Part 19

Lucie was horrified. Alphonse, quite bewildered, ran to question Philip, and to know whether, when he executed his commission, he had observed anything amiss at the Curé's house, and whether Marie appeared sad. Philip assured him that he had not perceived anything whatever wrong; at the same time carefully avoiding any mention of the means by which he had transmitted the packet to Marie; and he so represented matters, that Alphonse did not suspect anything. Madame d'Aubecourt, being very uneasy, wrote to Madame Sainte Therèse, who replied that she could not at all understand what had happened, but that it seemed to her impossible that Marie should not be greatly in fault: and during the course of the following day, they learned from Gothon, who had received her information from the Curé's servant, that Marie had cried almost all the day, and that Madame Sainte Therèse treated her with great severity, and had even made her fast that morning upon bread and water. In the evening, Lucie went to confession to the Curé, who had returned, and saw Marie coming out of the confessional, sobbing violently. Madame d'Aubecourt went to Madame Sainte Therèse, and asked her whether Marie was to make her first communion on the following day. Madame Sainte Therèse replied, in a sad and severe tone, "I do not at all know."

As they were in the church, nothing more was said. Marie cast upon her cousin, as she passed by, a look which, notwithstanding her tears, expressed a feeling of satisfaction. She whispered something to Madame Sainte Therèse, who led her away, and Lucie entered the confessional. After having finished her confession, she was timidly preparing to ask the Curé what she so much desired to know; but before she could summon courage to begin, he was sent for to a sick person, and hurried away, so that she had no time to speak to him.

She passed the whole of that evening and night in inexpressible anxiety, which was so much the more intense, from the manner in which she reproached herself for every thought which wandered from the sacred duty of the morrow. Then she prayed to God for her cousin, thus uniting her devotion with her anxieties, and the thought of the happiness which was in store for her, with the supplications which she breathed for her dear Marie. The morning came; she dressed herself without speaking, collecting all her thoughts, so as not to allow a single one to escape her which could occasion her any uneasiness. She embraced her brother, and begged the blessing of M. d'Aubecourt and her mother, which they gave her with great joy, and M. d'Aubecourt added, that he blessed her both for himself and for his son. All sighed that he was not present at such a time, and after a moment's silence, they repaired to the church.

The girls who were to make their first communion were already assembled. Lucie, notwithstanding her self-possession, surveyed them with a glance, but Marie was not among them. She turned pale and leaned upon the arm of her mother, who sustained and encouraged her, and telling her to commit her griefs to God, led her into the row of girls, and passed with M. d'Aubecourt into the chapel at the side. Behind the girls, stood Mademoiselle Raymond and Gothon, and the principal people of the village. "I was quite sure she would not be there," said Mademoiselle Raymond. No one answered her, for all were interested in Marie, whom they had often seen in the cemetery during the past months, fervently praying at the foot of the cross which she had begged might be erected over the grave of her poor nurse. Lucie had heard Mademoiselle Raymond's remark, and, violently excited, she prayed to God with all her strength to preserve her from all improper feelings; but her agitation, and the restraint she had imposed upon her thoughts, affected her so much, that she could scarcely support herself. At length, the door of the sacristy opened, and Marie appeared, conducted by the Curé and Madame Sainte Therèse; she came forward with the white veil upon her head, beautiful as an angel, and as pure. A murmur of satisfaction ran through the church. Marie crossed the choir, and, after bending before the altar, went and knelt at the feet of M. and Madame d'Aubecourt, to ask their blessing. "My child," said the Curé to her, sufficiently loud to be heard, "be always as virtuous as you are now, and God also will bless you."

Oh! what joy did Lucie feel! She raised to heaven her eyes moistened with tears, and believed that in the happiness she then experienced, she felt the assurance of divine protection throughout the whole of her future life. M. and Madame d'Aubecourt, deeply affected, bestowed their blessing upon Marie, who knelt before them, while Alphonse, standing behind, his face beaming with joy and triumph, looked at her with as much respect as affection. Madame d'Aubecourt herself led Marie to Lucie's side. The two cousins did not utter a word, nor give more than a single look, but that look reverting to Madame d'Aubecourt before it fell, expressed a degree of happiness which no words could have conveyed, and the eyes of Madame d'Aubecourt replied to those of her children. The long-wished-for moment had arrived at last; the two cousins approached the altar together. Lucie, more feeble, and agitated by so many emotions which she had been forced to repress, was almost on the point of fainting: Marie supported her, her countenance beaming with angelic joy.

Having received the communion, the cousins returned to their places, prayed together, and after having passed a part of the morning in the church, went to dine at the château, where Madame Sainte Therèse and the Curé had been invited. Marie and Lucie talked but little, but it was evident that they were very happy. Alphonse, his relations, the servants, all appeared happy too; but this joy was silent, it seemed as if they feared to disturb the perfect calm which these young souls, pure and sanctified, ought to enjoy. The looks of all were unconsciously turned towards them, and they were waited upon with a kind of respect which could not suggest any sentiments of pride.

After having again gone to church in the afternoon with Lucie, Marie came back with her, to take up her abode at the château. The evening was very happy, and even a little gay. Alphonse ventured to laugh, and the two cousins to smile, In the room in which they slept, and next to the bed occupied by Madame d'Aubecourt, Marie found one exactly like Lucie's. All the furniture was alike; henceforth they were two sisters. From the following day, she shared in all Lucie's occupations, and especially in her care of M. d'Aubecourt, who soon became as fond of her as he was of his grandchildren. Mademoiselle Raymond having fallen ill some time afterwards, Marie, who was very active, and had been accustomed to attend to her poor nurse, rendered her so many services, went so often to her room, to give her her medicines, was so careful each time to caress Zizi, and even occasionally to carry him a bit of sugar to pacify him, that the feelings of both were changed towards her: and if Zizi, who was the most vindictive, still growled at her now and then, he was scolded by his mistress, who begged pardon for him of Marie.

Marie had related to Alphonse and Lucie, but under the strictest secrecy, all that had taken place. She told them that Madame Sainte Therèse, having questioned her to no purpose, had treated her with much severity; that she had said nothing, fearing, that if the truth were known, Philip might be discharged, but that she had been very unhappy during those two days; that at length, the Curé having returned, she took the resolution of consulting him in confession, well assured that he would then say nothing about the matter; and that he advised her to confide what she had done to Madame Sainte Therèse, on her promising inviolable secrecy. This she had done, so that they were reconciled. She, moreover, told Lucie that the reason of her crying so much on leaving the confessional, was because the Curé had exhorted her in a most pathetic manner, in recalling to her mind her poor nurse, who had been carried to the grave precisely on the same day, and at the same hour, the preceding year. Alphonse scolded Philip very severely, and forbade him ever to do any harm to Zizi, or anything which might displease Mademoiselle Raymond. The latter, being freed from annoyance on this point, consoled herself for not being so completely mistress of the château as formerly, by the reflection, that Madame d'Aubecourt and her children, in relieving her of many cares, left her more at liberty. Besides, the regard they had for her on account of her fidelity and attachment, flattered her self-love, so that her ill-humour perceptibly decreased; so that song and laughter were now as frequently heard at Guicheville, as murmuring and scolding had been during many previous years.

M. d'Aubecourt returned to France. He found but little of his property remaining, but still sufficient for the support of his wife and children. Marie, on the contrary, had become rich: her right had been recognised, not only to her mother's fortune, but even to that of her father also, as he had died before the laws against the emigrants had been enacted. The elder M. d'Aubecourt was her guardian, and as, though a minor, she enjoyed a considerable income, she found a thousand opportunities of making this family, which was so dear to her, partake in its enjoyment; in fine, in order to unite herself entirely to it, she is going to marry Alphonse, who loves her every day with a deeper affection, because every day she becomes more amiable. Lucie is transported with joy at the prospect of becoming in reality Marie's sister: Madame d'Aubecourt is also very happy, and Marie finds that the only thing wanted to render her own happiness complete, is the power of making her poor nurse a partaker in her joy. Every year she has a service celebrated for her at Guicheville, and all the family look upon it as a duty to assist at it, in order to show respect to the memory of one who so generously protected the childhood of Marie.

THE LITTLE BRIGANDS.

"Peter, Jacques, Louis, Simon, listen! listen!" cried Antony to his companions, a set of little vagabonds belonging to the village of Marcieux, who were playing at quoits upon the village green. A postchaise had just passed by, from which had been thrown a paper, containing the remains of a pie. Antony had immediately seized it: it chanced to be the _Journal de l'Empire_, of the 22nd of February, 1812, and as he was able to read, for he was the son of the village schoolmaster, he had discovered, while eating the crumbs which it contained, the following paragraph:--

"_Berne, January 26th, 1812._--A certain number of students, of the second and third classes of our college, between the ages of twelve and thirteen years, who had read during their hours of recreation, romantic tales of brigands, formed themselves into a company, elected a captain and officers, and gave themselves the names of different brigands. They had secret meetings, in which they smoked, held their orgies, and bound themselves by oath to preserve secrecy in all their operations, &c."

This was what he wished to read to his comrades. "Oh! brigands! brigands!" they all exclaimed, after having heard it. "That's capital! Let us all be brigands. Charles, will you be one?" they cried to the Curé's nephew, who was coming up at the time.

"What is it? what is it? Oh, yes, I don't mind," said Charles, without knowing what they wanted. Charles was a good boy, but he had one great fault, and that was disobedience to his uncle, the Curé, who had forbidden him to associate with the other little boys of the village, almost all of whom were mischievous and bad. Instead of obeying this order, he stopped whenever he could find an opportunity, to play with one or other of them; he even made appointments to meet them at different places, through which he would have to pass, when his uncle sent him out on any commission. When in their company, they led him into many follies, which he did not willingly commit, but he was unable to resist their persuasions. He was very angry when he saw them throw stones to bring down the fruit, or walk in the fields of ripe corn, or spoil the asparagus-beds: on these occasions, he declared he would never play with them again, but he invariably returned, nevertheless. He now said he would be a brigand because he thought it was a game.

It was first determined that they must have sticks; they therefore ran to a heap of faggots, and drew out from it some of the thickest branches. Charles urged in vain, that these faggots belonged to his uncle, the Curé, who had purchased them that morning; they replied, that brigands were not afraid of curés, and that all the curés in the world had only to come to them, and they would find their match. Charles laughed at all these follies, and Simon, the one of whom he was most fond, because he was gay and good-natured, although a very naughty boy, having selected a stick for him, he took it. Then they began brandishing their sticks, raising their heads, and assuming as wicked an expression as they possibly could, after which they began to deliberate on what was to be done next.

"We must first of all swear that we are brigands," said Antony, "and then," added he, referring to the paper, "then we'll steal everything we can find, and we'll hold our orgies."

"We'll steal!" repeated Charles, who was beginning to find this rather an extraordinary kind of game.

"Certainly, since we are brigands."

"I won't steal."

"Oh, you'll steal, you'll steal," cried all the little boys. "You are a brigand, so you must steal."

"I will _not_ steal."

"What does it signify to us," said Simon, who was always anxious to accommodate matters, "if you won't steal, so much the worse for yourself, that's all."

"Yes, if you are such a fool," said the others, "so much the worse for yourself--you'll get nothing."

"But what is the meaning of holding orgies?" said one of the troop. Charles explained that it meant to get tipsy.

"Ah! yes, and to smoke too," said Antony, again consulting his paper; "we will go together to the tavern."

"Of course they'll let you go there!" said Charles.

"Oh, brigands are not afraid of anything, and besides no one will know it. We'll go to Troux, that's a league from here. Brigands don't want leave, they do just what they please, and set every one at defiance." And the little wretches again brandished their sticks in the air with greater fierceness than before.

"Come," said Antony, "we must swear that we are brigands."

"Nonsense!" said Charles, "let us leave off this stupid game, and play at quoits. Simon, come and play at quoits; I owe you a revenge, you know," and Simon was willing enough to go and have his revenge; but he was withheld by the others, who told him he must take the oath, and that Charles might go if he liked, because he was a fool. Charles ought to have gone; nevertheless he remained. Antony said they must have some wine; and as he had been reading history in an old Latin and French book, which his father used in teaching Latin, he said that they would do as the conspirators of former times had done, that is, they would put a little of their blood into the wine, and afterwards drink it, and then they would be bound to be brigands all their lives. This they thought would be delightful.

"But how shall we get blood?" said one of them.

"Oh, we must prick our fingers," said another. "I have a large pin which fastens my trousers."

They agreed to make use of the pin, each one determining in his own mind not to go very deep. But they wanted some wine; this was a great embarrassment. They asked Louis, who was the son of the wine-merchant, to go and steal some from his father's cellar. Louis replied that he would not go in the daylight, for fear of being seen, and beaten. They said that, for a brigand, he was very cowardly; still none of them would go in his stead. At length Simon, who was the most daring, went and begged some of the innkeeper's servant, who liked him because, when he met her in the streets, heavily laden, he assisted her in carrying her jugs. She gave him a little that remained at the bottom of a measure, and he carried it off triumphantly in an old broken sabot, into which he had poured it. Antony was the first to prick his finger, but as he felt it hurt him, he said that it bled quite enough, although it did not bleed at all. The others then pretended to prick their fingers, and they shook them very much, as if they really had bled a great deal. Charles alone refused to imitate them, and Jacques struck him violently with the pin, and caused the blood to flow. He was very angry, and fought with Jacques. Simon took his part, and beat Jacques. Charles, being in a rage, wanted to upset the wine, which was in the sabot, but the others prevented him, and told him he refused to drink and take the oath, because he was a traitor, and wanted to inform against them. Even Simon himself said, that if he did not drink with them, it would prove that he was a traitor. This was painful to Charles, especially as Simon had just been defending him. "You promised to be a brigand," they all cried. Charles assured them that he had no wish to inform against them but that he would not be a brigand. They again exclaimed, with greater vehemence, "You must be a brigand, you promised to be one," and Simon held the sabot to his mouth. Charles resisted, but they asserted that he had drunk, and therefore was a brigand. He went away very angry, declaring that it was not true.

However, he did not long retain his anger against Simon, who on the following day waited for him as he passed down the street, for the purpose of telling him to come and see a large sausage which they had found the means of snatching from the hooks of a pork-butcher's shop in the village. Charles at first positively refused to go, but Simon said so much about the size of the sausage, that he became curious to see what it really was. He therefore went in the afternoon upon the green, where they were eating it. It was indeed very large. They told him how they had managed to get it, their fear of being seen by the shopkeeper, and the tales with which Simon had amused him outside the shop, while one of them stole into it. All this made Charles laugh, and he so completely forgot the evil of such actions, that when they invited him to taste the sausage, he took a piece and ate it. But he had no sooner swallowed it, than he felt distressed at what he had done. He immediately left them without saying a word, and the more he thought of it, the more he was tormented. His anxiety increased after he got home, for his uncle made him repeat the lesson in the catechism, which on that day happened to fall on the commandment, "_Thou shalt not steal_."

His uncle explained to him that those who took what did not belong to them, were not the only thieves, but that those also were such who bought without paying, whose expenses were greater than their means, who borrowed what it was not possible for them to return, and above all, those who profited by what others had stolen.

Charles became pale and red by turns; fortunately for him, it was getting dark, and his uncle did not observe his agitation. He made no reply, and as soon as he could get away, he went and concealed himself, in order to give vent to his tears. At supper he ate nothing, saying that he was sick, and in truth the piece of sausage he had taken, had made him feel ill. He could not sleep; his conscience reproached him with having participated in the theft, since he had profited by it, and he felt that he could no longer tell them that they had done wrong, since they would say, "That, however, did not prevent you from eating some of the sausage."

He knew, and his uncle had often repeated it to him, that one cannot hope for forgiveness from God, without at least returning the value of what has been stolen. He would most willingly have given the little he possessed to be delivered from so heavy a burden; but how was he to make the butcher accept it? It would be necessary to explain everything, and accuse his companions. This he would not have thought of doing, even if he had not considered himself bound by his promise; he therefore determined to go and lay the four sous, which was all the money he possessed, upon the door-step of the pork-butcher's shop, thinking that he would take them up, supposing them to belong to him. He passed before the door two or three times, without daring to carry his plan into execution; at last, at a moment when he was not perceived, he laid them on the threshold, and ran away to the corner of the street, in order to see what would happen. He had no sooner stationed himself there, than he saw Antony come up, who, prowling about the shop, and perceiving that its owner's back was turned, stooped down to pick up the money. Charles rushed upon him to prevent him. Antony struggled, and the shopkeeper turned round at the noise. "What are you doing in front of my shop?" he exclaimed, in an angry tone; for he remembered what had been stolen from him. "What does M. Charles mean by lurking about here for a whole hour? Be off with you; I do not accuse you, M. Charles, but I don't want any one in front of my shop."

"He ought to be accused as much as any one else," said Antony, and Charles in despair beheld himself driven away, without daring to resist, as he would have done on any other occasion. He ran after Antony, in order to get back his four sous, saying that they belonged to him, but Antony only laughed at him. He dared not compel him to give them back, for Antony had over him the advantage of a scamp, who laughs at everything that can be said to him, while Charles did not possess that of an honest man, which consists in having nothing to conceal, for his conduct had not always been irreproachable.

As he stood there, sad and ashamed, Jacques and Simon happened to pass by. "Oh," said Simon, in a low voice, "we have got such a beautiful basket of peaches, which Dame Nicholas was going to carry into the town, and which we took from off her donkey, while she was gone to pick up sticks by the side of the park walls. We have hidden it there in the ditch. Come and see it."

"No, I will not," said Charles.

"Well, they are not for him," replied Jacques, "he has had no trouble in getting them; he is a cowardly brigand."

"I am not a brigand," said Charles, "and I do not care for your peaches."

"You were not so squeamish about the sausage, though."

Charles, on any other occasion, would have replied by a blow; but now he was humbled, and remained silent, and Jacques went away, singing at the top of his voice, to the air of "_C'est un enfant_," _he's a child_:--

"He's a coward, He's a coward."

"Why will you not come?" asked Simon.

"Simon," replied Charles, who wished to reform him, "it is very wrong to steal, and to keep company with those who steal."

"That's all very fine! but you did not think so yesterday."

"But since then I have bitterly repented of it."

"Very well, you may repent again to-morrow, come along;" and Simon, who was accustomed to make him do pretty nearly what he pleased, dragged him along by the arm.

"No, no. I will not go."

"Very well, don't come, then;" and he pushed him rudely back: "I see very well it's because you won't let me have my revenge."

"But, Simon, how am I to do it? I have no more money."

"You have still the four sous that you won from Louis and me."

Charles related what he had done, and what followed; Simon laughed so heartily, that Charles almost laughed to see him laughing: however, he became impatient. "If I could only make him restore them," he said.