It was in the month of December; the church clock had just struck five, and the morning was very dark, when one of the servants of the inn came to inform Madame de Vesac, and her daughter Cecilia, that the carriage was ready, and that they could continue their journey. They had left Paris early on the previous day, for the purpose of visiting the estate of Madame de Vesac, to which she had been called by urgent business. The distance was a hundred and fifty leagues, and they had travelled by post; they had been on the road till ten o'clock on the previous evening, and were now about to resume their journey after having taken a few hours' repose. Madame de Vesac called her daughter; Cecilia, terribly sleepy, half opened her eyes, then let her head fall back again upon her pillow. Her mother was obliged to call a second, and even a third time, and she awoke up at last, exclaiming "Oh dear! dear! how disagreeable it is to get up at five o'clock in the morning at this time of year!" She would have said, had she dared, "Oh dear! what a misfortune!" for every contradiction or suffering, however slight, always assumed, with Cecilia, the character of a misfortune. At everylittle accident that befel her, she fancied that no one had ever suffered so much as she did, and really believed that cold, hunger, thirst, and sleepiness, were with her quite different matters from what they were with other people. When laughed at for the disproportionate annoyance which the petty inconveniences of life occasioned her, she would say "Oh! you do not feel as I feel!" and, indeed, believed so.
Nevertheless, as Cecilia possessed a generous disposition, an elevated mind, a lively imagination, and a due share of pride, she had a passionate admiration for high and noble actions, and even a great desire to imitate them, sometimes saying that she would give everything in the world for an opportunity of becoming a heroine. "Provided," her mother would add with a smile, "that your acts of heroism never exposed you to the chance of being scratched by a thorn, or to the necessity of walking a few steps in uneasy shoes." And then Cecilia, a little vexed, would maintain that such things as these had nothing whatever to do with heroism.
Madame de Vesac had not been able to bring her maid with her, as she was ill at the time they left home. This rendered their arrivals at the inns, and especially their departures, more disagreeable, as they were themselves obliged to pack and unpack their luggage, and attend to a variety of troublesome details. Madame de Vesac spared her daughter these inconveniences as far as possible. On the present occasion, she had allowed her to sleep until the last moment, and when Cecilia awoke, almost everything was ready for their journey. Still it was necessary to arrange and pack up her night-things, and see that nothing was forgotten; and the cold and the darkness had so chilled her courage, that nothing but shame prevented her from shedding tears at every effort she made, and every step she took. And yet she was thirteen years old; but at no age do people cease to be children, if they allow themselves to attach importanceto every whim that may cross their minds, or to every trifling inconvenience which they may have to bear. Cecilia had much more trouble, and was much longer about what she had to do than would have been necessary had she set courageously to work. "Make haste," repeated her mother every moment, and Cecilia made haste, but with the air of one who had no heart for what she was about. To have given herself this, nothing was required but a slight effort, a slight exertion of her reason: she need only have said, "What I have to do at present is so far from being beyond my powers, as I try to persuade myself, that if I felt the least wish to do it I should find no difficulty in it." But Cecilia did not choose to desire what would have been so beneficial to her, and, for the sake of saving herself a single mental effort, sufficient to conquer her repugnance and idleness, she allowed herself to relapse into them every moment, and submitted to the continued exertions demanded by every action and movement.
At last, all was ready; Madame de Vesac and her daughter entered their carriage and departed. Cecilia's griefs, however, being still undiminished, the night was so dark, and so cold, and she had so little courage to resist the feeling of sadness which it induced. She shivered in her wadded dress, and beneath her two or three shawls; her fur shoes did not prevent her from complaining of thedeadly coldnessof her feet, nor could she sufficiently cover her hands with her dress, though already encased in fur gloves. At length, in spite of her distress, she fell asleep, and slept quietly until it was broad daylight. When she awoke, the sun had already dissipated the thick fog of the morning. It shone brilliantly over the country covered with snow, and was even felt through the windows of the carriage. Everything seemed to announce a fine winter's day, and her heart began to revive. They stopped for breakfast, and took it in a comfortable warm room, and this completely restored her energyand cheerfulness. Her mother then began to jest about the despair she had manifested a few hours before. "I see," she said, "that for the acts of heroism to which you purpose to devote yourself, you will be careful to select the months of July and August, for cold is quite adverse to your virtue."
"But mamma," said Cecilia, "how can you expect one to stir, when one's fingers are benumbed with cold?"
"Since, though complaining the whole time, you did nevertheless manage to do so, I presume the thing was possible, but I perceive, at the same time, that such an effort must have something in it surpassing the highest courage, and were it not for the terrible fatality which has subjected you to so severe a trial, I should have been extremely careful not to have required anything of the kind from you."
"However, it is quite certain, mamma, that one might choose some better time for travelling than the month of December."
"Not if it happened to be in that month that one had business to attend to which required travelling. You will one day learn, my child, that there are things more impossible than enduring the cold, or even than moving one's fingers when they are benumbed. You remember what Cæsar said:It is necessary that I should go, and it is not necessary that I should live.
"One might very well expose one's life, on occasions of importance, and yet not be able to do impossibilities, however important they might be."
"Such as putting in a pin or tying a shoe when one is cold?"
"I do not mean that," replied Cecilia, a little out of humour, "and besides you will allow, mamma, that our affairs are not of such importance as those of Cæsar."
"How do you know that? the importance of things is relative; I am not called upon to overturn the world; such a thing would give me no pleasure, butI have to settle a matter to which your father attaches great importance, and to show myself worthy of the confidence he reposed in me, when, on leaving for the army he placed all his affairs in my hands; in fine, it is necessary for me that he should be pleased with me, for on this depends the happiness of my life; and on your part, it is necessary that you should prove yourself able to support with courage unavoidable inconveniences. All these things are important, and yet," added Madame de Vesac, smiling, "I do not think we run any risk of dying on account of them."
"Oh, no! mamma," said Cecilia, smiling too, "but I assure you that even Cæsar would have found it very cold this morning."
"I have not the least doubt of it; but Cæsar was such a great man! Do you know, Cecilia, that if we were to examine with care, I feel sure that among his great actions we should find many which must have benumbed his feet and hands."
"In that case," said Cecilia, somewhat drily, "he must have been very fortunate if he could find matters to attend to which would prevent his thinking of the cold, for it is certainly very disagreeable."
"Undoubtedly," replied Madame de Vesac, carelessly; "but there are some persons who can manage to think of every thing. I am persuaded, for instance, that had you been in Clælia's place, when, flying from the camp of Porsenna, she crossed the Tiber on horseback, you would have found it excessively disagreeable, to have been obliged to wet your feet."
"Well, mamma," said Cecilia with animation, "you ought to be delighted at that, since you are continually telling me that instead of wishing to be a heroine, it is quite enough to attend to one's duties merely."
"Certainly; but I who make no pretensions to heroism, find that mere duty is sometimes quite sufficient to employ all our powers, and that it is impossible that we can always do what simple duty requires, unless we have learned to bear cold, fatigue, and eventhe misfortune of having to get up at five o'clock in the morning in the month of December."
"It is nevertheless certain, mamma, that there are things which it is quite impossible to do, such as walking when one is tired."
"Or moving one's fingers when they are cold, for instance. Undoubtedly there are things which are impossible to every one, but the difference I find between Cæsar and you is, that in his case the impossibility came much later, and that at the degree of fatigue at which you would sayI cannot walk, he would have saidI must walk, and would have found strength to proceed. You are not aware how much strength people possess when they really wish to make use of it."
"I assure you, mamma," replied Cecilia, with some slight degree of temper, "that when I say I cannot do a thing I really cannot."
"I am sure of that, but I should like to know whence arises the impossibility. Pray think of this at the first opportunity. It is necessary that I should know whether you are really weaker than other people."
Cecilia made no reply; she was perfectly persuaded that no one understood her sufferings, and had never asked herself whether she were not made like other people, and consequently able to endure what they endured. The day passed well enough, and when night came she slept.
She was sleeping soundly, when a violent jerk suddenly aroused her. "Gracious! what is the matter?" she exclaimed. "We are upset," said Madame de Vesac; and in fact at that moment, the carriage, which had passed over a large stone, came to the ground with a violent shock, and turned completely over on one side. Cecilia screamed, and fell upon her mother. "Do not be frightened," said Madame de Vesac, who, notwithstanding the inconvenience of her position, thought only of her daughter. The carriage was stopped, and the postilion dismounted, and came to their assistance. All this time Cecilia did not cease screaming. "Where are you hurt?" asked her mother, trembling lest she should be severely wounded. "Everywhere," replied Cecilia, unconscious of what she said, the fright had so bewildered her. When the postilion opened the door which happened to be uppermost, Cecilia knew not what to do to extricate herself from her position. "Get up," said the postilion.
"Get up," repeated her mother, but Cecilia replied, "I cannot," without knowing whether she could or not, for she had not even tried. At last the postilion, who was active and strong, raising her up, lifted her out of the carriage, and thus freed her mother from a weight which almost overpowered her and made her feel ready to faint. Then Madame de Vesac, in her turn, getting out with the assistance of the postilion, hastened to her daughter, whom she was delighted to find standing up, although motionless, and not knowing whether she had a limb of which she could make use. In a little while, being somewhat reassured by her mother's voice, Cecilia began to answer the repeated questions put to her to ascertain where she was hurt. Both her knees were bruised, and her elbow grazed: she had a slight swelling on the head, a bonnet box had pressed her side, and her foot, which happened to be under the seat of the carriage, was a little swelled. "I am so bruised all over that I cannot move," she said, moving, however, the whole time in every direction to feel where she was hurt. She asked her mother whether she, too, were not hurt. "I think," replied Madame de Vesac, "I have sprained my wrist, for it is very painful, and I cannot use my hand."
"Just like my foot," replied Cecilia, and saying so, she began to walk. Madame de Vesac smiled, but said nothing. She wrapped her hand in her shawl, the ends of which she tied round her so as to support her wrist, and then busied herself with what was to be done.Recovered from the first shock of their fall, and congratulating themselves on having escaped so well, they nevertheless found themselves placed in a very unpleasant predicament. Comtois, the only servant who had accompanied them, had gone on before, as a courier, to prepare the horses. The postilion, unable by himself to raise the carriage, was obliged to go for assistance to the post-house, from which they were still at a considerable distance. Madame de Vesac and Cecilia, therefore, as they could not follow him since he went on horseback, nor reach the post-house alone, as they were ignorant of the way, were obliged to remain on the road until his return. The night was extremely dark, and the cold, without being very intense, was sharp and disagreeable. A sleet was falling, which, as it reached the ground, was converted into ice. The carriage, completely overturned, afforded no shelter, and to the other inconveniences of their position, was added that of being quite alone at ten o'clock at night upon the high road. Madame de Vesac, however courageous, was not without uneasiness, but she knew it was useless to give way to it; and when Cecilia, a little terrified, asked her if they were to remain alone, "You see we must," she replied, in a tranquil voice, which gave her daughter to understand, that though she was aware of the inconvenience of the arrangement, she nevertheless submitted to it with calmness, because it was necessary. Cecilia herself saw this necessity so plainly that she made no reply; but when after unharnessing the horses, and securing two of them to a tree, the postilion mounted the third to go and seek assistance; when she saw him depart, when the sound of his horse's feet growing fainter and fainter at last ceased to fall upon her ear, then her heart shrank with terror, a cold perspiration covered her limbs, and she drew close to her mother. Madame de Vesac perceived her alarm, but made no remark, well knowing that nothing so much increases terroras speaking of it. She merely endeavoured to restore her confidence a little, by giving her, on her own part, an example of courage and tranquillity.
The wind became more violent, the sleet increased, and a heavy fall of snow began to mingle with it: Madame De Vesac and her daughter went over to the side where the carriage offered some defence against the rain and snow which were beating into their faces; but this shelter did not long suffice, the gusts of wind became so violent, that Cecilia was twice on the point of losing her hat, notwithstanding the ribbons by which it was confined. It was with difficulty that they kept their shawls around them; the snow assailed them on all sides, melting upon them, and penetrating their clothes; and they were benumbed by a damp coldness, from which their inability to move left them no means of escape. Cecilia did not think of complaining, for no one could have assisted her; besides, she could not doubt that her mother suffered as much as herself, and complaints are seldom made except to excite the pity of those who seem better off than we are, and who, therefore, are able to think of us rather than of themselves. Cecilia now discovered how erroneous it is to suppose that any comfort is to be derived from complaining: perhaps even she suffered less from her position, than she would have done had she lamented it; but she did not make this reflection, and it was natural that the necessity of the case should render her more courageous.
Madame de Vesac, however, fearing lest her daughter should become ill, from the cold and damp which had penetrated her clothes, proposed to her to seek shelter in a wood which extended on both sides of the road, and the trees of which, though divested of their leaves, were at least sufficiently close to break the violence of the wind and snow; but this wood was the principal object of Cecilia's dread. Terrified at the proposition, she could only utter the words, "Oh! mamma, to go into the wood!"
"Just as you like, my child," said Madame de Vesac, "but," she added, smiling, "who do you think would come after us in such weather as this? You may be quite sure there is nobody abroad but ourselves."
Cecilia made no reply, her thoughts terrified her to such a degree that she dared not utter them, and had she pronounced the wordrobbers, it would have seemed to her that she was calling them; but at that moment there came a gust so violent, that the carriage appeared shaken by it; one of the blinds which happened to be down, was so violently agitated that the cords snapped, and being no longer upheld it was lifted by the wind, and struck Cecilia on the head. Seized with terror she sprang from her place; the storm continued, she was unable to resist it, yet dared not return to the carriage. Completely bewildered by the wind, she neither knew where she was, nor what she did: and her mother taking her by the arm led her into the wood, where she recovered a little of her self-possession. Here the wind was much less violent, and as always happens when we look at things closely, Cecilia having entered the wood felt much less terrified, than while merely considering it from the road. A copse where there happened to be a few trees, which still retained their leaves, although it was the month of December, had protected a few feet of ground from the snow, and afforded the travellers a shelter from the wet. The double trunk of a tree furnished them with a support, and they were at least in a situation where they could await without excessive discomfort the assistance which could not be far distant, when all at once Cecilia, whose eyes were turned towards the copse, probably seeing the branches agitated by the wind, fancied she perceived a figure moving and advancing towards them. Completely bewildered by fright she seized her mother's arm, and without saying a word dragged her on, as quickly as she was able, through the bushes, plunging deeper into the wood toavoid the terrible objects by which she believed herself pursued. Her mother, astonished, after having followed her for a few steps endeavoured to stop her. "Where are you going?" she said. "What is the matter?" But Cecilia, whose terror was only increased by the sound of her mother's voice, because she was afraid of its having been heard, continued to drag her along with an extraordinary degree of strength, and her mother, who would not leave her, was obliged to follow. At length, by dint of talking she recalled her to herself; she stopped a moment and said in a low tremulous voice, "Did you see him?"—"Who?" demanded Madame de Vesac.—"Among the trees ... a man...." "I have seen no one, you were mistaken, I assure you."—"Oh! I still hear him...." And she was once more on the point of starting off, but her mother restrained her. "My dear Cecilia," she said, greatly distressed at her condition; "my dear child, be reasonable, take courage; there is no one there, I assure you there is nothing to fear; confide in me who would not lead you into danger, and whose judgment is calmer than yours." A little restored by her mother's words, and the affectionate tone in which they were uttered, Cecilia, ashamed of her fears, stopped, and restored her mother's arm, which she still held, to its former position under her shawl.—"Let us retrace our steps," said Madame de Vesac, "lest we lose our way." Cecilia did not dare to say anything, but she shuddered at the idea of again passing so near the copse. At this moment they heard some one call them, and recognized the voice of Comtois. Cecilia breathed more freely, and hastened to reply; but Comtois had entered the wood at another part, and they stood still to discover whence the voice proceeded.
"It is in that direction, mamma," said Cecilia, who, delighted at the thought of avoiding the copse, pointed to a road a little more to the right than the one theywere on the point of taking. Madame de Vesac listened again, and the voice which still continued to call and answer, seeming, in fact, to proceed from the right, she took the direction indicated by Cecilia, and calling from time to time to Comtois, they walked on towards the spot whence the sound was still heard to proceed, but it seemed sometimes to approach, and sometimes to recede, for it appeared that Comtois altered his course according to the place where he thought they must be, and they themselves took first one direction and then another, without being quite sure which was the right. This state of uncertainty lasted for some minutes, but at length the voice sensibly approached, and they heard steps through the trees. "Is that you, Comtois?" It was he, and Cecilia in a transport of joy was ready to throw her arms round his neck; she forgot the cold, the sleet, and the wind; once freed from her former terror she now thought all her troubles were at an end. Comtois informed them that he had procured assistance, and that at that moment the men were engaged in raising the carriage, to which he was going to conduct them. But the question now was how to find the way, for, intent only on reaching each other, neither Comtois nor Madame de Vesac had thought of observing their route. They stopped to listen for some indication from the people at the carriage, but the wind bore the sounds another way, or when they did reach them, they were so faint and uncertain, that they concluded they must have advanced further into the wood than they had supposed. However, they directed their course towards the side on which they concluded the high road lay, listening every moment to discover whether the sounds increased in strength; sometimes Cecilia fancied she heard voices, and even maintained that she could distinguish that of the postilion: at other times hearing nothing she became uneasy, but the joy of having found Comtois sustained her courage. At length she exclaimed,"Mamma, I see an opening through the trees; that must be the road." Madame de Vesac looked, and perceived, indeed, a spot where the trees appeared to separate, but she did not think it was the high road, and was astonished at not hearing any noise. Cecilia made her hasten her steps, repeating, as she hurried her on, "There's the road, there's the road!" Her mother cautioned her not to rejoice too soon; but she did not listen to her, and was the first to reach a spot, open indeed, but so surrounded by the wood on all sides, that it afforded no means of egress, except by a path almost parallel to the one they had just left. She stood petrified.
"This is not the road," said Madame de Vesac.
"Indeed," said Comtois, "I don't know where we are now."
"What will become of us?" inquired Cecilia in a timid and anxious voice, but without those exclamations so habitual to her, for in the present moment of real fear and trouble her thoughts were more occupied with the situation itself, than with the desire of vividly displaying what she felt.
"We must endeavour to get out of this place," replied Madame de Vesac. "The road cannot be far off; but we must take a different direction from the one we have come by."
They once more stopped to listen and consult together; but they could hear nothing whatever; and as to the path they were to take, there was no choice except between the one by which they had come and another which led in the same direction. Their consultation, therefore, could not be of long duration. The second path seemed much better than the one they had left, it was tolerably wide, and pretty well beaten; and they hence concluded that it must necessarily lead to some frequented place. They therefore determined to follow it, and recommenced their journey with renewed courage; but Cecilia perceived that her mother arranged in a different manner the endof the shawl, with which she had contrived to support her arm, and that she occasionally carried her other hand to it; and concluding from this that she must suffer increased pain, she asked her about it.
"We must not think of this now," said Madame de Vesac; so that Cecilia was afraid to complain too much of her foot, which was beginning to give her pain. She only said, "My foot is rather painful." She had already endured sufficient real trouble during the night, to have learned to be silent about inconveniences not worth complaining of.
The snow fell with less violence, and the wind was somewhat abated, so that in the wood the cold was quite bearable. Madame de Vesac and her daughter, one on each side of Comtois, and supported by his arm, walked without much difficulty in a path tolerably smooth, and which the recently fallen snow prevented from being very slippery. Reanimated by this momentary relief, they pursued this part of their journey with tolerable cheerfulness, Madame de Vesac averring even that her arm was less painful since the cold had diminished, and Cecilia consoling herself with the hopes of soon being able to rest her foot in the carriage. Comtois from time to time raised his voice and called to the people at the carriage; but no one answered, and not a sound reached their ears. Again the travellers began to feel uneasy at thus continually advancing without any assurance that they were not going further away from the spot they wished to reach. However, proceed they must, for there was no reason to suppose that, in retracing their steps, they would be able to find any better way. At last they came to a point where the path was crossed by another precisely similar. They were now in the utmost perplexity, for there was no inducement for choosing one of the three paths rather than another, except perhaps that as the one they had come by did not seem to have brought them any nearer the road, it might be reasonable tochoose between the other two. But on which of them were they to fix?
Comtois attempted to climb a rather tall tree which happened to be at the entrance of one of the paths, hoping to be able to see from it the road and the carriage; but, not to mention that his boots did not allow him to climb with much agility, it happened that the first branch he clung to was decayed and broke, and he fell, fortunately without being much hurt; but Madame de Vesac, as well as Cecilia, whose own fall had rendered her excessively timid, prevented him from making any further attempt, by representing the frightful situation they would all be in if any accident befell him. There was no alternative, therefore, but to proceed, and let chance direct their course. They thought they remembered that in diverging from the road they had several times turned a little to the left; they consequently supposed that in returning they must take the contrary direction. On this, therefore, they fixed, not without much regret, however, at being unable to ascertain whither the opposite path led; but it was not a time for unavailing regrets, and they therefore made up their minds to trust that they had selected the best.
Nevertheless the spirits of the travellers began again to sink, Cecilia's foot was considerably swelled, and fatigue had greatly added to the pain of Madame de Vesac's arm, although her anxiety kept her in a state of agitation which prevented her feeling it as much as she would have done in calmer moments. Still this very anxiety was itself a serious evil: there was no certainty of their finding their way; and if chance did not guide them better than it had done thus far, she calculated with terror the number of hours they must pass in the wood, and the fatigues and sufferings they must endure whilst waiting for the light.
Cecilia, still more depressed, said nothing, and began to cease thinking: fatigue and sadness absorbed all her faculties.
The path they had taken terminated in a kind of cross-way, from which branched off several narrower paths. They fixed upon what appeared the widest and best; but it soon contracted to such a degree that Madame de Vesac and her daughter were obliged to resign the arm of Comtois, and allow him to walk in front and clear the way a little for them. The density of the wood at this part had kept the ground moist, and this moisture was now converted into ice, while the snow had been prevented from falling sufficiently to cover the path. They walked one behind the other, slipping at every step, and only able to keep themselves from falling by laying hold of the trees. Every moment their feet struck against the roots, or were caught in the trailing branches; and Cecilia, constantly on the point of falling, soon became unable to restrain her sobs. At last, at a very slippery part, she lost her footing, and fell upon her knees. A bramble, which happened to be across the path, caught in her clothes; and when she had succeeded in extricating her dress from it, it became entangled in her shawl, then got fastened to her gloves, and deprived her of the use of her hands. She tried to rise, but no sooner had she put her foot upon the ground than she slipped and again fell. Worn out as she already was, this slight accident quite exhausted her courage. Madame de Vesac turned round to give her her hand; but being near falling herself, she was obliged to catch hold of a tree: she could only pity and endeavour to encourage her daughter.
"Mamma," said Cecilia, "I cannot go on; it is impossible."
"My poor child," said Madame de Vesac, "are you quite sure it is impossible? Think seriously of it; this is not a trial to be made for pleasure merely, such as I proposed to you a short time since, but an exertion of courage absolutely indispensable. Only consider, my dear Cecilia," she added, in the most tender and caressing tone, "we have nothingbut our courage to extricate us from these difficulties; but with courage I think we have still sufficient strength left to enable us to go through a great deal. Would it not then be better to call it forth than weakly to yield to our distress?"
Thus saying, she assisted with her foot to extricate her from the bramble, while supporting her with her knees. Cecilia made no reply, but, raising herself up, continued her journey, and, feeling the truth of her mother's words, she exerted all her strength to avoid future complaints. Still she wept in silence; a weakness pardonable indeed, but one, nevertheless, which added to her sufferings, as weakness ever does.
Cecilia and Nanette, p. 53.
Cecilia and Nanette, p. 53.
They at last reached the end of this difficult route, and once more found themselves at an opening in the wood, where several paths terminated, but without being any better able to decide which they were to take. Stopping for a moment to consider, they thought they heard at no great distance a faint sound, which was not that of the wind. They listened; "Good heavens!" exclaimed Cecilia, "I think I hear some one crying;" and she shuddered as she spoke.
They listened again, and fancied they could distinguish the voice of a child. At length, after looking in every direction, favoured by the light of the moon, which was beginning to disperse the clouds, they perceived in a corner, a little within the opening, a figure standing motionless, and leaning against a tree. Cecilia was frightened, and clung tightly to the arm of Comtois.
"Let us see what it is," said Madame de Vesac, the more anxiously, as she still heard the sounds.
On a nearer approach, they discovered that what they had seen was a poor woman, leaning motionless against a tree, and who had by her side a little girl about eight years old. The poor creature held something in her arms, which, as they came closer, they found to be an infant of about two months old, motionless like the mother. It seemed benumbedwith cold; and its mother, without making any movement, or uttering a word, stood with her head bent over it, as if to warm it. One could scarcely say whether they were dead or alive. The voice which had been heard proceeded from the little girl, who, also motionless by her mother's side, continued crying in a low tone. At this moment, the moon rendered them distinctly visible. Madame de Vesac and Cecilia approached quite close to the woman, but she did not change her position. They looked at each other and trembled, for they feared that both mother and infant were dead. At last, Madame de Vesac said to her, "My good woman, what are you doing here?" She made no answer.
The little girl, who, on perceiving them, began to cry and sob more violently, pulled her by the skirt, exclaiming, "Mother! mother! some ladies!"
The poor woman raised her head, and pointed by her looks to her child, whose face she again covered with her own; they had, however, time enough to discern the face of the infant, which was pale and still as death. Madame de Vesac wished to ascertain if it yet lived, but knew not how to ask the question. At last she said in a low tone, at the same time laying her hand gently upon him, "He is very cold." "I cannot get him warm again," said the mother, in a still fainter tone, at the same time pressing him more closely to her bosom, as if anxious to make a new effort to impart her warmth to him. "Is he dead?" asked Comtois. The only reply to these terrible words were cries of despair, as the unfortunate creature pressed her infant more firmly to her heart. Madame de Vesac found means of taking its hand: it was cold as ice; but she felt its pulse, and perceiving it beat, she said with animation, "No! most assuredly he is not dead; I feel his pulse beat."
"Oh my God!" exclaimed the poor woman, with a stifled sigh, at the same time raising towards Madame de Vesac eyes beaming with gratitude, and alreadybeginning to be suffused with tears. But she again immediately turned them upon her child, whom she passionately kissed.
"Let us take him," said Madame de Vesac; "we are better able to warm him than you are."
"Give him to me. I will put him under my great coat," said Comtois, as he unfastened his thick, warm travelling coat. The poor woman hesitated. "Give him to me," he continued. "I have children of my own. I know how to manage them."
"Let him take the child," said Madame de Vesac; and the unhappy mother placed the infant in his arms, wrapping the coat round him. In order to make room for him, Comtois removed a bottle from one of the inside pockets.
"Stop!" said he; "this won't hurt him." It was a bottle of brandy; he opened it, and poured a few drops into the mouth of the child, who swallowed it.
"He swallows!" exclaimed the mother, in a transport of joy; and the child began to breathe more freely, and to move its little arms.
"I thought so!" said Comtois; "this would bring the dead to life. It would do you no harm either, to take a little, my good woman."
The poor creature replied that she did not want anything; but Madame de Vesac persuaded her to take a little to warm her. Then the little girl, who since the arrival of Madame de Vesac had ceased crying, watching all that passed around her, again began to sob, in a low tone, but sufficiently loud to make herself heard. Cecilia was the first to observe her, and began to caress her, in order to quiet her, but the child still continued crying, with her eyes directed to the bottle. Cecilia asked if a little might not also be given to her, and Comtois declared that it would do her no harm. "Yes," said Madame de Vesac, "if she only takes a few drops; but if you give her the bottle, she will drink too much." Meanwhile the child still cried and watched the bottle, and her manner was so quiet andgentle, that the heart of Cecilia was vividly touched. At last, by an effort of which she could not have believed herself capable, Cecilia took off her glove, and told the child that she should drink out of her hand; but when the little girl had done so, she hid her hand again, observing that it was very cold; but when the child rejected the brandy, saying it burned her mouth, Cecilia observed to her that it was not worth while to have made her take off her glove. She was on the point of putting it on again, when the mother said that a bit of bread would have been much better for her, as she had eaten nothing since noon. At this the child began to cry more bitterly.
"Oh, dear!" said Cecilia, "if I had but the bun I bought this morning, and did not eat."
"Where is it?" asked her mother.
"In the carriage."
"I thought I told you to put it in your bag."
"Yes, but my bag...." She interrupted herself, and uttered a cry of joy. She had not observed that her bag had remained attached to her arm. She felt the strings, undid them, opened it, and found the bun. It was a little crushed, indeed, by her fall, but the pieces were good. She gave one of them to the mother, who, without saying a word, and thinking herself unobserved, put it into her pocket. Cecilia again felt in the bag, and taking off her other glove, asked whether, if she crumbled a little of the soft part in her hand, they could not make the infant take some of it.
"What he wants," said Madame de Vesac, "is his mother's milk; but even supposing she has any for him, he is not at present sufficiently strong to take it; we must endeavour to reach some inhabited place as speedily as possible, where we may be able to give him the attention he requires."
Then the poor woman, who, after a moment of intense joy, felt all her fears and grief revive, saidweeping, "If he only lives until we reach Chambouri, I have my mother there, and she is very skilful in the care of children."
"Where is Chambouri?" inquired Madame de Vesac.
"It is a short league from here," replied the poor woman.
"It is the post town," added Comtois. "Do you know the way to it?"
"Do I know the way to it?" said the woman. "I was born there."
"Why did you not go there instead of remaining against that tree?"
"I fell three times upon the ice; the third time my poor baby gave a scream, and then was silent. At first I thought I had killed him; and then I thought if I fell again, I should be sure to kill him; besides, a moment after, finding he did not move, I believed him dead, and had no heart for anything."
"But now will you conduct us to Chambouri?"
"Certainly, provided we can get there in time," and the poor woman again began to weep.
"Yes, yes, we shall arrive in time;" said Madame de Vesac; "Comtois will carry the infant in one arm, and give the other to Cecilia. You and I," she added, addressing the mother, "will try to keep each other up."
They proceeded in accordance with this arrangement, Cecilia giving her hand to the little girl, and the poor mother walking by the side of her baby, every moment putting her hand upon its head, which was not covered by Comtois' coat, and redoubling her tears each time she felt it cold. Madame de Vesac, perceiving this, stopped to untie a small shawl, which she wore underneath her large one, and gave it to cover the head of the infant.
"It is indeed very cold," said Cecilia, who was beginning to think of her own troubles, and who foundthat by giving her hand to the little girl, she herself became very cold, from being unable to cover it with her shawl.
"How long have you been exposed to this cold?" inquired Madame de Vesac of the poor woman.
"We have not entered a house since noon," she replied. "I hoped to have reached Chambouri early this evening, but the bad weather and the bad roads have delayed us; and had it not been for you, my good lady, we must have passed the night in the wood."
"But would you have been able to endure the cold?" demanded Madame de Vesac.
"I don't know whether my poor little one would have survived it," she replied, with increased emotion, and then began to enumerate his perfections, as if she had already lost him. "He knew me," she said, weeping; "even this very morning he looked at me and smiled; the beautiful sunshine delighted him, and he raised his little arms, as if he wanted to jump; and then, after the sun had gone down, when, for the last time, I attempted to nurse him, he looked up at me, and tried to smile." At these words her tears again flowed with redoubled force.
"He will look at you; he will smile again," said Madame de Vesac.
"Oh!" continued the unhappy mother, "he has suffered so much; he looked at me, as if for help;" and in calling to mind the sad looks of her child, she could not restrain her sobs. Then Cecilia again, forgetful of her own troubles, withdrew her hand from Comtois' arm, and passing it under that part of his coat which enveloped the child, said to the mother, "Oh! he is very warm: feel him, he moves his little arms; I am sure he is comfortable." "Yes, he does move his arms, I can tell you," said Comtois; "see, he has pulled off the handkerchief which he had on his head;" and Cecilia let go the hand of the little girl to re-arrange the handkerchief. The poor motherknew not how to express her joy and gratitude; but the little girl, who had remained a short distance behind them, because Cecilia no longer held her hand, began to cry. "Come along," then, said her mother; but the poor little thing replied, "I cannot."
Cecilia went to her, and again took her hand, saying, "You must try to come along, my dear."
"How long have you been on foot?" inquired Madame de Vesac.
"Since noon," replied the poor woman. "I had no more money to pay for lodgings; we had eaten all the provisions I had brought for the journey, and I wanted to reach Chambouri."
"And has the child been walking all that time?"
"Yes, the whole time."
"Cecilia is right, my dear," said Madame de Vesac, addressing the little girl. "You must try to walk."
"If Comtois were not carrying the baby," said Cecilia, "I would beg him to take her up."
"Oh! I have another arm," said Comtois; "but then I could not support you, Miss Cecilia."
"Never mind me," said Cecilia. "I am much better able to walk without support, than this poor little thing is to continue the journey on foot."
Comtois then stooped down, and, seating the child upon his arm, raised her from the ground, saying, "You must take hold of my collar with both your hands;" to which the child replied, "I cannot."
"Why not?" demanded Cecilia. But on taking her hands to show her how she must hold the collar, she perceived that they were so cold that the child could not use them. "Oh dear!" she exclaimed, "she freezes me even through my gloves." Then, remembering that she had two pairs on, the outside ones lined with fur, she took them off, and after well rubbing the child's hands, put them on her; but, finding her still unable to hold the collar, she made her put her arms round Comtois' neck. The child,however, still continued to cry. "What is the matter," asked Cecilia; but she received no answer. "It is her poor feet," said her mother. "Her chilblains are broken, and yet she has walked barefoot the whole day; but now that she is no longer walking, she feels the cold more." Cecilia recollected the socks which she wore over her shoes; she took them off, and put them upon the feet of the little girl, who ceased crying. Then, taking the arm of the poor woman, Madame de Vesac having the other, she walked on courageously, complaining neither of the cold nor of the ice, though she found much more difficulty in maintaining her balance now that she was without her socks.
"My dear Cecilia," said Madame de Vesac, "how much strength we have found since the moment we thought it impossible to go any further!"
"Oh mamma!" exclaimed Cecilia, satisfied with herself, "an occasion like this gives one a great deal of strength."
"No, my child: such occasions merely show us all that we actually possess; and since we do possess it, why not make use of it on all occasions?"
"But they are not all of such importance."
"It is always important to succeed in what we undertake, and to do so as speedily and as completely as possible; we ought therefore to make every effort in our power to ensure success. When we are wanting in resolution, and think we have not sufficient strength on a trifling occasion, there is but one thing to be done, and that is to call up all we should be sure to discover in a case of great emergency."
As she concluded these words they reached the boundary of the wood, and found themselves at the entrance of the village of Chambouri.
"Here it is," exclaimed Cecilia, in a transport of joy.
"Yes!" said the poor woman; "but my motherlives close to the post-house, which is at the other end of the village."
"Oh dear!" cried Cecilia, in a mournful tone.
"Should we not be tempted," inquired Madame de Vesac, "to think it impossible to go any further?"
Cecilia, who was beginning to think so, recollected herself, examined her powers, and inwardly shuddered at the idea of all that she still felt able to endure. Trembling at the thought of being exposed to new trials, she was only re-assured when, after a quarter of an hour's further walking, she had entered the post-house, and was seated by the kitchen fire.
They had persuaded the poor woman to accompany them, to warm herself, and attend to her children, whilst waiting till her mother should be ready to receive them. The infant had fallen asleep in Comtois' arms, and when taken from them, the noise, the people, and the lights awoke him, and he began to cry.
"He cries!" exclaimed the mother, in a transport of joy; and falling on her knees with clasped hands, in front of Madame de Vesac, to whom Comtois had given the child, she repeated, "He cries!" while gazing at him intently, and kissing him. He ceased crying, and, pleased with the warmth of the fire, looked at his mother and smiled. "That is just how he looked at me this morning," she exclaimed, and burst into a flood of tears. They made him take a little milk whilst waiting until his mother was sufficiently rested to nurse him herself, and the pleasure which he manifested in taking it was a fresh subject of joy for the poor woman. Meanwhile Cecilia had taken possession of the little girl; she placed her upon her knees, and warmed her feet and hands, without even complaining that by so doing she was prevented from warming her own. At length the mother of the poor woman, hearing of her daughter's arrival, came for them and took them home, gratefully thanking Madame deVesac, who would not suffer them to depart until they had a comfortable supper. She ordered her own supper in a private room, and sent for a skilful surgeon, who happened fortunately to be at Chambouri, and who set her arm. In the meantime Comtois had gone in search of the carriage, which he found set to rights, and waiting for them. As he returned with it, a traveller entered the inn, who proved to be Madame de Vesac's man of business. He had come from her estate to meet her, making inquiries for her at every stage on the way, in order to prevent her going farther, as the affair for which she had been summoned was arranged. Cecilia therefore retired to rest, with the satisfaction of knowing that she should not have to continue her journey on the following morning, as Madame de Vesac announced that since she had time she should remain a couple of days at the inn, in order to attend to her arm. The next day they sent for the poor woman, who was full of joy at being able to exhibit her infant, now beginning to regain both strength and colour; nor was she ever weary of looking at him and kissing him. She stated that she had been married at a village some distance from Chambouri, to a mechanic, who had turned out a worthless fellow, and, after wasting all their means, had enlisted a short time before the birth of her infant; and that as soon as she was able to travel, she had set out in order to return to her mother, who had a little property, and with whom she intended to live. Madame de Vesac told her that she should consider herself as godmother to the child, whose life she had been instrumental in saving, and that she took him under her protection. But as he must still remain with his mother, who indeed would not have consented to part with him, she contented herself with giving her some money to assist in their maintenance, and she also permitted Cecilia to beg that the little girl, whose name was Nanette, might be committed to her care.
This proposition was gratefully accepted, and after afew days given to repose, Madame de Vesac set out on her return to Paris, with Cecilia and Nanette. From that moment Cecilia looked upon the child as her own, and so greatly was she delighted with her new possession, that she could speak of nothing else. Already had she disposed of all her old dresses in favour of Nanette. Already had she measured her in every direction, to ascertain whether in a dress stained with ink, and which she was delighted to part with, there would he sufficient to make a dress for Nanette, without employing the piece that was stained. Already had she thought, that by taking from her old black apron the part she had burned at the stove, there would be enough remaining to make an apron for Nanette. Already had she made her take off her cap of quilted cotton, to measure with a string the size of her head, in order to calculate how much cambric and muslin would be wanted to make her some neat little caps, while waiting until the return of the warm weather should enable her to go bare-headed, a habit which Cecilia intended she should acquire, it being so much more healthy for a little girl. Several times already had she said to her, "Nanette, hold yourself up;" but the child, who did not know what was meant by holding herself up, having never heard such an expression, only bent her head a little lower, as she always did when embarrassed. Then Cecilia raised it for her, with a quiet gentleness of manner, mentally repeating, as she did so, that patience is the first duty of one who wishes to bring up a child. Madame de Vesac smiled at her gravity; but counselled her, however, to relax it a little, if she wished to gain the confidence of her pupil.
Cecilia had formed the most extensive projects for the education of her protegée. "First of all," she said, "I will teach her to work well; this is absolutely necessary for a girl. I mean her to learn history and geography; perhaps even, if she has talent for them, I may teach her the piano and drawing. I am notsufficiently advanced myself to carry her very far, but I shall be improving every day, and then, when I am married and rich, I will give her masters, for I intend her to be very accomplished:" and Cecilia became more and more excited as she advanced with her projects and her hopes. Her mother listened to her, and smiled. Cecilia, perceiving this, was a little annoyed, and asked whether she were not right in wishing to give Nanette a good education.
"Certainly," replied Madame de Vesac; "that is why I advise you to commence by teaching her to read."
"That is a matter of course; but perhaps she can read already. Nanette, can you read?"
The child looked at her, then bent her head without answering. Cecilia raised her chin with her finger, again repeating, "Can you read?" But Nanette's only answer was to bend a little lower than before, as soon as Cecilia had withdrawn her finger. Cecilia, with a look at her mother, which seemed to say, "What patience one must have with children!" drew from her bag a book, which she had brought to read on her journey, and opening it at the title-page, she placed it before Nanette, and pointing to an A, said, "What is that?" Nanette raised her eyes, glanced askance at the A, and then cast them down again, without saying a word. Cecilia repeated, "What is that?" But Nanette continued silent. "It is an A," said Cecilia, lowering her voice, like one becoming impatient, and anxious to restrain herself. The child looked at her earnestly, as if she would have said, "What does it matter to me if it is an A?" "It is an A," repeated Cecilia; but Nanette only looked at her without answering. Cecilia was beginning to lose patience, but she called to mind the self-control her new duties required from her, and, taking Nanette upon her knees, she began to caress her, saying as she did so, "Why will you not say A?" Nanette did not stir. "Say A," continued Cecilia, "and I will giveyou this plum." Nanette looked first at the plum and then at Cecilia, and smiled. Cecilia smiled too, and repeated, "Say A." Nanette, still smiling, and with her head bent down, glanced slyly at the plum, and said A in a very low tone. Cecilia kissed her with delight. When the plum was eaten, she pointed to another A, but without being able to elicit any opinion on the matter from Nanette. "Say A," she repeated, in an affectionate manner, and Nanette looked round to see if there was another plum coming. However, whether in gratitude for the one she had already eaten, or from the hope of obtaining another, or from politeness to Cecilia, she once more consented to say A. This was a new joy for Cecilia, who, persuaded that Nanette was now quite perfect in the A, and enchanted at this first triumph in her education, returned with delight to the former A, expecting her to recognize it immediately; but this time it was impossible to obtain a syllable from her. Nanette had never seen a book—did not know what it was, nor what could be its use. She could not understand this fancy of making her say A. She had said it without regarding the form of the letter, and without thinking it was the name of the thing shown to her; and had all the A's in the world been placed before her, she would not have been any the wiser. After many useless efforts, Cecilia, completely discouraged, looked at her mother, with an expression of annoyance, saying, "What shall we do if she will not even learn to read?"
Madame de Vesac represented to her that she was beginning to despair very quickly, that it was quite natural that Nanette, astonished at the novelty of her situation, stunned by the carriage, and timid at finding herself among strangers, should have a difficulty in understanding what was shown her, and that it would be better to wait for a quieter time before commencing her instructions.
Cecilia was a little consoled by these words, and glad, moreover, to have a sufficient reason for deferringlessons of which, for the moment, she was heartily tired. However, considering, in the meantime, that she must endeavour to correct Nanette of whatever faults she might have, she determined that on the following morning, when they would he obliged to start at five o'clock, she would not allow her to complain of being so early awakened, or of the cold; but she had no occasion to enforce her lessons. Nanette, accustomed to suffering, never murmured nor complained of anything; and Cecilia was at a loss to know what to do with a child so gentle and docile as not to need scolding, and so little intelligent that it was difficult to tell what method to adopt for her instruction. However, the desire she felt of setting Nanette an example, and the good opinion she began to entertain of her own sense, now that she found herself intrusted with the education of another, prevented her from even thinking of complaining of the cold, or of the annoyance of being disturbed at five o'clock in the morning. She busied herself in arranging her things, in order to show Nanette how to manage; and Nanette, who would rather have packed and unpacked a dozen parcels than have said A once, endeavoured to obey her, and did not acquit herself badly. Cecilia testified her satisfaction, and they resumed their journey, mutually pleased, and, in order to maintain this good understanding, nothing more was said about the A until their arrival in Paris.
We may easily imagine how often, after her return home, Cecilia related the history of Nanette and the forest, and mentioned her intention of bringing up this little girl. The interest inspired by her narrative, and the importance she seemed to herself to acquire, whenever Nanette was asked for, revived those projects of education which the ill-success of her first attempts had somewhat cooled. Besides, she had felt so much pleasure in commencing Nanette's wardrobe, in trying on a dress which she had madefor her in two days, and thought it so delightful to have some one to command and send about her little commissions in the house, that she became daily more attached to this species of property. She wished to have Nanette sleep in her room, that she might be completely under her protection, but this Madame de Vesac would not permit, as she felt it would give rise to a thousand inconveniences, which Cecilia, in her eagerness for present gratification, could not foresee. It was therefore arranged that she should sleep with Madame de Vesac's maid, and go down to Cecilia's room every morning to receive the lessons of her young instructress. Cecilia at first declared that this was not enough, and that if more time was not allowed, it would be impossible for her to teach Nanette all she wished her to learn. Her mother, however, advised her to be content with this as a beginning, promising that, if in a little while, she still wished it, the time should be increased. The day Cecilia tried on Nanette's dress and bonnet, which seemed to delight the child very much, and while still exhibiting the apron she had cut out, she took advantage of the opportunity to tell her that if she wished to gain all these pretty things she must learn to read. Nanette did not very well know what was meant by learning to read, but she had seen Cecilia look into books, and remembered that it was in a book she was made to say A. This recollection was by no means agreeable, but as she was becoming accustomed to obey Cecilia, she consented for once to repeat after her, first A, then B, then C; and at last, all the letters of the alphabet. Cecilia made her repeat them two or three times, showing them to her in the different styles; and greatly pleased at having so easily obtained Nanette's submission, which she had so much difficulty in doing at the commencement, she flattered herself that the most important point was gained, and that her education would now rapidly advance. The same day she put her fingers on the piano, and Nanette was at firstdelighted with the sounds she produced by striking the keys, but she did not find it quite so amusing to go through the gamut, and repeat after Cecilia a dozen times,ut,re,mi,fa,sol,la,si,ut. However, she obeyed, and all went on to the satisfaction of the teacher. Cecilia next gave her a thimble, some needles, and a pair of scissors, which she had bought for her, together with a piece of linen, which she was to learn to hem. Nanette was farther advanced in this department than in the others. She had seen her mother work, and had tried to imitate her. Cecilia was very well pleased with the manner in which she held her needle, and fixed her hem; and praised her accordingly; and, thus encouraged, the hem was finished pretty quickly and tolerably well. At length, after two hours spent in this manner, hours which appeared to the mistress somewhat tedious, Nanette was dismissed, and Cecilia, while congratulating herself on the success of her efforts, found, nevertheless, that the task of education was not the easiest of work.
The next day she resumed her lessons with renewed courage, hoping to advance still farther than on the preceding one, but she found that everything had to be begun again. Nanette was as much puzzled to say A as she had been the first time. She did not recognize one of the letters, which she had repeated mechanically after Cecilia, who, as she now made her say them again one after the other, had the utmost difficulty in getting her to give two or three times by herself the name of the letter which had been taught her the moment before. At the piano, when Cecilia wanted her to begin the scale ofut, she put her finger uponsol, and when asked the name of the note she had struck, it was impossible for her to find any name for it: she did not even understand that the notes had names. Thus, all the success obtained that day was, that after half-an-hour's study, Nanette named at random afafor ala, or asifor are. Cecilia became very angry, and Nanette, who could notbear to be scolded, made so much haste to finish her hem, in order to escape from her, that when Cecilia examined it, she found six stitches one over the other, and another half-an-inch long.
The following days were not much more fortunate; for, on each occasion, Nanette had forgotten pretty nearly the whole of what little she had seemed to know on the previous day. As up to that time, she had never been taught anything, she was not accustomed to apply her mind, or fix her attention on things of which she did not understand the use, for it could not be said that she was deficient in sense, or abilities, for her age. She was by no means awkward, and did all she was capable of doing carefully enough; for instance, if she carried a light, she did not, like most children of her age, hold it in such a manner as to let the grease fall upon the ground; she even took care to snuff it for fear of sparks, before removing it from one place to another, and she managed to snuff it without putting it out; if she had to carry anything rather heavy from one room to another, she first opened the door and removed whatever might be in her way; or if, while holding a jug of water, she happened to catch her dress in any object, she did not, like most children, give a sudden jerk, and spill the water, but quietly put down her jug, and removed the obstacle. It was evident that she was accustomed to act, and seek the means of acting in the most useful manner. Moreover, she rendered a thousand little services to Mademoiselle Gerard, Madame de Vesac's lady's maid, who was extremely fond of her, and who, from having her continually with her, contrived, without tormenting her, to teach her many things which Nanette willingly learnt.
As to the lessons with Cecilia, they went on worse and worse every day: the pupil knew not how to learn, nor the mistress how to teach; Cecilia often lost patience, and Nanette, who saw her only to be scolded and wearied, feeling but little desire to please her,became at last careless; besides, after having studied for a few minutes a lesson in which she took no interest, her ideas became so completely confused by the irksomeness of her task, that she did not know what she was doing; so that, after having said her letters, and spelt very well with the lady's maid, who endeavoured to teach her, in order that she might not be scolded, when she came to Cecilia everything went wrong, and it was but an additional annoyance to the latter to find that it was only with Mademoiselle Gerard that Nanette read well.
Thanks, however, to Mademoiselle Gerard, Nanette did make some progress in reading and needlework; but as for music, at the end of six weeks she was no farther advanced than on the first day, and Cecilia, who entertained the idea of giving her an education which would enable her to shine in the world, became disgusted with efforts which could have no higher result than that of fitting her to become a shopkeeper or a lady's maid. The lessons, therefore, were but a succession of irritabilities, which prevented Cecilia from seeking the best means of making herself understood, and which ended by worrying Nanette. These two hours, so uselessly employed, became equally disagreeable to mistress and pupil, and both were delighted when any accident occurred to shorten them; and shortened they often were; for Cecilia, being on one occasion busy, hurried over all the lessons in half-an-hour, and this, having once occurred, occurred often. Sometimes, too, she made Nanette repeat her lesson without listening to her, or put her before the piano and told her to play, while she went about her own affairs, so that during this time, Nanette amused herself at her leisure, in playing whatever happened to suit her fancy. Sometimes, in fine, when Cecilia was busy with her drawing or anything that amused her, she would tell Nanette to take her books or her work, and then think no more about her. Nanette, meanwhile, would either be looking out at thewindow or catching flies; and when at last, after half-an-hour had elapsed, Cecilia observed her, she would scold her for her idleness, and send her away, saying that she had now no time to attend to her lessons.
All this took place in Cecilia's room, which was close to her mother's. For some time Madame de Vesac said nothing; she had never expected that Cecilia would carry out her projects of education with any perseverance, and she relied much more upon Mademoiselle Gerard, who was a respectable and sensible person, and whom she knew to be quite capable of bringing up Nanette in a manner suited to her station. Still she did not wish her daughter to get into the habit of doing carelessly what she undertook, nor to fancy that the duties of the day were performed when they were only gone through in appearance. Cecilia herself felt that things were not as they ought to be; so that, after having several times complained to her mother of the trouble which Nanette gave, she ceased to speak of the matter. At length one day, Madame de Vesac, after listening for half-an-hour to Nanette, who was strumming on the piano according to her own fancy, without receiving any attention from Cecilia, she asked the latter, if it was by giving lessons in that style that she hoped to make Nanette a great musician. Cecilia blushed, for she felt she was wrong; but she assured her mother, that Nanette had not the slightest taste for music. Madame de Vesac observed, that, from the way in which she had been taught, it was impossible to know whether this was the case or not.
"Mamma," said Cecilia, "I assure you she has no talent whatever; and it is this which has discouraged me."
"But I do not think she displays less inclination to learn to read and work than other children of her age; and yet I do not see that you are at all more zealous in these branches of her education."
"Oh, I attended especially to her music. Mademoiselle Gerard can teach her the rest, as well as I can."
"So then, you have taken Nanette in order to have her brought up by Mademoiselle Gerard?"
"No, mamma; but I thought Nanette would be able to learn what I wanted to teach her."
"And because she does not learn what you want to teach her, you do not think it worth while to teach her what she can learn: to do for her, at least, all that is in your power."
"But still, mamma, it is, I think, a lucky thing for Nanette that we have taken her, and I certainly shall always take care of her; but you must allow that there is no very great pleasure in teaching a little girl to read and sew, when it is evident that she can learn nothing more than that."
"To agree with you, I must first know precisely what kind of pleasure you expected when you took charge of Nanette?"
"The pleasure of being useful to her, by giving her a good education."
"And supposing her incapable of profiting by what you call a good education, you would not care to be useful to her by giving her at least such an education as she is capable of receiving."
"At all events, this would not give me so much pleasure."
"And to continue a good action which you have commenced, it is necessary that you should find it productive of much pleasure to yourself?"
"No, mamma; but...."
—"But, my child, there are many persons like you in that respect; they commence a good work with delight, and afterwards abandon it because their success is not as complete as they had expected."
"You must see, mamma," said Cecilia, a little piqued, "that it was not for my own advantage that I wished to give lessons to Nanette."
"I believe, indeed, it was for hers, and that you had fully reflected on the advantage she would derive from them."
"Indeed, mamma, it is a very fine thing for a little peasant girl, who would have remained ignorant, vulgar, and illiterate all her life, to be well educated and accomplished, and to be able to become amiable and agreeable, and fitted to move in elevated society."
"Especially," said Madame de Vesac, smiling, "when she is destined to move in elevated society."
"Who knows, mamma? a good marriage," resumed Cecilia, with vivacity; for her imagination was always ready to rush into romantic ideas, because it is such ideas that require the least reflection.
"Have you seen many of these marriages?" asked her mother.
"Though I may never have seen any, still..."
"Still you suppose, probably, that they are not unfrequent."
"I do not say that, but..."
"But I say," continued her mother, seriously, "that we are not permitted to amuse ourselves with such child's play, when the welfare of one of whom we have taken charge is at stake; and if you had bestowed upon Nanette an education which would make her disdain the humble career to which she is no doubt destined, you would have rendered her a very mischievous service."
"So then, mamma, you did not think I ought to give lessons to Nanette?"
"Not at all; but I was quite easy about the matter."
"Besides," said Cecilia, blushing, "here I am always interrupted, and then two hours for all the lessons are nothing; but we shall be going into the country in a month, where, if you will allow it, she will be more frequently with me, and I shall easily find the means of giving her a proper education."
"Very well," said Madame de Vesac, smiling; forshe did not place much more reliance on her daughter's perseverance in the country than in Paris. Cecilia did not observe this smile; quite absorbed in her plans for the future education of Nanette, she began by interrupting it for the present, as if the good that was to be done at some distant day exempted her from performing that which was in her power at the actual moment. She therefore told Nanette, that she would give her no more lessons until they went into the country; and Nanette, to whom a month seemed a lifetime, imagined herself for ever freed, both from Cecilia and her lessons. Cecilia, whose month was taken up with two or three balls, with purchases, packing, and receiving visits from the friends who called to bid her good-bye, completely lost the habit of thinking of Nanette; and this habit she found so unpleasant to resume, that they had been a whole week in the country when her mother said to her:—