Chapter M: Le Chevalier 142 (3)

"What! on the contrary?" exclaimed Madame de la Fère, with a movement of alarm. Her husband pressed her hand, and she restrained herself. He had accustomed her to preserve her self-command in the presence of their children, in order not to give them exaggerated ideas of what might happen to them.

"My beloved friends," continued M. de la Fère, taking his daughter on his knees, and retaining the hand of his wife within his own, "we must not rely, at least for a very long time to come, on any assistance from France; for all our property is seized, and God only knows when we shall regain possession of it."

Madame de la Fère turned pale, but said nothing. Juliette wept and trembled, and Raymond, leaning on the back of a chair, listened attentively to his father, whose calm and firm manner completely reassured him. M. de la Fère continued--

"Of all our effects there remains absolutely nothing, but what we have upon us, and a small trunk of linen, which I see in the corner there, and which they seem to have forgotten. Of all our money, there remains but this louis d'or," said he, holding it up, "which I had in my pocket."

"Good heavens," exclaimed Juliette, in a tone of despair, "what will become of us?"

Her father pressed her in his arms. "Have a little patience, sister," said Raymond, quickly. He saw that his father had something to propose, and whatever it might be, he was eager to execute it. M. de la Fère continued--

"A louis, my dears, may still become a resource, provided one knows how to turn it to account. We cannot live without work: we must, therefore, find the means of working."

Madame de la Fère replied, that she and her daughter could embroider, and that M. Fiddler would be able to recommend them in the town. "Yes," replied M. de la Fère, "but that is not sufficient. Before these recommendations have produced their effect, before we receive work, and before that work is finished, our louis d'or may very easily be spent; and my watch, which is the only thing left us that we can sell, for they have taken Raymond's, will not afford us a very considerable resource: we must, therefore, devise some plan for not exhausting too rapidly our means of existence."

Juliette said that M. Fiddler, who had so kindly offered his aid, would be able to assist them until their work afforded them the means of living.

"We must only accept assistance from others," said M. de la Fère, "when we can do absolutely nothing for ourselves. Do you feel the courage to impose upon yourselves, for one week only, the most severe privations?"

All answered "Yes!" "Even if it be to live on bread and water," said Raymond. M. de la Fère pressed his son's hand with an air of satisfaction. But Juliette turned towards her father with a somewhat terrified expression, and Madame de la Fère looked first upon her husband, and then upon her children, and could not restrain a few tears. M. de la Fère, making a great effort to preserve his firmness, said to them:

"Listen, my dears, and I hope you will agree with me, that a week's courage is a very trifling matter, if it can insure our preservation. This is my calculation. Our rent is paid three months in advance. We have in the trunk as much linen as we shall want for three weeks, without requiring anything washed; as it is summer, we shall not need any fire; the days being long, if we get up and go to bed with the sun, there will be no necessity for candles; thus, without expending anything, we are secured on all these points, from all suffering, and indeed from every real inconvenience, for more than a week. We have only our food to pay for. In limiting ourselves for a week only to what is absolutely necessary,--to bread, my dear Juliette," said he, tenderly embracing his daughter, whom he still held upon his knee, "it will be possible for us to employ a part of this louis on the purchase of materials to enable you to embroider, and myself and Raymond to paint boxes and screens, and various other things which M. Fiddler doubtless will enable us to sell. In a week we shall probably have gained something by our labour. If we are compelled to wait longer, I have still my watch, and I will answer for it, that before its price is expended, we shall be free from anxiety."

Raymond, animated by the manner in which his father pronounced these words, embraced his mother, and then his sister, who was still weeping a little. "Consider, Juliette," he said, "a week is so soon over!"

Hitherto, indeed, Raymond had always been much more of an epicure than his sister, and much more eager in the pursuit of what pleased him; but at the same time, he had more determination, and was better able to make a sacrifice, where any great object was to be attained. Besides, the present moment had inspired him with what a great misfortune ought always to inspire a man--an increased amount of sense and courage; whilst Juliette, on the contrary, somewhat overcome by the fatigues of the day, had not been able to recover from the surprise and terror of the first moment. Their ill-lighted room gave her melancholy impressions, everything seemed dark around her, and she felt excessively unhappy, without being exactly able to tell why. The caresses of her parents calmed her a little; her mother made her go to bed, and she soon sunk into that sound sleep which grief usually produces at her age; and on awakening the following morning, she felt entirely reanimated. Her mother had already made the purchases necessary for commencing work. It had been the fashion in France, for some time before their departure, to wear lawn handkerchiefs, embroidered in coloured silks; and this custom, though now rather antiquated, had not yet reached the town in which they were residing, although its inhabitants affected to follow the French fashions. She bought sufficient lawn for a handkerchief, silks to embroider it, and some card-board and colours for her husband and son. These cost rather less than fourteen francs; the remaining ten were carefully reserved for the maintenance of the family. Madame de la Fère felt her heart a little oppressed when she beheld this trifling sum, but the recollection of the watch gave her confidence that her children would not want for bread; and besides, accustomed to rely upon her husband, of whose courage and firmness she was well aware, so long as she saw him tranquil, she could not feel very uneasy. As M. de la Fère was returning with the bread he had purchased for the family, he met M. Fiddler, who expressed his grief for the inconveniences which he suffered, and once more offered his services. M. de la Fère again thanked him, promising that if he really stood in need of assistance, it would be to him that he would apply; and M. Fiddler, being a man of the greatest discretion, did not press the matter further.

When Juliette entered the room in which the family was assembled, she found her mother and Raymond already occupied in arranging an old embroidery-frame, which they had found in a corner of the apartment, while M. de la Fère was drawing upon the piece of lawn, the wreath with which it was to be embroidered. The sun shone brilliantly into the apartment, which looked out upon a magnificent landscape, and Juliette, forgetting the troubles of the previous evening, set herself gaily to assist her mother and brother. The wreath was soon drawn, the frame soon mounted; the tasks were distributed, and each commenced his labour. During this time, M. de la Fère began to design the ornaments for a work-box, whilst Raymond, who was tolerably adroit, cut and gummed the card-board, and even assisted his father in the less difficult ornaments. After working for some time, Juliette began to feel hungry. She was afraid to say anything as yet; Raymond, however, having asked his father if it was not time for breakfast, opened a cupboard in which the bread had been placed, and exclaimed, laughing, "Behold our week's provisions!" then he cut for his mother and sister some slices of bread, which he assured them had been selected with great care. As to himself, he separated his own into five or six pieces, calling one a cutlet, another a leg of mutton, and so on. This made them laugh, and thenceforth they constantly amused themselves, while eating their bread, with bestowing upon it the names of the most refined dishes.

Although Madame de la Fère often made Juliette leave her work and walk with her brother in the road that passed beneath their windows, yet in three days the handkerchief was embroidered, and M. de la Fère, on his part, had completed a box, the top of which, painted in bistre, represented one of the points of view to be seen from his window, while the sides were ornamented with arabesques, also in bistre. M. Fiddler, to whom M. and Madame de la Fère had communicated their determination of living by their labour, recommended them to a lady in the town, the only one who understood French. Madame de la Fère called upon her, accompanied by Juliette, who although somewhat ashamed at being presented under such circumstances, nevertheless felt a certain degree of pride, in thinking that her work should be of some consequence. The German lady, to whom M. Fiddler had related their misfortunes, received them with great kindness. She purchased the handkerchief, at the price of a louis, in the money of the country, and also the work-box for twelve francs, and told Madame de la Fère that she would enable her to sell others. They returned delighted. "Mamma," said Juliette, on their way home, "since we have been so successful, I think for to-day at least, we might have something to eat with our bread."

Madame de la Fère replied that that must depend upon her father; but when, after relating their success, Juliette renewed her proposition; "My dears," said M. de la Fère, looking at his children, for Raymond had listened to his sister's proposition with great attention, "if we break our fast to-day, it will be more difficult to keep it to-morrow, and if we do not maintain it until the end of the week, the fruit of our courage will be lost, for we shall still be inconvenienced to purchase the materials necessary for continuing our labours; whereas our having a little in advance will make us quite comfortable."

"Come," said Raymond, running to the cupboard, and cutting a large slice of bread, "here is my sturgeon pasty for this day."

"My dear Juliette," said M. de la Fère to his daughter, who seemed a little sad, "it is merely an advice which I have given you. The money which we possess is in part gained by your labour, and it would be unjust to prevent you from spending it according to your fancy; if you wish; we will give you your share, and you can do what you please with it." Juliette threw her arms round her father's neck, and told him that she always wished to do as he did, and whatever he pleased; and the money was immediately employed in purchasing new materials.

If Juliette had rather more difficulty, on this day, and the following ones, in eating her bread, to which her brother in vain gave the most tempting names, she consoled herself by calculating with her mother, the number of hours, of minutes even, which must intervene before the close of the last day; and then how many minutes were required to work a flower. This shortened the time; for when Juliette had not finished her task in the period which she had allotted to it, she found the time pass much too quickly. She was greatly delighted that the watch had not been sold, and felt a certain pride in thinking that they might be able to preserve it by their industry.

As constant work suggests methods of abridging labour, they this time finished, in five days, two handkerchiefs and three boxes, and to complete their happiness, on the evening of the eighth day, the German lady sent to inquire if any more were ready. She had given a party on the previous evening; her handkerchief had been admired; she had shown her box also, and several of her friends expressed a wish to purchase similar articles of both kinds. When Madame de la Fère and her daughter called upon her the following morning, she not only took all that were finished, but gave orders for a fresh supply. Juliette could not contain her joy. She had eaten her dry bread very cheerfully before starting, thinking that, according to all appearances, they would have a better dinner; and now on their return, she assisted her mother in preparing it; she could never have believed it possible for her to have experienced so much pleasure as she now felt, in peeling onions, touching greasy spoons, or broiling herself in skimming saucepans, on a hot summer's day. Her mother wished that, for this day, she should entirely lay aside all other work. Raymond and she, therefore, passed the morning in laughing till tears came into their eyes, at the thousand absurdities which their joy prompted them to utter; and M. and Madame de la Fère, delighted at seeing them so happy, forgot for a time that they had ever experienced sorrow.

With what delight Juliette helped her brother to set the table, to lay the cloth, to place the covers and plates lent them by M. Fiddler. Just at the moment that she was about to serve up the dinner, she heard exclamations of joy from Raymond, who came running to tell her that the Chevalier de Villon, an old friend of his father, whom they had not seen for several years, as he had left France a long time before them, had just arrived in the town, and was coming to dine with them. "How fortunate!" said Raymond, "that he did not come yesterday;" and he ran out to rejoin the chevalier.

"He comes to diminish our dinner," said Juliette, in a tone of ill temper, which she was not able to control; for it seemed to her that the least alteration must interfere with the happiness she anticipated.

"Juliette," said her mother, "if during the past week you had found a friend, who was willing to share his dinner with you, you would have been very glad, even though you thought that he would thereby deprive himself of something."

"It is because I think M. de Villon does not stand in need of it," said Juliette, completely ashamed of what she had said. At this moment the chevalier entered, his clothes in rags, and himself so pale and so thin, that Madame de la Fère, on beholding him, could not suppress a cry of grief; as for him, with his Gascon vivacity, he ran to embrace her.

"You see," said he, "to what I am reduced. This is _now_ the uniform of a French gentleman, my dear Madame. Why I am not sure that I have eaten anything these two days."

Madame de la Fère turned to Juliette, who with a supplicating look seemed to entreat her to forget what she had said. The chevalier sat down, for he could scarcely stand; nevertheless his gaiety never forsook him, as long as his strength remained; but they felt that it was sinking with every sentence. Juliette laid a cover for him, and placed a chair at the table, for he was so much fatigued that he seemed scarcely able to move. When the soup was served, and the chevalier, with his accustomed politeness, wished to pass to her the first plate, she entreated him to keep it with so much earnestness, that he could not refuse. She then raised her eyes to her mother as if to ask forgiveness: Madame de la Fère smiled, and joy returned to Juliette's heart. She was at length helped in her turn, and thought she had never enjoyed anything so much; while Raymond, who, until then, fancied he disliked carrots and turnips, did not leave a single bit of them upon his plate. A piece of beef, and a dish of vegetables, appeared to all this family a magnificent repast. How happy the poor chevalier felt, at finding himself once more seated, and at table, and in the midst of his friends! How he amused Raymond and Juliette, by relating his campaigns and adventures! M. Fiddler, knowing that M. de la Fère had a friend to dinner, had requested permission to send in a couple of bottles of good wine, and M. de la Fère, who was no longer afraid of being obliged to have recourse to compassion, considered that he ought not to refuse a friendly present. The wine completely restored to the chevalier his strength, his originality, and even his hopes. By the time the dinner was over, he had completely forgotten that he had not a sou, that he had not a shirt, that his shoes were without soles, and his coat almost without sleeves; his friends had equally forgotten it, for on this day no one thought of the future, and it passed away in the enjoyment of a degree of happiness of which those who have never suffered can form no conception. At night, M. Fiddler lent them a bed, and the chevalier slept in the room occupied by M. de la Fère and Raymond, who could hardly sleep from the joy he felt at having a new companion.

The following morning, M. de la Fère said to the chevalier: "Well! you remain with us; but every one in this house works,--what can you do?"

"Faith, not much," said the chevalier. "I can attend to the house, go of errands, and see to the cooking, when there is any," for they had related to him the history of the eight days' fast. "Oh, I forgot," he continued, "I have a marvellous talent for mending old clothes. Look!" and he showed them his coat, which was hanging in tatters at all points. Every one laughed; but on a closer examination, they found, that if indeed the chevalier's coat was thus torn, it had been previously well mended. "This," said he, "is the only talent I have as yet needed; set me to work, and perhaps some other will spring up." It was agreed that, for the present, he should confine himself to the exercise of his talents as a tailor, upon the remains of his coat, in order to make it look somewhat more respectable, while he was waiting for a better; and that he should undertake the rough work, while the family was occupied in executing the orders, which were now numerous and pressing. A few days after, M. Fiddler consented to let them have, instead of the pavilion which they occupied, and which was unsuited to their present circumstances, a much smaller dwelling, to which was attached a little garden; this the chevalier undertook to cultivate, and it supplied them with some fruit and vegetables. He also prepared the card-board for the boxes and screens, and even chimney ornaments, and pendule cases, which were made by M. de la Fère and his son. These productions, as well as those of Madame de la Fère, became quite the fashion in the country. The chevalier took them to the neighbouring fairs, where, at the same time, he found opportunities of making more advantageous purchases than in the town. M. de la Fère gave him a per-centage on all he bought and sold for him, so that in a short time he was able to carry on a small trade on his own account, in which he displayed considerable ability. Raymond often accompanied him in these excursions, and thus began to acquire a knowledge of business. As for Madame de la Fère, who added to her skill in embroidery, a talent for millinery, she had soon so much to do that she was obliged to take work-women, and she opened a shop, to which people came from all parts, to get the French fashions, of which the chevalier, by his activity, contrived to obtain for her the patterns. When their circumstances had so much improved, that there was no longer any danger of another fast, M. de la Fère said to Raymond and Juliette, "My children, you have hitherto worked for the benefit of the community, it is but just that you should also work for yourselves; I give you each a louis d'or, you now know what it is capable of producing, turn it to profit on your own account."

They did turn it to so good a use, that it served for their maintenance during the remainder of the time they continued abroad. M. and Madame de la Fère, when they returned to France, had acquired by their industry, a sufficient sum to repurchase a portion of their property which had been sold, and the Chevalier de Villon, who remained with them, was in a condition to pay them a small sum annually. As to Raymond, he had acquired habits of business and industry, and Juliette those of activity and economy. She had also learned never to close her heart to the miseries of others, as sometimes happens with those who are very much engrossed by their own trials; but it was in the midst of the anxieties of a most painful position, that Juliette had seen how little it sometimes costs to alleviate a great misfortune, and it was the louis d'or which had taught her all this.

CONTINUATION OF THE HISTORY OF A LOUIS D'OR.

The louis d'or paid by Madame de la Fère to the merchant from whom she had bought the lawn for her first handkerchiefs, was passed by him to a fellow-tradesman, who was going to another town of Germany, where he was established as a dealer in lace. Among the workpeople who supplied him, was a young girl named _Victorine_, a refugee like M. and Madame de la Fère. Victorine worked for the support of her godmother, Madame d'Alin, an elderly person who had formerly been well off; but the dread of the revolution had seized upon her to such a degree, that almost at the very outbreak she precipitately quitted France, without taking any precautions to preserve her property, and without any money but what she happened to have at the moment for her current expenses. Thinking only of flight, she took no one with her but her godchild Victorine, the daughter of one of her old servants, whom she had brought up. She had had her instructed in every kind of female employment; and when they fell into misfortune, Victorine, who, though scarcely seventeen years of age, possessed both sense and courage, set herself vigorously to work for her godmother, whom age, delicate health, and weakness of character, rendered incapable of overcoming the difficulties of such a situation.

The first thought of Victorine, when they found themselves without means, had been to sell a piece of lace, which she had just finished for herself. Having succeeded in disposing of it, she continued this kind of work. She could not devote to it as much time as she wished, having to attend to the domestic arrangements, and to wait upon Madame d'Alin, who was not accustomed to do anything for herself. Occasionally also she had to read aloud to Madame d'Alin, who was sometimes a little vexed that she could not do so more frequently. Victorine often felt annoyed at being disturbed from her work, but she did not display this feeling; for she knew that her godmother was so kind, that had she perceived it, she would have deprived herself of many pleasures and dispensed with many services, which habit had rendered necessary to her.

Notwithstanding these interruptions, Victorine's labour was sufficient to provide for their ordinary wants; but it was only just sufficient. The least additional expense would have deranged everything, and since they had been in Germany, their wardrobes had not been renewed. Madame d'Alin suffered no inconvenience on this account, because she went out so rarely that her dresses were but little used, so that the clothes she had brought with her were sufficient for a long time; but Victorine's stock, never very considerable, was soon exhausted, and the poor girl, notwithstanding her good sense, was not insensible to the annoyance of going out in a dress the different parts of which did not well match the pattern, and the sleeves of which only reached half way down her arm; for she had grown. Madame d'Alin, who was kindness itself, and who was extremely fond of Victorine, endeavoured to improve matters by giving her some of her own dresses; but the dresses of Madame d'Alin, who was small and thin, while Victorine was very tall and rather stout, suited her still worse than those which had, at least, been made for her; and although her godmother's bonnet and old mantle preserved her from the cold and rain, they gave her so strange an appearance, that she could not help being a little uncomfortable when she had to go into the streets thus muffled up, and especially when she entered the shop where she sold her lace. She longed for the time when she should be able to buy a dress and bonnet in the fashion of the country, and as everything was very cheap there, and Victorine had no desire to dress expensively, she hoped to be able to accomplish her wish for a sum of about a louis.

The possession of this louis, then, was the object of her ambition: she thought of it night and day, and pictured to herself the delight she should feel the first time she went out dressed like other people: but she must first be able to spare a louis, and to accomplish this was no easy matter; for Victorine, from the situation in which she was placed, and the whole responsibility of which devolved upon her, had acquired such habits of economy, that she would never have run the risk of spending so considerable a sum, without having in advance sufficient money and work for several months. She had then put a louis aside, but determined not to purchase her dress and bonnet until she had collected a certain sum. At first she was very far from the point, then some weeks of cheapness and the talent which she had acquired for economy enabled her to increase her store. Sometimes it augmented so rapidly that she hoped to see it soon complete; but all at once the price of vegetables was raised, or the bushel of charcoal had gone more quickly: then the treasure ceased to increase: Victorine no longer knew when it would be complete, and the slightest accident which happened to diminish it made her lose all hope. Then would she add another patch to her dress, which, in the anticipation of a new one, she had a little neglected, and for several days her heart would be sad, and she would feel some difficulty in working with her usual diligence and pleasure.

One day when she happened to be in a happier mood, she carried her work to the dealer, who, in paying her, said, "See! here is some of the money of your own country." And he showed her the louis. Victorine, on beholding it, was greatly moved; it was so long since she had seen a French coin. Oh! how she longed to possess it! But it was in vain that she calculated; the sum owing to her in the currency of the country did not amount to a louis. At last she begged the shopkeeper to save it for her, promising in a short time to bring sufficient work to make up the amount. In fact, the desire of possessing this louis redoubled her energies. Shortly afterwards she went to obtain it, brought it away with great delight, and as everything was referred to her favourite idea, she determined to purchase with it her dress and bonnet, as soon as she was able. This was the louis d'or which she had put by, and which she kept so carefully.

The increased quantity of work which she had for some time executed, in order to obtain it the sooner, together with a few weeks favourable to her economy, brought her near the accomplishment of her wishes. At length the day arrived when the work she was to take home would complete the necessary amount, provided the provisions she had to purchase did not exceed a certain price. The provisions happened to be cheap, and Victorine, overjoyed, stopped on her way back at the shop of a linendraper with whom she was acquainted, and selected a pattern, in order to increase the pleasure she would have in buying it; and perhaps, also, that she might the sooner have the gratification of telling some one that she was going to purchase a dress. She had not yet communicated her intention to Madame d'Alin, but she felt quite sure of her approbation. After having made her choice, she returned home, almost running, to leave her provisions, and to fetch her louis. On entering, she opened the door so hastily, that Madame d'Alin, who did not expect her, started, and her spectacles, which were lying on her knee, fell, and both the glasses were broken. "Good heavens!" exclaimed Madame d'Alin, partly from fright, and partly from the vexation she felt at having broken her glasses. As for Victorine, she remained motionless. The pleasure which she had promised herself was so great, that her vexation was proportionally extreme. At length, taking the spectacles from the hands of Madame d'Alin, with a movement of impatience, which she could not control, she said, "Now, then, there are some glasses to be bought!"

"No, my child," replied Madame d'Alin, mildly, "I will do without them." Victorine felt that she had done wrong; and telling her godmother, in a tone of greater gentleness, that she could not do without glasses, she went out to replace them. However, in calling on the linendraper to tell him that she should not buy the dress, she had to turn away her head, that he might not see the tears which started to her eyes.

She purchased the glasses, returned home, and was greatly astonished at finding with Madame d'Alin a man, whom she did not at first recognize, so little did she think it possible for him to be there. It was the steward of the little estate on which Madame d'Alin usually resided. He had come from France for the purpose of informing his mistress that there was no longer the slightest danger in returning; that she had not been put upon the list of emigrants; that her tenant, who was an honest man, had punctually paid his rent; and that he himself, having been unable to transmit to her the money, had allowed it to accumulate, and had now come to seek her, in order that she might return home. Madame d'Alin, while listening to him, was agitated between hope and fear; and as for Victorine, she was so troubled, that she knew not what she felt. Though she had longed to revisit France, yet this had appeared to her a thing so impossible, that she had never dwelt upon the idea; but from this moment it took such possession of her mind, that she could think of nothing else, and her entreaties and arguments, added to those of the steward, as well as the representations of several of the friends of Madame d'Alin, from whom he had brought letters, which her spectacles now enabled her to read, made her resolve on returning. The day was fixed for their departure; and Victorine, for whom her godmother immediately bought a dress and bonnet, having no need of her louis for this purpose, reserved it, in order to buy, when she got back to France, something which might afford her very great pleasure.

On her return, she was for a long time unable to decide on the manner in which she should employ it. Madame d'Alin, who regarded her as her own child, supplied her abundantly with everything she required, and as she was too much accustomed to economy to have any very strong fancies, she always kept it for some better opportunity than had as yet presented itself. Besides, when after some stay in Paris, they returned to the little estate of Madame d'Alin, Victorine was placed at the head of her household, and as she found many things which required to be put in order, she was too much occupied to think about spending her louis. At length, one of her relatives, a servant, in a town a few leagues distant, having occasion to visit her, spoke of the difficulty she felt in managing with her low wages, having her mother to support, whose strength no longer permitted her to do much. Victorine thought that the best use she could make of her louis, was to give it to her friend; the latter promised to send it as soon as possible to her mother, who was called _Old Mathurine_, and who resided two leagues distant from her. As to Victorine, she shortly after married the son of the honest steward, who had so well preserved the fortune of his mistress. While Madame d'Alin lived, they took care of her, as if they had been her own children, and at her death, she left them a considerable part of her property.

You see, continued M. de Cideville, how much time and trouble are sometimes required in order to obtain a louis d'or. The following story will show you how many vexations might sometimes be avoided by the possession of a sum much less considerable.

THE TEMPTATIONS.

Madame de Livonne, after having been in affluent circumstances, had fallen into, a state of great poverty. Being left a widow, with her daughter Euphemia, who was about twelve years of age, and having only distant relations, who were far from wealthy, and to whom she did not wish to be a burden, she took the reasonable and courageous resolution of providing, by her own exertions, for herself and daughter. She therefore established herself in a small town where she was unknown, that she might be able to live as she pleased, without being obliged to go into company, or receive visits. She applied herself to plain work, with Euphemia, who was gentle and reasonable, and who loved her mother, whom she had seen very unhappy, so tenderly, that provided she saw her tranquil, nothing troubled her. It was not because Euphemia did not, at first, experience much difficulty in accustoming herself to certain privations which daily increased, or to duties somewhat repugnant to her feelings; but she found her mother so ready to neglect herself on her account, and so anxious to spare her as much as possible everything that was disagreeable, that she felt eager to anticipate her, and made a pleasure of what would otherwise have been a pain. Thus, for instance, she had no fancy for counting the linen, or washing the dishes, but if she could manage to be the first to see the laundress, she hastened to give her the clothes, delighted with the thought that her mother would not have to do it; and after dinner she generally contrived to surprise her, by washing and arranging the things before Madame de Livonne rose from table, who, upon seeing what was done, would embrace her child with the greatest tenderness.

With the happiness which these attentions caused, would sometimes mingle a feeling of melancholy and uneasiness, relative to the future prospects of Euphemia; but Madame de Livonne possessed so much fortitude, that she was enabled to overcome her fears, and to place her trust in Providence. Besides, there could not well be any sadness where Euphemia was, for she laughed and sung over all she did, and her mother, who was still young, and had a pleasing voice, often joined in her songs. In the evening, when the weather was fine, they walked into the country, and Euphemia, after having been shut up all day, enjoyed with transport the beauty of the weather and the freshness of the air; and, satisfied with having worked with diligence, she thought with pleasure of the duties of the succeeding day. To see and hear her, one would have imagined that she was the happiest creature in the world; and in truth she was happy, for she did nothing wrong, she had no fancies that tormented her, she was never wearied, and always spent her time in useful occupations.

Madame de Livonne was so economical, and proportioned so well her expenses to her means, that since they had been compelled to work for their living, they had never been embarrassed. But she was taken ill, even dangerously so. However, Euphemia's joy, when she beheld her convalescent, was so great, that she could scarcely think of the situation in which they were soon to be placed. Almost all their money had been spent during the time that Madame de Livonne had been unable to work, and when Euphemia, occupied in nursing her, her heart always heavy, and her eyes full of tears, was scarcely able to work either. It was not what the poor child had eaten during this time that cost much, but medicines and nourishing food had been required for her mother. Several persons of the town who esteemed Madame de Livonne, on account of her fortitude and her virtues, had, indeed, sent her various things, of which she stood in need, but this assistance ceased as soon as she was better, and she herself even, in order not to encroach upon their kindness, had assured them that such things were no longer necessary for her. They therefore found themselves in such a state of destitution, that as soon as Madame de Livonne had, in some degree, regained her strength, she determined to go to a town, about two leagues distant from where they lived, in order to collect some money for work sent home before her illness.

They set out very early one morning, and when just on the point of starting, the daughter of Mathurine called upon them. It was in this town that she was in service, and her mother lived in the one to which they were going. She was acquainted with them, as they worked for her mistress, and being aware of their intended journey, she begged them to carry to her mother the louis d'or that Victorine had given her. They willingly took charge of it, and set off full of spirits. Euphemia was so delighted to breathe the morning air, that, although repeatedly reminded by her mother that they had four leagues to walk during the day, she could not refrain from jumping about, and running on before, and into the fields, on each side of the road; so that when the heat increased, she became very thirsty, and the more so as she had eaten, while skipping about, a large piece of bread. Her mother exhorted her to bear the inconvenience with patience, as there was no means of procuring anything to drink. Euphemia said no more about it, as she did not wish to grieve her mother needlessly; but presently she uttered a cry of joy.

"Oh, mamma, there is a man selling gooseberries; we can buy a pound to refresh ourselves."

"My poor child," said her mother, "you know we have no money."

"I thought," replied Euphemia, timidly, "that they would not be very dear."

"But I have no money at all, my dear Euphemia; none whatever."

"I thought, mamma, that this man might change for us old Mathurine's louis d'or, and when we arrived, we could give her her money, together with what we had borrowed from it."

"But we have neither the permission of Mathurine, nor of her daughter, to borrow from this money; it was not given us for that purpose."

"Oh! I am quite sure," continued Euphemia, in a sorrowful tone, "that if they knew how thirsty I am, they would gladly lend us sufficient to buy a pound of gooseberries."

"My poor child," replied her mother, still more sorrowfully, "we can be sure only of our own will, and dispose only of that which belongs to us. As this money does not belong to us, is it not the same as if we had not got it at all?"

As she spoke, she put her arms round her daughter's neck, and embraced her tenderly, regarding her with a look of distress, as if to entreat her not to persist in a request which she could not grant. Euphemia kissed her mother's hand, and turned away her head, that she might not see the basket of gooseberries which was passing by them at the moment; and hearing her mother sigh heavily, she determined not to give her any more uneasiness.

"Are you still very thirsty?" said Madame de Livonne to her, some time afterwards.

"Yes, mamma;" and she added, "this is like the child of Hagar in the desert." But seeing that her comparison brought tears to her mother's eyes, she continued gaily, "But I shall not die of it," and she began to skip about, in order to show that she was not overcome by the heat and thirst. Nevertheless, she was very much flushed, and her mother, looking at her with great anxiety, saw that she was really suffering. She stopped, and looked around her. "Listen, Euphemia," said she to her daughter; "it is possible that behind this rising ground, which overhangs the road, we may find a hollow, and perhaps some water. Get up and see."

Euphemia ascended, and at first saw nothing but a vast plain covered with corn, without a tree, without the least verdure indicative of water. For the moment, she felt ready to cry; she stood on tiptoe, and notwithstanding the heat of the sun, which was shining full upon her head, she could not make up her mind to come down and resign the hope of quenching her thirst. At length she heard a dog bark not far from the spot where she stood. After hearing it several times, she remarked that the sound always proceeded from the same place, and that it was, moreover, the voice of a large dog, and not that of a shepherd's dog. She judged that the animal must be at the door of some dwelling, and running in the direction of the sound, she discovered, to her extreme joy, a house which had been hidden by the elevation on which she stood. She announced the news to her mother, who telling her to go on, followed after her. Before Madame de Livonne arrived, Euphemia had drunk off a large glass of water, with a little wine in it, which a good-natured woman had given her, although Euphemia at first refused the wine, as she had no money to pay for it. She also asked for a glass for her mother, and ran to meet her; and Madame de Livonne, delighted at seeing the poor child refreshed and comforted, forgot half her own fatigues.

Having fully rested and refreshed themselves, and warmly thanked their kind entertainer, they again set out on their journey, by a path which she had pointed out to them, as shorter and pleasanter than the high road. Euphemia, quite reanimated, could not refrain from congratulating herself on her good fortune, and a little also on her cleverness, in having inferred that there was a house there.

"You must allow," said her mother, "that you would not have shown so much discrimination, had you not been so thirsty. Necessity is the parent of invention."

"Oh, most certainly," replied Euphemia, "if I had eaten the gooseberries, we should not have sought for something to drink, and I should not have had that good glass of wine and water, which has done me so much more good."

Whilst thus conversing, a poor woman approached them, carrying an infant, which was very pale, and so weak, that it could not hold up its head; she herself was frightfully emaciated, and her eyes were red and hollow from weeping; she asked them for alms.

"Good Heavens! we have nothing," said Euphemia, in a most sorrowful tone.

"Only enough to buy something for my poor child, who has had no milk for two days! only enough to save it from dying!"

"I have nothing in the world," said Madame de Livonne, with inexpressible anguish. The poor woman sat down on the ground and burst into tears. Euphemia, her heart torn with grief, clasped her hands and exclaimed, "Mamma, mamma, shall we leave this poor child and its mother to die of hunger? Would not that be worse than borrowing from Mathurine's money? We are still near the house; let me go and change the louis." Madame de Livonne cast down her eyes, and for a moment appeared to reflect.

"Euphemia," said she, "have you forgotten that as this money does not belong to us, it is the same as if it were not in our possession?"

Euphemia began to cry bitterly, hiding her face in her hands. The poor woman, seeing them stop, got up and again approached Madame de Livonne.

"For the love of God," she exclaimed, "and that he may preserve your young lady, take pity on my poor child!"

"Tell me," said Madame de Livonne, "have you sufficient strength to reach the town?" The poor woman replied that she had, and Madame de Livonne, drawing from her pocket the cover of a letter, on the back of which she wrote a few lines in pencil, told her to take it to the Curé of the town in which she resided, promising her that he would give her assistance. Euphemia, hearing the poor woman thank her mother, felt courage at last to turn to her her tearful face. The expression of her pity seemed to shed a gleam of comfort over the heart of this unhappy creature. She looked alternately at Euphemia and at her child, as if to tell him also to thank her. Euphemia just then remembering that she had in her bag a piece of bread, left from her breakfast, gave it to the poor woman, who went away loading them with blessings, for she plainly saw that they had done for her all that was in their power. They continued their journey: their minds were relieved, but they were serious. Euphemia could talk of nothing but the poor woman. "You see, my child," said her mother, "that there are sometimes terrible temptations in life."

"Oh, mamma! so terrible that I do not know how it is possible to resist them."

"By fully persuading ourselves that there is nothing truly impossible but a breach of duty."

"But, mamma, if you had not been able to write to the Curé, could you have made up your mind to allow this poor woman to die, rather than change Mathurine's louis?"

"I would rather have begged for her."

This reply, in proving to Euphemia that resources are never wanting to him who has the courage to employ all those which are allowable, calmed a little the alarm inspired by the severity of certain duties.

At length they reached the town. One of the two persons with whom Madame de Livonne had business, lived at its entrance, and she felt a little uneasy at seeing the shutters of the house closed. Nevertheless she made inquiries. A servant, the only one remaining in the house, informed her that her mistress was gone to see her sister, who was ill, and living at a distance of thirty leagues. Euphemia looked at her mother with dismay; however, she thought it very fortunate that they had not touched Mathurine's louis. They then went to the other customer; but she no longer resided in the town. A neighbour told them that she had only stayed there a short time, and that no one knew where she was gone to. On receiving this reply, Madame de Livonne sat down on a step. Her daughter saw her turn pale, and lean for support, as if she was going to faint; and indeed it was only her courage which had until then supported her against the debility left by her malady, the fatigues of the journey, and the vexation occasioned by her first disappointment. Now her strength entirely gave way, and she fainted outright. Euphemia, trembling, and in despair, embraced her as long as she was able, and called her, and shook her, in order to make her revive. She was afraid to leave her for the purpose of seeking assistance; brought up in habits of self-restraint, she dared not cry out, and no one happened to be passing by; every one was in the fields. At length, the neighbour who had spoken to them again coming out, Euphemia called her, and pointed to her mother. Two other old women also come up and gave their aid in restoring her to consciousness. Madame de Livonne opened her eyes, and turned them upon her daughter, who kneeling by her side, kissed her hands, and exclaimed in a transport of joy, "Mamma, here I am;" for at this moment she thought of nothing but the happiness of being once more restored to each other.

However, she soon become very anxious about their return home; but her mother told her not to torment herself, as she would soon recover her strength; and yet at every moment she seemed on the point of fainting again. Every time she closed her eyes, Euphemia turned pale and was ready to burst into tears, but restrained herself, in order not to grieve her mother, and clasping her hands, she murmured in a suppressed voice, "My God! what shall we do? how are we to get home?" One of the women told her that a coach would be passing in two hours which would take them back, but Euphemia knew very well that they had no money to pay for their places, and besides she thought that it would be impossible for her mother, weak as she was, to continue her journey without taking some refreshment. However, she had not once thought of making use of Mathurine's money; but at last it occurred to her that if she were to carry it to her, she might perhaps lend them a part of it. Delighted with this idea, she forgot her timidity, and hastily searching for the louis in her mother's pocket, and begging one of the women to accompany her to Mathurine's house, she looked at her mother for permission. Madame de Livonne by a sign gave her consent, and Euphemia set off, walking so quickly that the woman who accompanied her had some difficulty in following her. Her heart beat violently as she reached the house; the door was locked; Mathurine had gone four leagues off to assist in the harvest, and was not to return until the following day. Euphemia looked at the person who gave her this information without uttering a word. She was unable to speak, for her heart was bursting, and her ideas were confused to such a degree, on receiving an intelligence which destroyed her last hope, that, happily for her, she no longer felt all the misery of her situation. She returned slowly, looking mechanically around her, as if seeking some one who might give her aid; but all she saw seemed poorer than herself, though she felt that at that moment there were none of them so wretched. Presently the air resounded with the cracking of postilions' whips; a travelling carriage drove up, and stopped at the inn: it occupied the whole of the narrow street, and obliged Euphemia and her companion to stop. A lady, her husband and daughter, and a lady's-maid, descended from it, and were quickly surrounded by poor asking for alms. This sight made Euphemia weep, without very well knowing why. She watched them, and listened to the lady's soft voice; she looked at her husband, whose countenance was good and amiable, and at the young girl, who was nearly of her own age; she could not make up her mind to pass on. At last she heard the husband, in a tone of kindness, say to the poor who were begging, "My children, I can give you nothing here; but come to Béville, ask for the château, and you shall have work."