Part 26

Madame d'Aubigny had continually reprimanded her daughter for this tendency, which she had displayed from her childhood, and had succeeded in correcting the most absurd and gross of her affectations; and Helen herself, as she advanced in age, became more skilful in detecting such as were likely to appear too glaring; but as her affectations also increased in number, she merely took a little more pains to conceal them, without being able to persuade herself that, while she had them at all, they could not possibly be concealed. "My child," her mother would sometimes say to her, "there is but one way of obtaining praise, and that is by acting well; and as there is nothing commendable in an action done for the sake of commendation, it is impossible that such actions should secure you praise: rest assured, therefore, that to make praise and reputation your aim, is a certain way of never obtaining it." Helen felt, to some extent, the truth of these remarks, and she promised herself to conceal her vanity with greater care, but it returned at the first opportunity; and besides, where is the girl who fully believes all her mother says to her?

In the same house with Madame d'Aubigny, there lodged one of her relations, Madame de Villemontier, whose daughter Cecilia was Helen's particular friend. Cecilia was so full of kindness and simplicity, that she did not even perceive Helen's affectation, and was continually disputing on this subject with the old Abbé Rivière, the former preceptor of M. de Villemontier, Cecilia's father, and who, after having educated his son, and resided with him at the college, where he finished his studies, had returned to take up his abode in the house, where he was respected as a father, and where he occupied himself in the education of Cecilia, whom he loved as his own child. They never quarrelled, except on Helen's account, whose affectation appeared so absurd to the Abbé Rivière, that he was incessantly ridiculing it. Accustomed to speak exactly what he thought, he did not restrain himself in her presence, though there was all the more necessity for doing so, as Helen, who had always heard him spoken of with great consideration at Madame de Villemontier's, and had witnessed the pleasure caused by his return, and the respect with which he was treated, felt extremely anxious to gain his good opinion. This desire was increased by the praises he constantly bestowed on Cecilia. It was not that she was jealous; for, notwithstanding her vanity, she was incapable of any meanness, she only thought that she merited the same praises as her friend, and indeed, she would have done so, had she not sought for them. But her desire of being noticed by the Abbé Rivière destroyed all the means she would have had of gaining his esteem; therefore, did he torment her with provoking jokes, which had only the effect of rendering her more anxious to gain his approbation, and induced her to make redoubled, though always awkward and misdirected efforts to obtain it. The Abbé was a very well-informed man. Helen could not be so foolish as to make a parade, in his presence, of the small amount of knowledge which a girl of her age is capable of possessing; but she never allowed a day to pass without finding some indirect means of alluding to her love of study. Some remark was made about walking: she said that she took very little pleasure in it, without a book: it was also one of her greatest griefs that her mother would not permit her to read before going to bed; and then she related how, during the morning, she had so completely forgotten herself, that three hours had passed without her being conscious of it. The Abbé pretended not to hear her; this was one of his mischievous ways; then she emphasized, and varied her expression. "Yes," she said, as if speaking to herself, "I commenced at a quarter to one, and when, for the first time, I looked at the timepiece, it was four o'clock; so that more than three hours had elapsed without my having perceived them."

"There was nothing lost, however," said the Abbé, "for you took very good notice of them afterwards."

Helen became silent, but she did not the less begin again on the following day.

What the Abbé most praised in Cecilia's conduct, was her attention to her mother, who was in very delicate health. One evening, Madame d'Aubigny happened to faint. Helen, who was in the habit of taking her work, and sitting with Madame de Villemontier almost every evening, did not come down on this occasion, except for a moment, to relate the accident, and to have the pleasure of speaking of the anxiety which it had caused her. She began by expatiating so much upon the alarm she felt, when she beheld her mother pale and almost unconscious, that the Abbé could not help saying, "I see clearly all that Mademoiselle Helen has suffered from her mother's accident, but I should like to know what Madame d'Aubigny has suffered."

The following day, Madame d'Aubigny, though still indisposed, insisted that her daughter should go as usual, and pass the evening with Madame de Villemontier. She entered with an air of languor and fatigue, saying that she was very sleepy, in order that they might understand that she had passed a bad night. As the questions to which she was anxious to reply, were not put to her, she endeavoured to lead to them in another way. She observed that the weather was delightful at five o'clock that morning: that her mother had been very restless until two, but that at three o'clock she slept quietly; from which it was evident that Helen must have got up at these various hours, for the purpose of ascertaining how her mother was. Several times she requested to know the hour, saying that although her mamma had given her permission to remain until ten o'clock, she should certainly return to her at nine. She inquired again at half-past eight, and again at a quarter to nine. During this time, Cecilia, without being observed, had two or three times raised her eyes to the clock. A minute before nine she rang the bell; her mother asked her why she did so. "You know, mamma," said Cecilia, "that it is time for you to take your broth." Helen immediately jumped up, with a loud exclamation, and put away her work in a great hurry, for fear of staying beyond the hour.

"These two young ladies," said some one present, "are very punctual, and very attentive."

"Yes," murmured the Abbé, between his teeth, and looking at Helen, with a provoking smile, "Cecilia is wonderfully careful of her mother, and Mademoiselle Helen of her reputation."

Helen blushed and hastened to depart, dreading some fresh sarcasm; but Madame de Villemontier, having requested the Abbé to accompany her, and to bring word how Madame d'Aubigny was, he took the candle and followed her. She walked so fast, that he could not keep up with her. "Wait for me," said he, quite out of breath, as they drew near, "you will break your neck."

"I am so anxious to know how mamma is!"

"How fortunate you are," said the Abbé, taking her arm, "to be able in the midst of your anxiety, to think of so many other things! As for me, if any one of whom I am very fond was ill, I should be so taken up with his illness, that it would be impossible for me to notice what I did for him, still less to think of making others observe it; but women are so strong minded."

"Really, M. l'Abbé," said Helen, whom this remark embarrassed, "you can never let a minute pass without tormenting me!"

"That is to say, without admiring you. We admire others for their general conduct; we love and admire them because they have acted with propriety, during a long space of time, and on various occasions; but we must admire Mademoiselle Helen on every occasion. Every action, every thought, every movement of hers, demands an eulogium."

And the mischievous Abbé, with his eyes fixed upon Helen, and holding the candle in such a position as fully to display the sarcastic expression of his countenance, stopped at every step, and emphasized every word, prolonging as much as possible both his remarks and his journey. They did, however, at last reach the apartments of Madame d'Aubigny, and Helen was delighted to free herself from his arm, and make her escape. The Abbé's raillery greatly pained her, but still she saw beneath it so much kind feeling, that she could not be angry with him. He, on the other hand, touched by the gentleness with which she received his reproofs, and the desire she manifested to gain his esteem, felt anxious to correct her, especially as he perceived that, notwithstanding her affectation, she was really kind-hearted and sensible.

Madame d'Aubigny had an old servant who was rough and ill-tempered, although he was all day long reading moral and religious books. She had allowed him to have with him a little nephew, to whom he pretended to give a good education. This man's sole talent for teaching consisted in beating little François when he did not know his lesson in history or in the catechism; and François, to whom this plan did not impart any taste for study, never knew a word of it, and was consequently beaten every day. One morning, Helen saw him coming down stairs sobbing loudly; he had just received his usual correction, and was to receive twice as much if he did not know his lesson when his uncle, who had gone out on an errand, returned. Helen advised him to make haste and learn it; the boy said he could not.

"Come, come," said Helen, "we will learn it together, then," and she led him into the room, where she set to work so diligently to make him repeat it, that the Abbé Rivière, who came to see Madame d'Aubigny, entered without her hearing him.

"Make haste," said she to François, "so that no one may know that it was I who taught it to you."

"Ha!" said the Abbé, "I have at last caught you doing good for its own sake."

Helen blushed with pleasure; this was the first time she had ever heard him seriously praise her. But at the same moment, vanity usurped the place of the good feelings which had animated her: her manners ceased to be natural, and though she continued precisely the same occupation, it was evident that she was no longer actuated by the same motive.

"Well! well!" said the Abbé, "I am going away, resume your natural simplicity, no one is going to look at you."

In the evening, at Madame Villemontier's, Helen found an opportunity of speaking of François. The Abbé shook his head, aware of what was coming; and Helen, who had her eye upon him, understood him, and checked herself. However, her tendency got the better of her discretion, and half an hour afterwards she returned to the same subject, though in an indirect manner. The Abbé happened to be near her: "Stop, stop," said he in a whisper, touching her elbow, "I see you want me to relate it, and, indeed, it is best that I should," and hereupon he began:--

"This morning, François ..." and he assumed a manner so emphatic and comical, that Helen did all she could to make him desist: "Let me go on," he whispered, "and when there is anything that you wish to be made known or particularly remarked, merely give me a sign."

Helen, ashamed, pretended not to understand him, but yet could not keep from laughing. It may easily be imagined that she lost all desire of speaking of François during that evening, and from that moment, the Abbé, as he had told her, assumed the part of trumpeter. As soon as she opened her lips to insinuate anything to her own advantage, he immediately caught the word, and broke forth into a pompous panegyric. If her movements indicated any desire of attracting attention, "Look!" he would say, "what grace Mademoiselle Helen displays in all her movements." If she uttered a loud and forced laugh, "I beg you will observe," he said to every one, "How gay Mademoiselle Helen is to-day:" then he would afterwards approach her and whisper, "Have I fulfilled my functions properly? I shall do better another time," he would add, "but you do not give me notice, and I can only speak of what I perceive," and nothing escaped him; still there was mixed up with all this, something so comic, and at the same time so kind, that Helen, at once annoyed, embarrassed, and obliged to laugh, insensibly corrected herself, as well from her dread of the Abbé's remarks, as from his presenting her affected manners in a light so ridiculous, that she could not help being herself struck by their absurdity.

She has at last succeeded in entirely correcting herself of them, and she endeavours to gratify her self-love by more substantial and reasonable pleasures, than that of having people observing her at every moment of the day, and of directing attention to her most insignificant actions. She acknowledges that she owes this change to the Abbé Rivière, and says, that if all the young girls who feel disposed to give themselves affected airs, had, in like manner, an Abbé Rivière at their side, to show them, at each repetition of them, the impression which they produce on those who witness them, they would not long take the trouble of making themselves ridiculous.

ARMAND;

OR THE INDEPENDENT LITTLE BOY.

M. de Saint Marsin, on entering one day into the apartment of his son Armand, found him in a violent passion, and heard him say to his tutor, the Abbé Durand, "Very well! Of course I shall obey you; I must do so, because you are the strongest, but I can tell you that I do not recognise your right to compel me, and I shall hate you as unjust, and a tyrant."

After this speech, on turning round with a movement of irritability, he perceived his father standing at the door, which he had found open, and looking at him with a calm and attentive countenance. Armand turned pale, then blushed; he feared and respected his father, who, though exceedingly kind, had something very imposing both in countenance and manner, so that he had never dared to resist him directly, or put himself in a passion in his presence. Dismayed, and with downcast eyes, he awaited what M. de Saint Marsin was going to say; when the latter, having entered, sat down near the table, upon which Armand had been writing, and which formed the subject of his quarrel, for the Abbé Durand had insisted on his removing from the window, as it diverted his attention from his work.

"Armand," said M. de Saint Marsin, in a serious but calm tone, "you think, then, that no one has a right to force you to obey?"

"Papa," said Armand, confused, "I did not say that to you."

"But you did say it to me, for the power which M. l'Abbé possesses, he holds directly from me, his rights are founded upon mine, and these I have transmitted to him. Are you not aware of this?"

Armand was well aware of it, but he could not make up his mind to obey the Abbé Durand, as he did his father; or rather obedience was in all cases extremely disagreeable to him, and fear alone prevented him from manifesting his sentiments before M. de Saint Marsin; for Armand, because he was thirteen years of age, and possessed of some intelligence, considered himself a very important personage, and his pride was habitually wounded, because he was not allowed to follow his own inclinations: he therefore rebelled against what he was commanded to do, not because he considered it unreasonable, but simply because it was commanded, and he several times hinted to the Abbé Durand, that if parents ruled their children, it was simply because they were the strongest, and not because they had any legitimate right to do so. M. de Saint Marsin, who was aware of all this, was very glad to have an opportunity of coming to an understanding with him on the subject.

"Tell me," he continued, "in what respect I commit an injustice, in obliging you to obey me, and I am ready to repair it."

Armand was confused, but his father, having encouraged him to reply, he said, "I do not say, papa, that you commit an act of injustice towards me, only I do not exactly see how it can be just for parents to compel their children to follow their wishes; for children have _wills_ as well as parents, and they have as much right to follow them as their parents have to follow theirs."

"I suppose it is because children, not being reasonable, it is necessary that their parents should be reasonable for them, and compel them to be so too."

"But," said Armand, hesitatingly, "if they do not wish to be reasonable, it seems to me that that is their affair; and I cannot understand how any one can have the right of compelling them to be so."

"You therefore consider, Armand, that if a child of two years of age took a fancy to put his hand into the fire, or to climb up to a window at the risk of falling out of it, that no one would have a right to prevent him from doing so."

"Oh, papa, what a difference!"

"I see none: the rights of a child of two years of age, appear to me quite as sacred as those of a child of thirteen; or if you admit that age makes any difference, then you must allow that a child of thirteen ought to have less than a man of twenty."

Armand shook his head, and remained unconvinced; his father having encouraged him to state his opinion, "I have no doubt," he replied, "that there are some good reasons to oppose to this, although I cannot discover them; but even allowing that it may be to the advantage of children to be forced to obey, still I do not see how any one can have a right to benefit another against his will."

"Well, then, Armand, you do not wish me to force you to be reasonable by obeying me."

"Oh, papa, I did not say that, but...."

"But I understand it very well; and as I do not wish that you should be able to consider me unjust, I promise you that I will not again compel you to obey me until you tell me you wish me to do so."

"Until I wish you to force me to obey you, papa?" said Armand, half-laughing and half-pouting, as if he imagined that his father was ridiculing him. "You know it is impossible that I should ever wish that."

"That remains to be proved, my son. I wish to have the pleasure of seeing it; and from this moment, I resign my authority, until you request me to resume it. You must make up your mind to do the same, my dear Abbé," said M. de Saint Marsin, addressing the Abbé Durand. "Your rights cease at the same time as mine."

The Abbé, who understood the intentions of M. de Saint Marsin, smiled, and promised to conform to them. As for M. de Saint Marsin, he still retained his grave expression, and Armand looked from one to the other, with an air of uncertainty, as if to ascertain whether they were in earnest or not. "I do not know," continued his father, "what was the act of obedience so exceedingly displeasing to Armand, but after these new arrangements, he ought to be exempted from it."

"That is a matter of course," replied the Abbé.

"Come, my boy," said M. de Saint Marsin, "use your liberty without restraint, and do not think of renouncing it until you are quite sure that you no longer wish to retain it, for I warn you that then, in my turn, I shall exercise my authority without scruple."

Armand saw him depart with a stupified look, and could not bring himself to believe what he had heard. As the first essay of his liberty, he replaced by the side of the window the table which he had begun to remove from it, and the Abbé Durand, who took up a book, allowed him to do so without appearing to notice him; he merely observed, when Armand sat down to continue his exercise, "I do not know why you take so much trouble to settle yourself so comfortably, for I suppose, that now you are master of your own actions, we shall have but few lessons."

"I do not know, sir," replied Armand, "on what grounds you imagine that. I should think I am not so much of a baby as to require to be put into leading-strings, and you may rest assured I shall require no force to induce me to do what I know to be reasonable."

"Very well!" said the Abbé, and continued his reading, while Armand, in order to prove his assertion, never once looked towards the window, but did his exercise twice as rapidly and twice as well as usual. The Abbé complimented him upon it, and added, "I hope your liberty will always answer as well as it has done on this occasion."

Armand was enchanted, but his pleasure was somewhat diminished in the evening, when, on asking his tutor whether they should go out for a walk, the Abbé replied, "Certainly not, for if you took it into your head to walk faster than me, or run about, or go through a different street to that which I wished to take, I should have no power to prevent you, and I am too old and too stout to run after you. I cannot undertake to conduct through the streets a giddy fellow, over whom I possess no authority." Armand became angry, and contended that the Abbé was unreasonable. At last he said, "Very well, I promise not to walk faster than you do, and to go just where you please."--"That is all very well," replied the Abbé; "but you might take some fancy into your head, which I ought to oppose, and as I have no power to restrain you, you might bring me into trouble."

"I am willing to promise obedience during our walk," said Armand.

"Very well! I will go and inform M. de Saint Marsin, that you renounce the treaty, and wish to replace yourself under authority again."

"No! no! it is only for the period of our walk."

"So," replied the Abbé, "you not only wish to follow your own will, but you want to make me do the same. You wish me to resume my authority when it suits you, and to relinquish it when you no longer desire it. I must say in my turn, no! no! no! If I consent to resume my authority, it will be to continue it; therefore, my dear Armand, you must make up your mind, either to renounce the treaty, or to give up your walk for the future."

"But papa wishes me to walk," replied Armand drily.

"Yes, but he does not require me to walk with you, when I can be of no use to you. He has no right over my actions, except in so far as he gives me a right over yours. When he intrusted to me a part of his authority, it was quite natural that he should prescribe the manner in which he wished me to exercise it. Now that he intrusts nothing to me, of what have I to render him an account?"

"As to that," said Armand, "I do not know what should prevent my going out by myself."

"No one in the world will hinder you. You are as free as the air."

"The proof that I am not so," replied Armand carelessly,--"the proof that this is all a fairy tale, is, that I am still with you, M. l'Abbé."

"Not at all," said the Abbé calmly, "it is your father's wish that I should give you lessons, as long as you are disposed to take them, but this does not bind you to anything: it is also his wish, that as long as I remain with him, I should share the apartment which he gives you; he has a right to do what he pleases with it, and I have a right to comply with his wishes if I choose to do so. As to the rest, you can do in it whatever you think best, provided you do not annoy me, for in that case, I shall exercise the right of the strongest, and endeavour to prevent you. With this exception, you may go out or you may remain, just as you please; it is all the same to me. I shall see you do the things which I have heretofore forbidden, without troubling myself in the slightest degree. And if you wish that we should not speak to each other, or even look at each other, I do not ask for anything better: that will be exceedingly convenient to me."

"Why, M. l'Abbé, you are carrying things to extremes!"

"Not in the least, everything is quite natural. What interest would you have me take in your conduct, when I am not responsible for it?"

"I thought you had more friendship for me."