Chapter M: Le Chevalier (6)

Towards the end of the summer, Madame d'Altier and her daughter went with Madame de Serres to spend some days at a château in the neighbourhood. Madame de Ligneville, the mistress of the château, was a young woman twenty-two years of age, extremely gentle and amiable, and especially remarkable for her kindness to her servants, the greater part of whom had surrounded her from her childhood. Her housekeeper had been her former governess, and Madame de Ligneville was not afraid of allowing authority in her household to one who had formerly possessed it over her own person; for in proportion as she became reasonable, her governess became as submissive as she had formerly been rigorous in exacting obedience. Her lady's-maid was the daughter of this governess, and had been brought up with her, but she was not on this account the less zealous or respectful. Her footman had belonged to her father, her gardener was in the family before her birth, and sometimes related to her how, when a child, she used to plant bits of apricot, in order that they might become apricot-trees. Every one adored her; everything in her household seemed regulated by an invisible machinery, and without anything being ever said; an order appeared like an advertisement to which every one hastened to attend. It was a matter of doubt whether Madame de Ligneville had ever scolded her servants, and they themselves did not believe that she had; for if at any time she was obliged to reprove them, they were more conscious of their own fault than of the reprimand of their mistress. Emmeline saw with astonishment that this kindness on her part did not in the least detract either from her elegance or her dignity. It even seemed, that without ever commanding, she had much more the appearance of being mistress than Madame de Serres, who could only obtain obedience by dint of talking, tormenting, and scolding. She also observed, that although people were sometimes amused by the little haughty airs and caprices of her cousin, Madame de Ligneville was treated with much more respect and friendship.

They had been staying with her for some days, when all the company of the château were invited to a fête, which was to be held at a few leagues' distance. Madame de Serres and Madame de Ligneville took a fancy to go there in the costume of a peasant of the province. Emmeline had a dress of this kind, which was immediately sent for to serve as a pattern for the others; but on examining it, Madame de Ligneville found it rather complicated, and was afraid her maid would not have time to complete it for the following day, as they were to set out early.

"Oh! my maid must find time to finish mine," said Madame de Serres. "I do not put up with her fancies in this way. You spoil your servants, my dear," she said, addressing Madame de Ligneville. "I know it through Justine, who I believe is cousin to your Sophie; but I warned her that she need not expect to be treated in the same manner; for, believe me, you will get nothing from them in this way."

Madame de Ligneville did not reply, for she was not at all anxious to enforce her opinions on others. Madame de Serres hastened to give her orders, and Justine immediately set to work. At night, when her mistress retired to her room, the costume was considerably advanced, but it did not suit her fancy. She became angry; said she would never wear such a frightful thing as that, and ordered her to begin it all over again. Justine replied that it would be impossible to finish it in that case, unless she sat up all night. Madame de Serres told her that she must do so, adding that it was no great hardship. Justine asserted that she could not, as she was very much fatigued already from having worked the whole of the evening. Her mistress told her that she was an impertinent creature, and that she must either contrive to bring her the dress by the time she awoke on the following morning, or never again appear in her presence.

On awaking the following morning, she found her dress in precisely the same condition as she had left it the previous night. Justine told her, that as it seemed to be her intention to discharge her, she had come to ask for her dismissal. Madame de Serres flew into a passion; ordered her to leave the room; desired her never to come into her presence again, and sent to ask Mademoiselle Brogniard to assist her in dressing; in fine, she made so much noise about what she termed Justine's insolence, and was altogether so unreasonable, that the whole house soon became aware of what had occurred, and all were greatly amused by it, for they had already heard of several similar incidents which had happened to her. At breakfast, she affected a manner more than usually easy, to conceal the ill-humour which was nevertheless perceptible through it. She made no allusion to her dress, neither did Madame de Ligneville, as she had resolved not to put on her own, should it even be completed; while Emmeline, very sad because her mother, in order not to annoy her cousin, would not allow her to wear hers, although it was very becoming to her, began to think that Madame de Serres had acted very improperly in her treatment of Justine.

After breakfast, all were preparing to go and dress, when their attention was drawn to Madame de Ligneville's room, in order to see a singular flower, which her gardener had brought her. While there, Sophie entered by one of the inner doors of the apartment, holding in her hand Madame de Ligneville's dress, completely finished, and the prettiest thing imaginable: every one looked at it, and all felt tempted to glance at Madame de Serres, who, although she blushed, yet hastened to express her approbation.

"Indeed, Sophie," said Madame de Ligneville, very much embarrassed, "I had given it up altogether, for I never could have thought you would have been able to finish it."

"Oh, madame," said Sophie, heedlessly, "my cousin helped me, and we got up very early."

This cousin was Justine. Madame de Serres blushed still more, and Madame de Ligneville did the same; but every one else felt disposed to laugh. Emmeline perceived this, and from that moment her cousin appeared to her as ridiculous as she was in reality. All insisted that Madame de Ligneville should wear her dress; Emmeline, consequently, wore hers also; and as Madame de Ligneville pretended to be her elder sister, they passed the day together. This was very gratifying to Madame d'Altier, as Madame de Ligneville was an extremely sensible woman, and Emmeline found her so kind and so charming, that she became very much attached to her. Two or three times Madame de Ligneville remarked, as she looked at her dress, "There really is a great deal of work in it; that poor Sophie must have laboured very hard." And Emmeline, because she was pleased with her, considered as very charming what a short time previously she would have regarded as beneath her dignity; and she also felt that it might be very gratifying to receive such proofs of affection. She enjoyed the fête very much. However, the heat of the weather, and the fatigue she had undergone, brought on, after her return, a slight illness, which confined her for some time to her bed. One day during her indisposition, she heard Geneviève, who had paid great attention to her, say, "I must take care of her, poor little thing, though I am quite sure that when she gets well she will vex me very much." She felt humiliated at finding herself in need of Geneviève's generosity. During her convalescence, she also frequently required her assistance, for she was very weak, and Geneviève had to aid her in almost every movement. She was therefore obliged to lay aside some portion of her pride, and learn that the authority and dignity of one who can do nothing for herself is, after all, no very great affair. She felt that, if servants have need of masters for their support, masters, whom custom and wealth have habituated to a multitude of luxuries, have also constant need of servants, for their comfort and convenience. She likewise learned, in the end, that an industrious and honest servant can always find a master willing to pay him, whereas a master who is willing to pay, is not always sure of meeting with a servant who will serve him with zeal and affection, and consequently that it is particularly important to masters that their servants should be contented. She thus returned to her natural disposition, which was that of wishing to have every one satisfied with her, and she found that there was no other state of mind either so agreeable or so convenient as this.

JULIA;

OR THE STORY OF MADAME CROQUE-MITAINE.

Two years had elapsed since Madame de Vallonay had placed her daughter at school, in order to go and nurse her husband, who was ill at a fortified town, in which he commanded, and which was at any moment liable to attack. Circumstances having changed, M. and Madame de Vallonay returned to Paris, and brought their daughter home again. Julia was thirteen, she was sufficiently intelligent and sufficiently advanced for her age; but a child of thirteen, however advanced, cannot possibly understand all that is said by persons older than herself. She had, however, acquired a habit of regarding everything that she did not understand as ridiculous. Accustomed to the chit-chat of school-girls, who among themselves discussed, criticised, and decided upon everything, she fancied she understood a thing when once it had formed the subject of conversation at school. Thus, if any circumstance was spoken of, Julia maintained that the fact had happened differently; she was quite sure of it, for Mademoiselle Josephine had heard so in the holidays. If told that such or such a style of dress was in bad taste, "Oh, but it must be fashionable, nevertheless, for three of our young ladies have adopted it for ball dresses this winter." It was the same on more serious matters: whatever one of the elder girls related, from having heard her parents mention it, whether about peace or war, or the theatre, to which she had never been, it became a general opinion, to which neither Julia nor her companions ever thought there could be anything to oppose.

Thus, there never was a visit paid to her parents, that Julia did not exclaim, the moment the persons were gone, "Oh! mamma, what an absurd thing Monsieur or Madame So-and-so said!" Her mother permitted her to express her opinion in this manner when she was alone with her, in order to have an opportunity of proving to her, either that she did not understand what had been said, or that she did not understand what she wanted to say herself; but when there was company, she carefully watched, that her daughter did not give way to any rudeness, such as whispering, while laughing or looking at some one, making signs to a person at the other end of the room, or seeming to be unable to restrain her laughter.

Julia, who stood in awe of her mother, usually behaved pretty well in company. One day, however, when two or three of her schoolfellows had come to dine at Madame de Vallonay's, the Curé of the Vallonay estate, being in Paris on business, dined there also. He was a very worthy and sensible man, who said many excellent things, though in a rather more tedious manner than other people, while he introduced into his conversation old proverbs, very useful to remember, but which appeared to Julia excessively ridiculous, because she was unaccustomed to this style of speaking. Moreover, she had never before seen the Curé, and it was her habit always to discover something extraordinary in persons whom she saw for the first time. Her companions were as foolish as herself. Before dinner they amused themselves by mimicking the gestures of the Curé, whom they saw from an adjoining apartment, walking up and down the drawing-room with M. de Vallonay; this had put them into such a mocking humour, that during the whole of dinner, there was a constant succession of whisperings and laughings, for which they sought a thousand frivolous pretexts. Sometimes it was the dog who scratched himself in a droll manner, or who, in putting his paw upon Julia's knee to beg for something to eat, pulled her napkin, or else Emily had drunk out of her glass, or had taken her fork or her bread. Madame de Vallonay, though excessively annoyed, was nevertheless fearful of allowing her displeasure to be visible, lest the Curé should suspect its cause, but in the evening, when the company had departed, she scolded her daughter very seriously, and made her feel the rudeness, and even absurdity, of such conduct, and assured her that if such a thing occurred again, she would not allow her to associate with companions, who encouraged her in such disagreeable habits. Finally, as she was anxious to accustom her to reflect upon the motives of her actions, she asked her what there was so very remarkable in the conversation of the Curé de Vallonay.

"Oh! mamma, he said everything so oddly."

"As, for example:"--

"Well, mamma, he took the trouble of telling me that more flies were to be caught with a spoonful of honey than with a barrel of vinegar."

"And, it appears to me, Julia, that this maxim was never better applied; and it would have been a fortunate thing had it recalled to your mind at that moment, that love is gained by doing what is pleasing to others, not by mockery and disagreeable behaviour."

"And then he recited to papa, who apparently knew it very well beforehand, that verse of La Fontaine--

"Plus fait douceur que violence."
Gentleness does more than violence.

"Which means...?" asked Madame de Vallonay.

"Which means ... which means...." And Julia, probably rather annoyed by the conversation, was entirely taken up with pulling with all her strength the string of her bag, which had become entangled with the key of her work-box.

"Which means," continued Madame de Vallonay, "that you would do much better, were you gently to untie the knot in that string, instead of tightening it as you are doing, by pulling it in this irritable manner. I see, Julia, that you will often require to be reminded of the Curé's proverbs."

"But, nevertheless, mamma, they are things which everybody knows, and it was that which wearied me, and made me laugh with those girls."

"Which everybody knows? which you, Julia, know, do you not?"

"I assure you I do, mamma."

"You, who might learn something from every one! You, who might find something instructive in the story of Madame Croque-Mitaine, if indeed, you were capable of understanding it!"

"The story of Madame Croque-Mitaine!" exclaimed Julia, very much piqued: "that story for babies, which my cousin brought the other day for my little sister?"

"Exactly so, the one he made for her, when I showed him that bad engraving which I had given her, and which represented Madame Croque-Mitaine, with her bag and stick, threatening all the little children that she will take them away, if they are not good."

"What, mamma! and you really believe that I should learn something from that story?"

"No, because I am not sure that you have penetration enough to understand its utility. Come, let us see, here is the paper, read it..., come, read on."

"Oh! mamma."

"Oh! my child, you will have the kindness to read it aloud to me; if my dignity is not hurt by hearing it, surely yours need not be so by reading it."

Julia, half-laughing, half-pouting, took the manuscript, and read aloud the following story:

MADAME CROQUE-MITAINE: A TALE.

"Come away! come away, Paul," said little Louisa to her youngest brother, "we have more time than we want; the shop where they sell flowers and toys is at the end of the next street; mamma is dressing, and before she has finished we shall be back again, you with your whip, and I with my nosegay, and we will bring back one for mamma too, which will please her."

Taking Paul by the hand, she walked off with him as fast as their little legs could carry them. Louisa was nine years old, and Paul only seven, and they were two of the prettiest children imaginable. Louisa was dressed in a frock of snow-white cambric, and a rose-coloured sash encircled her little waist. As she walked along, she admired her red shoes, while her fair hair fell in ringlets over her shoulders. Paul's hair was neither less fair nor less beautiful; he wore a nankeen dress, quite new, an embroidered waistcoat, and an open worked shirt; but all these were nothing in comparison with the pleasure which awaited them. Their mother had promised to take them to the fair of Saint Cloud, and they were to set out in an hour. In the country, where, up to the present time, they had resided, they had been permitted to run about in the park, and sometimes even into the village; since they had come to Paris, however, they had been forbidden ever to venture beyond the carriage-gate, but the habit of attending to these injunctions was not yet confirmed, and besides, Louisa wanted to have a bouquet to take with her to Saint Cloud, and Paul wanted a whip, that he might whip his papa's horses, for he had promised to take him by his side in front of the calèche, and they hastened to buy these things unknown to their mother, with the money that she had just given them for their week's allowance.

All the passers-by stopped to look at them: "What pretty children!" they said, "how can they be allowed to go in the streets alone at their age?" And Louisa pulled Paul by the hand, in order to walk faster, so as not to hear them. A cabriolet which was coming very quickly behind them, made them redouble their haste. "Let us run fast," said Louisa, "here comes a cabriolet," but the cabriolet also ran, and Louisa, in her fright, turned to the right instead of to the left, and passed the flower-shop without perceiving it. The cabriolet still followed them, every instant drawing nearer; the noise of the wheels so bewildered Louisa, that thinking it was upon her heels, she rushed into another street. The vehicle took the same direction, and in turning round, the horse trotting in the middle of the gutter, sent up such a shower of mud and water, that our two terrified children were completely covered by it.

Paul instantly burst into tears: "My embroidered waistcoat is spoiled," he exclaimed.

"Be quiet," said Louisa, "we shall be observed," and she cast an anxious and melancholy look, sometimes around her, and sometimes on her cambric dress, which was even more splashed than Paul's waistcoat.

"Shall we soon reach the toy-shop?" asked Paul, still crying, though in a lower tone.

"We have only to go back," said Louisa, "for I think we have come too far; if we take the same way back, we shall soon be there," and she pulled Paul still more forcibly, while she kept close up to the wall, in the hope of not being seen; nevertheless, she did not know how she could venture to enter the toy-shop, or return home to her mother, with her dress in this condition.

All the streets seemed alike, and a child knows only the one in which it lives. Louisa did not return through the same streets by which the cabriolet had followed her. The farther she went, the more uneasy did she become, at not reaching the shop, and she dragged Paul's arm, who, not being able to walk so fast, said to her, "Don't go so fast, you hurt me." They went down a little street, which somewhat resembled one in the neighbourhood of their own house through which Louisa had sometimes passed, but at the end of it they found no passage, and instead of their road, they beheld ... Madame Croque-Mitaine, rummaging with her crook in a heap of rags.

You know Madame Croque-Mitaine. You have seen her humped back, her red eyes, her pointed nose, her dark and wrinkled face, her dirty and withered hands, her petticoat of all colours, her sabots, her bag, and that long stick with which she turns up and examines every heap of rubbish she meets with.

At the noise made by the two children in running, she raised her head, looked at them, and guessed, without much difficulty, from their frightened looks, and by the tears which still flowed down Paul's cheeks, and the sobs which swelled the bosom of Louisa, that they ought not to be where they were.

"What are you doing here?" she asked of them.

Louisa, without replying, leaned against the railing, holding Paul still more firmly.

"Have you a tongue?" continued Madame Croque-Mitaine. "You have at all events very good legs to run with," and she took Louisa by the hand, saying, "Hold up your head, my little one, what has happened to you?"

Louisa was so unaccustomed to speak to persons whom she did not know; the stories which her nurse had been foolish enough to repeat to her about old women who take away little children; the wrinkles, the ill-tempered look, the costume, and the first words addressed to her by Madame Croque-Mitaine, had so much terrified her, that notwithstanding the softened tone in which she now spoke to her, Louisa did not dare either to raise her eyes, or to reply.

"Well," said the old woman, "I see that I shall not get a word from them, nevertheless, I will not leave the poor children here. Will you," she said, addressing Paul, "will you tell me where you come from, and where you are going to? Are you also dumb like your sister?"

"We are going to the toy-shop," said Paul.

"And we have lost our way," rejoined Louisa, who began to feel a little less afraid of Madame Croque-Mitaine.

"Your mamma, surely, did not allow you to go out?" continued the old woman.

Louisa cast down her eyes.

"Well! well! you must first come to my house, in order that I may get rid of some of this mud for you; you are almost as dirty as I am."

"No! no!" exclaimed Louisa, who began again to be frightened at the recollection of the stories of her nurse.

"What do you mean by '_No_?' Are you afraid that I shall eat you? Oh! I see they have made you afraid of Madame Croque-Mitaine; but make yourself easy, she is not so bad as they have told you."

And, indeed, this Madame Croque-Mitaine was only what they all are; that is a poor old woman, who had no other means of gaining a living, than by picking up rags here and there, and selling them afterwards to persons as poor as herself.

She threw her stick into her bag, took the two children by the hand, who still walked with hesitating steps, and went down one of the narrow streets.

Every one looked with astonishment, both at the conductor, and those whom she conducted; their pretty dresses, all splashed as they were, nevertheless formed a singular contrast with hers, and it was quite evident, by their looks of shame, that they had met with some accident, occasioned by their own fault.

"I verily believe," said a man, "that those are the two children I met some time since, and who were walking along so gaily, holding each other by the hand."

"What has happened to them?" asked another.

Louisa wished, notwithstanding the fear which she had not yet entirely overcome, to hasten the steps of Madame Croque-Mitaine, in order to escape from the looks of the curious.

"Stop! stop!" said the old woman, "do not pull me so much, I have my sack to carry, and I cannot go so fast."

At last they arrived in front of a dirty little house, into which they entered, through a door half-mouldered away. Madame Croque-Mitaine opened it, and made the children go in before her. She followed them, put down her sack, and called her daughter, saying, "Charlotte, bring some water and a cloth here, to wash these poor little creatures." Charlotte came out of a corner where she was spinning some coarse hemp; her clothes were as ragged as those of her mother, and she was only two or three years older than Louisa; but when the latter saw her, she felt a little more confidence. Charlotte washed Louisa, while the old woman did the same service for little Paul. The cloth was very coarse, and the maids not very careful. Paul cried, and said they rubbed him too hard, but Louisa was too much ashamed to venture any complaint.

When this operation was over, "Now," said the old woman, "you will tell me where you live, that I may take you home."

"In the Rue d'Anjou," said Louisa, immediately.

"Ha! ha! You can speak now without waiting to be pressed; come along, then; it is not very far from here," and she set off with the two children, who were now quite comforted.

As she had left her sack at home, they could walk faster. When once they had reached the Rue d'Anjou, Louisa went direct to her own door. They found, on entering, the whole house in commotion. They had been sought for ever since they had left. All the servants had dispersed themselves in different directions in search of them; and their mother, in great anxiety, had also gone out to look for them. The moment the portress saw them, she uttered a cry of joy, and ascended with them to the apartments. "Here they are! here they are!" she cried out from a distance, to the nurse, who was quite in despair at not having watched them more carefully; and Louisa ran and threw herself into her arms, crying with shame, fear, and pleasure. At the same moment their mother returned, a prey to the deepest anguish. Transported with joy at finding them again, she never thought of scolding them as they deserved. "What has happened to you? What have you done?" she asked, taking them upon her knees, and covering them with tears and kisses.

"They lost their way, madame," said Madame Croque-Mitaine, for Louisa did not dare to reply. "I met them in a _cul-de-sac_, at some distance from here: the little girl told me that she was going to buy nosegays for herself and you, and a whip for her brother; but surely it must have been without your permission."

"Good heavens, yes!" replied the mother, still trembling, "and is it you, good woman, who have brought them back to me?"

"Yes, madame, but I first went and washed them at my house. No doubt they must have been splashed by a coach; if you had only seen the state they were in!" And Louisa, greatly ashamed, would have been glad to hide her dress, which was covered with mud; while Paul, on the contrary, showed his waistcoat to his mother, saying, "But, mamma, I shall want another waistcoat to go to Saint Cloud."

"Oh, my dears," said their mother, "no Saint Cloud for this day. I am still trembling with the fright you have caused me. It is already late, and your papa is still seeking for you. If you had not ventured out alone, and without my permission, you would neither have been splashed nor lost, and we should now have been on our way to Saint Cloud; it is right you should be punished for your fault; go then and change your clothes."

Paul was very much disposed to cry and pout; but Louisa, feeling the justice of her mother's words, took his hand, and left the room with him, followed by her nurse.

Their mother remained with Madame Croque-Mitaine. "These poor children were very much afraid of me, madame," said the old woman. "They would scarcely go with me, and I had great difficulty in inducing them to enter my hovel."

"How much I am indebted to you!" replied the mother. "Had it not been for you, they would not now be here, and God only knows what might have happened to them. Oh, how much I owe you!"

"Oh, nothing at all, madame; if my daughter had lost herself, and you had chanced to find her, you would have done as much for her."

"Have you a daughter, my good woman?"

"Yes, one twelve years old, may it please you, madame; Charlotte is very pretty, though I say so."

Louisa returned at this moment.

"Louisa," asked her mother, "did you see little Charlotte?"

"Oh yes, mamma, it was she who washed me."

"Well, shall we go and pay her a visit?"

"Oh yes, mamma, I should like that very much."

"Come, then, with me, my child."

Louisa followed her mother into her room, and, at her suggestion, hastily made up a packet containing two dresses, still very good; some underclothing, a cap, two handkerchiefs, and two pair of stockings.

"Come, then, let us take these things to Charlotte," said her mother; and Louisa, greatly delighted, exclaimed, "Oh, mamma, I think they will just fit her; she is not much bigger than I am."

"Will you conduct us to your house, my good woman," said the mother to Madame Croque-Mitaine, who was greatly rejoiced by this visit.

"Charlotte will not have gone out, will she?" demanded Louisa, blushing.

"No! certainly not," replied the old dame, "she never goes out without my permission;" and they quickly descended.

Their walk did not occupy much time. Louisa almost ran. As they entered the house, Madame Croque-Mitaine made numberless apologies for the dirty floor, and the worn-out door. Louisa had already gone to look for Charlotte, in the corner where she was spinning. The little girl was rather ashamed of coming so badly dressed into the presence of such a grand lady.

"Come forward, miss," said her mother. "Make a courtesy; this is the mamma of Mademoiselle Louisa, whom you washed a short time since. Oh, I assure you, madame, she did it very cheerfully," and Charlotte, not daring to look up at such a great lady, glanced at Louisa, and smiled. The latter wanted immediately to dress her in her frock, to put on her white stockings, a handkerchief, and a cap, in order that she might have the pleasure of looking at her.

"Let her do that, herself," said her mother; "she will dress herself when she likes. Tell me, my little girl, would you like to come and live near Louisa?"

Charlotte looked at her mother, as if to ask her what she ought to reply.

"Answer, child," said the latter.

"You shall not leave your mother," continued the lady, "for I have a proposition to make to her. My doorkeeper is going away, and I have not yet engaged another in her place. Would you like to take the lodge, my good woman? We do not keep late hours at my house, and you will not have much trouble."

Madame Croque-Mitaine was overjoyed at this offer; it was a good and secure situation, and she accepted it with the most lively gratitude. It was agreed that she should enter upon her duties on the following day, and Louisa returned home with her mother. Her father, who had just come in, scolded her a little for what she had done, a fault of which she had not at first felt the full extent; and Louisa, while acknowledging her fault, said, nevertheless, that her nurse ought not to have told her bad stories about Madame Croque-Mitaine, and that she was much better pleased at having had an opportunity of doing a service to Charlotte than if she had gone to St. Cloud.

* * * * *

"Well, my child," said Madame de Vallonay to Julia, when she had finished reading, "what useful reflections do you deduce from the story of Madame Croque-Mitaine?" Julia smiled, but said nothing, as if she imagined that her mother was laughing at her. But Madame de Vallonay having pressed for an answer, she said, with a contemptuous expression, "Indeed, mamma, if you made me read it, in order to teach me not to be afraid of old women, who go about picking up rags in the streets, I think I knew that much before."

"And do you see nothing else in it?"

"What! mamma, that we ought not to be disobedient? this is a thing one scarcely needs to learn at my age."

"I am very glad," said Madame de Vallonay, smiling, with a slight tinge of sarcasm, "that this lesson has become quite useless to you. But cannot you see any others?"

"What others can there be?"

"As for that, my child, I will not point them out to you. You might then find that I was only repeating what all the world knows. Look for them yourself."

With these words, Madame de Vallonay went to her husband's study, as she wished to speak with him, and left Julia with her work, her books of history, and her sonata to practise. When she returned, it was ten o'clock, and as she opened the door, Julia screamed and started from her chair greatly frightened.

"What is the matter, my dear?" said her mother.

"Oh! nothing, mamma, I was only frightened."

"Frightened at what?"

"Because you startled me."

"What childish nonsense! Come, it is late, you must go to bed."

"Are you coming, mamma?"

"No, I have a letter to write."

"Well, mamma, I will wait until you have finished it."

"No, I wish you to go to bed."

"But, mamma, if you will let me, as I pass by, I will carry your desk and lamp into your bedroom, you will be able to write there more comfortably."

"No, my dear, I shall write much more comfortably here. Cannot you go to bed without me?"

Julia did not move. She looked at the wax taper, which her mother told her to take, with an expression of dismay, and without lighting it, and seemed from time to time, to listen anxiously in the direction of the door. Her mother could not conceive what was the matter with her.

"Indeed, my dear," she said, smiling, "I think you must be afraid of meeting Madame Croque-Mitaine by the way."

Julia smiled too, though with some embarrassment, and confessed that she had been reading in a book which lay upon the table, a story of robbers and assassins, which terrified her so much that she had not courage to go alone to her room, which was separated from the boudoir by the drawing-room and her mother's bedroom.

"We had agreed, Julia, that you should not read anything without my permission. I think it would not have been quite so useless if Madame Croque-Mitaine had taught you not to disobey."

"Mamma, I did not think I was doing much harm, because it was a book for young people, and you had already allowed me to read some of the tales."

"You should have waited until I had given you permission to read the whole, and the story of Madame Croque-Mitaine ought to have taught you, that children should not undertake to interpret the wishes of their parents, as they can seldom understand the reasons on which they are founded. Louisa and Paul, like you, thought they were doing no great harm, and like you, too, they fell into the very inconvenience from which it was intended to preserve them. Go, my child, go to bed, and if your fear prevents you from sleeping, you can reflect on the moral contained in the story of Madame Croque-Mitaine."

Julia saw she had no alternative; she lighted the taper as slowly as she could, and as she went out, left the door of the boudoir open; but her mother called her back to shut it. Then, seeing herself alone, she began to walk so fast that the taper went out at the door of her room. She was obliged to retrace her steps. When she reached her room a second time, her heart beat violently; she started at every creaking of the floor, nor could she go to sleep, until her mother came. These absurd fears tormented her for two or three days, though she did not dare to speak of them, for fear of being again reminded of Madame Croque-Mitaine; but she had not yet escaped from her.

One of Julia's companions had been presented with two little white mice, the prettiest little things imaginable. They were inclosed in a large glass-case, through which they could be seen; a kind of little wheel had been suspended from the lid, which they turned round with their paws, like squirrels, in trying to climb upon it, and thus they fancied they were travelling a great distance. As her friend could not carry them with her to school, where she had still to remain for a year, Julia begged that she would lend them to her for that time, promising to take great care of them; and, indeed, she attended to them herself. Her mother would not allow her to have animals to be taken care of by the servants, for she thought such things can amuse only when one attends to them oneself, and that if they do not amuse, they are not worth the trouble of having. Julia gave them their food frequently enough, but she frequently forgot to shut the case; then they made their escape. They had hitherto been always caught, but one day, when they were out enjoying themselves, and when Julia, according to custom, had been so careless as to leave her door open, a cat entered, and Julia, who returned at that moment, saw her eating one of the mice without any power of preventing it. She was in despair, and exclaimed twenty times, "Oh! the vile cat! the horrid cat!" and declared that had she known this, she would never have taken charge of the mice.

"My dear child," said her mother, when she was a little pacified, "all your misfortune comes from your not having again read, at that time, the story of Madame Croque-Mitaine."

"But, mamma," said Julia impatiently, "what could that have to do with it?"

"You would have seen then, that we ought never to undertake anything without being sure of having the power of accomplishing it. For what happened to Louisa and Paul arose from their not sufficiently considering, before they went out to the toy-shop, whether they should be able to reach it without going astray, and without being afraid of the carriages; just as you did not sufficiently consider, before you took charge of the mice, whether you were able to take proper care of them."

"But, mamma, it would have been necessary to have foreseen."

"That you would have been careless; that the mice would escape from an open case; that when they were out, the cat would eat them. All this you might very easily have thought of, had you been able to profit by the story of Madame Croque-Mitaine."

Julia thought her mother's raillery very disagreeable, but she was soon consoled, for her friend, to whom she wrote an account of her misfortune, told her, in reply, that she was not angry with her, and besides, she was invited to a ball, the first to which she had been since she had left school. Julia danced pretty well. During the two years she had passed at school, she had been one of those selected to dance the gavotte, at the distribution of prizes, and as always happens in polished society, many compliments had been paid her, so that she felt the greatest desire to dance the gavotte at a ball. Scarcely had she arrived at this one, when she communicated her wishes to the daughter of her hostess, who was her cousin, and the mother having become acquainted with her desire, arranged one for her, towards the middle of the ball. Madame de Vallonay being quite ignorant of the matter, was greatly astonished when they came for Julia to dance. She at first refused to let her go, but the lady of the house had calculated upon her performing this dance with her son, and thought it would be very pretty to see them in it, as they were nearly of a size, and also much alike. Madame de Vallonay, finding that she made a point of it, that the company were already arranged for the gavotte, and that this discussion attracted general attention, consented to let her daughter go, although with extreme reluctance, because she considered it absurd to take up in this manner the attention of every one, in looking at persons who do not possess any talent capable of affording amusement.

Not so with Julia: convinced that she was going to delight every one, she walked across the room with a lofty air, which caused much laughter. She heard this, and reddened with anger, especially when she saw one lady speaking in a whisper, while looking at her with a quizzical air, and heard another behind her saying, "How ridiculous to interrupt the ball, in order to let that little girl dance the gavotte!" However, she was not discouraged; she did her best, held her head still higher than usual, and displayed all those graces which had obtained her such brilliant success at school. She was, therefore, dreadfully annoyed when, at the end, the ironical laughter which mingled with the applause, and even the exaggeration of the applause itself, showed her that she was an object of ridicule. Scarcely had she finished her last courtesy, when the young ladies and gentlemen crowded forward to take their places in the country dance. Julia, as with difficulty she passed through them, conducted by her partner, who was wiping his brow, heard it murmured around her, "It is well that that is over; it has been a very stupid affair."

She felt deeply humiliated; her heart was oppressed, and she cast down her eyes: she supposed that no one would again ask her to dance, and indeed, two country dances had taken place without her having been invited to join. Anticipating, therefore, nothing but vexation from this ball, from which she had promised herself so much pleasure, she told her mother that she was tired, and entreated her to go home. Madame de Vallonay easily guessed the cause of her fatigue; but that she might not increase her annoyance, she did not mention the subject that evening. The following day, however, she wished to know whether it was she who requested to dance the gavotte. Julia, though very much ashamed, confessed that it was.

"It has turned out very unfortunately for you, my poor Julia," said Madame de Vallonay; "what a pity that you did not call to mind at that moment the story of Madame Croque-Mitaine."

"And what use would it have been to me?"

"It would have taught you that we always run the risk of committing folly, when we wish to follow one general course of action, without reflecting whether the circumstances are altered. Thus, Louisa and Paul, who were accustomed to run about alone, in the country, in places where there was no danger of their meeting with carriages, or cabriolets, or passers by, never thought that in the streets of Paris, it would be quite a different affair; and you, who were in the habit of dancing the gavotte at school, where you were applauded, because the strangers who were there were anxious to please the mistress, did not reflect that it would be quite another matter when you danced it in the midst of a large number of persons, who took no interest in you, and who were assembled there to dance themselves, and not to look at you."

"But, mamma," said Julia, who was anxious to turn the conversation, "you find everything in Madame Croque-Mitaine."

"I could find many other things also; and if you wish, we shall have enough there for a long time to come."

"Oh! no, no, mamma, I entreat you."

"I shall be very glad not to speak of it any more, my child, but only on one condition, which is, that for the future, you will not take it into your head to imagine that what is said by grownup people can be a fit subject of raillery for a little girl like you; and that, when their conversation wearies you, instead of pretending that it does so, because it is ridiculous, you will, on the contrary, say to yourself, that it is because you have not sufficient penetration to understand it, or sufficient sense to profit by it. Take care, for if you fail, I shall send you again for instruction to the story of Madame Croque-Mitaine."

AGLAÏA AND LEONTINE;

OR MANOEUVRING.

Aglaïa resided in a provincial town, with her grandmother, Madame Lacour, the widow of a respectable notary. As Madame Lacour was in easy circumstances, and, moreover, exact and economical, she was enabled to live very agreeably, associating only with persons of her own class, without seeking those who were distinguished by a more elevated rank, or greater wealth. She received company every Thursday, and spent the other evenings in visiting her friends at their own houses. Aglaïa, who always went with her, met on these occasions young people of her own age, and these in like manner accompanied their parents on the Thursdays to Madame Lacour's _soirées_. In the summer they made up parties for the country, and spent the day in the gardens belonging to one or other of the society. These gardens not being very distant, the young people walked there, while the elder ones rode upon donkeys. They amused themselves in the fields, and returned home in the evening very tired, but very happy, and a few days afterwards commenced again.

Aglaïa, who was mild and amiable, was very much beloved by her companions; but her greatest friends were Hortense Guimont, and her brother Gustave, the children of the physician of the town. Hortense was fourteen years of age, Aglaïa a year younger, while Gustave was sixteen. Though Aglaïa was less familiar with him than with Hortense, she was still very fond of him. She even felt for him a certain degree of deference, for Gustave was much advanced for his age, highly esteemed in the town for his diligence and success in his studies, and looked upon as one destined to obtain honourable distinction in his future career. Even those who had known him from his childhood, no longer called him _little Guimont_, but _young Guimont_. Some even said _M. Guimont_. Parents held him up as a model to their sons, and his companions were proud of him, and always treated him with respect.

His sister, Hortense, was also very amiable and sensible. M. Guimont, their father, brought them up very judiciously. Although his society was much courted by the most distinguished families of the town, not only on account of his talents as a physician, but also on account of his amiability and conversational powers, he would never take his children into the high circles which he occasionally frequented himself. "I wish my daughter," he said, "to remain among those with whom she is destined to pass her life; and as to my son, if his talents procure him hereafter the means of being well received in the world, I shall be delighted; but I will not inspire him with a taste for elevated society, until I am quite sure that he will be able to maintain his position there with honour."

It was sometimes said to him, "With your extensive connection, you might easily advance your son." He replied, "If my son has merit, he will advance himself; and if he has not, I would not wish to place him in a position in which he would only discover his own incapacity;" and he added, "Gustave is in a much better position than I was when I began, for there are many persons, I believe, who will be disposed to take an interest in him on my account; he must do the rest for himself, and he will be able to do it much better than I could do it for him, for I cannot make people take an interest in him on his own account." Nevertheless, M. Guimont could not entirely resist the importunities of some friends, who were particularly attached to him, and who pressed him very much to bring his son to visit them. However, Gustave, who was proud, felt ill at ease in the society of persons with whom he was not on an equality, and who thought they were conferring an honour on him, in receiving him into their circle; and he was equally ill at ease with the young people of this class, since he could not treat them as companions. He was afraid of being too cold, and did not wish to be too polite, because an excess of politeness might have been regarded as adulation; neither did he wish to be too attentive, because he felt that his attentions could not be flattering to any one. He therefore entreated his father not to take him again into such company, and resolved to devote his energies to the acquirement of personal merit, that he might hope one day to be sought for on his own account, to confer, in his turn, honour on those who received him, and see them attach importance to his attentions.

He always felt happy at Madame Lacour's, who was a woman of good sense, and an intimate friend of his father. He was very fond of Aglaïa, who had been brought up by her grandmother, as well as any young lady could be in a country town, and who showed a disposition to improve her mind. Madame Lacour had begged him to revise her exercises, and he was a severe master; indeed, Aglaïa was more afraid of his disapprobation than of that of her grandmother. Whenever he was dissatisfied with her, it was always Hortense who restored peace between them, and being older and more advanced than Aglaïa, she generally looked over her exercises before they were shown to Gustave, so much was she afraid of his finding fault with her. Notwithstanding all this, however, they agreed very well, and, next to his sister, Aglaïa was the person in whom he reposed most confidence. She was very proud of this, for all the young people with whom she was acquainted, attached great value to Gustave's friendship.

The nobility and people of wealth seldom spent more than the winter in the town. In summer all went to their country seats. The town, however, was not on this account any the less gay for Aglaïa, or the reunions of Madame Lacour; but as it was more quiet, every unusual occurrence created a proportionate sensation. People were therefore very much taken up with M. d'Armilly, and his daughter Leontine, who had just arrived there. M. d'Armilly had recently purchased a château in the environs, which being uninhabitable, he was having rebuilt; and in order to be able to superintend the operations, he had established himself in the town: but he was very seldom at home, and usually slept at a neighbouring farm, that he might be nearer his workmen. He left his daughter under the care of a confidential person, who acted as her governess, and who could have educated her very well, as she was herself well educated, had she not, for the sake of pleasing M. d'Armilly, who quite spoiled his daughter, allowed her to have her own way in everything.

Leontine was as foolish as a spoiled child, and excessively proud. She was fifteen years old, just the age when ridiculous ideas are most apt to enter the head of a young girl. Having some relations of high rank, she had lived in Paris in the most fashionable society, and had assumed some of the airs of a woman, while adding to them all the follies of a child. Her father and herself having been received, on their arrival, with all the respect with which an innkeeper is usually inspired by the sight of one of the greatest landowners of his neighbourhood, she thought she must maintain her dignity by corresponding manners. She asked if at that time there was any one in the town whom she could visit; they named Madame Lacour, M. Guimont, M. André, a linen-manufacturer, M. Dufour, a wholesale wine-merchant, &c. She inquired about some persons of higher rank, whom she knew were resident there, but all were then out of town; and Leontine, satisfied with having indicated by her questions the kind of society to which she had been accustomed, did not dare, however much she may have felt inclined to be impertinent, to display more than half the ridiculous airs which she had prepared to mark her contempt for the more humble names.