Moral Tales

by Madame Guizot

  MARIE;

  OR THE FEAST OF CORPUS CHRISTI.

  At the commencement of the revolution, Madame d'Aubecourt hadfollowed her husband into a foreign country. In 1796, she returned toFrance, with her two children, Alphonse and Lucie, for, as her namedid not stand on the list of emigrants, she was able to appear therewithout danger, and to exert herself to obtain permission for herhusband's return. She remained two years in Paris with this intent;but at length, having failed in her efforts, and being assuredby her friends that the time was not propitious for her purpose,she determined to quit the capital and proceed to the seat of herfather-in-law, old M. d'Aubecourt, with whom her husband wishedher to reside, until he was able to rejoin her: besides, having noresources but the money sent her by her father-in-law, she was gladto diminish his expenses by residing with him. Every letter which shereceived from him, was filled with complaints of the hardness of thetimes, and with reflections on her obstinacy, in persevering in suchuseless efforts; and to all this he never failed to add, that as forhimself, it would be altogether impossible for him to live in Paris,since it was difficult enough for him to manage in the country, wherehe could eat his own cabbages and potatoes. These complaints werenot suggested by poverty, for M. d'Aubecourt was tolerably rich,but like the majority of old people, he was disposed to tormenthimself on the score of expense, and his daughter-in-law perceivedthat however economically she might live in Paris, her only means oftranquillizing him, was to go and live under his own eyes.

  She therefore set out with her children, in the month of January,1799, for Guicheville, the estate of M. d'Aubecourt. Alphonse wasthen fourteen years of age, and Lucie nearly twelve: shut up fortwo years in Paris, where her mother, overwhelmed with business,had but little time to devote to them, they were delighted to gointo the country, and were but little troubled about what shetold them, respecting the great care they would have to take notto teaze and irritate their grandpapa, whom age and the gout hadrendered habitually discontented and melancholy. They mounted thediligence full of joy; but as the cold gained upon them, their ideassobered down. A night passed in the carriage served to depressthem completely; and when, on the following evening, they reachedthe place where they were to leave the diligence, they felt theirhearts as sad as if some terrible misfortune had just befallen them.Guicheville was still a league distant, and this they must travelon foot, across a country covered with snow, as M. d'Aubecourt hadonly sent a peasant to meet them with an ass to carry their luggage.When the man proposed starting, Lucie looked at her mother witha frightened air, as if to ask her if that were possible. Madamed'Aubecourt observed that as their conductor had managed to comefrom Guicheville to the place where they were, there was nothing toprevent them from going from that place to Guicheville.

  As to Alphonse, the moment he regained the freedom of his limbs, herecovered all his gaiety. He walked on before them, to clear theirway as he said, and to sound the ruts, which he called precipices.He talked to the ass, and endeavoured to make him bray, and in factmade such a noise, with his cries of, "_Take care of yourselves,take care of the bogs!_" that he might have been mistaken for awhole caravan; he even succeeded so well in cheering Lucie, that, onarriving at their destination, she had forgotten the cold, the night,and the snow. Their merry laugh as they crossed the court-yard ofthe ch?teau, called forth two or three old servants, who, from timeimmemorial, had not heard a laugh at Guicheville, and the great dogbarked loudly at it, as at a sound quite unknown to him. They waitedin the hall for some time, when presently M. d'Aubecourt appearedat the dining-room door, exclaiming, "What a racket!" These wordsrestored quiet; and seeing all three of them wet and muddy, from headto foot, he said to Madame d'Aubecourt, "If you had only come sixmonths ago, as I continually pressed you to do ... but there was nogetting you to listen to reason." Madame d'Aubecourt gently excusedherself, and her father-in-law ushered them into a large room withyellow wainscoting and red furniture, where, by the side of a smallfire, and a single candle, her children had time to resume all theirsadness. They presently heard Miss Raymond, the housekeeper, scoldingthe peasant, who had conducted them, because, he had put theirpackages upon a chair instead of upon the table. "See," she said,in a tone of ill temper, "they have already begun to put my houseinto disorder." The instant after, Alphonse, rendered thirsty by theexercise he had given his legs, went out to get a glass of water, andperhaps also to obtain a moment's recreation by leaving the room;he had the misfortune to drink out of his grandfather's glass, andMademoiselle Raymond, perceiving it, ran to him, as if the house hadbeen on fire.

  "No one is allowed to drink out of M. d'Aubecourt's glass," sheexclaimed: Alphonse excused himself by saying that he did not know itwas M. d'Aubecourt's glass. Mademoiselle Raymond wished to prove tohim that he ought to have known it; Alphonse replied; MademoiselleRaymond became more and more vexed, and Alphonse getting angry in histurn, answered her in no very polite terms, and then returned to thedining-room, slamming the door after him with considerable violence.Mademoiselle Raymond immediately followed him, and shutting the doorwith marked precaution, said to M. d'Aubecourt, in a voice stilltrembling with passion, "As you dislike any noise with the door, youwill have the kindness to mention it yourself to your grandson; for,as to me, he will not allow me to speak to him." "What do you say,Mademoiselle?" replied M. d'Aubecourt, "is this the style in whichchildren are brought up in the present day? must we bow to them?"

  Fortunately Madame d'Aubecourt was by the side of her son; shepressed his arm to prevent him from answering his grandfather, buthe stamped his feet impatiently, and did not speak a word untilsupper-time. At table they ate but little, and spoke still less, andimmediately after Madame d'Aubecourt asked permission to retire. Whenthey were in the room which she and her daughter were to occupy,Lucie, who had until then restrained herself, began to cry, andAlphonse, walking about the room, in great agitation, exclaimed,"This is a pretty beginning!" then he continued, "MademoiselleRaymond had better take care how she speaks to me again in thatstyle."

  "Alphonse," said his mother with some little severity, "remember thatyou are in your grandfather's house."

  "Yes, but not in Mademoiselle Raymond's."

  "You are where it is your grandfather's will that she should betreated with respect."

  "Certainly, when she does not clamour in my ears."

  "I believe, indeed, that you would not be guilty of any want ofrespect towards her, did she treat you as she ought to do."

  "And if she does not, I owe her nothing."

  "You owe her all that you owe to the wishes of your grandfather, towhom you would be greatly wanting in respect, were you capable ofmisconducting yourself towards a person who possesses his confidence.There are persons, Alphonse, whose very caprices we are bound torespect, for we ought to spare them even their unjust displeasure."Then she added, with more tenderness, "My dear children, you do notyet understand what caprice and injustice are; you have never beenaccustomed to them, either from your father or me; but you will dowrong to imagine that you will be able to pass your lives, as youhave hitherto done, without having your rights infringed, or youractions restrained, when they are proper in themselves. You must nowbegin to learn,--you, Alphonse, to repress your hastiness, which maylead you into many serious faults, and you, Lucie, to overcome yourweakness, which may render you unhappy." Then she added, smiling, "Wewill serve together our apprenticeship in patience and courage." Herchildren embraced her affectionately; they had unbounded confidencein her, and besides, there was so much sweetness in her disposition,that it was impossible to resist her. Lucie was quite consoled by hermother's words, and Alphonse went to bed, assuring her, however, thathe was so much excited, that he should not be able to sleep the wholenight. Nevertheless, he no sooner laid his head upon his pillow, thanhe fell into a sound sleep, which lasted until the following morning.

  When he awoke, he was astonished to hear the warbling of the birds,for he had persuaded himself, since the previous evening, that theywould not dare to
sing at Guicheville. As for them, however, deceivedby the warm sun and mild atmosphere, which melted the snow, theyseemed to fancy that the spring was commencing. This idea renderedthem quite joyous, and Alphonse began to be joyous also. He ran aboutthe park in the _sabots_ which his mother had bought for him on theprevious evening: then he returned for his sister, whom, somewhatagainst her inclination, he dragged through the mud of the park,from which she did not so easily extricate herself as he did. Atfirst she found her sabots very heavy, and very inconvenient: one ofthem she nearly left in a hole, and two or three times she almostgave up in despair. Alphonse sometimes assisted her; sometimeslaughed at her, promising to harden her to it. He returned home,pleased with everything, and disposed to put up with a good deal fromMademoiselle Raymond, whom he found to be better tempered than on theprevious evening.

  Madame d'Aubecourt had not brought a maid with her. MademoiselleRaymond, therefore, proposed that she should take into her servicea young girl named Gothon, who was her goddaughter, and Madamed'Aubecourt accepted this proposal with her usual grace andsweetness, saying that, recommended by Mademoiselle Raymond, shewas sure she would suit her. Mademoiselle Raymond, enchanted, drewherself up, bewildered herself in complimentary phrases, and ended bysaying that Mademoiselle Lucie had her mother's sweet look, and thatM. Alphonse, though a little hasty, was very amiable.

  M. d'Aubecourt's temper experienced the good effects of this returnto a friendly understanding. When Mademoiselle Raymond was out ofhumour, every one in the house was so likewise, for every one wasscolded. She was naturally kind-hearted, but easily offended. Subjectto prejudices, and being accustomed to have her own way, she fearedeverything that might interfere with her authority. But when she sawthat Madame d'Aubecourt interfered with nothing in the house, shelaid aside all the bitterness which had at first been produced byher arrival. M. d'Aubecourt, who had hesitated between the desireof spending less money, and the dread of the confusion which mightresult from the establishment of his daughter-in-law at the ch?teau,was comforted when he learned that Madame d'Aubecourt had refusedto pay any visits in the neighbourhood, alleging that her presentsituation, and that of her husband, did not permit of her seeingany one. Besides, she was careful to conform to all his habits,so that everything went on smoothly, provided that Alphonse andLucie scarcely spoke at dinner, because M. d'Aubecourt, accustomedto take his meals alone, asserted that noise interfered with hisdigestion; provided they were careful never to exceed a smile, fora burst of laughter would make M. d'Aubecourt start as violently asa pistol-shot; and provided they never entered his private garden,which he cultivated himself, and where every day he counted the budsand the branches. He could not without trembling see Alphonse, whowas always impulsive and ever bustling from side to side, go into it,or even Lucie, whose shawl might accidentally catch and break some ofthe branches as she passed by.

  Madame d'Aubecourt had been about six weeks at Guicheville, whenshe received a letter from her husband, informing her that one oftheir relations, little Adelaide d'Orly, was living at a villagetwo leagues off. Adelaide was at that time about the age of Lucie;she had lost her mother at her birth, and had been placed at nursewith a peasant, on the estate of M. d'Orly. As she was extremelydelicate, and had been benefited by the country air, she was leftthere a long time. The revolution having broken out, her father leftFrance, and not being able to carry with him a child who was onlythree years old, he thought it best to leave her, for the present,with her nurse, hoping to be able to return soon, and take her away.Things turned out otherwise, however: M. d'Orly died soon after hisarrival in a foreign land; his property was sold, and Adelaide'snurse having lost her husband, married again, and left the province,taking Adelaide with her, as she was now her sole protector. For along time it was not known where she had gone to, but at last it wasascertained, and M. d'Aubecourt, who had received information of itfrom another relative, begged his wife to see her.

  M. d'Orly was the nephew of old M. d'Aubecourt, and had been anintimate friend of his son's, whom at his death, he had entreatedto take care of his daughter. M. d'Aubecourt had several timesmentioned the matter in his letters to his father, but the latterhad remained silent on the subject, from which the son had concludedthat he was ignorant of the fate of the child. Such, however, wasnot the case, for the nurse having discovered, the year before, thathe was Adelaide's grand-uncle, had come to see him. M. d'Aubecourt,who feared everything that might put him out of his way, or lead toexpense, had tried to persuade himself that she had made a falsestatement, and that Adelaide was really dead, as had been rumoured.Mademoiselle Raymond, who did not like children, confirmed him inthis opinion, which possibly she believed to be well founded, for weare always tempted to believe what we desire to be true. The nursehaving met with an indifferent reception, and, besides, not caring tohave Adelaide, whom she loved as her own child, taken from her, didnot insist further, and the child, therefore, remained with her.

  As soon as Madame d'Aubecourt had received this intelligence, shecommunicated it to her father-in-law, at the same time informing himof her intention of going to see Adelaide. M. d'Aubecourt appearedembarrassed, and Mademoiselle Raymond, who happened to be in theroom, assured her that the roads were very bad, and that she wouldnever be able to get there. Madame d'Aubecourt saw plainly that theywere already in possession of the information which she had supposedherself the first to communicate, and she also perceived that herproject was not very agreeable to M. d'Aubecourt; nevertheless,however great might be her desire to oblige him, she did not considerherself justified in renouncing her intention. Her extreme gentlenessof disposition, did not prevent her from possessing great firmness ineverything that she considered a duty. She set out then, one morning,with Lucie, who was enchanted at making acquaintance with her cousin,and with Alphonse, who was delighted at having to travel four leagueson foot.

  As they approached the village, they asked each other what kind ofperson their cousin was likely to be, brought up as she was among thepeasantry.

  "Perhaps something like that," said Alphonse, pointing to a younggirl, who, in company with two or three little boys, ran out to seethem pass. There was a pool of water by the side of the road wherethey were walking, and the children, in order to see them closer,ran into it, splashing them all over. Alphonse wanted to throw stonesat them, but his mother prevented him.

  "It would be a good joke," said he, "if it turned out to be mycousin, at whom I was going to throw stones."

  Lucie exclaimed against such an idea, and one of the little boyshaving called the girl _Marie_, she was comforted by thinking that itwas not her cousin Adelaide d'Orly, whom she had seen dabbling aboutwith a troop of little idle urchins.

  On reaching the cottage, in which Adelaide's nurse lived, they foundher laid up with an illness resulting from debility, and from whichshe had suffered for six months. Madame d'Aubecourt having given hername, the poor woman recognised her, and said she was thankful to seeher before she died, and that finding herself unable to go out, ithad been her intention to ask the mayor to write to M. d'Aubecourt,"for," said she, "my child" (it was thus she always called Adelaide)"will have no one to look to when I am gone." She had lost her secondhusband; and had no children of her own, and she did not doubt thather brother-in-law would come and take possession of everything, andturn her child out of doors, who would not then have even bread toeat, for she had nothing to leave her; and the poor woman began toweep. She added, that she had been to see M. d'Aubecourt, who wouldnot listen to her, and she went on to complain of the cruelty ofAdelaide's relations, who thus left her a burden upon a poor womanlike her. Madame d'Aubecourt interrupted her to inquire whether shehad any documents. The nurse showed her an attestation from themayor and twelve of the principal inhabitants of the parish which shehad left, certifying that the child whom she took with her, was trulythe daughter of M. d'Orly, and baptized under the name of _MarieAdelaide_, and also another from the mayor of the parish in whichshe was now residing, certifying that the girl living w
ith her underthe name of _Marie_, was the same that she brought with her into theparish, and whose age and description corresponded exactly with thoseof _Marie Adelaide d'Orly_.

  "Marie," exclaimed Lucie, when she heard this name.

  "Yes, indeed," said the nurse, "the Holy Virgin is her true patron;she has saved her in a dangerous illness: this is her only name inthe village."

  Lucie and her brother looked at each other, and Alphonse began tolaugh, amused at the idea of having been on the point of throwingstones at his cousin. At this moment Marie made her appearance,singing in a loud voice, and carrying a faggot, which she hadgathered. She threw it down as she entered, and was somewhatastonished on seeing with her nurse the very ladies whom she hadsplashed, and the young gentleman who was going to throw stones ather.

  "Embrace your cousin, Marie," said the nurse, "if Mademoiselle willbe so good as to allow you."

  Marie did not advance a step, nor Lucie either.

  "Oh! she also was made to wear fine clothes," continued the nurse,"but what more could a poor woman like me do?"

  Madame d'Aubecourt assured her that all the family were under greatobligations to her, and Lucie, on a sign from her mother, went,blushing, and embraced her cousin. It was not pride that had atfirst withheld her, but the idea of having a peasant cousin hadastonished her; and everything that astonished, also embarrassed her.Marie, equally surprised, had allowed herself to be kissed, withoutmoving, or without returning the salutation. Madame d'Aubecourttook her by the hand, and drew her kindly towards her, remarkinghow much she resembled her father. The resemblance, in fact, wasstriking. Marie was very pretty; she had fine dark, brilliant, thoughat the same time very soft eyes; but the way in which she had beenbrought up, had given a certain brusquerie to her manners. She hadbeautiful teeth, and would have had a pretty smile, had it not beenspoiled by awkwardness, shyness, and the habit of making grimaces.Her complexion, somewhat sun-burnt, was animated, and glowing withhealth; she was well formed, tall for her age, and had it not beenfor her awkward carriage, would have displayed nobility even underher coarse dress. It was impossible to make her raise her head, oranswer a single word to Madame d'Aubecourt's questions. Her nursewas in despair: "That is the way with her," she said; "if she takesa thing into her head, you will never get it out of it;" and shebegan scolding Marie, who did not appear in the slightest degreemoved by what she said. Madame d'Aubecourt made an excuse for her, onaccount of her embarrassment, and said that she had a gentle look.The nurse immediately began praising her with as much warmth as shehad displayed in scolding her. Marie smiled, and looked at her withaffection, but still without saying a word, or stirring from herplace.

  Madame d'Aubecourt promised the nurse that she should soon hear fromher again, and took away the documents relating to Marie, and whichthe nurse, with some hesitation, confided to her. She felt sure thatshe should be able to induce her father-in-law to receive Marie; hewas her nearest relative in France, and it was quite impossible thathe should not feel what duty required of him in regard to her; stillshe well knew how much annoyance this would cause him. The childrencould talk of nothing else during their return to Guicheville,and M. d'Aubecourt awaited, with some anxiety, the result of thevisit. He had nothing to oppose to the proofs she brought with her;nevertheless he said that further information was necessary. Madamed'Aubecourt wrote to every one whom she thought likely to give herany. All agreed with the first. There was, therefore, no longer anydoubt of Marie's being really Adelaide d'Orly.

  Then M. d'Aubecourt said, "I will think of it;" but the nurse,feeling herself worse, and not hearing from Madame d'Aubecourt,who had been prevented from going to see her, by a severe cold,had got the mayor to write to M. d'Aubecourt. It was also known,since Marie had been talked about at the ch?teau, how much peoplecomplained in the neighbourhood, of his neglect of his grandniece.Madame d'Aubecourt's visit to the nurse had spread the intelligence,that at last he was going to receive her. He heard this mentioned bythe Registrar, by the Cur?, and especially by Mademoiselle Raymond,who was much annoyed at it, and who, consequently, was perpetuallytalking of it. In order, therefore, to get rid of a subject whichtormented him, he gave his consent in a moment of impatience, andMadame d'Aubecourt hastened to take advantage of it, for she feltextremely anxious about the situation of Marie, and grieved that somuch time should not merely be lost to her education, but actuallyemployed in giving her a bad one.

  Having sent to inform the nurse of the day on which she would fetchMarie, Madame d'Aubecourt and her children set off one morning,mounted upon donkeys. The one that was to carry Marie, beingmounted by a peasant girl, whom Madame d'Aubecourt had engaged toattend the nurse during her illness, which she was grieved to seewould not be of long duration. As she could not reward her for allthat she had done for Marie, she wished at least to do all thatwas in her power for her. She had already sent her some medicinessuited to her condition, and some provisions rather more delicatethan those to which she was accustomed, and she had learned withgreat satisfaction, that this good woman was in comparatively easycircumstances.

  When they reached the cottage they found the door locked. Theyknocked, but remained for some time unanswered, and Madamed'Aubecourt began to feel excessively uneasy, for she feared thenurse might be dead, and in that case what had become of Marie? Atlength, the nurse herself, notwithstanding her debility, came andopened the door, telling them that she had been obliged to fastenit, as on the previous day, Marie, imagining that it was the onefixed for her departure, had fled from the house, and did not returnuntil night, and she had been anxious to prevent the recurrence ofthe same thing on that day. Marie was standing in a corner, her eyesswoln and red with crying. She no longer wept, but stood perfectlymotionless, and silent. Madame d'Aubecourt approached, and gentlyendeavoured to induce her to accompany them, promising that sheshould return to see her nurse. Lucie and Alphonse went to kiss her,but she still continued fixed and silent. Her nurse exhorted her,scolded her, and then began to grieve and weep at the idea of losingher. But all this did not extract a single syllable from Marie, onlywhen she saw her nurse weep the tears rolled down her own cheeks. Atlength, Madame d'Aubecourt seeing that nothing was to be gained bythese means, went over to her, and taking her by the arm, said in afirm tone, "Come, come, Marie, this will not do; have the kindnessto come with me immediately." Astonished at this authoritative tone,to which she was not accustomed, Marie allowed herself to be led.Alphonse took her other arm, saying, "Come along, cousin." But whenshe came near her nurse, she threw her arms round her, weeping andsobbing as if her heart would break. The nurse wept as violently asthe child, and Madame d'Aubecourt, though herself greatly affected,was nevertheless obliged to exercise her authority in order toseparate them.

  At length Marie was mounted on her donkey, she went on in silence,only now and then allowing large tears to escape from her eyes. Bydegrees, however, she began to laugh at the caracoles which Alphonseendeavoured to make his animal perform. All at once Lucie's donkeybegan to bray, and was going to lie down. Marie jumped off hersbefore either of the others, and ran to Lucie's assistance, who wascrying out and unable to retain her seat. She scolded and beat theanimal, and at length reduced him to obedience; but perceiving thathe was about to recommence, she insisted that Lucie should mounthers, which was more gentle, saying that she would soon manage theother. This little incident established a good understanding betweenthe two cousins. Marie began to be cheerful, and to defy Alphonsein the race, and had quite forgotten her griefs and troubles, when,on arriving at Guicheville, the sight of Mademoiselle Raymond andM. d'Aubecourt, again rendered her silent and motionless. She was,however, soon roused by Mademoiselle Raymond's dog, who came forwardbarking with all his might. Like the generality of dogs brought upin the house, he had a great antipathy to ill-dressed people, andMarie's dress quite shocked him. He rushed upon her as if aboutto bite her, but Marie gave him so violent a kick, that it senthim howling into the middle of the room. Mademoiselle Raymond ranforward and took him up
in her arms, with a movement of anger whichsufficiently announced all she was going to say, and which shewould have said without hesitation, had not the presence of Madamed'Aubecourt in some degree restrained her. Alphonse forestalled herby saying, that if her dog had been better brought up, he would nothave drawn such treatment upon himself. Mademoiselle Raymond couldno longer contain herself. Madame d'Aubecourt, by a sign, imposedsilence upon her son, who was about to reply. This sign, though notaddressed to Mademoiselle Raymond, nevertheless obliged her also torestrain her feelings, and she left the room, carrying with her herdog and her resentment.

  From this moment war was declared. Zizi, who did not forget the kickwhich Marie had given him, never saw her without showing his teeth,and if he came too near her, another kick sent him off again, withoutsoftening his resentment. Alphonse never met him without threateninghim, either with his hand or his cane, and Mademoiselle Raymond,constantly occupied in running after her dog, and protecting him fromhis enemies, had not a moment's repose between her fears for Zizi'ssafety and her aversion for Marie, whose follies she eagerly seizedupon; and Marie's follies were almost as frequent as her actions.

  However, she did not often commit any before M. d'Aubecourt; shescarcely dared either to speak or move in his presence. At meals,during the first few days, it was impossible to make her eat; butas soon as they had risen from table, she could take a large sliceof bread, and eat it while running in the garden, where Alphonsespeedily joined her. With him she agreed better than with anyone else in the house. Both were gay, livery, thoughtless, andenterprising, and vied with each other in all kinds of tricks andfollies. Marie, who was very expert, taught Alphonse to throwstones at the cats, as they ran along the leads, and during thisapprenticeship he had twice managed to break some panes of glass,one of which belonged to the window of Mademoiselle Raymond's room.In return, he taught his cousin to fence, and they often enteredthe house with their faces all scratched. Marie had also a methodof pinning up her dress, so as to enable her to climb upon thetrees and walls. Madame d'Aubecourt sometimes surprised her whileengaged in this amusement, and reprimanded her severely. Marieimmediately became quiet and modest, for she felt great respectfor Madame d'Aubecourt, and would never have thought of disobeyingher to her face, but as soon as she was out of sight, whetherfrom thoughtlessness, or from not being aware of the necessity ofobedience, a thing to which she had never been accustomed, she seemedto forget all that had been said to her. Alphonse occasionallyreminded her of it, and to him she willingly listened, for she hadgreat confidence in him. Neither was she obstinate, but she had neverbeen taught to reflect, and her thoughts seldom extended beyond themoment; so that when she took a fancy into her head, she could thinkof nothing else. She spoke but little, and was almost constantly inmotion. Motion, indeed, seemed to constitute her very existence.When her timidity compelled her to remain quiet, this repose was notturned to any advantage, in the way of reflection: the constraintshe felt absorbed her mind, and she could think of nothing but thespeediest means of escaping from it. Unlike other children, she madeno remarks on what she saw around her. When asked whether she didnot think the ch?teau de Guicheville much more beautiful than hernurse's cottage, she replied that she did; still she never thoughtof enjoying its comforts and conveniences, and she had more pleasurein sitting upon the tables than upon the chairs. Madame d'Aubecourthad a frock made for her like the every-day dress worn by Lucie,and she was delighted at seeing herself attired like a lady, but shealways managed to have it too much on one side or the other, whilethe string belonging to the neck was very usually tied with thatwhich belonged to the waist. She was constantly forgetting to puther stockings on, and her hair, which had been cut and arranged, wasalmost always in disorder. A pair of stays had been made for her, andshe allowed them to be put on without any opposition, for she neverresisted; but the moment afterwards the lace was burst and the bonesbroken; they were mended two or three times, and at length given up.On one occasion, Madame d'Aubecourt had sent her, accompanied byGothon, to see her nurse. While the girl was gone into the village toexecute a commission, Marie made her escape into the fields, in orderto avoid being taken back. Half a day was consumed in seeking forher, and everything was in commotion at Guicheville, on account ofthe uneasiness occasioned by her protracted absence.

  All these facts were carefully noted by Mademoiselle Raymond; nor hadshe any trouble in becoming acquainted with them, for they formed aperpetual subject of conversation between Lucie and Gothon. Luciecould not reconcile herself to the manners of her cousin; besides,her arrival at Guicheville had afforded her very little amusement,for Madame d'Aubecourt, fearful lest she should contract any ofMarie's bad habits, left them but little together. Lucie, too,saw much less of her brother than formerly, for the moment he hadfinished his lessons, he ran off in search of Marie, to join him inthose sports which were little suited to his sister's disposition,so that she sought amusement in discussing the new subjects forblame or astonishment, which Marie's conduct perpetually supplied.Gothon, her _confidante_, spoke of them in her turn to her godmother,Mademoiselle Raymond, and Mademoiselle Raymond discussed them withM. d'Aubecourt. He attached but little importance to them, so longas they did not decidedly affect himself; but after some time, whenMarie had become accustomed to the persons and things about her, thecircle of her follies widened, and at last reached him. Since shehad dared to speak and move at table, she seldom spoke without aburst of noise; and if she turned round to look at anything, it waswith so hasty a movement, that she upset her plate upon the floor,or shook the whole table. If she climbed upon an arm-chair in thedrawing-room, for the purpose of reaching anything, she upset thechair, and fell with it, breaking one of its arms, and with the foottearing a table-cover, which happened to be near it. Alphonse hadfrequently warned her not to enter his grandfather's garden; butthis advice was forgotten as soon as the garden happened to be theshortest way from one place to another; or that the shuttlecock hadchanced to fall into it, or that she wanted to pursue a cat, or abutterfly. On such occasions, M. d'Aubecourt always found a branchbroken off, a rose-bush or a border trodden down; and MademoiselleRaymond, whose window looked upon the garden, had always seen Marieeither going in, or coming out of it. These multiplied vexationstormented M. d'Aubecourt all the more, from his not complaining ofthem openly, but only by indirect allusions, as is often the casewith the aged. Sometimes he would say that, at his time of life, onecould seldom hope to be master of his own house, and that it wasnatural that people should trouble themselves very little about theaged, or their inconveniences. At another time, he would assure themthat they might do just what they pleased with his garden, and thathe should not trouble himself any more about it. Madame d'Aubecourtunderstood all this, and was greatly grieved, and as she perceivedthat Marie's presence occasioned him a constantly increasingannoyance, she kept her away from him as much as possible.

  But the necessity of doing this was very painful to her, for shefelt that the only means of making anything of Marie was by gainingher confidence, which could only be done by degrees; by seldomquitting her, by taking an interest in what amused and pleased her,by endeavouring to give her an interest in things with which she wasas yet unacquainted, by talking to her, in order to oblige her toreflect, and thus implant some ideas in her mind, which was naturallyquick enough, but totally devoid of culture. Could she have followedher own wishes, she would, in the first instance, have overlooked allfaults arising from impetuosity, want of reflection, or ignorance,reserving her severity for grave occasions, or rather without makinguse of any severity, she might have succeeded in leading Marie by thesole desire of giving her satisfaction. Whereas, instead of that,obliged to be incessantly scolding her for faults slight enough inthemselves, but seriously annoying to M. d'Aubecourt, she had nomeans of insisting, with particular emphasis, on more importantmatters. Besides, it happened that, for the first time in his life,M. d'Aubecourt had a violent attack of the gout, and as he was unableto walk, the society of his daughter-in-law had b
ecome indispensableto him, and she seldom quitted his room; so that Marie was morethan ever left to herself, with no other guardian or preceptor thanAlphonse.

  Nor was he altogether useless to her. Her want of sense rendered himmore reasonable: the defects of her education made him appreciate theadvantages he had derived from his own; he corrected her whenevershe made use of any vulgar expressions; he taught her to speakFrench, and scolded her if she happened to repeat any word for whichshe had already been reprimanded, and by his mother's advice hemade her repeat the reading lesson which Madame d'Aubecourt gavehim every morning. Marie took great pleasure in doing everythingrequired by Alphonse, who was fond of her, and liked to be with her,and whose presence never embarrassed her, as he had similar tasteswith herself. Therefore, when she had read well, and he perceivedshe took pains to pronounce the words he had taught her, he wouldnot patiently suffer her to be found fault with; and he was fond ofboasting of her dexterity and intelligence in their games, and of thevivacity and at the same time gentleness of her disposition.

  And in truth, as he observed to his mother, no one had everseen Marie in a passion, nor had she ever been known to exhibitany impatience at being kept waiting, or any irritability whencontradicted. Always ready to oblige, the ball of worsted had nosooner fallen on the floor, than she had picked it up, and she wasalways the first to run and fetch Madame d'Aubecourt's handkerchieffrom the other end of the room. If, while eating her breakfast, shesaw any poor person, she was sure to give him almost the whole of herbread; and one day, when a cat had flown at Zizi, and was biting him,Marie, notwithstanding the scratching and anger of the animal, torehim from Zizi's back, where he had already drawn blood, and threw himto a great distance; at the same time becoming angry with Alphonse,for the first time in her life, because he laughed at Zizi'spredicament, instead of trying to extricate him. Alphonse laughedstill more at his cousin's anger, but he related the circumstanceto his mother. Lucie, who had also seen what Marie had done, toldGothon of it, and she informed Mademoiselle Raymond; but MademoiselleRaymond was so much excited against Marie, that she would not havebeen moved by anything that came from her, even had Zizi himselfrelated it to her.

  However, these various manifestations of Marie's kindness beganto increase her cousin's affection for her. The feast of CorpusChristi was drawing near, and Lucy had worked for several days withgreat industry upon an ornament, designed for the altar which wasto be erected in the court-yard of the ch?teau. Marie had watchedher working with much pleasure; she had a great respect for theceremonies of the church, and this was about the whole amount ofthe religious education her nurse had been able to impart to her.Deprived for a long time of the clergy and the mass, the poor womanhad regretted them exceedingly, and when the practices of religionwere re-established, she experienced great delight, in which Marieshared, though without very well knowing why, for her knowledge didnot extend very far; but she was always angry when the little boys ofthe village made use of any irreligious expressions, and told themthat God would punish them. She had learned by heart the prayers, inorder to sing them at church with the priests, and Lucie was somewhatembarrassed by this, because it attracted attention to them; butMadame d'Aubecourt allowed her to continue the practice, as she sungwith earnestness, and was thereby kept quiet in church. She was fondof going to church, because her nurse had told her to pray for her;and now she thought she was performing a meritorious act, in standingby Lucie's frame, while the latter worked the ornament for the altar,and assisting her by cutting her silks, threading her needles, andhanding her the scissors.

  Since the day that she made her escape into the fields in order toavoid returning to Guicheville, she had never been allowed to visither nurse; this favour was denied under pretence of punishing her,but in reality because the poor woman was so ill that she no longerseemed conscious of anything. Madame d'Aubecourt had been severaltimes to see her, but without being recognised. She took care thatshe wanted nothing that could alleviate her condition, but she wasanxious to spare Marie so sad a scene. Marie, taken up with a crowdof objects, only thought of her nurse occasionally, and then shemanifested great impatience to go and see her. She had no idea ofher being in danger, and flattered herself, as she had been led toexpect, that when she recovered, she would come to Guicheville. Theevening before the f?te, being in the yard, she saw a peasant who hadcome from the village in which her nurse lived. She ran to him, askedhim how her nurse was, and whether she would soon be able to come toGuicheville.

  "Oh! poor woman," said the peasant, shaking his head, "she will gonowhere but to the other world, every one says that she will not belong here."

  Marie was struck as with a thunderbolt. This idea had never occurredto her. Pale and trembling, she asked the man whether her nurse hadgot worse, and how and when she had become so.

  "Oh! Mademoiselle Marie," said he, "ever since you left her she hasbeen declining; that is what has brought her to the state she is in."

  He was, however, wrong in this opinion, for during the few consciousmoments that she had enjoyed since Marie's departure, she had greatlyrejoiced that her mind was at rest on her account, but what the manhad said was the rumour of the village. Marie, weeping and sobbing,ran to find Alphonse, for she was afraid to address herself directlyto Madame d'Aubecourt, and she entreated him to ask his mother tolet her go and see her nurse. "I will come back," she said, claspingher hands; "tell her that I promise to come back the moment Gothontells me." Alphonse much moved, rose to beg his mother to grant thepermission which Marie solicited; he met his sister, who whispered tohim that they had just learnt that the nurse had died the previousevening,--the peasant had slept at the town, and therefore was notaware of what had happened. Marie, who followed Alphonse at somedistance, saw him stop to speak to Lucie, and exclaimed, "Oh! donot prevent him from asking if I may go to see her, I promise you Iwill return." Her look was so suppliant, and the expression of hersorrow so intense, that Lucie had great difficulty in restraining hertears while listening to her. They made a sign to her to tranquillizeherself, and hastened to their mother to state her request.

  Madame d'Aubecourt did not wish to inform her at that moment ofher nurse's death, for though Marie had usually excellent health,yet during the last few days she had exhibited, on two or threeoccasions, feverish symptoms, consequent upon her rapid growth,and Madame d'Aubecourt was afraid that this intelligence might beinjurious to her. She hastened to Marie and endeavoured to calmher, promising that in a few days she should do as she wished, butthat at the present moment it was impossible, as Gothon, Lucie, andherself were busy in working for the festival of the following day.She assured her also, that it was quite a mistake to suppose thatit was her departure which had made her nurse so ill, and at lengthshe succeeded in tranquillizing her a little. But for the first timein her life, Marie experienced a sorrow which fixed itself upon herheart, and would not leave it. She thought of her poor nurse, of thelast time she had embraced her, of her grief when she saw her depart,and then she uttered cries of anguish. She prayed to God, and severaltimes in the night she woke Lucie, by repeating, in an under-tone,as she kneeled on her bed, all the prayers she knew. She thoughtthat the following day, being a grand festival, it would be the mostfavourable time to beg of God to restore her nurse to health, andas her devotion was not very rational, she imagined that to meritthis grace, the best thing she could do was to contribute to theadornment of the altar, which was to be erected in the court-yardof the ch?teau. She therefore rose before it was light, and lefther room unheard, for the purpose of seeking, in a particular partof the park, for some flowers which she had observed growing there,and of which she intended to make some bouquets and garlands; but onreaching the spot, she perceived, to her great grief, that a heavyrain which had fallen the evening before, had destroyed all theblossoms on the trees. She could not find a single branch that wasnot faded, and in the rest of the park there were scarcely any butlofty trees. She saw no chance of meeting with anything of which shecould make a bouquet. Whilst
looking about, however, she passed by M.d'Aubecourt's garden, which at daybreak exhaled a delightful perfume;she thought that if she were to take a few flowers they would not bemissed. She began by gathering them cautiously, in different places;then, when she had plucked a very beautiful one, another like it wasrequisite to form a pendant, on the other side of the altar; thusher zeal, and her love of symmetry, led her at every moment intofresh temptations, and then she remembered that M. d'Aubecourt hadthe gout, that he could not leave the house, and would not see hisflowers, that they would be of no use to any one and that no onewould know what she had done: at last she forgot all prudence, andthe garden was almost entirely stripped.

  Just as she had finished her collection, she perceived from theterrace, the peasant who had spoken to her, passing along the road,at the bottom of the park; she called to him and begged him to tellher nurse not to be too much grieved, that she should soon go and seeher, for they had promised to allow her to do so.

  "Oh! poor woman," said the man, "you will never see her again,Mademoiselle Marie, they are deceiving you, but that is not mybusiness."

  With these words he struck his horse, and galloped off. Marie, inthe greatest anxiety, threw down her flowers, and ran into the yard,to see if she could find any one who could explain to her what theman meant. She saw the kitchen-maid, who was drawing water from thewell, and asked her whether Madame d'Aubecourt had sent the previousevening to inquire about her nurse. "Sent, indeed!" said the girl,"it was not worth while." Marie became dreadfully uneasy, and beganto question her, but the girl refused to reply. "But why," saidMarie, "why did Peter tell me I should never see her again?"

  "I suppose," replied the servant, "he had his own reasons for sayingso," and she went away, saying that she must attend to her work.Marie, though it had not yet occurred to her that her nurse was dead,nevertheless was very unhappy, for she perceived that something wasconcealed from her, and being timid in asking questions, she was at aloss to know how to obtain the information she wanted. At this momentshe perceived one of the small doors of the yard open. She had solong been in the habit of running alone in the fields, that she couldnot believe there was any great harm in doing so, and, accustomed toyield to all her emotions, and never to reflect upon the consequencesof her actions, she ran out while the servant's back was turned,determined to go herself and learn something about her nurse.

  She walked as fast as she could, agitated with anxiety, at onemoment for her nurse, at another for herself. She knew she was doingwrong, but having once begun, she continued. She thought of whatAlphonse would say, who, though always ready to excuse her beforeothers, would, nevertheless, scold her afterwards, and sometimesseverely enough, and she remembered her promise to him, only a fewdays before, to be more docile, and more attentive to what Madamed'Aubecourt said to her. She thought, too, that it might be for herwant of due submission, that God had thus punished her, for she hadyet to learn that it is not in this world that God manifests hisjudgments. However, she did not think of returning; she felt as ifshe could not go back; and then the idea of seeing her nurse again,and of comforting her, filled her with anticipations of pleasure,which it was impossible for her to renounce. Poor Marie! the nearershe drew, the more she dwelt upon all this, and the more livelybecame her joy. The anxieties which had tormented her, began tovanish. She hurried on, reached the village, ran to her nurse's door,and found it closed: she turned pale, but yet without daring toconjecture the truth.

  "Has my nurse gone out?" was all she could ask of a neighbour, whowas standing at her door, and who looked at her with an air ofsadness.

  "She has gone out, never to return," was the reply. Marie trembled,and with clasped hands leaned against the wall.

  "She was carried to her grave yesterday evening," added the woman.

  "To her grave!... Yesterday!... How?... Where have they taken her?"

  "To Guicheville; the cemetery is at Guicheville."

  Marie experienced an emotion indescribably painful, on learning that,the evening before, and so near to her, the funeral had taken place,without her knowledge. She recollected having heard the tolling ofthe bells, and it appeared to her, that not to have known it was forher poor nurse they were tolled, was like losing her a second time;then, as the thought of never seeing her again passed before hermind, she sat down on the ground by the door, and wept bitterly.

  During this time, the neighbour told her that her nurse had regainedher consciousness a few hours before her death, and had prayed toGod for her little Marie, and had also spoken of her to the Cur? ofGuicheville, whom Madame d'Aubecourt had sent to see her. Marie weptstill more. The woman tried to induce her to return to Guicheville,but she would not listen to it. At length, after she had cried fora long time, the good woman took her to her cottage, and succeededin making her drink a little milk, and eat a piece of bread, when,seeing her more calm, she again endeavoured to persuade her to returnhome. But Marie, who was now capable of reflection, could not endurethe idea of facing Madame d'Aubecourt, whom she had disobeyed: still,what was to become of her? Her sorrow for the loss of her nurse wasredoubled. "If she were not dead," said she, sobbing, "I should haveremained with her." But these regrets were to no purpose: this theneighbour tried to make her understand, and this Marie felt but toowell; nevertheless, as her reason did not restrain her when she wasabout to leave Guicheville, neither did it in the present instanceinduce her to return, although she knew it was necessary; but Mariehad never learned to make use of her reason, to control either herimpulses, her wishes, or her antipathies.

  At length, the woman perceiving, after two hours of entreaty, thatshe could gain nothing, and that Marie still continued there, eitherpensive or crying, without saying a word or deciding on anything, shedetermined to send to Guicheville, and inform Madame d'Aubecourt; butwhen she returned from the fields, where she had gone to seek her sonto send him with the message, Marie was not to be found. She soughtfor her in vain through the whole village, and at length learned thatshe had been seen going along a road which led to Guicheville. Sheimmediately suspected that she must have gone to the cemetery, andin fact Marie had gone there, but not by the direct way, for fearof meeting any of the inmates of the ch?teau. As the boy had notyet started, his mother ordered him to take the shortest way to thehouse, and tell them that it was in the direction of the cemeterythey must look for Marie.

  During Marie's absence, a terrible scene had been enacted at thech?teau. M. d'Aubecourt, who she imagined would be confined to hisroom for another week, feeling much better, wished to take advantageof a lovely morning to go and see his garden. As he approached it,leaning on the arm of Mademoiselle Raymond, he perceived Marie's hathalf-filled with the flowers which she had collected, and part ofwhich lay scattered on the ground, where she had dropped them, afterhaving spoken to the peasant. He recognised his streaked roses, andhis tricoloured geraniums; he picked them up, anxiously examinedthem, and looked at Mademoiselle Raymond, who, shaking her head,observed, "It is Mademoiselle Marie's hat." He hurried on to hisgarden; it seemed as if an enemy had passed through it: brancheswere broken, bushes had been separated in order to get at a flowerwhich happened to be in the midst of them, and one border was quitespoiled, for Marie had fallen upon it with her whole length, and inher fall had broken a young sweetbrier, recently grafted.

  M. d'Aubecourt, whose sole occupation and pleasure consisted in hisflowers, and who was accustomed to see them respected by every one,was so disturbed at the condition in which he beheld his garden, thatthe shock, increased, perhaps, by the effect of the air, or by hishaving walked too fast, made him turn pale, and lean on the arm ofMademoiselle Raymond, saying that he felt faint. Greatly frightened,she called out for assistance. At this moment, Madame d'Aubecourtcame up: she was calling for Marie, and very uneasy at not findingher anywhere.

  "You want Mademoiselle Marie," said Mademoiselle Raymond: "see whatshe has done!" and she pointed to M. d'Aubecourt, to the pillagedgarden, and to the hat filled with flowers. Madame d'Aubecourt didn
ot in the least understand what all this meant, but she hastenedto her father-in-law, who said to her in a feeble voice, "She willkill me." He was carried to his bed, where he remained a long time inthe same state. He experienced suffocating paroxysms, which scarcelypermitted him to breathe. The gout had mounted to his chest, and theyfeared every moment that he would be stifled. Madame d'Aubecourtperceiving that the mere name of Marie redoubled his agitation,endeavoured, though in vain, to impose silence on MademoiselleRaymond, who was incessantly repeating, "It is Mademoiselle Marie whohas brought him to this condition." Lucie, quite ignorant of whathad happened, came to tell her mother that Marie was nowhere to befound, and that perhaps it would be advisable to send some one to thevillage, where her nurse had resided.

  "Yes! look for her everywhere," said M. d'Aubecourt in a low voice,interrupted by his difficulty of breathing. "Yes! look for hereverywhere, in order that she may kill me outright."

  Madame d'Aubecourt entreated him to be calm, assuring him thatnothing should be done but what he wished, and that Marie should notcome into his presence without his permission.

  In the mean time, the news of what Mademoiselle Raymond calledMarie's wickedness, soon spread through the ch?teau. Alphonse wasthunderstruck, not that he believed in any bad motive on the partof his cousin, but, accustomed to respect his own duties, he couldnot conceive how any one could so forget themselves. Lucie, who wasbeginning to be fond of Marie, felt grieved and anxious; the servantstalked over the matter amongst themselves, without much regrettingMarie, who had not made herself loved by them; for it is not enoughto be kind-hearted, it is necessary to use sufficient reflectionto render our kindness agreeable and beneficial to others. Marie,sometimes familiar with the servants, would very often not listen tothem when they spoke to her, or would deride their remonstrances. Shealways laughed when she saw the cook, who was deformed, pass by, andshe had several times told the kitchen-maid that she squinted. Shehad never asked herself whether these remarks gave pain or pleasureto those to whom they were addressed.

  Almost the whole of the morning was passed in anxiety, and the manwho had been sent to the village, had not returned, when the Cur?came to the ch?teau, and requested to see Madame d'Aubecourt. As hewas leaving the church, after having finished the service, he met theson of the neighbour with whom Marie had spoken, and being acquaintedwith him, he asked him if he knew what had become of Marie, for hehad been informed of her disappearance. The peasant told him what hadtaken place, and added, that he thought she must be in the cemetery.They immediately went there, and looking over the hedge, they beheldMarie seated on the ground, crying. They saw her kneel down withclasped hands, then kiss the earth, and afterwards seat herselfagain, and weep, with a depth of sorrow which penetrated them to thesoul. It was evident that at that moment Marie believed herself alonein the world, and abandoned by every one. She entreated her nurse topray for her.

  They did not enter the cemetery for fear of frightening her, butthe Cur?, leaving the peasant as sentinel, went to communicate hisdiscovery to Madame d'Aubecourt. She was very much embarrassed;she could not leave her father-in-law, though he was beginning torecover, for the slightest agitation might cause a relapse, andshe was satisfied that neither Mademoiselle Raymond, nor any onebelonging to the house, would succeed in inducing Marie to return.She hoped the Cur? would be able to effect this, and as she did notwish her to enter the ch?teau at the present moment, for fear thenews might reach M. d'Aubecourt, she requested the clergyman to takeher to his house, where his sister, who had been a nun, now residedwith him.

  In consequence of this determination, the Cur? returned to thecemetery, where he found Marie still in the same attitude. When shesaw him, she turned pale and blushed alternately; yet, however shemay have stood in awe of him, she felt so completely abandoned, sinceshe no longer dared to return to the ch?teau, that she experienced anemotion of joy on seeing some one whom she knew.

  "Marie, what have you done?" said the Cur?, addressing her with somedegree of severity. She hid her face in her hands, and sobbed. "Doyou know what has taken place at the ch?teau?" he continued. "M.d'Aubecourt has been so overcome by the ingratitude you have evincedin devastating his garden, which you knew was his sole delight,that he has had a relapse, and Madame d'Aubecourt has passed thewhole morning agitated by the anguish occasioned by his condition,by her anxiety on account of your flight, and by her grief for theimpropriety of your conduct."

  "Oh, M. le Cur?," exclaimed poor Marie, "it was not from wickedness,I assure you. I wanted to adorn the altar, that God might grant methe grace of curing my poor nurse; and she was already _there_," shesaid, pointing to the ground, and redoubling her sobs.

  The Cur?, profoundly touched by her simplicity, seated himself by her side, upon a bank of turf.--P. 248.]

  The Cur?, profoundly touched by her simplicity, seated himself by herside, upon a bank of turf, and said to her with more gentleness, "Doyou think, Marie, that the way to please God, and obtain his favours,is to distress your uncle, who has received you into his family, andto disobey Madame d'Aubecourt, who shares with you the little shehas reserved for her own children. If anything can afflict the soulsof the just, you have distressed that of your poor nurse, who looksdown upon you, I hope, from heaven, for she was a worthy woman. Sheregained her consciousness for some hours before her death. I visitedher at the request of Madame d'Aubecourt, and in speaking of you,she said, 'I hope God will not punish me for not having done allthat was necessary to restore her sooner to her relations. I lovedher so much, that I had not the resolution to separate myself fromher. I know very well that a poor woman like me could not give her aneducation. She has often grieved me also, because she would not goto school, and because I had not the heart to oppose her. Oh, M. leCur?, entreat her for my sake, to learn well, and to be obedient toMadame d'Aubecourt, in order that I may not have to answer before Godfor her ignorance and her faults.'"

  Marie still continued weeping, but less bitterly. She had again kneltdown, and clasped her hands; it seemed as if she was listening to hernurse herself, and entreating her forgiveness for the grief she hadcaused her. After the Cur? had admonished her for some time longer,she said to him in a low voice, "M. le Cur?, I entreat of you to askforgiveness for me of Madame d'Aubecourt; beg Alphonse and Lucie toforgive me; say that I will do all they tell me, and learn all theywish."

  "I do not know, my child," said the Cur?, "whether you will again bepermitted to see them. M. d'Aubecourt is so extremely angry with you,that your mere name redoubles his sufferings, and I am afraid youcannot return to the ch?teau."

  This intelligence struck Marie like a thunderbolt: she had just clungto the idea that she would do all she possibly could to please herrelations, and now they abandoned her--cast her off. She utteredcries almost of despair. The Cur? had much difficulty in calmingher, with the assurance that he would exert himself to obtain herpardon, and that if she would aid him by her good conduct, he hopedto succeed. She allowed herself to be led without resistance. He tookher to his own house, and gave her into the charge of his sister, avery worthy woman, though somewhat severe. Her first intention hadbeen to reprimand Marie; but when she saw her so unhappy, and sosubmissive, she could think of nothing but consoling her.

  The Cur? returned to the ch?teau to give an account of what he haddone. Madame d'Aubecourt and Lucie were affected as he had beenhimself by the sentiments of poor Marie, and Alphonse, with his eyesmoist with tears, and at the same time sparkling with joy, exclaimed,"I said so." He had not, however, said anything, but he had thoughtthat Marie could not be altogether in fault. It was arranged that asher return to the ch?teau was out of the question for the present,she was to remain as a boarder with the Cur?. Madame d'Aubecourt,on leaving Paris, had sold some of her remaining jewels, and haddestined the money she received from them for the support of herselfand her children. It was out of this small sum that she paid inadvance, the first quarter's salary for Marie, for she well knew thatthe present was not the time to ask M. d'Aubecourt
for anything.

  Alphonse and Lucie rejoiced at the arrangement, as it did not removeMarie away from them, and Alphonse promised himself to be able togo and continue her reading lessons; but the following day the Cur?came to announce to them that his sister had received a letter fromher superior, inviting her to rejoin her, and a few other nuns ofthe same convent, whom she had gathered together. He added that hissister proposed to set out at once, and that if they consented toit, she would take Marie, who would thus pass with her the time ofher penitence. Alphonse was on the point of protesting against thisproposition, but his mother made him feel the necessity of acceptingit, and all three went to take leave of Marie, who was to set out onthe following day. Marie was extremely grieved when she learned themode in which they disposed of her; she felt much more vividly herattachment to her relations since she had been separated from them,and it now seemed to her that she was never to see them again, andshe said, crying, "They took me from my nurse in the same way, andshe is dead." But she had become docile; and, besides, Madame SainteTher?se,--such was the name of the Cur?'s sister,--had something inher manner which awed her a good deal. When she heard of the arrivalof Madame d'Aubecourt and her children, she trembled very much,and had she been the Marie of a former time, she would have madeher escape; but a look from Madame Sainte Ther?se restrained her.Lucie, on entering, went and threw her arms round her neck, and shewas so much moved by this mark of affection, when she only expectedseverity, that she returned the embrace with her whole heart, andbegan to weep. Alphonse was exceedingly sad, and she scarcely daredto speak to him, or look at him. "Marie," he said, "we are all verygrieved at losing you." He could say no more, for his heart was full,and he knew that a man ought not to display his sorrow too much,but Marie clearly perceived that he was not angry with her. Madamed'Aubecourt said to her, "My child, you have occasioned us all verygreat grief in compelling us to separate ourselves from you, but Ihope all will yet be well, and that by your good conduct you willafford us the opportunity of having you back again." Marie kissedher hand tenderly, and assured her that she would conduct herselfproperly, she had promised it, she said, to God and to her poor nurse.

  They were astonished at the change that had been wrought in her bytwo days of misery and reflection. She save sensible answers toall that was said to her, she remained quiet upon her chair, andalready looked to Madame Sainte Ther?se from time to time, for fearof saying or doing anything which might displease her. The austerelook of this lady somewhat terrified Alphonse and Lucie, on theircousin's account, but they knew that she was a very virtuous person,and that there is nothing really alarming in the severity of thevirtuous, because it is never unjust, and can always be avoided bydoing one's duty. Alphonse gave Marie a book, in which he begged herto read a page every day for his sake, and he also gave her a littlesilver pencil-case, for the time when she should be able to write.Lucie gave her her silver thimble, her ornamented scissors, an ivoryneedlecase, and a _m?nag?re_, furnished with threads, because Mariehad promised to learn to work. Madame d'Aubecourt gave her a linendress, which she and Lucie had made for her in two days. Marie wasgreatly consoled by all this kindness, and they separated, all verymelancholy, but still loving each other much more truly than they haddone during the two months they had passed together, because theywere now much more reasonable.

  Marie departed; M. d'Aubecourt recovered; and quiet was againrestored in the ch?teau: but this sending away of Marie was a subjectof great surprise in the village, and as Mademoiselle Raymond hadnot concealed her aversion for her, she was looked upon as its cause.She herself was not liked, and an increased interest was thereforefelt in Marie's fate. Philip, the gardener's son, who regretted Mariebecause she played with him, told all the little boys of the villagethat Zizi was the cause of Mademoiselle Raymond's antipathy to her,and whenever she passed through the streets with Zizi, she heard themsay, "Look, there's the dog that got Mademoiselle Marie sent away!"She therefore did not dare to take him out with her, except into thefields, and this consequently increased her ill feeling towards Marie.

  As to M. d'Aubecourt, on the contrary, being kind-hearted, thoughsubject to whims and ill-temper, he had ceased to be irritatedagainst her, now that she was no longer in his way. He permittedMadame d'Aubecourt to talk of her, and even to read to him theletters in which Madame Sainte Ther?se gave an account of her goodconduct; and, finally, as no one knew better than Madame d'Aubecourthow to persuade people to do what was right, because all were won byher extreme sweetness, while her good sense inspired confidence inher judgment, she induced him to pay the trifling salary of Marie;and he even sent her a dress. It was Alphonse who communicatedall this good news to her, at the same time adding, that both hissister and himself endeavoured to do everything they could to pleasetheir grandfather, that when he was very much satisfied with them,he might grant them a favour, which would give them more pleasurethan anything else in the world, namely, the permission for her toreturn. He told her that he had begun a pretty landscape for M.d'Aubecourt's f?te, which was that of St. Louis, and that Lucie wasworking him a footstool on which to support his lame foot.

  Marie was enchanted at receiving this letter, which she was alreadysufficiently advanced to read herself. The brother of one of thenuns, who had a garden in the neighbourhood of the place in which sheresided, and who was very fond of Marie, had given her two very raretrees; she would have been delighted could she have sent them to M.d'Aubecourt for his f?te, but she hardly dared to do so, and besides,how was she to send them?

  Madame Sainte Ther?se encouraged her, and it so happened, that arelative of one of the nuns had occasion to go, precisely at thattime, in the direction of Guicheville. He was kind enough to takethe trees with him, and had them carefully secured on all sides,so as to prevent their being too much shaken in the journey. Theyarrived in very good condition, and were secretly committed to Madamed'Aubecourt, and on the morning of St. Louis's day, M. d'Aubecourtfound them at his garden gate, as if they had not dared to enterit. On them was this inscription: _From Marie, repentant, to herbenefactor_, written in large letters, with Marie's own hand, for shecould as yet only write in large hand. M. d'Aubecourt was so muchaffected by this present, and its inscription, that he wrote a letterto Marie, in which he told her that he was very much satisfied withthe account that had been given him of her conduct, and that if shepersevered he should be very glad to see her again at the ch?teau.This was a great joy for Madame d'Aubecourt and her children, towhom M. d'Aubecourt read his letter, and they all wrote to Marie.She had sent word to Alphonse by the traveller, that Madame SainteTher?se had forbidden her to read in the book which he had givenher, because it consisted of tales; that this had very much grievedher, and she begged him to choose from among the books which MadameSainte Ther?se did permit her to read, one in which she could everyday read more than a page for his sake. She asked Lucie to send her astrip of muslin, which she wished to scallop for her, because she wasbeginning to work well, and she sent word to Madame d'Aubecourt thatshe kept for Sundays the dress which she and Lucie had given her,the day of her departure. These messages were faithfully delivered.Alphonse, by his mother's advice, selected for her, _Rollin'sAncient History_. Lucie sent at the first opportunity, two trimmingsfor handkerchiefs, to be scalloped, one for Marie and another forherself, and Madame d'Aubecourt added an English belt to wear onSundays with her dress.

  From this moment the children redoubled their care and attention totheir grandfather. Lucie wrote his letters, under his dictation, andAlphonse, who had found means of constituting himself sole managerof Marie's trees, because he had received the instructions of theman who brought them, entered every day into the garden to attendto them, and he occasionally watered M. d'Aubecourt's flowers, whosoon looked to him so much for the care of his garden, that hefrequently consulted him as to what was to be done in it. Lucie wasalso admitted to the council, and Madame d'Aubecourt likewise gaveher opinion occasionally. The garden had become the occupation of thewhole family, and M. d'Aubecourt re
ceived much greater pleasure fromit than when he had it all to himself.

  One day when they were all together, one watering, another weeding,and a third taking insects from the trees: "I am sure," saidAlphonse, replying to his own thoughts, "that Marie would take careof them now with as much pleasure and attention as ourselves."

  Lucie blushed and glanced at her brother, not daring to look at M.d'Aubecourt. "Poor Marie!" said Madame d'Aubecourt, with tenderness,though not with any sadness, for she began to feel quite surethat she would return. "We shall see her again, we shall see heragain," said M. d'Aubecourt. The subject was not pursued furtherat that time, but two days afterwards, when they were all in thedrawing-room, Madame d'Aubecourt received a letter from Madame SainteTher?se, who informed her that in the spring of the following year,she intended to pass three or four months with her brother, prior toher settling finally in the place where she then was, and that beinganxious that Marie should edify the village of Guicheville, where shehad set such a bad example, she would bring her there to make herfirst communion. Lucie uttered a cry of joy, "Oh! mamma," she said,"we shall make it together!" for it was also in the following yearthat she was to make her first communion. Alphonse, much affected,looked at his grandfather, "Yes, but," said he, after a moment'ssilence, "Marie will then go away again."

  "After her first communion," said M. d'Aubecourt, "we shall see."

  Lucie, who was seated by her grandfather, quietly knelt down on thefootstool upon which his feet were placed, and as she gently benther head over his hands, in order to kiss them, he felt the tears ofjoy fall upon them. Alphonse was silent, but his hands were tightlyclasped together, and an expression of happiness pervaded his wholecountenance.

  "If she is as good a child as you two," said M. d'Aubecourt, "I shallbe delighted to have her back with us."

  "Oh! she will be! she will be!" said both the children, their heartsswelling with pleasure. They said no more, fearing to importune M.d'Aubecourt, who loved tranquillity, and had accustomed them torestrain their feelings; but they were very happy.

  There was great satisfaction throughout the ch?teau; Marie's faultswere forgotten, while her disgrace was pitied. Mademoiselle Raymondwas the only person who felt any annoyance; not that she was reallyill disposed, but when once she took up any prejudices, she seldomovercame them. Besides, the continued reproaches made to her forher dislike of Marie had the effect of increasing it; and as theother servants made a sort of triumph of her return, she was all themore displeased with it. But she had insensibly lost much of herascendancy over the mind of M. d'Aubecourt, who, now that he wassurrounded by more amiable society, was less dependent on her andless afraid of her ill temper; for Madame d'Aubecourt spared him thetrouble of giving his orders himself, and thus freed him from athousand petty annoyances. Mademoiselle Raymond therefore manifestednothing of her displeasure before her superiors, and the end ofFebruary, the time fixed for Marie's return, was looked forward towith great impatience.

  Marie arrived in the beginning of March. For more than a week,Alphonse and Lucie went every day to wait for the diligence, whichpassed by the ch?teau. At length it stopped, and they saw Mariedescend from it. They scarcely recognised her at first, she hadgrown so much taller, fairer, and handsomer; her bearing was somuch improved, and her deportment so modest and reserved. She threwherself into Lucie's arms, and also embraced Alphonse; Madamed'Aubecourt, who had perceived her from the window, hastened to meether. All the servants ran out; Zizi also ran out barking, because allthis commotion displeased him, and besides, he remembered his formeraversion for Marie. Philip gave him a blow with a switch, whichmade him, howl terrifically. Mademoiselle Raymond, who was slowlyapproaching, rushed towards him, took him in her arms and carried himaway, exclaiming, "Poor fellow! you may now consider that your daysare numbered." The servants heard this, and glanced slyly at her andZizi.

  Marie was led to the ch?teau, and Madame Sainte Ther?se, who had goneto her brother's, left word that she should soon come and fetch her.M. d'Aubecourt had given permission for her to be led to him; he wasin his garden; she stopped at the gate, timid and embarrassed.

  "Go in, Marie, go in," said Alphonse; "we all go there now, and youshall go in and take care of it as we do."

  Marie entered, walking with great care, for fear of injuringanything as she passed along. M. d'Aubecourt appeared very glad tosee her; she kissed his hand, and he embraced her. They happenedto be standing near the two plants which she had given to him.Alphonse showed her how much they had prospered under his care. Healso pointed out such trees as were beginning to bud, and all theearly flowers which were making their appearance. Marie looked ateverything with interest, and found everything very beautiful.

  "Yes, but beware of the Feast of Corpus Christi," said M.d'Aubecourt, laughing.

  Marie blushed, but her uncle's manner proved to her that he wasno longer displeased with her; she again kissed his hand with acharming vivacity, for she still retained her liveliness, though itwas now tempered by good sense. She spoke but little,--she had neverindeed been talkative, but her replies were to the purpose, onlyshe constantly blushed. She was timid, like a person who had feltthe inconvenience of a too great vivacity. Madame Sainte Ther?sereturned. Marie seemed to feel in her presence that awe which respectinspires; nevertheless, she loved her, and had great confidence inher. Madame Sainte Ther?se said that she had come for Marie. Thisgrieved Alphonse and Lucie excessively. They had hoped their cousinwould have remained at the ch?teau the whole of the day, and theyhad even been anticipating a further extension of the visit; butMadame Sainte Ther?se said that as Marie had commenced the exercisesfor her first communion, it was necessary that she should remain inretirement until she had made it, and that she was not to go out,except for her walk, nor were her cousins to see her more than oncea week. They were obliged to submit to the arrangement. AlthoughMadame d'Aubecourt did not approve of this excessive austerity,which belonged to the customs of the convent in which Madame SainteTher?se had passed the greater part of her life, she was so virtuousa person, and they were under so many obligations to her for all thatshe had done for Marie, that they did not consider it right to opposeher. When Marie was gone, Alphonse and Lucie were eloquent in theirpraises of her deportment, and the grace of her manners: their motheragreed with them, and M. d'Aubecourt also expressed his satisfaction,and consented positively that immediately after her first communion,she should again become an inmate of the ch?teau.

  It was decided that the first communions of the village should bemade on the feast of Corpus Christi, and that until then, Madamed'Aubecourt should go every other Thursday to pass the afternoon atthe Cur?'s house, where Marie expected them with great delight. Shesaw them besides every Sunday at church, when, of course, she didnot speak to them, but they exchanged a few words on coming out, andsometimes, though rarely, they met in their walks; thus they didnot lose sight of each other, but were able to converse about theirvarious occupations. Marie had read the whole of her Rollin: Alphonsepointed out to her other historical works, and she gave him anaccount of what she read. He applied with great zeal to his studies,in order to be able to give her, hereafter, lessons in drawing andEnglish; and Lucie never learned a new stitch, or busied herself withany particular work, without saying, "I will show it to Marie." Everyone was happy at Guicheville, and all hoped to be still more so.

  The feast of Corpus Christi was drawing near; the two girls, equallyinspired with piety and fervour, beheld its approach with mingledjoy and fear. Alphonse thought of the happy day which was to bringback Marie, and to exhibit her, as well as his sister, as an exampleto the young girls of the village. He would have been glad to havesignalized it by some f?te, but the seriousness and holiness of sucha day would not permit of amusement, or even of any distraction.He determined at least to contribute as much as he possibly couldto those attentions which were allowable. Madame d'Aubecourt hadprovided for Lucie and Marie two white dresses, both alike; Alphonsewished them to have veils and sashes also alike. From the
moneywhich his grandfather had given him for his new year's gift, andwhich he had carefully saved for this occasion, he sent to purchasethem at the neighbouring town, without saying anything on thesubject to Lucie, who did not consider it proper to occupy herselfwith these matters, and left them all to her mother's care. Madamed'Aubecourt was the only person admitted into his council, and withher permission, the last evening but one before the festival, he sentPhilip, with the veil and sash, to Marie, accompanied by a note, inwhich he begged her to wear them at her first communion.

  Philip was very much attached to Alphonse and Marie; this was almosthis only merit; in other respects he was coarse, quarrelsome, andinsolent, and had an especial aversion to Mademoiselle Raymond; andas he and his father were the only persons in the house who werebut slightly dependent upon her, he amused himself by provoking herwhenever he could find an opportunity. He never met her with Ziziwithout making some disagreeable remark about the animal, to which healways added, "It's a great pity they don't let you eat MademoiselleMarie," at the same time threatening him with his hand. MademoiselleRaymond would get angry, while he would go off laughing. If hechanced to meet Zizi in a corner, a thing which very rarely happened,because his mistress no longer dared to let him go about, he wouldtie a branch of thorns to his tail, a stick between his legs, orcover his face with paper; in fact he thought of everything whichcould displease Mademoiselle Raymond, who thus lived in a state ofperpetual apprehension.

  As Alphonse was very anxious that Lucie should have the surprise ofseeing Marie dressed exactly like herself, he had told Philip to goto the presbytery without being observed, and Philip, who was veryfond of doing what he ought not to do, took a fancy to get there byclimbing over the wall, which was not very high. When on the top,he perceived Marie, who was reading on a slight elevation which hadbeen raised near the wall, for the purpose of enjoying the verybeautiful view which it commanded. He called to her in a low voice,and threw her the packet which Alphonse had confided to him, andwas preparing to descend, when he perceived Mademoiselle Raymondwalking by the side of the wall, with Zizi panting before her. Asshe approached, Philip, finding under his hand a piece of flintbelonging to the wall, threw it at Zizi, and hid himself among thetrees which overhung the wall at this spot: Mademoiselle Raymond, whowas stooping down at the moment for the purpose of removing somethingfrom Zizi's throat, received the flint on her forehead, where it leftrather a large wound. She screamed, and raised her head. PerceivingMarie on the mound, who, having heard her cry, stood up, and waslooking at her, she did not doubt that it was she who had thrownthe stone. Redoubling her speed, she hastened to the presbytery tocomplain, without perceiving Philip, who, nevertheless, was not verywell concealed, but whom she had no idea of finding there. As tohim, the moment she had passed, he jumped down and made his escapeas fast as he could. Mademoiselle Raymond found no one at home butMadame Sainte Ther?se. The Cur? had gone to the neighbouring townon business, and would not return until the following evening. Sherelated to her what had occurred, showing her forehead, which wasbleeding, though the wound was not very deep; she also showed thestone, which she had picked up, and which might have killed her.She asserted that it was Marie who had thrown it; but Madame SainteTher?se could not believe such a thing. She, however, accompanied herto the garden, in search of Marie.

  When Marie saw them approaching, she hid her packet under a clusterof rosebushes, for, being as yet unaware of what had occurred, shewas afraid that Philip had done something wrong, and in order notto be compelled to say that he had been there, she did not wish whathe had brought to be seen; however, she blushed and turned palealternately, for she was afraid of being questioned, and did notwish to be guilty of an untruth. Madame Sainte Ther?se, on coming upto her, was struck with her air of embarrassment, and MademoiselleRaymond said to her, "See, Mademoiselle Marie, how well you employthe last evening but one before your first communion! After that youwill be called a saint in the village. I shall only have to point tomy forehead." Saying this, she showed it to Marie, who blushed stillmore at the thought that Philip could have committed so disgracefulan act.

  "Is it possible, Marie," said Madame Sainte Ther?se, "that it can beyou who have thrown a stone at Mademoiselle Raymond?" and as Mariehesitated, seeking for an answer, she added, "You must surely havehit her unintentionally; but nevertheless, this would be an amusementvery unbecoming your age, and the duty for which you are preparingyourself."

  "Madame," replied Marie, "I assure you that I have not thrown anystone."

  "It seems, then, to have come of its own accord," said MademoiselleRaymond, in a tone of great asperity, at the same time pointing tothe spot where she stood when the stone struck her: it was evidentthat it could only have come from the garden, and from an elevatedposition.

  Madame Sainte Ther?se interrogated Marie with increased severity, andMarie, trembling, could only reply, "I assure you, Madame, that Ihave not thrown any stone."

  "All that I can see in the matter," continued Mademoiselle Raymond,"is that I doubt whether Mademoiselle Marie will make her firstcommunion the day after to-morrow."

  "I am very much afraid that she has rendered herself unworthy ofdoing so," replied Madame Sainte Ther?se. Marie began to weep, andMademoiselle Raymond hastened to relate her adventure at the ch?teau,and to say that probably Marie would not make her first communion.She referred to her talent for throwing stones at the cats, as theyran along the leads, and added, "She makes a fine use of it."

  Lucie was horrified. Alphonse, quite bewildered, ran to questionPhilip, and to know whether, when he executed his commission, hehad observed anything amiss at the Cur?'s house, and whether Marieappeared sad. Philip assured him that he had not perceived anythingwhatever wrong; at the same time carefully avoiding any mention ofthe means by which he had transmitted the packet to Marie; and he sorepresented matters, that Alphonse did not suspect anything. Madamed'Aubecourt, being very uneasy, wrote to Madame Sainte Ther?se, whoreplied that she could not at all understand what had happened, butthat it seemed to her impossible that Marie should not be greatly infault: and during the course of the following day, they learned fromGothon, who had received her information from the Cur?'s servant,that Marie had cried almost all the day, and that Madame SainteTher?se treated her with great severity, and had even made her fastthat morning upon bread and water. In the evening, Lucie went toconfession to the Cur?, who had returned, and saw Marie coming outof the confessional, sobbing violently. Madame d'Aubecourt went toMadame Sainte Ther?se, and asked her whether Marie was to make herfirst communion on the following day. Madame Sainte Ther?se 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 uponher cousin, as she passed by, a look which, notwithstanding hertears, expressed a feeling of satisfaction. She whispered somethingto Madame Sainte Ther?se, who led her away, and Lucie entered theconfessional. After having finished her confession, she was timidlypreparing to ask the Cur? what she so much desired to know; butbefore she could summon courage to begin, he was sent for to a sickperson, and hurried away, so that she had no time to speak to him.

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

  The girls who were to make their first commu
nion were alreadyassembled. Lucie, notwithstanding her self-possession, surveyedthem with a glance, but Marie was not among them. She turned paleand leaned upon the arm of her mother, who sustained and encouragedher, and telling her to commit her griefs to God, led her into therow of girls, and passed with M. d'Aubecourt into the chapel at theside. Behind the girls, stood Mademoiselle Raymond and Gothon, andthe principal people of the village. "I was quite sure she would notbe there," said Mademoiselle Raymond. No one answered her, for allwere interested in Marie, whom they had often seen in the cemeteryduring the past months, fervently praying at the foot of the crosswhich she had begged might be erected over the grave of her poornurse. Lucie had heard Mademoiselle Raymond's remark, and, violentlyexcited, she prayed to God with all her strength to preserve herfrom all improper feelings; but her agitation, and the restraint shehad imposed upon her thoughts, affected her so much, that she couldscarcely support herself. At length, the door of the sacristy opened,and Marie appeared, conducted by the Cur? and Madame Sainte Ther?se;she came forward with the white veil upon her head, beautiful as anangel, and as pure. A murmur of satisfaction ran through the church.Marie crossed the choir, and, after bending before the altar, wentand knelt at the feet of M. and Madame d'Aubecourt, to ask theirblessing. "My child," said the Cur? to her, sufficiently loud to beheard, "be always as virtuous as you are now, and God also will blessyou."

  Oh! what joy did Lucie feel! She raised to heaven her eyes moistenedwith tears, and believed that in the happiness she then experienced,she felt the assurance of divine protection throughout the whole ofher future life. M. and Madame d'Aubecourt, deeply affected, bestowedtheir blessing upon Marie, who knelt before them, while Alphonse,standing behind, his face beaming with joy and triumph, looked ather with as much respect as affection. Madame d'Aubecourt herselfled 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 Madamed'Aubecourt before it fell, expressed a degree of happiness which nowords could have conveyed, and the eyes of Madame d'Aubecourt repliedto those of her children. The long-wished-for moment had arrived atlast; the two cousins approached the altar together. Lucie, morefeeble, and agitated by so many emotions which she had been forced torepress, 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 thechurch, went to dine at the ch?teau, where Madame Sainte Ther?se andthe Cur? had been invited. Marie and Lucie talked but little, but itwas evident that they were very happy. Alphonse, his relations, theservants, all appeared happy too; but this joy was silent, it seemedas if they feared to disturb the perfect calm which these youngsouls, pure and sanctified, ought to enjoy. The looks of all wereunconsciously turned towards them, and they were waited upon with akind of respect which could not suggest any sentiments of pride.

  After having again gone to church in the afternoon with Lucie, Mariecame back with her, to take up her abode at the ch?teau. The eveningwas very happy, and even a little gay. Alphonse ventured to laugh,and the two cousins to smile, In the room in which they slept, andnext to the bed occupied by Madame d'Aubecourt, Marie found oneexactly like Lucie's. All the furniture was alike; henceforth theywere two sisters. From the following day, she shared in all Lucie'soccupations, and especially in her care of M. d'Aubecourt, who soonbecame as fond of her as he was of his grandchildren. MademoiselleRaymond having fallen ill some time afterwards, Marie, who wasvery active, and had been accustomed to attend to her poor nurse,rendered her so many services, went so often to her room, to giveher her medicines, was so careful each time to caress Zizi, and evenoccasionally to carry him a bit of sugar to pacify him, that thefeelings of both were changed towards her: and if Zizi, who was themost vindictive, still growled at her now and then, he was scolded byhis mistress, who begged pardon for him of Marie.

  Marie had related to Alphonse and Lucie, but under the strictestsecrecy, all that had taken place. She told them that Madame SainteTher?se, having questioned her to no purpose, had treated her withmuch severity; that she had said nothing, fearing, that if thetruth were known, Philip might be discharged, but that she had beenvery unhappy during those two days; that at length, the Cur? havingreturned, she took the resolution of consulting him in confession,well assured that he would then say nothing about the matter; andthat he advised her to confide what she had done to Madame SainteTher?se, on her promising inviolable secrecy. This she had done, sothat they were reconciled. She, moreover, told Lucie that the reasonof her crying so much on leaving the confessional, was because theCur? had exhorted her in a most pathetic manner, in recalling to hermind her poor nurse, who had been carried to the grave precisely onthe same day, and at the same hour, the preceding year. Alphonsescolded Philip very severely, and forbade him ever to do any harm toZizi, or anything which might displease Mademoiselle Raymond. Thelatter, being freed from annoyance on this point, consoled herselffor not being so completely mistress of the ch?teau as formerly,by the reflection, that Madame d'Aubecourt and her children, inrelieving her of many cares, left her more at liberty. Besides, theregard they had for her on account of her fidelity and attachment,flattered her self-love, so that her ill-humour perceptiblydecreased; so that song and laughter were now as frequently heard atGuicheville, as murmuring and scolding had been during many previousyears.

  M. d'Aubecourt returned to France. He found but little of hisproperty remaining, but still sufficient for the support of his wifeand children. Marie, on the contrary, had become rich: her righthad been recognised, not only to her mother's fortune, but evento that of her father also, as he had died before the laws againstthe emigrants had been enacted. The elder M. d'Aubecourt was herguardian, and as, though a minor, she enjoyed a considerable income,she found a thousand opportunities of making this family, which wasso dear to her, partake in its enjoyment; in fine, in order to uniteherself entirely to it, she is going to marry Alphonse, who loves herevery day with a deeper affection, because every day she becomes moreamiable. Lucie is transported with joy at the prospect of becoming inreality Marie's sister: Madame d'Aubecourt is also very happy, andMarie finds that the only thing wanted to render her own happinesscomplete, is the power of making her poor nurse a partaker in herjoy. 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 orderto show respect to the memory of one who so generously protected thechildhood of Marie.