Chapter M: Le Chevalier (2)

Whilst the breakfast was preparing, he expressed a wish to see the drawings of the young ladies, and Adèle was ordered to show them. Eudoxia and herself had undertaken to copy from the antique a beautiful head of a vestal, and Adèle, though according to custom, she had scarcely worked at all, yet, according to custom also, she had told her grandmamma that her drawing was finished, and Madame de Croissy, who never looked at her work, made no further inquiries about it. However, as she could not exhibit this drawing, she determined to show as her own the one which Eudoxia had done. The artist was delighted with it, and it was, indeed, the best thing Eudoxia had ever done. While he was still examining it, Madame de Croissy called Adèle into the garden, and with her usual thoughtlessness she ran off without putting away the drawing; during this time Madame d'Aubonne and Eudoxia entered by another door.

"Here is a beautiful head drawn by Mademoiselle Adèle!" said the painter.

"By Adèle?" said Eudoxia, blushing, and looking at her mother.

"I do not think it can be Adèle's," said Madame d'Aubonne.

"Oh! I beg your pardon," said the painter, "she told me so herself;" and going to the door which led into the garden, where Adèle was standing on the step, talking to her grandmamma, he said to her, "Is not the drawing you have just shown me your work, mademoiselle?"

"Yes, sir," said Adèle, scarcely turning her head, for fear her grandmamma should notice it, and ask to see the drawing.

The painter then resumed his praise of it. Eudoxia waited for her mamma to speak, but she said nothing, and Eudoxia finding her silent, did not dare to speak herself.

The artist wished to see some of her drawings; she said that she had nothing to show; but perceiving a portfolio, inscribed with her name, he drew from it an old study, with which Eudoxia was not at all satisfied, and which she had brought into the country to correct. He pointed out its defects, coldly praised the talent it indicated, and again reverted to the head of the vestal.

Eudoxia's heart was bursting, and she looked at her mother as if to entreat her to speak; but the breakfast was announced. The painter being asked what he thought of the drawings, spoke courteously relative to the talents of the other three young ladies, but asserted that Adèle would be very successful.

"Ah! not so much so as Mademoiselle Eudoxia," said Madame de Croissy, casting upon Eudoxia a look of ironical satisfaction.

"I assure you, madame," said the painter, "that the head of the vestal which Mademoiselle Adèle showed me, displays the very highest promise."

Adèle's face became alternately pale and crimson, and she did not dare to raise her head.

"I assure you, nevertheless," said Madame de Croissy, in the same tone, "that if you had heard Mademoiselle Eudoxia, and the advice she gives, you could not doubt that she was the most skilful young lady of her age."

The painter looked at Eudoxia with astonishment. She felt indignant, but her mother, who was seated near her, pressed her hand beneath the table, in order to calm her. She could not eat, and immediately after breakfast, she went into the garden, where her mother followed her, and found her crying with vexation and impatience.

"What is the matter, my dearest Eudoxia?" said she, pressing her tenderly in her arms.

"Really, mamma," said Eudoxia, much agitated, "this is very hard, and Madame de Croissy again...."

"What does the injustice of Madame de Croissy matter to you? Which of us believes a word of what she says?"

"But the painter will believe it. Indeed I should have said nothing before her; but why must he think that my drawing was done by Adèle? Mamma, you have encouraged Adèle's falsehood," she added, in a tone of reproach.

"I have nothing to do with the education of Adèle," replied Madame d'Aubonne, "whereas I am responsible for yours; it is my duty to foster your virtues as I would my own, and to point out to you your duty, without thinking of that of other people."

"It was not my duty," replied Eudoxia, more mildly, "to allow it to be thought that my drawing was Adèle's."

"It was certainly not the duty of one who aspires to nothing more than to be able to draw well, but it was the duty of one who wishes to possess more strength and virtue than another, not to sacrifice the reputation of a companion to her own self-love. Tell me, my child, if in order to save yourself the slight vexation of being considered less clever than Adèle, you had in the presence of this artist covered her with the disgrace of having told a falsehood, would you not now feel very much embarrassed in her presence?"

"I think, indeed, I should, mamma."

"And it would be natural for you to feel so, for you would not have had the courage to make a trifling sacrifice, in order to save her from a great humiliation."

"That is true, mamma; but it is sometimes necessary to do very difficult things, in order to be always satisfied with one's self."

"And if this pleasure could be attained without difficulty, do you not suppose, my child, that every one would be as anxious as yourself to secure it?"

Although softened by this conversation with her mother, Eudoxia, nevertheless, could not help feeling some degree of bitterness against Adèle, and during a part of the day she avoided speaking to her. But she saw Adèle so ashamed when in her company, so occupied in endeavouring to give her pleasure without daring to approach her, or address her directly, that her anger was changed into compassion. She felt that the severest trial we can experience, is the having a serious fault to reproach ourselves with; and also that it is impossible to preserve any resentment against one who was suffering under so great an evil. She therefore spoke to Adèle as usual, and as soon as her irritation vanished, her grief also ceased.

But she had still to pass through a severe ordeal. Honorine, whom nothing ever restrained when once she took a fancy into her head, having one day found the park-gate open, thought it would be very pleasant to go and walk upon the high road. Eudoxia was alone with her at the time, and feeling how improper it was to act in this manner, she entreated her to return. Perceiving some one approaching, and trembling lest Honorine should be noticed, she ventured, in order to call her back, to pass the threshold of the gate herself, and standing quite close to the railing, she exclaimed,

"Honorine, my dear Honorine, come back! I entreat you to come back."

Just at this moment she fancied she heard the voice of Madame de Croissy, and rushed forward to hasten Honorine, who was not returning fast enough: her dress caught in the gate, she was thrown down, while the door was drawn forward and closed, and thus they were both outside, without any means of getting back. Eudoxia tried to open the gate, by passing her hand through the bars, but in vain; the lock was stiff; perhaps even it had a secret spring; she could not succeed. Greatly distressed, she wanted to call out for some one to open it for them, determined, without throwing any blame upon Honorine, to explain what had happened to herself: but Honorine, who had as little courage to encounter a slight reprimand, as she had sense to avoid meriting a great one, entreated her not to do so. She knew that her grandmamma was walking in the garden, and might hear them, and therefore thought it would be better to return to the château by the back entrance. To reach this, however, it was necessary to make a considerable circuit, and Eudoxia did not wish to leave the gate; but at last Honorine having taken her own course, she was obliged to follow her, as by calling after her, she would have led to a discovery of her imprudent conduct.

She followed her with trembling steps, keeping close to the park walls, and walking as quickly as possible, fearful of being seen, and constantly calling to Honorine, who, on the contrary, was much amused at her alarm, and kept running from side to side, and even into the fields. While still at a considerable distance from the yard of the château, they saw coming along the road, which crossed in front of them, a carriage filled with company, going to dine at Romecourt.

Eudoxia was now more than ever in despair, as she imagined that she had been recognised; she therefore redoubled her speed, while Honorine, who was beginning to be afraid, on the contrary slackened hers, in order to defer, as long as possible, the moment of danger.

Their fears were not groundless; they had been perceived. As soon as the carriage arrived at Romecourt, they were sought for, together with Adèle and Julia, in order to entertain a young lady, who had accompanied her mother and two other ladies; but they were not to be found.

"I think," said a gentleman, who had accompanied the carriage on horseback, "that I saw them on the road."

"On the road alone!" exclaimed Madame de Croissy.

"I thought it very strange," said one of the ladies, "nevertheless it was certainly them."

A new search was made everywhere; Adèle did not know where her sister was, neither could Madame d'Aubonne tell what had become of her daughter. She had gone down to the drawing-room, and was beginning to feel very uneasy, when a servant who observed them enter the yard, exclaimed, "Here they are!"

Every one ran out upon the step, and the two girls perceived, from a distance, the assembly that awaited them. Eudoxia, though almost ready to faint with fear and shame, was, nevertheless, obliged to drag Honorine, who would not advance. They had hardly reached the middle of the yard when they heard Madame de Croissy calling out to them, "Is it possible, young ladies! Is it to be believed!..." Madame d'Aubonne hastened to meet her daughter: "Eudoxia," said she, "what can have happened? How is it"....

Eudoxia did not dare to reply, on account of Honorine, who was by her side, but she pressed and kissed her mother's hand, looked at her, and then at Honorine, in such a way that Madame d'Aubonne was convinced that her daughter had done nothing wrong.

They reached the house at last, still accompanied by the reproofs and exclamations of Madame de Croissy, who while they were ascending the steps, turned towards the company and said, "I beg you at all events to believe, that Honorine is not so ill brought up, as to have thought of such an escapade as this, of her own accord. It was Mademoiselle Eudoxia who led her away, and almost by force too; I was a witness to this." Eudoxia was on the point of exclaiming--"Yes, Mademoiselle," continued Madame de Croissy, with an air of command, "I was walking in the shrubbery near the railings, when you said, '_Come, I entreat you._' I was not then aware of the nature of your request; I see it now, but should never have imagined it. Deny it if you dare."

Madame de Croissy had indeed heard, but misunderstood what Eudoxia had said, in order to induce Honorine to return. Eudoxia did not deny the charge, but cast down her eyes, and burst into tears. Madame d'Aubonne looked at her anxiously, and led her aside, when Eudoxia, weeping, related what had occurred.

"I do not know, my niece, what tale she may be fabricating," cried Madame de Croissy, "but I heard her with my own ears, and I hope I am to be believed, as much as Mademoiselle Eudoxia."

"Aunt," said Madame d'Aubonne, with firmness, "Eudoxia is not fabricating any tales; and if I am satisfied with her conduct, I beg to say, with all deference, that no one else shall interfere with her."

"Most assuredly, I shall not take that liberty," replied Madame de Croissy, very much irritated, "but she will have the kindness not to go near her cousins, and she may then make herself as ridiculous as she pleases; I shall trouble myself very little about it."

Eudoxia was no longer able to support herself; her mother led her away, embraced and consoled her. "Mamma," she said, weeping, "without you, I never should have had resolution enough."

"I am sure, my child, that you would. You would have borne everything rather than have exposed Honorine to the anger of her grandmamma; but we are both in the same predicament, and must mutually aid and support each other. Do you not imagine that they think me as much to blame as yourself?"

Eudoxia embraced her mother with transport; she was so happy and proud at being placed by her on the same level with herself. "But, mamma," she said, "although we say nothing to Madame de Croissy, we might at least explain the truth to the others."

"Would you then let them know that Honorine had the cowardice to allow you to bear the blame of a fault which she herself had committed? Would you wish to be weak in your turn? Your not accusing Honorine was an act of simple kindness merely; many others would have done as much; if you stop at this point, you have no right to consider yourself more generous than others."

"Mamma, this pleasure then must be very dearly purchased?"

"My child, it is only granted to those who have sufficient resolution to sacrifice every other pleasure to it."

Eudoxia, strengthened by her mother's words, returned with her resolutely to the drawing-room, where pardon had already been obtained for Honorine, whom Madame de Croissy would have sent to dine by herself in her own room. The modest but tranquil countenance of Eudoxia, and the tender but unaffected manner in which her mother treated her, imposed silence on Madame de Croissy, while the others began to suspect that she could not be so much in fault as Madame de Croissy had supposed; and Madame de Rivry, who knew her well, had already told them that the thing appeared to her quite impossible. Julia, by dint of questioning, at length extracted the truth from Honorine, and told her mother, on condition that nothing should be said to Madame de Croissy; but the company were informed of it, and from that moment treated Eudoxia with a degree of attention which proved to her that the approbation of others, although we ought not to calculate upon it, is still almost invariably accorded to those whose actions are performed solely from a sense of duty.

EDWARD AND EUGENIA;

OR THE EMBROIDERED BAG AND THE NEW COAT.

"Oh! I do love you so!" said Eugenia to little Agatha, her schoolfellow, to whom she had taken a violent fancy; and as she said this, she almost smothered her with kisses.

"And I love you very much too," said Agatha, disengaging herself from her arms. "But why do you not like me to play with Fanny?"

"Because you would love her more than me."

"Is Fanny then more amiable?" asked one of the governesses, who had overheard her.

"Certainly not," said Eugenia, whom this supposition very much displeased. "But I do not wish her to love Fanny even as much as she loves me."

"You do not then know how to be sufficiently amiable to make yourself more loved than another?"

"Oh! yes, I do," replied Eugenia, with increasing irritability, "but I do not wish her to play with Fanny." Thus saying, she took Agatha by the hand, and made her run with her in the walk before them. The governess allowed them to go, quite sure of finding an opportunity of renewing the conversation. After they had run about for some time, Eugenia, feeling fatigued, as it was a holiday, seated herself on a bench in the garden, with a book of tales, which had been given her on the previous evening, and which amused her very much. But Agatha, who was not fond of reading, wished to continue playing. She walked round and round Eugenia, trod upon her dress, and pulled the marker of her book, in order to prevent her from reading. At length she came behind her with a handful of grass, and holding it above her head, she let it fall before her eyes, upon her person, and upon the page with which she was occupied. Eugenia become angry, tore the grass from her hands, and told her to let her alone, for she annoyed her.

"Agatha, go and play with Fanny," said the governess, who was passing at the moment.

"Why do you wish her to go and play with Fanny," asked Eugenia, hastily rising, and ready to fly into a passion, had she dared to do so. At the same time, she threw down the book, in order to go and catch Agatha, who had already set off.

"You do not wish to play with her; probably Fanny might be more obliging...."

"But I have already been playing."

"It seems that it pleased you then, while it does not please you now. As you like to employ the time according to your own fancy, she has a right to employ it according to hers, and I advise her to go and look for Fanny."

Eugenia, who had nothing to urge, recommenced playing with Agatha, but in such ill humour, that she only tried to contradict her, making her run to the right and to the left against her inclination; pulling her arm sometimes forward, sometimes backward, sometimes upward, for she was taller than Agatha. Agatha got angry, tried in vain to stop her, and not being able to extricate herself from her hands, cried out with all her might to be let go. But Eugenia still went on, saying, "You wished to run, then let us run."

They were, however, stopped at the entrance of an arbour, by the governess, who was walking on this side. "If I were you," she said, addressing Agatha, "I should go and play with Fanny; she would not pull you so roughly by the arm."

"What does she want?" replied Eugenia. "I am doing what she wishes."

"But you do not do it in the manner that she wishes, and since you have no right over her, you can only retain her by doing whatever she pleases. Thus, the moment that you contradict her in the least thing, that you do not yield to all her whims, that you do not accommodate yourself to all her caprices, she will do quite right to go and play with Fanny if Fanny suits her better."

"Very well, let her go," replied Eugenia. "She shall not touch my great doll any more, nor look at my book of prints; and she shall not have the chaplet of horse-chestnuts that I was going to make for her."

"But I did not say that I would go and play with Fanny," replied Agatha, almost crying at the thought of not having the chaplet of horse-chestnuts, "only do not pull my arm so violently." Peace was made. It was now the time for going in; besides, Agatha, dreadfully frightened at the thought of losing the chaplet, did all day just whatever Eugenia pleased; so there were no more quarrels on that occasion.

But they soon recommenced. The mistress said to Eugenia, "Try to love Agatha a little more if you would not have her prefer Fanny."

"And do I not love her enough?" said Eugenia. "I am constantly making her presents, and only the day before yesterday, I gave her my prettiest work-box."

"Yes, after having refused it to her for three days, although you saw that she longed for it very much! But when she thought of telling you that Fanny had one quite as pretty, which she had almost promised her, then with a very bad grace you gave her yours. You did not care about giving her this pleasure, but you were afraid lest another should give it. If you took half the pains to make her love you, that you take to prevent her loving others, you would succeed much better."

But Eugenia did not understand this. She loved Agatha as a doll which amused her, and with which she did what she pleased. She carried her on her shoulders for her own sport, sent her to fetch her handkerchief, or her work, when she had forgotten it, made herself absolute mistress of the little garden which had been given to them in common, and carefully watched that she did not obey the wishes of others, as she would then have been less attentive to hers. Agatha liked Eugenia because she made her presents, and gave her little card-board carriages and other things which amused her, but above all because, being much older, cleverer, and more advanced than herself, she did almost all her work for her unknown to the mistresses. Eugenia never restrained on her account either her ill-humour or her caprices. She left her to weary herself when she was not disposed to amuse her, and when the others were too much occupied to do so in her place. She was especially jealous of Fanny, because she knew that Fanny, who was sensible, and manifested a friendship for Agatha, would have paid her more attention than she herself cared to be at the trouble of paying.

The holidays were at hand: Eugenia was going to pass three weeks in the country, at her home, but Agatha, whose parents resided at a great distance, could not go away. Eugenia felt sorry to leave her, but she was consoled by the thought that Fanny was going as well as herself. It so happened that Agatha after being completely ennuyée during the first few days, took it into her head to work, in order to amuse herself. As Eugenia was not there for her to depend upon, she endeavoured to succeed by herself. She was praised for her application; this encouraged her, and she became so fond of working, that she made, especially in embroidery, astonishing progress. She mentioned nothing of this in her letters to Eugenia, as she wished to surprise her; but when the latter returned, Agatha showed her a beautiful bag that she had commenced. "It is very well," said Eugenia coldly, for she never willingly gave praise; then taking the work out of her hands, she was going to do some of it; but Agatha no longer wished any one to touch her work, and therefore prevented her. Eugenia became angry, and when Agatha asked her advice on some point, she said, "Oh, you can do very well without it, you have become so clever." Afterwards wishing to know for whom the work was intended, and Agatha refusing to tell her, she asserted that it was for Fanny, or for some new friend which she had made during her absence. Agatha merely laughed, and continued her work. However, she performed many little acts of friendship for Eugenia, who repelled them because she saw her also kind to her other schoolfellows, whom she was very glad to see again. The ill-humour of Eugenia was still further increased by finding that Agatha, who was now more industrious and more tractable, and disturbed the other girls less in their work and in their games, was better received among them, while she on her part felt more pleasure in their society. Still she always preferred Eugenia; but as the latter passed her time in quarrelling with her, they frequently separated in anger.

One day when Agatha had just finished her work-bag, had lined it with rose-colour, and had put in the strings, the girls showed it to one another, and admired it, and all were astonished at the progress she had made. Agatha, greatly pleased, glanced at Eugenia, who ought to have guessed her intention, but her ill temper completely blinded her.

"It is very tiresome," she said, "to hear people constantly talking of the same thing."

"What!" replied Agatha, "are you sorry to hear them speak well of me?"

"What does it signify to me," said Eugenia, "since you no longer love me." Then, taking the bag from the hands of the girl who held it, "Let me see this beautiful bag," she continued, "I am the only one to whom you have not shown it!" then seizing it roughly, she crumpled it, soiled it, and rolling it up into a little ball, she began running about and tossing it up in her hands. She thought it was for Fanny, because for two days she and Agatha had held long consultations together respecting the manner of putting in the strings. Agatha ran after her crying, and quite in despair at seeing her work thus pulled about. All the other girls also pursued Eugenia, who seeing herself surrounded, wanted to put it under her feet, in order to be able to retain it, or perhaps to tear it to pieces. But just at the moment, when she was stooping down for this purpose, one of the girls pulled her by the dress and made her fall upon the grass. The bag was left free: Fanny picked it up and carried it in triumph to Agatha, who being the smallest had arrived the last. She threw herself upon Fanny's neck, exclaiming, "It was for Eugenia, it shall now be for you. It is you who shall be my friend." Eugenia, as she had only herself to blame, became all the more enraged, and declared that she would never have another friend.

Agatha, however, was grieved at having given her pain, and wished to be reconciled to her; even Fanny, who was kind and gentle, wanted to give up the bag to her; but Eugenia, still angry, declared that if she took it, it would only be to throw it over the garden walls; nor would she speak to Agatha, except to call her _a little ungrateful thing_.

"Did she owe you then much gratitude?" asked the governess.

"Certainly she did, for all that I have done for her?"

"And what did she owe you for all that you have refused her?"

"Was I then obliged to yield to all her whims?"

"It would appear so, since you wished her to yield to all yours."

"That would have been a difficult matter to settle," said Eugenia pettishly.

"And you see that it has not been settled. What motive could Agatha have to induce her to comply with your wishes?"

"I complied with hers often enough."

"Yes, but when your inclinations were opposed, why should it be hers that must yield? For myself I cannot see why."

"It was because she did not love me."

"And because you did not love her either, since you did not yield to her more."

"I certainly loved her much more than she loved me, for I always wished to be with her; but as for her, so long as she was amused, it was much the same to her whether she was with me or not."

"You should then have tried to become necessary to her."

"I do not know how I should have done that."

"Nothing would have been more easy, if you had shown yourself pleased whenever she expressed pleasure, no matter whence that pleasure came. If, for instance, when Louisa called her to look at her book of prints, instead of being angry at her leaving you, you had appeared glad that she was going to be amused, then as her joy would have been increased, by her seeing you pleased, she would never have looked at a picture without wishing to show it to you; for her pleasure could never be perfect unless you partook of it, and she would have ended quite naturally, by not desiring those enjoyments which you could not share; but for this you ought to have begun by interesting yourself in her pleasures rather than in your own."

"It was hardly worth the trouble of loving her," said Eugenia bitterly, "if it was to have been for her pleasure, and not for my own."

"Then it was yourself that you loved, and not her."

This conversation did not correct Eugenia. She perceived, indeed, the truth of what had been said to her, but she was deficient in that sentiment of friendship which leads us to think of others before ourselves. As her first impulse, always, was to consider what she wished others to do for her, her second was a feeling of annoyance at their not having acted sufficiently to her liking; in such a case, it was useless to hope that she would think of what she owed to them. Always commencing by imagining that they had acted wrongly towards her, she did not consider herself under any obligation to them; she was ignorant of the delight that is experienced, in making a sacrifice for those we love; and being constantly dissatisfied with others, she never enjoyed the pleasure of feeling satisfied with herself.

She did not endeavour to make new friends in the school. What had passed between her and Agatha, and the conversations of the governess, had convinced her, that in order to do so, she had too much to overcome in her own disposition. Besides, the adventure of the embroidered bag had caused her companions to form a worse opinion of her than she deserved. She was therefore passing her time very drearily, when a great misfortune befel her. She lost her father, and this loss was the more grievous, as her mother had been long dead, and she was now consequently left quite an orphan. Her companions displayed much concern for her affliction, and especially Fanny, who, grieved at having given her pain, on account of Agatha, was constantly seeking opportunities of being with her. For a time, as all were occupied about her, Eugenia was pleased with every one; and as this state of mind rendered her more gentle and considerate, they imagined that her character had altered, and again began to love her. But when, after having occupied themselves for some time with her griefs, her companions returned to their ordinary games and conversations, she was as much shocked at hearing them laugh, as if they had all lost their parents. The mistress one day found her in tears, and complaining that no one any longer took an interest in her misfortunes.

"Eugenia," said the governess, "who is there among your companions for whom, in a similar case, you would have interrupted for a longer period your ordinary occupations and amusements?"

Eugenia only replied by saying, "that no one loved her in that school, and that she wished she could leave it." This satisfaction was soon granted to her. Her father's life had been shortened by the grief occasioned by the bad state of his affairs. When he was dead, his creditors came together, and made a small annual allowance to his children; this, however, was not sufficient to defray the expenses of Eugenia's education, and that of her brother Edward, who was pursuing his studies in one of the colleges of Germany. It was therefore arranged that they should both be placed with a cousin, an elderly lady, who consented to be satisfied with the allowance made. Eugenia was transported with joy, at the thought of living with her brother, whom she had not seen for ten years, but who wrote her such charming letters, and who besides, as she was his only sister, ought certainly to love her better than any one else in the world.

She was still more enchanted when she saw him. She was then fourteen years of age, and her brother seventeen; he was tall and handsome, as well as mild, amiable, and intelligent. He was exceedingly kind to her, and promised to teach her all he knew himself; he told her that since they had no fortune, he must try to make one for them, and began by giving her half the little money he had brought with him from Germany. Eugenia wept for joy at the kindness of her brother. When he was gone, she could talk of nothing else. She asked all her companions, whether they had seen him, and whether they did not think him handsome; she related the slightest particular of their conversation, and all that he had done and all that he had seen: there was not a town through which he had passed the name of which she did not pronounce with some emphasis. If she forgot anything, she said, "I will ask him to-morrow when he comes." "Is he coming, then?" said the little ones, who, always inquisitive, had formed the project of putting themselves in ambuscade near the door, in order to see what Eugenia's brother was like. "Oh! he cannot fail," said Eugenia, with an air of importance; she already seemed to think that her brother lived only for her convenience, and had nothing to do but to come and see her.

The next day came, but Edward did not make his appearance. Eugenia, greatly agitated, watched the door and the clock. "He must have mistaken the hour," said she. But it was not the hour apparently, but the day that he had mistaken, for it passed and still he did not come. Neither did he make his appearance on the following day. Eugenia's heart was bursting with grief and vexation, and her annoyance was increased by the derision of the little girls, who incessantly repeated, "_Oh! he cannot fail to come_."

"I shall scold him well," said Eugenia, pretending to laugh. The following day she was sent for, as a person had come to take her to her cousin's house. She did not doubt that her brother had also come; but she only saw her cousin's old cook, who told her in a grumbling tone to make haste because the coach must only be kept an hour, and that it was already dear enough. But Eugenia did not understand her. Quite bewildered at not seeing Edward with her, she already thought herself forgotten and abandoned. She scarcely embraced her companions, who had surrounded her to bid her farewell, but throwing herself into the coach began to weep, while the cook kept grumbling between her teeth, "that it was well worth the trouble of coming to eat other people's bread only to complain under their very eyes." It was nevertheless certain that the small sum paid for the board of Eugenia and Edward was an advantage to their cousin, who was not rich; but the cook was avaricious, and out of humour, and did not reflect, so that thus she only saw the extra expense. Besides, she was accustomed to govern her mistress, who, provided she had every day a dinner which suited her dog and her cat, fresh chickweed for her birds, and nuts for her parrot, allowed the cook to do just as she pleased. The arrival of these two additional guests quite disconcerted her. Eugenia felt distressed and humiliated, but did not, however, dare to complain. She was no longer with persons to whom she had been accustomed to exhibit her ill humour, and her new position intimidated her. As to her cousin, with whom she was acquainted, she knew very well that she would not torment her, but she also knew that she would in no way trouble herself about her; and it was especially requisite to Eugenia's happiness that people should take an interest in her. Therefore it was of Edward alone that she thought. It was he whom she was anxious to see, in order to let the whole weight of her vexation fall upon him; it was on his account that she was careful on entering not to conceal her eyes too much under her bonnet, so that he might clearly see that she had been weeping.

She entered the room, but he was not there. The table was laid, but only for two: she saw that Edward would not come, would not dine with her on the day of her arrival. She did not inquire for him, for she could not speak. Her cousin wished her good morning, just as if she had seen her on the previous evening, and did not even perceive that her eyes were red with crying. But the moment she began to eat her bosom swelled, and a sob escaped her which made her cousin raise her eyes.

"You are sorry to leave your school, my dear," she said; "that is quite natural, but you will soon get over that." Then, without thinking any more about it, or even troubling herself to see whether Eugenia was eating or not, she began to give the cat and dog their dinners, and to talk to Catau, who, being very ill-mannered, either did not reply at all or gave wrong answers, so that she had to repeat the same question twenty times over. After dinner, an old lodger in the house came up to play a game at piquet, which lasted until the evening. Eugenia could therefore torment or comfort herself, or sulk at her leisure, without there being any one to call her to account for it. At last she heard Edward arrive; she was so greatly delighted, that she endeavoured to frown as much as possible on receiving him, and succeeded so well in giving a gloomy expression to her face, that Edward, who ran eagerly to embrace her, drew back a step or two to inquire what was the matter with her.

"Oh! nothing is the matter with me," she said drily.

He insisted upon knowing, and as she persisted in giving similar answers to his inquiries, he at last pretty well conjectured the cause of her annoyance, and explained to her that during the last three days he had been occupied in visiting some of his father's relations, whom he wished to conciliate, in order to see if they could obtain any employment for him; and on this day he had been to visit one of them who lived at a considerable distance, and who could not be seen until four o'clock, so that he had been unable to return by dinner-time. He then reminded her, that it was very unreasonable to be so vexed, and tried to joke with her; but seeing that she neither yielded to reason nor pleasantry, he went off singing, and seated himself for a moment beside the piquet-players. Presently after he went to his room, having first gaily kissed his sister, in order to prove to her, that for his part he was not out of humour.

Eugenia was very much annoyed that he took the matter so easily; and although she had a little recovered, she thought she ought to preserve her dignity as an offended person. Thus, when Edward, on the following morning, asked her whether she would like him to give her some lessons in drawing, she replied coldly, "that she did not know, that she would see." Edward, believing that she was indifferent about the matter, did not urge it further, and she was very much annoyed that he had taken quite literally what she had said. He went out, and she became angry with him for leaving her, although she had not accepted his proposition to remain. He returned to dinner, greatly delighted at having met one of his old companions. His friend had introduced him to his father, and the latter had invited him to spend a few days with them in the country during the summer. Eugenia observed drily, that he was in a great hurry to leave them.

"It is not just now, and it is only for a few days," replied Edward. "Would you not have taken advantage of a similar offer if it had presented itself to you?"

"Oh! as to that, no such offer would have been made to me."

"And is it then on this account that you are sorry I should profit by it?" said Edward, with still more gentleness than before.

Eugenia began to cry: she felt the injustice of that egotism, which could not endure that those she loved should enjoy any pleasure which she did not share; but it was in her heart, and she did not know how to conquer it. Edward kissed her, comforted her, and passed the whole evening with her, talking to her of their affairs, of his projects, and of a thousand other rational subjects. Eugenia, quite delighted, thought, when she went to bed, that no one could have a more amiable brother than herself. The following days passed off very well. He had proposed to her to employ a part of their mornings in reading English together, and this they had done; but as he was very anxious to gain information, he had been advised to attend some of the public lectures, and to visit the manufactories. The mornings being thus taken up, he proposed to defer the English until the evening; but Eugenia, who was displeased that the lesson did not take precedence of everything else, replied that she did not like studying at night. Edward said no more about the matter.

By degrees he ceased altogether to speak about his affairs. He would have had the greatest pleasure in giving her an account of his proceedings, but Eugenia was always annoyed at those occupations which took him away from home, and listened to his accounts of them in so cold and listless a manner, and sometimes even she was so much displeased, that, fancying she took no interest in his pleasures, he soon became silent, and did not again recur to them. Certain of not being able to speak a word without giving her pain, he became uncomfortable and constrained in her society. In the evening, after having spent some time behind the piquet-table of his cousin, in studying his words, he either retired to his room, or went out. As for Eugenia, she could never go out, for her cousin was subject to rheumatism, and would not have dared to expose herself to the air; and, besides, would not have put herself out of the way on Eugenia's account. Tears often started into Edward's eyes, when he looked upon his sister, and thought of the melancholy life she led; but if he wished to speak a kind word to her, she repulsed him with so much asperity, that he renounced the hope of ever being able to render her happy.

As he was extremely sensible for his age, his father's friends had introduced him into several families, where he had been well received, and was sometimes invited to spend the evening with them. The idea that he could amuse himself while she was wearied to death, threw Eugenia into despair. The house that he mostly frequented, was that of Fanny's aunt, with whom Fanny had resided since she left school, as her mother had been long dead. Eugenia was indignant that Fanny had not sought to renew their acquaintance, though Edward had assured her that she had the greatest wish to do so, but was not permitted by her aunt, on account of their old cousin, whom she did not like. Eugenia persuaded herself, however, that Fanny had not done as much as she could have done. She was angry with the aunt, with the niece, and with Edward, who took pleasure in their society, and who no longer dared to speak to her of Fanny's amiability and kindness, as on two or three occasions he had attempted to do.

Eugenia sometimes saw Mademoiselle Benoît. This lady was the governess who had so vainly endeavoured to make her more reasonable. Her griefs were the only topic of their conversation, and Edward was the text.

"Oh! my poor Eugenia," said Mademoiselle Benoît, with an air of compassion, "why do you not love him more? You would then take an interest in his pleasures."

"No," replied Eugenia warmly; "it is because I love him, that I cannot endure that he should abandon me, to go and amuse himself and forget me."

Her disposition became daily more and more morose: a profound melancholy seemed to take possession of her mind; she no longer took pleasure in anything, and even her health began to give way. Edward perceived all this with the deepest grief, but without knowing how to remedy it. On the other hand, a situation which he had hoped to obtain had been given to another; an office in which he had been promised an engagement was never established; the money he had brought with him from Germany was all gone, and he saw nothing before him but unhappiness for both. Their mutual friendship would have alleviated it, but Eugenia's disposition marred everything.

One morning, when she was in the hall, she heard Edward, in the passage, talking to the cook.

"Catherine," said he, in a low voice, "could you not occasionally look to my linen? Nothing has been done to it since I have been here, and soon I shall not have a shirt that is not torn."

"Indeed," cried Catherine, in a very loud voice, probably that Eugenia might hear her, "I have so much time to amuse myself in that way! Give them to Mademoiselle Eugenia; she might very well undertake to keep them in order, but she thinks of nothing but playing the fine lady."

"Catherine," replied Edward, in a very firm though low voice, "Eugenia gives you no trouble, she asks no favours of you; and consequently, what she does, or what she leaves undone, does not concern you in any manner."

Eugenia, who had approached the door, did not lose a word of this reply: her heart beat with a joy such as she had not experienced for a long time. She would gladly have gone and embraced her brother, but she did not dare to do so; some undefinable feeling restrained her. However, she opened the door, when a servant came from Fanny's aunt, to invite Edward to pass the evening with them. He said that he would go. The heart of Eugenia was again oppressed: she closed the door. "That does not prevent him from going out to enjoy himself," she said. And she threw herself into a chair weeping, and thinking herself more unhappy than ever. The bare idea of what the cook had said, threw her into a violent passion, without, however, leading her to regret her negligence, so much did the thought of her own wrongs prevent her from thinking of those which she inflicted upon others.

At dinner she was more than usually sad, and Edward appeared sad too. A short time after they had left the table, he said that he was going to his own room to study; "And then to spend the evening out?" said Eugenia, with that tone of bitterness which had become habitual to her.

"No," said Edward, "I shall not go."

"And by what wonderful chance?"

Edward told her, that when he was going to dress, he had found his coat so much torn, that he was obliged to resolve on remaining at home.

"That," said Eugenia, "is what happens to me every day."

"Well, Eugenia," he replied, "if that can console you, it will henceforward also happen to me every day." With these words, he went out of the room. Eugenia saw that she had grieved him, and, for the first time in her life, she thought she might be in the wrong. It was, also, the first time she had seen Edward sad and unhappy, and this circumstance so occupied her mind, that she was prevented from thinking so much of herself. Nevertheless, she was not very sorry that he was obliged to remain in the house. When she returned to her room, she heard Catherine, who was very cross with him, crying out, that Madame did not understand having so many candles burnt, that there were none in the house, and that she would not give him any. Until that time, both Edward and Eugenia had bought candles for themselves, in order to avoid Catherine's ill temper; but now Edward had no money left. Whilst Catherine went away grumbling, Edward remained leaning against the wall, with his arms folded, and his head bent down. He was pale from the effort he had made to prevent himself from answering Catherine. Although it was beginning to get dark, Eugenia was so struck with the pallid and melancholy expression of his usually animated countenance, that at that moment she would have given the world to prevent his wanting anything. She timidly proposed to him to come and sit in her room, as she had still some candle left. He took his book, and commenced reading. Eugenia was careful not to interrupt him; it seemed as if she were afraid, that by hearing him speak, she should discover the extent of his melancholy; and, besides, what she most wished at this time, was to have Edward to do as he pleased. Two notes of invitation were brought to him, one to a concert, which was to take place the following day, and to which he had a great wish to go, the other to a ball, where he was to have danced with Fanny. He threw them into the fire. "All that is past;" he said, "I must think no more of it."

Oh, how these words pierced the heart of Eugenia! How she reproached herself for what she had said, and for the joy she had at first experienced. Edward went to bed early. As for herself, she could not sleep all night; she thought how wrong she had been in neglecting Edward's wardrobe, and she remembered that he had never even reproached her. She determined not to lose a moment in putting it in order. If she could also mend his coat! If he could go to the concert! She waited with great impatience until it was daylight, and until Edward had gone out in his morning wrapper. She then ran and took his coat, sought among her wools for one to match it, found one, and full of zeal, began her work; but the hole was so large, that she tried in vain to cover it. A dozen times she unpicked what she had done, and did it over again; but this kind of work upon a worn-out material only increased the evil. Greatly excited, all flushed and heated, the more she tried to get on, the less she advanced. At length, when she had almost lost all hope of success, she heard Edward return. She began to cry, and when he entered, he saw her with the coat upon her knees, and her eyes filled with tears.

"Here," said she, "I had hoped you might have been able to go to the concert, and I have only made the hole larger." Edward embraced her tenderly; he was delighted to find her attentive, and occupied about him; he called her his dear, his good Eugenia, but all these marks of affection only increased her tears. She could not reconcile herself to the thought of Edward's passing the whole winter without going out.

"I shall be like you then, my dear Eugenia," said Edward.

"Oh, don't think about me."

This was the first time she had made use of such an expression. It was the first time such a sentiment had entered her heart; but she had at length discovered that the griefs of those we love are much more distressing than our own.

As soon as Edward had left her room, she ran to her drawers, gathered together her few trinkets, and a louis that still remained of the money that Edward had given her, and wrote to Mademoiselle Benoît, telling her that she wanted most urgently to see her. Mademoiselle Benoît came that very evening. Eugenia told her everything, and said that with her trinkets and this money she must buy a coat for Edward; but the trinkets were of too little value to answer the purpose. Eugenia was in despair. Mademoiselle Benoît proposed a plan to her.

"I have taught you to make flowers," she said; "buy some materials, and I will lend you some instruments, and also assist you. The winter is coming on, ornaments will be required, we shall sell cheap, and shall have as many customers as we desire."

Eugenia embraced Mademoiselle Benoît in a transport of joy. All the vivacity she had formerly employed in making Agatha and her companions angry, now returned, and she determined to commence on the following day. She sometimes worked while Edward was present, but the greater part of her work was executed in his absence. She would not lose an instant. All her cheerfulness and bloom returned, and Edward was astonished at the change. He thought it arose from her being no longer jealous at seeing him go out without her; and notwithstanding his kindness, he would sometimes have been tempted to be a little vexed, if the uneasiness she manifested when she saw him sad, and the industry with which she occupied herself, when not busy with her flowers, in putting his linen in order, had not led him to forgive what he regarded as a weakness.