Chapter M: Le Chevalier (1)

"Stop them! Stop them!" was re-echoed through the Rue St. Honoré. "Madame la Marquise is running down the street! This way! Madame la Vicomtesse is dragging her dress through the mud! Oh! M. le Baron has lost his wig! and M. le Chevalier?... William, where is M. le Chevalier?"

And William ran right and left, endeavouring to bring back a number of dressed-up dogs, such as are seen parading the streets, in little carriages. They had just escaped from their kennel, while their owners were occupied with their morning toilet. This toilet was a tedious and difficult affair, for whilst they were washing one, the one which had just gone through the operation, never failed to go and put his paws into the gutter. While M. le Baron was made to stand on his hind feet, in order to have his fore paws put through the sleeves of his coat, Madame la Marquise, seizing the first opportunity to make use of her legs, set off running all round the yard, in her petticoat, which being then much too long, and getting entangled between her legs, threw her down; and whilst they ran after her, all the others would make their escape, half-dressed in their finery. On the present occasion, the gate of the yard happened accidentally to be opened, while one of these scenes was enacted, and all the dogs made their escape into the street, troubling themselves very little as to the state in which they appeared before the eyes of the public.

However, William, the owner's son, had succeeded in catching almost all of them, and, saving the loss of M. le Baron's wig, and the unfortunate accident which had happened to the hat and feathers of Madame la Vicomtesse, when she rolled in a heap of rubbish, and the rent which Madame la Marquise had made in her blue petticoat, all would have been set to rights, if M. le Chevalier could have been found. M. le Chevalier was a very important personage. He was the only one who was able to waltz with Madame la Présidente. Everybody was delighted to see them take each other by the neck, with their fore paws, and dance in time on their hind feet. Now, Madame la Présidente could not waltz all alone; thus two talents were lost at the same time. The owner was in despair; he was to go that day to Clichi, to the fair of St. Médard, and he built his chief hopes of success upon the waltz. But it was in vain that William went to every house in the neighbourhood, asking whether any one had seen M. le Chevalier. "And who is M. le Chevalier?" he was everywhere asked; and William replied, "He has a yellow waistcoat, no trousers, pointed ears, a sword at his side, and his tail is bald at the end." Notwithstanding this luminous description, no one could give him any information respecting M. le Chevalier. At length, as it was growing late, the master decided on setting off with the rest of his troop, telling William to follow him with M. le Chevalier, if he succeeded in finding him.

William had a second time searched all the streets in the vicinity, and was returning home sorrowfully, when he met one of his neighbours coming from market. He asked her, as he had done every one else, whether she could give him any information about M. le Chevalier.

"Bah!" said she, "has he not returned? This morning, when your dogs ran away, I was just going to market, and I saw him enter the alley opposite, and go into M. Bucquet's, the linendraper. Has he really not come back, then? Oh, I'll wager that it is little Roussel who has kept him."

George Roussel lived with his father and mother in the house of M. Bucquet; he was a good boy, and very fond of his parents, and he also gave great satisfaction at school, where he regularly attended, as day-scholar: in other respects, however, he was the most mischief-loving urchin imaginable. As his father, who was employed at a banker's, and his mother, who gave lessons in writing, passed much of their time away from home, George was quite his own master out of school hours, and this time he employed in playing tricks on the neighbours; nor was it sufficient for him to spend in this manner the hours of daylight, the night also was often employed in similar practices. He slept at the back of the house, in a small room, the windows of which looked upon the roofs and leads. Through this window he passed to go and hunt the cats, and when he succeeded in catching two or three, he tied them together by their tails. Then when every one was asleep, he would throw them into the house, through a staircase window opening upon the same leads, and run with all speed to his own room as soon as he perceived that the neighbours were awakened by the frightful uproar which they made in their unavailing efforts to get loose. Immediately all the doors would open, every one rushing out to know what could be the matter. Then they would run after the cats, which, of course, did not suffer themselves to be easily caught, but kept crying and mewing, as if they had been burned, and scratching every one who attempted to separate them. Another time, a neighbour's dog would return to his mistress, covered with oil, from the ears to the tail, so that no one could touch him without being greased, nor could he approach anything without leaving on it a stain. On a cold winter's day, George would contrive to attach a piece of ice to the handle of a door-bell, and the first person who wanted to ring would snatch his hand away, struck with cold and surprise; or else he would cut the wire attached to the bell, so that people would pull for a quarter of an hour without producing any effect. He also hampered the locks, and hid the keys, if they happened to be left in the doors; and, in fact, every day brought fresh complaints; but they were of little use. George was an only child, born when his parents were already advanced in life, and after they had been married many years without having any children. M. and Madame Roussel loved him, therefore, with such a foolish fondness, that they overlooked all his faults. When complaints were made of him to M. Roussel, he would shrug his shoulders, and say, "Well, youth must have its day." Nevertheless, he scolded George a little, for the gratification of the neighbours, but afterwards he had the weakness to laugh at his tricks. Madame Roussel was still more unreasonable, for she became so angry when complaints were made of her son, that no one dared to speak to her on the subject. Had they not been very good tenants, and very punctual in their payments, though their rent was high, M. Bucquet would have given them notice to leave twenty times over, so disagreeable had George become to the whole house.

Besides, everything that happened was laid to his charge; if any one slipped on the stairs by treading on a cherrystone, it was always George who had scattered them through malice: not a pane of glass was broken in the hall or passages, but it was always George who had done it; in fact, his reputation was spread throughout the entire neighbourhood. William had heard him spoken of, and could not doubt that the conjecture of his acquaintance was well founded, and the more so as another neighbour asserted that he had heard George a few days before saying to little Bucquet, "Wouldn't it be nice, Joseph, to have a dog like that? We should get a famous price for it!"

In consequence of this information, William went to M. Bucquet's, and asked him in what part of the house M. Roussel lived, as he wanted to inquire for his dog, which had been taken by little Roussel.

"He would be likely enough to do so," said M. Bucquet; "but I think he went out with his father before your dogs took the liberty of walking off. Is it not so, Joseph?"

Joseph, who was occupied in arranging a box of gloves over the counter, answered "Yes," without raising his head, and William did not perceive that he blushed very much. As it was known that M. le Chevalier had really entered the house, William begged permission to go and inquire of all the lodgers. No one had seen him; but on passing by a door that was locked, and which he supposed to be that belonging to M. Roussel, he knocked very loudly, and then listened attentively. At the second knock, he thought he heard a bark, and fancied he recognised the voice of M. le Chevalier. Transported with joy, he hastened down again, and was astonished at seeing Joseph, who had softly followed him at some distance, endeavouring to make his escape the moment he was observed. William returned to the shop, exclaiming, "He is there; M. le Chevalier is there. I have heard him bark;" and seeing Joseph re-enter the shop, he added, "Yes, and I'll wager that M. Joseph knows very well that he is in M. Roussel's apartments."

"Indeed!" said M. Bucquet, "I should like to see him interfering with the tricks of that little rascal George. You may rest assured that he has not meddled with your dog. If he had, I should very soon settle him."

William inquired whether M. Roussel would be long away, and was informed that he was gone to Clichi for the fête, to pass the day with his brother, who was steward of the château, and that he would not return till the evening. William wanted to have the door forced; but M. Bucquet would not consent to such a thing. William therefore determined to carry the intelligence he had received to his father, purposing to return immediately, and place himself as sentinel at M. Roussel's door, in order to prevent anything being removed without his permission. Meanwhile he begged the neighbours to watch, in case M. Roussel returned during his absence; and they promised to do so.

His departure relieved Joseph from a heavy burden, for it was he who had taken the dog. He had long shared in George's mischievous tricks without any one being aware of it. As he stood in great awe of his father, who sometimes treated him very severely, he had been for a long time extremely quiet and orderly, but at length the example and the solicitations of George, who was dying to have a companion in his sports, had led him away, without rendering him any the more courageous. Younger and weaker than George, he preferred such tricks as were of a secret and underhand character, while George delighted in more daring exploits. If a falsehood was to be told, it was Joseph always who undertook to tell it, and George, who had never spoken anything but the truth to his own parents, did not consider how wrong it was to be continually leading Joseph to deceive his. He had shown him the way by the leads, in order that he might enter the room in which he slept without passing by the apartments occupied by M. and Madame Roussel. The morning that M. le Chevalier had entered the alley, Joseph met him at the foot of the stairs, and thinking it a capital opportunity, he took him up, and carried him by way of the leads into George's room, never doubting that the latter, like himself, would be enchanted at the prospect of having him to sell. He had felt very much alarmed while William was knocking; but George's room being separated from the outside door by three other rooms, all the doors of which were closed, William had heard but faintly the barking of M. le Chevalier. It had been his first intention to watch for George on his return from Clichi, and tell him what he had done, in order that he might prevent any one from entering his room until the dog had been disposed of; for he generally left George to extricate himself, as well as he could, out of the scrapes in which he not unfrequently placed him. However, after William's departure, thinking that the dog would most certainly be reclaimed, and that it would be impossible to conceal him, he determined to repass the leads, fetch him, and turn him out of the house. As soon, therefore, as he saw his father occupied, he ran up the stairs, and passing through the window, he reached M. Roussel's rooms, and thinking that perhaps he might only have taken the key without locking the door outside, he hoped to be able to open it from within and turn out the dog, without being suspected. But he found the door locked, so that it was necessary to return by the usual way. At this moment, he heard his father's voice, calling him at the foot of the stairs. M. le Chevalier had concealed himself under a bed, from which it was impossible for Joseph to make him move. Besides, how was he to return through the staircase window with the dog? His father might be coming up, and see him; it was quite hazardous enough to get back alone. Joseph decided, therefore, on taking this latter course, leaving M. le Chevalier in quiet possession of the post to which he had retreated. He found his father and mother waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs, and told them that he had been to listen at M. Roussel's door in order to ascertain whether the dog was there. As it was Sunday, they closed the shop, and went out to dine. Joseph accompanied them, somewhat uneasy as to what might be the result of this affair, but still hoping to return sufficiently early to tell George, and determined, at all events, to deny having the least share in the theft.

Meanwhile, George, who knew nothing of the matter, was amusing himself at Clichi to his heart's content. In the morning, he had rowed upon the Seine, in a boat belonging to the château. Afterwards, he had witnessed the target-shooting, had run at the ring, and balanced himself in the swing. After dinner, he returned to see the various exhibitions in the square. In one corner were the puppets; in another, William's dogs, notwithstanding the absence of M. le Chevalier, attracted round them a large concourse of spectators. George saw them from a distance and recognised them; he hastened immediately to the spot, called his father, mother, uncle, and all the company, to whom he was delighted to introduce his friends the dogs. He mingled with the spectators, explained everything, in fact did the honours. "I know them," he said, "they live opposite to us." He enumerated their various talents and expatiated upon their acquirements, calling each by his own name, as people do in speaking of persons with whom they are very anxious to appear particularly connected. "This is M. le Baron," said he, "do you see Madame la Vicomtesse? it is she who executes the lady's-chain with Madame la Présidente; and M. le Chevalier? Oh! where is M. le Chevalier?"

At this exclamation, which reawakened all William's regrets, he turned his head, recognised George, and pointed him out to his father. The latter approached George in a very rough manner. "Ah! ah!" said he, "it is you then who have stolen my dog?" "Ladies and gentlemen," he continued, "you would have been still more gratified if this thief had not stolen from me a new dog which I hoped to have had the honour of presenting to you. A most admirable dog! Ladies and gentlemen, had you beheld him, you would have said his equal was nowhere to be found."

At this epithet of _thief_, George, though he could not understand how it was applicable to himself, became red with anger. M. Roussel and the uncle looked at each other, and with great warmth commanded the owner of the dogs to explain himself. He recommenced his grievances and invectives, and swore that they should pay the value of what he had lost by M. le Chevalier, who assuredly would have tripled the receipts. George, his father, and his uncle replied, became warm, and at length got into a rage, whilst poor Madame Roussel, greatly agitated, wanted to get away. The master of the dogs, on his side, vociferated louder and louder, and began to gesticulate. In the heat of the dispute, William, who had finished his collection, came to his father's aid. "It is he," he exclaimed, pointing to George; "he stole him in order to sell him; I heard M. le Chevalier bark in his room."

"That's false," said George, accompanying his reply with a blow, which upset all the money that William had collected in his hat. The latter wanted both to pick up the money and return the blow at the same time, but George did not give him the opportunity, for he fell upon him with redoubled violence. William then seriously thought of defending himself.

D'Aumale est plus ardent, plus fort, plus furieux;
Turenne est plus adroit, et moins impétueux.
_La Henriade._

D'Aumale is more ardent, stronger, more furious;
Turenne, less impetuous, displays more skill.

George gave most blows, but William was more skilful in parrying, and while his hands were employed against George, he endeavoured with his feet to keep off the little boys, who had rushed to pick up the money. One of these, in order to escape a kick which he perceived was likely to fall to his share, took hold of William by the leg, and thus threw him on the ground, while George, who was holding him by the hair, fell with him. They were picked up, and separated. The owner of the dogs now swore that they should not only pay for the loss of M. le Chevalier's day's work, but the amount of the collection also. M. Roussel insisted on knowing positively what it was they complained of. Madame Roussel, more dead than alive, wished to have the man paid, in order to get away; and her husband consented, provided the dog was found in their apartments, of which he showed the key, and which he also promised should not be opened, except in the presence of the owner of the dogs, whom he invited to return with him to Paris. "And we shall see," said George, doubling his fist at William, whom he promised himself to pay off in a very different manner.

They all returned, William dragging the dogs in their carriage; M. Roussel giving his arm to his wife, who could not support herself: the master of the dogs and M. Roussel at one moment talking angrily, at another more reasonably, and William and George, who were carefully kept apart, gesticulating at a distance, and often accompanying their gestures with words, for want of better means of annoyance. With them came many persons returning to Paris after the fête, who were curious to see the termination of this affair, while all the little boys of the village ran after them, trotting with their bare feet in the dust.

The troop reached Paris very much diminished, but sufficiently considerable to attract the attention of the passers by, and to be followed by a crowd of idle people. M. Bucquet, who beheld all this assemblage collected at his house, asked what it was all about; and while they were giving him an explanation, Joseph found an opportunity of taking George on one side, and relating to him the whole affair. George was furious, and commanded him to go at once and take the dog away, which Joseph refused to do for fear of being seen.

"I will say that it was you," exclaimed George.

"I will say that you tell a falsehood," replied Joseph.

George took him by the ears in order to force him up stairs.

"I'll scream," said Joseph.

George, notwithstanding his anger, saw that there was but one course to be pursued. He left Joseph, ran up stairs, attained the leads, entered his room and sought for the dog, determined, if requisite, to pass the night with him upon the roof; but he sought in vain. As Joseph had left the doors open, M. le Chevalier had had all the apartments at his disposal. Where could he be hidden? It was getting dusk, and the dog was small, George could not perceive him anywhere, and he was persuading himself that Joseph had been making game of him, and was about returning by the way that he had entered, when the animal scenting his master at the door, rushed from under a bed, howling most lamentably.

"Do you hear?" exclaimed the owner.

"It is impossible," exclaimed M. Roussel, precipitately opening the door. He stood perfectly stupified when he beheld his son and the dog in the middle of the room, without being able to understand in the least by what means they had got there.

"I knew it would be so," said William triumphantly.

George, stifled with shame and anger, and rendered furious by the invectives with which he was overwhelmed from all sides, protested that it was not he, but Joseph who did it. The neighbours, delighted at finding him in fault, were indignant that he should throw the blame upon another. M. Bucquet, who knew that if Joseph were the culprit, he should have to pay the damages, flew into a violent passion with George; and Madame Bucquet, terrified lest her husband should beat Joseph, became still louder and more violent in her invectives: M. Roussel thought that, right or wrong, he ought to take his son's part; William and his father were clamouring to be paid, and M. le Chevalier howled like a dog who had had no dinner.

In the midst of this fearful uproar, a venerable clergyman who lived in the house came up. Every one respected him, and he was the only person on whom George had not dared to play his tricks. He made every effort to restore peace, but when he had stilled the tumult for a moment, some voice was raised, every one replied, and the whole thing was renewed. At length he succeeded in persuading the people to disperse, with the exception of the owner of the dogs, who wanted to take M. Roussel before the magistrate to make him pay. M. Roussel did not desire anything better, and George was anxious to accompany them, in order to justify himself, but Madame Roussel wept and entreated her husband to pay: and the clergyman reminded him that he had promised to do so if the dog was discovered on his premises: he was therefore obliged to submit; and then the master of the dogs, perfectly satisfied, went away, holding M. le Chevalier under his arm, and saying, "Monsieur, Madame, very sorry to have troubled you."

M. and Madame Roussel retired to their own rooms, together with the clergyman, whom they had invited to accompany them. George sat in a corner, tearing his hair in despair. They asked him the truth of the story, which he explained, and M. Roussel and his wife were terribly enraged against Joseph.

"But," said the clergyman, "who taught him to pass by the leads?"

George agreed that it was he.

"And who accustomed him to do these mischievous tricks?"

George was compelled again to own that he had done so.

"Behold the effect of bad example!" continued the clergyman; "evil is done without very bad intentions, but he whom we instruct in committing it, learns the evil without heeding the intentions. Joseph has seen you keep dogs in your possession, in order to set their masters hunting for them, and he thought it quite as reasonable to conceal one in order to sell it: therefore, it is you who are answerable for all that he has done."

George had nothing to say. The clergyman lectured him for some time longer, and left him completely ashamed of himself, and determined to correct his faults: but his parents were obliged to leave the house and the neighbourhood, for George could never go into the streets, without hearing himself called a _dog-stealer_. For a time it was the same at school also, where some of the other boys had related the story; but as he was very much liked, and besides one of the strongest, his explanation and a few blows soon re-established him in the esteem of his companions.

In the end, the truth was discovered in the neighbourhood also, but it was long before the prejudices against him were quite overcome. As for Joseph, it is asserted that he was well beaten by his father, but this only corrected him of the desire of playing tricks on his neighbours. He continued all his life a coward from disposition, and a liar from the instructions of George; therefore, whenever George heard any evil of him, he felt pained, because he knew that he had increased the number of his bad habits.

EUDOXIA;

OR LEGITIMATE PRIDE.

Madame d'Aubonne beheld her daughter Eudoxia, who had attained the age of thirteen, increase every day in judgment, talent, and good dispositions of all kinds. It was with a feeling of intense happiness, that she discovered in her the germ and hope of every virtue. Nothing was wanting to Eudoxia, but the consciousness that virtues were given to us for our own practice, and not for the purpose of judging the conduct of others. Her own earnest love of all that was good, and her constant endeavour to do what she considered best, disposed her to blame others with severity, and to exact from them a rectitude, equal to that which she herself displayed in all her actions.

Though Eudoxia was too reserved, and even too timid to express her opinions to any one but her mother, to whom she confided everything, and who, on her part, had the most entire confidence in her daughter, nevertheless Madame d'Aubonne carefully opposed this tendency; for she knew that it was not sufficient to watch over words only, but that we must also regulate our thoughts; and those of Eudoxia appeared to her, in this respect, neither just nor reasonable. However, she had rarely occasion to reprimand her on this account, for with the exception of her cousin Constance, who was much younger than herself, and to whom, as she was very fond of her, she was, consequently, more indulgent, she saw scarcely any but older persons, and such as she would never have presumed to censure.

Madame d'Aubonne had resided many years in the country, attending to her invalid father; having had the misfortune to lose him, she returned, to Paris, which she again left, for the purpose of passing a couple of months at Romecourt, with Madame de Rivry, an old friend, who resided there with her daughter Julia, whom Eudoxia scarcely knew, not having seen her for six years.

Madame d'Aubonne found at Romecourt her aunt, Madame de Croissy, who was to spend there the same time as herself. Madame de Croissy was educating her two granddaughters, Adèle and Honorine, with whom Eudoxia was as little acquainted as with Julia, although they were her cousins. Her timidity, therefore, made her look with much terror on this new society, especially as the other three girls, though much about her own age, were very far from being as reasonable as herself.

Julia, though at heart a very good-dispositioned child, was very much spoiled by her mother, and sometimes answered her with a degree of impertinence which made every one present shrug their shoulders. Adèle regarded an untruth as the simplest thing in the world; she told falsehoods in sport; she told them in earnest; she even told them at the very moment in which she might have been convicted of the fallacy of her assertions.

As to Honorine, she was a perfect wild colt, without discipline, without reflection; never for a moment dreaming that her fancies could meet with the slightest opposition, nor that those things which gave her pleasure could be attended with any inconvenience. Madame de Croissy troubled herself very little about their education; provided they made no noise, and did not attempt to join in conversation, she always considered girls to be quite sufficiently well brought up; therefore she habitually left them with the servants, and felt annoyed, that at Romecourt they were almost always kept in the drawing-room, because Eudoxia and Julia were very little away from their mothers.

This plan was equally disagreeable to the two girls, but little accustomed to the society of their grandmamma, who, when at home, never concerned herself about them, any further than to tell them to hold themselves upright whenever she thought of it, or to be silent whenever their voices were heard above a whisper. They would have been much better pleased if left with their grandmother's servants, with whom they were accustomed to associate, provided, however, that they could have had Julia with them; for as to Eudoxia, they cared very little for her.

It is true that she had not been very amiable towards them, for she was quite horrified at their giddy manners, their want of obedience, and their tone of mockery, to which she was not accustomed. Astonished beyond measure, at their ignorance of almost every principle which, from her childhood, she had been taught to respect, she blushed to the eyes when she beheld Honorine reading without scruple a letter which she found open, playing tricks with the gardener's son, or standing at the park railing, in front of the high road, chatting with all the little boys and girls of the village. She trembled when she saw Adèle, even at her grandmamma's side, and under her very spectacles, cut the needleful with which she was embroidering, in order to shorten it, and be able to say that her task was finished. Nor, in fine, could she recover from her surprise, when she saw that the very moment in which Julia received an order from her mother to do anything, was precisely that which she selected for doing the opposite. At these times she imagined herself transported into a new world, where all was strange and incomprehensible to her: she avoided conversing with her companions, as she had nothing to say which would be agreeable to their tastes; and, besides, she would scarcely have known how to reply to them, had they spoken to her. She therefore left them as soon as she was able, and took refuge with her mother.

The others easily perceived, that though Eudoxia said nothing to them, she did not approve of their conduct; they were, therefore, very ill at ease in her society, and in no way pleased when Madame d'Aubonne, who was anxious that Eudoxia should accustom herself to live with others, adapt herself to their habits, and tolerate their defects, sent her to share in their amusements and conversation.

Neither was Eudoxia at all agreeable to Madame de Croissy, whose principles of education had so little affinity with those of Madame d'Aubonne, and whose grandchildren bore no resemblance to her daughter. As Madame de Croissy was the sister of Madame d'Aubonne's father, she had paid him a visit a short time before his death, but unaccompanied by her grandchildren. On that occasion she had seen Eudoxia, whose good qualities and happy dispositions were extolled by every one in the neighbourhood in which the family resided. As Madame de Croissy had never heard her grandchildren so praised, she felt annoyed; and, besides, she considered that Madame d'Aubonne conversed a great deal too much with her daughter, reasoned with her too much, and altogether occupied herself too much about her, though this was never at the expense of others. She therefore told every one, and was herself firmly persuaded that Madame d'Aubonne "would never make anything of this little prodigy but a little pedant."

Her annoyance had been redoubled since she had been in the country, by the striking contrast which the conduct of Eudoxia presented to that of her cousins; therefore, in her quality of grand-aunt, she perpetually contradicted her, either directly or by indirect allusions. Her looks were turned to her at every moment, as if she were watching her, and ready to seize instantly upon the slightest fault which might escape her. Nor did she ever call her anything but _Mademoiselle_ Eudoxia. Eudoxia would, therefore, have found but very little enjoyment in the country, had it not been for the happiness she felt in conversing with her mother, who spoke to her as a reasonable person, and who, even when reprimanding her, concealed nothing of her affection, nor even, we may add, of her respect; for with the exception of this want of toleration, which marred a little her good qualities, Eudoxia merited all the respect that a child of her years could merit.

One morning the four girls were at work in the drawing-room. Eudoxia, at her mother's side, occupied herself diligently with what she was engaged upon; the other three, collected in a corner, talked, laughed in an under tone, dropped their work, forgot to pick it up, and never did three stitches successively; and even when told to go on, they did so for a moment only, and with every indication of languor and _ennui_. Eudoxia, from time to time, looked at them, and then at her mother, with an expression which sufficiently explained her sentiments. Madame de Croissy caught one of these glances, and was led to notice her granddaughters.

"Have the kindness to continue your work, young ladies," she said to them, very harshly. "Do you not see how much you shock Mademoiselle Eudoxia?"

Adèle and Honorine pretended to go on with their work, and Eudoxia, greatly confused, cast down her eyes, and did not dare to raise them again during the time they remained in the drawing-room. When they had retired to their own apartment, Madame d'Aubonne observed,

"You were very much occupied with those young ladies."

"Oh! mamma, they were so foolish."

"And do you derive pleasure from foolish things or persons?"

"Quite the reverse, mamma, I assure you."

"Think again, my child; it cannot be _quite the reverse_; for they made you raise your eyes from your work more than twenty times, and yet I know that your work interested you."

"Nevertheless, I assure you, mamma, it was not pleasure that I felt."

"It was at least a great interest; and did not this interest arise from the satisfaction you experienced at seeing them more unreasonable than yourself?"

"Oh, mamma!"

"Come, my dear Eudoxia, it is in the examination of our evil emotions that courage is required, the good ones are easily discovered. Ask your conscience what it thinks of the matter."

"Mamma," said Eudoxia, somewhat confused, "I assure you that I did not at first think it was that."

"I believe you, my child; it is a feeling which steals upon us unperceived. Many persons experience it as well as you, and imagine that the bad actions of others increase the merit of their own. But tell me, my dear Eudoxia, would there not be still greater pleasure in being superior to such persons, than in merely being superior to your companions in industry and attention?"

Eudoxia assented to this, and promised to attend to it. She was always happy when any duty was pointed out to her, so great was the pleasure she felt in endeavouring to accomplish it. Having gone down to fetch something from an apartment adjoining the drawing-room, the door of which was open, she heard Madame de Croissy observe to Madame de Rivry,--

"I have always said that Mademoiselle Eudoxia would never be anything but a little pedant."

Madame de Rivry, although she liked Eudoxia, agreed that she busied herself much more in finding fault with her companions, than in making herself agreeable to them.

"That would be compromising her dignity," replied Madame de Croissy.

From that moment Eudoxia endeavoured to overcome her dislike and timidity. She mingled more frequently in the amusements of her companions, and at last took pleasure in them. But being now more at her ease with her playfellows, she told them more freely what she thought, and when she could not make them listen to reason, she would leave them with emotions of impatience, which she was unable to control.

"But why do you get impatient?" said her mother to her one day; "do they fail in their duty towards you, by not being as reasonable as you are?"

"No, mamma, but they fail in their duty to themselves, when they are so unreasonable, and it is that which irritates me."

"Listen, Eudoxia," continued her mother, "do you remember how irritable you used to be with your cousin Constance, because she paid so little attention to what she did, and broke everything that came in her way? One day you happened, by a carelessness of the same kind, to upset the table on which my writing-desk was placed; and I remember that from that time you have never been impatient with her."

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

"Did you consider the fault of less importance because you happened to commit it yourself?"

"Quite the reverse, mamma, but that showed me that it was more difficult to avoid it than I had at first imagined."

"This is what experience teaches us every day, my child, with regard to faults which we have not as yet committed. Thus," she added, laughing, "I do not despair of seeing you indulgent towards these young ladies, if one day you discover by the same means, that it is difficult not to be an arguer, like Julia; a story-teller, like Adèle; and a lover of mischief, like Honorine."

"As to that mamma," replied Eudoxia, warmly, "that is what I shall never learn."

"Are you quite sure, my child?"--"Oh! quite sure."

"Are you then so differently constituted, as to be able to persuade yourself, that what appears to them so easy, would be impossible to you?"

"It must be so," said Eudoxia, really piqued.

"How then, in that case," said her mother, smiling, "can you expect them to do the same things as yourself? You do not expect Julia, who is much smaller than you are, to reach as high as you do; you only expect this from Honorine, who is as tall as yourself."

"But, mamma," replied Eudoxia, after reflecting for a moment, "perhaps, then, as they are less reasonable, they are not obliged to do as much as other people."

"It would be very wrong for them to think so, my child, for every one ought to do as much good as lies in his power; but every one is likewise enjoined to inquire into his own duties, and not into those of others; therefore attend only to your own. Do you consider it just and reasonable to enjoy the pleasure of feeling that you are better than they are, and at the same time to get impatient with them, because they are not as good as yourself?"

"Mamma, are we then permitted to consider ourselves better than other people?"

"Yes, my child; for to think ourselves better than others is simply to feel that we possess more strength, more reason, more means of doing good, and consequently to consider ourselves bound to do more than them."

This conversation gave Eudoxia a feeling of satisfaction which rendered her more indulgent, and more patient with her companions; but in this indulgence there might perhaps be discovered a slight degree of pride; it had something of the kindness of a superior being always thinking of keeping herself sufficiently above others to avoid being hurt by their not acting with as much propriety as herself.

Eudoxia insensibly acquired the habit of considering her companions as children, and almost of treating them as such. One day when the four girls were working together, they compared their various performances, and Honorine's, which was like Eudoxia's, happened to be much worse done.

"That is a very difficult stitch," said she, with the same air as if she were making an excuse for a child of six years old.

It did not occur to her that the remark was equally applicable to herself. The others burst out laughing.

"Be quiet," said Honorine, "do you not see that Eudoxia has the kindness to protect me?"

Eudoxia felt so much hurt that the tears started to her eyes. She was satisfied with herself, and believed she had a right to be so, and yet she met with nothing but injustice and mockery. She again began to withdraw herself from her companions.

Her mother perceived this, and inquired the reason. Eudoxia felt some difficulty in confessing it, though she considered herself in the right. The ridicule that had been cast upon her had given rise to a species of shame. At last, however, she stated the cause.

"You were, then, very much hurt, were you not?" asked Madame d'Aubonne, "because Honorine appeared to think that you affected to protect her? It seems that you would have considered such a thing very ridiculous."

"Oh! mamma, it is not necessary that a thing should be ridiculous for them to laugh at it."

"But tell me, Eudoxia, if by chance they had ridiculed you because you love me, because you listen to me, because you do all that I desire, would that have given you pain?"

"No, indeed, mamma, I should have laughed at them then, in my turn."

"And why did you not pursue the same course when they laughed at the manner you assumed towards Honorine? If you thought that this patronizing manner was the most suitable, what did it matter to you that they should think otherwise? Are you not more reasonable than they are, consequently better able to judge of what is right?"

"Mamma," said Eudoxia, after a moment's silence, "I now think I was wrong in manifesting towards Honorine a manner which displeased her, but I only wished to show indulgence for the faults she had made in her work."

"My dear child, we ought to be indulgent towards the faults of every one, but we ought not to let this indulgence be manifest to those whose conduct does not concern us, unless they wish us to do so; for otherwise, as it is not our business to reprimand them, so neither is it to pardon them. This is an office which we have no right to assume without their permission."

"But what then is to be done, mamma, when they commit faults?"

"Try not to see them, if possible, and instead of pardoning, try to diminish them; endeavour to discover in Honorine's work all that is good, so that what is bad may be forgotten; but to do this you must not be very glad that your work has been found better than hers; your whole pride should consist in being superior to these trifling advantages."

Eudoxia profited by her mother's advice, and became every day more gentle and sociable. Madame de Croissy had scarcely anything to say against her, and her companions began to take pleasure in her society. She was completely in their confidence, at least as much as she desired to be; and when she saw the fears and vexations to which their inconsiderate conduct often exposed them, when she saw them blush at the least word that could have any reference to a fault which they had concealed, and even found them manifest towards herself a species of deference which they no longer refused to her good sense, when it was not exercised at their expense, she felt daily more and more, how great is the pleasure of self-respect.

"And yet," said her mother, "you are still very far from knowing its full value; this you will not ascertain until you have paid its price, until you have purchased it by painful sacrifices."

Eudoxia could not conceive that any sacrifices could be difficult which conferred such an advantage.

Madame de Rivry, who was extremely kind, and who took great interest in the amusements of young people, proposed to visit a very beautiful park, situated about four leagues from Romecourt; they were to spend the day there, and return home in the evening.

Eudoxia and her companions were delighted at the thought of this party; but on the evening before it was to take place, when they were thinking of the arrangement of the carriages, they found that Madame de Rivry's calèche would only hold four persons, therefore as it was necessary that she herself should be one of the four, the whole of the girls could not be with her; one of them must necessarily go in Madame de Croissy's carriage, with that lady and Madame d'Aubonne. This made a great difference in the pleasure of the journey.

Madame de Rivry, obliged to do the honours of her house, decided that it must be Julia who was to go in the carriage. Julia exclaimed loudly against this, and declared she would much prefer not going at all. She answered her mother in the disrespectful manner which she always assumed when anything displeased her, and said that it was very convenient for her mother, who was going in the calèche, to put her to be wearied to death in the carriage.

Madame de Rivry endeavoured in vain to induce her daughter to listen to reason; but as her indulgence did not extend so far as to make her forget what she owed to others, she resisted all her complaints.

Madame de Croissy offered to take one of her grandchildren with her, but this offer was not made with any emphasis, as she was desirous of seeing justice done, and would have been very sorry if, on this occasion, Madame de Rivry had yielded to her daughter. Madame d'Aubonne said nothing, for she saw that it would have been quite useless.

Julia sulked, and even cried, the whole afternoon. She was so much accustomed to have her own way, that the slightest contradiction was a violent grief to her. During their walk she was constantly wiping her eyes, while Madame de Rivry tried to console her, but to no purpose. This distressed Eudoxia so much, that she whispered to her mother, "If I dared, I would beg Madame de Rivry to give my place to Julia."

"It would do no good," said her mother; "but if you like, as you have a slight cold, I will say to-morrow that I should prefer your not going in the calèche, I think that will be better."

"Oh no, mamma," said Eudoxia quickly, "I assure you the calèche will not do my cold any harm."

"I agree with you, my child, that the inconvenience is not of sufficient importance to deprive you of this pleasure, neither should I have proposed it to you, had I not thought that you wished to give up your place to Julia."

"And I do wish to do so, mamma, but...."

"You would like perhaps to propose it in such a way that her mother would refuse it?"

"Oh! no, mamma, I do assure you."

"Or else you wish it to be known that it is you who give it up to her?"

"But, mamma, is it not natural to wish Julia to know that it is I who would give her this pleasure, and not any one else?"

"And even if that were possible, do you think that this mode of affording Julia pleasure would be agreeable to her? Suppose, for instance, that you had behaved in as childish a manner as she has done, and that any one of your age had offered to yield her place to you, and thus shown how very good she was, and how much the reverse you were, would you not have felt greatly humiliated by this kindness?"

"Oh! yes, mamma, that is very true."

"Nevertheless this is the humiliation you wish to impose on Julia, as the price of the pleasure you would afford her."

"I assure you, mamma, I have no wish whatever to humble her."

"No, but you wish to prove to her, as well as to every one else, that you are better than she is; for it does not seem to be sufficient for you to know this yourself."

"But, mamma, is it only allowable to be a little satisfied with ourselves, when we conceal from others what we do for them?"

"When the result of what we do for them is to cause ourselves to be esteemed much more than them, and at their expense, we only barter one advantage for another, and we have no reason to be very proud of ourselves, for we have made no great sacrifices for them."

"Mamma," said Eudoxia, after a moment's reflection, "if you like, you can tell Madame de Rivry that I have a cold."

"Just as you please, my child," and they said no more about the matter.

The following day the weather was superb, and Eudoxia beheld the calèche waiting in the yard, the horses pawing the ground, impatient to be off.

"My cold is almost gone," she said.

"I think, indeed," said Madame d'Aubonne, "that the calèche will do you no great harm."

"You know, mamma," said Eudoxia, with a sigh, "that it is not I who am going in it."

"You can still do as you like, my child, for I have not spoken on the subject to Madame de Rivry; you are not obliged, therefore, to make this sacrifice, if it be painful to you."

"But, mamma, I think it would be right to make it," said Eudoxia, with sadness.

"My dear child, when once the idea of performing a generous action has occurred to us, if we do not perform it we run the risk of having to reproach ourselves afterwards. It is possible that when you are in the calèche, the thought that Julia is moping in the carriage may greatly interfere with your pleasure: that is all; for I again repeat, that there is no duty which obliges you to yield your place to her."

"Unless it be, mamma, that I think I have more courage than she has to bear this contradiction."

"I agree with you, as we have before observed, that there are particular duties imposed upon those who feel themselves possessed of more strength and reason than others."

"Mamma, I will go in the carriage."

"Are you quite sure that you really wish to do so, my child?"

"I am quite sure, mamma, that I wish Julia to go in the calèche."

Madame d'Aubonne tenderly embraced her daughter, for she was extremely pleased with her conduct. They entered the drawing-room, and she expressed her desire of keeping Eudoxia in the carriage; the request was granted without difficulty.

The good-natured Madame de Rivry was very glad to be able to spare her daughter any annoyance, without being wanting in attention to her friends. Eudoxia said nothing, but this occasioned no surprise, as all were accustomed to her obedience. Julia, though delighted, nevertheless blushed a little, for it is very humiliating to find that one has had the weakness to grieve over a misfortune, which after all does not happen; but no one, however, was discontented with the arrangement except Madame de Croissy, who lost the pleasure of seeing a spoiled child contradicted at least once in her life.

"I should have imagined," said she, ironically, "that the education of Mademoiselle Eudoxia would have made her less afraid of catching cold."

Madame d'Aubonne looked at her daughter with a smile, and this smile prevented Eudoxia from being irritated by the remark.

When in the carriage, Madame de Croissy, feeling too warm, wished to put down one of the windows, "provided," she again said, "that it will not give Mademoiselle Eudoxia cold." Madame d'Aubonne and her daughter again glanced at each other, with a scarcely perceptible smile, and Eudoxia found that there is a great pleasure in feeling, in our own conscience, that we are better than others take us to be.

She enjoyed herself very much in the park. In the evening, she felt some regret at losing the drive home in the calèche, on a beautiful moonlight night; but at last she retired to rest, pleased with the day's amusement, pleased with herself, and pleased with the satisfaction she had given her mother, who, during the whole day, was more than usually attentive to her, calling her whenever she saw anything pretty, and experiencing no pleasure unless shared by her.

The following morning, a painter, with whom Madame de Rivry was acquainted, called _en passant_ at Romecourt; he was on his way back to Paris, and had only half an hour to spend at the château.