The following days Francisco repainted his unfortunate figure, but still without success; he effaced it, recommenced, again effaced it, and at last succeeded in completing it; but in a manner so far inferior to the other parts of the composition, that it formed a blemish which destroyed the general effect. Such was the opinion of his companions, when, according to the rule established among them, they visited each other to judge of the respective merits of their productions. They had still four days to remain at work, and the pictures were not completely finished, but it was easy to judge which would obtain the prize; and José was regarded as the conqueror, provided he completed the figure of Aricia as he had done the group of Hippolytus and his horses. Next to his, came Francisco's picture, then Rivol's, the others were very far from the mark, and need, therefore, cause them no anxiety.
Francisco, deprived of the last ray of hope by the decision of his companions, as well as by that of his own judgment, shut himself up in his cell, and would not allow José to enter, though he entreated for admittance. He gave no reply to these friendly solicitations, and the intensity of his annoyance had rendered him so unjust, that to avoid seeing José, who lay crouched upon the narrow ledge of the window, he took a large piece of linen, which served him for a blind, and fastened it before the window. José listened to him for some time pacing up and down and groaning with despair; but seeing that his perseverance was useless and importunate he retired, deeply grieved at his distress.
He passed a sleepless night, and the next morning no sooner had he reached his own cell than he ran to Francisco's; but he was not there, his picture still rested upon the easel, and for a moment José thought of retouching the figure of Aricia. But this wouldhave been a palpable fraud, and his honour revolted from its commission. Francisco, moreover, would never have consented to triumph by such disgraceful means. José, therefore, laid down the brush which he had taken up, and with a heavy heart returned to his own cell.
Whilst painting the figure which had proved so fatal to poor Francisco, he vainly sought some method of serving him, and his tender friendship made him almost desire that his Aricia might not be better than his companion's. He worked with so little care, that, had any one else been in the case, his wishes would have been accomplished; but, as it often happens with artists, the very thing that he took the least pains with turned out the best; and, to make use of a familiar expression, this figure came so happily, that even an experienced painter would not have been ashamed to own it.
With a mind absorbed in reflection, José painted on almost without heeding what he did, and it was not until he rose up, when all was completed, that he perceived that the last touches seemed to have been given by the hand of a master, rather than by that of a pupil. His first feeling was one of intense joy, but it was soon overshadowed by the thought of Francisco. He felt that the prize was his, but soon one of those noble inspirations which elevated minds alone receive in their happiest moments, presented itself to his imagination, and showed him that the safety of his friend depended solely upon him.
By one of the old rules of the professors, the pupil who presented his picture with a figure completely erased, or otherwise defaced, was on this account excluded from the competition; his picture was exhibited with the others, but was not taken into account in the awarding of the prizes, even though it were a masterpiece in comparison with the rest. This rule, which it was found rarely necessary to apply, was unknown to most of the students. José had becomeinformed of it during his residence at M. Barbe's, but he was quite sure that Francisco knew nothing about it. His friend's picture was the best, after his own; and by having the courage to destroy the figure of Aricia, which alone would have ensured the prize to a work of less merit, Francisco would remain without a rival.
At first José seized upon this idea with all the warmth of generous affection, but, on raising his eyes to his work, he began to think the sacrifice beyond his strength. Pacing his cell with agitation, he thought of the honour of being crowned at the age of sixteen, of the pleasure of going to Italy, and of the advantage his studies would derive from the journey.
"But," said he, turning his back upon his picture, "Francisco needs it almost as much as myself; the means of his parents are almost exhausted by the efforts they have made for his education; his mother's health requires a warmer climate; if Francisco gains the prize his family will follow him,..." and José again approached his easel.
"Francisco is nearly twenty," he continued; "he has already obtained a second prize, and thus cannot have it again; his age will soon exclude him from the competition, while I have still two or three years before me; moreover, he spoke to me of a vague hope which he entertained of a happy marriage, to which his want of fortune might one day be the only obstacle. If a brilliant success were to overcome this obstacle? If the happiness of his future life depended upon what I am about to do?..." José trembled, opened a box, took out his palette knife, and approached the head of the charming Aricia—but again he paused.
"If I were only to injure it a little," he thought, "alas! it would still be better than my poor friend's!"... and he cast a look of approbation upon the canvas. But soon a thought presented itself, which dispelled his irresolution, and strengthened his wavering heroism. He recalled that painful moment when, despised,falsely accused, on the point of being driven from the house by Barbe, and without hope of justification, Francisco did not fear to own the truth, and to re-establish, at his own cost, the honour of the poor little Savoyard. The honourable career which was now before him commenced from that moment; all that he was, all that he hoped to be, sprang, in the first instance, from Francisco's generous confession.... José no longer hesitated, he resumed his knife, and with a firm hand so erased the figure that nothing but the sketch remained—and thus nobly repaid the debt of friendship formerly contracted to his young companion.
José erasing his Figure of Aricia, p. 301.
José erasing his Figure of Aricia, p. 301.
Satisfied with himself, and more calm after this trial of strength—an act of high virtue in a young man of sixteen—José gave the last touches to the other parts of his picture, and so cleverly managed the erasure, that nothing more could be inferred from it, than one of those movements of irritability by no means uncommon among students. He kept his secret until the day previous to the one on which the pictures were to be removed. He then called upon Francisco at his father's, and told him that his figure of Aricia was unfinished, and indeed in a great measure effaced, and that there was not time to repaint it. Francisco, recovered from his unjust displeasure, grieved for and blamed his friend; but, being ignorant of the rule of exclusion, he assured him that the prize would still be his, and José did not attempt to remove his impression.
But José had still severe trials to encounter: he foresaw the grief of Dame Robert, Gabri's disappointment, and finally a whole year's work before he could again reach the desired goal, which he had so nearly attained; but the most painful moment was past, and he awaited that in which Francisco should be triumphant, as the only compensation worthy of him.
The exhibition of pictures was held, as usual, in a small room on the basement floor, now appropriatedto another use. The artistic crowd arrived, and was constantly renewed during three entire days; and the young students, mingling with it, heard alike the censure and praise unreservedly bestowed, and often even with the knowledge that the young authors of the works were present. The universal opinion was in favour of the pictures of José and Francisco; but the spectators were constantly heard to exclaim, "A figure erased! what a pity! what madness!"
At length, on the fourth day, after a private conference, the professors summoned before them the trembling candidates, and José's sacrifice did not prove unavailing. He heard Francisco Enguehard proclaimed for the first prize, Rivol for the second, and he scarcely heard the honourable mention made of himself, notwithstanding the fatal figure which had excluded him from the competition.
Francisco, surprised and bewildered at such unexpected happiness, scarcely knew what he was about; he did not hear the felicitations of his companions, but allowed himself to be led away by José, who made him run until he reached his father's house.
"He has gained the prize!" cried José, at the foot of the stairs, "Francisco has gained the prize!" and seeing his friend in the arms of his parents, who wept while they blessed him, this noble youth was rewarded by a pleasure more intense and more elevated than any which his own triumph could have afforded him.
Leaving Francisco in the arms of his happy mother, who was never weary of looking at him, and who even thought him handsomer, now that the laurel decked his brow, José bent his steps homeward, and perceived in the distance Dame Robert and Gabri anxiously awaiting his return.
"He walks rapidly," said Dame Robert; "so much the better, he bears us good news."—"He looks happy," continued Gabri: "Oh, if he has gained the prize! at sixteen, too!" and already a smile of joy shone upon the countenance of this excellent man.
"Congratulate me, my friends," cried José, as he approached them; "I am happy in my failure; Francisco has gained the prize!"
"Francisco!" exclaimed Dame Robert, letting fall her arms, already extended to embrace him; "and you? Have you gained nothing? On my word there must be some abominable trickery in the affair."
"No," replied José smiling, "but be comforted, my good mother, I am neither depressed nor discouraged, and next year you shall see the laurels on my brow."
"But," said Gabri, in a tone of vexation, "who obtained the second prize?"
"Rivol," replied José; "and I might perhaps have had it if ..." and he looked timidly at Gabri, "if I had not erased my figure of Aricia."
"Yes!" exclaimed Gabri, as if talking to himself, "I was sure of it, I suspected as much at the exhibition.... José, José, embrace me, my son. Gracious Heaven! this is the first day I have passed without regretting the loss of my own noble boys."
Gabri was too familiar with artistic matters not to have divined the sacrifice which José's friendship had induced him to make, and his heart was capable of appreciating and rejoicing in it; but Dame Robert, who understood nothing of the matter, save that her boy was rejected, gave free vent to her dissatisfaction.
"Indeed, M. Gabri, it is very fine to pet him up after such a failure as that. Who would have thought it? It was well worth while to be shut up for two months without uttering a syllable, to let others walk off with the prize; still your picture was very fine, my boy, though, to tell you the truth, your female figure was too pale. I told you, however, not to spare your colours, but young people will always have their own way."
José smiled, and hastened to tranquillize the good woman. So far as concerned himself he succeeded without much difficulty; but she was for some time out of humour with Gabri, whose triumphant airannoyed her, because she did not understand it. Nor did she gain any information on the subject, for Gabri was discreet, and would not divulge José's secret; he did not even seek an explanation from the lad himself; but his marks of friendship were increased, and he more frequently repeated, "My son José!"
At the annual meeting of the Academy, when the students publicly receive the laurel crown, awarded for the merits of their works, José appeared more pleased than Francisco. He was restless, busying himself with his friend's toilet, &c.; and, placed in a corner of the room during the ceremony, the spectators might have imagined, from his excitement and his looks, when Francisco Enguehard was proclaimed, that he was the happy father of the young laureate, were it not that his almost childish features precluded the supposition.
A month after this great epoch for the two friends, they were separated; Francisco and his parents took the route to Italy; and José having returned to his studies, pursued them with ardour and contentment in thinking of the happiness which he had been the means of securing to three persons.
The year passed, and when again about to compete for the prize, José wrote to his friend, and told him to expect him in three months from that date. He felt confidence in himself, and had acquired so much power, that notwithstanding the merits of seven competitors, all older than himself, his picture was unanimously declared the best. It was even so superior to anything usually seen at these competitions, that it was thought proper to allow the exhibition to remain open several days longer than usual, in order to gratify the crowd of amateurs who flocked to see it. Dame Robert fully enjoyed José's triumph, and the almost equal pleasure of relating its history to her neighbours. Gabri rubbed his hands, and bent his head while listening to the praises of the young artist, and the honest Barbe exultingly boasted of having supplied for thisfamous picture the finest and the best canvas in his shop.
José, overwhelmed with honours, and full of joy, set out on his way to Rome, where he found Francisco, who had still four years remaining of the five granted by the government. Monsieur and Madame Enguehard received José as a second son; he lived in the same house with them, and enjoyed, in all its fulness, the delights of a life devoted to friendship and the fine arts, in that beautiful land where these arts so naturally flourish.
Many years have passed away since these events took place. Monsieur and Madame Barbe, grown rich and old, have retired, and given up their business to the excellent Gabri. A new generation of artists and students frequents the shop, and pursues pretty nearly the same habits as that which preceded it. But it is not in the same spot; the theatre of José's first exploits no longer exists. The two large posts may still, indeed, be seen; but Barbe's house has been taken down, and in its place monkeys and learned birds, attract by their various tricks, numerous spectators. Francisco Enguehard, steady and talented, is married, as he wished, to the only daughter of a rich antiquary, who desired to have for a son-in-law, a man of genius. Dame Robert has given up her business to her eldest son, and rests her fingers, if not her tongue, for she is never weary of relating to any one who will listen to her, how that José was a poor orphan, how she took him and put him to sleep on her counter, &c., &c. Philip, a worthy fellow, and a passable tailor, is married and settled, as he says, in his wife's native province, that is to say in the Marais. The poor Angevin, still a bad painter, notwithstanding all his efforts and perseverance, has returned to Angers. There, at least, he has talent, and directs in his turn the same school which sent him to Paris. He who was called poor José is now one of our most distinguished artists. He possesses a respectable fortune, acquired by histalents, and, what is far more valuable to him, the universal esteem granted to the most noble character and the most irreproachable conduct. Faithful alike to delicacy and friendship, Francisco never knew the sacrifice which obtained for him his crown. José's laurels are suspended in his magnificent studio, beside his first palette, and his shoeblack's knife. He watches over Gabri, as a son over a father; listens to the long stories of the good old Dame Robert, without the least sign of impatience; and, finally, though young, handsome, and sought after, he always wears clothes made by Philip, and boasting of little elegance, with shoes of the same kind from Dame Robert's shop: and this is not the least remarkable trait in his history.
"How delighted I am that Robert is gone!" exclaimed Caroline de Manzay, as she entered her mother's room; "I never knew anybody so disagreeable!"
"What!" said Madame de Manzay, "not even Denis?"
"Oh! that is quite different; Denis is teazing and troublesome, meddles with everything, and is angry when prevented; he jeers and laughs at one, and becomes passionate and insulting when contradicted; but then he is a mere child, and one overlooks it."
"You did not seem very ready to do so: you were always quarrelling, and could say very insulting things yourself sometimes."
"For all that I like him better than Robert."
"Yet Robert never teazed you; he is very reasonable."
"To be sure he is; he is twenty years old: and how proud he is! Because he is five years older than I am he treats me like a little girl, and to-day he told me I was a spoiled child."
"Robert is not the first person who has said that,my dear; but for what reason did he pay you this compliment?"
"It was because Denis, who always takes delight in seeing me vexed, came to tell me, with an air of triumph, that when we took him and Robert to the village, we were to go by the road which I do not like. I said we were not to go that way; he asserted that we were, because he had heard my father give orders to his forester to wait for him at the green-gate, that he might see on his way back the fir-trees which are to be cut. Then I declared that I would not go out at all, and Robert laughed at me, and insisted that if my father chose it I should be obliged to go, and to take the road he wished. All this made me angry, and when papa came up I teazed him so, till he said we should go the way I liked best, and that he would look at the fir-trees another time. 'Well,' said I to Robert, when my father was at a little distance, 'it is my turn to laugh at you now;' 'I would recommend you not,' he replied, very contemptuously, 'there is no glory in being a spoiled child, and in abusing indulgence,' and then he turned his back on me. Oh! I detest him! So when he got into the carriage I would not say good-bye, and when he came up to kiss me, I turned my back upon him in my turn."
"And did that appear to grieve him?"
"He did not care in the least; he began to laugh, and said, 'Adieu, Caroline, try to become a little more reasonable, you need it greatly.'"
"And how did you part with Denis?"
"Oh, very well, for I spoke to him."
"What did you say to him?"
"I told him I was delighted that he was going away, because he was so rude; and he replied, that he was quite as glad, because I was so wilful and captious. In fact, I am not at all fond of Denis, either, and it is a great relief to be rid of him. It will be a long time, will it not, before we see him again?"
"Much too long; his guardian thinks of going to America, and taking Denis with him. God only knows when he will come back."
"Oh! I shall have quite enough of him; he is so insufferable! And Robert?"
"He is going on his travels for four or five years."
"That is a great blessing."
"But, my dear child, you should reflect that Robert is your father's nephew, and that Denis is my poor sister's son; they are both of them your nearest relatives, and ought to be your best friends."
"Fine friends, indeed! the one teazes me, and the other despises me."
"I allow that Denis is fond of teazing, and that Robert is scornful, but they will out-grow that."
"No, that they won't."
"What! do you, then, really think that Denis, at twenty years old, will spoil your drawing, or blow out your candle?"
"He will do something as tiresome; and even if he should improve, Robert will always remain the same."
"I hope not; he will gain with years the gentleness in which he is deficient. But, even supposing he should not change, you yourself will alter, and when you are no longer a spoiled child, he will not call you such."
"I don't know that; he is so unamiable. However, it is all the same to me; I do not care for his opinion."
"So I perceive, my dear," said her mother, smiling, "you speak of it so calmly."
At this moment, Caroline heard her father calling her, and ran out to join him; she was always happy to be his companion, and responded with all her heart to the passionate affection which he showed her. Caroline was the only survivor of Monsieur and Madame de Manzay's eight daughters, and during her infancy her health had been so delicate, as to cause them the greatest anxiety. Continually agitated by the fear oflosing her, their only thought had been to preserve their treasure: they trembled lest the slightest opposition should endanger her fragile existence, or cast a cloud over a life which might have so short a duration. For some years past, these terrible apprehensions had ceased, but Caroline had been so long accustomed to have her own way, that the effect survived the cause. She was accustomed to no other rule than her caprice, or the prompting of a disposition naturally upright and generous. When her fancies or her self-love did not interfere, she was ready to do everything to oblige, and diffused around her all the cheerfulness natural to her age: but if it at all crossed in her wishes, nothing could be obtained from her, and even her kindness of heart was insufficient to conquer her temper. In such unhappy moments, which were but too frequent, she would answer her mother with petulance, refuse to walk with her father, or sing him the airs he loved, and behave roughly to her little brother, whom she nevertheless loved with all her heart, and considered almost as her own child. Being ten years old, when Stephen was born, she had never thought of him as a rival, but as aprotégé. She was habitually kind and indulgent, and would spend whole hours in building card-houses for him, or in telling him stories. It is true she did not like him to amuse himself with others: as she could not appropriate him to herself, like his parents, she devoted herself to him; but she did appropriate him, in fact, and one of the principal causes of her dissatisfaction with Denis was, that Stephen preferred his stories to hers, and his noisy games to the more tranquil pleasures procured him by his sister.
"What does it signify, if Stephen enjoys himself better with Denis than with you?" said Robert to her one day.
"It displeases me."
"But why?"
"Because he is so whimsical; a week ago he was interrupting me perpetually, to make me tell him over and over again the story of the Wonderful Cat, and now, when I call him on purpose, he says it wearies him."
"Naturally enough, when you propose telling it to him at the very time that Denis is just in the finest part of a story about robbers or battles."
"And twenty times have I begged Denis not to tell him any more such stories: but he does not care for a word that is said to him."
"Stephen would be very sorry if he left off, I can assure you: look how attentive he is."
"Yes, and what am I to do while Stephen is listening to Denis?"
"You might finish the drawing which your father asked for this morning, and which, as you said, you had not time to complete."
"Indeed I shall not, it is too tiresome; and if anything more is said about it, I will tear it to pieces."
"Surely not, you are not silly enough to do that."
"And why then should I be silly to tear this drawing? It is my own, I hope."
"A fine reason truly! The château yonder is mine also. What would you say if I were to burn it down?"
"There is no resemblance in the two cases."
"In fact, I should be a madman, and you merely a child."
"A child! Do you know that I am fifteen?"
"So they say, but I cannot believe it."
"Why not? I am taller than the gardener's daughter, who is sixteen."
"Yes; but you are not as reasonable as Stephen, who is only five."
"And, how not, pray?"
"Come, do not be angry; you are, perhaps, about as much so, but that is all I can grant you. Now do not put yourself in a passion, that will not frightenme; you cannot tear me to pieces like your drawings. Adieu, make yourself happy: I am going to carry off Denis to hunt, so you may tell Stephen the story of the Wonderful Cat as many times as you please."
It was by conversations like these that Robert had drawn upon himself the animadversions of Caroline. Unaccustomed to any opposition to her wishes, she could not forgive the harsh manner in which her cousin contradicted her, and, spoiled as she was by continual marks of affection, she was astonished at the contemptuous disapprobation which she had to encounter from one, whose good opinion she was desirous of obtaining. Never had she heard the name of Robert de Puivaux mentioned without eulogium. He had completed his studies most successfully, and had particularly distinguished himself at the Polytechnic School, which he had just left, after spending two years there, simply for instruction. His character was extolled, his judgment esteemed, and his understanding and acquirements were considered by all as beyond his years; but all these advantages were effaced, in Caroline's mind, by his ungracious conduct towards herself—or, rather, they served to render it the more vexatious to her. It must be allowed that Robert had treated her in a manner far from pleasant. Naturally serious, and disposed to regulate his conduct on principles of reason and duty, he could not comprehend the inconsiderateness of Caroline, and the importance which she attached to her own whims; he had no patience in seeing everyone yield to her, and was as angry with her for their weakness as for her own defects; he, therefore, never lost any opportunity of showing his disapprobation and contempt: and, wholly engrossed by the unfavourable impressions with which she inspired him, he did not remark the good qualities which lay hidden under this petulant exterior, and which the future would develope.
Shortly after the departure of Robert and Denis, Madame de Manzay, who had been an invalid eversince the birth of Stephen, was suddenly snatched from her family, after a few days' illness. We will not attempt to describe this sad event: there are sorrows which can never be comprehended by those who have not felt them, and which it is needless to relate to those who know them by experience. The language of man cannot adequately express all that the soul of man is capable of feeling, and such feelings are not learned but revealed; a single moment—one of those moments which are equal to a whole life—can explain more than years of reflection, and convey to the heart, what all the knowledge of the mind would be unable to grasp.
A week had elapsed since the death of Madame de Manzay, and her unhappy family were not yet roused from the first stupor of grief; their hearts had not yet recovered composure; they had not returned to their usual habits; no one obeyed, for no one commanded; and each one, engrossed by his affliction, forgot his duties. There was neither regularity nor labour; confusion alone reigned in the desolate household. Poor little Stephen was left all day long to himself; Monsieur de Manzay wandered about in the park; his daughter shut herself up in her room; and no one attempted to assist anyone else in supporting the weight of grief, by which each was oppressed. Caroline, as usual, was weeping in her own apartment, when an old servant, who had been in the family from the birth of her father, and who had just seen his master, seated, alone, in his wife's room, thinking he would like to see his daughter, went to her, and said, "Pray go, Miss Caroline, to my master. Poor gentleman! he has no one now but you."
"And Stephen, Peter; you do not reckon him."
"Oh! that is quite another thing, miss; master loves the dear little fellow with all his heart, but he is not company for him; he cannot talk with him, and divert his thoughts, as you could. Oh! Miss Caroline, you are the very image of my good mistress; try thento resemble her in everything. You cannot remember it, for you were too young, but when my mistress lost four of her children in one year, and you alone were left—well, miss, it was she who then consoled master. He was like one distracted, and said he felt tempted to throw himself in the water, and the poor lady was obliged to appear perfectly calm, in order to tranquillize him. I have sometimes seen her leave my master's room, to go and cry, and then she would return, and urge him to submit to the will of God; she would make him walk with her, or read aloud to divert his thoughts; she would even amuse him with music: and how he loved her in return! Oh! Miss Caroline! you had a treasure in your mother; endeavour to be as good as she was."
Caroline's sobs prevented her from making any reply; but she held out her hand to the aged Peter, and rose immediately to follow him to her father. She was told that he was in the park, and repaired thither; but, absorbed in her affliction, and in the reflections suggested by Peter's artless observations, she mistook the path, and did not perceive her error, for she went on without thinking whither her steps were directed. For the first time in her life, perhaps, she became aware that she had a duty to fulfil towards others, and that she was not placed in this world merely to be loved and indulged. She had just been told—"Your father has no one but you." It was the truth; but of what use had she been to her father, during the past week? Had she afforded him consolation or assistance, when, given up to her own affliction, she had scarcely bestowed a thought on his; when he had been obliged to try and comfort her, and had sought to do so in vain; when her tears and cries had shaken the resolution he found it so difficult to maintain; when she had kept out of his presence, and abandoned him at the time he most needed her? Was it thus that her mother had acted, when, struck by misfortune, she had, for the sake of calming herhusband's despair, begun by controlling her own feelings? Yet who, more than her father, possessed a claim to her active gratitude, to her affectionate devotion? Her earliest recollections were associated with his kindness and tenderness. He had consecrated his leisure to her instruction, relinquished for this purpose studies in which he took delight, and renounced all recreations but those which he could share with her; he had made her the companion of his walks, and allowed her to direct them as she chose. If she wished for an excursion in the neighbourhood, M. de Manzay would leave all his occupations to procure this pleasure for her; in a word, he never refused her a request, and yet her demands had not been few. And what had she done, on her part, to requite such great affection? How had she repaid the extreme indulgence of her parents? She loved them heartily, and they were convinced of this, but she had done nothing more: whilst they thought only of her, she had never considered them, and had found it perfectly natural to be continually the recipient of benefits, without ever giving anything in return. "Oh, how wicked I have been!" she exclaimed, clasping her hands; "can God ever forgive me, or mamma?" She threw herself on her knees, and, melting into tears, promised, as if still in the presence of her whom she could never again behold in this world, to repair, by her attention to the objects of affection she had left, the faults which she had committed against her. She felt that her resolution was accepted and blessed; that the relations of those who love each other are eternal; and that her mother was pleased with her earnest endeavours, as she would have been if still living. She felt that it was her soul which responded to her own, and inspired her with the love of virtue, the hope of perseverance, the joy of pardon. She arose, and returned to the château, eager to find her father, and begin her new part. "Hitherto, he has devoted his life to me," said she to herself, "now, it shall be my care to livefor him;" and immediately, with the ardour so natural to youth, she depicted to herself all the various ways in which she could be useful to him, and was enchanted at the idea of being at last good for something in the world; no obstacle or difficulty presented itself to her mind, so natural did the performance of her duty appear to her at this moment.
On approaching the château, she found Stephen sitting quite alone, under a tree, crying. "What is the matter, Stephen?" she asked, kissing him.
"I am hungry."
"Hungry! why what o'clock is it?"
"It is twelve o'clock."
"But you have already had your breakfast?"
"No; Mary forgot to make my soup. Nobody thinks about me now that mamma is gone."
"I will think of you, my dear child. Come with me, I will get you some breakfast, and tomorrow you shall not have to wait so long." On entering the house, she inquired for her father. She was told that he had come in, and had asked for her, and, after waiting some time, had gone out again. "But he has had his breakfast, I suppose?"
"No, miss, the cook has gone out."
"Things must not go on thus," thought Caroline; "I must have some order in the household." She perceived at this moment her father coming in, and hastened to meet him; she was eager to have some conversation with him, and impart to him her good resolutions; but the very first was, to attend to others rather than herself, and she therefore sacrificed to Stephen's appetite her desire of communicating to her father her new projects. After breakfast, M. de Manzay was going towards his wife's sitting-room, where he passed all the time which he spent in-doors. Caroline, who wished to follow him, paused for an instant at this sight: she never yet had sufficient resolution to enter her mother's apartment, and trembledat the idea of revisiting a spot so filled with her image. "But how can I ever be of service to my father, if I cannot go where it is his desire always to remain? Come, I must go to him;" and, making an effort to command her feelings, she went to her father. Surprised and pleased to see her in this room, where his recollections became almost realities, he embraced her with even more than his wonted tenderness; and, comparing, with a pleasure mingled with grief, the portrait of his wife with the features of his daughter,—"Oh, my child!" he exclaimed at length, his voice checked by tears, "I have only you now." She threw her arms round him, and for some time neither father nor daughter could utter a word. At length, overcoming her emotion, she said, "My dear papa, I have hitherto done very wrong, but I will endeavour to repair my faults. I have been a selfish, ungrateful child, and lived only for myself; henceforth my life shall be devoted to you. Forgive me for having been so useless to you; forget the past; you shall see that I am no longer the same, and you shall be satisfied with my conduct. Kiss me, dear papa; I will correct all my faults, and endeavour to be like mamma."
"God bless you, my child, for having formed such a project! but you are very young to make even the attempt."
"Not too young, I hope. I shall hardly succeed at first, but the recollection of mamma will come to my assistance. I know what she used to do, and I will endeavour to imitate her. I will come and see you in your study, and be always ready to give up my own occupations to please you. I will give Stephen his lessons. I will keep the accounts. You shall see how steady I will be; only try me, papa."
"Do what you like, my child; I am in no state to make any decision; I can think of nothing. I leave you mistress of the house, of your brother, of myself. If there are still any peaceful moments in store forme on this earth, I shall enjoy them through you, and you alone."
"And Stephen, papa, you forget him."
"Poor child! no, I do not forget him; go and bring him here."
Caroline brought her little brother to her father, who took him in his arms, saying, "Stephen, you loved dear mamma, did you not?"
"With all my heart," replied the child, sobbing.
"And you were also obedient to her. Well, now you must love your sister, and obey her; she will be a mother to you henceforward."
"Would you like it, Stephen?" asked Caroline, "would you like me to take care of you, and give you your lessons?"
"Yes, if you promise not to scold me."
"My dear child, I will not scold you; I will try to be kind like mamma."
"Oh, you are very kind already, I am sure," said Stephen, caressing his sister, "only sometimes you get out of patience, and that frightens me."
"Make yourself easy, I intend to grow better; but you must also be very good, to please papa, who has so much sorrow."
"Oh! yes; for that I will learn my lessons better than I used to do."
"My beloved children," said M. de Manzay, encircling them both in his arms, "my dear children, this is the first moment of comfort I have had for a week past. Go, my own Caroline, assume your new functions; take possession of the keys; direct, command, re-establish the regularity which formerly reigned in the house; take the same care of your brother that he has been accustomed to; but first come to me, that I may give you my blessing, before the portrait of your mother."
After some moments devoted to these tender and afflicting emotions, Caroline left the room with Stephen. Her first care was to see if his apartmentwas in order: she found it completely stripped of all the articles which he was in the habit of using.
"What has become of your little table, Stephen?" she enquired.
"Oh! I dare say it is in the garden; I took it there the day before yesterday, and they have forgotten to bring it in."
"And your arm-chair?"
"I tied it to Turk's tail, for a carriage, and he broke it."
"You might have expected as much, my dear."
"What could I do? I was alone, and tired of doing nothing."
"You have recollected, I hope, to give water to your birds."
"Oh! gracious! I have never given them any but once. Poor creatures! they must be very thirsty. But, Caroline, do not scold me, it is not my fault. Every morning, mamma used to ask me if I had taken water and seeds to my birds, leaves to my rabbits, and grass to my fawn; and now, who is there to think of all these things?"
"I will. Let us go to your aviary, and I will talk to you by the way."
Caroline then explained to her brother all her plans concerning him. She told him that he should work with her, and that she would amuse him, and take care of all his things; in a word, that she would, as far as possible, supply the place of a mother to him. She had his books brought into her sitting-room, and such of his playthings as he had been accustomed to keep in his mother's apartment; she gave him a shelf in her library, and the lower part of a closet, and established his little table by the window, as he wished. At first, she intended to place it elsewhere, for this was her own favourite place; but she recollected that last year, when she had remarked that her mamma was happy in being able to enjoy, while sitting at table, the prospect over the valley, her mother had yielded toher the place she coveted. "I cannot be so good as mamma," she thought, "unless I do as she did, so I will remove my table from the window."
Such were the feelings and views with which Caroline undertook the reformation of her character, and she begun the task with the blind ardour so natural to youth: that happy privilege bestowed by Providence, to remove all hesitation from their resolutions, and leave nothing doubtful but the execution. But this first strong and happy impulse does not always last; when the sentiment which gave it birth ceases to be exclusive, things which had been forgotten reappear, the realities of life and the peculiarities of character resume their claims, and what we still desire above all things is, nevertheless, not our sole object. This was precisely the case with Caroline. For a considerable time her heart was so full of the idea of her great loss, of the remembrance of her faults, of her affection for her father, and of the new pleasure of exerting herself for the sake of others, that she could not form a thought exclusively for herself, and would have been indignant had she been desired to do so; but when, after the lapse of several months, life had returned to its uniform course, when business was again attended to, and all the family had resumed their usual habits, she perceived how completely her own had been overturned. The time which she formerly employed, according to her fancy, was no longer her own; a great part of it was absorbed by her little brother, and her pursuits were also frequently interrupted by her father. As long as he had a friend constantly at hand, he might be always disposed to accommodate himself to the arrangements of his daughter, but now that this friend was no more, Caroline was required to replace her, and became his property: their positions were changed, and the effect of this was perpetually felt, and the more strikingly in proportion as their first deep affliction subsided by degrees, and M. de Manzay was able to take someinterest in the scenes around him, and his daughter to enter into her own employments.
It will readily be believed that, in a young person of sixteen, a change of this nature could not be made easily, or completely carried out from the first. In order to maintain it, Caroline was obliged to exert much self-control, and she often failed of success. It would sometimes happen that she kept her brother waiting to repeat his lesson, because she was reading an interesting book, or playing an air that she liked; on other occasions, she would defer the household accounts for several days whilst she was finishing a drawing, or completing a piece of embroidery; and occasionally her father could read so plainly in her countenance that she had no interest in what he proposed, that he would give up his intention, not without a melancholy retrospect of the days when whatever he wished became immediately the earnest object of another. Yet it must also be said that Caroline acknowledged and regretted all her faults, and very often repaired them so promptly and so thoroughly, that they almost became a merit, and led to fresh improvement. Stephen never found her so kind and patient, or her father so affectionately devoted to him, as when she had to reproach herself with some act of impatience or caprice; and, generally speaking, she quickly recovered herself. To give one instance amongst others:—It was several months after the death of Madame de Manzay, and everything had been placed as far as possible on its former footing in the château, and tranquillity and peace, the more valuable in proportion as happiness is wanting, were reestablished in the house, when, one day, M. de Manzay entered his daughter's apartment with a letter in his hand. "Caroline," he said, "would you like Denis to come and live with us for some time?"
"Oh, no, certainly not. I do not want him; he is insufferable."
"But, my dear, his guardian is lately dead, andDenis, as you know, is on bad terms with the wife, so that he cannot remain with her: where can he go, unless he comes to Primini?"
"Let him go where he likes. Why does he make himself detested by every one? Oh! I should not have a moment's peace if he were here; I would rather go away myself than remain with him. Pray, papa, write word at once that you cannot have him."
"I will write and say thatyouwould rather not; for my own part, I will assuredly not be the person to refuse to receive your mother's nephew;" and M. de Manzay left the room. Caroline was struck with these last words, and with the tone in which they were uttered. "My mother's nephew," thought she; "but Denis does not in the least resemble mamma; he is as unamiable as she was good: yet my father appears to regret him: perhaps he thinks that Denis will be cured of his faults—but that cannot be, for he never listens to a word that is said to him. However, he must not be left in the streets; besides, if my father wishes him to come here, that is the most important point. Well! I must be patient, and, after all, he will not eat me."
Caroline rose, after having made these brief reflections, and repaired to her father's room. He was pacing the apartment with a pensive air, still holding in his hand the letter which announced the death of Denis's guardian.
"My dear papa," said she, "I come to request you to invite Denis to come to us."
"Indeed, my dear."
"Yes; just now I was still more unreasonable than he is: pray be so kind as to think no more of it, and to write for Denis."
"You are a good girl, and I promise you to prevent him from tormenting you."
"Oh! no, papa, do not trouble yourself about the matter; I know that these petty grievances are very annoying to you, and I will find means to manage.Perhaps he may have learned to behave better than formerly, and I am certainly less childish than I was a year ago. Make yourself easy, papa, all shall go on well."
A fortnight after this conversation, Denis arrived at his uncle's house. He was fifteen, but his reason was not in proportion to his age. Endowed with great strength and unconquerable activity, he delighted only in noise and commotion, and, if he was fond of teazing, it was only to produce this commotion. Anything was acceptable to him but quiet: the anger of a child, the insults of a servant, the barking of a dog, all answered his purpose, and he would not have cared to teaze an animal unless it cried out. During his first visit to Primini, Stephen had been a great assistance to him. Sometimes he would torment him, and amuse himself with his anger; sometimes he would divert him, and laugh at the displeasure which this occasioned to Caroline; and, if the latter became seriously angry, Denis had attained the height of his wishes. He was not ill-disposed, but he could not endureennui, and he knew not how to avoid it by rational occupations. Brought up in the country, and much spoiled by his guardian, he had taken more interest in the employments of the labourers, the gardeners, and the gamekeepers, than in the lessons which he from time to time received from the masters, who came from the neighbouring town. He never took up a book, unless he met with accounts of voyages, and battles, tales of robbers, or ghost stories; and his greatest ambition was to lead the life of a corsair some day, or to go and live amongst the savages, and endeavour to be chosen as the chief of a tribe. He was brave, adroit, and capable of generous actions, but he was violent and wilful, and through his excessive activity was becoming a torment to himself and others.
Such was the guest whose arrival Caroline dreaded and certainly not without reason. When he enteredthe drawing-room, where all the family was assembled, he rushed forward so abruptly to embrace his uncle, that he overturned a table which stood in his way; the lamp which was upon it fell upon Stephen, struck him severely, and covered him with oil. He began to cry, and Caroline, running to him, wounded her foot with a piece of the broken glass. In a word, the arrival of Denis was a signal for noise and confusion; and, what was still worse, Caroline was much disposed to be angry with him, and demand whether he would never learn to be more careful—but she restrained herself, recollecting the promise she had given to her father that all should go well; and, when tranquillity was a little restored, she embraced her cousin cordially, and received him in a very friendly manner. During some days all went on tolerably well; Denis had so much to see that he did not require the aid of others to pass away his time; besides, notwithstanding his rudeness, he was not altogether exempt from that kind of shyness, which is not unusual with those who can neither conform to the established usages of society, nor entirely shake off their exactions. He was always ill at ease with persons with whom he was not completely familiar; indeed, he generally withdrew when a stranger came in; and the few days which were required to renew his acquaintance with the inhabitants of Primini were agreeable enough to them, and very painful to himself: but this state of things did not long continue, he soon recovered the freedom of his disposition and manners, and the effect of this upon the tranquillity of the château was speedily felt. At his first attacks, Caroline, who had prepared herself to bear everything with patience, supported her cousin's tricks without complaint, picked up a dozen times the reel of cotton which he threw down, re-lighted the taper which he extinguished, or replaced before her piano the chair which he removed as soon as she left it. One day, however, Denis, weary of his ineffectual attempts to put her out of temper, afterhaving tried in vain during the whole of a rainy morning, began to teaze Stephen, and smeared with ink a picture which he held in his hand. The child burst into tears, and Caroline, excited by his vexation, and by the impatience which she had so long curbed, was now seriously angry.
"Leave my room, Denis," she cried, "it really is impossible to live with you. Not satisfied with trying the whole day to provoke me, you must now make poor Stephen cry. Go away, I will not have you stay in my room."
"Then you must put me out of the door yourself, for I shall not stir."
"You will not go! Am I not mistress in my own apartment?"
"Certainly, if you can only make yourself obeyed;" and, so saying, Denis placed himself in an arm-chair.
"I will go and fetch my father."
"As you please; I am not afraid of my uncle, he is much kinder than you are."
Caroline hastened to M. de Manzay's room; she was ready to cry, and her flushed cheeks betrayed her vivid emotion.
"Papa," she said, "will you come and order Denis to quit my room?"
"Why do you wish to turn him out?"
"He teazes me, and makes Stephen cry; it is impossible to have any peace with him,—he makes me quite miserable."
"Well, then, let him return to Paris."
"No—I only want him to leave my room."
"That would settle the question to-day, but to-morrow he might begin again; and I will not have to interfere perpetually in your quarrels."
"This is the first time, papa, I have ever applied to you."
"The same thing will be recurring every day. I would rather he should go—he must be sent to college."
"Send Denis to college, papa! He would be expelled directly."
"So much the worse for him; there will be nothing left for him but to go to sea; that is, after all, the best profession for him, and I will not have him render you unhappy."
"But, papa, would it not be better to prevent him from doing so, by obliging him to behave more reasonably?"
"It would be insufferable to me, to be obliged to be always looking after him. I require tranquillity. I will send Denis away if you like it, but to be perpetually watching him is what I cannot do."
"Then," she exclaimed, in tears, "I must be the victim of this mischievous boy."
"No, certainly; that shall not be the case: he shall go at once. Call my nephew," said M. de Manzay to a gardener, who was at work in front of the window.
"He is not in the château, sir," replied the man; "he has just gone down towards the mill with Master Stephen."
"With Stephen!" repeated M. de Manzay. "What were you telling me then just now, Caroline?"
"They seem to have made up their quarrel, papa, and I will follow their example, for I could not suffer Denis to be sent away."
"So much the better, for this time I will pass over his conduct, but at the very first dispute——
"There shall be none, papa; or, at least, you shall not be troubled about the matter."
"Thank you, my dear child, embrace me. You are a good girl, and the joy of your poor father's heart." And M. de Manzay pressed Caroline to his bosom with the utmost tenderness, grateful for the decision which spared his weakness. When she had quitted him, she reflected on her position. She saw clearly that it was in vain to seek from her father any support against Denis, for, although he had not the same affection for him as he felt towards herself, he wasalmost as much afraid of opposing him: not that Denis was ill-disposed, but he was so eager about what he wished, and had so determined a will, that his uncle hesitated to resist him; and it would have been a thousand times less painful to him to send Denis away, in order to spare his daughter a moment's uneasiness, than to watch over his conduct, and prevent him from being so troublesome and disagreeable.
It was, therefore, in herself alone that she must seek a remedy for the inconveniences occasioned by her cousin's disposition. It was only by her own calmness and superior sense that she could make him ashamed of his resolution to teaze her. She had already occasionally experienced the happy effects of apparent indifference, and he had more than once desisted from his mischievous tricks, when he found that they did not attain his object. The only plan, then, was to be habitually so patient as to weary him out, and induce him to seek amusements less annoying to others. This being the case, her own tranquillity, and that of her father, must depend upon herself, and for this it was worth while to make some efforts. Yes, undoubtedly, it was well worth while, but such efforts were not so easy as Caroline had imagined, as she quickly found by experience. She said to herself, beforehand, that, after all, she need not be so very unhappy, because Denis would gather her choicest flowers, trample on her flower-beds, disturb her silkworms, or meddle with her herbal; that domestic tranquillity was more valuable than these trifles; and that she had but to sacrifice them at once and entirely: but, if she could bear calmly, though not without a secret struggle, the malicious tricks which her cousin played her, and was not angry once in a dozen times that she was tempted to be so, and that he well deserved it, she could not behold Stephen's vexations with the same equanimity, and when he began to cry her indignation would burst forth. This was, however, bad policy; for Denis then enjoyed adouble triumph, which was the more agreeable to him because it was so easily gained. Poor Caroline had, therefore, to pass many unhappy moments; and, whether she succeeded in commanding herself or not, she was continually vexed and agitated, and was every day surprised to find life so full of hardships, and duty so difficult.
But she had also to encounter other difficulties, which were quite unexpected, and which she could not overcome by mere force of will, and a determination to conquer them. The greater part of these difficulties did not arise from within, from her own habits and disposition, from her old aversion to contradiction, and still more to restraint; they came from without, and had their source in the prejudices and passions of others; and upright intentions and firm resolution were not sufficient immediately to overcome them. Caroline had excited many unfavourable prejudices, which, however just in some respects, were unjust in their exclusive severity: it was necessary for her to triumph over these,—necessary, but difficult; and she learned to see how intimate is the connection in our destinies, what lengthened responsibility may attach to an action, in appearance the most trivial, and how indispensable it is to act to the best of our ability in all things, if we would have a conscience free from the fear of consequences.
Two years had now elapsed since Caroline had lost her mother. M. de Manzay had regained sufficient self-command to occupy himself with the education of Stephen. The hunting season detained Denis at a distance from the château; and Caroline, being now accustomed to the management of household affairs, was not obliged to devote so much time to them; and, having become more reasonable, she employed her remaining hours better, and consequently found more leisure than formerly, although in reality she had much more to do. She was particularly struck by thedetails given in a newspaper of the happy results produced in the village of L——, by the establishment of a school and working institution for girls, according to the method of mutual instruction. All night her head was full of the subject, and the next day, as soon as she rose, she went and proposed to her father to found a similar school of industry in the village, near their château, and offered to undertake its direction.
"We must send for a person who understands the method from one of the Paris schools," she said, "we can then form the establishment and train the monitors; when they are sufficiently instructed, the management of the children will be entrusted to them, and I shall superintend them. That was the plan adopted at L——."
"I ask nothing better, my dear; it will be useful to the village, and afford you occupation. Think over the matter again, and, if you persist in your project, we will speak of it to the curé."
"Why speak to him? It is not his business."
"The education of his parishioners is, in a certain sense, his business; and his opposition would be a great obstacle."
"But surely he would not oppose it; he ought to be pleased when the poor are benefited."
"He is no doubt very charitable, but he is also self-willed. You know I have never been able to hold intercourse with him upon any point whatever. He would not even recommend a beggar to me."
"Very true, but he cannot refuse our proposal. Oh! how happy I shall be when the plan is carried into effect."
Caroline had several conversations with her father on the subject, and was delighted at the idea of being useful to all those little girls, who were so wretched and so ignorant. The day on which it was at length decided between them that the school should be established, she went out full of joy to take a walk. She was musing over her projects, considering in what manner she could render herself beloved and respected by the children, and gain their confidence—thought over the rewards she would give, and the good advice she would address to them—in a word, she was at this moment quite happy, and foresaw no difficulty, when she met the curé, who was returning from a visit to a sick person. He bowed, and would have passed without speaking to her, but, with the confidence natural to her age and character, she stopped him saying, "Monsieur le Curé, I have something to tell you."
"Indeed! Miss Caroline; what can it be?" replied the curé, with an air of surprise and almost of severity. "It appears to me that we have not much connection with each other, and that you occupy yourself but little with the sort of affairs that interest me."
"But I wish to occupy myself with them, and that is what I have to tell you about. My father intends to establish a school of industry in the village."
"For what purpose? We have already a schoolmistress."
"She is old and half deaf, they say; besides she has not a good method of teaching."
"How do you know that? You have never visited the school."
"I shall go every day to the new school; I shall be superintendent."
"You understand, then, what is to be taught?"
"I suppose I know how to read and write."
"Yes, but the catechism; you are probably not acquainted with that; for you do not set a very good example to our young girls."
"How! Monsieur le Curé," exclaimed Caroline, colouring with anger and vexation; "what do you mean?"
"I mean, young lady, that you often come into church after the service has begun, and sometimes go away before it is over."
"Oh, Monsieur le Curé, it is a very long time since that has happened."
"I know nothing about that; I have not time to pay attention to the exact days, but it is really a scandal."
"Monsieur le Curé, I now always remain the whole time. Pray inquire if, for the last two years, I have not come in very punctually."
"Yes; and do you no longer give bad advice as you used to do formerly?"
"I never gave any one bad advice."
"You forget that, in consequence of your interrupting the gardener's daughter in her attendance on the catechism, you caused her first communion to be deferred, and that, when you saw her crying on that account, you told her it was no great misfortune, and gave her a neck-handkerchief to console her, so that she ended by saying that it did not much matter whether she made her first communion then or not, and that a year sooner or later was all the same to her. Perhaps you do not recollect also, that when your milkwoman, Dame Joan, wanted to send her daughter to her old mother, and that Matty did not like going, you told her that her mother was very ill-natured to oppose her wishes, and that your parents let you do whatever you pleased."
"But, Monsieur le Curé, I was then a child; it is more than three years ago."
"You have now, then, become reasonable, I suppose, Caroline?"
"You know I have, Monsieur le Curé.'
"And how should I know it? Have you ever told me so?"
"How could I tell you? We never see you at the château."
"Where, then, could I learn the alteration of which you speak? Have I seen any effects of it? Do you ever visit our poor? Have you given good advice to our young girls? Have you procured work for theirmothers? You talk of superintending a school of industry; do you even know how to hem a duster? It is said that you do not. No, Miss Caroline; go and play on the piano, work at your embroidery, amuse yourself, but do not pretend to teach others: there we can do without you."
"Oh! how severe you are, Monsieur le Curé," said poor Caroline.
"I am but just, Miss Caroline. I am aware that this is not the way they speak to you at the château; but things are not the better for that."
"Why have you not given me good advice? I should have profited by it."
"To be sure I ought to have done so, in order that M. de Manzay might ridicule it!"
"My father has never ridiculed you, Monsieur le Curé."
"That is hardly probable. He opposes me constantly. Not a week ago he prevented the municipal council from doing what I requested: he had the upper hand then, now it is my turn. Good evening, Miss Caroline; you will not establish your school."