; this is unbearable: I never saw anything so awkward."

It was pretty much in this style that Emmeline was in the habit of speaking to old Geneviève, whose duty it was to wait upon her, since she had lost her nurse, and after having seen Emmeline quite an infant, she never expected to be treated by her in this way; but it had been observed that for some time past, Emmeline, though naturally kind and gentle, and even rather timid, had nevertheless assumed with the servants haughty airs, to which she had not previously been accustomed. She no longer thanked them when they waited upon her at table, and asked for what she wanted without even saying, _if you please_. Up to this time, she had never followed her mother through an antechamber, where the servants rose as they passed, without acknowledging by a slight bow, this mark of their respect; but now she seemed to think it would be derogatory to her dignity, not to pass among them with her head higher than usual. It might, however, be seen that she blushed a little, and that it required an effort on her part to assume these manners, which were not natural to her. Her mother, Madame d'Altier, who began to perceive this change, had more than once reprimanded her on account of it, so that Emmeline did not dare to give herself too many of these airs in her presence. She chiefly affected them when in the society of Madame de Serres, a young woman of seventeen, who had been a year and a half married, and who from her childhood, had been greatly spoiled, as she was very rich and had no parents. Even now she was spoiled by her mother-in-law, who had been very anxious that she should marry her son, and also by her husband, who, almost as young as herself, allowed her to do just what she pleased. As she was not in the habit of inconveniencing herself in the least for any one, she did so still less for her servants; consequently she was incessantly complaining of their insolence, because the severe and imperious manners she assumed towards them, sometimes led them to forget the respect they owed her, while the extravagance of her whims rendered them impatient.

Emmeline, who was at that time fourteen years of age, and desirous of playing the grand lady, imagined that she could not do better than imitate the manners of her cousin, whom she saw almost every day, because Madame de Serres, when in Paris, resided in the same street as Madame d'Altier, and in the country occupied a neighbouring château. Emmeline had not, however, dared to display the whole of her impertinence towards her mother's servants, who had been a long time in the family, and accustomed to be well treated, and who, the first time she manifested these arrogant and impertinent airs, would probably have laughed outright at her. She therefore contented herself with being neither kind nor civil to them. They did not serve her any the less on this account, because they knew it was their duty to attend to her; but when they compared her with her mother, who showed so little anxiety to exercise the right which she really had to command them, they thought the conduct of Emmeline very ridiculous.

Emmeline, indeed, was sometimes conscious of this, and became mentally impatient, because she did not dare to subject them to her authority; but she revenged herself upon Geneviève, who, born on the estate of M. d'Altier, was accustomed to regard with great respect, even the little children of the family of her seigneurs; besides, until lately, she had never had the honour of being completely attached to the château, though she had been employed there almost daily during the last twenty years, in some inferior occupations; consequently, when Madame d'Altier, on her arrival in the country this year, knowing her respectability, had engaged her to assist Emmeline in dressing, and to attend to her room, she considered herself elevated in condition, but without being any the more proud on this account. She looked upon Emmeline, whom she had not seen for ten years, as a person whom she was bound to respect, and from whom she ought to endure everything. When the latter, therefore, thought proper to exercise her authority over her, by making use of any harsh expression she could think of (and she would have used many more had she not been too well brought up to be familiar with them), Geneviève never replied; she only made all the haste she could, either to get away, or to avoid irritating her further, and in consequence, she was only the more awkward, and the more harshly treated.

One day, while she was arranging Emmeline's room, it happened that the latter wished to send her on an errand into the village; but as Geneviève continued her occupation, Emmeline became angry, considering it very strange that she was not obeyed. Geneviève represented to her that if, after breakfast, when she returned to her room to draw, she did not find it in order, she would scold her, and that, nevertheless, it was necessary to have time for everything. As she was right, Emmeline ordered her to be silent, saying that she provoked her. Madame d'Altier, who from the adjoining room, had overheard the conversation, called to her daughter, and said, "Are you quite sure, Emmeline, that you were right in your discussion with Geneviève? because, after having assumed such a tone as that with a servant, it would be extremely annoying to find, in the end, that you had been wrong."

"But, mamma," replied Emmeline, a little ashamed, "when instead of doing what I tell her, Geneviève amuses herself with answering me, it is necessary to stop her."

"You are then certain, before having examined, or even heard her reasons, that they cannot be good?"

"It seems to me, mamma, that a servant is always wrong in arguing, instead of doing what she has been ordered to do."

"That is to say, she is wrong even when she is right, and when she is ordered to do anything which is impossible."

"Oh! mamma, these people always find things impossible, because they do not like them."

"This is the way your cousin would talk: I wish, Emmeline, you had spirit enough to invent ridiculous airs for yourself, instead of assuming those of other people."

"I don't stand in need of my cousin," said Emmeline, much piqued, "to know that Geneviève never does half she is told to do."

"If you have no other means of obtaining her obedience than those you have just employed, I am sorry for it; I must take her away from you, for I pay her to wait upon you, and not to be ill treated; I have never paid any one for that purpose."

Madame d'Altier said these words in so firm a tone, that her daughter did not dare to reply. However, she consoled herself in talking to her cousin, who came to spend an hour with her, and they both agreed that Madame d'Altier did not know how to manage her servants. This was an unlucky day for Emmeline; the conversation with her cousin had taken place in one of the garden-walks, and just as she had terminated it, she saw her mother coming from a neighbouring one. Madame d'Altier smiled at the prattle of these little personages, who presumed to set themselves up as judges of her conduct. She looked at her daughter, who blushed excessively, and seeing Geneviève, she called to her to remove some branches, which were in her way. Geneviève replied, that she would come as soon as she had carried some food to the turkeys, which were screeching like mad things, because they were hungry. "In truth," said Madame d'Altier, "it is evident, as you very justly observed, that I do not know how to get served before my turkeys; I suppose, therefore, I must be thought more reasonable and less impatient than they are." But at this moment they beheld Geneviève, who putting, or rather throwing, on the ground the vessel she held in her hand, began to run with the utmost precipitation towards the house. "Gracious me!" she cried, as she ran along, "I have forgotten to close the window in Mademoiselle Emmeline's room, as she ordered me. I must make haste," she repeated, quite out of breath. "I congratulate you, my child," said Madame d'Altier, "I see that you have more talent than my turkeys even, in getting waited upon."

Emmeline said nothing, but she glanced at her cousin as she was accustomed to do, whenever anything was said which displeased her. Madame de Serres, who considered herself interrupted in her important conferences with her cousin, and who was afraid to display all her fine ideas in the presence of her aunt, of whose good sense and raillery she stood in awe, returned to her carriage, for the purpose of paying a visit in the neighbourhood, accompanied by her lady's-maid, who always attended her in her drives, because she was still too young to go alone. She promised to come back to dinner, and Emmeline went to attend her flowers.

"Oh, dear," she exclaimed, as she reached the terrace, where the pots were arranged, which served for the decoration of her room, "last night's rain has scattered the blossoms of all my roses, and my jasmine has not a single flower left upon it. Geneviève might have taken them in last night, but she can do nothing. She never thinks of anything."

"But, mademoiselle," said old Geneviève, who happened to be close at hand, "I dare not touch your flowerpots, for fear of breaking them."

"Did you take in mine?" said Madame d'Altier.

"Oh! yes, madame."

"I am very glad to find," said Madame d'Altier, looking at her daughter, "that I can be attended to without compelling attention."

"But, mamma, I never told her not to touch my flowerpots," replied Emmeline.

"No; but probably for the smallest thing she breaks, you scold her so much, that she is afraid to run the risk of again exposing herself to your anger."

"It is absolutely necessary, mamma," she said, as she ascended the steps to take in her flowers, "Geneviève is so awkward, and pays so little attention, that...." As she uttered these words, one of the flowerpots slipped from her hands, fell on the steps, and was broken into a thousand pieces.

"She is so awkward," rejoined Madame d'Altier, "that precisely the same thing happens to her sometimes, that would happen to you as well, had you the same duties to perform."

"Indeed, mamma," said Emmeline, very much irritated, "what has happened to me is quite disagreeable enough without...."

"Without what, my child?"

Emmeline paused, ashamed of her impatience. Madame d'Altier took her hand, and made her sit down by her. "When your ill-humour is over, my child, we will reason together." Emmeline kissed in silence the hand of her mother, who said, "Is it then so very vexatious a matter, my child, to have broken this pot of coloured earth, which can be immediately replaced by one from the greenhouse, where you know you can choose for yourself?"

"No, mamma, but...."

"It cannot be on account of your anemone, which is past flowering, and which you told me you would return to the beds. You are spared the trouble of unpotting it." Emmeline smiled.

"Yes, mamma, but on these occasions one always feels something disagreeable, which makes one dislike...."

"To be tormented; is it not so, my dear? And yet it is precisely these moments you select to scold and ill-treat Geneviève, when any accident of this kind happens to her, as if to add to her vexation and confusion."

"But, mamma, it is her duty to pay attention to what she is doing."

"Is it more her duty than it is yours, when you are attending to your own business? Do you wish her to be more careful of your interest than you can be yourself, and require that her anxiety to serve you should make her escape accidents, which you cannot avoid, for your own sake?"

"But, nevertheless, what I break is my own, and I am quite sufficiently punished, whereas she...."

"Cannot be sufficiently punished, I perceive, for having caused you a momentary vexation; and not only is this your own opinion, but you want it to be hers likewise, for you would consider it very improper if she wished to prove to you that you were wrong."

"Undoubtedly, mamma, it would be very absurd if Geneviève took it into her head to argue with me, when I told her to do anything."

"I understand. When you are out of humour, Geneviève ought to say to herself, 'I am a servant, it is consequently my duty to be rational and patient, for the sake of Mademoiselle Emmeline, who is incapable of being so. If my age, my infirmities, or, in fine, any weakness of my nature, render my duties at certain time more difficult to perform, I ought resolutely to surmount every obstacle, for fear of causing Mademoiselle Emmeline a moment's disappointment or contradiction, as she would not have sufficient strength of mind to endure it. If her impatience wounds my feelings, if her ill-temper provokes me, if her fancies appear to me ridiculous and unbearable, still I ought to submit to them, as she is a poor little creature, from whom one cannot expect anything better.'"

"Geneviève would show very little attachment," replied Emmeline, greatly piqued, "if she could entertain such thoughts as these."

At this moment Madame de Serres arrived, very much agitated and angry. "Just imagine, my dear aunt," she said to Madame d'Altier, as she approached, "my maid is going to leave me. She selected the time when she was in the carriage with me, to announce her intention; therefore I had her set down in the road, and she may get back as she pleases. Will you have the kindness to allow your maid to accompany me home? I had this person in my service long before my marriage, and she leaves me for a situation which she says suits her better. Who can rely on the attachment of such people?"

"Were you very much attached to her?" asked Madame d'Altier, carelessly.

"Oh! not at all; she is slow and disagreeable. I should have taken another could I have found one."

Madame d'Altier laughed. It seemed to her excessively absurd that it should be a perpetual subject of complaint and astonishment, that a servant is not more attached to the master whom he has served many years, while the master considers it quite a matter of course to care nothing about the servant, by whom he has been served during all this time. Madame de Serres did not perceive that her aunt was laughing at her, but Emmeline observed it, and it sometimes happened that even she thought her cousin rather ridiculous. Madame de Serres consoled herself by jesting about the pleasure she should have in being under the protection of Mademoiselle Brogniard, Madame d'Altier's lady's-maid, who took her pinch of snuff with such gravity, and when in the open fields, walked as uprightly, and made her courtesy as regularly as if she had been in a drawing-room, in the midst of fifty people. It was agreed, as the weather was fine, and the distance but trifling across the fields, that Madame de Serres should walk, and that Emmeline should accompany her with Mademoiselle Brogniard, and also that they should call and take some milk at a farm, which lay almost on their road. They set off soon after dinner; but scarcely had they reached the farm, when the weather, which up to that time had been fine, suddenly changed, and the rain began to fall in torrents. When, after the lapse of an hour, it had ceased, and they resolved to continue their way, the country was so completely inundated, that they sank ankle-deep into the mud. Madame de Serres was in great distress because she had not returned home in her carriage. Emmeline, rather shocked at observing that she thought of no one but herself, exclaimed, as she perceived Geneviève coming towards her with a parcel,

"Well! as for me, here's Geneviève bringing my cloak and boots."

"No," replied Geneviève, "but I have brought Mademoiselle Brogniard's fur shoes, and wadded dress, for I thought that with her rheumatism the damp might do her a great deal of harm."

"You might at least, at the same time," said Emmeline, angrily, "have brought my boots."

"But you did not tell me to do so, Mademoiselle."

"Neither did Mademoiselle Brogniard tell you to bring hers."

"But she knew, Mademoiselle Emmeline," replied Mademoiselle Brogniard, sententiously emphasising every word, "that I should be greatly obliged to her; and indeed, Geneviève, I am extremely obliged to you."

"I have only done my duty," said Geneviève, as she assisted Mademoiselle Brogniard to put on her dress. She then went away, leaving Emmeline extremely annoyed at finding that Geneviève considered herself bound to be more attentive to Mademoiselle Brogniard than to her. Madame de Serres tried to jest on account of Mademoiselle Brogniard being the best clad and the best served of the three; but as the latter said very little, her pleasantry soon terminated, and her lamentations about the carriage recommenced. At last, as they drew near the high road, she perceived it slowly returning, and in a transport of delight ran forward towards it.

"Mademoiselle Brogniard," she said, "I shall soon be at the château; it will be unnecessary for you to accompany me any further: farewell, my dear," she cried out to Emmeline, "I am delighted to spare you the rest of the way," and she departed, without once thinking that she could have saved Emmeline a walk in the mud, by taking her back in her carriage, at least as far as the avenue of her mother's château. Emmeline reflected upon this, and saw clearly that her cousin's plan of not troubling herself about the comfort of those who were in her service, formed part of a much more extensive plan, which was that of not troubling herself about any one.

These reflections, and the representations of her mother, had the effect of sparing Geneviève some haughty airs, and some caprices; but Emmeline could not treat her with kindness. Her orders were always delivered in a brief and dry manner, and she was constantly giving orders. She took no pains to discover whether what she ordered could be easily or more conveniently done at one time, or in one manner than another, neither did she take any interest in anything that concerned Geneviève, for Emmeline imagined that this kind of familiarity would have made her appear childish.