Part 18

Alphonse and Lucie rejoiced at the arrangement, as it did not remove Marie away from them, and Alphonse promised himself to be able to go and continue her reading lessons; but the following day the Curé came to announce to them that his sister had received a letter from her superior, inviting her to rejoin her, and a few other nuns of the same convent, whom she had gathered together. He added that his sister proposed to set out at once, and that if they consented to it, she would take Marie, who would thus pass with her the time of her penitence. Alphonse was on the point of protesting against this proposition, but his mother made him feel the necessity of accepting it, and all three went to take leave of Marie, who was to set out on the following day. Marie was extremely grieved when she learned the mode in which they disposed of her; she felt much more vividly her attachment to her relations since she had been separated from them, and it now seemed to her that she was never to see them again, and she said, crying, "They took me from my nurse in the same way, and she is dead." But she had become docile; and, besides, Madame Sainte Therèse,--such was the name of the Curé's sister,--had something in her manner which awed her a good deal. When she heard of the arrival of Madame d'Aubecourt and her children, she trembled very much, and had she been the Marie of a former time, she would have made her escape; but a look from Madame Sainte Therèse restrained her. Lucie, on entering, went and threw her arms round her neck, and she was so much moved by this mark of affection, when she only expected severity, that she returned the embrace with her whole heart, and began to weep. Alphonse was exceedingly sad, and she scarcely dared to speak to him, or look at him. "Marie," he said, "we are all very grieved at losing you." He could say no more, for his heart was full, and he knew that a man ought not to display his sorrow too much, but Marie clearly perceived that he was not angry with her. Madame d'Aubecourt said to her, "My child, you have occasioned us all very great grief in compelling us to separate ourselves from you, but I hope all will yet be well, and that by your good conduct you will afford us the opportunity of having you back again." Marie kissed her hand tenderly, and assured her that she would conduct herself properly, she had promised it, she said, to God and to her poor nurse.

They were astonished at the change that had been wrought in her by two days of misery and reflection. She save sensible answers to all that was said to her, she remained quiet upon her chair, and already looked to Madame Sainte Therèse from time to time, for fear of saying or doing anything which might displease her. The austere look of this lady somewhat terrified Alphonse and Lucie, on their cousin's account, but they knew that she was a very virtuous person, and that there is nothing really alarming in the severity of the virtuous, because it is never unjust, and can always be avoided by doing one's duty. Alphonse gave Marie a book, in which he begged her to read a page every day for his sake, and he also gave her a little silver pencil-case, for the time when she should be able to write. Lucie gave her her silver thimble, her ornamented scissors, an ivory needlecase, and a _ménagère_, furnished with threads, because Marie had promised to learn to work. Madame d'Aubecourt gave her a linen dress, which she and Lucie had made for her in two days. Marie was greatly consoled by all this kindness, and they separated, all very melancholy, but still loving each other much more truly than they had done during the two months they had passed together, because they were now much more reasonable.

Marie departed; M. d'Aubecourt recovered; and quiet was again restored in the château: but this sending away of Marie was a subject of great surprise in the village, and as Mademoiselle Raymond had not concealed her aversion for her, she was looked upon as its cause. She herself was not liked, and an increased interest was therefore felt in Marie's fate. Philip, the gardener's son, who regretted Marie because she played with him, told all the little boys of the village that Zizi was the cause of Mademoiselle Raymond's antipathy to her, and whenever she passed through the streets with Zizi, she heard them say, "Look, there's the dog that got Mademoiselle Marie sent away!" She therefore did not dare to take him out with her, except into the fields, and this consequently increased her ill feeling towards Marie.

As to M. d'Aubecourt, on the contrary, being kind-hearted, though subject to whims and ill-temper, he had ceased to be irritated against her, now that she was no longer in his way. He permitted Madame d'Aubecourt to talk of her, and even to read to him the letters in which Madame Sainte Therèse gave an account of her good conduct; and, finally, as no one knew better than Madame d'Aubecourt how to persuade people to do what was right, because all were won by her extreme sweetness, while her good sense inspired confidence in her judgment, she induced him to pay the trifling salary of Marie; and he even sent her a dress. It was Alphonse who communicated all this good news to her, at the same time adding, that both his sister and himself endeavoured to do everything they could to please their grandfather, that when he was very much satisfied with them, he might grant them a favour, which would give them more pleasure than anything else in the world, namely, the permission for her to return. He told her that he had begun a pretty landscape for M. d'Aubecourt's fête, which was that of St. Louis, and that Lucie was working him a footstool on which to support his lame foot.

Marie was enchanted at receiving this letter, which she was already sufficiently advanced to read herself. The brother of one of the nuns, who had a garden in the neighbourhood of the place in which she resided, and who was very fond of Marie, had given her two very rare trees; she would have been delighted could she have sent them to M. d'Aubecourt for his fête, but she hardly dared to do so, and besides, how was she to send them?

Madame Sainte Therèse encouraged her, and it so happened, that a relative of one of the nuns had occasion to go, precisely at that time, in the direction of Guicheville. He was kind enough to take the trees with him, and had them carefully secured on all sides, so as to prevent their being too much shaken in the journey. They arrived in very good condition, and were secretly committed to Madame d'Aubecourt, and on the morning of St. Louis's day, M. d'Aubecourt found them at his garden gate, as if they had not dared to enter it. On them was this inscription: _From Marie, repentant, to her benefactor_, written in large letters, with Marie's own hand, for she could as yet only write in large hand. M. d'Aubecourt was so much affected by this present, and its inscription, that he wrote a letter to Marie, in which he told her that he was very much satisfied with the account that had been given him of her conduct, and that if she persevered he should be very glad to see her again at the château. This was a great joy for Madame d'Aubecourt and her children, to whom M. d'Aubecourt read his letter, and they all wrote to Marie. She had sent word to Alphonse by the traveller, that Madame Sainte Therèse had forbidden her to read in the book which he had given her, because it consisted of tales; that this had very much grieved her, and she begged him to choose from among the books which Madame Sainte Therèse did permit her to read, one in which she could every day read more than a page for his sake. She asked Lucie to send her a strip of muslin, which she wished to scallop for her, because she was beginning to work well, and she sent word to Madame d'Aubecourt that she kept for Sundays the dress which she and Lucie had given her, the day of her departure. These messages were faithfully delivered. Alphonse, by his mother's advice, selected for her, _Rollin's Ancient History_. Lucie sent at the first opportunity, two trimmings for handkerchiefs, to be scalloped, one for Marie and another for herself, and Madame d'Aubecourt added an English belt to wear on Sundays with her dress.

From this moment the children redoubled their care and attention to their grandfather. Lucie wrote his letters, under his dictation, and Alphonse, who had found means of constituting himself sole manager of Marie's trees, because he had received the instructions of the man who brought them, entered every day into the garden to attend to them, and he occasionally watered M. d'Aubecourt's flowers, who soon looked to him so much for the care of his garden, that he frequently consulted him as to what was to be done in it. Lucie was also admitted to the council, and Madame d'Aubecourt likewise gave her opinion occasionally. The garden had become the occupation of the whole family, and M. d'Aubecourt received much greater pleasure from it than when he had it all to himself.

One day when they were all together, one watering, another weeding, and a third taking insects from the trees: "I am sure," said Alphonse, replying to his own thoughts, "that Marie would take care of them now with as much pleasure and attention as ourselves."

Lucie blushed and glanced at her brother, not daring to look at M. d'Aubecourt. "Poor Marie!" said Madame d'Aubecourt, with tenderness, though not with any sadness, for she began to feel quite sure that she would return. "We shall see her again, we shall see her again," said M. d'Aubecourt. The subject was not pursued further at that time, but two days afterwards, when they were all in the drawing-room, Madame d'Aubecourt received a letter from Madame Sainte Therèse, who informed her that in the spring of the following year, she intended to pass three or four months with her brother, prior to her settling finally in the place where she then was, and that being anxious that Marie should edify the village of Guicheville, where she had set such a bad example, she would bring her there to make her first communion. Lucie uttered a cry of joy, "Oh! mamma," she said, "we shall make it together!" for it was also in the following year that she was to make her first communion. Alphonse, much affected, looked at his grandfather, "Yes, but," said he, after a moment's silence, "Marie will then go away again."

"After her first communion," said M. d'Aubecourt, "we shall see."

Lucie, who was seated by her grandfather, quietly knelt down on the footstool upon which his feet were placed, and as she gently bent her head over his hands, in order to kiss them, he felt the tears of joy fall upon them. Alphonse was silent, but his hands were tightly clasped together, and an expression of happiness pervaded his whole countenance.

"If she is as good a child as you two," said M. d'Aubecourt, "I shall be delighted to have her back with us."

"Oh! she will be! she will be!" said both the children, their hearts swelling with pleasure. They said no more, fearing to importune M. d'Aubecourt, who loved tranquillity, and had accustomed them to restrain their feelings; but they were very happy.

There was great satisfaction throughout the château; Marie's faults were forgotten, while her disgrace was pitied. Mademoiselle Raymond was the only person who felt any annoyance; not that she was really ill disposed, but when once she took up any prejudices, she seldom overcame them. Besides, the continued reproaches made to her for her dislike of Marie had the effect of increasing it; and as the other servants made a sort of triumph of her return, she was all the more displeased with it. But she had insensibly lost much of her ascendancy over the mind of M. d'Aubecourt, who, now that he was surrounded by more amiable society, was less dependent on her and less afraid of her ill temper; for Madame d'Aubecourt spared him the trouble of giving his orders himself, and thus freed him from a thousand petty annoyances. Mademoiselle Raymond therefore manifested nothing of her displeasure before her superiors, and the end of February, the time fixed for Marie's return, was looked forward to with great impatience.

Marie arrived in the beginning of March. For more than a week, Alphonse and Lucie went every day to wait for the diligence, which passed by the château. At length it stopped, and they saw Marie descend from it. They scarcely recognised her at first, she had grown so much taller, fairer, and handsomer; her bearing was so much improved, and her deportment so modest and reserved. She threw herself into Lucie's arms, and also embraced Alphonse; Madame d'Aubecourt, who had perceived her from the window, hastened to meet her. All the servants ran out; Zizi also ran out barking, because all this commotion displeased him, and besides, he remembered his former aversion for Marie. Philip gave him a blow with a switch, which made him, howl terrifically. Mademoiselle Raymond, who was slowly approaching, rushed towards him, took him in her arms and carried him away, exclaiming, "Poor fellow! you may now consider that your days are numbered." The servants heard this, and glanced slyly at her and Zizi.

Marie was led to the château, and Madame Sainte Therèse, who had gone to her brother's, left word that she should soon come and fetch her. M. d'Aubecourt had given permission for her to be led to him; he was in his garden; she stopped at the gate, timid and embarrassed.

"Go in, Marie, go in," said Alphonse; "we all go there now, and you shall go in and take care of it as we do."

Marie entered, walking with great care, for fear of injuring anything as she passed along. M. d'Aubecourt appeared very glad to see her; she kissed his hand, and he embraced her. They happened to be standing near the two plants which she had given to him. Alphonse showed her how much they had prospered under his care. He also pointed out such trees as were beginning to bud, and all the early flowers which were making their appearance. Marie looked at everything with interest, and found everything very beautiful.

"Yes, but beware of the Feast of Corpus Christi," said M. d'Aubecourt, laughing.

Marie blushed, but her uncle's manner proved to her that he was no longer displeased with her; she again kissed his hand with a charming vivacity, for she still retained her liveliness, though it was now tempered by good sense. She spoke but little,--she had never indeed been talkative, but her replies were to the purpose, only she constantly blushed. She was timid, like a person who had felt the inconvenience of a too great vivacity. Madame Sainte Therèse returned. Marie seemed to feel in her presence that awe which respect inspires; nevertheless, she loved her, and had great confidence in her. Madame Sainte Therèse said that she had come for Marie. This grieved Alphonse and Lucie excessively. They had hoped their cousin would have remained at the château the whole of the day, and they had even been anticipating a further extension of the visit; but Madame Sainte Therèse said that as Marie had commenced the exercises for her first communion, it was necessary that she should remain in retirement until she had made it, and that she was not to go out, except for her walk, nor were her cousins to see her more than once a week. They were obliged to submit to the arrangement. Although Madame d'Aubecourt did not approve of this excessive austerity, which belonged to the customs of the convent in which Madame Sainte Therèse had passed the greater part of her life, she was so virtuous a person, and they were under so many obligations to her for all that she had done for Marie, that they did not consider it right to oppose her. When Marie was gone, Alphonse and Lucie were eloquent in their praises of her deportment, and the grace of her manners: their mother agreed with them, and M. d'Aubecourt also expressed his satisfaction, and consented positively that immediately after her first communion, she should again become an inmate of the château.

It was decided that the first communions of the village should be made on the feast of Corpus Christi, and that until then, Madame d'Aubecourt should go every other Thursday to pass the afternoon at the Curé's house, where Marie expected them with great delight. She saw them besides every Sunday at church, when, of course, she did not speak to them, but they exchanged a few words on coming out, and sometimes, though rarely, they met in their walks; thus they did not lose sight of each other, but were able to converse about their various occupations. Marie had read the whole of her Rollin: Alphonse pointed out to her other historical works, and she gave him an account of what she read. He applied with great zeal to his studies, in order to be able to give her, hereafter, lessons in drawing and English; and Lucie never learned a new stitch, or busied herself with any particular work, without saying, "I will show it to Marie." Every one was happy at Guicheville, and all hoped to be still more so.

The feast of Corpus Christi was drawing near; the two girls, equally inspired with piety and fervour, beheld its approach with mingled joy and fear. Alphonse thought of the happy day which was to bring back Marie, and to exhibit her, as well as his sister, as an example to the young girls of the village. He would have been glad to have signalized it by some fête, but the seriousness and holiness of such a day would not permit of amusement, or even of any distraction. He determined at least to contribute as much as he possibly could to those attentions which were allowable. Madame d'Aubecourt had provided for Lucie and Marie two white dresses, both alike; Alphonse wished them to have veils and sashes also alike. From the money which his grandfather had given him for his new year's gift, and which he had carefully saved for this occasion, he sent to purchase them at the neighbouring town, without saying anything on the subject to Lucie, who did not consider it proper to occupy herself with these matters, and left them all to her mother's care. Madame d'Aubecourt was the only person admitted into his council, and with her permission, the last evening but one before the festival, he sent Philip, with the veil and sash, to Marie, accompanied by a note, in which he begged her to wear them at her first communion.

Philip was very much attached to Alphonse and Marie; this was almost his only merit; in other respects he was coarse, quarrelsome, and insolent, and had an especial aversion to Mademoiselle Raymond; and as he and his father were the only persons in the house who were but slightly dependent upon her, he amused himself by provoking her whenever he could find an opportunity. He never met her with Zizi without making some disagreeable remark about the animal, to which he always added, "It's a great pity they don't let you eat Mademoiselle Marie," at the same time threatening him with his hand. Mademoiselle Raymond would get angry, while he would go off laughing. If he chanced to meet Zizi in a corner, a thing which very rarely happened, because his mistress no longer dared to let him go about, he would tie a branch of thorns to his tail, a stick between his legs, or cover his face with paper; in fact he thought of everything which could displease Mademoiselle Raymond, who thus lived in a state of perpetual apprehension.

As Alphonse was very anxious that Lucie should have the surprise of seeing Marie dressed exactly like herself, he had told Philip to go to the presbytery without being observed, and Philip, who was very fond of doing what he ought not to do, took a fancy to get there by climbing over the wall, which was not very high. When on the top, he perceived Marie, who was reading on a slight elevation which had been raised near the wall, for the purpose of enjoying the very beautiful view which it commanded. He called to her in a low voice, and threw her the packet which Alphonse had confided to him, and was preparing to descend, when he perceived Mademoiselle Raymond walking by the side of the wall, with Zizi panting before her. As she approached, Philip, finding under his hand a piece of flint belonging to the wall, threw it at Zizi, and hid himself among the trees which overhung the wall at this spot: Mademoiselle Raymond, who was stooping down at the moment for the purpose of removing something from Zizi's throat, received the flint on her forehead, where it left rather a large wound. She screamed, and raised her head. Perceiving Marie on the mound, who, having heard her cry, stood up, and was looking at her, she did not doubt that it was she who had thrown the stone. Redoubling her speed, she hastened to the presbytery to complain, without perceiving Philip, who, nevertheless, was not very well concealed, but whom she had no idea of finding there. As to him, the moment she had passed, he jumped down and made his escape as fast as he could. Mademoiselle Raymond found no one at home but Madame Sainte Therèse. The Curé had gone to the neighbouring town on business, and would not return until the following evening. She related to her what had occurred, showing her forehead, which was bleeding, though the wound was not very deep; she also showed the stone, which she had picked up, and which might have killed her. She asserted that it was Marie who had thrown it; but Madame Sainte Therèse could not believe such a thing. She, however, accompanied her to the garden, in search of Marie.

When Marie saw them approaching, she hid her packet under a cluster of rosebushes, for, being as yet unaware of what had occurred, she was afraid that Philip had done something wrong, and in order not to be compelled to say that he had been there, she did not wish what he had brought to be seen; however, she blushed and turned pale alternately, for she was afraid of being questioned, and did not wish to be guilty of an untruth. Madame Sainte Therèse, on coming up to her, was struck with her air of embarrassment, and Mademoiselle Raymond said to her, "See, Mademoiselle Marie, how well you employ the last evening but one before your first communion! After that you will be called a saint in the village. I shall only have to point to my forehead." Saying this, she showed it to Marie, who blushed still more at the thought that Philip could have committed so disgraceful an act.

"Is it possible, Marie," said Madame Sainte Therèse, "that it can be you who have thrown a stone at Mademoiselle Raymond?" and as Marie hesitated, seeking for an answer, she added, "You must surely have hit her unintentionally; but nevertheless, this would be an amusement very unbecoming your age, and the duty for which you are preparing yourself."

"Madame," replied Marie, "I assure you that I have not thrown any stone."

"It seems, then, to have come of its own accord," said Mademoiselle Raymond, in a tone of great asperity, at the same time pointing to the spot where she stood when the stone struck her: it was evident that it could only have come from the garden, and from an elevated position.

Madame Sainte Therèse interrogated Marie with increased severity, and Marie, trembling, could only reply, "I assure you, Madame, that I have not thrown any stone."

"All that I can see in the matter," continued Mademoiselle Raymond, "is that I doubt whether Mademoiselle Marie will make her first communion the day after to-morrow."

"I am very much afraid that she has rendered herself unworthy of doing so," replied Madame Sainte Therèse. Marie began to weep, and Mademoiselle Raymond hastened to relate her adventure at the château, and to say that probably Marie would not make her first communion. She referred to her talent for throwing stones at the cats, as they ran along the leads, and added, "She makes a fine use of it."