Chapter M: Le Chevalier (8)

"Take care, Helen!" said Madame d'Aubigny, to her daughter, "when you are going one way, you are looking another; in this manner you will never go straight anywhere."

And such was exactly the case. Whether in the street, or on the promenade or even when running in the fields, Helen seldom thought of looking before her, or watching her steps; her attention was constantly directed to one side or the other, to see if any one noticed her; and when she fancied herself observed, she gave herself all sorts of airs and graces. Often when at the Tuileries, she was so completely absorbed in endeavouring to give a graceful turn to her head, or in casting down her eyes, when she considered it suitable to do so, or in looking at the leaves with an air of abstraction, according as one or other of these different movements appeared to her best calculated to attract attention, that she struck against a tree, or against some one coming in an opposite direction. Often when wishing to jump gracefully over a pool of water, she fell into the middle of it, and was covered with mud. In fine, Helen did nothing in a simple manner, like other people, and merely for having the thing done; she neither walked, nor ate, nor drank, for the sake of walking, or eating, or drinking, but in order that people might see the grace she was able to throw into all her movements; and had there been any one to observe her while sleeping, she would certainly have contrived the means of sleeping gracefully.

She little thought how much all these efforts tended to defeat the very object which she had in view, and yet she might easily have perceived, that if, while doing one thing, her thoughts were on another, it was quite impossible that she should do the thing well, and consequently impossible that she should be favourably noticed. If, when she saw some one entering the room, in whose eyes she wished to appear agreeable, she began to talk with greater animation to the person near her; if she threw more vivacity into her gestures, and made her gaiety more conspicuous, still, as she was not really amused, but only supposed that she had the appearance of being so, her laugh was not hearty, her gestures were unnatural, and her gaiety so obviously forced, that no one could possibly fancy that she was really gay, while the pretence of being so occupied her thoughts. In like manner, no one who saw her bestowing alms would have supposed that she was really kind-hearted, and yet Helen gave when she was not observed, and she gave with good will; but if there happened to be any one near to notice her, it was no longer of the poor that she thought, but of the pleasure of being seen bestowing alms. Her pity then assumed an appearance of exaggeration and eagerness, which made it quite apparent that her object was to display it. Her eyes indeed expressed compassion, but instead of being fixed upon the beggar, they were turned towards the persons present, so that it might have been said that it was they, and not the beggar, who had caused her emotion.

Madame d'Aubigny had continually reprimanded her daughter for this tendency, which she had displayed from her childhood, and had succeeded in correcting the most absurd and gross of her affectations; and Helen herself, as she advanced in age, became more skilful in detecting such as were likely to appear too glaring; but as her affectations also increased in number, she merely took a little more pains to conceal them, without being able to persuade herself that, while she had them at all, they could not possibly be concealed. "My child," her mother would sometimes say to her, "there is but one way of obtaining praise, and that is by acting well; and as there is nothing commendable in an action done for the sake of commendation, it is impossible that such actions should secure you praise: rest assured, therefore, that to make praise and reputation your aim, is a certain way of never obtaining it." Helen felt, to some extent, the truth of these remarks, and she promised herself to conceal her vanity with greater care, but it returned at the first opportunity; and besides, where is the girl who fully believes all her mother says to her?

In the same house with Madame d'Aubigny, there lodged one of her relations, Madame de Villemontier, whose daughter Cecilia was Helen's particular friend. Cecilia was so full of kindness and simplicity, that she did not even perceive Helen's affectation, and was continually disputing on this subject with the old Abbé Rivière, the former preceptor of M. de Villemontier, Cecilia's father, and who, after having educated his son, and resided with him at the college, where he finished his studies, had returned to take up his abode in the house, where he was respected as a father, and where he occupied himself in the education of Cecilia, whom he loved as his own child. They never quarrelled, except on Helen's account, whose affectation appeared so absurd to the Abbé Rivière, that he was incessantly ridiculing it. Accustomed to speak exactly what he thought, he did not restrain himself in her presence, though there was all the more necessity for doing so, as Helen, who had always heard him spoken of with great consideration at Madame de Villemontier's, and had witnessed the pleasure caused by his return, and the respect with which he was treated, felt extremely anxious to gain his good opinion. This desire was increased by the praises he constantly bestowed on Cecilia. It was not that she was jealous; for, notwithstanding her vanity, she was incapable of any meanness, she only thought that she merited the same praises as her friend, and indeed, she would have done so, had she not sought for them. But her desire of being noticed by the Abbé Rivière destroyed all the means she would have had of gaining his esteem; therefore, did he torment her with provoking jokes, which had only the effect of rendering her more anxious to gain his approbation, and induced her to make redoubled, though always awkward and misdirected efforts to obtain it. The Abbé was a very well-informed man. Helen could not be so foolish as to make a parade, in his presence, of the small amount of knowledge which a girl of her age is capable of possessing; but she never allowed a day to pass without finding some indirect means of alluding to her love of study. Some remark was made about walking: she said that she took very little pleasure in it, without a book: it was also one of her greatest griefs that her mother would not permit her to read before going to bed; and then she related how, during the morning, she had so completely forgotten herself, that three hours had passed without her being conscious of it. The Abbé pretended not to hear her; this was one of his mischievous ways; then she emphasized, and varied her expression. "Yes," she said, as if speaking to herself, "I commenced at a quarter to one, and when, for the first time, I looked at the timepiece, it was four o'clock; so that more than three hours had elapsed without my having perceived them."

"There was nothing lost, however," said the Abbé, "for you took very good notice of them afterwards."

Helen became silent, but she did not the less begin again on the following day.

What the Abbé most praised in Cecilia's conduct, was her attention to her mother, who was in very delicate health. One evening, Madame d'Aubigny happened to faint. Helen, who was in the habit of taking her work, and sitting with Madame de Villemontier almost every evening, did not come down on this occasion, except for a moment, to relate the accident, and to have the pleasure of speaking of the anxiety which it had caused her. She began by expatiating so much upon the alarm she felt, when she beheld her mother pale and almost unconscious, that the Abbé could not help saying, "I see clearly all that Mademoiselle Helen has suffered from her mother's accident, but I should like to know what Madame d'Aubigny has suffered."

The following day, Madame d'Aubigny, though still indisposed, insisted that her daughter should go as usual, and pass the evening with Madame de Villemontier. She entered with an air of languor and fatigue, saying that she was very sleepy, in order that they might understand that she had passed a bad night. As the questions to which she was anxious to reply, were not put to her, she endeavoured to lead to them in another way. She observed that the weather was delightful at five o'clock that morning: that her mother had been very restless until two, but that at three o'clock she slept quietly; from which it was evident that Helen must have got up at these various hours, for the purpose of ascertaining how her mother was. Several times she requested to know the hour, saying that although her mamma had given her permission to remain until ten o'clock, she should certainly return to her at nine. She inquired again at half-past eight, and again at a quarter to nine. During this time, Cecilia, without being observed, had two or three times raised her eyes to the clock. A minute before nine she rang the bell; her mother asked her why she did so. "You know, mamma," said Cecilia, "that it is time for you to take your broth." Helen immediately jumped up, with a loud exclamation, and put away her work in a great hurry, for fear of staying beyond the hour.

"These two young ladies," said some one present, "are very punctual, and very attentive."

"Yes," murmured the Abbé, between his teeth, and looking at Helen, with a provoking smile, "Cecilia is wonderfully careful of her mother, and Mademoiselle Helen of her reputation."

Helen blushed and hastened to depart, dreading some fresh sarcasm; but Madame de Villemontier, having requested the Abbé to accompany her, and to bring word how Madame d'Aubigny was, he took the candle and followed her. She walked so fast, that he could not keep up with her. "Wait for me," said he, quite out of breath, as they drew near, "you will break your neck."

"I am so anxious to know how mamma is!"

"How fortunate you are," said the Abbé, taking her arm, "to be able in the midst of your anxiety, to think of so many other things! As for me, if any one of whom I am very fond was ill, I should be so taken up with his illness, that it would be impossible for me to notice what I did for him, still less to think of making others observe it; but women are so strong minded."

"Really, M. l'Abbé," said Helen, whom this remark embarrassed, "you can never let a minute pass without tormenting me!"

"That is to say, without admiring you. We admire others for their general conduct; we love and admire them because they have acted with propriety, during a long space of time, and on various occasions; but we must admire Mademoiselle Helen on every occasion. Every action, every thought, every movement of hers, demands an eulogium."

And the mischievous Abbé, with his eyes fixed upon Helen, and holding the candle in such a position as fully to display the sarcastic expression of his countenance, stopped at every step, and emphasized every word, prolonging as much as possible both his remarks and his journey. They did, however, at last reach the apartments of Madame d'Aubigny, and Helen was delighted to free herself from his arm, and make her escape. The Abbé's raillery greatly pained her, but still she saw beneath it so much kind feeling, that she could not be angry with him. He, on the other hand, touched by the gentleness with which she received his reproofs, and the desire she manifested to gain his esteem, felt anxious to correct her, especially as he perceived that, notwithstanding her affectation, she was really kind-hearted and sensible.

Madame d'Aubigny had an old servant who was rough and ill-tempered, although he was all day long reading moral and religious books. She had allowed him to have with him a little nephew, to whom he pretended to give a good education. This man's sole talent for teaching consisted in beating little François when he did not know his lesson in history or in the catechism; and François, to whom this plan did not impart any taste for study, never knew a word of it, and was consequently beaten every day. One morning, Helen saw him coming down stairs sobbing loudly; he had just received his usual correction, and was to receive twice as much if he did not know his lesson when his uncle, who had gone out on an errand, returned. Helen advised him to make haste and learn it; the boy said he could not.

"Come, come," said Helen, "we will learn it together, then," and she led him into the room, where she set to work so diligently to make him repeat it, that the Abbé Rivière, who came to see Madame d'Aubigny, entered without her hearing him.

"Make haste," said she to François, "so that no one may know that it was I who taught it to you."

"Ha!" said the Abbé, "I have at last caught you doing good for its own sake."

Helen blushed with pleasure; this was the first time she had ever heard him seriously praise her. But at the same moment, vanity usurped the place of the good feelings which had animated her: her manners ceased to be natural, and though she continued precisely the same occupation, it was evident that she was no longer actuated by the same motive.

"Well! well!" said the Abbé, "I am going away, resume your natural simplicity, no one is going to look at you."

In the evening, at Madame Villemontier's, Helen found an opportunity of speaking of François. The Abbé shook his head, aware of what was coming; and Helen, who had her eye upon him, understood him, and checked herself. However, her tendency got the better of her discretion, and half an hour afterwards she returned to the same subject, though in an indirect manner. The Abbé happened to be near her: "Stop, stop," said he in a whisper, touching her elbow, "I see you want me to relate it, and, indeed, it is best that I should," and hereupon he began:--

"This morning, François ..." and he assumed a manner so emphatic and comical, that Helen did all she could to make him desist: "Let me go on," he whispered, "and when there is anything that you wish to be made known or particularly remarked, merely give me a sign."

Helen, ashamed, pretended not to understand him, but yet could not keep from laughing. It may easily be imagined that she lost all desire of speaking of François during that evening, and from that moment, the Abbé, as he had told her, assumed the part of trumpeter. As soon as she opened her lips to insinuate anything to her own advantage, he immediately caught the word, and broke forth into a pompous panegyric. If her movements indicated any desire of attracting attention, "Look!" he would say, "what grace Mademoiselle Helen displays in all her movements." If she uttered a loud and forced laugh, "I beg you will observe," he said to every one, "How gay Mademoiselle Helen is to-day:" then he would afterwards approach her and whisper, "Have I fulfilled my functions properly? I shall do better another time," he would add, "but you do not give me notice, and I can only speak of what I perceive," and nothing escaped him; still there was mixed up with all this, something so comic, and at the same time so kind, that Helen, at once annoyed, embarrassed, and obliged to laugh, insensibly corrected herself, as well from her dread of the Abbé's remarks, as from his presenting her affected manners in a light so ridiculous, that she could not help being herself struck by their absurdity.

She has at last succeeded in entirely correcting herself of them, and she endeavours to gratify her self-love by more substantial and reasonable pleasures, than that of having people observing her at every moment of the day, and of directing attention to her most insignificant actions. She acknowledges that she owes this change to the Abbé Rivière, and says, that if all the young girls who feel disposed to give themselves affected airs, had, in like manner, an Abbé Rivière at their side, to show them, at each repetition of them, the impression which they produce on those who witness them, they would not long take the trouble of making themselves ridiculous.

ARMAND;

OR THE INDEPENDENT LITTLE BOY.

M. de Saint Marsin, on entering one day into the apartment of his son Armand, found him in a violent passion, and heard him say to his tutor, the Abbé Durand, "Very well! Of course I shall obey you; I must do so, because you are the strongest, but I can tell you that I do not recognise your right to compel me, and I shall hate you as unjust, and a tyrant."

After this speech, on turning round with a movement of irritability, he perceived his father standing at the door, which he had found open, and looking at him with a calm and attentive countenance. Armand turned pale, then blushed; he feared and respected his father, who, though exceedingly kind, had something very imposing both in countenance and manner, so that he had never dared to resist him directly, or put himself in a passion in his presence. Dismayed, and with downcast eyes, he awaited what M. de Saint Marsin was going to say; when the latter, having entered, sat down near the table, upon which Armand had been writing, and which formed the subject of his quarrel, for the Abbé Durand had insisted on his removing from the window, as it diverted his attention from his work.

"Armand," said M. de Saint Marsin, in a serious but calm tone, "you think, then, that no one has a right to force you to obey?"

"Papa," said Armand, confused, "I did not say that to you."

"But you did say it to me, for the power which M. l'Abbé possesses, he holds directly from me, his rights are founded upon mine, and these I have transmitted to him. Are you not aware of this?"

Armand was well aware of it, but he could not make up his mind to obey the Abbé Durand, as he did his father; or rather obedience was in all cases extremely disagreeable to him, and fear alone prevented him from manifesting his sentiments before M. de Saint Marsin; for Armand, because he was thirteen years of age, and possessed of some intelligence, considered himself a very important personage, and his pride was habitually wounded, because he was not allowed to follow his own inclinations: he therefore rebelled against what he was commanded to do, not because he considered it unreasonable, but simply because it was commanded, and he several times hinted to the Abbé Durand, that if parents ruled their children, it was simply because they were the strongest, and not because they had any legitimate right to do so. M. de Saint Marsin, who was aware of all this, was very glad to have an opportunity of coming to an understanding with him on the subject.

"Tell me," he continued, "in what respect I commit an injustice, in obliging you to obey me, and I am ready to repair it."

Armand was confused, but his father, having encouraged him to reply, he said, "I do not say, papa, that you commit an act of injustice towards me, only I do not exactly see how it can be just for parents to compel their children to follow their wishes; for children have _wills_ as well as parents, and they have as much right to follow them as their parents have to follow theirs."

"I suppose it is because children, not being reasonable, it is necessary that their parents should be reasonable for them, and compel them to be so too."

"But," said Armand, hesitatingly, "if they do not wish to be reasonable, it seems to me that that is their affair; and I cannot understand how any one can have the right of compelling them to be so."

"You therefore consider, Armand, that if a child of two years of age took a fancy to put his hand into the fire, or to climb up to a window at the risk of falling out of it, that no one would have a right to prevent him from doing so."

"Oh, papa, what a difference!"

"I see none: the rights of a child of two years of age, appear to me quite as sacred as those of a child of thirteen; or if you admit that age makes any difference, then you must allow that a child of thirteen ought to have less than a man of twenty."

Armand shook his head, and remained unconvinced; his father having encouraged him to state his opinion, "I have no doubt," he replied, "that there are some good reasons to oppose to this, although I cannot discover them; but even allowing that it may be to the advantage of children to be forced to obey, still I do not see how any one can have a right to benefit another against his will."

"Well, then, Armand, you do not wish me to force you to be reasonable by obeying me."

"Oh, papa, I did not say that, but...."

"But I understand it very well; and as I do not wish that you should be able to consider me unjust, I promise you that I will not again compel you to obey me until you tell me you wish me to do so."

"Until I wish you to force me to obey you, papa?" said Armand, half-laughing and half-pouting, as if he imagined that his father was ridiculing him. "You know it is impossible that I should ever wish that."

"That remains to be proved, my son. I wish to have the pleasure of seeing it; and from this moment, I resign my authority, until you request me to resume it. You must make up your mind to do the same, my dear Abbé," said M. de Saint Marsin, addressing the Abbé Durand. "Your rights cease at the same time as mine."

The Abbé, who understood the intentions of M. de Saint Marsin, smiled, and promised to conform to them. As for M. de Saint Marsin, he still retained his grave expression, and Armand looked from one to the other, with an air of uncertainty, as if to ascertain whether they were in earnest or not. "I do not know," continued his father, "what was the act of obedience so exceedingly displeasing to Armand, but after these new arrangements, he ought to be exempted from it."

"That is a matter of course," replied the Abbé.

"Come, my boy," said M. de Saint Marsin, "use your liberty without restraint, and do not think of renouncing it until you are quite sure that you no longer wish to retain it, for I warn you that then, in my turn, I shall exercise my authority without scruple."

Armand saw him depart with a stupified look, and could not bring himself to believe what he had heard. As the first essay of his liberty, he replaced by the side of the window the table which he had begun to remove from it, and the Abbé Durand, who took up a book, allowed him to do so without appearing to notice him; he merely observed, when Armand sat down to continue his exercise, "I do not know why you take so much trouble to settle yourself so comfortably, for I suppose, that now you are master of your own actions, we shall have but few lessons."

"I do not know, sir," replied Armand, "on what grounds you imagine that. I should think I am not so much of a baby as to require to be put into leading-strings, and you may rest assured I shall require no force to induce me to do what I know to be reasonable."

"Very well!" said the Abbé, and continued his reading, while Armand, in order to prove his assertion, never once looked towards the window, but did his exercise twice as rapidly and twice as well as usual. The Abbé complimented him upon it, and added, "I hope your liberty will always answer as well as it has done on this occasion."

Armand was enchanted, but his pleasure was somewhat diminished in the evening, when, on asking his tutor whether they should go out for a walk, the Abbé replied, "Certainly not, for if you took it into your head to walk faster than me, or run about, or go through a different street to that which I wished to take, I should have no power to prevent you, and I am too old and too stout to run after you. I cannot undertake to conduct through the streets a giddy fellow, over whom I possess no authority." Armand became angry, and contended that the Abbé was unreasonable. At last he said, "Very well, I promise not to walk faster than you do, and to go just where you please."--"That is all very well," replied the Abbé; "but you might take some fancy into your head, which I ought to oppose, and as I have no power to restrain you, you might bring me into trouble."

"I am willing to promise obedience during our walk," said Armand.

"Very well! I will go and inform M. de Saint Marsin, that you renounce the treaty, and wish to replace yourself under authority again."

"No! no! it is only for the period of our walk."

"So," replied the Abbé, "you not only wish to follow your own will, but you want to make me do the same. You wish me to resume my authority when it suits you, and to relinquish it when you no longer desire it. I must say in my turn, no! no! no! If I consent to resume my authority, it will be to continue it; therefore, my dear Armand, you must make up your mind, either to renounce the treaty, or to give up your walk for the future."

"But papa wishes me to walk," replied Armand drily.

"Yes, but he does not require me to walk with you, when I can be of no use to you. He has no right over my actions, except in so far as he gives me a right over yours. When he intrusted to me a part of his authority, it was quite natural that he should prescribe the manner in which he wished me to exercise it. Now that he intrusts nothing to me, of what have I to render him an account?"

"As to that," said Armand, "I do not know what should prevent my going out by myself."

"No one in the world will hinder you. You are as free as the air."

"The proof that I am not so," replied Armand carelessly,--"the proof that this is all a fairy tale, is, that I am still with you, M. l'Abbé."

"Not at all," said the Abbé calmly, "it is your father's wish that I should give you lessons, as long as you are disposed to take them, but this does not bind you to anything: it is also his wish, that as long as I remain with him, I should share the apartment which he gives you; he has a right to do what he pleases with it, and I have a right to comply with his wishes if I choose to do so. As to the rest, you can do in it whatever you think best, provided you do not annoy me, for in that case, I shall exercise the right of the strongest, and endeavour to prevent you. With this exception, you may go out or you may remain, just as you please; it is all the same to me. I shall see you do the things which I have heretofore forbidden, without troubling myself in the slightest degree. And if you wish that we should not speak to each other, or even look at each other, I do not ask for anything better: that will be exceedingly convenient to me."

"Why, M. l'Abbé, you are carrying things to extremes!"

"Not in the least, everything is quite natural. What interest would you have me take in your conduct, when I am not responsible for it?"

"I thought you had more friendship for me."

"I have as much as I can have. Are you of any use to me? Can I talk to you as to a friend, of the books which I read, and which you would not understand? Can I speak to you of the ideas which interest me? You, whom a serious book sends to sleep, and who feel no interest in history, except for its battles? Can you render me any service? Can I rely on you, in any case in which I may stand in need of good advice, or useful aid?"

"So, I perceive that people are loved only when they can be useful. This truly is admirable morality and friendship!"

"I beg your pardon; we also love people because we can be useful to them; we become attached to them because they have need of us, and it is on this account that we are fond of children. We are interested in what they do, from the hope we entertain of teaching them to do well: we love them, notwithstanding their faults, because we believe that we possess the power of correcting those faults; but the moment you deprive me of all influence over your conduct, the moment I become useless to you, what interest can I have in troubling myself about you?"

"But we have passed many years together. You have seen me every day."

"If we are to become attached to a child, merely from seeing him every day, why am I not equally attached to Henry, the porter's son, who waits upon us? I have seen him for as long a time; he has never refused to do anything I asked him: he has given me no annoyance; I always find him in good humour; he renders me a thousand services, and is far more useful to me than you can be."

"Nevertheless, it would be rather strange if you liked Henry better than me."

"If up to the present time I have liked you better than him, it is because, as you were confided to my care, the submission you were obliged to render me gave you the desire of pleasing me, and this made you deserve my friendship; and because also, as your interests were confided to me, I acted for you as I would have acted for myself, and even with more zeal than I could have felt in my own case. But now that you have undertaken to think for yourself, I have nothing more to do but to think for myself."

Armand had nothing to reply; he thought to himself that the way to force those on whom he was dependent to have as much affection for him, as when he was under their authority, was to conduct himself as well, as if he were still obliged to obey them, and he determined to adopt this method. But Armand did not yet possess either sufficient sense, or sufficient firmness of character, to adhere to such resolutions, and it was precisely this which rendered it necessary for him to be guided and controlled by the will of others; left to himself, he was not as yet capable of meriting their affection.

Many children will, doubtless, be astonished, that Armand did not profit by his liberty to throw aside his studies, run about alone, and do a thousand absurdities; but Armand had been well brought up, and his disposition was good, notwithstanding the caprices which occasionally passed through his brain; and at thirteen years of age, though children have not always sufficient strength to do what is right, they begin, at least, to know what is right, and to desire to be regarded as rational beings; and, besides, notwithstanding all his fine arguments, he had acquired the habit of obedience, and would have found it very difficult to oppose directly, any command of his father or tutor, in such a way that it might come to their knowledge. However, the following morning, he thought his liberty might surely extend so far as to send and buy a rasher of ham for his breakfast, a thing of which he was very fond, but which he was very rarely allowed to have. He wanted to send Henry for it; but Henry, who at that moment had something else to do, said that he could not go. He was usually rather insolent to Armand, who, on his part, often became excessively angry with him, because he did not obey him as readily as M. de Saint Marsin or the Abbé Durand. On the present occasion, elated by the new importance which he thought he had acquired, he assumed a more imperious tone, and expressed his anger more loudly than usual, but this only increased Henry's ridicule. He even affected to lecture Armand, saying that M. de Saint Marsin did not allow him to send out of the house for anything, and reminded him that he had been already scolded for that very thing.

"What does that matter to you," said Armand, still more angrily, "have I not a right to send you where I please?"

"No, my son," replied M. de Saint Marsin, who happened to be passing at the moment, "Henry is not under your orders, but under mine."

"But, papa, do you not wish him to wait upon me?"

"Undoubtedly, my son, he has my commands to that effect, and I trust he will not neglect them; but he will wait upon you according to the orders I give him, and not according to those you give him."

"Nevertheless, papa, it is necessary that I should ask him for what I want."

"You need only let me know what you want, and what I tell him to do for you he will do."

"But I think, papa, you have often allowed me to give him my commands myself."

"That was at a time when there were things which I could allow you to do, because there were others which I could forbid. I could then, without danger, allow you to have some authority in my house, because, as you could only do what I pleased, your authority was subordinate to mine. I did not fear that you would give my servants any orders at variance with my wishes, since I had the right to forbid your doing anything which displeased me; but now that you are at liberty to do whatever suits you, if I gave you the right of commanding my servants, it might suit you to send them to all the four corners of Paris, at the very moment that I required their services here, and I should have no means of preventing you. You might tell them to go to the right while I told them to go to the left; there would be two masters in the house, and that would never answer. Impress this fact upon your mind, my son, that you can have no authority over any one, unless I give it to you, and that I cannot give it to you, unless I have the power of compelling you to make a reasonable use of it." Then, turning to the boy, who while pretending to be busily occupied in cleaning Armand's shoes, was, in reality, amusing himself all the while with what was passing,--

"Listen, Henry; you will do with great care for Armand's service, everything which I order you, but you will do nothing whatever that he orders."

"It is well worth while to be free," said Armand, discontentedly.

"My child," said M. de Saint Marsin, "I do not interfere with you in any respect, not even with your giving orders to Henry, if that affords you any pleasure; but then, you must, in turn, allow me to have the privilege of forbidding him to execute them."

Saying this, he went away; and when he had got to some distance, Henry began laughing, and said, "It is a fine thing to order one's servants, when one has got any to order!"

Armand was enraged, and attempted to give him a kick, but Henry avoided it, saying, "I have had no orders to allow myself to be beaten; therefore mind what you are at," and he took up a boot with which he was preparing to defend himself. Armand would not compromise his dignity by contending with him, and therefore left him, saying that he was an insolent fellow, and that he would pay him off some day.

"Yes! yes! and I will pay you, when you pay me for the ham which I have bought for you this morning."

This recollection redoubled Armand's ill-humour; he felt inclined to go and get it himself; but in addition to his being unaccustomed to go out alone, he was proud, and could not make up his mind to stop at the shop of the pork-butcher, especially as the man knew him, from having seen him frequently pass by with the Abbé Durand, and it would have been very annoying to him to explain to such a person the reason of his coming himself, and of his being alone. To have profited by his liberty, Armand ought to have been better able to manage for himself, and to overcome his repugnance to a thousand things, which he could not bring himself to do. He began to discover that he was made to pay dearly for a freedom from which he hardly knew how to extract any advantage; nevertheless he had nothing to complain of. No one controlled his actions, and he could not help acknowledging, that the Abbé Durand had a right to refuse to take him out, and his father a right to forbid his servants to execute his orders. He felt that the kindness which these servants had hitherto manifested towards him, could result only from their submission to the authority of his father and his preceptor; still he persuaded himself that the latter, by acting as they did, took an unfair advantage of the need he had of their protection. He did not remember, that when we cannot do without people, we must make up our minds to be dependent on them.

Being out of temper this day, he learned his lessons badly; then interrupted them, and did not finish them. The manner in which he had gone through his morning's tasks left him in no humour for the evening's studies: he therefore passed the afternoon in playing at battledore and shuttlecock in the yard with Henry, with whom he was very glad to be on better terms again; but when he saw his father return, he hid himself. The remainder of the day he was afraid to meet him, for fear of being asked whether he had been at work. At night, he returned to his room, much embarrassed, and scarcely daring to look at the Abbé, who, however, said nothing, but treated him as usual. It was of no avail for Armand to say to himself that no one had a right to scold him, and that he was free to do as he pleased: he was, nevertheless, ashamed of wishing for and doing what was unreasonable; for the man who is most completely master of his actions, is no more at liberty to neglect his duties, than a child whom we compel to fulfil them: the sole difference is, that the man possesses reason and strength to do what is right, and that it is because the child does not yet possess these qualities, that he stands in need of being sustained by the necessity of obedience. Nothing would be more unhappy than a child left entirely to himself; half the time he would not know what he wanted; he would commence a hundred things, and never finish one of them, and would pass his life without knowing how. Even he who considers himself reasonable, and who, on this account, thinks that there is no necessity for his being commanded, does not perceive that all his reasonableness springs from his doing what is commanded without repugnance, and without ill-temper; and that if he had no one to guide him, he would be quite incapable of guiding himself. Armand had some notion of all this, but it was a confused one: he did not reflect much upon the matter, and merely thought that, after all, there was no such great pleasure in being free.

The next day, which was Sunday, two of his companions, the sons of an old friend of M. de Saint Marsin, came to see him. They were about fifteen or sixteen years of age, frank and thoughtless, and often amused Armand by relating anecdotes of their college, and of the tricks of the boys; but they sometimes shocked him also, by their coarse and disagreeable manners. They, on their side, often ridiculed him for being too orderly, too neat, and too elegant. As their father was not rich, he had only placed them at college as day-scholars; and as they always went there alone, they laughed at Armand, who could not move a step without his tutor. He was therefore delighted to be able to tell them that he was free to do whatever he pleased.

"That's good," said they, "we shall have fine fun: we will go to the place where we went last Sunday; one can play at ball there with all the people of the neighbourhood, who are dressed in their Sunday clothes: they swear, they fight; it's capital sport! Jules was near getting a thrashing from one of the players, because he laughed at him for never sending back the ball." "And Hippolyte," said the other, "had his nose and lips swelled for three days, from having been hit by the ball, in the face; and then they drink beer. Though we were sent to stay here the whole morning, we were determined to go there; will you come with us?"

"Certainly not," replied Armand, to whom this sport offered few attractions: he had no ambition to contend with a porter, nor be struck by a ball, nor to drink beer at a tavern. "You must come," continued his companions. "Oh, we'll polish you up; we'll show you how to amuse yourself."

"I wish to amuse myself in my own way," said Armand, who endeavoured, but in vain, to extricate himself from his friends, who had each taken one of his arms, in order to drag him against his will out of the yard where they were. Armand cried out and struggled, and, seeing his father at the window, "Papa," said he, "don't let them drag me away by force."--"I! my son," replied M. de Saint Marsin, "why do you ask me to prevent these young gentlemen from doing anything? You know very well that every one is free here. My friends, amuse yourselves according to your own fancy. Armand, do just what you please. I have no wish to restrain you in any respect," and he withdrew from the window. The two lads laughed outrageously, repeating, as they held Armand tightly by the arm, "Armand, do just what you please;" and seeing that M. de Saint Marsin left them a clear stage, they forced Armand to run along the streets, in spite of his cries and struggles. As they passed along, people exclaimed, "Look at those young rascals fighting!" and, indeed, Armand did not make a very respectable appearance; he was without cravat, or hat; he had on a soiled over-coat, and his stockings were tied in a slovenly manner; it was this which delighted his mischievous companions, for they knew he had a great objection to be seen in public, unless when well dressed, and they had sometimes fancied, when walking with him, that he had manifested some degree of pride, in consequence of being better dressed than they were. The remarks which were made on them increased his annoyance and anger. "Let me go!" he exclaimed, "you have no right to hold me against my will." "Hinder us, then," said his tormentors; but Armand was strong in arguments only, so that in order to avoid being dragged along by force, he was obliged to promise that he would go with them voluntarily; but he was indignant at the treatment he had received, and might perhaps, notwithstanding his promise, have been tempted to make his escape, had not his two tormentors kept constant guard over him, "Don't be a baby," they said, "you don't know how much you'll be amused."

They soon reached a kind of tavern-garden, where several men were playing at ball. Jules' first joke was to push Armand in amongst them; a ball struck him on the left ear, and the man whose throw he had interfered with, gave him a blow with his fist on the right shoulder, in order to push him out of the way. This threw him on the feet of another man, who sent him off with a second blow, at the same time swearing at him, and telling him to mind what he was about. He had not time to reply to this one, before the ball came bounding close to him, and one of the men who ran after it, for the purpose of sending it back again, threw him on the ground with an oath, at the same time falling with him; every one laughed, and especially Jules and Hippolyte. Armand had never in his life felt so enraged, but seeing that his anger was impotent, his heart was ready to burst, and had not his pride restrained him, he would have cried with vexation. However, he restrained himself, and withdrawing from the players, he seized the moment when Jules and Hippolyte, who had probably had sufficient of this kind of sport, were no longer watching him, and leaving the garden, he hastened home as fast as he could, trembling lest he should see them coming after him. His heart swelled with anger and a sense of degradation, to find that he was unable either to defend himself, or to punish those who had so unworthily used their strength against him. He reached home at last: his father was coming out as he entered, and asked him, somewhat ironically, whether he enjoyed his walk. Armand could no longer contain himself; he said it was a shame to have encouraged Jules and Hippolyte to drag him away by force, as they had done: "If it was to punish me," he continued, "for the agreement you pretended to make with me, I ought to have been told of it. I did not ask you to make such an agreement."

"My child," said M. de Saint Marsin, "I have no wish to punish you; I have nothing to punish you for; I have no right to punish you. On the other hand, what right had I to prevent your companions from doing what they pleased with you. When you were dependent upon me, I could say, I do not wish him to do such and such things, consequently I will not allow any one to force him to do them. I could exercise my authority, and even my strength, if necessary, to protect you from those who might desire to interfere with you. I could not permit any one to infringe my rights, by compelling you to obey them, but now you depend upon yourself only; it is your business to defend yourself, to say I will not, and to discover what your will is worth. So long as you are unwilling to be dependent upon any one, no one is obliged to assist you."

"I see, then," said Armand, in a tone of irritation, "that because I am not dependent upon you, if you saw any one going to kill me, you would say that you had no right to defend me."

"Oh! no," said M. de Saint Marsin, smiling. "I do not think my forbearance would extend quite so far as that: however, I will think about it. I have not yet examined the case. I do not very well see what are the duties of a father towards a child who does not consider himself bound to obey his father. And remember that this is not my fault, for I never before met with a child who entertained these ideas."

With these words he went away. Armand, who clearly perceived that they were making game of him, began to weary of these pleasantries; but at the same time, he was becoming confirmed in the idea of following his own will. Near the place where he had seen the ball-playing, he had noticed another spot where they were firing at a target, and the idea of this had recurred to him since his return. His father, when in the country, had begun to teach him the use of firearms, and had even occasionally allowed him to accompany him on a shooting excursion, an amusement which greatly delighted Armand. But M. de Saint Marsin would not permit him to use firearms in Paris, notwithstanding his earnest assurances that he would employ them with the greatest prudence. This prohibition was very grievous to Armand, who, in his wisdom, was quite satisfied that he would be able to amuse himself in this way without any danger. As he had no fancy for practising with such people as he had just escaped from, it occurred to him that he might at least have a target in his father's garden, or shoot at the sparrows. He went to fetch from his father's study, where they were always kept, his gun and some pistols which had been given him by one of his uncles. It was a mere chance that he got at them, for since he had been intrusted with his liberty, M. de Saint Marsin, fearing he might make a dangerous use of them, had always been careful to keep them locked up; but his valet de chambre having to get something from the place where they were kept, had, notwithstanding the strict injunctions given to him, forgotten to relock the place, and take away the key. Armand therefore found the gun, the pistols, and some ammunition. On descending to the garden, he observed a cat running along the cornice of a neighbouring house; he took aim, missed, and walked on. He entered the garden, and there shot away right and left, and kept up a firing sufficient to alarm the whole neighbourhood.

After exhausting his ammunition, he was returning across the yard, loaded with his artillery, when a man, who was talking very vehemently with the porter, rushed towards him, saying, "Oh! that's him! that's him! I knew very well it came from here. It is you, then, sir, who have been breaking my windows and my furniture, and were very near killing my son. Oh, you shall pay well for this! I will be paid; if not I'll go and fetch the police, and take you before a magistrate!" He was in such a rage, that he poured forth a torrent of words, without allowing himself time to take breath, and all the while he shook Armand by the arm. "Yes, yes, I'll take him before a magistrate," he said to the gossips of the neighbourhood, who began to crowd round the gate.

"That's right," said one; "with his gun and pistol shots, one would have supposed that the enemy was at hand."

"The balls hit our walls," said another, "and I didn't know where to hide myself."

"Our poor Azor barked as if he was mad," said a third, "and I am still trembling all over."

"They shall pay me," continued the man. Armand, confounded, neither knew what had happened, nor what they wanted. At length he became aware that the shot which he had fired at the cat, had struck a window above the ledge along which the animal was walking. He had loaded his gun with ball, thinking that small shot would not be sufficient to kill it, and the ball had entered the window of one of the finest apartments in a furnished house, and had broken a looking-glass worth two thousand francs, shattered a pendule, and knocked off the hat of the landlord's son, who happened to be standing near the chimney-piece. At every incident the man related, he shook the arm of Armand, who was making fruitless efforts to escape from him. "You shall pay me," he continued, "as sure as my name is Bernard, and something more into the bargain, to teach you not to fire at other people's houses."

"He would be rather puzzled to pay, I should think," said one of the women.