Part 20

"Oh," said Simon, "brigands never restore anything; but come presently and play at quoits upon the green. Since it is that rascally Antony who has stolen them from you, we shall easily find the means of winning them again from him."

"No," said Charles, "I will not go."

"Very well, as you like. I shall win them for myself then."

As Charles, notwithstanding his misfortunes, was rather more satisfied with himself, he dined better than he had supped on the previous evening. Nevertheless, he thought it would have been very pleasant to have won back his money from Antony. The following day was Sunday, and his uncle gave him the key of his garden, desiring him to carry it to Madame Brossier, one of his parishioners, who was very old and infirm. She lived at the distance of four or five hundred paces from the village, and in going to mass had a much shorter journey to make, by crossing the Curé's garden, than by going round by the streets.

Charles set out. His way lay near the green, and as he passed, he looked towards it, walking more slowly, and endeavouring to discover what his comrades, whom he saw there assembled, were about. In this manner he approached them, found that they were playing at quoits, and drew still nearer, in order to ascertain whether it was Simon who was winning. The latter observed him, and called to him, inviting him to go halves with him. Charles at first made no reply; Simon renewed his proposal: it was against Antony that he was playing, and Charles therefore agreed, forgetting that he had no right to play, since he had no money to pay if he lost. This idea occurred to him in the midst of the game, and he became so terribly alarmed at the thought of losing, that he could hardly breathe. He watched the game with anxious attention; and on two occasions he fancied he saw Simon, with whom he was to share, take an opportunity, while approaching for the purpose of measuring, to push his quoit in such a way as to make it appear that he had won, when in reality he had lost. However, he did not dare to say anything; but whether it was for the sake of not injuring Simon, or for the sake of not losing, he could not decide, so much was he confused. He won a sou, and went away, still more troubled, if possible, than on the previous evening. He thought that Simon had cheated, and that from this dishonesty had come what he himself had gained; and that though Antony had stolen the money from him, still this was no reason why he should steal it in his turn. He would have been glad to have asked some one whether he had any right to keep this money, or whether, on the contrary, he ought not also to return even what Simon had gained, since he had not given notice that he was cheating. But whom was he to ask? It is one of the misfortunes of those who have been guilty of any disgraceful act, that they dare not seek advice, even though it be for the purpose of repairing their fault. Charles's conscience tormented him so much, that he tried to distract his thoughts, in order not to feel his self-reproaches. He therefore began running, to try and shake off his painful impressions, but on reaching Madame Brossier's door, he perceived that he had not the key of the garden. He imagined at first that he must have dropped it while running, and therefore searched for it for some time, but at last recollecting that he had lent it to Simon to measure the distance of the quoits, he went back to ask him for it. Simon, however, was not there, nor Jacques either, and the others declared that they had not got his key. Charles was going to run after Simon.

"Don't go," said Antony, "he'll come back presently, and you will miss him. Let's have a game instead."

Charles was just in a condition for committing faults; he did not know whether the money he had belonged to him or not, and it would seem that those who have had the misfortune of rendering their duties so difficult and complicated, that they no longer know how to extricate themselves from their embarrassments, are apt to abandon altogether the care of their conscience, and become reckless, so that they go on from bad to worse, and thus deprive themselves of the means of repairing their errors.

Charles played, and lost not only his sou, but four others which he did not possess; still he wanted his revenge, but Antony refused to play any longer, and Simon did not return. Charles thought but little of this, so much was he occupied with his game; however he had once inquired if Simon was not coming back. "Yes, yes! when the fowls get teeth," replied Antony, deriding him. Charles had scarcely heard him. Whilst he was asking for a last game, which would probably have again made him lose what he did not possess, Jacques arrived at full speed, and without perceiving Charles, for it was beginning to get dark, he called out from a distance, though in a suppressed voice, "It's the key of the garden sure enough, we have tried it, and are going to fetch some baskets."

Charles perceived that they were talking of his key, and saw clearly that he had been expressly detained, in order to allow Jacques and Simon time to take it away. He was going to run after Jacques, but Antony retained him: "Pay me my four sous first," said he.

"I will pay you them to-morrow, but I must have my key."

"Are you afraid any one will eat your key?"

"No, but I don't want any one to go to my uncle's garden and steal his fruit, as they did the basket of peaches, and the sausage;" and he continued to struggle, but Antony kept him back.

"There is a great deal of harm," said Louis "in picking up the fruit which has fallen, and is rotting on the ground." But Charles, who knew very well that they would not content themselves with this, struggled still more violently.

"You will have to let me go in the end," said he, "and then I will run and tell my uncle to make them give up his key."

"And I will tell him," said Antony, "to make you give me my four sous."

"Very well! Let me go; I will say nothing about it."

"Swear it on the faith of a brigand."

"But I am not a brigand."

"You are, you are a brigand," exclaimed all the little boys at once, taking hold of each other's hands, and dancing round him in such a manner as to prevent him from getting away. "Swear it on the faith of a brigand." Charles stamped, cried, and made every effort to get away, but in vain; he was obliged to swear on the faith of a brigand, that he would not tell, and that he would pay the four sous on the following day; that is to say, he promised to give what he did not possess: but his first faults had led him into a bad path, and now he could not get out of it.

As soon as he got free, he began to run as fast as he could in the direction of the house, but at some distance he met his uncle, who stopped him and inquired whether he had given the key to Madame Brossier. Charles, dismayed and confused, stammered, and could only repeat:

"The key, the key ... the key, uncle."

"Have you lost it?"

"Yes, uncle," said Charles, delighted at this excuse. The Curé was a good quiet man, who never got angry: he merely said, "Very well! we must look for it."

"What uncle, at this hour? it is almost dark."

"We shall have much more difficulty in finding it when it is quite dark;" and he began to look for it, Charles pretending to do the same. They met Antony and his companions, who were returning to the village; the Curé inquired for his key; they replied that they had not found it, and Charles, filled with indignation, heard them as they went away, laughing among themselves, and saying, "It will be found, M. le Curé, it will be found." He saw them running, and felt convinced that they were hastening to take advantage of his uncle's absence to effect their purpose. He trembled for his uncle's beautiful apricot-tree, so laden with fruit that some of the branches had to be supported; but above all, he trembled for Bébé, a beautiful little lamb, which the Curé's servant had brought up, and of which Charles was passionately fond, for it knew him, would run to him, as far as the length of its cord would allow, the moment it perceived him, would caress him, and eat from his hand. It was tied in the garden, and if these good-for-nothing fellows were to take it away, and hurt it, the poor thing might bleat as much as it pleased, without any possibility of the servant's hearing it, as the garden was at some distance from the house, and only connected with it by a narrow path, passing along the back of the church. He could not endure the thought. "Uncle," said he, in great agitation, "let me go; if any one has found the key, he may get into the garden; I will put something in the lock to prevent them from opening it."

"No! no!" said the Curé, "you would spoil my lock:" Charles had already set off. The Curé again cried out to him, forbidding him to put anything into the lock. Charles promised not to touch it, and ran on, and his uncle, seeing it was getting too dark to leave any chance of finding the key, went to pay a visit in the village.

Charles reached home, quite out of breath; he found everything perfectly quiet. Bébé was in her old place, and came to lick his hand; he breathed more freely, but he was still in constant fear of hearing the little brigands arrive. What was he to do then? He had placed himself in the most distressing dilemma in which a man can be placed, that of either failing in his word, or of allowing a wrong to be committed, which he had the power of preventing. His uncle had forbidden him to put anything in the lock, but he thought that if the ladder which was used for mounting the trees, were placed across the door, it might hinder its being opened. He had just begun to drag it along with much difficulty, when he heard several persons speaking in a low voice outside the wall, and close to the door; he saw that there was no time to reach it with the ladder, and therefore rushed forward, that he might at least push it with all his might; but at that moment the key was put into the lock, and the door suddenly burst open. Charles was almost thrown down, and he beheld the five little brigands enter the garden.

"Go back! go back!" he said, "go back, or I'll call out."

"Go and call outside then!" said Jacques, pushing him out of the garden, the door of which he closed, after having taken out the key. Charles did in fact cry out, and knock, but they threw a flower-pot over the wall, which fell upon his shoulder and hurt him a good deal. He saw another coming, and concluded that he could not stay there. Being obliged to go round, he made all the haste possible, though his fears made him tremble; he found the gate of the yard open, ran along the walk without being seen from the house, and heard Bébé bleating in so pitiable a manner, that it filled him with terror.

"Tie it tight round her neck," said Jacques; "tie it very tight." Charles uttered a loud cry. Simon rushed upon him, placed his hands before his mouth, and aided by Antony, retained them there, notwithstanding his struggles, while the others endeavoured to tighten the cord round the neck of the lamb, already half-choked. Poor Bébé, however, uttered a last and feeble cry; Charles heard it; despair gave him strength; he tore himself from the hands that restrained him, and screamed out "Help! help!" He was heard; the Curé, who had been looking for him, and the servant who was coming to take in Bébé, hurried to the spot. The little brigands saw themselves discovered, and fled to different parts of the garden. They tried to make their escape, but they had closed the door. The servant had already recognised and boxed the ears of two or three, whilst Charles, solely occupied with Bébé, untied her so that she could breathe, and kneeling beside her, kissed her, cried over her, and tried to induce her to eat the grass he offered her. After having severely reprimanded the little brigands, and driven them out, the Curé and the servant returned to Bébé. Charles was surprised to hear the servant say that there were four of them, Simon's name not being mentioned. He thought he must have contrived to escape; but as he was walking along a narrow path behind the others, and leading Bébé, who was still so much frightened that she would hardly allow herself to be conducted, he perceived Simon crouched behind a large lilac-tree. He was at first on the point of crying out, recollecting that it was he who had placed his hands upon his mouth, while the others were trying to strangle Bébé; but a feeling of generosity, and the recollection of his own faults, restrained him. He beckoned to him to follow quietly, and whilst the Curé and the servant entered the house, he gave him the means of escaping through the gate of the yard. On being questioned by the Curé, Charles took the determination of humbly confessing his faults, and of asking pardon of God, and of his uncle, who treated him with kindness, but, nevertheless, imposed a penance upon him. Charles begged him to advance the little sum which he allowed him monthly, that he might pay Antony, and also return the money which Simon and himself had won from him, in no very honourable manner. He wished, besides, to give something to the pork-butcher. The Curé consented, although he had a great dislike to see money given to Antony, who would be sure to make a bad use of it. Nevertheless Charles owed it, and his uncle made him observe, that the inconveniences of bad conduct often continue long after the fault has been corrected, and still compel people to do things which they very much regret. As for the money for the shopkeeper, Charles did not wish to give it himself, and his uncle approved of this, because there are faults so disgraceful, that unless we are compelled to avow them, for the sake of avoiding falsehood, they ought not to be confessed before any one but God. His uncle promised to give this money back as a restitution with which he had been intrusted. Charles expressed his fear that in this case, the quarter from whence it came might be suspected; but his uncle reminded him, that as he had been so little afraid of suspicion in doing the wrong, he must brave it in repairing his fault, and that an irreproachable conduct was the only means of re-establishing his reputation, which might very well be injured by this adventure.

And it was so, indeed, for some time. The Curé, in his sermon the following day, having spoken against theft, without naming any one, and warned the parents to watch over their children who were acquiring dangerous habits, all those who had children were very uneasy, and endeavoured to discover what he meant by this. The servant, notwithstanding her master's injunctions to the contrary, could not help relating the whole affair. The little brigands were severely punished by their parents, who, afterwards, however, asserted that Charles was the worst amongst them, as he had opened the door to them, and then betrayed them. The little boys, on their side, insulted him whenever they saw him. Simon was the only one who was not angry with him. Charles, when he happened to meet him, for he no longer sought his company, tried to persuade him to reform, and Simon made many promises to that effect, but he did not keep them, and he became at last so bad, that Charles was obliged to give up speaking to him altogether. Neither did he regret doing so, as Simon soon lost the good qualities which he naturally possessed; for there is no virtue that can stand against the constant habit of doing wrong, nor any sentiment which will not, in the end, be entirely smothered by want of principle.

OLD GENEVIÈVE.

"How stupid you are! How absurdly you have put in that pin! You have laced me all on one side. Oh! I shall be horribly dressed; this is unbearable: I never saw anything so awkward."

It was pretty much in this style that Emmeline was in the habit of speaking to old Geneviève, whose duty it was to wait upon her, since she had lost her nurse, and after having seen Emmeline quite an infant, she never expected to be treated by her in this way; but it had been observed that for some time past, Emmeline, though naturally kind and gentle, and even rather timid, had nevertheless assumed with the servants haughty airs, to which she had not previously been accustomed. She no longer thanked them when they waited upon her at table, and asked for what she wanted without even saying, _if you please_. Up to this time, she had never followed her mother through an antechamber, where the servants rose as they passed, without acknowledging by a slight bow, this mark of their respect; but now she seemed to think it would be derogatory to her dignity, not to pass among them with her head higher than usual. It might, however, be seen that she blushed a little, and that it required an effort on her part to assume these manners, which were not natural to her. Her mother, Madame d'Altier, who began to perceive this change, had more than once reprimanded her on account of it, so that Emmeline did not dare to give herself too many of these airs in her presence. She chiefly affected them when in the society of Madame de Serres, a young woman of seventeen, who had been a year and a half married, and who from her childhood, had been greatly spoiled, as she was very rich and had no parents. Even now she was spoiled by her mother-in-law, who had been very anxious that she should marry her son, and also by her husband, who, almost as young as herself, allowed her to do just what she pleased. As she was not in the habit of inconveniencing herself in the least for any one, she did so still less for her servants; consequently she was incessantly complaining of their insolence, because the severe and imperious manners she assumed towards them, sometimes led them to forget the respect they owed her, while the extravagance of her whims rendered them impatient.

Emmeline, who was at that time fourteen years of age, and desirous of playing the grand lady, imagined that she could not do better than imitate the manners of her cousin, whom she saw almost every day, because Madame de Serres, when in Paris, resided in the same street as Madame d'Altier, and in the country occupied a neighbouring château. Emmeline had not, however, dared to display the whole of her impertinence towards her mother's servants, who had been a long time in the family, and accustomed to be well treated, and who, the first time she manifested these arrogant and impertinent airs, would probably have laughed outright at her. She therefore contented herself with being neither kind nor civil to them. They did not serve her any the less on this account, because they knew it was their duty to attend to her; but when they compared her with her mother, who showed so little anxiety to exercise the right which she really had to command them, they thought the conduct of Emmeline very ridiculous.

Emmeline, indeed, was sometimes conscious of this, and became mentally impatient, because she did not dare to subject them to her authority; but she revenged herself upon Geneviève, who, born on the estate of M. d'Altier, was accustomed to regard with great respect, even the little children of the family of her seigneurs; besides, until lately, she had never had the honour of being completely attached to the château, though she had been employed there almost daily during the last twenty years, in some inferior occupations; consequently, when Madame d'Altier, on her arrival in the country this year, knowing her respectability, had engaged her to assist Emmeline in dressing, and to attend to her room, she considered herself elevated in condition, but without being any the more proud on this account. She looked upon Emmeline, whom she had not seen for ten years, as a person whom she was bound to respect, and from whom she ought to endure everything. When the latter, therefore, thought proper to exercise her authority over her, by making use of any harsh expression she could think of (and she would have used many more had she not been too well brought up to be familiar with them), Geneviève never replied; she only made all the haste she could, either to get away, or to avoid irritating her further, and in consequence, she was only the more awkward, and the more harshly treated.

One day, while she was arranging Emmeline's room, it happened that the latter wished to send her on an errand into the village; but as Geneviève continued her occupation, Emmeline became angry, considering it very strange that she was not obeyed. Geneviève represented to her that if, after breakfast, when she returned to her room to draw, she did not find it in order, she would scold her, and that, nevertheless, it was necessary to have time for everything. As she was right, Emmeline ordered her to be silent, saying that she provoked her. Madame d'Altier, who from the adjoining room, had overheard the conversation, called to her daughter, and said, "Are you quite sure, Emmeline, that you were right in your discussion with Geneviève? because, after having assumed such a tone as that with a servant, it would be extremely annoying to find, in the end, that you had been wrong."

"But, mamma," replied Emmeline, a little ashamed, "when instead of doing what I tell her, Geneviève amuses herself with answering me, it is necessary to stop her."

"You are then certain, before having examined, or even heard her reasons, that they cannot be good?"

"It seems to me, mamma, that a servant is always wrong in arguing, instead of doing what she has been ordered to do."

"That is to say, she is wrong even when she is right, and when she is ordered to do anything which is impossible."

"Oh! mamma, these people always find things impossible, because they do not like them."

"This is the way your cousin would talk: I wish, Emmeline, you had spirit enough to invent ridiculous airs for yourself, instead of assuming those of other people."

"I don't stand in need of my cousin," said Emmeline, much piqued, "to know that Geneviève never does half she is told to do."

"If you have no other means of obtaining her obedience than those you have just employed, I am sorry for it; I must take her away from you, for I pay her to wait upon you, and not to be ill treated; I have never paid any one for that purpose."