Part 25

"Very well," said Aglaïa, taking the arm of Hortense, while she still held that of Gustave, "in order that I may always have some one to support me, if M. Guimont will consent, and my grandmamma permit, I will never go anywhere when she is not with me, unless I can have Hortense and Gustave by my side."

"That might perhaps be inconvenient to you sometimes," said Gustave, who nevertheless was greatly pleased with her declaration.

"No, no," she exclaimed; for she felt at that moment that nothing could confer on her such happiness or honour, as to be always surrounded by those good and worthy friends. They reached the parade: it was already crowded. Aglaïa held the arm of Hortense, and Gustave walked by her side with a proud and satisfied bearing. The young men who had ridiculed her, now bowed with a disconcerted air, for M. Guimont, who had already reprimanded them, gave them a look of severity, which made them cast down their eyes. Aglaïa blushed a little, but she felt protected, and rejoiced in her position. Madame and Mademoiselle Dufour passed by. M. Guimont, with a smile, took their arms, and obliged them, after some little manoeuvring, to walk with them. The friends who were with Madame Dufour, followed, and thus Aglaïa saw herself in the midst of that society which had been so dissatisfied with her conduct. At first no one spoke to her, and even some disagreeable allusions were allowed to escape; but the presence of M. Guimont restrained them, especially as he had already spoken to several of these persons about the absurdity of their bickerings.

Still Aglaïa felt very uncomfortable, but at each unkind word, Hortense tenderly pressed her hand, and Gustave approached her, to show her some mark of attention, or to offer a kind word; and this friendliness was very consoling to her. At length they ceased to torment her, but she trembled at beholding Leontine coming towards them, accompanied by Mesdemoiselles de Schwamberg. Leontine approached her, and said something expressive of her regret at not having been able to take her in the carriage two days previously. Mademoiselle Champré had at last taken upon herself to make her feel how ridiculous her behaviour had been: and as the young princesses, who were very polite, had been extremely grieved at the annoyance which Aglaïa had experienced on their account, Leontine, therefore, in order to retain their good opinion, endeavoured in some degree to repair an error, which she assured them had been committed through mere thoughtlessness. She made her excuses with an awkward air, which she meant to be easy. Aglaïa was silent, and this silence, together with the number of people who surrounded her, embarrassed Leontine extremely, and she said to her, with some degree of brusquerie, "Will you take a turn with us?"

"No," said Aglaïa, indicating by her looks the persons by whom she was surrounded, "I am with these ladies." Leontine blushed, bowed, and went away, with an air of considerable annoyance. Aglaïa's refusal had a very good effect; nothing was now thought of but Leontine. She was examined at every turn of the walk, with a degree of attention which ended in embarrassing her very much, though she affected an air of _hauteur_ which disconcerted no one. The next Thursday, Madame Lacour was again surrounded by most of her friends. There were some few complaints and expostulations, but the lovers of peace interfered, and put a stop to them as quickly as possible, and at last everything went on as formerly. When the princesses were gone, Leontine wished to renew her intimacy with Aglaïa, but the latter sent word that she could not go out; though with her grandmamma's permission, she invited her to their party. Leontine, to while away her time, twice accepted the invitation, but she felt no enjoyment. Surrounded by persons who were entire strangers to the manners to which she was accustomed, she knew not how to act towards them, and was continually doing something amiss. A fortnight previously, Aglaïa would have proclaimed silence, in order that she might be heard, but now she had discovered that it was not her good opinion which it was of consequence to obtain. Leontine, dissatisfied, ceased to seek her society, and ended by being so completely wearied, that she obtained her father's permission to pass the remainder of the summer with one of her aunts. Aglaïa's companions still kept up, for some time, a little of their resentment against her, but she was sustained by the friendship of Hortense and Gustave, to whom she attached herself more and more, and at last she felt at a loss to conceive how she could for a moment have preferred, to the happiness she found in their society, the discomfort and constraint to which she had submitted in the company of Leontine.

OH! OH! OH!

A TALE.

"Oh! Oh! Oh!" cried little Louis, "see, my tooth moves again, I cannot eat;" and he put his breakfast down upon the table.

"And it will continue to move until it is taken out," said his mother.

"I don't want to have it taken out, it would hurt me so."

"Do not complain then of its being loose."

"But I can't eat."

"In that case let me take it out, it is only a first tooth, and has scarcely any hold."

"Oh! indeed! It has scarcely any hold! I am sure it has very long fangs."

"As you prefer to let it remain, you must put up with the annoyance it causes you."

Louis did not reply, and his mother urged him no further; she wished to direct and mould the inclinations of her children, not to constrain them; she therefore gave few commands or prohibitions. A command cannot correct a fault, nor can a prohibition prevent an inclination to disobedience; therefore she preferred to wait with patience, and teach her children to correct themselves. Louis again tried to eat his breakfast, but his tooth clattered and shook at every mouthful, and being persuaded that by moving it, it hurt him, he put down his bread and his apple, and went to play with Fidèle.

Fidèle was a charming dog, of a very gentle disposition, and accustomed to allow himself to be tormented, without manifesting any displeasure. Louis took him by the paws: "There, stand up, Fidèle; make a bow; give me your paw; no, not that, the other one;" and Fidèle obeyed him with the best grace imaginable, though this kind of sport did not at all please him. With a docile dog, almost anything may be done. Louis, in order to prolong his game, took it into his head to take hold of Fidèle by the tail, and thus to force him to rise upon his fore-paws, and then to turn a somerset. At the first attempt, Fidèle contented himself with resisting, with a slight growl merely; at the second, the growl became louder, but at the third, Louis pulled his tail so violently, that Fidèle, quite angry, turned upon him and slightly bit his little finger. "Oh! oh! oh!" cried Louis, "the horrid dog has bitten me; mamma! Fidèle has bitten me; oh! how my finger pains me!"

"Let me see, my boy; oh! that's nothing, I can hardly see the mark of his teeth; what were you doing to him?"

"I only took hold of his tail, to teach him to turn a somerset, but he wouldn't stand on his fore-paws."

"You certainly hurt him much more by pulling his tail, than he has hurt you by his bite; why do you expect him to be more patient than you are?"

"I will never play with him again."

"You can do as you like as to that, he will not complain."

Louis went away, and as he passed by Fidèle, the dog began to growl. "Go away," said the child, "I don't wish to be bitten again," and he held his little finger in his other hand, as if it had been dreadfully wounded. He went to look for his little sister Henriette, to come and play with him, but she had just pricked her finger with her needle, and being as little able to bear pain as himself, she received his proposition with a very bad grace. "Let me alone," she said, "I have pricked my finger," and she watched the blood which scarcely tinged the water into which she had plunged it.

"That's a funny sort of a wound!" said Louis, "Why the blood doesn't come!"--"A funny sort of a wound? Oh! you shall see if it is so funny," and she immediately pricked him with the needle, which she still held in her hand. "Oh! oh! oh! nurse, Henrietta has pricked me, give me a glass of water, oh!" The nurse brought him the water without looking at him, she was leaning her head upon her left hand.

"Just look, nurse, how she has pricked me."

"What am I to look at? What a terrible affair: what would you say if you had such a tooth-ache as I have?"

"Have you the tooth-ache?"

"Yes: I have had no sleep these three nights, and I shall certainly go to-morrow and have the tooth which torments me taken out; for I don't want to let my work lie there," and she went and resumed her sewing.

When Louis, after having well squeezed his finger, could make no more blood flow from it, he was greatly embarrassed. How was he to amuse himself? Fidèle still growled at him, Henriette was out of temper, and his nurse had the tooth-ache and was busy; every one was taken up with his own sufferings. Louis did not find the house very gay; he therefore went back to his mother, who, at all events, was not a grumbler. At this moment he heard on the stairs the voice of little Charles, one of his companions. He rushed forward to open the door. Charles, accompanied by his tutor, had come to ask him to join him and five or six other boys of his age, in a walk to the Canal de l'Ourcq, to see the skating. Louis, transported with joy, obtained his mother's consent: he put on his great coat and his fur gloves, and they set off.

It was the middle of winter, but the weather was dry, and the sun brilliant. The little boys ran and jumped about the whole of the way. Louis did the same at first, but by degrees he felt his nose getting cold, and one of his hands was fully employed in holding it and keeping it warm. His fingers soon became numb; he put the hand he was not using into his pocket, and complained of being obliged to leave the other exposed to the air; then his feet became cold. It was quite useless to tell him that if he ran about, he would soon get warm again.

"How am I to run," he replied, "when my feet are frozen?"

He dragged himself along, with great difficulty, by the side of the tutor, slipping at every step, notwithstanding the slowness of his pace, and every now and then withdrawing his hand from his nose to breathe upon his fingers, and then hurriedly replacing it, with an appearance of the utmost concern. They reached the side of the canal, which was covered with skaters, who, with a free and unrestrained air, with head erect, and arms sometimes crossed, sometimes in motion, glided rapidly over the smooth expanse, on which the timid walker could scarcely maintain his footing.

The children, with the permission of their guide, went down upon the ice in order to have a slide. Louis suffered himself to be persuaded to follow them, and soon, by sliding in the same place, they had formed a long path, as polished as a mirror, over which, after taking a slight run, they glided with the rapidity of lightning. Louis had not yet dared to venture upon it.

"Come, Louis, have a slide," said one of his companions, "how can you avoid being frozen if you do not move about?"

Louis made up his mind to do so; he took a run of a few steps, reached the glistening path, and ventured on it, still holding his nose with one hand and keeping the other in his pocket. He proceeded, and maintained his equilibrium; but a mischievous little boy, who was more used to this sport, rushed after him, and reaching him before he got to the end, gave him a push, which made him fall with some violence upon the ice.

"Oh! oh! oh!" exclaimed Louis. "Oh! oh! oh! who has thrown me down? I can't get up; help me to get up. Oh! oh!" and he continued on the spot where he had fallen, because he would not make use of one of his hands to lean upon the ice. His companions laughed both at his awkwardness and his misfortune. The tutor went to him, raised him up, and endeavoured to console him, telling him that such falls only gave a little pain, which was soon over. But Louis cried, and became angry, left the canal, and went and stood against a tree, which was growing on the banks, turning his back to the skaters. An old soldier passed by him, laughing heartily.

"What a pity I have a wooden leg!" He had one, in fact. "What is the matter with you, my little friend," he said to Louis, seeing his loneliness and melancholy. "Why are you not down there with the rest?"

"But can I skate?"

"You do not know how to skate? Go quickly then and learn; I wish I were your age, to be able to do the same: at all events you can amuse yourself by sliding."

"Yes, to have them push me, and throw me down."

"Well, if they push you, you can push them in return, and if you fall, you can get up again."

"Yes, and freeze my hands by putting them upon the ice."

"Oh! you are afraid of freezing your hands; poor child! what would you have done, if, like me, you had fallen into a deep ditch, in the midst of a battle, and when it was intensely cold?"

"Into a ditch? Oh! they would soon have come and taken me out."

"You think so, do you? but I can tell you, that before any one would have come and taken you out, you would have been frozen to death. Oh! if I had not broken my leg, how I should have returned to the action!"

"If your leg was broken, how did you get out of the ditch?"

"The deuce! would you have had me remain in it? It was not very comfortable there, I assure you. I dragged myself along upon my hands, and in less than five minutes I was out of it."

"And what did they do to your leg afterwards?"

"What did they do to it? why, they cut it off; thank God! no harm came of it; and I manage to get along pretty well upon my wooden leg. Come along, my little friend, we will both go upon the ice; you shall learn to slide, and I will protect you from being pushed."

Louis, who had been interested and cheered by the conversation of the pensioner, followed him. The tutor, who had overheard what was said, allowed him to do so. He walked at first upon the ice with great precaution; the good soldier allowed him to hold his hand for a few minutes.

"Now," said he, "you must go alone. You have your two legs, and I am going to look at you. Forward, march!"

Louis began to slide.

"Take your hand out of your pocket," cried the pensioner, "and let go of your nose; are you afraid it will fall off? Make use of your arms to balance yourself; hold up your head; stretch out your leg; bravo! that's the way; leave yourself free, unbutton your great coat, don't you see how it hinders you?"

Louis unbuttoned his coat, stretched out his arms, and allowed himself to go on without fear. In a quarter of an hour he had learned to slide as well as any of the little boys on the canal.

"Listen," said the pensioner, "let us join your comrades; they have not seen you. You shall go upon their slide, and in your turn push the boy who threw you down a little while ago. Keep yourself up, at all events."

They made a slight circuit; the moment arrived; Louis started.

"Ha! ha! here's Louis," was exclaimed from all sides. He reached his adversary in the middle of the slide, pushed him, made him come down with considerable force, then turned round, and finished his course in grand style; while the other, somewhat ashamed, got up without saying a word.

"Who taught you to slide?" asked all the children.

"I did, young gentlemen," said the man with the wooden leg, "and I warrant you he is not afraid of any of you now."

The boys, very much astonished, resumed their sports, and Louis maintained his place amongst them very well. When the hour for departure came, he went to say good bye to his friend the pensioner, who pressing his hand warmly, said, "Good bye, comrade, till we meet again; if I happen to be here when you return, I will teach you to skate."

As they went home, Louis did not complain of the cold, did not put his hands in his pockets, left his nose exposed to the air, ran about like the rest, and reached the house not only without having grumbled, but without having suffered. As he was running towards his mother to tell her his tale, he saw her talking to a poor old woman, who was crying, and who seemed to be asking assistance. "Oh! madame," said she, "you could never imagine what my Jacques has done. He is my only support, and though he is not yet fourteen, he works so well at his master's, who is the carpenter at the corner, that every evening he brings me home tenpence for his day's wages. We have nothing but that to live upon, for it is very little I can do. Well, about a fortnight ago, my poor Jacques had the misfortune to put his wrist out of joint, in carrying a wainscoting. He came home in great trouble; fortunately I had saved during six months ten shillings, to buy him a waistcoat. I gave them to him, and told him to go immediately and have his wrist set by the surgeon of the district, who is very clever. He went out, and I supposed that he had done so. Nothing of the kind. He was afraid that it would cost too much. Our neighbour, the blacksmith, offered to set it for half a crown; he allowed him to do so, and brought me home the remainder, saying that he had not been asked for more; but certainly his wrist must have been badly set, for since that time, it has been swelling, and getting numb; and on looking at it, I saw clearly that the bones were not in their right place. By dint of questioning, I at last got the truth from him. We have been to the surgeon, who says that it can be cured, but that it will take a long time, and much medicine, and we have no means of getting any, as my poor Jacques has not worked for a fortnight, and will not be able to work for a long time to come. In God's name, madame, you, who are so good, have pity on us!" Here the poor woman ceased.

Louis had listened to her with great attention. His mother, very much affected herself, observed how this recital led him to reflect upon his own want of fortitude in bearing pain; she did not know that he had already begun to be ashamed of it. "My good woman," she said, "give yourself no uneasiness, as your son can be cured, he shall be cured. Let us go for him. I will take him myself to the surgeon's, who will again examine his arm, and I will pay the expenses of the treatment. Will you come, Louis?"

"Oh! yes, mamma, I want to see Jacques very much."

Henriette, who was working at her embroidery, in a corner of the drawing-room, exclaimed, "And I too, mamma."

"Yes, you too, my child; come, be quick, Jacques's cure must not be delayed."

They set off at once. There were no complaints of the cold during the whole of the way. On arriving, they found Jacques employed in making the handle of a tool with his remaining hand. His mother informed him, with tears of joy, of the success of her visit. "He did not want me to apply to you, madame," she added; "he said that other people ought not to be tormented with his troubles." Jacques advanced, and expressed his thanks, with some embarrassment.

"It must have given you a great deal of pain, Jacques, did it not?"

"Oh! not much, madame, if I could only have worked!"

"Come, come, cheer up, you shall be cured as soon as possible. You are a good and a brave boy;" and Jacques bowed with an air of increased embarrassment.

They went to the surgeon's, who was not acquainted with Jacques's whole history, because he would not allow his mother to relate it at their former visit. As soon as he learned it, he took the most lively interest in the courageous child, and his attentions were soon efficacious. At the end of a fortnight, the swelling began to decrease. They were obliged to prevent Jacques from working so soon as he wished, but they gave him hope that it would not be long before he was again in a condition to handle the plane; and in the mean time he wanted for nothing. Louis, on his return home, said to his mother, "Mamma, tie a thread round my tooth," and he immediately pulled it out himself, having learned by the example of the pensioner, as well as by that of Jacques, never to cry out, "Oh! oh! oh!" for so slight a cause as a little cold, or a prick of a pin.

HELEN;

OR THE FAILURE.

"Take care, Helen!" said Madame d'Aubigny, to her daughter, "when you are going one way, you are looking another; in this manner you will never go straight anywhere."

And such was exactly the case. Whether in the street, or on the promenade or even when running in the fields, Helen seldom thought of looking before her, or watching her steps; her attention was constantly directed to one side or the other, to see if any one noticed her; and when she fancied herself observed, she gave herself all sorts of airs and graces. Often when at the Tuileries, she was so completely absorbed in endeavouring to give a graceful turn to her head, or in casting down her eyes, when she considered it suitable to do so, or in looking at the leaves with an air of abstraction, according as one or other of these different movements appeared to her best calculated to attract attention, that she struck against a tree, or against some one coming in an opposite direction. Often when wishing to jump gracefully over a pool of water, she fell into the middle of it, and was covered with mud. In fine, Helen did nothing in a simple manner, like other people, and merely for having the thing done; she neither walked, nor ate, nor drank, for the sake of walking, or eating, or drinking, but in order that people might see the grace she was able to throw into all her movements; and had there been any one to observe her while sleeping, she would certainly have contrived the means of sleeping gracefully.

She little thought how much all these efforts tended to defeat the very object which she had in view, and yet she might easily have perceived, that if, while doing one thing, her thoughts were on another, it was quite impossible that she should do the thing well, and consequently impossible that she should be favourably noticed. If, when she saw some one entering the room, in whose eyes she wished to appear agreeable, she began to talk with greater animation to the person near her; if she threw more vivacity into her gestures, and made her gaiety more conspicuous, still, as she was not really amused, but only supposed that she had the appearance of being so, her laugh was not hearty, her gestures were unnatural, and her gaiety so obviously forced, that no one could possibly fancy that she was really gay, while the pretence of being so occupied her thoughts. In like manner, no one who saw her bestowing alms would have supposed that she was really kind-hearted, and yet Helen gave when she was not observed, and she gave with good will; but if there happened to be any one near to notice her, it was no longer of the poor that she thought, but of the pleasure of being seen bestowing alms. Her pity then assumed an appearance of exaggeration and eagerness, which made it quite apparent that her object was to display it. Her eyes indeed expressed compassion, but instead of being fixed upon the beggar, they were turned towards the persons present, so that it might have been said that it was they, and not the beggar, who had caused her emotion.