Chapter III: The Desert (3)

MADAME DE BOISSY.--To prevent them from doing so, it is only necessary to think, once for all, of two or three things. First, that we display very little respect or consideration for ourselves when we stoop to deceive others, in order that they may condescend to pay attention to us. Secondly, that we place ourselves in a very humiliating position when we thus beg for a flattery, a compliment, or a mark of attention, which is usually granted from mere politeness, or for the sake of pleasing us, just as we give a penny to a beggar in the street. Finally, that these kinds of stratagems, when they are discovered--and they are discovered oftener than people imagine--may overwhelm us with ridicule, or even with shame, and that the most trifling untruth exposes us to a risk far greater than the pleasure which it procures. Tell me if your sash would ever afford you a pleasure as great as the annoyance you would feel, if your uncle were to discover the subterfuge you employed in order to induce him to make you a present of it.

CAROLINE.--Oh! mamma, you have made me absolutely hate it. I will never even look at it again.

MADAME DE BOISSY.--There you are wrong, my child; you must look at it, and think of it, in order that it may remind you of the necessity of always acting honourably.

THIRD DIALOGUE.

_Monsieur de Bonnel--Augustus, his Son_.

M. DE BONNEL.--Augustus, I hope you have returned to George, as I told you, that little cart you took from him?

AUGUSTUS (_ill-temperedly_).--I was obliged to do it, since you desired me, but I did not take it from him; I paid him what it cost. If he was so obstinate as to refuse the money, that was not my fault.

M. DE BONNEL.--He did not want your money, and he wished to keep his cart; you had no right to force the bargain upon him.

AUGUSTUS.--I have a right to make him do as I please.

M. DE BONNEL.--And how came you by this right?

AUGUSTUS.--His father Antony is your servant.

M. DE BONNEL.--And is that any reason that George should have no will of his own?

AUGUSTUS.--No; but it is a reason why he should give up to me; and the best proof that he very well knows this, is that he always does give up to me. To-day, though he would not sell me his cart, he did not think of preventing me from taking it; and had it not been for you he would certainly not have got it back again.

M. DE BONNEL.--Very well; but, what is singular in the matter is that for the future he will think differently, and that henceforward he will be obliged to resist you.

AUGUSTUS.--I should like to see him do that.

M. DE BONNEL.--Well, you shall be gratified. Antony had forbidden his son to use force against you for fear of hurting you. I have just told him that if he did not order George to defend himself against you when you torment him, as he would defend himself against one of his own companions, George should not come here again. You will now see whether it is his duty to humour you, and whether it is from respect that he has hitherto yielded to you.

AUGUSTUS.--It would be a fine thing for George to treat me like one of his comrades.

M. DE BONNEL.--Very well; you need not make free with him.

AUGUSTUS.--Making him obey me is not making free with him.

M. DE BONNEL..--When you have no right to exact obedience, you can only obtain it from his politeness by requests such as we use towards an equal, or exact it by force, which he will repel with his fist, and that is the greatest familiarity I know of.

AUGUSTUS.--But George is to be my servant one day: he has told me so a hundred times: he will have to be submissive and respectful then.

M. DE BONNEL.--He will only be submissive in those things in which he has agreed to obey you: he will only be respectful so long as you fulfil your obligations to him. A servant agrees to obey in everything that concerns the service of his master, and that does not injure himself. Thus, if a master commanded him to go and fight for him, or to give him up the money which he had saved, the servant would no longer be obliged to obey.

AUGUSTUS.--But people do not require such things from servants.

M. DE BONNEL.--It is quite as unjust and absurd to expect them to labour for you beyond their strength, or to compel them to give up what belongs to them at a price which does not suit them. If you force them to do anything against their inclinations, they then lay aside their respect, and resist you as well as they can, for they have only agreed to obey your orders in certain things; nor have they consented to incur any other risk, in case of disobedience, than that of being reprimanded or sent away. If you go further than this, you break a covenant of which insults formed no part any more than blows; both equally exempt a servant from all duty.

AUGUSTUS.--Nevertheless, there are servants who remain in their places, although their masters overwork or ill-treat them. I have heard my cousin Armand say all sorts of insulting things to Jack, his groom, and even threaten to horsewhip him, because he harnessed his horse badly. Jack went on with his work without saying a word, because he knew that he must bear it.

M. DE BONNEL.--And what would have happened to Jack if he had answered his master impertinently, as he deserved to be answered?

AUGUSTUS.--Why, Armand would have turned him out of doors without a character, so that he would have been unable to get another situation.

M. DE BONNEL.--At this rate, masters have the means of treating their servants as ill as they please; and if all masters were to do so, all servants would be obliged to submit to it, I suppose?

AUGUSTUS.--Certainly they would.

M. DE BONNEL.--But if all servants were to take it into their heads to resist their masters, then the latter would either have to put up with this or do without servants.

AUGUSTUS.--But that would never happen.

M. DE BONNEL.--That would happen, if service became so intolerable that servants had no interest in humouring their masters. But as masters and servants stand mutually in need of each other, they have felt it to be to their advantage that the former should be kind and the latter obedient and respectful. It is, therefore, because there are many good masters whom it is to their interest to serve, that they serve respectfully even those who are bad. Consequently, he who abuses this respect is a coward, who shelters himself behind others to take advantage of their good actions, and commit wrong with impunity.

NEW YEAR'S NIGHT.

On the New Year's night of 1797, a man, over whose head had passed sixty winters, was standing at a window. He raised his mournful eyes towards the azure vault of heaven, where floated countless stars, as float the white blossoms of the water-lily on the bosom of a tranquil lake; then he looked down upon the earth, where there was no one so destitute of happiness and peace as himself, for his tomb was not far distant. He had already descended sixty of the steps that led to it, and bore with him from the bright days of his youth nothing save errors and remorse. His health was destroyed; his mind a blank, and weighed down with sorrow; his heart torn with repentance, and his old age full of grief. The days of his youth rose up before him, and brought back to his memory that solemn moment when his father placed him at the entrance of those two paths, of which the one leads to a peaceful and happy country, re-echoing with sweet song, and cheered by an ever-cloudless sun, whilst the other leads to the abodes of darkness--to a chasm without issue, peopled by serpents, and filled with poison.

Alas! the serpents had coiled around his heart; the poison had polluted his lips, and he now awoke to the reality of his condition.

He again raised his eyes to heaven, and exclaimed, with inexpressible anguish, "Return, oh, Youth! Return, oh, Father! place me once more at the entrance of life, that I may make a different choice." But his youth had passed away, and his father slept with the dead. He beheld a marsh-fire arise, dance over the morass, and disappear; and he said, "Such were my days of folly!" He beheld a falling star shoot along the sky, tremble, and then vanish; and he exclaimed, "Such am I;" and the sharp arrows of repentance sank deeper into his heart.

Then his thoughts turned upon all those men who had attained to his years, who had been young when he was young, and who now, in different parts of the world, were spending, in peace and tranquillity, this first night of the year, as good fathers of families and friends of truth and virtue. The pealing of the bell which celebrated the new step of time, vibrated on the air from the turret of the neighbouring church, sounding to his ear like a pious song. This sound re-awakened the memory of his parents,--the wishes they had breathed for him on that solemn day,--the lessons they had inculcated:--wishes which their unhappy son had never fulfilled,--lessons from which he had never profited. Overwhelmed with grief and shame, he could no longer gaze into that heaven where his father dwelt: he turned his grief-worn eyes towards the earth; tears flowed from them, and fell upon the snow which covered the ground; and finding nothing to console him in any direction, he again cried, "Return, oh, Youth! Return!"

And his youth did return; for all this was but a troubled dream, which had disturbed the slumbers of this first night of the year. He was still young,--his faults alone were real. He thanked God that his youth was not passed, that he had still the power to leave the path of vice--to regain that of virtue; to return into that happy land covered with abundant harvests.

Return with him, my young readers, if, like him, you have strayed; this terrible dream will henceforward be your judge. If, one day, overwhelmed with grief, you should be found to exclaim, "Return, oh, happy Youth!" the prayer will be vain, for youth will not return.

THE CURÉ OF CHAVIGNAT.

The Curé of Chavignat was an excellent man. He was very fond of children, and was, consequently, a great favourite with them. He chatted with them as if it were for his own amusement, and whilst thus engaged he gave them useful advice, with which they, in their turn, were highly delighted; because his instructions were usually accompanied by stories, which accustomed them to reflect on their own characters, on the best means of correcting their faults, and on the pleasure arising from the possession of good qualities. Whenever the Curé of Chavignat met with a story of this kind, he wrote it down, that he might afterwards give it or relate it to those children to whom it might prove useful. He went frequently to the château of Chavignat, where the children received him with demonstrations of the greatest delight, whilst the parents were continually thanking him for his kindness to their children.

One day he perceived that Juliana, the eldest of the children, who was scalloping a piece of muslin, was quite out of temper because her mother had reproved her.

"When I see," said he, "a little lady who is out of humour with her mamma, I begin to think what would be the state of matters if mammas, on their side, were to be out of humour with their little girls."

"It would be strange, indeed," said Juliana, "if papas and mammas were out of humour, when they are masters, and can do exactly as they please! That would he very just, truly!"

"People do not then get out of humour without just cause, Miss Juliana?" asked the Curé. "I was not aware of that."

"Witness Madame Gonthier, our housekeeper," cried Amadeus, "who, this morning, when her coffee overturned into the fire, scolded the girl who has charge of the poultry-yard, because the hens' eggs were so small."

"Just, Monsieur le Curé," said little Paul, raising his finger to his face, "as if it was the poultry girl that made the hens' eggs."

"Yes, my little friend; or, as if your mamma were to give Miss Juliana a slap on the face because the apricots do not ripen this year."

The children began to laugh, with the exception of Juliana, who, shrugging her shoulders, said in a disdainful tone, "Fortunately, people do not have relations so ill-bred as Madame Gonthier."

"Indeed, young lady," replied the Curé, "there are, I assure you, many persons in that unfortunate predicament. Besides," he added, "it is possible that a young lady very well brought up, like Miss Juliana, who just now gave her little brother a kick because her mamma had found fault with her--it is quite possible, I repeat, that when she grows up to be a woman, she may pull her little daughter by the ears because her footman failed to execute a commission properly."

"Oh, she did not hurt me," cried Paul, "I drew back."

"True," said the Curé, "but when it is the mamma who gives the blow it is not always so easy to draw back. I was once acquainted with a youth whose aunt was extremely ill-tempered, and who when she was dissatisfied with one person would vent her anger on another; and I can assure you, the young gentleman found this anything but agreeable."

"Oh, a story! a story! Monsieur le Curé," exclaimed both the little boys at once; "pray relate it to us."

"I will," said the Curé, giving a side glance at Juliana, "some day when nobody is out of humour here, for a certain person might take it to herself, and I do not wish to be uncivil to any one."

"Oh! pray relate your story, by all means, Monsieur le Curé," said Juliana, very sharply; "people can take it as they please."

"Young lady," replied the Curé, "when I relate a story, I wish it to be taken as I please." Juliana was silent, for she clearly perceived that she had spoken impertinently.

The next day, as soon as the Curé arrived, the little boys failed not to remind him of the promised story: he did not wait to be pressed, for he had brought the manuscript with him.

He seated himself at the table where Juliana was at work; she neither advanced nor drew back her chair. Amadeus placed his as close to the Curé as possible, and little Paul established himself between his knees, with upturned eyes and open mouth: the Curé then related what follows:--

THE QUARRELS.

One day Louis entered his mother's room quite beside himself; his eyes sparkled with anger, and his whole countenance expressed the strongest resentment.

"I saw her! there is no gainsaying it, I saw her with my own eyes," cried Marianne, the cook, who rushed in after him, and who was almost as much excited as himself. "Madame Ballier attempted to give him a box on the ear," she continued; "fortunately he drew back in good time, but trust me, if he did not feel the wind of it----"

"Had it not been my grand aunt," said Louis, pacing the room with hasty strides and folded arms; "had it not been my aunt----"

"Oh, he would have strangled her for certain," rejoined Marianne; "I saw that clearly, and in my opinion she would only have had what she deserved, the horrid thing."

"Marianne!" said Madame Delong, in a severe tone, and Marianne left the room shrugging her shoulders. Then addressing her son, "Are you quite sure, Louis," she said, "that you are not in some degree to blame?" Louis continued to pace the apartment without making any reply. Madame Delong repeated the question, but Louis had not yet sufficiently recovered himself to understand exactly what his mother was saying. At this moment Madame Ballier made her appearance; she looked confused, and speaking hurriedly, like a person who is afraid of being prevented by some disagreeable speech, she said, "Louis, will you go with me to the play this evening?"

Louis started and appeared surprised; but after a moment's hesitation, he replied, in a gloomy manner, turning away his head, "No, thank you, aunt."

"There are two actors arrived from Paris," added Madame Ballier, still more embarrassed.

"I am aware of it: I saw the notice posted up as I came from the college, and they are going to perform _The Templars_."

"Well, will you not come?"

"No, aunt," replied Louis again, rather sharply. Excited at once by resentment and the regret of losing the play, he was about to add some angry expression, but he restrained himself, and replied in the calmest tone that he could command, "I have to work for the examination of the inspectors who are coming this day week."

"Very well, I can go by myself," said Madame Ballier, still more annoyed. She went to the window as if to look at something, and then left the room without saying another word.

"If any one else had asked me," said Louis, in a tone of vexation, as soon as she was gone, "nothing would have delighted me more. Ever since I read the announcement I have been thinking how much I should like to see _The Templars_; but," he added, in an altered voice, "I will not give her the pleasure of thinking she can afford me the slightest gratification."

His anger increased from the sacrifice which it had induced him to make. His mother, wishing to calm him a little, said caressingly, as she took his arm, "But you will give _me_ the gratification, will you not, of taking a walk with me? I have a headache, and want the air;" and, seeing that he did not take any notice, she added, with a smile, "I shall not resign myself to going out without you, so readily as my aunt does."

Louis never refused his mother anything, and, although only fourteen years of age, he was so right-minded, and possessed so noble and generous a disposition, that Madame Delong treated him with entire confidence, and never, in any thing she required of him, appealed to any other motive than his own good sense and affection. Louis immediately took his hat, went to fetch his mother's parasol, and, without saying a word, offered her his arm to go out. Madame Delong saw the effort he was making to control himself, and said, "Thank you, my dear." These words began to restore peace to the soul of Louis. He was devotedly fond of his mother, and felt proud of being able to make her life more agreeable and happy. Almost always absent from her husband, and continually anxious and trembling for the dangers to which his military life exposed him, Madame Delong required the exertion of much fortitude to preserve her equanimity; and Louis, witnessing her trials, had early learned to avoid whatever might render her resignation more difficult. Very different in character from those children who imagine they obtain a species of triumph over their superiors when they have excited their displeasure, Louis took a pride in being able to ward off troubles and annoyances from his mother. It was not in a few instances, but in all cases that he was in the habit of doing this. If he gave her his arm in the street or the fields, he would avoid a rough path where she might hurt herself, lead her away from the herd of cows she did not like to venture amongst, or remove the horse she had to pass. Quick, and even thoughtless in his own case, he became prudent where his mother was concerned. Madame Delong would observe, with a smile, "Louis is my protector;" and Louis would smile also, and at the same time slightly blush, but not from annoyance; at such moments he felt himself a man, and in a position to be useful to others.

This kind of relation between Louis and his mother had not in the least diminished the respect due to her maternal authority and the superiority of her understanding. To this authority Louis submitted the more cheerfully, because the possibility of her at any time abusing it never entered his mind. He could not for a moment believe that his mother could ever be unjust or unreasonable; scarcely could he even believe that she could ever be mistaken; and if at any time he hesitated to perform his duty, the moment she said, "My dear, it must be done," Louis thought he heard the voice of his own conscience.

Nevertheless, since Madame Ballier had become an inmate of the house, Louis had more frequently experienced the difficulty of submission; and, upon certain points, all his affection for his mother was scarcely sufficient to supply what was wanting in his yet immature reason. Madame Ballier, who was formerly a mercer at Paris, had never received the advantage of a good education; she was sister to Monsieur Delong's mother, and when, at twelve years of age, he was left an orphan, she had given him a home. At fifteen he entered the army, obtained promotion by his bravery and good conduct, and neglecting no opportunity of improving himself and acquiring knowledge, he rose to the rank of colonel, and to the reputation of a distinguished man. Madame Delong, though without fortune, had been extremely well educated, and the congeniality of their minds and characters had established between them the most tender and perfect union.

When, two or three years before the time of our story, Madame Ballier, then a widow, had retired from business, in rather indifferent circumstances, Madame Delong proposed to her husband to offer her a home with them. Monsieur Delong at first hesitated, from the fear of giving his wife an associate by no means agreeable; but he soon yielded to the noble motives by which she was influenced in making this proposal, and to his conviction, that the mingled gentleness and firmness of her character would greatly diminish the inconveniences which might otherwise result from such an arrangement. Madame Ballier accordingly joined the family of her niece in the small town where the latter resided, in the absence of her husband, and where with a very moderate income she endeavoured, by strict economy, to meet the expenses occasioned by the war, and provide for the education of her son. A good-hearted woman in the main, but often weary of her position, and, notwithstanding the deference with which she was treated by Madame Delong, dissatisfied at not being the mistress, Madame Ballier was frequently out of humour, and found means of showing her temper on a thousand occasions; for persons who have no taste for serious occupation are apt to become very fanciful about trifles. The two greatest sufferers were Louis and his black wolf-dog Barogo: as for Marianne, a quarrel was not positively disagreeable to her, and it was a pleasure which Madame Ballier seldom hesitated to afford her. Madame Delong would by no means have permitted Marianne to fail in respect to her aunt, but neither did she like that Madame Ballier should uselessly torment Marianne, an old and faithful servant, who had been in the family ever since her mistress was born, and who was determined to end her days in it; both, therefore, were equally interested in keeping their quarrels secret, and thus being sure of each other, they observed no mutual consideration; and a coffee-pot placed on the fire precisely where it would most inconvenience Marianne, or removed at the very time Madame Ballier wished to have it heated; a commission given inopportunely, and received with a bad grace, and, above all, the delinquencies of Robinet, Madame Ballier's cat, who was afraid of mice and devoured every thing in the larder, kept up a fund of animosity, and underhand quarrels, which interestingly occupied one half of their lives.

But between Louis and his aunt, the game was by no means so equal.

As Madame Ballier had no authority whatever over him, she made a point of contradicting him in everything. His shoes were too tight, or his trowsers too wide; he wore his hair too short, or his sleeves too long: and as the next day neither hair, nor sleeves, nor shoes, nor trowsers, differed in any degree from what they were the night before, the remarks were repeated with as much acrimony as if Madame Ballier were herself obliged to wear the things in question. Madame Delong, perfectly mute during these disputes, in which she never took any part, was not equally reserved with her son, whom she scrupulously compelled, much against his inclination, to restrain his conduct within the bounds of proper respect; but all her authority, and her severe looks, were scarcely sufficient to effect this, when the injustice fell upon Barogo, whom Madame Ballier regularly turned out of the room, two or three times a day saying that he gave her fleas. Louis would then immediately follow, in order to be with his dear Barogo, and usually found him engaged in avenging upon Robinet the insults received from her mistress. Warned by the noise he made in pursuing her favourite, Madame Ballier would fly to the rescue; snatch up, in her alarm and anger, a broom, a pair of tongs, or whatever came to hand, as a weapon against the aggressor, and while the latter made his escape growling, Madame Ballier, drawn away by a deeper interest, ran to seek and console her cat. Then Barogo, satisfied with having proved his right of resistance, by displaying his white teeth through his black moustaches, would return and take quiet possession of the sitting-room, where he soon became the object of a fresh contest.

"Why should we be obliged to submit to my aunt's caprices and ill-humour?" Louis would sometimes exclaim in a fit of uncontrollable indignation. "Why should we be obliged to live with our relations at all?" asked Madame Delong one day in reply. "Why should we be obliged to keep up any ties of kindred? Why should not brothers and sisters, fathers and children, go each their own way, without troubling themselves about each other? If I were to become peevish, morose, and difficult to please, tell me, Louis, would you be obliged to retain any regard for me?"

"Oh! my dear mother!" cried Louis, wounded at such a supposition.

"My child," replied his mother, "when we once believe that we may quarrel with our duties, because they are difficult, there is none of them that may not be brought into question, for there is none of them, the fulfilment of which may not at some period or other occasion us some inconvenience. Do you not think a nephew owes to his aunt, and an _aged_ aunt, respect and complaisance?"

"Undoubtedly, but--"

"But you would prefer that your aunt should be careful to render this duty more agreeable to you:--this I can conceive; yet a duty is not the less a duty because it is painful."

"I should think my aunt has duties also," said Louis, with a little asperity.

"My son," returned his mother, very seriously, "when you have found out a suitable manner of representing them to her, you will be quite justified in thinking of them."

"What is to be done, then?" Louis would sometimes exclaim, quite out of patience at seeing no means of avoiding what he knew not how to endure. One day, when the heat was extreme, and he was continually wiping his face during a discussion of this kind, his mother said to him, "Six or seven years ago, my dear, you would not have been able to bear such heat as this without repeating every moment, _Oh, how hot it is!_ but now you scarcely pay any attention to it, because you know that it is unbecoming in a man not to show himself superior to petty inconveniences."

Louis was quite old enough to understand his mother's arguments, but he had not yet acquired sufficient resolution to submit to them. When his aunt was out of humour with him, he became angry in his turn; if she wished to subject him to some caprice of hers, he was the more obstinately bent on a contrary whim; and to make him feel it a matter of great importance that his hat should remain on the table, it was only necessary that Madame Ballier should take it into her head to throw it upon a chair.

When out of his mother's presence, and no longer restrained by her looks, which habitually followed him, and which he dared not avoid, Louis was always more disposed to forget himself, and did not often escape the danger, particularly as he was then more openly attacked by Madame Ballier, who was no longer held in check by the fear of disobliging her niece. The last quarrel had been occasioned by one of those trifles which so often occasioned them, and Louis, exasperated to the utmost by his aunt's ill-humour, and perhaps not very well disposed himself that day had taken the liberty to indulge in remarks so little measured, that the anger of Madame Ballier had gone beyond all bounds. She was sorry for it afterwards; not that she considered it anything extraordinary for an aunt to box the ears of a nephew who had spoken impertinently to her; but such things were not in accordance with the tone of the family, and although she herself constantly found fault with her niece, she would not have liked her niece to find fault with her.

She thought to repair all by the offer of taking Louis to the theatre, and could not understand his retaining so much resentment as to refuse. Consequently, she was much out of humour the whole of dinner-time, and when upon leaving the table a fresh proposal was again met by a refusal on the part of Louis, she went off shrugging her shoulders with a sigh of indignation.

She had only just left the room, when in came M. Lebeau, a friend of Madame Delong's.

"Come, come, my boy!" he said to Louis, "to the theatre:--quick! there is not a moment to lose, or we shall not find places. Charles and Eugenia are on the way with their mother; we will overtake them."

Louis and his mother looked at each other without making any reply. "Well! are you coming?" said M. Lebeau, impatiently. "I do not think that Louis can go to the play this evening," said Madame Delong, at length, looking earnestly at her son.

"And why not?"

"He has work to finish."

"I worked hard enough when I was young, and learned my profession as a notary as well as any one else, but I did not give up my amusement, for all that. Why, my lad, at your age, when I wanted to go to the play, I spent the night in work, and there was an end of it."

"That would not be very difficult," said Louis, looking at his mother, whilst his face was scarlet with anger and anxiety. Madame Delong suppressed a sigh, called forth by the sight of her son's vexation, and said to him; "You know very well, my dear, that that is not the difficulty:" then, turning to M. Lebeau, she added, in a firmer tone, "It is impossible; Louis has refused to go with his aunt."

"His aunt! his aunt! What then? He has changed his mind; surely he has a right to be more amused with my children than with his aunt. Come, come, I will undertake to make her listen to reason, though we do not generally understand one another particularly well."

Louis seemed in suspense. "M. Lebeau," said Madame Delong, very seriously; "since it must be confessed, Louis has had a slight quarrel with his aunt, and it was for that reason that he declined going with her to the theatre. I do not blame him for it, it was the most respectful manner of letting his aunt know that she had wounded his feelings; but I leave him to judge," she added, looking at Louis, "whether it be becoming in him to go and brave her as it were, and as if he said to her, 'I did not choose to accept your favours, I can dispense with them.'"

"Such punctilios are only fit for a girl," cried M. Lebeau. "My dear friend, I tell you plainly, you will make a milksop of that son of yours."

"I am not aware," said Madame Delong, still looking at her son, "that Louis feels himself any the weaker, or the less worthy of esteem, when he submits to his duty, than when he fails in it in order to follow his pleasures."

Louis shook his head; he knew very well that his mother was right; but he found it impossible to make any answer. At this moment Charles rushed into the room: quite out of patience at not seeing his friend Louis arrive, he had run to look for him. "Come, make haste!" he cried; "you will make us lose the first scene, and perhaps even our places."

Louis, with eyes cast down, pressed his hand, and not daring to trust his voice, said, in a tone scarcely audible,--"I am not going to the theatre."

"Not going! and why not?" asked Charles, much astonished.

"On account of my aunt."

Charles, in consternation, looked alternately at his father and at Madame Delong; the latter hastened to observe: "It is a voluntary sacrifice which my son makes to his sense of propriety, and one which I hope we shall be able to make up to him another time."

"Another time!" cried M. Lebeau, striking the floor with his cane; "another time! why, they are going away to-morrow; I tell you they set off to-morrow."

Louis started. Madame Delong, looking at him, sorrowfully, but firmly, said, "Is that any reason, my son?" Louis hurried out of the room; he was choking. Charles left the house in grief, and M. Lebeau, as he took his departure, repeated, "I always said so; the most sensible woman in the world knows nothing about bringing up boys."

Madame Delong immediately went to her son's room and found him leaning against the corner of the mantel-piece; his fortitude was completely overcome; the poor boy was in tears, and his mother felt much disposed to join him. As if suddenly struck with resentment upon her entrance, he exclaimed, "You wished to punish me because I dared to be angry with my aunt when she tried to box my ears;" and these last words were uttered in a still more passionate manner.

"To punish you!" said Madame Delong, putting her arm round her son's neck, "to punish you! Oh, my dear child, it is a very long time since I have even thought it possible that I could have occasion to punish you!"

The tears of Louis were now flowing abundantly. Madame Delong leant her head on his shoulder, saying, with much emotion, "My dearest child, overcome this weakness, I entreat you. What will become of me who have the responsibility of making you acquainted with your duties, if you have not resolution enough to fulfil them? How cruel will be my task, Louis! I have laboured all your life to inspire you with fortitude, in order that your courage might sustain my own."

"This disappointment cannot grieve you as much as it does me," said Louis, still a little angry, though already in some degree softened by his mother's words.

"My dear boy," replied Madame Delong, "if you were now at the theatre, I should be watching the clock, and although alone, should fear to see the hours pass, for I should say, 'he is now enjoying himself,' and that would render my whole evening delightful." Louis kissed her hand. "But," she continued, "if after having refused your aunt, you had been weak enough to accompany M. Lebeau, and I weak enough to consent to your doing so, we should both of us have had our pleasure destroyed; the sight of your aunt at the play would have disturbed you the whole time; on your return we should not have dared to converse together on what would have been a subject of self-reproach to both, and you would have gone to bed without having anything to relate to me."

Louis was insensibly calmed by the conversation and affection of his mother; nevertheless, he had some difficulty in applying steadily to anything during this evening, and he dreamed all night that he had gone to the theatre, and was wandering round and round the house without being able to find the entrance, whilst all the time the play was going on, and he could hear the applause.

Madame Ballier, on her part, had returned home much dissatisfied with the manner in which she had passed her evening. She had the misfortune to be seated in a box close to the one occupied by M. Lebeau and his family: there was already a good deal of bitterness between them, for M. Lebeau, though a good-natured and upright man, was little disposed to think that people should inconvenience themselves for the sake of others; he had never approved of Madame Delong's plan of having Madame Ballier with her, and consequently had taken an aversion to the latter almost before he had made her acquaintance. Never would he consent to show her the slightest attention calculated to attract her to his house, and as this prevented Madame Delong from visiting there as frequently as she had previously done, M. Lebeau was the more dissatisfied; and the grievances of Louis, who was a great favourite of his, and even those of Barogo, with whom he cultivated a certain degree of intimacy, did not tend to soften matters. When, upon entering the theatre, he saw Madame Ballier in the next box to that which his family had taken, he felt so annoyed that he would have changed his place had it been possible. His excitement, and the explanations given to his party in no very low tone, soon informed Madame Ballier of what had taken place, and the name of "poor Louis," which, at every pause in their pleasure, was repeated by the children in a tone of regret, and with a side glance towards her, rendered her evening extremely disagreeable. On returning home she complained of a headache, and retired to her own room without seeing any one. The next day she made no allusion whatever to the play; and if Louis was wrong in somewhat enjoying this little revenge, he was at all events justified in congratulating himself on having escaped a similar embarrassment. Two days afterwards, at the house of M. Lebeau, the latter again attacked Madame Delong on the subject of the play; Louis defended his mother with so much eagerness, that M. Lebeau, provoked at finding in him an opponent, exclaimed, "Young man! this is the way you spoil your mother." Everybody laughed, and M. Lebeau amongst the rest, while Madame Delong gave her son a smile of affectionate pride, which seemed to say, "Persevere, my dear Louis, let us continue to aid each other in fulfilling our duty."

The Curé here paused. "Is that all?" exclaimed the two little boys.

"That is not a story," said Juliana, drawing up her head with an air of pretension. "It has neither beginning nor end."

"As to the end," replied the Curé, "I have not told you that my story was ended: I wished merely to show you how very disagreeable it is for young persons when their relations happen to be bad-tempered, and at the same time to point out to you that when such is the case it is the duty of the young to make every sacrifice rather than displease their relations."

"It was not very difficult for Louis to do what his mother wished," said Juliana, in a tone which betrayed a little vexation; "she always spoke to him so gently."

"Well! that is good!" cried Amadeus. "The other day when you were in a passion, and nurse very gently begged you to listen to reason, did you not tell her to march off with her reason?"

"Mr. Amadeus," replied Juliana, colouring violently, "mind your own affairs if you please, or I shall tell, in my turn, what naughty words you made use of in the grove, when papa called you to write your exercise."

"I see," said the Curé, "that you would neither of you have been as reasonable as Louis, though he was nothing to boast of."

"Yes," observed Amadeus, "for he obeyed the wishes of his mother only when she was present."

"I don't behave like him, Monsieur le Curé," said Paul, touching the clergyman's arm to make him listen to him; "when mamma goes away and says, 'Paul, don't go near the water,' I don't go near it at all."

"I should like to know," said Juliana, "what would have happened if Louis had remained for some time _tête-à-tête_ with his aunt?"

"That is precisely the sequel of my story," replied the Curé. The children having expressed their wish to hear this sequel, the Curé promised it, and a few days afterwards he thus resumed the adventures of Louis.

ABSENCE.

Madame Delong received intelligence from Germany which caused her the greatest affliction. Her husband had been dangerously wounded, and she immediately set off to attend on him, deeply grieved at the necessity of leaving her son to his own discretion, as it were, with a person who was incapable of maintaining any authority over him.

Being also perfectly well aware that whilst Madame Ballier had to command, and Marianne to obey, there would be little peace in the household, we may easily imagine what were her parting admonitions, and what the promises and good resolutions made to conform to them. But, scarcely was she out of sight, when Madame Ballier, eager to take possession of her authority, positively exacted of Marianne that the soup tureen, which from time immemorial had been placed on the sideboard, should for the future be put away in the closet, and that, contrary to the practice hitherto observed, the glasses should be rinsed before the decanters. From this moment all hope of agreement was at an end; and when Louis returned home to dinner, he found Marianne in a state of the greatest excitement. "Master Louis," she said, "this will never do; that woman will drive me out of my senses. I tell you, Master Louis, we can never go on in this way."

"Louis," said Madame Ballier, very composedly, to her nephew, when he came to take his place at the dining-table, "I beg you for the future to be more punctual to the time."

Louis looked at his watch, then at the time-piece, and was much surprised to find that they did not agree; he had set them together in the morning, and now perceived that, without any intimation to him, Madame Ballier had advanced the time-piece after his departure. He showed his watch, and said coolly, but not without some intention of annoying, "This is the time by Monsieur Lebeau's clock, which is the best in the town, and which everybody follows since the town clock has been out of order."

Madame Ballier replied, pettishly, that Monsieur Lebeau's clock went like his head, and that the house clock was the one to which he must conform.

"To render that possible," said Louis, "it ought not to be altered every moment without necessity."

Silence ensued till about the middle of dinner, when Madame Ballier said to her nephew, "I hope, Louis, that you do not intend to take advantage of your mother's absence to run about and idle away your time, instead of attending to your studies."

"Run about! Where, aunt?" inquired Louis, greatly astonished, for he was noted for his exactitude in the performance of his duties.

"Why, to Monsieur Lebeau's, for example."

"My mother has given me permission to go there," replied Louis, in a careless tone.

"Morning and evening?" demanded Madame Ballier, sharply.

"As often as I please," replied Louis, drily.

"As often as you please!" cried Madame Ballier. "Very fine, truly; if you have permission to do whatever you please, sir, it was not worth my while to take charge of you."

"You take charge of me, aunt!" exclaimed Louis, in his turn, with an indignation which completely exasperated Madame Ballier.

"And who, then, is to take charge of you, pray, sir?"

Louis was silent: he had raised a difficult question; for he could not possibly suppose that at his age he could avoid being responsible for his conduct to some one or other; nor could he tell Madame Ballier that it was not to her that he owed this responsibility, as this would neither have been respectful nor true; for, in fact, if he had been guilty of any impropriety, if he had neglected his studies, and spent his time away from home in the absence of his mother, it was undoubtedly the duty of his aunt to repress such misconduct by every means in her power. Louis' mistake consisted in not remembering, that it is not only a duty to yield, in matters of importance, to those who have a right to exact obedience; but that we ought likewise to yield to them in trifles also; because it is but reasonable that we should avoid giving them annoyance.

They again relapsed into silence; but on rising from table Madame Ballier said to her nephew, at the same time carefully emphasizing every word, "Notwithstanding all your permissions, you will be so good as to remember, Master Louis, that I am amenable for you in the absence of your mother, and that I shall not allow you to commit any follies; do you understand that?" She took care to close the door as she pronounced these last words, so as to avoid having to hear any reply to them. Louis had no thought of answering her; all his ideas were in confusion. Not having the slightest inclination to commit any follies, as Madame Ballier expressed it, he was surprised to find himself so extremely offended at her prohibition of them.

"Do but look at that woman, now," said Marianne, folding her arms, and fixing her eyes on the door by which Madame Ballier had made her exit.

"If this is the way she begins," resumed Louis, slowly setting down the glass which in his surprise he had held suspended near his lips. It seemed as if a thunderbolt had fallen at their feet, so little were they prepared for their proper course of action, which was simply to allow things and words of no importance to pass quietly by.

Louis went to M. Lebeau's to console himself for his vexations, by relating them to Charles and Eugenia. "Let her grumble as much as she pleases; you take your own way," said Charles.

Eugenia scolded Charles and then Louis. "Ask mamma," she said, "whether that is the proper manner of behaving to your aunt."

"In what respect, then, do you find I behave so much amiss?" returned Charles, hastily. "You would do just the same in my place."

"I! by no means; when I want to do anything I ask permission; there is surely no great trouble in that."

"But what permission have I to ask of her?"

"That you know best,--permission to look out at the window, if she requires it; it would be no great hardship after all."

"That, certainly, would be very pretty for a boy!" said Charles.

"It would seem, then, that it is more becoming in a boy to be unreasonable, than it is in a girl?"

"Pshaw! Eugenia," said Louis, ill-humouredly, as he took Charles by the arm to lead him away from his sister; "you know nothing about the matter; and besides, what you say is only an affectation."

"I am sure," replied Eugenia, offended in her turn, "that you give yourself airs; it costs you but little to make rude speeches."

They quarrelled, then became reconciled. Louis found in Eugenia's advice much that resembled the counsels of his mother; and he was only the more distressed by dimly perceiving that he was in the wrong, without exactly knowing how to set himself right. The fact was, that Louis was disposed to comply with the wishes of his aunt, provided she required nothing that was troublesome to him; and willing to treat her with complaisance, provided she never interfered with his inclinations; which certainly was setting himself no very difficult task.

A few days after this occurrence, Louis received a letter from his mother, written at the end of her first day's journey.

"Bear in mind, above all things, my dear son," she said in this letter, "never to swerve from the respect you owe your aunt. You may sometimes think she demands a greater degree of submission than she has a right to exact; yet you must submit to this, in order to please her; for it is your duty to make her satisfied with you.

"Should you sometimes think she opposes you unreasonably, or from ill-humour, the best way of showing yourself a man is by not allowing yourself to be irritated by this conduct; for it is little children only that people are anxious not to oppose unreasonably, for fear of spoiling their tempers; but when they become men, they must in their turn conform to the tempers of others.

"In a short time, my dear son, you will have to conduct yourself properly, not only towards those who behave well to you, but towards all with whom you have any intercourse. So long as you are unable to fulfil your duty, unless you have to deal with just and reasonable persons, so long will you be unfit to dispense with the guidance of your father and mother; for you will meet with no one else in the world who, for the sake of sparing you the commission of a fault, will be careful to treat you on all occasions with kindness and justice."

The day that Louis received this letter he was more assiduous in his attentions to his aunt; he took care not to leave the door open when she was in the draught, and he prevented Barogo from eating up the food prepared for Robinet--an occurrence which the evening before had occasioned great offence. Left to himself, Louis was naturally disposed to be obliging; but he wanted that self-control which can alone secure us against the caprices of others. He was consequently never so much at the mercy of his aunt's whims as when he allowed her to put him in a passion, in spite of his good resolutions. Now, as her caprices became every day more frequent, in proportion to the effect they produced on him, and as in proportion to their frequency his resolution became every day weaker, his desire of maintaining peace soon gave way to a complete abandonment of himself to all those emotions which naturally excite discord. The counsels of his mother now produced only a feeling of irritation, for he had persuaded himself that what she required of him was impossible. His home became insupportable, and he was always anxious to escape from it; nor could his mind rest with pleasure on anything but the idea of the enjoyment which he promised himself in going to spend the three holidays of Whitsuntide with Madame Lebeau in the country.

This excursion had been arranged before the departure of Madame Delong. Louis had often mentioned it, and considered it as a settled affair, but Madame Ballier took it into her head, as the best possible means of annoying him, to oblige him to ask specially for her permission.

It had been arranged that on the Saturday preceding Whitsunday Louis was to dine with M. Lebeau, in order to be ready to set out with the family for the country immediately afterwards.

On the day in question, the moment before he returned home to dress for dinner, and make up his little package of what was to be taken with him, Madame Ballier left the house, carrying with her the keys of the wardrobe. Louis, greatly annoyed at not finding the keys when he came in, asked Marianne for them, and then inquired for his aunt. Marianne had not seen her go out, and knew not where to find her. They separated in search of her. Louis ran out, boiling with impatience; and, perceiving her seated on one of the benches in the promenade, he could scarcely restrain himself sufficiently to avoid demanding his keys before he came up to her, or ask for them, when he did arrive, in terms of proper politeness. Madame Ballier quietly inquired what he wanted them for?

"I want to dress, aunt--I am in a great hurry--pray give them to me immediately;"--and he held out a hand tremulous with impatience.

"To dress! you never dress but on Sundays," replied Madame Ballier with the utmost coolness.