CHAPTER IV.

"O Paris! gulf of evils, on each of thy stones we could drop a tear, red with blood, if the sorrows, which thy walls enclose, could appear before us."--J.J. ROUSSEAU.

The city of innumerable wonders, of shining domes, and colossal towers, with its enchanting gardens, palaces, and gigantic monuments, which one sees in the distance--the first glimpse he gets of Paris through the blue haze--now appeared to the astonished gaze of the little mountaineer, and was like a dream of the Arabian Nights. "O Paris! Paris!" shouted he joyously, clapping his hands, and looking eagerly through the misty veil that still enveloped the city. And, as he approached nearer, his emotions redoubled; for it was there that his mother predicted he would one day be happy. Oh! sweet security, blissful trust of childhood, why must it pass away with advancing years? Why is it that devouring inquietude and mental restlessness then comes to our souls, and tortures them without ceasing? It is a sad condition of our probation here, that we must see all the bright delusions of early life disappear one by one; and submit unmurmuringly to the different phases of life and the different ideas and feelings to which time leads us all. And so it may perhaps be for little Robert, who now trusts so confidently in the future, and in his mother's prediction being fulfilled. Have confidence, like him, dear readers--like him hope, without trying to draw aside the veil which hides your destiny--but follow him, step by step, in all the changing events of his life, and perhaps we shall see him fill an enviable position, as the fruit of his good conduct and perseverance. And since he is now radiant with hope, let us not efface, by our indiscreet words, this vision which sustains and comforts all.

As the travellers neared Paris, the old man's forehead wrinkled, his brows contracted each moment, and flashes of rage burst from his eyes. The sight of the hordes of the enemy's soldiers who had established their bivouacs before the capital, put him in a transport of fury.

The detested uniforms of the English, Austrians, Russians, and Prussians which he saw before him, made him think he was the victim of some dreadful hallucination, but the insolent air of the conquerors awakened him to the frightful reality that the emperor could no longer expel them. In his terrible rage he beat his breast with his fists, swore, and uttered words that sounded like distant thunder, gnashing his teeth at the same time most {825} convulsively. Then he walked on with a resolute and hasty step, so that Robert was obliged to run, rather than walk, at his side to keep up with him. He was very taciturn, but the boy at once comprehended the reason of his stubborn silence, and he respected the holy indignation of the old warrior, wounded, in his national pride and his deepest feelings, when he saw all his dreams of glory vanish with the shadow of the great man who had made the fame and splendor of all France. To the ex-soldier of the guard there was nothing left but cruel discontent. In Paris there was militia of all ranks and grades and countries; but there were no brave leaders, the old soldiers thought, and most of them were young men who had yet to see the field of battle. The white stripes had replaced the three colors, which disappeared with the glorious exile, Napoleon. The despair of poor Cyprien was as great as his love for his emperor, and nothing could soften his rage, so violent was the hatred he felt for the new order of things.

Robert was much excited by the strange and picturesque spectacles which presented themselves to his view on every side--by the gay costumes of' the people, and the movements of this ocean of of human beings, but he did not address many questions to his sad companion, for he loved him already, and saw the deep sorrow that filled his soul, and it made him timid and reserved.

It was now time to think of getting lodgings, and Cyprien wanted to go into the most modest quarter of the city, where he was born, and for which naturally he had the strongest affection. But in the twenty-five years that he had been a wanderer, vast changes had taken place, and most of his family had gone to rest. He found himself alone, separated for ever from his old comrades of glory; but of this he thought little, so completely was his heart filled with the adored image of his emperor. The most extraordinary thing was that amidst his grave thoughts he had found a place for the little orphan, whom chance had thrown in his way, and for whom he evinced the strongest attachment, which grew day by day, for Cyprien did nothing by halves; and when he could for a moment forget his emperor, it was to bestow almost paternal care upon his young _protégé_. One day, when they had been having a long talk, and he had said things which charmed the sensible and loving boy, he asked him to take him to the Church of St. Germain l'Auxerrois, for it was there that he was to find the curé to whom his letter was addressed. "Willingly," replied Cyprien, "I will take you there; but I cannot go in, it has been so long since I have made a visit of that kind, that I don't care to go, but I will wait for you." Robert presented himself alone at the door of the curé's house, and was received by him with grace and a touching cordiality. He was a man of fine address, with eyes that seemed to penetrate the depths of one's soul, but his scrutiny was accomplished by a smile so beneficent, that it drew you irresistibly toward the minister of' God. The virtues he had practised appeared in his person, his language was full of purity and goodness, and he appeared ever ready to pardon and bless. Such, in general terms, was the man to whom Robert was recommended. When he had read his friend's letter, he made the child sit down and tell him all about his journey and the manner in which he acquitted himself charmed the good curé, and his lively and intelligent face set him to reflecting. The purity of his eyes showed a generous and noble soul, and the good man knew that he was one of those natures that always remain pure, in the midst of corruption. These exiled angels have often sorrowful lives, before they reach the glorious end. Deprived of pecuniary means, they see the paths to fame closed for them, while it is open for the rich, and made wide and easy of access.

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The good curé, after making these observations mentally, recalled the illustrious men who have illumined the earth from time to time with the rays of their genius, and the traces of whose lives are still visible; but the road to fame has, alas! been sown for centuries with bitter tears, unknown sufferings, and cries of the despair of unrecognized genius. He recalled faces radiant with sublime thoughts, crowned with thorns, the only recompense of their work, and he said with agony, "O God! if this child should ever be one of the victims, if he should ever weep over lost hopes, would it not be better to leave him as he is, simple and natural, ignorant of the delights of a studious life; ignorant of knowledge, than to be initiated into the cruel deceptions of hope long deferred, and which may be finally lost? How often, like a beautiful dream, youth, glory, and mind fade away in the awful struggle. But no," said he, fixing his eyes on the expressive face of Robert, "his future will not be so sad. Too much intelligence burns in his eyes, too much fire is lighted there, to be extinguished by the wearying labors of mind, or by hunger and frightful misery. If this diamond in the rough shows so much brilliancy, what will it not be when it is polished? Then will all its marvellous lustre appear, and I will have the holy joy of aiding to perfect this work." These were his reflections, and so had it always been with him; from the moment he was ordained to his saintly ministry, he was always looking for the means of doing good to others; and was a beautiful religious type of charity and goodness. It was so great a happiness to him to make others happy, that he looked upon his days as badly spent if he had not dried a tear, or given another joy; and his doing good was so sweet a duty, that he passed his days and nights in consoling the unfortunate. But for children especially was he most tenderly solicitous, He said with one who was all love and charity when among men, "Let little children come unto me." Like his divine Master, he drew them to him and pressed them to his heart, his hands rested on their young heads, and he called down upon them celestial benedictions. But he did not stop here. He gave them not only his prayers, but aid and protection. When his purse was exhausted, and his personal resources no longer sufficed, he had recourse to that of others. He was eloquent and persuasive when he pleaded the cause of children, and happy in receiving the offerings which were always deposited in his charitable hands. Thus he was the father of a large family, the benefactor of many children, who, becoming men, repaid his care by unlimited gratitude and irreproachable conduct, and by the constant practice of the virtues of which he had given them so noble an example. Robert found in him a tender and devoted protector, who was interested for him, and in whose future friendship he might trust. The day when this action was registered in heaven, the good man felt a happiness he had never known before in adopting before God the orphan that his friend, the curé of the village of Bains, had recommended to him in such warm terms. The vow which he made himself to protect him, was not like those men usually make, and forget as soon as made.

During the interview between the child and the curé, the old soldier was walking up and down outside, absorbed in reflections of quite an opposite nature. Sometimes hope colored his thoughts; oftener they were sombre and cold, like the clouds of the region to which memory transported him, to the fatal soil of Russia, where victory had abandoned the French flag. An hour was passed by him in recalling these days of sorrow, but at last he grew tired of waiting, and jerked at the bell string, which hung so modestly at the curé's door, most violently. In an instant a servant appeared with harsh words on the end of her tongue, but the severe face and long moustache of Cyprien induced her to withhold from speaking them. Scarcely was the door opened, when a voice, almost of thunder, {827} inquired for Robert. Hearing it, the curé opened the parlor door, and advancing toward the soldier, with an affable air, invited him in, saying, "I will be very glad to talk with you. You were, I suppose, uneasy about your little friend, whom I have detained a long time, I know, but it is not time lost; we have become acquainted and are now old friends, and you have a share of the affection I have avowed for this interesting child. You have a noble heart, and the Lord will bless you, my friend, you may be sure of that, for in the midst of your own sufferings you have had compassion on those of others, and above all you have protected an orphan!" The soldier was stunned by this benevolent speech; he, raised his hand mechanically to his forehead, following the curé and muttering the words "Pardon--excuse--do not pay any attention to me." Robert had not dared to move, but when Cyprien came near him, he threw himself into his arms. "There--that will do," said he to him--"pay attention, the curé speaks." "Why did you not come in with Robert? You have denied me the pleasure I should have had in talking with I a brave soldier. Our _protégé_ has spoken of you in most affectionate terms, but he did not tell me you were waiting for him, or I should not have suffered you to remain outside the door." "Thank you, M. Curé, but I cannot talk to you, I have so few words, and have not been accustomed to much, and all I know is how to use 'Arms.'" "Each of us has his profession, my friend," replied the curé, "and you have made yours glorious. Nevertheless you must allow me to think you know a great deal besides." "If that is your idea, kind father, I will not oppose it, but, with respect to you, I must tell you I have not seen a book since I knew, the 'Little Corporal,' and we are old acquaintances. Twenty-five years;" said he, "impossible to forget that"--wiping away a tear.

"Yes, my friend, you have reason to regret your emperor, and even to weep for him, for he was a great man, and loved you all as children."

"But, oh! how was he repaid?" and then he wept again.

"The love you bear your emperor honors you. Respect and devotion to misfortune fills noble souls, and I understand very well how your attachment is augmented in proportion to the sufferings which weigh down your chief; and it is not for me, a minister of peace and charity, to make a crime of your regrets and affection, or to denounce them. But let us leave this sad subject, until you know me better and have more confidence in me. For today we will talk about Robert and my plans for him. I am thankful to you for taking a father's place to him; without you he would have been lost in this great city, or might perhaps have met persons who would have placed him in contact with vice and wickedness. I rejoice that a kind Providence permitted this child to awaken an interest in you, and that he found you so affectionate a guide. You must continue your friendship, and I hope to gain his, by the care I will take of him."

"Oh! my dear father," said Robert, kissing respectfully the hand of his new protector, "you are too good to me, but I will try to repay your kindness by a full and entire submission to your least wishes."

"Well spoken, little one!" exclaimed the soldier, "this is the first duty of a conscript."

"I will try to find the mean s of aiding him to fill a high position some day," said the curé. "I have acquaintances and friends who will give me of their wealth, for," said he, in a tone of regret, "I am far from being rich. But no matter, God will help us; I have this sweet certainty, so you may take courage, my little friend, and whatever taste you may have for study, I promise you I will do all that I can to advance you. You are in such good hands that I shall have no cause for uneasiness as to how you pass your time; and I will leave you for a while, {828} and perhaps I may bring back some good news for you."

After calling at several houses without success, he chanced to see a wealthy widow who had but one child, a son. This boy was of a most vicious nature, and although young in years, he had every defect of character, without a single good quality. He made his poor mother despair, and she often reproached herself bitterly for her weakness toward him, but she knew no means that would reform his bad habits, which assumed the form of fatal and violent passion. When the curé spoke of Robert, she said: "O God! since he is possessed of so many amiable and virtuous qualities, entrust him to me. He will be treated as my own child, will share the studies of Gustave, and have the same masters; and perhaps God may pity a mother's sorrows, and that this child may have so good an influence over him, that Gustave may feel a desire to be good also. I pray you do not refuse me," said the mother in a supplicating tone; "I cling to this last hope, as a ship-wrecked man would cling to the plank he hopes will save him from perishing."

After long consideration of the chances of happiness and success in the future if Robert accepted it--of the great dissimilarity of the two persons who would thus be thrown together, and the disagreements and sufferings for Robert; and still worse, if the pure, rich nature of the orphan should be corrupted in the society of the wicked child, whom he knew only too well--he was still undecided. But an irresistible, though secret, argument spoke in favor of the mother of Gustave; so that at last her pressing solicitations were acceded to. He reserved for himself the right to watch closely over the precious trust that Providence had confided to him, and after this it was agreed that Robert should be presented to Madame de Vernanges (this was the name of Gustave's mother) as soon as he could be informed of it, and if he was willing to accept it.