Chapter II: Preface (2)

"As for the bread, there is no difficulty about that," replied the boy; and he took from his bag a piece, weighing about a pound, too eager to conclude so good a bargain to perceive that he might have made it still better. Three two-sous pieces terminated the affair, and two-thirds of the pound of bread were at once set apart as the portion of Medor, whom Gervais saw, with a melancholy pleasure, devour in a moment, a piece to which he had nothing to add. Medor's repast, in fact, was ended, before Gervais had got half through his; and, with a longing eye, the poor dog watched the piece which the latter held in his hand, gently whined, and scratched his knee with his great paw, in order to obtain the little that remained. "You are very hungry, then, my poor Medor," said Gervais: "well then, this also shall be yours." He gave him the whole; and the sacrifice was sufficiently great, at that moment, to make him think he had acquired a right to the affection of his uncle. He then rose to continue his journey, hoping to be able to reach Auberive; but, whether from want of food, or because the heat of the day had exhausted him, after proceeding a few steps, he was obliged to lean for support against a tree, and, at last, sank to the ground, almost senseless. Induced either by curiosity or remorse, the young peasant who had bought the shoes occasionally looked back towards him. He saw him fall, and returned, but could give no assistance. He spoke to him, but Gervais was scarcely able to answer. Medor watched his friend with an uneasy look; and the peasant, who perhaps might have been little sensible to other evils, was moved by the sight of a misery which he could understand, and felt some comfort at the thought that, at all events, Gervais had not been rendered worse by having sold his shoes for a quarter of their value.

Providence at that moment directed to the spot another traveller, who came on at a vigorous pace, his coat neatly folded in a handkerchief, and suspended from a stick which he carried on his shoulder. It was Master Blanchet. He approached Gervais, but did not at first recognise him. "Has that boy fainted from hunger?" said he to the young peasant. "I think he has," replied the lad, "for he had but one bit of bread, and he gave almost all of it to his dog." Meanwhile, Master Blanchet drew from his bundle a small flask of brandy, with which he always took care to be provided when on a journey, and made Gervais swallow a few drops of it, while the addition of a piece of bread and a slice of sausage completed his recovery. "A little patience," said Gervais to Medor, who wanted to share this repast also. "Poor Medor," he continued, caressing him, "all our troubles are over now," for he had recognised Master Blanchet, but did not as yet dare to express his joy except in this indirect manner. Struck by the name of Medor, and by the voice of Gervais, which was beginning to assume its natural tone, Blanchet recognized him, was greatly astonished, and put to him many questions; while the peasant lad, who thought he saw Gervais glance towards the shoes, which perhaps at that moment he regretted having parted with so easily, blushed, and walked away, persuaded that his further stay was no longer necessary to any one, and might be disadvantageous to himself.

Gervais' tale was simple enough; he had nothing but the truth to tell; the only difficulty was to explain the nature of his connexion with Va-bon-train. Seeing that the latter had not acknowledged him as his nephew, he felt that in their respective positions it was not for him to be the first to break the silence. Thus, when Blanchet asked him how he had become known to his friend, Gervais replied, "He will tell you that himself; it is not my business to speak of his affairs." Blanchet questioned him on all sides, but without being able to elicit any further information; nevertheless, his replies displayed so much integrity, together with so much good sense and caution, that he began to feel a great respect for him; a feeling which was much increased after he had examined Medor's paw, which was then in progress of cure, and which he found perfectly well set. He could not doubt, therefore, of the talents of Gervais in the different branches of his art. He took him with him to Auberive, where he intended to pass the night, so as to reach Lyons without fatigue on the next day but one. Plenty of onion soup, and a good omelette, procured for Gervais the best meal which had touched his lips for many a day. Medor was also able to make up for his previous fast; and, to complete the happiness of Gervais, he found, at the inn where they stopped, the lad to whom he had sold his shoes. Master Blanchet commented so loudly on the disgrace of such a bargain in such circumstances, and his remarks were so fully approved of by all who heard them, that, whether from fear, or shame, or conscience, the lad consented to return the shoes at the price which he had given for them, and even made it a point of honour to refuse the value of the pound of bread, a sacrifice which procured for him from Blanchet a good draught of wine and a slice of sausage. Thus everything fell into order, and Gervais a second time thought himself at the summit of his hopes; but another day, and another trial, were still to be encountered.

The little room in which Master Blanchet and Gervais slept could not, manage as they would, accommodate a third guest, of the size of Medor. He was, therefore, lodged in the stable; and Gervais, confiding in his new-born happiness, the first earnest of which he had just received, resigned himself to sleep without any anxiety for the safety of his protegé; the more so as, since the morning, he had seen nothing of the odious Mauricaude, and therefore believed himself freed from her at last. Nevertheless, on the following morning Medor had again disappeared; whether in consequence of some new stratagem on the part of La Mauricaude, or from the instinct which urged him to the pursuit of Scaramouche, or the desire to return to his master, could never be ascertained. But certain it is, however, that by this new imprudence he fell into the snare which had long been laid for him; and the first information which the inquiries of Gervais elicited made it certain, that it was only by following the traces of La Mauricaude that he could hope to recover those of Medor. A double affection made success a necessity for him. He therefore requested the permission of Master Blanchet, under whose authority he already considered himself, to go in search of the fugitive; and Blanchet appointed, as their place of meeting in the evening, the village of Saint Syphorien, or, as it is sometimes called, Symphorien, situated about four leagues from Lyons, where he intended to pass the night.

Gervais spent a part of the day in a fruitless search in the neighbourhood. At length some indications led him to the town of Vienne; there he lost them; but, on describing the retinue of La Mauricaude, he was informed, that in all probability she was gone to Saint Syphorien, as it happened to be its fête day. He made all possible haste to reach the place, and arrived there about seven o'clock in the evening. The first object which struck him as he entered the village was La Mauricaude, in conversation with a man to whom she seemed on the point of delivering over Medor, who, sorrowfully resigned to his new condition, appeared cast down by the vicissitudes of his fate. At the sight of Gervais, however, his animation returned, and he started as if to rush towards him.

"That is my dog," exclaimed Gervais, who at the moment thought only of his claims to Medor; and the dog, by the expression of his joy, seemed anxious to confirm his words.

"'Tis false, you thief," replied La Mauricaude, with her customary amenity. "Medor!" she added; and, thus addressed, the dog turned his head, as if to prove that he recognized his name, as well as the voice by which it was pronounced. "You see very well that he knows me," she continued, with a volley of abuse and oaths, which we need not repeat.

"Nevertheless, the dog does not belong to you," said Gervais.

"Nor to you either, liar," &c. &c.

The dispute had been carried on in so vehement a tone, that it was impossible for Gervais to expose the truth of the matter. A third interest, that of the purchaser of the dog, already compromised by a considerable sum paid in advance, was here introduced, as a further complication of the affair, when an exclamation from a terrible voice announced the approach of Va-bon-train, who, having reached Saint Syphorien, and learning the cause of the quarrel, came forward to cut short all disputes. He made his way through the crowd, and had already his left hand on Medor, while his whip, raised in the other, menaced Gervais, who, drawing back with indignation, though still with respect, endeavoured to avoid the necessity of defending himself otherwise than by words. Nevertheless, had it not been for Medor's transports of joy, which somewhat embarrassed his master's movements, Va-bon-train would have been already upon him, and Gervais must have submitted to the cruel alternative of either failing in respect to his uncle, or of enduring an ignominious treatment, the bare idea of which was insupportable to him.

"He is a thief," exclaimed the perfidious Mauricaude, taking advantage of this opportunity to turn upon another the accusation which she herself merited. "He said the dog was his!" and several voices simultaneously repeated, "Yes, he did say so."

"You have been seen all along the road," continued Va-bon-train, "dragging him after you in spite of his resistance;" and a voice repeated, "I saw him." It was in vain that Gervais endeavoured to make himself heard,--the public opinion was against him. Assailed by a crowd of painful emotions, and distressed above all by the treatment he received from him whose gratitude he so much merited, he felt his courage forsake him, and could no longer restrain his tears, tears which only seemed to be an additional evidence against him. Several persons interposed between him and his uncle, but he himself no longer thought of safety; and whilst the efforts of Va-bon-train were redoubled, in order to get near him, notwithstanding the endeavours of the crowd to prevent it, Gervais was exhausting his, in demanding as a suppliant the justice due to his innocence. Michael, whom his father had pushed away from him, not knowing what to think of his friend, but deeply distressed at the sight of the misfortunes which overwhelmed him, and the danger which still threatened him, seemed to appeal to all around to intercede for a reconciliation which every moment appeared to render impossible. However, Heaven again came to the assistance of Gervais, by directing Master Blanchet to the spot. Attracted by the noise, he came out from the house of a friend with whom he had supped; and Michael, perceiving him, ran to meet him. The name of Medor, mingled in the almost unintelligible explanations given by the agitated Michael, led Blanchet to suppose that his young friend Gervais might have something to do in the matter; he therefore hastened his steps, and arrived at the very moment when, by an increased exertion of strength and anger, Va-bon-train, forcing his way through the crowd, was about to rush upon Gervais. Blanchet seized him by the shoulders, and pushed him backwards, saying, "Stop! stop! there's time enough for anger, but not always for explanation."

Less disposed than ever to profit by this good advice, Va-bon-train was, in all probability, upon the point of turning his rage against him who offered it, when a new incident arose to change once more the face of the affair. Matthew approached the scene of action, and Martin and Jacquot, under his guidance, were added to the spectators. Jacquot had not been deaf to certain words, which for several days past had struck his attentive ears. Encouraged probably by the noise, he began to repeat, though in a timid and uncertain tone, and as if he were saying a lesson, which he was not quite sure of knowing,--"Thomas, hide Scaramouche!"

--"Scaramouche!" repeated Michael, who had heard him; and now Jacquot, more sure of what he was about, went on, and constantly raising his voice in proportion as the noise around him increased, and excited him, his words at length reached the ears of Va-bon-train, who turned round; while Medor, taking advantage of his first moment of liberty, rushed upon Martin, and this time rummaging, without obstacle, in the bottom of the pannier, dragged out the unfortunate Scaramouche, who, all crippled and disordered as he was, still retained sufficient life to express by his attitudes the distress of his condition. Medor advanced and placed him triumphantly in the hands of his master; who, in his surprise and joy, knew not to which of his two friends to offer his first caresses. But Medor had not finished his task; and returning to the pannier, notwithstanding the efforts of La Mauricaude, who hastened to the defence of her booty, he drew from it the last of the Madras handkerchiefs, which she had preserved for her own use.

"Infamous old toad!" exclaimed Va-bon-train, "'tis you, then, who have robbed me." And immediately turning towards Gervais, whom the presence of Blanchet had encouraged to approach, "Why were you with her?" he demanded, in a tone which already indicated his desire of finding him less in fault.

--"I was not with her," said Gervais. "They were not together," repeated several of the voices which had at first borne testimony against him.

"And why did you take away my dog?" again demanded Va-bon-train.

--"In order to bring him back to you, and to prevent him from following her." Then the accusations began to turn upon La Mauricaude. One recognized her as having given him on the previous evening a bad ten-sous piece; another had seen Thomas skulking about his house, and an hour after, found that a fowl had been stolen. La Mauricaude began to vociferate, and then to cry as she saw the storm increase, and direct itself against her; meanwhile Gervais drew near his father, who, already more than half intoxicated, and hardly able to understand what he heard, contented himself, without taking any part in the matter, by affirming, that, "as for him, he was an honest man."

"Get out of my way, you fool!" said his brother, pushing him behind him; then advancing towards La Mauricaude, who, still vociferating and crying, was endeavouring to make her escape, amid the hootings which pursued her, he contented himself with cracking his whip in her ears to hasten her steps. The crowd by which she was accompanied, diminished as she retreated, and by degrees the clamours of the little boys, who alone persisted in following her, died away. These assailants she dispersed by throwing stones at them, and they afterwards reported that they had seen both her and her son Thomas join a band of gipsies, who were on the point of departure. From that time she has never been heard of.

Quiet was once more restored at Saint Syphorien, and Va-bon-train received from Blanchet the explanations necessary to establish the good conduct of his nephew. "But where, in the name of Fortune, did you meet with him?" continued Blanchet. "He would never tell me."

"What, Gervais!" said Va-bon-train, "will you not acknowledge me for your uncle?" Michael, transported with joy, once more threw his arms round the neck of his friend, and Va-bon-train afterwards received the acknowledgments of his nephew's grateful affection. "Now then, what is to be done with Matthew," said Va-bon-train--"now that he has got rid of his old toad?" "He cannot live alone," said Gervais, casting down his eyes.

"Well, then, let him come with me," continued Va-bon-train; "Martin will, at all events, be learned enough to carry a part of my baggage, which is becoming too heavy for Medor. I will teach Jacquot many capital things, and we shall get on very well together."

These words rendered Gervais completely happy, and the gratitude inspired by his uncle's kindness towards himself, was far exceeded by what he now experienced, on account of his father. They went for Matthew to the tavern, where they found him still drinking, the longer to defer the moment of payment. This difficulty was removed by his brother, who thenceforth considered himself as charged with his care. The arrangement was proposed to him, and he accepted it, just as he would have done, had he been sober, only that he repeated a little oftener, and with rather more emotion than usual, "You, Vincent, know very well, that I at least am an honest man."

They had a joyful supper that night, Medor remaining at the side of the table, with his head upon his master's knee, which he left only to give a slight caress to Michael, or a look and a wag of his tail to Gervais. The following day, before their departure for Lyons, Gervais received from the generosity of his uncle, the pair of stockings, the shirt, and the two handkerchiefs, necessary to complete his outfit, and had the satisfaction of arriving with him at the workshop of Master Blanchet, not as a poor boy, received almost as an act of charity, but as a good workman, countenanced and recommended by respectable relatives.

He has justified their hopes and his own, having become Master Blanchet's head workman; he is about to marry his only daughter, and his father-in-law, rich enough to retire, has given up to him a business, which Gervais will not allow to decline under his care. Matthew, who only needs guidance, contents himself with being a little merry after his first meal, and a little sleepy after the last. He hopes to spend a peaceful old age with his son, while Va-bon-train, who, without being old, is also anxious for repose, has purchased a small property, married again, and given up his marionettes and the faithful Medor to his son Michael. Matthew has generously added the ass, and Jacquot, and has announced for Gervais' wedding-day, "_a performance for the benefit of friendship, in which is to be seen the wonderful dispute between peerless Jacquot and the incomparable Scaramouche_."

CECILIA AND NANETTE;

OR, THE ACCIDENT.

It was in the month of December; the church clock had just struck five, and the morning was very dark, when one of the servants of the inn came to inform Madame de Vesac, and her daughter Cecilia, that the carriage was ready, and that they could continue their journey. They had left Paris early on the previous day, for the purpose of visiting the estate of Madame de Vesac, to which she had been called by urgent business. The distance was a hundred and fifty leagues, and they had travelled by post; they had been on the road till ten o'clock on the previous evening, and were now about to resume their journey after having taken a few hours' repose. Madame de Vesac called her daughter; Cecilia, terribly sleepy, half opened her eyes, then let her head fall back again upon her pillow. Her mother was obliged to call a second, and even a third time, and she awoke up at last, exclaiming "Oh dear! dear! how disagreeable it is to get up at five o'clock in the morning at this time of year!" She would have said, had she dared, "Oh dear! what a misfortune!" for every contradiction or suffering, however slight, always assumed, with Cecilia, the character of a misfortune. At every little accident that befel her, she fancied that no one had ever suffered so much as she did, and really believed that cold, hunger, thirst, and sleepiness, were with her quite different matters from what they were with other people. When laughed at for the disproportionate annoyance which the petty inconveniences of life occasioned her, she would say "Oh! you do not feel as I feel!" and, indeed, believed so.

Nevertheless, as Cecilia possessed a generous disposition, an elevated mind, a lively imagination, and a due share of pride, she had a passionate admiration for high and noble actions, and even a great desire to imitate them, sometimes saying that she would give everything in the world for an opportunity of becoming a heroine. "Provided," her mother would add with a smile, "that your acts of heroism never exposed you to the chance of being scratched by a thorn, or to the necessity of walking a few steps in uneasy shoes." And then Cecilia, a little vexed, would maintain that such things as these had nothing whatever to do with heroism.

Madame de Vesac had not been able to bring her maid with her, as she was ill at the time they left home. This rendered their arrivals at the inns, and especially their departures, more disagreeable, as they were themselves obliged to pack and unpack their luggage, and attend to a variety of troublesome details. Madame de Vesac spared her daughter these inconveniences as far as possible. On the present occasion, she had allowed her to sleep until the last moment, and when Cecilia awoke, almost everything was ready for their journey. Still it was necessary to arrange and pack up her night-things, and see that nothing was forgotten; and the cold and the darkness had so chilled her courage, that nothing but shame prevented her from shedding tears at every effort she made, and every step she took. And yet she was thirteen years old; but at no age do people cease to be children, if they allow themselves to attach importance to every whim that may cross their minds, or to every trifling inconvenience which they may have to bear. Cecilia had much more trouble, and was much longer about what she had to do than would have been necessary had she set courageously to work. "Make haste," repeated her mother every moment, and Cecilia made haste, but with the air of one who had no heart for what she was about. To have given herself this, nothing was required but a slight effort, a slight exertion of her reason: she need only have said, "What I have to do at present is so far from being beyond my powers, as I try to persuade myself, that if I felt the least wish to do it I should find no difficulty in it." But Cecilia did not choose to desire what would have been so beneficial to her, and, for the sake of saving herself a single mental effort, sufficient to conquer her repugnance and idleness, she allowed herself to relapse into them every moment, and submitted to the continued exertions demanded by every action and movement.

At last, all was ready; Madame de Vesac and her daughter entered their carriage and departed. Cecilia's griefs, however, being still undiminished, the night was so dark, and so cold, and she had so little courage to resist the feeling of sadness which it induced. She shivered in her wadded dress, and beneath her two or three shawls; her fur shoes did not prevent her from complaining of the _deadly coldness_ of her feet, nor could she sufficiently cover her hands with her dress, though already encased in fur gloves. At length, in spite of her distress, she fell asleep, and slept quietly until it was broad daylight. When she awoke, the sun had already dissipated the thick fog of the morning. It shone brilliantly over the country covered with snow, and was even felt through the windows of the carriage. Everything seemed to announce a fine winter's day, and her heart began to revive. They stopped for breakfast, and took it in a comfortable warm room, and this completely restored her energy and cheerfulness. Her mother then began to jest about the despair she had manifested a few hours before. "I see," she said, "that for the acts of heroism to which you purpose to devote yourself, you will be careful to select the months of July and August, for cold is quite adverse to your virtue."

"But mamma," said Cecilia, "how can you expect one to stir, when one's fingers are benumbed with cold?"

"Since, though complaining the whole time, you did nevertheless manage to do so, I presume the thing was possible, but I perceive, at the same time, that such an effort must have something in it surpassing the highest courage, and were it not for the terrible fatality which has subjected you to so severe a trial, I should have been extremely careful not to have required anything of the kind from you."

"However, it is quite certain, mamma, that one might choose some better time for travelling than the month of December."

"Not if it happened to be in that month that one had business to attend to which required travelling. You will one day learn, my child, that there are things more impossible than enduring the cold, or even than moving one's fingers when they are benumbed. You remember what Cæsar said: _It is necessary that I should go, and it is not necessary that I should live_.

"One might very well expose one's life, on occasions of importance, and yet not be able to do impossibilities, however important they might be."

"Such as putting in a pin or tying a shoe when one is cold?"

"I do not mean that," replied Cecilia, a little out of humour, "and besides you will allow, mamma, that our affairs are not of such importance as those of Cæsar."

"How do you know that? the importance of things is relative; I am not called upon to overturn the world; such a thing would give me no pleasure, but I have to settle a matter to which your father attaches great importance, and to show myself worthy of the confidence he reposed in me, when, on leaving for the army he placed all his affairs in my hands; in fine, it is necessary for me that he should be pleased with me, for on this depends the happiness of my life; and on your part, it is necessary that you should prove yourself able to support with courage unavoidable inconveniences. All these things are important, and yet," added Madame de Vesac, smiling, "I do not think we run any risk of dying on account of them."

"Oh, no! mamma," said Cecilia, smiling too, "but I assure you that even Cæsar would have found it very cold this morning."

"I have not the least doubt of it; but Cæsar was such a great man! Do you know, Cecilia, that if we were to examine with care, I feel sure that among his great actions we should find many which must have benumbed his feet and hands."

"In that case," said Cecilia, somewhat drily, "he must have been very fortunate if he could find matters to attend to which would prevent his thinking of the cold, for it is certainly very disagreeable."

"Undoubtedly," replied Madame de Vesac, carelessly; "but there are some persons who can manage to think of every thing. I am persuaded, for instance, that had you been in Clælia's place, when, flying from the camp of Porsenna, she crossed the Tiber on horseback, you would have found it excessively disagreeable, to have been obliged to wet your feet."

"Well, mamma," said Cecilia with animation, "you ought to be delighted at that, since you are continually telling me that instead of wishing to be a heroine, it is quite enough to attend to one's duties merely."

"Certainly; but I who make no pretensions to heroism, find that mere duty is sometimes quite sufficient to employ all our powers, and that it is impossible that we can always do what simple duty requires, unless we have learned to bear cold, fatigue, and even the misfortune of having to get up at five o'clock in the morning in the month of December."

"It is nevertheless certain, mamma, that there are things which it is quite impossible to do, such as walking when one is tired."

"Or moving one's fingers when they are cold, for instance. Undoubtedly there are things which are impossible to every one, but the difference I find between Cæsar and you is, that in his case the impossibility came much later, and that at the degree of fatigue at which you would say _I cannot walk_, he would have said _I must walk_, and would have found strength to proceed. You are not aware how much strength people possess when they really wish to make use of it."

"I assure you, mamma," replied Cecilia, with some slight degree of temper, "that when I say I cannot do a thing I really cannot."

"I am sure of that, but I should like to know whence arises the impossibility. Pray think of this at the first opportunity. It is necessary that I should know whether you are really weaker than other people."

Cecilia made no reply; she was perfectly persuaded that no one understood her sufferings, and had never asked herself whether she were not made like other people, and consequently able to endure what they endured. The day passed well enough, and when night came she slept.

She was sleeping soundly, when a violent jerk suddenly aroused her. "Gracious! what is the matter?" she exclaimed. "We are upset," said Madame de Vesac; and in fact at that moment, the carriage, which had passed over a large stone, came to the ground with a violent shock, and turned completely over on one side. Cecilia screamed, and fell upon her mother. "Do not be frightened," said Madame de Vesac, who, notwithstanding the inconvenience of her position, thought only of her daughter. The carriage was stopped, and the postilion dismounted, and came to their assistance. All this time Cecilia did not cease screaming. "Where are you hurt?" asked her mother, trembling lest she should be severely wounded. "Everywhere," replied Cecilia, unconscious of what she said, the fright had so bewildered her. When the postilion opened the door which happened to be uppermost, Cecilia knew not what to do to extricate herself from her position. "Get up," said the postilion.

"Get up," repeated her mother, but Cecilia replied, "I cannot," without knowing whether she could or not, for she had not even tried. At last the postilion, who was active and strong, raising her up, lifted her out of the carriage, and thus freed her mother from a weight which almost overpowered her and made her feel ready to faint. Then Madame de Vesac, in her turn, getting out with the assistance of the postilion, hastened to her daughter, whom she was delighted to find standing up, although motionless, and not knowing whether she had a limb of which she could make use. In a little while, being somewhat reassured by her mother's voice, Cecilia began to answer the repeated questions put to her to ascertain where she was hurt. Both her knees were bruised, and her elbow grazed: she had a slight swelling on the head, a bonnet box had pressed her side, and her foot, which happened to be under the seat of the carriage, was a little swelled. "I am so bruised all over that I cannot move," she said, moving, however, the whole time in every direction to feel where she was hurt. She asked her mother whether she, too, were not hurt. "I think," replied Madame de Vesac, "I have sprained my wrist, for it is very painful, and I cannot use my hand."

"Just like my foot," replied Cecilia, and saying so, she began to walk. Madame de Vesac smiled, but said nothing. She wrapped her hand in her shawl, the ends of which she tied round her so as to support her wrist, and then busied herself with what was to be done. Recovered from the first shock of their fall, and congratulating themselves on having escaped so well, they nevertheless found themselves placed in a very unpleasant predicament. Comtois, the only servant who had accompanied them, had gone on before, as a courier, to prepare the horses. The postilion, unable by himself to raise the carriage, was obliged to go for assistance to the post-house, from which they were still at a considerable distance. Madame de Vesac and Cecilia, therefore, as they could not follow him since he went on horseback, nor reach the post-house alone, as they were ignorant of the way, were obliged to remain on the road until his return. The night was extremely dark, and the cold, without being very intense, was sharp and disagreeable. A sleet was falling, which, as it reached the ground, was converted into ice. The carriage, completely overturned, afforded no shelter, and to the other inconveniences of their position, was added that of being quite alone at ten o'clock at night upon the high road. Madame de Vesac, however courageous, was not without uneasiness, but she knew it was useless to give way to it; and when Cecilia, a little terrified, asked her if they were to remain alone, "You see we must," she replied, in a tranquil voice, which gave her daughter to understand, that though she was aware of the inconvenience of the arrangement, she nevertheless submitted to it with calmness, because it was necessary. Cecilia herself saw this necessity so plainly that she made no reply; but when after unharnessing the horses, and securing two of them to a tree, the postilion mounted the third to go and seek assistance; when she saw him depart, when the sound of his horse's feet growing fainter and fainter at last ceased to fall upon her ear, then her heart shrank with terror, a cold perspiration covered her limbs, and she drew close to her mother. Madame de Vesac perceived her alarm, but made no remark, well knowing that nothing so much increases terror as speaking of it. She merely endeavoured to restore her confidence a little, by giving her, on her own part, an example of courage and tranquillity.

The wind became more violent, the sleet increased, and a heavy fall of snow began to mingle with it: Madame De Vesac and her daughter went over to the side where the carriage offered some defence against the rain and snow which were beating into their faces; but this shelter did not long suffice, the gusts of wind became so violent, that Cecilia was twice on the point of losing her hat, notwithstanding the ribbons by which it was confined. It was with difficulty that they kept their shawls around them; the snow assailed them on all sides, melting upon them, and penetrating their clothes; and they were benumbed by a damp coldness, from which their inability to move left them no means of escape. Cecilia did not think of complaining, for no one could have assisted her; besides, she could not doubt that her mother suffered as much as herself, and complaints are seldom made except to excite the pity of those who seem better off than we are, and who, therefore, are able to think of us rather than of themselves. Cecilia now discovered how erroneous it is to suppose that any comfort is to be derived from complaining: perhaps even she suffered less from her position, than she would have done had she lamented it; but she did not make this reflection, and it was natural that the necessity of the case should render her more courageous.

Madame de Vesac, however, fearing lest her daughter should become ill, from the cold and damp which had penetrated her clothes, proposed to her to seek shelter in a wood which extended on both sides of the road, and the trees of which, though divested of their leaves, were at least sufficiently close to break the violence of the wind and snow; but this wood was the principal object of Cecilia's dread. Terrified at the proposition, she could only utter the words, "Oh! mamma, to go into the wood!"

"Just as you like, my child," said Madame de Vesac, "but," she added, smiling, "who do you think would come after us in such weather as this? You may be quite sure there is nobody abroad but ourselves."

Cecilia made no reply, her thoughts terrified her to such a degree that she dared not utter them, and had she pronounced the word _robbers_, it would have seemed to her that she was calling them; but at that moment there came a gust so violent, that the carriage appeared shaken by it; one of the blinds which happened to be down, was so violently agitated that the cords snapped, and being no longer upheld it was lifted by the wind, and struck Cecilia on the head. Seized with terror she sprang from her place; the storm continued, she was unable to resist it, yet dared not return to the carriage. Completely bewildered by the wind, she neither knew where she was, nor what she did: and her mother taking her by the arm led her into the wood, where she recovered a little of her self-possession. Here the wind was much less violent, and as always happens when we look at things closely, Cecilia having entered the wood felt much less terrified, than while merely considering it from the road. A copse where there happened to be a few trees, which still retained their leaves, although it was the month of December, had protected a few feet of ground from the snow, and afforded the travellers a shelter from the wet. The double trunk of a tree furnished them with a support, and they were at least in a situation where they could await without excessive discomfort the assistance which could not be far distant, when all at once Cecilia, whose eyes were turned towards the copse, probably seeing the branches agitated by the wind, fancied she perceived a figure moving and advancing towards them. Completely bewildered by fright she seized her mother's arm, and without saying a word dragged her on, as quickly as she was able, through the bushes, plunging deeper into the wood to avoid the terrible objects by which she believed herself pursued. Her mother, astonished, after having followed her for a few steps endeavoured to stop her. "Where are you going?" she said. "What is the matter?" But Cecilia, whose terror was only increased by the sound of her mother's voice, because she was afraid of its having been heard, continued to drag her along with an extraordinary degree of strength, and her mother, who would not leave her, was obliged to follow. At length, by dint of talking she recalled her to herself; she stopped a moment and said in a low tremulous voice, "Did you see him?"--"Who?" demanded Madame de Vesac.--"Among the trees ... a man...." "I have seen no one, you were mistaken, I assure you."--"Oh! I still hear him...." And she was once more on the point of starting off, but her mother restrained her. "My dear Cecilia," she said, greatly distressed at her condition; "my dear child, be reasonable, take courage; there is no one there, I assure you there is nothing to fear; confide in me who would not lead you into danger, and whose judgment is calmer than yours." A little restored by her mother's words, and the affectionate tone in which they were uttered, Cecilia, ashamed of her fears, stopped, and restored her mother's arm, which she still held, to its former position under her shawl.--"Let us retrace our steps," said Madame de Vesac, "lest we lose our way." Cecilia did not dare to say anything, but she shuddered at the idea of again passing so near the copse. At this moment they heard some one call them, and recognized the voice of Comtois. Cecilia breathed more freely, and hastened to reply; but Comtois had entered the wood at another part, and they stood still to discover whence the voice proceeded.

"It is in that direction, mamma," said Cecilia, who, delighted at the thought of avoiding the copse, pointed to a road a little more to the right than the one they were on the point of taking. Madame de Vesac listened again, and the voice which still continued to call and answer, seeming, in fact, to proceed from the right, she took the direction indicated by Cecilia, and calling from time to time to Comtois, they walked on towards the spot whence the sound was still heard to proceed, but it seemed sometimes to approach, and sometimes to recede, for it appeared that Comtois altered his course according to the place where he thought they must be, and they themselves took first one direction and then another, without being quite sure which was the right. This state of uncertainty lasted for some minutes, but at length the voice sensibly approached, and they heard steps through the trees. "Is that you, Comtois?" It was he, and Cecilia in a transport of joy was ready to throw her arms round his neck; she forgot the cold, the sleet, and the wind; once freed from her former terror she now thought all her troubles were at an end. Comtois informed them that he had procured assistance, and that at that moment the men were engaged in raising the carriage, to which he was going to conduct them. But the question now was how to find the way, for, intent only on reaching each other, neither Comtois nor Madame de Vesac had thought of observing their route. They stopped to listen for some indication from the people at the carriage, but the wind bore the sounds another way, or when they did reach them, they were so faint and uncertain, that they concluded they must have advanced further into the wood than they had supposed. However, they directed their course towards the side on which they concluded the high road lay, listening every moment to discover whether the sounds increased in strength; sometimes Cecilia fancied she heard voices, and even maintained that she could distinguish that of the postilion: at other times hearing nothing she became uneasy, but the joy of having found Comtois sustained her courage. At length she exclaimed, "Mamma, I see an opening through the trees; that must be the road." Madame de Vesac looked, and perceived, indeed, a spot where the trees appeared to separate, but she did not think it was the high road, and was astonished at not hearing any noise. Cecilia made her hasten her steps, repeating, as she hurried her on, "There's the road, there's the road!" Her mother cautioned her not to rejoice too soon; but she did not listen to her, and was the first to reach a spot, open indeed, but so surrounded by the wood on all sides, that it afforded no means of egress, except by a path almost parallel to the one they had just left. She stood petrified.

"This is not the road," said Madame de Vesac.

"Indeed," said Comtois, "I don't know where we are now."

"What will become of us?" inquired Cecilia in a timid and anxious voice, but without those exclamations so habitual to her, for in the present moment of real fear and trouble her thoughts were more occupied with the situation itself, than with the desire of vividly displaying what she felt.

"We must endeavour to get out of this place," replied Madame de Vesac. "The road cannot be far off; but we must take a different direction from the one we have come by."

They once more stopped to listen and consult together; but they could hear nothing whatever; and as to the path they were to take, there was no choice except between the one by which they had come and another which led in the same direction. Their consultation, therefore, could not be of long duration. The second path seemed much better than the one they had left, it was tolerably wide, and pretty well beaten; and they hence concluded that it must necessarily lead to some frequented place. They therefore determined to follow it, and recommenced their journey with renewed courage; but Cecilia perceived that her mother arranged in a different manner the end of the shawl, with which she had contrived to support her arm, and that she occasionally carried her other hand to it; and concluding from this that she must suffer increased pain, she asked her about it.

"We must not think of this now," said Madame de Vesac; so that Cecilia was afraid to complain too much of her foot, which was beginning to give her pain. She only said, "My foot is rather painful." She had already endured sufficient real trouble during the night, to have learned to be silent about inconveniences not worth complaining of.

The snow fell with less violence, and the wind was somewhat abated, so that in the wood the cold was quite bearable. Madame de Vesac and her daughter, one on each side of Comtois, and supported by his arm, walked without much difficulty in a path tolerably smooth, and which the recently fallen snow prevented from being very slippery. Reanimated by this momentary relief, they pursued this part of their journey with tolerable cheerfulness, Madame de Vesac averring even that her arm was less painful since the cold had diminished, and Cecilia consoling herself with the hopes of soon being able to rest her foot in the carriage. Comtois from time to time raised his voice and called to the people at the carriage; but no one answered, and not a sound reached their ears. Again the travellers began to feel uneasy at thus continually advancing without any assurance that they were not going further away from the spot they wished to reach. However, proceed they must, for there was no reason to suppose that, in retracing their steps, they would be able to find any better way. At last they came to a point where the path was crossed by another precisely similar. They were now in the utmost perplexity, for there was no inducement for choosing one of the three paths rather than another, except perhaps that as the one they had come by did not seem to have brought them any nearer the road, it might be reasonable to choose between the other two. But on which of them were they to fix?

Comtois attempted to climb a rather tall tree which happened to be at the entrance of one of the paths, hoping to be able to see from it the road and the carriage; but, not to mention that his boots did not allow him to climb with much agility, it happened that the first branch he clung to was decayed and broke, and he fell, fortunately without being much hurt; but Madame de Vesac, as well as Cecilia, whose own fall had rendered her excessively timid, prevented him from making any further attempt, by representing the frightful situation they would all be in if any accident befell him. There was no alternative, therefore, but to proceed, and let chance direct their course. They thought they remembered that in diverging from the road they had several times turned a little to the left; they consequently supposed that in returning they must take the contrary direction. On this, therefore, they fixed, not without much regret, however, at being unable to ascertain whither the opposite path led; but it was not a time for unavailing regrets, and they therefore made up their minds to trust that they had selected the best.

Nevertheless the spirits of the travellers began again to sink, Cecilia's foot was considerably swelled, and fatigue had greatly added to the pain of Madame de Vesac's arm, although her anxiety kept her in a state of agitation which prevented her feeling it as much as she would have done in calmer moments. Still this very anxiety was itself a serious evil: there was no certainty of their finding their way; and if chance did not guide them better than it had done thus far, she calculated with terror the number of hours they must pass in the wood, and the fatigues and sufferings they must endure whilst waiting for the light.

Cecilia, still more depressed, said nothing, and began to cease thinking: fatigue and sadness absorbed all her faculties.

The path they had taken terminated in a kind of cross-way, from which branched off several narrower paths. They fixed upon what appeared the widest and best; but it soon contracted to such a degree that Madame de Vesac and her daughter were obliged to resign the arm of Comtois, and allow him to walk in front and clear the way a little for them. The density of the wood at this part had kept the ground moist, and this moisture was now converted into ice, while the snow had been prevented from falling sufficiently to cover the path. They walked one behind the other, slipping at every step, and only able to keep themselves from falling by laying hold of the trees. Every moment their feet struck against the roots, or were caught in the trailing branches; and Cecilia, constantly on the point of falling, soon became unable to restrain her sobs. At last, at a very slippery part, she lost her footing, and fell upon her knees. A bramble, which happened to be across the path, caught in her clothes; and when she had succeeded in extricating her dress from it, it became entangled in her shawl, then got fastened to her gloves, and deprived her of the use of her hands. She tried to rise, but no sooner had she put her foot upon the ground than she slipped and again fell. Worn out as she already was, this slight accident quite exhausted her courage. Madame de Vesac turned round to give her her hand; but being near falling herself, she was obliged to catch hold of a tree: she could only pity and endeavour to encourage her daughter.

"Mamma," said Cecilia, "I cannot go on; it is impossible."

"My poor child," said Madame de Vesac, "are you quite sure it is impossible? Think seriously of it; this is not a trial to be made for pleasure merely, such as I proposed to you a short time since, but an exertion of courage absolutely indispensable. Only consider, my dear Cecilia," she added, in the most tender and caressing tone, "we have nothing but our courage to extricate us from these difficulties; but with courage I think we have still sufficient strength left to enable us to go through a great deal. Would it not then be better to call it forth than weakly to yield to our distress?"

Thus saying, she assisted with her foot to extricate her from the bramble, while supporting her with her knees. Cecilia made no reply, but, raising herself up, continued her journey, and, feeling the truth of her mother's words, she exerted all her strength to avoid future complaints. Still she wept in silence; a weakness pardonable indeed, but one, nevertheless, which added to her sufferings, as weakness ever does.

They at last reached the end of this difficult route, and once more found themselves at an opening in the wood, where several paths terminated, but without being any better able to decide which they were to take. Stopping for a moment to consider, they thought they heard at no great distance a faint sound, which was not that of the wind. They listened; "Good heavens!" exclaimed Cecilia, "I think I hear some one crying;" and she shuddered as she spoke.

They listened again, and fancied they could distinguish the voice of a child. At length, after looking in every direction, favoured by the light of the moon, which was beginning to disperse the clouds, they perceived in a corner, a little within the opening, a figure standing motionless, and leaning against a tree. Cecilia was frightened, and clung tightly to the arm of Comtois.

"Let us see what it is," said Madame de Vesac, the more anxiously, as she still heard the sounds.