Madame Guizot

Decoration

At the commencement of the revolution, Madame d'Aubecourt had followed her husband into a foreign country. In 1796, she returned to France, with her two children, Alphonse and Lucie, for, as her name did not stand on the list of emigrants, she was able to appear there without danger, and to exert herself to obtain permission for her husband's return. She remained two years in Paris with this intent; but at length, having failed in her efforts, and being assured by her friends that the time was not propitious for her purpose, she determined to quit the capital and proceed to the seat of her father-in-law, old M. d'Aubecourt, with whom her husband wished her to reside, until he was able to rejoin her: besides, having no resources but the money sent her by her father-in-law, she was glad to diminish his expenses by residing with him. Every letter which she received from him, was filled with complaints of the hardness of the times, and with reflections on her obstinacy, in persevering in such useless efforts; and to all this he never failed to add, that as for himself, it would be altogether impossible for him to live in Paris, since it was difficult enough for him to manage in the country, where he could eat his own cabbages and potatoes. These complaints were not suggested by poverty, for M. d'Aubecourt was tolerably rich, but like the majority of old people, he was disposed to torment himself on the score of expense, and his daughter-in-law perceived that however economically she might live in Paris, her only means of tranquillizing him, was to go and live under his own eyes.

She therefore set out with her children, in the month of January, 1799, for Guicheville, the estate of M. d'Aubecourt. Alphonse was then fourteen years of age, and Lucie nearly twelve: shut up for two years in Paris, where her mother, overwhelmed with business, had but little time to devote to them, they were delighted to go into the country, and were but little troubled about what she told them, respecting the great care they would have to take not to teaze and irritate their grandpapa, whom age and the gout had rendered habitually discontented and melancholy. They mounted the diligence full of joy; but as the cold gained upon them, their ideas sobered down. A night passed in the carriage served to depress them completely; and when, on the following evening, they reached the place where they were to leave the diligence, they felt their hearts as sad as if some terrible misfortune had just befallen them. Guicheville was still a league distant, and this they must travel on foot, across a country covered with snow, as M. d'Aubecourt had only sent a peasant to meet them with an ass to carry their luggage. When the man proposed starting, Lucie looked at her mother with a frightened air, as if to ask her if that were possible. Madame d'Aubecourt observed that as their conductor had managed to come from Guicheville to the place where they were, there was nothing to prevent them from going from that place to Guicheville.

As to Alphonse, the moment he regained the freedom of his limbs, he recovered all his gaiety. He walked on before them, to clear their way as he said, and to sound the ruts, which he called precipices. He talked to the ass, and endeavoured to make him bray, and in fact made such a noise, with his cries of, "Take care of yourselves, take care of the bogs!" that he might have been mistaken for a whole caravan; he even succeeded so well in cheering Lucie, that, on arriving at their destination, she had forgotten the cold, the night, and the snow. Their merry laugh as they crossed the court-yard of the chÂteau, called forth two or three old servants, who, from time immemorial, had not heard a laugh at Guicheville, and the great dog barked loudly at it, as at a sound quite unknown to him. They waited in the hall for some time, when presently M. d'Aubecourt appeared at the dining-room door, exclaiming, "What a racket!" These words restored quiet; and seeing all three of them wet and muddy, from head to foot, he said to Madame d'Aubecourt, "If you had only come six months ago, as I continually pressed you to do ... but there was no getting you to listen to reason." Madame d'Aubecourt gently excused herself, and her father-in-law ushered them into a large room with yellow wainscoting and red furniture, where, by the side of a small fire, and a single candle, her children had time to resume all their sadness. They presently heard Miss Raymond, the housekeeper, scolding the peasant, who had conducted them, because, he had put their packages upon a chair instead of upon the table. "See," she said, in a tone of ill temper, "they have already begun to put my house into disorder." The instant after, Alphonse, rendered thirsty by the exercise he had given his legs, went out to get a glass of water, and perhaps also to obtain a moment's recreation by leaving the room; he had the misfortune to drink out of his grandfather's glass, and Mademoiselle Raymond, perceiving it, ran to him, as if the house had been on fire.

"No one is allowed to drink out of M. d'Aubecourt's glass," she exclaimed: Alphonse excused himself by saying that he did not know it was M. d'Aubecourt's glass. Mademoiselle Raymond wished to prove to him that he ought to have known it; Alphonse replied; Mademoiselle Raymond became more and more vexed, and Alphonse getting angry in his turn, answered her in no very polite terms, and then returned to the dining-room, slamming the door after him with considerable violence. Mademoiselle Raymond immediately followed him, and shutting the door with marked precaution, said to M. d'Aubecourt, in a voice still trembling with passion, "As you dislike any noise with the door, you will have the kindness to mention it yourself to your grandson; for, as to me, he will not allow me to speak to him." "What do you say, Mademoiselle?" replied M. d'Aubecourt, "is this the style in which children are brought up in the present day? must we bow to them?"

Fortunately Madame d'Aubecourt was by the side of her son; she pressed his arm to prevent him from answering his grandfather, but he stamped his feet impatiently, and did not speak a word until supper-time. At table they ate but little, and spoke still less, and immediately after Madame d'Aubecourt asked permission to retire. When they were in the room which she and her daughter were to occupy, Lucie, who had until then restrained herself, began to cry, and Alphonse, walking about the room, in great agitation, exclaimed, "This is a pretty beginning!" then he continued, "Mademoiselle Raymond had better take care how she speaks to me again in that style."

"Alphonse," said his mother with some little severity, "remember that you are in your grandfather's house."

"Yes, but not in Mademoiselle Raymond's."

"You are where it is your grandfather's will that she should be treated with respect."

"Certainly, when she does not clamour in my ears."

"I believe, indeed, that you would not be guilty of any want of respect towards her, did she treat you as she ought to do."

"And if she does not, I owe her nothing."

"You owe her all that you owe to the wishes of your grandfather, to whom you would be greatly wanting in respect, were you capable of misconducting yourself towards a person who possesses his confidence. There are persons, Alphonse, whose very caprices we are bound to respect, for we ought to spare them even their unjust displeasure." Then she added, with more tenderness, "My dear children, you do not yet understand what caprice and injustice are; you have never been accustomed to them, either from your father or me; but you will do wrong to imagine that you will be able to pass your lives, as you have hitherto done, without having your rights infringed, or your actions restrained, when they are proper in themselves. You must now begin to learn,—you, Alphonse, to repress your hastiness, which may lead you into many serious faults, and you, Lucie, to overcome your weakness, which may render you unhappy." Then she added, smiling, "We will serve together our apprenticeship in patience and courage." Her children embraced her affectionately; they had unbounded confidence in her, and besides, there was so much sweetness in her disposition, that it was impossible to resist her. Lucie was quite consoled by her mother's words, and Alphonse went to bed, assuring her, however, that he was so much excited, that he should not be able to sleep the whole night. Nevertheless, he no sooner laid his head upon his pillow, than he fell into a sound sleep, which lasted until the following morning.

When he awoke, he was astonished to hear the warbling of the birds, for he had persuaded himself, since the previous evening, that they would not dare to sing at Guicheville. As for them, however, deceived by the warm sun and mild atmosphere, which melted the snow, they seemed to fancy that the spring was commencing. This idea rendered them quite joyous, and Alphonse began to be joyous also. He ran about the park in the sabots which his mother had bought for him on the previous evening: then he returned for his sister, whom, somewhat against her inclination, he dragged through the mud of the park, from which she did not so easily extricate herself as he did. At first she found her sabots very heavy, and very inconvenient: one of them she nearly left in a hole, and two or three times she almost gave up in despair. Alphonse sometimes assisted her; sometimes laughed at her, promising to harden her to it. He returned home, pleased with everything, and disposed to put up with a good deal from Mademoiselle Raymond, whom he found to be better tempered than on the previous evening.

Madame d'Aubecourt had not brought a maid with her. Mademoiselle Raymond, therefore, proposed that she should take into her service a young girl named Gothon, who was her goddaughter, and Madame d'Aubecourt accepted this proposal with her usual grace and sweetness, saying that, recommended by Mademoiselle Raymond, she was sure she would suit her. Mademoiselle Raymond, enchanted, drew herself up, bewildered herself in complimentary phrases, and ended by saying that Mademoiselle Lucie had her mother's sweet look, and that M. Alphonse, though a little hasty, was very amiable.

M. d'Aubecourt's temper experienced the good effects of this return to a friendly understanding. When Mademoiselle Raymond was out of humour, every one in the house was so likewise, for every one was scolded. She was naturally kind-hearted, but easily offended. Subject to prejudices, and being accustomed to have her own way, she feared everything that might interfere with her authority. But when she saw that Madame d'Aubecourt interfered with nothing in the house, she laid aside all the bitterness which had at first been produced by her arrival. M. d'Aubecourt, who had hesitated between the desire of spending less money, and the dread of the confusion which might result from the establishment of his daughter-in-law at the chÂteau, was comforted when he learned that Madame d'Aubecourt had refused to pay any visits in the neighbourhood, alleging that her present situation, and that of her husband, did not permit of her seeing any one. Besides, she was careful to conform to all his habits, so that everything went on smoothly, provided that Alphonse and Lucie scarcely spoke at dinner, because M. d'Aubecourt, accustomed to take his meals alone, asserted that noise interfered with his digestion; provided they were careful never to exceed a smile, for a burst of laughter would make M. d'Aubecourt start as violently as a pistol-shot; and provided they never entered his private garden, which he cultivated himself, and where every day he counted the buds and the branches. He could not without trembling see Alphonse, who was always impulsive and ever bustling from side to side, go into it, or even Lucie, whose shawl might accidentally catch and break some of the branches as she passed by.

Madame d'Aubecourt had been about six weeks at Guicheville, when she received a letter from her husband, informing her that one of their relations, little Adelaide d'Orly, was living at a village two leagues off. Adelaide was at that time about the age of Lucie; she had lost her mother at her birth, and had been placed at nurse with a peasant, on the estate of M. d'Orly. As she was extremely delicate, and had been benefited by the country air, she was left there a long time. The revolution having broken out, her father left France, and not being able to carry with him a child who was only three years old, he thought it best to leave her, for the present, with her nurse, hoping to be able to return soon, and take her away. Things turned out otherwise, however: M. d'Orly died soon after his arrival in a foreign land; his property was sold, and Adelaide's nurse having lost her husband, married again, and left the province, taking Adelaide with her, as she was now her sole protector. For a long time it was not known where she had gone to, but at last it was ascertained, and M. d'Aubecourt, who had received information of it from another relative, begged his wife to see her.

M. d'Orly was the nephew of old M. d'Aubecourt, and had been an intimate friend of his son's, whom at his death, he had entreated to take care of his daughter. M. d'Aubecourt had several times mentioned the matter in his letters to his father, but the latter had remained silent on the subject, from which the son had concluded that he was ignorant of the fate of the child. Such, however, was not the case, for the nurse having discovered, the year before, that he was Adelaide's grand-uncle, had come to see him. M. d'Aubecourt, who feared everything that might put him out of his way, or lead to expense, had tried to persuade himself that she had made a false statement, and that Adelaide was really dead, as had been rumoured. Mademoiselle Raymond, who did not like children, confirmed him in this opinion, which possibly she believed to be well founded, for we are always tempted to believe what we desire to be true. The nurse having met with an indifferent reception, and, besides, not caring to have Adelaide, whom she loved as her own child, taken from her, did not insist further, and the child, therefore, remained with her.

As soon as Madame d'Aubecourt had received this intelligence, she communicated it to her father-in-law, at the same time informing him of her intention of going to see Adelaide. M. d'Aubecourt appeared embarrassed, and Mademoiselle Raymond, who happened to be in the room, assured her that the roads were very bad, and that she would never be able to get there. Madame d'Aubecourt saw plainly that they were already in possession of the information which she had supposed herself the first to communicate, and she also perceived that her project was not very agreeable to M. d'Aubecourt; nevertheless, however great might be her desire to oblige him, she did not consider herself justified in renouncing her intention. Her extreme gentleness of disposition, did not prevent her from possessing great firmness in everything that she considered a duty. She set out then, one morning, with Lucie, who was enchanted at making acquaintance with her cousin, and with Alphonse, who was delighted at having to travel four leagues on foot.

As they approached the village, they asked each other what kind of person their cousin was likely to be, brought up as she was among the peasantry.

"Perhaps something like that," said Alphonse, pointing to a young girl, who, in company with two or three little boys, ran out to see them pass. There was a pool of water by the side of the road where they were walking, and the children, in order to see them closer, ran into it, splashing them all over. Alphonse wanted to throw stones at them, but his mother prevented him.

"It would be a good joke," said he, "if it turned out to be my cousin, at whom I was going to throw stones."

Lucie exclaimed against such an idea, and one of the little boys having called the girl Marie, she was comforted by thinking that it was not her cousin Adelaide d'Orly, whom she had seen dabbling about with a troop of little idle urchins.

On reaching the cottage, in which Adelaide's nurse lived, they found her laid up with an illness resulting from debility, and from which she had suffered for six months. Madame d'Aubecourt having given her name, the poor woman recognised her, and said she was thankful to see her before she died, and that finding herself unable to go out, it had been her intention to ask the mayor to write to M. d'Aubecourt, "for," said she, "my child" (it was thus she always called Adelaide) "will have no one to look to when I am gone." She had lost her second husband; and had no children of her own, and she did not doubt that her brother-in-law would come and take possession of everything, and turn her child out of doors, who would not then have even bread to eat, for she had nothing to leave her; and the poor woman began to weep. She added, that she had been to see M. d'Aubecourt, who would not listen to her, and she went on to complain of the cruelty of Adelaide's relations, who thus left her a burden upon a poor woman like her. Madame d'Aubecourt interrupted her to inquire whether she had any documents. The nurse showed her an attestation from the mayor and twelve of the principal inhabitants of the parish which she had left, certifying that the child whom she took with her, was truly the daughter of M. d'Orly, and baptized under the name of Marie Adelaide, and also another from the mayor of the parish in which she was now residing, certifying that the girl living with her under the name of Marie, was the same that she brought with her into the parish, and whose age and description corresponded exactly with those of Marie Adelaide d'Orly.

"Marie," exclaimed Lucie, when she heard this name.

"Yes, indeed," said the nurse, "the Holy Virgin is her true patron; she has saved her in a dangerous illness: this is her only name in the village."

Lucie and her brother looked at each other, and Alphonse began to laugh, amused at the idea of having been on the point of throwing stones at his cousin. At this moment Marie made her appearance, singing in a loud voice, and carrying a faggot, which she had gathered. She threw it down as she entered, and was somewhat astonished on seeing with her nurse the very ladies whom she had splashed, and the young gentleman who was going to throw stones at her.

"Embrace your cousin, Marie," said the nurse, "if Mademoiselle will be so good as to allow you."

Marie did not advance a step, nor Lucie either.

"Oh! she also was made to wear fine clothes," continued the nurse, "but what more could a poor woman like me do?"

Madame d'Aubecourt assured her that all the family were under great obligations to her, and Lucie, on a sign from her mother, went, blushing, and embraced her cousin. It was not pride that had at first withheld her, but the idea of having a peasant cousin had astonished her; and everything that astonished, also embarrassed her. Marie, equally surprised, had allowed herself to be kissed, without moving, or without returning the salutation. Madame d'Aubecourt took her by the hand, and drew her kindly towards her, remarking how much she resembled her father. The resemblance, in fact, was striking. Marie was very pretty; she had fine dark, brilliant, though at the same time very soft eyes; but the way in which she had been brought up, had given a certain brusquerie to her manners. She had beautiful teeth, and would have had a pretty smile, had it not been spoiled by awkwardness, shyness, and the habit of making grimaces. Her complexion, somewhat sun-burnt, was animated, and glowing with health; she was well formed, tall for her age, and had it not been for her awkward carriage, would have displayed nobility even under her coarse dress. It was impossible to make her raise her head, or answer a single word to Madame d'Aubecourt's questions. Her nurse was in despair: "That is the way with her," she said; "if she takes a thing into her head, you will never get it out of it;" and she began scolding Marie, who did not appear in the slightest degree moved by what she said. Madame d'Aubecourt made an excuse for her, on account of her embarrassment, and said that she had a gentle look. The nurse immediately began praising her with as much warmth as she had displayed in scolding her. Marie smiled, and looked at her with affection, but still without saying a word, or stirring from her place.

Madame d'Aubecourt promised the nurse that she should soon hear from her again, and took away the documents relating to Marie, and which the nurse, with some hesitation, confided to her. She felt sure that she should be able to induce her father-in-law to receive Marie; he was her nearest relative in France, and it was quite impossible that he should not feel what duty required of him in regard to her; still she well knew how much annoyance this would cause him. The children could talk of nothing else during their return to Guicheville, and M. d'Aubecourt awaited, with some anxiety, the result of the visit. He had nothing to oppose to the proofs she brought with her; nevertheless he said that further information was necessary. Madame d'Aubecourt wrote to every one whom she thought likely to give her any. All agreed with the first. There was, therefore, no longer any doubt of Marie's being really Adelaide d'Orly.

Then M. d'Aubecourt said, "I will think of it;" but the nurse, feeling herself worse, and not hearing from Madame d'Aubecourt, who had been prevented from going to see her, by a severe cold, had got the mayor to write to M. d'Aubecourt. It was also known, since Marie had been talked about at the chÂteau, how much people complained in the neighbourhood, of his neglect of his grandniece. Madame d'Aubecourt's visit to the nurse had spread the intelligence, that at last he was going to receive her. He heard this mentioned by the Registrar, by the CurÉ, and especially by Mademoiselle Raymond, who was much annoyed at it, and who, consequently, was perpetually talking of it. In order, therefore, to get rid of a subject which tormented him, he gave his consent in a moment of impatience, and Madame d'Aubecourt hastened to take advantage of it, for she felt extremely anxious about the situation of Marie, and grieved that so much time should not merely be lost to her education, but actually employed in giving her a bad one.

Having sent to inform the nurse of the day on which she would fetch Marie, Madame d'Aubecourt and her children set off one morning, mounted upon donkeys. The one that was to carry Marie, being mounted by a peasant girl, whom Madame d'Aubecourt had engaged to attend the nurse during her illness, which she was grieved to see would not be of long duration. As she could not reward her for all that she had done for Marie, she wished at least to do all that was in her power for her. She had already sent her some medicines suited to her condition, and some provisions rather more delicate than those to which she was accustomed, and she had learned with great satisfaction, that this good woman was in comparatively easy circumstances.

When they reached the cottage they found the door locked. They knocked, but remained for some time unanswered, and Madame d'Aubecourt began to feel excessively uneasy, for she feared the nurse might be dead, and in that case what had become of Marie? At length, the nurse herself, notwithstanding her debility, came and opened the door, telling them that she had been obliged to fasten it, as on the previous day, Marie, imagining that it was the one fixed for her departure, had fled from the house, and did not return until night, and she had been anxious to prevent the recurrence of the same thing on that day. Marie was standing in a corner, her eyes swoln and red with crying. She no longer wept, but stood perfectly motionless, and silent. Madame d'Aubecourt approached, and gently endeavoured to induce her to accompany them, promising that she should return to see her nurse. Lucie and Alphonse went to kiss her, but she still continued fixed and silent. Her nurse exhorted her, scolded her, and then began to grieve and weep at the idea of losing her. But all this did not extract a single syllable from Marie, only when she saw her nurse weep the tears rolled down her own cheeks. At length, Madame d'Aubecourt seeing that nothing was to be gained by these means, went over to her, and taking her by the arm, said in a firm tone, "Come, come, Marie, this will not do; have the kindness to come with me immediately." Astonished at this authoritative tone, to which she was not accustomed, Marie allowed herself to be led. Alphonse took her other arm, saying, "Come along, cousin." But when she came near her nurse, she threw her arms round her, weeping and sobbing as if her heart would break. The nurse wept as violently as the child, and Madame d'Aubecourt, though herself greatly affected, was nevertheless obliged to exercise her authority in order to separate them.

At length Marie was mounted on her donkey, she went on in silence, only now and then allowing large tears to escape from her eyes. By degrees, however, she began to laugh at the caracoles which Alphonse endeavoured to make his animal perform. All at once Lucie's donkey began to bray, and was going to lie down. Marie jumped off hers before either of the others, and ran to Lucie's assistance, who was crying out and unable to retain her seat. She scolded and beat the animal, and at length reduced him to obedience; but perceiving that he was about to recommence, she insisted that Lucie should mount hers, which was more gentle, saying that she would soon manage the other. This little incident established a good understanding between the two cousins. Marie began to be cheerful, and to defy Alphonse in the race, and had quite forgotten her griefs and troubles, when, on arriving at Guicheville, the sight of Mademoiselle Raymond and M. d'Aubecourt, again rendered her silent and motionless. She was, however, soon roused by Mademoiselle Raymond's dog, who came forward barking with all his might. Like the generality of dogs brought up in the house, he had a great antipathy to ill-dressed people, and Marie's dress quite shocked him. He rushed upon her as if about to bite her, but Marie gave him so violent a kick, that it sent him howling into the middle of the room. Mademoiselle Raymond ran forward and took him up in her arms, with a movement of anger which sufficiently announced all she was going to say, and which she would have said without hesitation, had not the presence of Madame d'Aubecourt in some degree restrained her. Alphonse forestalled her by saying, that if her dog had been better brought up, he would not have drawn such treatment upon himself. Mademoiselle Raymond could no longer contain herself. Madame d'Aubecourt, by a sign, imposed silence upon her son, who was about to reply. This sign, though not addressed to Mademoiselle Raymond, nevertheless obliged her also to restrain her feelings, and she left the room, carrying with her her dog and her resentment.

From this moment war was declared. Zizi, who did not forget the kick which Marie had given him, never saw her without showing his teeth, and if he came too near her, another kick sent him off again, without softening his resentment. Alphonse never met him without threatening him, either with his hand or his cane, and Mademoiselle Raymond, constantly occupied in running after her dog, and protecting him from his enemies, had not a moment's repose between her fears for Zizi's safety and her aversion for Marie, whose follies she eagerly seized upon; and Marie's follies were almost as frequent as her actions.

However, she did not often commit any before M. d'Aubecourt; she scarcely dared either to speak or move in his presence. At meals, during the first few days, it was impossible to make her eat; but as soon as they had risen from table, she could take a large slice of bread, and eat it while running in the garden, where Alphonse speedily joined her. With him she agreed better than with any one else in the house. Both were gay, livery, thoughtless, and enterprising, and vied with each other in all kinds of tricks and follies. Marie, who was very expert, taught Alphonse to throw stones at the cats, as they ran along the leads, and during this apprenticeship he had twice managed to break some panes of glass, one of which belonged to the window of Mademoiselle Raymond's room. In return, he taught his cousin to fence, and they often entered the house with their faces all scratched. Marie had also a method of pinning up her dress, so as to enable her to climb upon the trees and walls. Madame d'Aubecourt sometimes surprised her while engaged in this amusement, and reprimanded her severely. Marie immediately became quiet and modest, for she felt great respect for Madame d'Aubecourt, and would never have thought of disobeying her to her face, but as soon as she was out of sight, whether from thoughtlessness, or from not being aware of the necessity of obedience, a thing to which she had never been accustomed, she seemed to forget all that had been said to her. Alphonse occasionally reminded her of it, and to him she willingly listened, for she had great confidence in him. Neither was she obstinate, but she had never been taught to reflect, and her thoughts seldom extended beyond the moment; so that when she took a fancy into her head, she could think of nothing else. She spoke but little, and was almost constantly in motion. Motion, indeed, seemed to constitute her very existence. When her timidity compelled her to remain quiet, this repose was not turned to any advantage, in the way of reflection: the constraint she felt absorbed her mind, and she could think of nothing but the speediest means of escaping from it. Unlike other children, she made no remarks on what she saw around her. When asked whether she did not think the chÂteau de Guicheville much more beautiful than her nurse's cottage, she replied that she did; still she never thought of enjoying its comforts and conveniences, and she had more pleasure in sitting upon the tables than upon the chairs. Madame d'Aubecourt had a frock made for her like the every-day dress worn by Lucie, and she was delighted at seeing herself attired like a lady, but she always managed to have it too much on one side or the other, while the string belonging to the neck was very usually tied with that which belonged to the waist. She was constantly forgetting to put her stockings on, and her hair, which had been cut and arranged, was almost always in disorder. A pair of stays had been made for her, and she allowed them to be put on without any opposition, for she never resisted; but the moment afterwards the lace was burst and the bones broken; they were mended two or three times, and at length given up. On one occasion, Madame d'Aubecourt had sent her, accompanied by Gothon, to see her nurse. While the girl was gone into the village to execute a commission, Marie made her escape into the fields, in order to avoid being taken back. Half a day was consumed in seeking for her, and everything was in commotion at Guicheville, on account of the uneasiness occasioned by her protracted absence.

All these facts were carefully noted by Mademoiselle Raymond; nor had she any trouble in becoming acquainted with them, for they formed a perpetual subject of conversation between Lucie and Gothon. Lucie could not reconcile herself to the manners of her cousin; besides, her arrival at Guicheville had afforded her very little amusement, for Madame d'Aubecourt, fearful lest she should contract any of Marie's bad habits, left them but little together. Lucie, too, saw much less of her brother than formerly, for the moment he had finished his lessons, he ran off in search of Marie, to join him in those sports which were little suited to his sister's disposition, so that she sought amusement in discussing the new subjects for blame or astonishment, which Marie's conduct perpetually supplied. Gothon, her confidante, spoke of them in her turn to her godmother, Mademoiselle Raymond, and Mademoiselle Raymond discussed them with M. d'Aubecourt. He attached but little importance to them, so long as they did not decidedly affect himself; but after some time, when Marie had become accustomed to the persons and things about her, the circle of her follies widened, and at last reached him. Since she had dared to speak and move at table, she seldom spoke without a burst of noise; and if she turned round to look at anything, it was with so hasty a movement, that she upset her plate upon the floor, or shook the whole table. If she climbed upon an arm-chair in the drawing-room, for the purpose of reaching anything, she upset the chair, and fell with it, breaking one of its arms, and with the foot tearing a table-cover, which happened to be near it. Alphonse had frequently warned her not to enter his grandfather's garden; but this advice was forgotten as soon as the garden happened to be the shortest way from one place to another; or that the shuttlecock had chanced to fall into it, or that she wanted to pursue a cat, or a butterfly. On such occasions, M. d'Aubecourt always found a branch broken off, a rose-bush or a border trodden down; and Mademoiselle Raymond, whose window looked upon the garden, had always seen Marie either going in, or coming out of it. These multiplied vexations tormented M. d'Aubecourt all the more, from his not complaining of them openly, but only by indirect allusions, as is often the case with the aged. Sometimes he would say that, at his time of life, one could seldom hope to be master of his own house, and that it was natural that people should trouble themselves very little about the aged, or their inconveniences. At another time, he would assure them that they might do just what they pleased with his garden, and that he should not trouble himself any more about it. Madame d'Aubecourt understood all this, and was greatly grieved, and as she perceived that Marie's presence occasioned him a constantly increasing annoyance, she kept her away from him as much as possible.

But the necessity of doing this was very painful to her, for she felt that the only means of making anything of Marie was by gaining her confidence, which could only be done by degrees; by seldom quitting her, by taking an interest in what amused and pleased her, by endeavouring to give her an interest in things with which she was as yet unacquainted, by talking to her, in order to oblige her to reflect, and thus implant some ideas in her mind, which was naturally quick enough, but totally devoid of culture. Could she have followed her own wishes, she would, in the first instance, have overlooked all faults arising from impetuosity, want of reflection, or ignorance, reserving her severity for grave occasions, or rather without making use of any severity, she might have succeeded in leading Marie by the sole desire of giving her satisfaction. Whereas, instead of that, obliged to be incessantly scolding her for faults slight enough in themselves, but seriously annoying to M. d'Aubecourt, she had no means of insisting, with particular emphasis, on more important matters. Besides, it happened that, for the first time in his life, M. d'Aubecourt had a violent attack of the gout, and as he was unable to walk, the society of his daughter-in-law had become indispensable to him, and she seldom quitted his room; so that Marie was more than ever left to herself, with no other guardian or preceptor than Alphonse.

Nor was he altogether useless to her. Her want of sense rendered him more reasonable: the defects of her education made him appreciate the advantages he had derived from his own; he corrected her whenever she made use of any vulgar expressions; he taught her to speak French, and scolded her if she happened to repeat any word for which she had already been reprimanded, and by his mother's advice he made her repeat the reading lesson which Madame d'Aubecourt gave him every morning. Marie took great pleasure in doing everything required by Alphonse, who was fond of her, and liked to be with her, and whose presence never embarrassed her, as he had similar tastes with herself. Therefore, when she had read well, and he perceived she took pains to pronounce the words he had taught her, he would not patiently suffer her to be found fault with; and he was fond of boasting of her dexterity and intelligence in their games, and of the vivacity and at the same time gentleness of her disposition.

And in truth, as he observed to his mother, no one had ever seen Marie in a passion, nor had she ever been known to exhibit any impatience at being kept waiting, or any irritability when contradicted. Always ready to oblige, the ball of worsted had no sooner fallen on the floor, than she had picked it up, and she was always the first to run and fetch Madame d'Aubecourt's handkerchief from the other end of the room. If, while eating her breakfast, she saw any poor person, she was sure to give him almost the whole of her bread; and one day, when a cat had flown at Zizi, and was biting him, Marie, notwithstanding the scratching and anger of the animal, tore him from Zizi's back, where he had already drawn blood, and threw him to a great distance; at the same time becoming angry with Alphonse, for the first time in her life, because he laughed at Zizi's predicament, instead of trying to extricate him. Alphonse laughed still more at his cousin's anger, but he related the circumstance to his mother. Lucie, who had also seen what Marie had done, told Gothon of it, and she informed Mademoiselle Raymond; but Mademoiselle Raymond was so much excited against Marie, that she would not have been moved by anything that came from her, even had Zizi himself related it to her.

However, these various manifestations of Marie's kindness began to increase her cousin's affection for her. The feast of Corpus Christi was drawing near, and Lucy had worked for several days with great industry upon an ornament, designed for the altar which was to be erected in the court-yard of the chÂteau. Marie had watched her working with much pleasure; she had a great respect for the ceremonies of the church, and this was about the whole amount of the religious education her nurse had been able to impart to her. Deprived for a long time of the clergy and the mass, the poor woman had regretted them exceedingly, and when the practices of religion were re-established, she experienced great delight, in which Marie shared, though without very well knowing why, for her knowledge did not extend very far; but she was always angry when the little boys of the village made use of any irreligious expressions, and told them that God would punish them. She had learned by heart the prayers, in order to sing them at church with the priests, and Lucie was somewhat embarrassed by this, because it attracted attention to them; but Madame d'Aubecourt allowed her to continue the practice, as she sung with earnestness, and was thereby kept quiet in church. She was fond of going to church, because her nurse had told her to pray for her; and now she thought she was performing a meritorious act, in standing by Lucie's frame, while the latter worked the ornament for the altar, and assisting her by cutting her silks, threading her needles, and handing her the scissors.

Since the day that she made her escape into the fields in order to avoid returning to Guicheville, she had never been allowed to visit her nurse; this favour was denied under pretence of punishing her, but in reality because the poor woman was so ill that she no longer seemed conscious of anything. Madame d'Aubecourt had been several times to see her, but without being recognised. She took care that she wanted nothing that could alleviate her condition, but she was anxious to spare Marie so sad a scene. Marie, taken up with a crowd of objects, only thought of her nurse occasionally, and then she manifested great impatience to go and see her. She had no idea of her being in danger, and flattered herself, as she had been led to expect, that when she recovered, she would come to Guicheville. The evening before the fÊte, being in the yard, she saw a peasant who had come from the village in which her nurse lived. She ran to him, asked him how her nurse was, and whether she would soon be able to come to Guicheville.

"Oh! poor woman," said the peasant, shaking his head, "she will go nowhere but to the other world, every one says that she will not be long here."

Marie was struck as with a thunderbolt. This idea had never occurred to her. Pale and trembling, she asked the man whether her nurse had got worse, and how and when she had become so.

"Oh! Mademoiselle Marie," said he, "ever since you left her she has been declining; that is what has brought her to the state she is in."

He was, however, wrong in this opinion, for during the few conscious moments that she had enjoyed since Marie's departure, she had greatly rejoiced that her mind was at rest on her account, but what the man had said was the rumour of the village. Marie, weeping and sobbing, ran to find Alphonse, for she was afraid to address herself directly to Madame d'Aubecourt, and she entreated him to ask his mother to let her go and see her nurse. "I will come back," she said, clasping her hands; "tell her that I promise to come back the moment Gothon tells me." Alphonse much moved, rose to beg his mother to grant the permission which Marie solicited; he met his sister, who whispered to him that they had just learnt that the nurse had died the previous evening,—the peasant had slept at the town, and therefore was not aware of what had happened. Marie, who followed Alphonse at some distance, saw him stop to speak to Lucie, and exclaimed, "Oh! do not prevent him from asking if I may go to see her, I promise you I will return." Her look was so suppliant, and the expression of her sorrow so intense, that Lucie had great difficulty in restraining her tears while listening to her. They made a sign to her to tranquillize herself, and hastened to their mother to state her request.

Madame d'Aubecourt did not wish to inform her at that moment of her nurse's death, for though Marie had usually excellent health, yet during the last few days she had exhibited, on two or three occasions, feverish symptoms, consequent upon her rapid growth, and Madame d'Aubecourt was afraid that this intelligence might be injurious to her. She hastened to Marie and endeavoured to calm her, promising that in a few days she should do as she wished, but that at the present moment it was impossible, as Gothon, Lucie, and herself were busy in working for the festival of the following day. She assured her also, that it was quite a mistake to suppose that it was her departure which had made her nurse so ill, and at length she succeeded in tranquillizing her a little. But for the first time in her life, Marie experienced a sorrow which fixed itself upon her heart, and would not leave it. She thought of her poor nurse, of the last time she had embraced her, of her grief when she saw her depart, and then she uttered cries of anguish. She prayed to God, and several times in the night she woke Lucie, by repeating, in an under-tone, as she kneeled on her bed, all the prayers she knew. She thought that the following day, being a grand festival, it would be the most favourable time to beg of God to restore her nurse to health, and as her devotion was not very rational, she imagined that to merit this grace, the best thing she could do was to contribute to the adornment of the altar, which was to be erected in the court-yard of the chÂteau. She therefore rose before it was light, and left her room unheard, for the purpose of seeking, in a particular part of the park, for some flowers which she had observed growing there, and of which she intended to make some bouquets and garlands; but on reaching the spot, she perceived, to her great grief, that a heavy rain which had fallen the evening before, had destroyed all the blossoms on the trees. She could not find a single branch that was not faded, and in the rest of the park there were scarcely any but lofty trees. She saw no chance of meeting with anything of which she could make a bouquet. Whilst looking about, however, she passed by M. d'Aubecourt's garden, which at daybreak exhaled a delightful perfume; she thought that if she were to take a few flowers they would not be missed. She began by gathering them cautiously, in different places; then, when she had plucked a very beautiful one, another like it was requisite to form a pendant, on the other side of the altar; thus her zeal, and her love of symmetry, led her at every moment into fresh temptations, and then she remembered that M. d'Aubecourt had the gout, that he could not leave the house, and would not see his flowers, that they would be of no use to any one and that no one would know what she had done: at last she forgot all prudence, and the garden was almost entirely stripped.

Just as she had finished her collection, she perceived from the terrace, the peasant who had spoken to her, passing along the road, at the bottom of the park; she called to him and begged him to tell her nurse not to be too much grieved, that she should soon go and see her, for they had promised to allow her to do so.

"Oh! poor woman," said the man, "you will never see her again, Mademoiselle Marie, they are deceiving you, but that is not my business."

With these words he struck his horse, and galloped off. Marie, in the greatest anxiety, threw down her flowers, and ran into the yard, to see if she could find any one who could explain to her what the man meant. She saw the kitchen-maid, who was drawing water from the well, and asked her whether Madame d'Aubecourt had sent the previous evening to inquire about her nurse. "Sent, indeed!" said the girl, "it was not worth while." Marie became dreadfully uneasy, and began to question her, but the girl refused to reply. "But why," said Marie, "why did Peter tell me I should never see her again?"

"I suppose," replied the servant, "he had his own reasons for saying so," and she went away, saying that she must attend to her work. Marie, though it had not yet occurred to her that her nurse was dead, nevertheless was very unhappy, for she perceived that something was concealed from her, and being timid in asking questions, she was at a loss to know how to obtain the information she wanted. At this moment she perceived one of the small doors of the yard open. She had so long been in the habit of running alone in the fields, that she could not believe there was any great harm in doing so, and, accustomed to yield to all her emotions, and never to reflect upon the consequences of her actions, she ran out while the servant's back was turned, determined to go herself and learn something about her nurse.

She walked as fast as she could, agitated with anxiety, at one moment for her nurse, at another for herself. She knew she was doing wrong, but having once begun, she continued. She thought of what Alphonse would say, who, though always ready to excuse her before others, would, nevertheless, scold her afterwards, and sometimes severely enough, and she remembered her promise to him, only a few days before, to be more docile, and more attentive to what Madame d'Aubecourt said to her. She thought, too, that it might be for her want of due submission, that God had thus punished her, for she had yet to learn that it is not in this world that God manifests his judgments. However, she did not think of returning; she felt as if she could not go back; and then the idea of seeing her nurse again, and of comforting her, filled her with anticipations of pleasure, which it was impossible for her to renounce. Poor Marie! the nearer she drew, the more she dwelt upon all this, and the more lively became her joy. The anxieties which had tormented her, began to vanish. She hurried on, reached the village, ran to her nurse's door, and found it closed: she turned pale, but yet without daring to conjecture the truth.

"Has my nurse gone out?" was all she could ask of a neighbour, who was standing at her door, and who looked at her with an air of sadness.

"She has gone out, never to return," was the reply. Marie trembled, and with clasped hands leaned against the wall.

"She was carried to her grave yesterday evening," added the woman.

"To her grave!... Yesterday!... How?... Where have they taken her?"

"To Guicheville; the cemetery is at Guicheville."

Marie experienced an emotion indescribably painful, on learning that, the evening before, and so near to her, the funeral had taken place, without her knowledge. She recollected having heard the tolling of the bells, and it appeared to her, that not to have known it was for her poor nurse they were tolled, was like losing her a second time; then, as the thought of never seeing her again passed before her mind, she sat down on the ground by the door, and wept bitterly.

During this time, the neighbour told her that her nurse had regained her consciousness a few hours before her death, and had prayed to God for her little Marie, and had also spoken of her to the CurÉ of Guicheville, whom Madame d'Aubecourt had sent to see her. Marie wept still more. The woman tried to induce her to return to Guicheville, but she would not listen to it. At length, after she had cried for a long time, the good woman took her to her cottage, and succeeded in making her drink a little milk, and eat a piece of bread, when, seeing her more calm, she again endeavoured to persuade her to return home. But Marie, who was now capable of reflection, could not endure the idea of facing Madame d'Aubecourt, whom she had disobeyed: still, what was to become of her? Her sorrow for the loss of her nurse was redoubled. "If she were not dead," said she, sobbing, "I should have remained with her." But these regrets were to no purpose: this the neighbour tried to make her understand, and this Marie felt but too well; nevertheless, as her reason did not restrain her when she was about to leave Guicheville, neither did it in the present instance induce her to return, although she knew it was necessary; but Marie had never learned to make use of her reason, to control either her impulses, her wishes, or her antipathies.

At length, the woman perceiving, after two hours of entreaty, that she could gain nothing, and that Marie still continued there, either pensive or crying, without saying a word or deciding on anything, she determined to send to Guicheville, and inform Madame d'Aubecourt; but when she returned from the fields, where she had gone to seek her son to send him with the message, Marie was not to be found. She sought for her in vain through the whole village, and at length learned that she had been seen going along a road which led to Guicheville. She immediately suspected that she must have gone to the cemetery, and in fact Marie had gone there, but not by the direct way, for fear of meeting any of the inmates of the chÂteau. As the boy had not yet started, his mother ordered him to take the shortest way to the house, and tell them that it was in the direction of the cemetery they must look for Marie.

During Marie's absence, a terrible scene had been enacted at the chÂteau. M. d'Aubecourt, who she imagined would be confined to his room for another week, feeling much better, wished to take advantage of a lovely morning to go and see his garden. As he approached it, leaning on the arm of Mademoiselle Raymond, he perceived Marie's hat half-filled with the flowers which she had collected, and part of which lay scattered on the ground, where she had dropped them, after having spoken to the peasant. He recognised his streaked roses, and his tricoloured geraniums; he picked them up, anxiously examined them, and looked at Mademoiselle Raymond, who, shaking her head, observed, "It is Mademoiselle Marie's hat." He hurried on to his garden; it seemed as if an enemy had passed through it: branches were broken, bushes had been separated in order to get at a flower which happened to be in the midst of them, and one border was quite spoiled, for Marie had fallen upon it with her whole length, and in her fall had broken a young sweetbrier, recently grafted.

M. d'Aubecourt, whose sole occupation and pleasure consisted in his flowers, and who was accustomed to see them respected by every one, was so disturbed at the condition in which he beheld his garden, that the shock, increased, perhaps, by the effect of the air, or by his having walked too fast, made him turn pale, and lean on the arm of Mademoiselle Raymond, saying that he felt faint. Greatly frightened, she called out for assistance. At this moment, Madame d'Aubecourt came up: she was calling for Marie, and very uneasy at not finding her anywhere.

"You want Mademoiselle Marie," said Mademoiselle Raymond: "see what she has done!" and she pointed to M. d'Aubecourt, to the pillaged garden, and to the hat filled with flowers. Madame d'Aubecourt did not in the least understand what all this meant, but she hastened to her father-in-law, who said to her in a feeble voice, "She will kill me." He was carried to his bed, where he remained a long time in the same state. He experienced suffocating paroxysms, which scarcely permitted him to breathe. The gout had mounted to his chest, and they feared every moment that he would be stifled. Madame d'Aubecourt perceiving that the mere name of Marie redoubled his agitation, endeavoured, though in vain, to impose silence on Mademoiselle Raymond, who was incessantly repeating, "It is Mademoiselle Marie who has brought him to this condition." Lucie, quite ignorant of what had happened, came to tell her mother that Marie was nowhere to be found, and that perhaps it would be advisable to send some one to the village, where her nurse had resided.

"Yes! look for her everywhere," said M. d'Aubecourt in a low voice, interrupted by his difficulty of breathing. "Yes! look for her everywhere, in order that she may kill me outright."

Madame d'Aubecourt entreated him to be calm, assuring him that nothing should be done but what he wished, and that Marie should not come into his presence without his permission.

In the mean time, the news of what Mademoiselle Raymond called Marie's wickedness, soon spread through the chÂteau. Alphonse was thunderstruck, not that he believed in any bad motive on the part of his cousin, but, accustomed to respect his own duties, he could not conceive how any one could so forget themselves. Lucie, who was beginning to be fond of Marie, felt grieved and anxious; the servants talked over the matter amongst themselves, without much regretting Marie, who had not made herself loved by them; for it is not enough to be kind-hearted, it is necessary to use sufficient reflection to render our kindness agreeable and beneficial to others. Marie, sometimes familiar with the servants, would very often not listen to them when they spoke to her, or would deride their remonstrances. She always laughed when she saw the cook, who was deformed, pass by, and she had several times told the kitchen-maid that she squinted. She had never asked herself whether these remarks gave pain or pleasure to those to whom they were addressed.

Almost the whole of the morning was passed in anxiety, and the man who had been sent to the village, had not returned, when the CurÉ came to the chÂteau, and requested to see Madame d'Aubecourt. As he was leaving the church, after having finished the service, he met the son of the neighbour with whom Marie had spoken, and being acquainted with him, he asked him if he knew what had become of Marie, for he had been informed of her disappearance. The peasant told him what had taken place, and added, that he thought she must be in the cemetery. They immediately went there, and looking over the hedge, they beheld Marie seated on the ground, crying. They saw her kneel down with clasped hands, then kiss the earth, and afterwards seat herself again, and weep, with a depth of sorrow which penetrated them to the soul. It was evident that at that moment Marie believed herself alone in the world, and abandoned by every one. She entreated her nurse to pray for her.

They did not enter the cemetery for fear of frightening her, but the CurÉ, leaving the peasant as sentinel, went to communicate his discovery to Madame d'Aubecourt. She was very much embarrassed; she could not leave her father-in-law, though he was beginning to recover, for the slightest agitation might cause a relapse, and she was satisfied that neither Mademoiselle Raymond, nor any one belonging to the house, would succeed in inducing Marie to return. She hoped the CurÉ would be able to effect this, and as she did not wish her to enter the chÂteau at the present moment, for fear the news might reach M. d'Aubecourt, she requested the clergyman to take her to his house, where his sister, who had been a nun, now resided with him.

In consequence of this determination, the CurÉ returned to the cemetery, where he found Marie still in the same attitude. When she saw him, she turned pale and blushed alternately; yet, however she may have stood in awe of him, she felt so completely abandoned, since she no longer dared to return to the chÂteau, that she experienced an emotion of joy on seeing some one whom she knew.

"Marie, what have you done?" said the CurÉ, addressing her with some degree of severity. She hid her face in her hands, and sobbed. "Do you know what has taken place at the chÂteau?" he continued. "M. d'Aubecourt has been so overcome by the ingratitude you have evinced in devastating his garden, which you knew was his sole delight, that he has had a relapse, and Madame d'Aubecourt has passed the whole morning agitated by the anguish occasioned by his condition, by her anxiety on account of your flight, and by her grief for the impropriety of your conduct."

"Oh, M. le CurÉ," exclaimed poor Marie, "it was not from wickedness, I assure you. I wanted to adorn the altar, that God might grant me the grace of curing my poor nurse; and she was already there," she said, pointing to the ground, and redoubling her sobs.

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The CurÉ, profoundly touched by her simplicity, seated himself by her side, upon a bank of turf.—P. 248.