Part 13

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

EDWARD AND EUGENIA;

OR THE EMBROIDERED BAG AND THE NEW COAT.

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

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

"Because you would love her more than me."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But I have already been playing."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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