Part 15

"I have taught you to make flowers," she said; "buy some materials, and I will lend you some instruments, and also assist you. The winter is coming on, ornaments will be required, we shall sell cheap, and shall have as many customers as we desire."

Eugenia embraced Mademoiselle Benoît in a transport of joy. All the vivacity she had formerly employed in making Agatha and her companions angry, now returned, and she determined to commence on the following day. She sometimes worked while Edward was present, but the greater part of her work was executed in his absence. She would not lose an instant. All her cheerfulness and bloom returned, and Edward was astonished at the change. He thought it arose from her being no longer jealous at seeing him go out without her; and notwithstanding his kindness, he would sometimes have been tempted to be a little vexed, if the uneasiness she manifested when she saw him sad, and the industry with which she occupied herself, when not busy with her flowers, in putting his linen in order, had not led him to forgive what he regarded as a weakness.

At length, after two months' work, the necessary sum was completed. The coat was ordered, made, brought home, and placed upon Edward's bed. Eugenia had learned from Mademoiselle Benoît, that Fanny's aunt was to give a ball, and she got Edward invited. He came home; she saw him pass, and trembled for joy. He beheld the coat, and could not conceive where it came from. Eugenia had no wish to conceal herself.

"It is I!" she exclaimed. "It is from my work--from my flowers; and here is a note inviting you to a ball at Fanny's this evening."

"What!" said Edward, "are you occupying yourself about my pleasures, while leading so dreary a life?"

"Oh! do not make yourself uneasy; I have discovered a plan of amusing myself; I shall work for you."

Edward was deeply moved; he could not express to his sister all the tenderness he felt for her, nor the esteem with which her conduct inspired him. She would let him have no peace, however, until he was dressed; until he had cast aside his old soiled coat, for the beautiful new one. She was never tired of looking at him, so much did she think him improved. She arranged his cravat and his hair. She was anxious that everything should be in order, and she hurried him to the ball, where she imagined that every one must be delighted to see him, and she felt inexpressible joy at beholding him depart. Mademoiselle Benoît, who came that evening to see her, found her as much animated as if she had been at the ball herself.

"Do you think you love your brother as much now," she said, smiling, "as when you were annoyed at his leaving you?"

"Oh! a great deal more."

"And have you had to complain of him during these two months?"

"I have never even thought of such a thing."

"I think, indeed, my dear child," said Mademoiselle Benoît, "that an excellent plan to avoid complaining of people is to endeavour to render them pleased with us."

Edward returned home early. Eugenia scolded him for doing so; but he came because he had good news to tell her. Although, from a feeling of proper pride, he did not like to speak of his happiness, he, nevertheless, was not proud with Fanny, who was so kind and sensible; besides, he wanted to tell her what Eugenia had done for him. Whilst he was relating the affair, one of Fanny's relations, who was behind them, heard a part of what was said, and wished to learn the remainder. As he was Fanny's guardian, and a person in whom she had great confidence, she related the circumstance to him, and spoke, moreover, of Edward's position. This guardian was an excellent man; he conversed with Edward, and found that he possessed both intelligence and good feelings: he was a banker, and he told him that he would take him into his counting-house and give him a salary: and, indeed, Edward entered on his new duties the following day. His first month's salary was partly employed in purchasing a dress for Eugenia. She was sorry for it, though not excessively so, for the dress was so pretty, and it was so long since she had a new one. But the following month he bought her a bonnet to match the dress. This time, she scolded him seriously.

"Very well," said he, "take my money, and let us spend it in common."

Eugenia became his manager; she bought nothing for herself, but she was delighted when she could put in order or mend any of Edward's clothes. She purchased, bargained, and economised for him, and was so careful of his money, that she would not always let him have some when he asked for it, so that he sometimes tried to steal a part of it from her, in order to make her presents.

Edward related to her every evening, what he had seen and what he had done. If sometimes she felt disposed to be a little vexed because he returned home rather later than usual, she took one of his shirts to mend, and thought no more of her ill humour. Mademoiselle Benoît, finding her once thus occupied, said to her, "You must allow, that when we make our happiness consist in the attentions which others bestow upon us, we may often be disappointed, because they are not always disposed to grant these attentions; whereas, when we make it consist in what we do for them, we have it always at our own command."

The banker's wife, who was as kind as her husband, had just returned from a journey; Edward soon spoke to her of Eugenia. She wished to see her: called on her, took her to her house, where Eugenia even passed some days with her, while their cousin, delighted at having saved her favourite canary from a violent attack of the cramp, troubled herself as little at seeing her go out as she had done at seeing her stay within, wasting away with _ennui_. The banker's wife also introduced her to Fanny's aunt, and the two girls were soon united in the most tender friendship.

The affairs of Edward and Eugenia were arranged, they succeeded to a small inheritance, and are now in easy circumstances. A marriage is spoken of between Edward and Fanny, and it is also possible that Eugenia may marry the banker's son. She is very happy, since affection has conquered the defects of her character. She still finds them starting up occasionally, but when she feels disposed to be irritable, jealous, or exacting, she always succeeds, by dint of reasoning, in convincing herself that her ill humour is unjust; and if it be directed against any one she loves, she says, "_I suppose I do not yet love them sufficiently._"

MARIE;

OR THE FEAST OF CORPUS CHRISTI.

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.