Chapter M: Le Chevalier (7)

Reduced to the society of her governess, and to a few excursions made with her father to the château which was in course of erection, Leontine's only amusement was to select from her wardrobe whatever was most novel, and best calculated to produce an extraordinary sensation in a provincial town, and then to go daily and display her haughty airs on the public promenade. Every one looked at her, but this was what she wished; every one ridiculed her without her being aware of it, but in secret all the young girls began to imitate her. It was soon observed that they carried their heads much higher, and that an innovation was made in the manner of fastening their sashes. Aglaïa had already turned and returned her bonnet in two or three different ways, in the hope of imparting to it something of the style which Leontine's displayed, and she had also tried two or three modes of arranging the folds of her shawl.

Gustave had remarked this, and laughed at her, and though she would not admit the charge, she still felt very much annoyed with him, because he would not appreciate the beauty of a bow, which she had succeeded in placing in precisely the same manner in which Leontine's had been arranged on the previous evening.

The excitement became general: even Hortense, accustomed as she was to defer to her brother's opinion, had already twice disputed with him, maintaining that it did not follow, that because a fashion had been introduced by Leontine, it was not pretty; and that if it was pretty, it was quite rational to adopt it. Gustave, almost as much a child, in his own way, as Aglaïa in hers, would not allow that Leontine should be imitated in anything, so much was he annoyed at the importance attached to everything she did. In fact, she could not take a step, but it was known; people were informed of what her father's cook had bought for dinner, and various intrigues were resorted to in order to discover what she ate for breakfast. It was known whether she heard mass attentively or not, and this at least proved that the observers had been inattentive; in a word, she could not pass down the street without every one rushing to the window to see her.

One may judge of the excitement at Madame Lacour's, when one morning, Leontine, accompanied by her governess, Mademoiselle Champré, called there to pay a visit. Madame Lacour's husband, who for many years had been a notary in another province, had rendered M. d'Armilly important services in his affairs. This gentleman, having discovered that his widow resided in the town, desired his daughter to call upon her, as he was too much occupied at the moment to go himself; and Leontine, who began to get very dull, was not sorry to have a pretext for laying aside her dignity. Madame Lacour, who had shared but little in the extreme interest taken in all her actions, was but moderately excited by her visit, but Aglaïa blushed a dozen times before Leontine had spoken to her, and a dozen times more while answering her.

It is not so easy as may be imagined to assume airs with persons who are not accustomed to them, and whose simplicity interferes with them at every moment; when not sustained by a suitable concurrence of circumstances, and by the example of others, a person relapses into his natural manners in spite of himself, and the studied tones of impertinence only return at intervals, and as it were by an effort of the memory. Leontine was much less ridiculous than could have been supposed. Madame Lacour, with her customary indulgence, was pleased with her, and Aglaïa thought her charming.

It was Thursday: in the evening at Madame Lacour's _soirée_, nothing was talked of but the morning's visit. "She has then, at last, made up her mind," said some of the ladies; "I suppose she will do us also the honour of paying us a visit;" and they were not a little shocked that Leontine had commenced with Madame Lacour. Others took refuge in their dignity, and professed to care nothing at all about her. Others, again, less reserved, asked what she had said, calculated the day she would call upon Madame Dufour or Madame André, and whispered among themselves that she would probably not visit Madame Simon, whom they considered as somewhat inferior to themselves, and they agreed that it was quite natural that she should not call on her. The young ladies in their circle repeated very much the same things as their mothers, and with still greater volubility. As for Aglaïa, she narrated, explained, and repeated her story, in the most imposing and animated tones; but while in the midst of her excitement, she perceived that Gustave was watching her from his part of the room, and shrugging his shoulders with an ironical smile. This disconcerted her exceedingly; but seeing Hortense listening to her with more attention than her brother, she resumed the conversation, and would willingly have continued it throughout the entire evening. It was with pain that she heard any other subject introduced, and she contrived to revert to her favourite topic every moment. "That is precisely," she would say, "what Mademoiselle Leontine d'Armilly was telling me this morning." If any particular place in the neighbourhood was alluded to, "Mademoiselle Leontine d'Armilly has not yet seen it," said Aglaïa. Some one spoke of the excessive heat of the day, "Mademoiselle Leontine d'Armilly was surprised to find grandmamma's room so cool," observed Aglaïa.

At this moment she was balancing herself on her chair, the two front legs slipped backwards, and both Aglaïa and the chair fell. Every one hastened to help her up, and Gustave amongst the rest; but seeing that she was unhurt, he said, "I suppose Mademoiselle Leontine d'Armilly did that too." Every one laughed: Aglaïa, very much ashamed, and very angry, did not again pronounce Leontine's name, neither did she speak to Gustave the whole evening. Though she was afraid of vexing him too much, still it is certain that she began to withdraw her confidence from him, for she could not speak to him on the subject that chiefly occupied her thoughts. She was also a little afraid of Hortense, and thus she was ill at ease with those whom she most loved, because they did not share in the ridiculous pleasures of her vanity.

The others, while ridiculing the importance she attached to Leontine's visit, were not the less anxiously looking forward to a similar visit for themselves. For two or three days, at the hour at which Leontine had called on Madame Lacour, all the young ladies kept themselves fully prepared, and constantly on the look-out; she did not, however, make her appearance; but they learned that she had invited Aglaïa to breakfast with her; and in the evening, at the assembly, Aglaïa hardly dared to speak of the breakfast in the presence of Gustave, and she merely said that Leontine was to fetch her on the following day for a walk. Her companions drew themselves up with an expression of mortification. All the annoyance produced by this preference was quite evident: one of them, named Laurette, less proud and more thoughtless than the rest, said to Aglaïa, "Very well, I shall ask mamma to let me call on you at that hour, and I shall be included in the party." Aglaïa, very much embarrassed, stammered out some excuses; she said that Leontine was not acquainted with Laurette, and that she did not know whether such a thing would be agreeable to her. Laurette said that it was all the same to her, that she should find others to walk with her, and immediately made a proposal to that effect to two or three other girls, who accepted it, saying, "Oh! as for us, it does not become us to be so proud." One of the mothers overheard this conversation; fortunately it was not Laurette's, for she would have made a scene. However, the lady in question did make some observations on the imprudence of exposing oneself to insults, together with other remarks full of bitterness, which were repeated by the young people. The evening passed in the most disagreeable manner. Madame Lacour being indisposed, had remained at home, and at night M. Guimont, having called for his own children, also accompanied Aglaïa home. She kept close to him, in order to avoid speaking to Hortense or Gustave, whose displeasure she had noticed, though they had said nothing; and though Hortense, with her accustomed kindness, had several times tried to interrupt the conversation, when she thought it likely to be disagreeable to Aglaïa. Had the latter reflected, she would have felt that the pleasure of being preferred to bear Leontine company was but a poor equivalent for the embarrassment she suffered in the society of those she loved; but vanity blinded her, and she did not see how much she lowered herself, in looking upon such distinction as an honour.

The following day, Aglaïa, dressed in her gayest attire, accompanied Leontine to the promenade. Her manner sufficiently betrayed the pride she felt, at being thus an object of attention, while at the same time it showed her embarrassment with Leontine, with whom she was not at her ease, being constantly afraid of saying something which might appear unbecoming. What was most extraordinary in all this was, that whilst it gave her no uneasiness to make herself ridiculous in the eyes of a great number of persons with whom she was destined to pass her life, the bare idea of appearing ridiculous to a single person whom she scarcely knew, and with whom she would only associate for a couple of months, at the utmost, would have caused her inexpressible vexation. Every one was on the promenade. The mothers passed close to Aglaïa, with lofty and displeased looks, making ill-natured remarks, which she dreaded might reach the ear of Leontine. Some of the young ladies too, assumed all their dignity. The young men all bowed to her; but on that day she thought some of them so common-looking, and so deficient in style, that they were extremely annoyed at the manner in which she returned their salutation, watching, as it were, for the moment when she could do so without being observed by Leontine. The latter had already asked her the names and professions of several; and Aglaïa had answered her with some degree of pain, as they had not very brilliant titles for presentation. When she perceived any grounds for criticising either their persons or their dress, she eagerly seized upon it, fearing that Leontine might suppose she had not observed it. Never before had she discovered so many defects in her friends and acquaintances. At length she perceived at a distance Hortense and her brother. "Oh!" said she, "those two are very amiable." She was dying to introduce them to Leontine, for she fancied they would be as pleased to be acquainted with her as she herself was, for, notwithstanding their disagreements, she really loved them. Besides, she was proud of Gustave, proud of his talents, and of his reputation, and she was delighted to be able to boast of them to Leontine; she began, therefore, to praise him with great warmth, assuring her that he composed most charming verses, and that every one considered him destined to shine in the _very best society of Paris_.

"To do that, my dear," replied Leontine, with the air of one who understood all these sort of things, "to do that, he must acquire a little more style, for at present he looks very much like a schoolboy;" saying this she glanced carelessly at Hortense and Gustave, and began to speak of something else.

Aglaïa blushed, partly for Gustave and partly on her own account, for she felt that she had compromised herself. By this time her two friends were close to her; she would willingly have stopped and spoken to them, and she slackened her pace for that purpose, but Leontine, whose head was turned in another direction, continued to walk on, and Aglaïa followed her, casting towards Hortense, for she dared not look at Gustave, a glance of mingled shame and sadness, which seemed to say, "See, I know not what to do." Gustave shrugged his shoulders at beholding his weak-minded little friend reduced to such slavery.

The following day nothing was talked of in the town but the impertinences of Aglaïa. One said that she had pretended not to see her; a third, that she had not bowed to her; another, that she had looked at her with a laugh, while joining Leontine in ridiculing her. The young men were divided in their opinion, some being for, others against her. Gustave was the only one who said nothing, but he appeared sad, and Hortense endeavoured to palliate her faults.

Two days afterwards, Aglaïa took Leontine for a walk into Madame Lacour's garden. As she did not know what refreshment to give her, she had persuaded the servant to bring her some milk and cakes, but she dared not say a word to her grandmamma on the subject, for fear she should tell her to invite her other friends also. Aglaïa would indeed have found this much more pleasant than her _tête-à-tête_ with Leontine; but then she did not know whether such a thing would be agreeable to her visitor, and she was so childish, that she felt more timid with her than with a grownup person. Whilst they were in the garden, Laurette happened to pass by the gate, and seeing it open, went in. She was returning with the servant from her father's garden, where she had been gathering some fruit and salad. She had her basket on her arm, and wore her every-day dress, which was not over clean, as she was rather careless. The servant had the manners and coarse voice of a peasant, and was carrying in a cloth a ham, which a few days before she had buried in the ground, in order to render it more tender, and which she had now been to fetch. Judge of Aglaïa's embarrassment at such a visit. Had she been a sensible girl, had she possessed any real dignity, she would, in an unaffected manner, have accustomed Leontine from their very first acquaintance to see in her the simple habits suitable to a small fortune, and thus have prepared her for similar habits in the persons of her acquaintances. To do this, there would have been no need of discoursing about household duties, a subject of conversation by no means amusing; it was simply required that she should not carefully shun all allusion to them as something humiliating. Thus, for instance, she need not have resorted to a thousand evasions to conceal from Leontine, that it was herself and her grandmother who made all their preserves, and prepared for the winter their pickled cucumbers, their vegetables, and their dried fruits. Leontine, had she known this, might perhaps have considered it more pleasant not to be obliged to take all this trouble, but she certainly would never have ventured to make it a subject of contempt; for that which is reasonable, if performed in an unaffected manner, without either shame or ostentation, always carries with it something which is imposing, even in the estimation of those who are not reasonable. Had Aglaïa acted in this manner, she would have felt no embarrassment at this apparition of Laurette, with her salad, and of her servant with the ham; but as it was, all the fine-lady airs which she had assumed, were completely upset, and she therefore gave Laurette a very bad reception. Indeed, had it not been for Mademoiselle Champré, who made room for her on the grass where they were seated, she would have left her standing. Laurette, who was very ill-bred, made many absurd remarks, and the servant also joined several times in the conversation. Aglaïa was in torture. At last Laurette went away, for the servant, annoyed at being kept waiting, detailed all that had to be done in the house, in order to hasten her departure. In the evening, at Madame Dufour's _soirée_, to which Laurette accompanied her mother, it was whispered that Aglaïa had given a luncheon to Leontine, in her grandmother's garden, to which no one had been invited; that Laurette had gone there by chance, and that she had not even been asked to take anything. This caused a great deal of excitement, and it was resolved that, as Madame Lacour allowed her granddaughter to be guilty of such rudeness, they would not go to her _soirée_ on the following Thursday.

Madame Lacour knew nothing of all this; she had been ill for a week, and had seen no one but M. Guimont, who took no interest in such absurdities. She received company on the Thursday for the first time, and was astonished to find that nobody came. She supposed they still considered her ill, and finding it getting late, sent her servant to the houses of two or three of her neighbours, to tell them she was waiting for them. They replied, that they could not come. This answer was given in the presence of an old lady, who, having no daughter, did not consider herself bound to share in the resentment occasioned by Aglaïa's conduct; besides, being fond of news and gossip, she was glad to have an opportunity of ascertaining what was going on at Madame Lacour's; whether the agreement which had been made would be adhered to; what Madame Lacour would think of it, and what Aglaïa would say. When, therefore, Madame Lacour expressed her astonishment at being thus abandoned, "It is not at all surprising," said the old lady, "after what has happened."

"What has happened then?" asked Madame Lacour.

Hereupon the old lady detailed, with all the exaggerations usual in such cases, the misconduct of Aglaïa, and the consequent indignation of her friends. During this recital, Aglaïa was in the most painful situation; she made excuses, endeavoured to justify herself, denied some things, and explained away others; but all this did not prevent Madame Lacour from being excessively angry with her. She told her that she felt disposed to send her that very moment to apologize to all those ladies, but that, at all events, she should have to apologize. M. Guimont and his children entering at this moment, found her in tears. "I hope, at least," added Madame Lacour, "that your rudeness has not extended to the children of my friend M. Guimont; for this is a thing I would never forgive."

Hortense blushed a little, and ran to embrace Aglaïa; Gustave was silent, but Madame Lacour having asked him, whether it was because he was displeased with Aglaïa, that he had not come to correct her exercises for several days past, he assured her that he had been very much occupied, a statement which his father confirmed, and he proposed to look over them at once. Aglaïa, trembling, went and brought her papers, and gave them to him, not daring, however, to raise her eyes; he corrected them, but without talking to her, as he was accustomed to do, and when he had finished, he went over to see the game which M. Guimont was playing with Madame Lacour and the old lady. Aglaïa's heart was very heavy. Hortense consoled herself as well as she could, and said to her, "We shall have plenty of other things to chat about now; a German lady, the Princess de Schwamberg, arrived about an hour ago; she will be obliged to remain here for some days, because her governess, of whom she is very fond, and whom she treats like a friend, has been taken ill. It turns out that the governess, who is a French-woman, is a relative of Mademoiselle Champré. It was my father who informed them that she was here, with Mademoiselle d'Armilly, and the princess intends, with M. d'Armilly's permission, to send her daughters to spend a portion of their time with Mademoiselle Leontine."

Aglaïa, notwithstanding her grief, thought with a certain degree of satisfaction, that she should see these German princesses; her vanity rejoiced extremely at the idea of being admitted into such distinguished society. She put many questions to Hortense, to which the latter was unable to reply, as her father never conversed with her about such frivolities; besides, the game was over, and Gustave approached them; Aglaïa therefore became silent.

The following day, Madame Lacour was still too angry for Aglaïa to think of asking permission to visit Leontine, but she hoped that perhaps Leontine might send and invite her. However, she heard nothing of her, either on that day or the next. It had been agreed that, on the following Sunday, Leontine was to take her for a drive in her father's carriage. Madame Lacour, when apprized of this arrangement, was extremely unwilling to give her consent, but as it was made, she did not like to interfere with it. She, however, again severely reprimanded Aglaïa for her misconduct, and ordered her to show the greatest politeness to all her acquaintances whom she might chance to meet. At the hour appointed, Aglaïa went to Leontine's house. She was told that she was on the parade with the Mesdemoiselles Schwamberg, where the carriage was to take them up. She went there, and seeing the carriage in the distance, hurried on, and arrived, quite out of breath, expressing her fear that she had kept them waiting. "Oh! not at all," said Leontine, "we were not waiting for you, for there is no room."

"What!" exclaimed Aglaïa, with astonishment, "did you not tell me...." "You see clearly, my dear," replied Leontine, in a tone of impatience, "that there is no room: Mesdemoiselles de Schwamberg, Mademoiselle Champré, and myself make up four."

Mademoiselle Champré was going to speak, and one of the princesses proposed to make room for her. "No! no!" said Leontine, "we should be stifled; it must be for another time."

At this moment the coachman mounted his box; Leontine gave Aglaïa a patronising bow, and the carriage drove off. Aglaïa remained stupified. All who were on the promenade had been drawing near during the debate, and had witnessed her humiliation. She heard their titterings and whisperings, and on raising her eyes, beheld several of her acquaintances looking at her with an air of derision, while others turned away, shrugging their shoulders. She made her escape, her heart swelling with shame and anger. Some ill-bred young men followed her, ridiculed her, and made a thousand offensive remarks, which reached her ears. One of them, leaving his companions, passed before her, and taking off his hat, said, "This is what Mademoiselle Leontine d'Armilly does." The servant who accompanied Aglaïa, became angry with them, and said that their parents should be informed of their conduct. This, however, only increased their laughter and mockery. Aglaïa walked as fast as she could, in order to escape from them, and reached home heated and weeping. Interrogated by her grandmother, she was obliged to relate what had happened, and she had the additional mortification of being told that it was quite right, and that she had only received what she deserved. Nevertheless, Madame Lacour determined, without communicating her intentions to her granddaughter, to give a lesson to those ill-bred young men, through M. Guimont, who possessed great authority in all the circles of the town.

Aglaïa spent two days very unhappily; she would not have ventured out at all, had not her grandmother absolutely ordered her to do so, so much did she dread to meet any of those persons who had ridiculed her. Twice she had met Leontine, who, laughing and talking with Mesdemoiselles de Schwamberg, had scarcely noticed her. No one had visited her, not even Hortense. She knew that on the Wednesday there was to be a _réunion_ at Madame Dufour's garden, and she had not been invited. She was grieving at seeing herself thus abandoned by every one, when on the Wednesday Hortense came to see her. She was very much astonished, for she thought that she was at the garden with the others. Hortense told her that her father had permitted her and her brother to refuse the invitation. Aglaïa timidly asked why.

"Because I preferred spending the day with you."

"And Gustave?" said Aglaïa, still more timidly.

"Gustave," replied Hortense, somewhat embarrassed, "would not go, because you had not been invited, and gave this as his reason, because he did not wish it to be supposed that he had quarrelled with you, but he said that he should come to the house as little as possible, 'because,' he observed, 'I can no longer rely upon Aglaïa, who can abandon her old friends to accommodate herself to the caprices of Mademoiselle d'Armilly.'"

Aglaïa wept bitterly, Hortense endeavoured to console her, but she could not venture to hold out any decided hopes that her brother would relent, for he appeared to be very decided, and Aglaïa felt more than ever that the friendship of Gustave was much more honourable than the momentary partiality of Mademoiselle d'Armilly. While Hortense and she were sitting together very sorrowfully, Gustave came in. He still looked somewhat serious, but he was less cold. They both blushed with surprise and pleasure at seeing him. "Aglaïa," he said, "must come to the parade with us; I have asked my father to take us, and he is now dressing to come. I have just learned," he continued very warmly, "that there is a report that Aglaïa is afraid to show herself on the parade after what has recently occurred; we must prove that this is not the case; every one will be there on their way home from Madame Dufour's garden, and we must show them that she has still her ... former friends to support her."

He had hesitated, not knowing what to say. Aglaïa, greatly affected, threw herself into the arms of Hortense, as if to thank Gustave, but she was grieved that he had hesitated, that he had only spoken of _former friends_. "Are you not still my friends?" she exclaimed, leaning her head on Hortense's shoulder. Hortense embraced her, and endeavoured to console her. Gustave said nothing, but when for an instant she raised her eyes towards him, she perceived that his face wore a softer and less serious expression. Madame Lacour was not in the room at this moment, as he had availed himself of her absence to relate what he had heard, for, as she was still an invalid, they wished to say as little as possible to her about these broils, which were beginning to annoy her, and might end in making her seriously angry with those acquaintances with whom M. Guimont was anxious to reconcile her. They therefore simply asked her to allow Aglaïa to walk out with M. Guimont and his children. To this she willingly consented, being delighted to have her granddaughter in such good company. M. Guimont arrived. Hortense took her father's arm, and Gustave offered his to Aglaïa. She trembled a little, and did not dare to say a word. At length a stone caught her foot in such a way that she must have fallen, had he not supported her: he inquired with such eagerness and kindness whether she were hurt, that she began to gain courage. She spoke of her exercises, told him what she had done, and asked his advice. At length she summoned up courage to say, "Will you always be angry with me?"

Gustave did not reply. Tears started to Aglaïa's eyes; she held down her head, but Gustave nevertheless perceived that he had grieved her. "We are not angry," he said, with some degree of emotion; "but what grieves us is, that you could so readily forget your old friends for a mere stranger."

Aglaïa's tears now flowed fast. "I did not forget you," she murmured, "for all my anxiety was to make you acquainted with Leontine."

Gustave crimsoned, and replied with warmth, "We would not have formed acquaintance with Mademoiselle d'Armilly. Her society does not suit us. We wish to associate with those only who treat us as their equals."

Aglaïa understood by this reply how much he must have felt humiliated on her account, in consequence of the slavish deference she had manifested in Leontine's presence; she had reflected much on this subject during the last two days, and at this moment Gustave's pride made her blush for it still more. "Very well," she said, after a moment's silence, "how must I act towards Leontine? for perhaps she may wish to see me again; perhaps even I may now meet her on the parade."

"Ask my father," said Gustave; for he was too sensible to trust altogether to his own judgment in such a case. They approached M. Guimont, and Gustave repeated to him her question.

"My dear child," said M. Guimont, "how would you act if it were Laurette, or Mademoiselle Dufour, who had treated you as Mademoiselle d'Armilly has done? You would not quarrel with her on this account, for that would be to attach too much importance to such things; but as it would have been evident that she cared little about your society, since she neglected to show you those attentions which alone could render hers agreeable to you, you would treat her with great reserve, and carefully avoid everything that could lead her to suppose that you wish to retain her acquaintance. You ought to act in the same manner with Mademoiselle d'Armilly. According to the usages of society, you are not her equal, since she is richer and of higher birth than you are; these usages have their reasons, whether good or bad, and we must conform to them. Therefore, you ought to regard it as a matter of course, that those who occupy a more elevated station than yours, should not seek your society; and you ought to endure good humouredly the petty distinctions which they think themselves entitled to claim. But no one is obliged to associate with those who do not treat him in a manner congenial to his feelings; therefore, you ought not to think of associating with a person of superior station to your own, except when she altogether forgets this inequality, and treats you as she does her other acquaintances." Gustave listened with great pleasure to these observations of his father, in whose judgment he had full confidence, and who sometimes had to check his rather exaggerated notions of self-respect. Aglaïa thanked M. Guimont, and promised to act towards Leontine with proper reserve.

"Oh, if you see her again," said Gustave, "she will resume her influence over you, and we shall have the same thing over again." Aglaïa assured him that he was mistaken; but Gustave seemed sceptical on the subject.

"Aglaïa would be in no danger," said M. Guimont, "if she were always accompanied by a sensible person; but her excellent grandmamma cannot always be with her."

"Very well," said Aglaïa, taking the arm of Hortense, while she still held that of Gustave, "in order that I may always have some one to support me, if M. Guimont will consent, and my grandmamma permit, I will never go anywhere when she is not with me, unless I can have Hortense and Gustave by my side."

"That might perhaps be inconvenient to you sometimes," said Gustave, who nevertheless was greatly pleased with her declaration.

"No, no," she exclaimed; for she felt at that moment that nothing could confer on her such happiness or honour, as to be always surrounded by those good and worthy friends. They reached the parade: it was already crowded. Aglaïa held the arm of Hortense, and Gustave walked by her side with a proud and satisfied bearing. The young men who had ridiculed her, now bowed with a disconcerted air, for M. Guimont, who had already reprimanded them, gave them a look of severity, which made them cast down their eyes. Aglaïa blushed a little, but she felt protected, and rejoiced in her position. Madame and Mademoiselle Dufour passed by. M. Guimont, with a smile, took their arms, and obliged them, after some little manoeuvring, to walk with them. The friends who were with Madame Dufour, followed, and thus Aglaïa saw herself in the midst of that society which had been so dissatisfied with her conduct. At first no one spoke to her, and even some disagreeable allusions were allowed to escape; but the presence of M. Guimont restrained them, especially as he had already spoken to several of these persons about the absurdity of their bickerings.

Still Aglaïa felt very uncomfortable, but at each unkind word, Hortense tenderly pressed her hand, and Gustave approached her, to show her some mark of attention, or to offer a kind word; and this friendliness was very consoling to her. At length they ceased to torment her, but she trembled at beholding Leontine coming towards them, accompanied by Mesdemoiselles de Schwamberg. Leontine approached her, and said something expressive of her regret at not having been able to take her in the carriage two days previously. Mademoiselle Champré had at last taken upon herself to make her feel how ridiculous her behaviour had been: and as the young princesses, who were very polite, had been extremely grieved at the annoyance which Aglaïa had experienced on their account, Leontine, therefore, in order to retain their good opinion, endeavoured in some degree to repair an error, which she assured them had been committed through mere thoughtlessness. She made her excuses with an awkward air, which she meant to be easy. Aglaïa was silent, and this silence, together with the number of people who surrounded her, embarrassed Leontine extremely, and she said to her, with some degree of brusquerie, "Will you take a turn with us?"

"No," said Aglaïa, indicating by her looks the persons by whom she was surrounded, "I am with these ladies." Leontine blushed, bowed, and went away, with an air of considerable annoyance. Aglaïa's refusal had a very good effect; nothing was now thought of but Leontine. She was examined at every turn of the walk, with a degree of attention which ended in embarrassing her very much, though she affected an air of _hauteur_ which disconcerted no one. The next Thursday, Madame Lacour was again surrounded by most of her friends. There were some few complaints and expostulations, but the lovers of peace interfered, and put a stop to them as quickly as possible, and at last everything went on as formerly. When the princesses were gone, Leontine wished to renew her intimacy with Aglaïa, but the latter sent word that she could not go out; though with her grandmamma's permission, she invited her to their party. Leontine, to while away her time, twice accepted the invitation, but she felt no enjoyment. Surrounded by persons who were entire strangers to the manners to which she was accustomed, she knew not how to act towards them, and was continually doing something amiss. A fortnight previously, Aglaïa would have proclaimed silence, in order that she might be heard, but now she had discovered that it was not her good opinion which it was of consequence to obtain. Leontine, dissatisfied, ceased to seek her society, and ended by being so completely wearied, that she obtained her father's permission to pass the remainder of the summer with one of her aunts. Aglaïa's companions still kept up, for some time, a little of their resentment against her, but she was sustained by the friendship of Hortense and Gustave, to whom she attached herself more and more, and at last she felt at a loss to conceive how she could for a moment have preferred, to the happiness she found in their society, the discomfort and constraint to which she had submitted in the company of Leontine.

OH! OH! OH!

A TALE.

"Oh! Oh! Oh!" cried little Louis, "see, my tooth moves again, I cannot eat;" and he put his breakfast down upon the table.

"And it will continue to move until it is taken out," said his mother.

"I don't want to have it taken out, it would hurt me so."

"Do not complain then of its being loose."

"But I can't eat."

"In that case let me take it out, it is only a first tooth, and has scarcely any hold."

"Oh! indeed! It has scarcely any hold! I am sure it has very long fangs."

"As you prefer to let it remain, you must put up with the annoyance it causes you."

Louis did not reply, and his mother urged him no further; she wished to direct and mould the inclinations of her children, not to constrain them; she therefore gave few commands or prohibitions. A command cannot correct a fault, nor can a prohibition prevent an inclination to disobedience; therefore she preferred to wait with patience, and teach her children to correct themselves. Louis again tried to eat his breakfast, but his tooth clattered and shook at every mouthful, and being persuaded that by moving it, it hurt him, he put down his bread and his apple, and went to play with Fidèle.

Fidèle was a charming dog, of a very gentle disposition, and accustomed to allow himself to be tormented, without manifesting any displeasure. Louis took him by the paws: "There, stand up, Fidèle; make a bow; give me your paw; no, not that, the other one;" and Fidèle obeyed him with the best grace imaginable, though this kind of sport did not at all please him. With a docile dog, almost anything may be done. Louis, in order to prolong his game, took it into his head to take hold of Fidèle by the tail, and thus to force him to rise upon his fore-paws, and then to turn a somerset. At the first attempt, Fidèle contented himself with resisting, with a slight growl merely; at the second, the growl became louder, but at the third, Louis pulled his tail so violently, that Fidèle, quite angry, turned upon him and slightly bit his little finger. "Oh! oh! oh!" cried Louis, "the horrid dog has bitten me; mamma! Fidèle has bitten me; oh! how my finger pains me!"

"Let me see, my boy; oh! that's nothing, I can hardly see the mark of his teeth; what were you doing to him?"

"I only took hold of his tail, to teach him to turn a somerset, but he wouldn't stand on his fore-paws."

"You certainly hurt him much more by pulling his tail, than he has hurt you by his bite; why do you expect him to be more patient than you are?"

"I will never play with him again."

"You can do as you like as to that, he will not complain."

Louis went away, and as he passed by Fidèle, the dog began to growl. "Go away," said the child, "I don't wish to be bitten again," and he held his little finger in his other hand, as if it had been dreadfully wounded. He went to look for his little sister Henriette, to come and play with him, but she had just pricked her finger with her needle, and being as little able to bear pain as himself, she received his proposition with a very bad grace. "Let me alone," she said, "I have pricked my finger," and she watched the blood which scarcely tinged the water into which she had plunged it.

"That's a funny sort of a wound!" said Louis, "Why the blood doesn't come!"--"A funny sort of a wound? Oh! you shall see if it is so funny," and she immediately pricked him with the needle, which she still held in her hand. "Oh! oh! oh! nurse, Henrietta has pricked me, give me a glass of water, oh!" The nurse brought him the water without looking at him, she was leaning her head upon her left hand.

"Just look, nurse, how she has pricked me."

"What am I to look at? What a terrible affair: what would you say if you had such a tooth-ache as I have?"

"Have you the tooth-ache?"

"Yes: I have had no sleep these three nights, and I shall certainly go to-morrow and have the tooth which torments me taken out; for I don't want to let my work lie there," and she went and resumed her sewing.

When Louis, after having well squeezed his finger, could make no more blood flow from it, he was greatly embarrassed. How was he to amuse himself? Fidèle still growled at him, Henriette was out of temper, and his nurse had the tooth-ache and was busy; every one was taken up with his own sufferings. Louis did not find the house very gay; he therefore went back to his mother, who, at all events, was not a grumbler. At this moment he heard on the stairs the voice of little Charles, one of his companions. He rushed forward to open the door. Charles, accompanied by his tutor, had come to ask him to join him and five or six other boys of his age, in a walk to the Canal de l'Ourcq, to see the skating. Louis, transported with joy, obtained his mother's consent: he put on his great coat and his fur gloves, and they set off.

It was the middle of winter, but the weather was dry, and the sun brilliant. The little boys ran and jumped about the whole of the way. Louis did the same at first, but by degrees he felt his nose getting cold, and one of his hands was fully employed in holding it and keeping it warm. His fingers soon became numb; he put the hand he was not using into his pocket, and complained of being obliged to leave the other exposed to the air; then his feet became cold. It was quite useless to tell him that if he ran about, he would soon get warm again.

"How am I to run," he replied, "when my feet are frozen?"

He dragged himself along, with great difficulty, by the side of the tutor, slipping at every step, notwithstanding the slowness of his pace, and every now and then withdrawing his hand from his nose to breathe upon his fingers, and then hurriedly replacing it, with an appearance of the utmost concern. They reached the side of the canal, which was covered with skaters, who, with a free and unrestrained air, with head erect, and arms sometimes crossed, sometimes in motion, glided rapidly over the smooth expanse, on which the timid walker could scarcely maintain his footing.

The children, with the permission of their guide, went down upon the ice in order to have a slide. Louis suffered himself to be persuaded to follow them, and soon, by sliding in the same place, they had formed a long path, as polished as a mirror, over which, after taking a slight run, they glided with the rapidity of lightning. Louis had not yet dared to venture upon it.

"Come, Louis, have a slide," said one of his companions, "how can you avoid being frozen if you do not move about?"

Louis made up his mind to do so; he took a run of a few steps, reached the glistening path, and ventured on it, still holding his nose with one hand and keeping the other in his pocket. He proceeded, and maintained his equilibrium; but a mischievous little boy, who was more used to this sport, rushed after him, and reaching him before he got to the end, gave him a push, which made him fall with some violence upon the ice.

"Oh! oh! oh!" exclaimed Louis. "Oh! oh! oh! who has thrown me down? I can't get up; help me to get up. Oh! oh!" and he continued on the spot where he had fallen, because he would not make use of one of his hands to lean upon the ice. His companions laughed both at his awkwardness and his misfortune. The tutor went to him, raised him up, and endeavoured to console him, telling him that such falls only gave a little pain, which was soon over. But Louis cried, and became angry, left the canal, and went and stood against a tree, which was growing on the banks, turning his back to the skaters. An old soldier passed by him, laughing heartily.

"What a pity I have a wooden leg!" He had one, in fact. "What is the matter with you, my little friend," he said to Louis, seeing his loneliness and melancholy. "Why are you not down there with the rest?"

"But can I skate?"

"You do not know how to skate? Go quickly then and learn; I wish I were your age, to be able to do the same: at all events you can amuse yourself by sliding."

"Yes, to have them push me, and throw me down."

"Well, if they push you, you can push them in return, and if you fall, you can get up again."

"Yes, and freeze my hands by putting them upon the ice."

"Oh! you are afraid of freezing your hands; poor child! what would you have done, if, like me, you had fallen into a deep ditch, in the midst of a battle, and when it was intensely cold?"

"Into a ditch? Oh! they would soon have come and taken me out."

"You think so, do you? but I can tell you, that before any one would have come and taken you out, you would have been frozen to death. Oh! if I had not broken my leg, how I should have returned to the action!"

"If your leg was broken, how did you get out of the ditch?"

"The deuce! would you have had me remain in it? It was not very comfortable there, I assure you. I dragged myself along upon my hands, and in less than five minutes I was out of it."

"And what did they do to your leg afterwards?"

"What did they do to it? why, they cut it off; thank God! no harm came of it; and I manage to get along pretty well upon my wooden leg. Come along, my little friend, we will both go upon the ice; you shall learn to slide, and I will protect you from being pushed."

Louis, who had been interested and cheered by the conversation of the pensioner, followed him. The tutor, who had overheard what was said, allowed him to do so. He walked at first upon the ice with great precaution; the good soldier allowed him to hold his hand for a few minutes.

"Now," said he, "you must go alone. You have your two legs, and I am going to look at you. Forward, march!"

Louis began to slide.

"Take your hand out of your pocket," cried the pensioner, "and let go of your nose; are you afraid it will fall off? Make use of your arms to balance yourself; hold up your head; stretch out your leg; bravo! that's the way; leave yourself free, unbutton your great coat, don't you see how it hinders you?"

Louis unbuttoned his coat, stretched out his arms, and allowed himself to go on without fear. In a quarter of an hour he had learned to slide as well as any of the little boys on the canal.

"Listen," said the pensioner, "let us join your comrades; they have not seen you. You shall go upon their slide, and in your turn push the boy who threw you down a little while ago. Keep yourself up, at all events."

They made a slight circuit; the moment arrived; Louis started.

"Ha! ha! here's Louis," was exclaimed from all sides. He reached his adversary in the middle of the slide, pushed him, made him come down with considerable force, then turned round, and finished his course in grand style; while the other, somewhat ashamed, got up without saying a word.

"Who taught you to slide?" asked all the children.

"I did, young gentlemen," said the man with the wooden leg, "and I warrant you he is not afraid of any of you now."

The boys, very much astonished, resumed their sports, and Louis maintained his place amongst them very well. When the hour for departure came, he went to say good bye to his friend the pensioner, who pressing his hand warmly, said, "Good bye, comrade, till we meet again; if I happen to be here when you return, I will teach you to skate."

As they went home, Louis did not complain of the cold, did not put his hands in his pockets, left his nose exposed to the air, ran about like the rest, and reached the house not only without having grumbled, but without having suffered. As he was running towards his mother to tell her his tale, he saw her talking to a poor old woman, who was crying, and who seemed to be asking assistance. "Oh! madame," said she, "you could never imagine what my Jacques has done. He is my only support, and though he is not yet fourteen, he works so well at his master's, who is the carpenter at the corner, that every evening he brings me home tenpence for his day's wages. We have nothing but that to live upon, for it is very little I can do. Well, about a fortnight ago, my poor Jacques had the misfortune to put his wrist out of joint, in carrying a wainscoting. He came home in great trouble; fortunately I had saved during six months ten shillings, to buy him a waistcoat. I gave them to him, and told him to go immediately and have his wrist set by the surgeon of the district, who is very clever. He went out, and I supposed that he had done so. Nothing of the kind. He was afraid that it would cost too much. Our neighbour, the blacksmith, offered to set it for half a crown; he allowed him to do so, and brought me home the remainder, saying that he had not been asked for more; but certainly his wrist must have been badly set, for since that time, it has been swelling, and getting numb; and on looking at it, I saw clearly that the bones were not in their right place. By dint of questioning, I at last got the truth from him. We have been to the surgeon, who says that it can be cured, but that it will take a long time, and much medicine, and we have no means of getting any, as my poor Jacques has not worked for a fortnight, and will not be able to work for a long time to come. In God's name, madame, you, who are so good, have pity on us!" Here the poor woman ceased.

Louis had listened to her with great attention. His mother, very much affected herself, observed how this recital led him to reflect upon his own want of fortitude in bearing pain; she did not know that he had already begun to be ashamed of it. "My good woman," she said, "give yourself no uneasiness, as your son can be cured, he shall be cured. Let us go for him. I will take him myself to the surgeon's, who will again examine his arm, and I will pay the expenses of the treatment. Will you come, Louis?"

"Oh! yes, mamma, I want to see Jacques very much."

Henriette, who was working at her embroidery, in a corner of the drawing-room, exclaimed, "And I too, mamma."

"Yes, you too, my child; come, be quick, Jacques's cure must not be delayed."

They set off at once. There were no complaints of the cold during the whole of the way. On arriving, they found Jacques employed in making the handle of a tool with his remaining hand. His mother informed him, with tears of joy, of the success of her visit. "He did not want me to apply to you, madame," she added; "he said that other people ought not to be tormented with his troubles." Jacques advanced, and expressed his thanks, with some embarrassment.

"It must have given you a great deal of pain, Jacques, did it not?"

"Oh! not much, madame, if I could only have worked!"

"Come, come, cheer up, you shall be cured as soon as possible. You are a good and a brave boy;" and Jacques bowed with an air of increased embarrassment.

They went to the surgeon's, who was not acquainted with Jacques's whole history, because he would not allow his mother to relate it at their former visit. As soon as he learned it, he took the most lively interest in the courageous child, and his attentions were soon efficacious. At the end of a fortnight, the swelling began to decrease. They were obliged to prevent Jacques from working so soon as he wished, but they gave him hope that it would not be long before he was again in a condition to handle the plane; and in the mean time he wanted for nothing. Louis, on his return home, said to his mother, "Mamma, tie a thread round my tooth," and he immediately pulled it out himself, having learned by the example of the pensioner, as well as by that of Jacques, never to cry out, "Oh! oh! oh!" for so slight a cause as a little cold, or a prick of a pin.

HELEN;

OR THE FAILURE.