Chapter III: The Desert (2)

An advantageous offer of marriage was made to her, but it was a marriage which would have separated her from her mother, deprived her of the pleasure of working for her, and deprived Madame Leroi of the interest and happiness which she experienced in the society of her daughter. Fortunately, the subject was first broached to Marietta herself, who begged that nothing might be said about it to her mother, as she felt persuaded that Madame Leroi would not consent to the rejection of such an offer. Having given her refusal, she then informed her mother of what she had done, and, seeing her deeply grieved, and indeed, almost angry, she knelt before her, and said with affectionate earnestness, "My dear mother, there is but one privilege in the world which I have to beg of you, and that is, that you will let me continue to belong to you."

"Go! Marietta," replied her mother, with a sigh; "be happy in your own way;" nevertheless, the remembrance of this sacrifice long continued to pain her.

Some time afterwards, mention was made, in Marietta's presence, of an officer whose wounds had compelled him to retire from the service, though still under thirty years of age. His left arm had been shot off, his right leg broken, and although it had been set, it left him lame, and caused him a great deal of pain. Such an accumulation of evils had destroyed the natural attractions of his person. Resigned, but melancholy at seeing his career so early closed, he devoted himself to solitude, and even refused to marry, considering as he said, that he was but a poor present to offer to a woman. Marietta, whose cast of thought rendered her susceptible to every generous sentiment, replied with vivacity, "That for all that, to entrust to a woman's keeping the entire happiness of her husband, was to make her a very noble present." These words were repeated to M. de Luxeuil, the officer in question, and the remarks added, relative to the character of Marietta, made him curious to learn more about her. On hearing that she had consecrated her life to the happiness of her mother, it occurred to him that to aid her in this task would be a means of obtaining her gratitude and affection. The person who had spoken of her, and who had not done so without design, penetrated his thoughts, and took care to encourage them, and in fact, managed so well, that from first feeling a pleasure in hearing of Marietta, he began to wish that Marietta should also hear of him, and at last ended by believing that it might not be impossible for him to render her happy. In short, the proposal was made, and accepted with mingled feelings of joy and gratitude, and immediately after his marriage, M. de Luxeuil conducted his wife and mother-in-law to his country residence, situated about thirty leagues from Paris. On arriving, he immediately led Madame Leroi to the apartment destined for her use, and Marietta's first movement, on entering it, was to give a look of grateful affection to her husband, for all the care he had taken to render it convenient and pleasant. The remainder of the house was visited with feelings of gratitude, which every moment became more intense. In the drawing-room, in the dining-room, the place reserved for Madame Leroi's easy chair was always the one most likely to be agreeable to her. The greatest care had been taken that in all the details of their daily life, every thing should be conformable to her health, her tastes, and her habits. "My friends!" she said, with emotion, to her son-in-law and daughter, "I see that you have already talked a great deal about me."

Marietta was truly happy, and for M. de Luxeuil commenced a felicity such as he had never hoped for, nor even thought of. It has but increased with time. Formed by their mutual virtues for a union which every day renders more intimate, and constantly more grateful for the happiness they mutually bestow, they have arrived at that point of felicity which leaves no pain, beyond the fear of its being disturbed. As for Madame Leroi, she is scarcely able to bear the twofold affection of which she is the object. "Let me alone!" she sometimes says, playfully, "How can you expect me to bear two happinesses at once?"

THE DIFFICULT DUTY.

MORAL DOUBTS.

Monsieur de Flaumont one day said to his children:--"I am going to relate to you a circumstance which has come to my knowledge, in order that you may give me your opinion on it."

Henry, Clementine, and Gustavus hastened to take their seats near him, when he related what follows:--

"A workman named Paul, the father of several children, who were dependent on his industry, was walking by the side of a very rapid river, then greatly swollen by recent rains. The water formed a whirlpool under one of the arches of a neighbouring bridge, and drew into it, with a great deal of noise, the remains of a boat laden with planks, which it had already dashed to pieces. Paul gazed upon the torrent and thought, 'If I were to fall into it, I should have some difficulty in getting out again.' Yet Paul was an excellent swimmer, and had even saved the lives of several persons who had been near drowning in that very river; but at that moment the danger was so great, that in spite of his natural courage, he felt there was sufficient cause for fear. Then his thoughts reverted to his children, who were entirely dependent upon him for support: to his eldest boy, a lad of some twelve years of age, who promised to be a good workman, but who, if deprived of his father, would have no one to instruct or protect him. He thought of his daughter, whom he hoped soon to be able to apprentice out, and of his little one just weaned, whom his sister took care of, for the children had lost their mother. It was delightful to him to reflect how neat and clean they were kept; how well fed they were, and what good health they enjoyed; and he said, 'All this would be greatly changed were I taken home dead!' and, so saying, he involuntarily withdrew from the river's edge, as if there were really some danger of his being dragged into the water. As he walked on, he observed upon the bridge a man bearing on his shoulders a bundle of old iron rails. He was looking into the water, and watching a plank on the point of passing under the bridge. He bent over to see if it cleared the arch well, but, leaning too far, his head turned giddy, the load on his shoulders threw him off his balance, and he was precipitated into the water, uttering a fearful cry. Paul also uttered a cry of distress, for he felt himself chained to the shore by the remembrance of his children, while his kind feelings made him anxious to aid the unfortunate being whom he beheld on the brink of destruction. He looked around him with inexpressible anguish, and perceiving a long pole, he seized hold of it, and endeavoured, by advancing into the water, without losing his footing, to push a plank to the unfortunate man, who was trying to swim towards him. But all in vain; the torrent was furious, and after a few efforts, the poor wretch sank, rose again to the surface, and then disappeared altogether. Paul remained motionless at the side of the river, with his eyes fixed on the spot where the miserable man had been engulfed. He continued there until it became quite dark, then returned home, a prey to the most intense melancholy, but still saying to himself, 'I do not think I have done wrong.' For several days he refused food; sleep fled from his eyes, and he scarcely spoke to any one. His neighbours, seeing him in this condition, inquired the cause, and he told them. The greater part considered that he had done right, some few were of a contrary opinion, but he himself always said, 'Still, I do not think I have acted wrong.'--What is your opinion, my children?"

CLEMENTINE.--Certainly, he did quite right, to preserve his life for the sake of his children.

HENRY.--Oh! yes! that is a most convenient excuse for not doing one's duty.

GUSTAVUS.--But he owed nothing to this man who was so clumsy as to fall into the water: he did not even know him.

HENRY.--Papa has always told us that we ought to do all the good we can to our fellow-creatures; and Paul might at least have tried to save the poor man: he was not sure of perishing with him.

CLEMENTINE.--Oh! but it was very likely.

HENRY.--There would be great merit, certainly, in doing courageous deeds, if we were quite sure there was no danger in them!

M. DE FLAUMONT.--But, consider my boy, that by exposing himself to the danger, which was very great, and in which he would in all probability have perished, he also exposed his children to the risk of dying of hunger, or of becoming rogues, for the want of an honest means of obtaining a living. Do you not think this a consideration of sufficient importance to counterbalance the desire he felt to save the drowning man?

HENRY.--Perhaps so, papa,--but it is nevertheless certain, that we hold a man who courageously exposes his life to save a fellow-being in far higher estimation than we do one who so carefully calculates all the reasons that can be found for not doing so.

M. DE FLAUMONT.--That is quite natural: the courage of the man who performs a brave deed is self-evident; whereas, we cannot be so sure of the motives of him who refuses to perform one. But, supposing it to be clearly proved that Paul really wished to throw himself into the water to save this man, and was only withheld by the interests of his children, do you not think he merited esteem rather than reproach?

HENRY.--One thing, at least, is certain: I should not have liked to be in his position.

CLEMENTINE.--It would certainly be a most difficult matter to know what to do.

GUSTAVUS.--Well, and while you were reflecting, the poor man would be still in the water; and so it would come to the same thing.

M. DE FLAUMONT.--Hesitation is undoubtedly the very thing that should be most avoided in such a case, for it prevents all action; and for this reason it is that we ought to accustom ourselves to reflect upon the relative importance of our duties, in order to know which of them ought to take precedence.

HENRY.--But when there happen to be two of equal importance?

M. DE FLAUMONT.--That can never be the case; for we are never called upon to do impossibilities. Do you think, for example, that Paul could at one and the same moment, throw himself into the water, and _not_ throw himself into it?

GUSTAVUS, _laughing_.--That would, indeed, be an impossibility.

M. DE FLAUMONT.--Do you think, then, that he could be obliged to perform an action, and at the same time to do what would render that action impossible?

HENRY.--Certainly not.

M. DE FLAUMONT.--It is, then, quite evident, that if it was his duty to perform one of these actions, he ought to have put aside everything calculated to interfere with it; even what would be a duty under other circumstances.

CLEMENTINE.--And you think, papa, do you not, that the duty of providing for one's children ought to take precedence of every other?

M. DE FLAUMONT.--No, not of every other, certainly. The first of all duties is to be an honest man, to do no wrong to any one, never to betray the interest committed to one's charge.

CLEMENTINE.--But the interests of one's children are surely committed to one's charge.

M. DE FLAUMONT.--But we are first of all responsible for the interests of our own probity, for no one can be charged with these but ourselves. The first thing prescribed to us is, not to be unjust to others; but we are not necessarily unjust to them when we do not render them all the assistance they require; and though the drowning man stood in need of Paul's assistance, it was not an injustice in him to withhold it, for the sake of his children.

HENRY.--Because his children had need of it also. But, papa, according to this argument, neither would it have been an injustice not to do for his children all the good they stood in need of; for he was not more necessary to them than he was to the drowning man, who had no one but him to look to for assistance.

M. DE FLAUMONT.--Certainly not; but do you think it possible to do good to every one?

GUSTAVUS.--To do that, we should have to pass our days in running about the streets, in order to assist all the poor.

CLEMENTINE.--Or even wander over the earth to discover those who might require our aid, and spend our whole fortunes in doing so.

HENRY.--This, certainly, is a point which has often puzzled me.

M. DE FLAUMONT.--It is because you have not considered that each man, forming but a very small portion of the world, can be specially trusted with only a very small portion of the good to be done in it. Were it otherwise, it would be impossible to do any good at all; for if every one wanted to do everything, there would be nothing but confusion. Each one must therefore endeavour to discover for himself what is the portion of good he is naturally expected to do. Thus, even if it were not a duty of justice to make the existence and well-being of our children our first care, still it would be a duty of reason, since it would be absurd to neglect the good we might accomplish in our own homes, for the sake of going elsewhere to do good. This duty, therefore, we must first of all fulfil, and afterwards consider what means are left for the accomplishment of any others which may present themselves; such as kindness and devotion towards those who have no other claim upon us, than that of standing in need of our aid.

HENRY.--Notwithstanding all that, papa, I shall always find it difficult to understand, that because a man has children who require his protection, he must therefore give up the idea of assisting others if, by so doing, he exposes himself to danger.

M. DE FLAUMONT.--You are right not to understand it, for it is not true. We can, and we certainly ought, even in that case, to expose ourselves to a moderate danger for the sake of a great good. Thus, for example, if the river had been tranquil, or even had there been only a considerable probability of escape, Paul would have done wrong not to throw himself into the water.

CLEMENTINE.--But, papa, since he might still have perished, he would still have exposed himself to the danger of failing in his duty towards his children.

M. DE FLAUMONT.--Undoubtedly; but would he not also incur great risk of losing an opportunity of saving a fellow-being, when, to all appearance, he might have done so without injuring his children?

CLEMENTINE.--Yes; and now the case becomes again embarrassing.

M. DE FLAUMONT.--It is under such circumstances that duties may be compared and weighed one against the other. But if you were assured, that by exposing your children to some slight inconvenience,--such, for example, as being worse fed or clothed for a time,--you would thereby save the life of another, do you not think that you ought to do so?

CLEMENTINE.--Certainly.

M. DE FLAUMONT.--Impossible as it is for us to discover what will be the result of things subjected to chance, we ought I think to lean to that side which seems to offer the greatest probability of producing the greatest good, and to regard a slight danger as a slight inconvenience, to which we subject our children in order to secure to another a very great advantage. Are you satisfied, Henry?

HENRY.--Well, papa, I shall try to become very expert, so that the danger may always be slight.

M. DE FLAUMONT.--That is quite right; but now let me conclude my story.

CLEMENTINE.--What! is it not finished?

GUSTAVUS.--Oh, go on, then, papa.

M. DE FLAUMONT.--Paul, as I have already told you, had the utmost difficulty in overcoming his distress. He sometimes said to himself, "The river was not so very much swollen; I took fright too easily; we might both have escaped;" and he had not the courage to return to the side of that river,--he preferred making wide circuits in order to avoid going near it. He often heard of persons being drowned while bathing in this river, a thing by no means unusual; for those who did not know it well, imprudently ventured too near the whirlpool under the arch, and were ingulfed. At these times, Paul's conscience smote him, and he felt almost degraded. But what was most singular was, that his last adventure had given him a dread of the water--he who had hitherto been so courageous; but he constantly thought, "It would be a terrible thing, if, now that I have done so much for my children, I were to be taken away from them;" and thus he avoided every danger with extreme care. He scarcely seemed to be the same man, so timid and cautious had he become. His neighbours said among themselves, "How extraordinary! Paul has become a coward!" and they imagined that it was from fear that he had not plunged into the water. In other respects, he was more industrious than ever, and lost no opportunity of putting his children in a condition to earn their own living, as if he was afraid of dying before the completion of his task. He succeeded in bringing them up remarkably well. His eldest son became a clever workman, and was about to marry and establish himself in another town; his daughter became the wife of a shopkeeper with a good trade; and the schoolmaster of the town, who became attached to the youngest boy, because he was diligent in his studies, requested his father to allow him, when fifteen years of age, to aid him in the duties of his school, and promised, if he conducted himself well, to give it up to him in the course of a few years.

The day on which Paul had established his son with the schoolmaster, and on which he could consequently say that his children no longer stood in need of his assistance, that they would no longer be exposed to misery if he were taken from them, he felt his mind relieved from a heavy burden, and in the joy which he experienced, he seemed to have recovered all the courage which for twelve years had deserted him; for twelve years had now elapsed since the occurrence of the accident which had rendered him so unhappy. He left his work at an earlier hour than usual, and went for a solitary ramble. For the first time these twelve years he directed his steps towards the river, recalling to mind the different persons whom he had saved from it, before the fatal day which had deprived him of his daring. It was an autumn evening; the weather was dull and cold; the river, swollen by the rains, was agitated by a violent wind, and appeared in much the same condition as when he had last beheld it. He approached, and considered it attentively. "The river is much swollen," he said; "nevertheless, if I were to throw myself into it to-day, I am sure I should escape;" and he said this because, having no longer the dread of failing in his duty to his children, he did not think of the danger, but only of the means of overcoming it. On raising his eyes mechanically towards the bridge, to the spot whence he had seen the poor man whom he had been unable to aid, fall, he saw, as it was not yet dark, some one approach the parapet, who appeared to him a very young man. This young man stood gazing at the water for some time, and all the while Paul kept his eye fixed upon him. At last, seeing him climb the parapet, and observing him totter, he cried out, "You will fall," but at the same moment the young man took a spring and dashed into the water. Paul, as if he had a presentiment of what would happen, had already his hand upon his coat; he tore it off, dashed it from him, and was in the river almost as soon as the young man, and, swimming towards the spot where he had seen him fall, he endeavoured to catch him before he reached the whirlpool, where he knew they must both perish. He reached him while he was still struggling under the water: he plunged; but by a movement natural to those who are drowning, even when they drown themselves intentionally, the young man seized hold of him, grasping his legs so tightly, that he prevented his swimming. They must both have perished, had not Paul happily succeeded in disengaging one of his legs, with which he gave the other such a violent kick, that he was forced to relax his hold. Paul then seized him by the hair, and remounted to the surface of the water. The young man was insensible, but Paul dragged him on while swimming with one hand. At that moment the wind was terrible, and with it was mingled a violent rain, which intercepted his sight. The wind and the current of the river hurried them towards the whirlpool. He redoubled his efforts: he felt animated by an extraordinary vigour. At last, he succeeded in escaping the danger, reached the bank, landed, and they were saved.

The young man was like one dead, but Paul, who had saved many persons from a watery grave, knew what were the means to be adopted in order to restore him to life. He carried him to the foot of a large tree, the dense foliage of which sheltered them from the rain, and rendered him every assistance which the circumstances permitted. He succeeded in restoring him in some degree, and the moment he heard him breathe, he placed him on his shoulders, and bore him with all possible speed to his own house, where, by dint of care, the young man completely recovered his senses. He was about seventeen years of age, and seemed wasted away by want and illness. As soon as he was able to speak, Paul asked him what had induced him to throw himself into the river. The young man, who was named André, replied that it was want and despair. He stated, that twelve years before, his father, who was a travelling blacksmith, had been drowned by accident, as it was supposed, in that same river, his body having been discovered there some days after. Paul shuddered while he listened to this recital, but said nothing. André went on to state that up to the age of ten, he had lived with his mother, who provided for him as well as she could by her labour, but that, having lost her, he endeavoured to gain a living for himself by working whenever he could find employment. Sometimes at the harvest, sometimes at the barns, sometimes in assisting the masons; that he had endured great hardships, and often wanted food; that, at last, he had fallen ill, and on leaving the hospital, while still convalescent, having neither home, nor money, nor employment, he had been obliged to sleep in the fields, and to pass two whole days without food, so that he felt completely exhausted; that finally, towards the close of the second day, happening to be upon the bridge, from which it was said that his father had fallen, and, feeling unable to proceed farther, and impelled by despair, he had thrown himself into the water. While listening to this recital, Paul mentally exclaimed, "Since I have saved this man, I might have saved the other also;" but then he thought, "We might both have perished, and then my children would have been as destitute as André." He was greatly rejoiced at having been able to save André, and determined, after this new trial of his strength, never again to fear the water nor the swelling of the river, especially now that he was no longer necessary to his children.

However, he could not carry his good resolutions into effect, for the following day he was seized with a violent fever, accompanied by severe pains in all his limbs. On coming out of the river, intent only on restoring André, he had not been able to dry himself, and, indeed, he had not even thought of doing so; thus the damp clothes he had kept so long about him had brought on an attack of rheumatic gout. For the next two days he grew worse and worse, and his life was despaired of. He had moments of delirium, during which he was tormented by anxiety for his children, but when his senses returned he remembered that they were well provided for, and appeared truly happy. Notwithstanding his sufferings, André, who gradually regained his strength, tended him with the greatest assiduity, and wept beside his bed when he beheld him getting worse. Paul did not die; but he continued subject to pains, which sometimes entirely deprived him of the use of his limbs. "Ah!" he would sometimes exclaim, when a sharp pain shot through an arm or a leg; "if I had become like this before I had provided for my children!" André, whom he had kept with him, and who was intelligent and well-disposed, learned his trade sufficiently to assist him when he was able to work, and to work under his direction when he was ill. The shop continued to prosper, and his business was even increased by the interest taken both in himself and André, and when speaking of André's father, he would say, "Poor fellow! may God receive his soul; but I am sure he has forgiven me, for he has seen that I could not have acted otherwise."

M. de Flaumont ceased, and the children waited for a moment in silence, to see if the story was ended.

"Oh!" said Henry, at length, with a heavy sigh, "I am glad the story has ended thus."

CLEMENTINE.--Yes! but think of poor Paul remaining a martyr to rheumatism!

GUSTAVUS.--Most assuredly his good action was not too well rewarded.

M. DE FLAUMONT.--He received such a reward as ought to be expected for a good action--the consciousness of having done well. This is its natural recompense, and this recompense is quite independent of the consequences which may otherwise result from it.

CLEMENTINE.--Nevertheless, it is painful to see an honest man suffering from having performed a good action.

M. DE FLAUMONT.--But it would have been far more painful if he had done wrong. Would you have preferred his leaving André to perish?

CLEMENTINE.--Oh! certainly not.

M. DE FLAUMONT.--It was even possible that Paul might have died. Even in that case, could one have regretted his exposing his life to save André?

HENRY (_with animation_).--No, certainly not: that could not be regretted.

M. DE FLAUMONT.--That proves to you that the reward, as I have said, is quite independent of the consequences. Thus, for instance, if a workman had executed a piece of work for a person who refused to pay him: you would regret that he had done the work, because the payment is the natural recompense of his toil; whereas, you would never think of regretting that a man had performed a generous action, even though it turned out badly for him, because you would feel that he was rewarded by the action itself.

After all, my children, added M. de Flaumont, do not think that virtue is always so difficult. Our true duties are usually placed within our reach, so that they may be performed without much effort; still, as cases may arise in which effort is necessary, we ought to be prepared with means of supporting those efforts. We ought to accustom ourselves to consider duty as being quite as indispensable when it is difficult as when it is easy; and we ought, also, to have our minds so prepared, that we shall not magnify difficulties to such a degree as to render them insurmountable. Thus, we should not exaggerate the importance of any one duty, as we shall thereby be led to neglect others; but, after having fully persuaded ourselves that it is impossible there can exist at one and the same time two contradictory duties, let us, in cases of difficulty, lean to that which seems the most important, and, while regretting our inability to do all that we could wish, let us not regard as a duty that which another duty has prevented us from performing.

MORAL DOUBTS.

FIRST DIALOGUE.

_M. de Flaumont_; _Henry_, _Gustavus_, _and Clementine_,
_his Children_.

M. DE FLAUMONT.--Children, would you like me to relate to you two stories, which I have just been reading in a foreign newspaper?

THE CHILDREN.--Oh! yes, papa! are they very long?

M. DE FLAUMONT.--No! but you may perhaps be puzzled to give me your opinion on them.

THE CHILDREN.--How do you mean, papa?

M. DE FLAUMONT.--You will see, here is the first:--

An English stage-coach, filled with passengers, was proceeding towards a large town. The conversation of the travellers turned upon the highwaymen by whom the road was infested, and who frequently stopped and searched travellers. They debated amongst themselves as to the best means of preserving their money; each boasted of having taken his measures, and being quite safe.

An imprudent young woman, wishing, doubtless, to display her superior cleverness, and forgetting that frankness, in such circumstances, is very ill-placed, said, "As for me, I carry all my wealth about me in a bank note for two hundred pounds, but I have so well concealed it, that the robbers will certainly never be able to find it, for it is in my shoe, under my stocking."

A few minutes after they were attacked by highwaymen, who demanded their purses, but, discontented with the little they found in them, they declared, in menacing tones, that they would search and ill-treat them unless they immediately gave them a hundred pounds; and they seemed prepared to put their threats into execution.

"You will easily find twice that sum," said an old man seated at the back of the coach, who during the whole journey had remained entirely silent, or had spoken only in monosyllables, "if you make that lady take off her shoes and stockings."

The robbers followed this advice, took the banknote, and departed.

What think you of the old man?

CLEMENTINE.--Oh, papa! what villany!

M. DE FLAUMONT.--All the travellers were of your opinion. They loaded him with reproach and insult, and even threatened to throw him out of the coach. The young woman's grief exceeded description. The old man appeared insensible to these insults and menaces, and once only excused himself by saying, "Every one must think of himself first."

In the evening, when the coach reached its destination, the old man contrived to make his escape before his fellow-passengers had an opportunity of visiting their displeasure upon him. The young woman passed a frightful night. What was her surprise on the following morning, when a sum of four hundred pounds was placed in her hands, together with a magnificent comb, and the following letter:--

"Madam,--The man whom, yesterday, you detested with reason, returns to you the sum you have lost, with interest which makes it double, together with a comb nearly equal in value. I am exceedingly distressed at the grief I was compelled to cause you. A few words will explain my conduct. I have just returned from India, where I have passed ten weary years. I have gained by my industry thirty thousand pounds, and the whole of this sum I had yesterday about me in bank-notes. Had I been searched with the rigour with which we were threatened, I must have lost everything. What was I to do? I could not run the risk of having to return to India with empty hands. Your frankness furnished me with the means of escaping the difficulty. Therefore I entreat you to think nothing of this trifling present, and to believe me henceforth devotedly, Yours."

GUSTAVUS.--Well, papa, the young woman had no longer any reason to complain, and the old man did not do wrong, since he returned much more than she lost.

CLEMENTINE.--Yes; but in her place I would much rather have been without the comb, and not have had to take off my shoes and stockings in the presence of highwaymen.

GUSTAVUS.--Oh! that did not do her much harm.

HENRY.--But, papa, if the robbers, notwithstanding their promise, had searched every one, and had taken his thirty thousand pounds away from the old man, it would have been out of his power to restore the two hundred pounds to the young woman, and yet it would have been through his means that she would have lost them.

M. DE FLAUMONT.--Henry is right: the injury inflicted by the old man was certain, while he had no certainty of being able to repair it.

HENRY.--Assuredly the word of a robber is not to be depended on.

GUSTAVUS.--But still it was certain that had he not acted as he did, they would have taken his thirty thousand pounds.

M. DE FLAUMONT.--That is true; but do you think, my dear Gustavus, that, in order to escape some great calamity ourselves, we have a right to inflict an equally serious injury on another? for the loss of the two hundred pounds was as great a calamity to the young woman as that of the thirty thousand would have been to the old man, since it was the whole of her wealth.

GUSTAVUS.--Yes, papa; but he knew very well he would return them.

M. DE FLAUMONT.--He wished to do so, no doubt; but Henry has shown you how he might have failed in the accomplishment of his wishes. Other accidents might also have prevented him. He might have lost his pocket-book by the way: he might have died suddenly, &c.

CLEMENTINE.--Oh yes, indeed; and then the young woman would neither have had her own two hundred pounds, nor the two hundred pounds additional, nor her beautiful comb.

M. DE FLAUMONT.--He thus surrendered his honesty, and the fate of his fellow-traveller, to the chance of a future, always uncertain, and all this to spare himself a misfortune, very great, no doubt, but the certainty of which gave him no right to injure another. Here lies the difference between prudence and virtue. Prudence commences by studying how to escape a difficulty, and thinks it has done enough when it has promised itself to repair the injury inflicted on another. Virtue does not content itself with the hope of repairing this wrong at some future day: it does not commit it; and thus, though it is often more unfortunate, it is always more tranquil. So that virtue alone has no occasion to dread the future. It is in doing evil, even with the idea of its resulting in good, or with the firm determination of repairing it, that men often plunge into difficulties and errors, from which they are afterwards unable to extricate themselves. No one can flatter himself, however prudent he may be, that he has foreseen all chances, and so managed matters that nothing can turn out wrong; while, by laying it down as a law to ourselves to be virtuous before all things, we are certain of never having to reproach ourselves with any intentional wrong.

GUSTAVUS.--But, papa, what ought to be done in such a case?

M. DE FLAUMONT.--I cannot pretend to say; all I know is, that we ought not to do what our old man did. You will one day perceive how many misfortunes happen in the world from the false idea, so frequently entertained by men, that they are able to direct events according to their own wishes: they regulate their conduct with this hope, and afterwards events multiply, become involved, and turn out in so unforeseen a manner, that they behold their projects often, and their virtue always, wrecked beyond the possibility of recovery. Whereas, on the contrary, we ought first of all to make sure of our virtue, and then take all the advantage we can of circumstances. Besides, who knows all the resources that may be discovered, by a man resolutely determined to do nothing which his conscience disapproves? It is very convenient, no doubt, to take the first resource which presents itself to the mind; but can we be sure that it is the only one to be found, and that, by giving ourselves a little additional trouble, we might not discover another equally efficacious and more honest. Let us, after remaining firm in virtue, be ingenious and energetic, and we shall almost always be able to extricate ourselves from our difficulties. If all who are ruined were to turn robbers, they would doubtless adopt the most easy and expeditious mode of repairing their fortunes, still this is a mode which honest people do not take; and, being compelled to seek other resources, they rarely fail to discover them. I do not, at this moment, very well see what plan our old man might have hit upon to save his thirty thousand pounds; but, perhaps, if he had not so hastily adopted the idea of denouncing the young woman, some other and better expedient might have suggested itself.

GUSTAVUS.--I agree with you, papa; but you promised us another story.

M. DE FLAUMONT.--Here it is. You will see, that if we ought not to do a wrong because we can never be sure of being able to repair it, neither must we do wrong with a good intention.

An English nobleman was journeying to one of his estates, when he was attacked in a wood by six highwaymen; two of them seized the coachman, two others the footmen, and the remaining two, placing themselves at the doors of the carriage, presented each a pistol to his breast.

"Your pocket-book, my lord," said one of the robbers, who had a most repulsive expression of countenance.

The nobleman took a rather weighty purse from his pocket, and handed it to him. The man examined its contents, but did not seem satisfied. "Your pocket-book, if you please, my lord," and he cocked his pistol.

The nobleman quietly gave up his pocket-book. The highwayman opened it; and during this time the nobleman examined his countenance. Never had he beheld eyes so small and piercing, a nose so long, cheeks so hollow, a mouth so wide, nor a chin so prominent.

The robber took some papers from the pocket-book, and then returned it. "A pleasant journey, my lord;" and he set off rapidly with his companions.

On reaching home the nobleman examined his pocket-book, to see what had been taken from it, and found that bank notes to the amount of two thousand five hundred pounds had been extracted, and that five hundred pounds had been left. He congratulated himself on this, and said to his friends, that he would willingly give a hundred pounds could they but have seen the fellow. Never had highwayman a countenance so suited to his calling.

The nobleman soon forgot his loss, and thought no more of the occurrence; when, some years afterwards, he received the following letter:--

"MY LORD,--I am a poor Jew. The prince in whose dominions I lived robbed us of everything. I went to England, accompanied by five other Jews, that I might at least save my life. I fell ill at sea; and the vessel in which we sailed was wrecked near the coast.

"A man wholly unknown to me was upon the shore: he leaped into the water, and saved me at the peril of his life. This was not all; he led me to his house, called in a physician, and took care of me until I was cured; and asked nothing in return. This man was a woollen manufacturer, who had twelve children. Some time afterwards, I found him very sad. The disturbances in America had just broken out, and the American merchants with whom he traded were base enough to profit by this circumstance, and refused to pay him. 'In a month,' he said to me, 'I shall be completely ruined; for I have bills coming due which I am wholly unable to meet.'

"His grief threw me into despair: I formed a desperate resolution. 'I owe my life to him,' I said, 'and I will sacrifice it for him.' With the five Jews who had followed me to England, I placed myself upon the highway. You know what happened. I sent to the man of whom I have spoken the money I took from you, and saved him for that time. But his creditors never paid him; and about a week ago he died, without having discharged all his debts.

"The same day I gained four thousand pounds in the lottery. I return to you all I took from you, with interest. Forward the remaining thousand pounds to the unfortunate family of the manufacturer (he gave their address at the end of the letter), and make inquiries of them respecting a poor Jew, whom they so generously saved and entertained.

"P.S.--I solemnly declare that, when we attacked you, not one of our pistols was charged, and that we had no intention of drawing a cutlass from its scabbard.

"Spare yourself all search. When this letter reaches you I shall again be upon the ocean. May God preserve you."

The nobleman made inquiries, and found that the Jew's account was strictly true. From that time forward he took the family of the manufacturer under his protection. He frequently said, "I would give a hundred pounds to any one who would inform me of the death of my terrible Jew; and a thousand pounds to any one who should bring him to me alive."

HENRY.--But why did he wish for his death, papa?

M. DE FLAUMONT.--Because this Jew was a very dangerous person. A man capable of doing such things, even from generous motives, is always to be dreaded. The safety and happiness of society depend upon the submission and respect due to the laws, which maintain order, and preserve the persons and property of all. The laws cannot take into account the motives which induce a man to injure another in person or property. In such cases they can only judge and punish the act itself. If this nobleman had been a judge, and the Jew had been brought before his tribunal, he could not, even when all the facts of the case were before him, have avoided condemning him to the penalty prescribed by the law, though he might afterwards have endeavoured to obtain his pardon from the sovereign.

GUSTAVUS.--The Jew, however, had not loaded his pistols: he did not intend to commit murder.

M. DE FLAUMONT.--Consequently, he would have been sentenced to a punishment less severe than that inflicted upon murderers; but still he committed robbery.

CLEMENTINE.--Yes; but it was to save the life of his benefactor: he exposed his own from gratitude; this was assuredly a great sacrifice. He would not have robbed from any other motive.

M. DE FLAUMONT.--Therefore this Jew was doubtless susceptible of very generous sentiments and of noble devotion; this ought to count for much in the opinion we form of him: it would probably have obtained for him his pardon, or at least a great mitigation of his punishment; but, in a moral point of view, and for the interests of society, justice and firmness of principle are still more necessary than generosity of sentiment. It would be impossible to allow every man the privilege of making use of whatever means he pleased to gratify his feelings and display his generosity. Even virtue itself is subject to laws, whose wisdom is recognised and whose advantages are unquestionable. These prescribe the route in which it must exercise itself, and the bounds which it must not overleap. Thus, in the conduct of our Jew, everything which preceded and followed his act, and some of the circumstances of the act itself, were praiseworthy; his sole object was to preserve his benefactor: he took only what was required for that purpose: he kept nothing for himself, he scrupulously repaid the sum with interest, he did not even reserve any portion of the prize gained in the lottery, since, after having returned to the nobleman the two thousand five hundred pounds and interest, he gave the remainder to the manufacturer's children. All this was very well, and very disinterested, but it does not prevent the action itself from being blameable. And this is what often happens, when we allow ourselves to be governed by our feelings, however good they may be, instead of regulating our conduct by steady principles, which, though they may sometimes restrain the feelings, always insure virtue.

HENRY.--Still, papa, the nobleman promised more to him who should bring him the Jew alive, than to him who should inform him of his death.

M. DE FLAUMONT.--That was because he knew that a man capable of such generous sentiments and remarkable devotion was one who, to be rendered altogether virtuous, only required firmer principles, and a less embarrassing position. He doubtless wished to make him feel, that if it be noble to sacrifice one's life for gratitude, that sacrifice ought never to be made at the expense of honesty; perhaps, too, he wished to take him into his service, to place him in easy circumstances, to remove him, in fact, out of the way of those temptations in which generosity of feeling so easily deceives us in regard to the true nature of our duties. Generosity may carry us farther than mere duty; but it should always go in a right line, and never lead us to neglect duty.

SECOND DIALOGUE.

_Caroline--Madame de Boissy, working_.

MADAME DE BOISSY.--Caroline, did you really require that sash, which you induced your uncle to give you, by asking him to lend you the money to buy it?

CAROLINE.--I am very glad to have it, mamma, since it has cost me nothing.

MADAME DE BOISSY.--You knew, then, that your uncle would make you a present of it?

CAROLINE.--Mamma, I only asked him to lend me the money.

MADAME DE BOISSY.--I know that; but did you expect you would have to repay him?

CAROLINE.--Certainly! if he wished it.

MADAME DE BOISSY.--But did you think he would wish it?

CAROLINE (_embarrassed_).--I do not know, mamma.

MADAME DE BOISSY.--Tell me candidly,--when you asked your uncle to lend you the money to purchase this sash, which you did not want, and which, in all probability, you would not have bought had you been alone,--did you not know that it was a means of obtaining it as a gift?

CAROLINE.--Dear me, mamma! you make me examine my conscience as if I were going to confession.

MADAME DE BOISSY.--And it is thus you should always examine it, my child.

CAROLINE.--Yes, mamma, when one has done anything wrong.

MADAME DE BOISSY.--Or to ascertain whether one has done wrong.

CAROLINE (_much confused_).--But what wrong can I have done? My uncle could act as he pleased, and it was certainly quite true that I had no money in my purse.

MADAME DE BOISSY.--There was one thing, however, which was not quite true, but which you, nevertheless, wished to make him believe, and that was, that you really intended to buy this sash yourself.

CAROLINE (_still confused_).--But, mamma, my intentions do not concern any one but myself.

MADAME DE BOISSY.--You seem to fear the contrary, since you conceal them. You would not have been willing that your uncle should have discovered them; therefore, while you were really actuated by one motive, you led him to suppose that you were influenced by another. You would not have asked him to give you this ribbon, because you know that we ought not to accept a gift, unless we feel that the giver has as much pleasure in presenting it as we have in receiving it, and, in that case, it will occur to him as readily as to ourselves. You have, therefore, allowed your uncle to believe that you had the delicacy not to desire a present, which it had not occurred to him to make you, while, at the same time, you endeavoured to make him think of it by underhand means. You have sought to obtain, at one and the same time, both the esteem which delicacy merits, and the gift which it would be necessary to sacrifice in order to deserve this esteem. It is evident that both cannot belong to you, and that you have committed a theft in the transaction.

CAROLINE (_shocked_).--Oh! mamma, we only commit theft when we injure some one, and I have not injured any one.

MADAME DE BOISSY.--You have extorted from your uncle a present, which he probably would not have made to any one whom he believed capable of subterfuge. You have cheated his intentions of giving you an unexpected pleasure.

CAROLINE.--He cannot know that; therefore his pleasure will be all the same.

MADAME DE BOISSY.--Caroline, would you think you were not stealing, if you took money from the coffers of a rich man who made no use of it, and did not know how much he had? If you did not do him an injury of which he was conscious, you injured those to whom his money would one day go, and who might not be either so rich or so indifferent as himself. In like manner, if you did not do your uncle any positive wrong, by usurping an esteem which was not your due, you at least were unjust to those whom he might place on a level with you in his esteem, or whom he might set beneath you; for either you must share with them an esteem which you did not merit, and which is always more flattering when obtained alone, or you must diminish the consolation they would otherwise have in finding an additional example to excuse them. Be well assured that we can never deceive without injuring some one, and that there can be no unfair advantage which is not gained at the expense of our neighbours.

CAROLINE.--But really, mamma, this advantage is so very trifling.

MADAME DE BOISSY.--The case is trifling, but the principle is the same, and you would no more wish to steal needles than diamonds. Besides, my child, we must attach some value to, and derive some advantage from, a thing which we take the trouble to steal; and who can, with propriety, desire an advantage which he has not merited? Listen, Caroline: you are now growing a great girl, and it is time you should understand all that is due to yourself and others, in regard to uprightness and honesty in the most trifling things, and how mean it is to wish to deceive others, or to think it necessary to do so.

CAROLINE.--Mamma, I have never wished to deceive any one, I assure you.

MADAME DE BOISSY.--I grant you that we do not say to ourselves, _I wish to deceive_; we should be horrified; but, without telling absolute falsehoods, people often pass their lives in endeavouring to make others believe things which are untrue. If we are cold, or hot, or tired, we complain of our sufferings; we exaggerate them in order to attract attention, and gain pity, or at least to make people think of us. We laugh louder than we feel inclined to do, to make it appear that we are very gay; we look in the glass, and exclaim, "How, I am sunburnt!" in order that we may be told that it is imperceptible, and be complimented on our complexion. We complain of a dress that fits badly, and say, "What a fright I look to-day," in the hope of finding some sycophant who will assure us that we look well in everything. Or, finally, we give expression to some worthy sentiment in order to be praised for it.

CAROLINE.--But, mamma, if the sentiment be sincere?

MADAME DE BOISSY.--My dear child, there is always insincerity in the means employed to obtain praise for it; for good feelings are not intended to gain us admiration, but to make us do what is right. We should not esteem the benevolence of a man, who did good merely for the sake of obtaining commendation; nor the fraternal sentiments of him whose sole object in displaying them was to be praised for his attachment to his brothers and sisters. Thus, those who make a display of feeling for the sake of being praised, must take care to conceal their intentions; consequently, if they obtain the praise, it is quite clear that they have stolen it.

CAROLINE.--But one must then watch every movement of the mind, for these things may escape us without our in the least intending it.