The Difficult Duty, p. 148.
The Difficult Duty, p. 148.
The young man was like one dead, but Paul, who had saved many persons from a watery grave, knew what were the means to be adopted in order to restore him to life. He carried him to the foot of a large tree, the dense foliage of which sheltered them from the rain, and rendered him every assistance which the circumstances permitted. He succeeded in restoring him in some degree, and the moment he heard him breathe, he placed him on his shoulders, and bore him with all possible speed to his own house, where, by dint of care, the young man completely recovered his senses. He was about seventeen years of age, and seemed wasted away by want and illness. As soon as he was able to speak, Paul asked him what had induced him to throw himself into the river. The young man, who was named André, replied that it was want and despair. He stated, that twelve years before, his father, who was a travelling blacksmith, had been drowned by accident, as it was supposed, in that same river, his body having been discovered there some days after. Paul shuddered while he listened to this recital, but said nothing. André went on to state that up to the age of ten, he had lived with his mother, who provided for him as well as she could by her labour, but that, having lost her, he endeavoured to gain a living for himself by working whenever he could find employment. Sometimes at the harvest, sometimes at the barns, sometimes in assisting the masons; that he had endured great hardships, and often wanted food; that, at last, he had fallen ill, and on leaving the hospital, while still convalescent, having neither home, nor money, nor employment, he had been obliged to sleep in the fields, and to pass two whole days without food, so that he felt completely exhausted; that finally, towards the close ofthe second day, happening to be upon the bridge, from which it was said that his father had fallen, and, feeling unable to proceed farther, and impelled by despair, he had thrown himself into the water. While listening to this recital, Paul mentally exclaimed, "Since I have saved this man, I might have saved the other also;" but then he thought, "We might both have perished, and then my children would have been as destitute as André." He was greatly rejoiced at having been able to save André, and determined, after this new trial of his strength, never again to fear the water nor the swelling of the river, especially now that he was no longer necessary to his children.
However, he could not carry his good resolutions into effect, for the following day he was seized with a violent fever, accompanied by severe pains in all his limbs. On coming out of the river, intent only on restoring André, he had not been able to dry himself, and, indeed, he had not even thought of doing so; thus the damp clothes he had kept so long about him had brought on an attack of rheumatic gout. For the next two days he grew worse and worse, and his life was despaired of. He had moments of delirium, during which he was tormented by anxiety for his children, but when his senses returned he remembered that they were well provided for, and appeared truly happy. Notwithstanding his sufferings, André, who gradually regained his strength, tended him with the greatest assiduity, and wept beside his bed when he beheld him getting worse. Paul did not die; but he continued subject to pains, which sometimes entirely deprived him of the use of his limbs. "Ah!" he would sometimes exclaim, when a sharp pain shot through an arm or a leg; "if I had become like this before I had provided for my children!" André, whom he had kept with him, and who was intelligent and well-disposed, learned his trade sufficiently to assist him when he was able to work, and to work under his direction when he was ill. The shop continued to prosper, and his business was even increased by the interest taken both in himself and André, and when speaking of André's father, he would say, "Poor fellow! may God receive his soul; but I am sure he has forgiven me, for he has seen that I could not have acted otherwise."
M. de Flaumont ceased, and the children waited for a moment in silence, to see if the story was ended.
"Oh!" said Henry, at length, with a heavy sigh, "I am glad the story has ended thus."
Clementine.—Yes! but think of poor Paul remaining a martyr to rheumatism!
Gustavus.—Most assuredly his good action was not too well rewarded.
M. de Flaumont.—He received such a reward as ought to be expected for a good action—the consciousness of having done well. This is its natural recompense, and this recompense is quite independent of the consequences which may otherwise result from it.
Clementine.—Nevertheless, it is painful to see an honest man suffering from having performed a good action.
M. de Flaumont.—But it would have been far more painful if he had done wrong. Would you have preferred his leaving André to perish?
Clementine.—Oh! certainly not.
M. de Flaumont.—It was even possible that Paul might have died. Even in that case, could one have regretted his exposing his life to save André?
Henry(with animation).—No, certainly not: that could not be regretted.
M. de Flaumont.—That proves to you that the reward, as I have said, is quite independent of the consequences. Thus, for instance, if a workman had executed a piece of work for a person who refused to pay him: you would regret that he had done the work, because the payment is the natural recompense of his toil; whereas, you would never think of regretting that a man had performed a generous action,even though it turned out badly for him, because you would feel that he was rewarded by the action itself.
After all, my children, added M. de Flaumont, do not think that virtue is always so difficult. Our true duties are usually placed within our reach, so that they may be performed without much effort; still, as cases may arise in which effort is necessary, we ought to be prepared with means of supporting those efforts. We ought to accustom ourselves to consider duty as being quite as indispensable when it is difficult as when it is easy; and we ought, also, to have our minds so prepared, that we shall not magnify difficulties to such a degree as to render them insurmountable. Thus, we should not exaggerate the importance of any one duty, as we shall thereby be led to neglect others; but, after having fully persuaded ourselves that it is impossible there can exist at one and the same time two contradictory duties, let us, in cases of difficulty, lean to that which seems the most important, and, while regretting our inability to do all that we could wish, let us not regard as a duty that which another duty has prevented us from performing.
M. de Flaumont;Henry,Gustavus,and Clementine,his Children.
M. de Flaumont.—Children, would you like me to relate to you two stories, which I have just been reading in a foreign newspaper?
The Children.—Oh! yes, papa! are they very long?
M. de Flaumont.—No! but you may perhaps be puzzled to give me your opinion on them.
The Children.—How do you mean, papa?
M. de Flaumont.—You will see, here is the first:—
An English stage-coach, filled with passengers, was proceeding towards a large town. The conversation of the travellers turned upon the highwaymen by whom the road was infested, and who frequently stopped and searched travellers. They debated amongst themselves as to the best means of preserving their money; each boasted of having taken his measures, and being quite safe.
An imprudent young woman, wishing, doubtless, to display her superior cleverness, and forgetting that frankness, in such circumstances, is very ill-placed, said, "As for me, I carry all my wealth about me in a bank note for two hundred pounds, but I have so well concealed it, that the robbers will certainly never be able to find it, for it is in my shoe, under my stocking."
A few minutes after they were attacked by highwaymen, who demanded their purses, but, discontented with the little they found in them, they declared, in menacing tones, that they would search and ill-treat them unless they immediately gave them a hundred pounds; and they seemed prepared to put their threats into execution.
"You will easily find twice that sum," said an old man seated at the back of the coach, who during the whole journey had remained entirely silent, or had spoken only in monosyllables, "if you make that lady take off her shoes and stockings."
The robbers followed this advice, took the banknote, and departed.
What think you of the old man?
Clementine.—Oh, papa! what villany!
M. de Flaumont.—All the travellers were of your opinion. They loaded him with reproach and insult, and even threatened to throw him out of the coach. Theyoung woman's grief exceeded description. The old man appeared insensible to these insults and menaces, and once only excused himself by saying, "Every one must think of himself first."
In the evening, when the coach reached its destination, the old man contrived to make his escape before his fellow-passengers had an opportunity of visiting their displeasure upon him. The young woman passed a frightful night. What was her surprise on the following morning, when a sum of four hundred pounds was placed in her hands, together with a magnificent comb, and the following letter:—
"Madam,—The man whom, yesterday, you detested with reason, returns to you the sum you have lost, with interest which makes it double, together with a comb nearly equal in value. I am exceedingly distressed at the grief I was compelled to cause you. A few words will explain my conduct. I have just returned from India, where I have passed ten weary years. I have gained by my industry thirty thousand pounds, and the whole of this sum I had yesterday about me in bank-notes. Had I been searched with the rigour with which we were threatened, I must have lost everything. What was I to do? I could not run the risk of having to return to India with empty hands. Your frankness furnished me with the means of escaping the difficulty. Therefore I entreat you to think nothing of this trifling present, and to believe me henceforth devotedly, Yours."
Gustavus.—Well, papa, the young woman had no longer any reason to complain, and the old man did not do wrong, since he returned much more than she lost.
Clementine.—Yes; but in her place I would much rather have been without the comb, and not have had to take off my shoes and stockings in the presence of highwaymen.
Gustavus.—Oh! that did not do her much harm.
Henry.—But, papa, if the robbers, notwithstandingtheir promise, had searched every one, and had taken his thirty thousand pounds away from the old man, it would have been out of his power to restore the two hundred pounds to the young woman, and yet it would have been through his means that she would have lost them.
M. de Flaumont.—Henry is right: the injury inflicted by the old man was certain, while he had no certainty of being able to repair it.
Henry.—Assuredly the word of a robber is not to be depended on.
Gustavus.—But still it was certain that had he not acted as he did, they would have taken his thirty thousand pounds.
M. de Flaumont.—That is true; but do you think, my dear Gustavus, that, in order to escape some great calamity ourselves, we have a right to inflict an equally serious injury on another? for the loss of the two hundred pounds was as great a calamity to the young woman as that of the thirty thousand would have been to the old man, since it was the whole of her wealth.
Gustavus.—Yes, papa; but he knew very well he would return them.
M. de Flaumont.—He wished to do so, no doubt; but Henry has shown you how he might have failed in the accomplishment of his wishes. Other accidents might also have prevented him. He might have lost his pocket-book by the way: he might have died suddenly, &c.
Clementine.—Oh yes, indeed; and then the young woman would neither have had her own two hundred pounds, nor the two hundred pounds additional, nor her beautiful comb.
M. de Flaumont.—He thus surrendered his honesty, and the fate of his fellow-traveller, to the chance of a future, always uncertain, and all this to spare himself a misfortune, very great, no doubt, but the certainty of which gave him no right to injureanother. Here lies the difference between prudence and virtue. Prudence commences by studying how to escape a difficulty, and thinks it has done enough when it has promised itself to repair the injury inflicted on another. Virtue does not content itself with the hope of repairing this wrong at some future day: it does not commit it; and thus, though it is often more unfortunate, it is always more tranquil. So that virtue alone has no occasion to dread the future. It is in doing evil, even with the idea of its resulting in good, or with the firm determination of repairing it, that men often plunge into difficulties and errors, from which they are afterwards unable to extricate themselves. No one can flatter himself, however prudent he may be, that he has foreseen all chances, and so managed matters that nothing can turn out wrong; while, by laying it down as a law to ourselves to be virtuous before all things, we are certain of never having to reproach ourselves with any intentional wrong.
Gustavus.—But, papa, what ought to be done in such a case?
M. de Flaumont.—I cannot pretend to say; all I know is, that we ought not to do what our old man did. You will one day perceive how many misfortunes happen in the world from the false idea, so frequently entertained by men, that they are able to direct events according to their own wishes: they regulate their conduct with this hope, and afterwards events multiply, become involved, and turn out in so unforeseen a manner, that they behold their projects often, and their virtue always, wrecked beyond the possibility of recovery. Whereas, on the contrary, we ought first of all to make sure of our virtue, and then take all the advantage we can of circumstances. Besides, who knows all the resources that may be discovered, by a man resolutely determined to do nothing which his conscience disapproves? It is very convenient, no doubt, to take the first resource whichpresents itself to the mind; but can we be sure that it is the only one to be found, and that, by giving ourselves a little additional trouble, we might not discover another equally efficacious and more honest. Let us, after remaining firm in virtue, be ingenious and energetic, and we shall almost always be able to extricate ourselves from our difficulties. If all who are ruined were to turn robbers, they would doubtless adopt the most easy and expeditious mode of repairing their fortunes, still this is a mode which honest people do not take; and, being compelled to seek other resources, they rarely fail to discover them. I do not, at this moment, very well see what plan our old man might have hit upon to save his thirty thousand pounds; but, perhaps, if he had not so hastily adopted the idea of denouncing the young woman, some other and better expedient might have suggested itself.
Gustavus.—I agree with you, papa; but you promised us another story.
M. de Flaumont.—Here it is. You will see, that if we ought not to do a wrong because we can never be sure of being able to repair it, neither must we do wrong with a good intention.
An English nobleman was journeying to one of his estates, when he was attacked in a wood by six highwaymen; two of them seized the coachman, two others the footmen, and the remaining two, placing themselves at the doors of the carriage, presented each a pistol to his breast.
"Your pocket-book, my lord," said one of the robbers, who had a most repulsive expression of countenance.
The nobleman took a rather weighty purse from his pocket, and handed it to him. The man examined its contents, but did not seem satisfied. "Your pocket-book, if you please, my lord," and he cocked his pistol.
The nobleman quietly gave up his pocket-book.The highwayman opened it; and during this time the nobleman examined his countenance. Never had he beheld eyes so small and piercing, a nose so long, cheeks so hollow, a mouth so wide, nor a chin so prominent.
The robber took some papers from the pocket-book, and then returned it. "A pleasant journey, my lord;" and he set off rapidly with his companions.
On reaching home the nobleman examined his pocket-book, to see what had been taken from it, and found that bank notes to the amount of two thousand five hundred pounds had been extracted, and that five hundred pounds had been left. He congratulated himself on this, and said to his friends, that he would willingly give a hundred pounds could they but have seen the fellow. Never had highwayman a countenance so suited to his calling.
The nobleman soon forgot his loss, and thought no more of the occurrence; when, some years afterwards, he received the following letter:—
"My Lord,—I am a poor Jew. The prince in whose dominions I lived robbed us of everything. I went to England, accompanied by five other Jews, that I might at least save my life. I fell ill at sea; and the vessel in which we sailed was wrecked near the coast.
"A man wholly unknown to me was upon the shore: he leaped into the water, and saved me at the peril of his life. This was not all; he led me to his house, called in a physician, and took care of me until I was cured; and asked nothing in return. This man was a woollen manufacturer, who had twelve children. Some time afterwards, I found him very sad. The disturbances in America had just broken out, and the American merchants with whom he traded were base enough to profit by this circumstance, and refused to pay him. 'In a month,' he said to me, 'I shall be completely ruined; for I havebills coming due which I am wholly unable to meet.'
"His grief threw me into despair: I formed a desperate resolution. 'I owe my life to him,' I said, 'and I will sacrifice it for him.' With the five Jews who had followed me to England, I placed myself upon the highway. You know what happened. I sent to the man of whom I have spoken the money I took from you, and saved him for that time. But his creditors never paid him; and about a week ago he died, without having discharged all his debts.
"The same day I gained four thousand pounds in the lottery. I return to you all I took from you, with interest. Forward the remaining thousand pounds to the unfortunate family of the manufacturer (he gave their address at the end of the letter), and make inquiries of them respecting a poor Jew, whom they so generously saved and entertained.
"P.S.—I solemnly declare that, when we attacked you, not one of our pistols was charged, and that we had no intention of drawing a cutlass from its scabbard.
"Spare yourself all search. When this letter reaches you I shall again be upon the ocean. May God preserve you."
The nobleman made inquiries, and found that the Jew's account was strictly true. From that time forward he took the family of the manufacturer under his protection. He frequently said, "I would give a hundred pounds to any one who would inform me of the death of my terrible Jew; and a thousand pounds to any one who should bring him to me alive."
Henry.—But why did he wish for his death, papa?
M. de Flaumont.—Because this Jew was a very dangerous person. A man capable of doing such things, even from generous motives, is always to be dreaded. The safety and happiness of society depend upon the submission and respect due to the laws, which maintain order, and preserve the persons and property of all. The laws cannot take into account the motives which induce a man to injure another in person or property. In such cases they can only judge and punish the act itself. If this nobleman had been a judge, and the Jew had been brought before his tribunal, he could not, even when all the facts of the case were before him, have avoided condemning him to the penalty prescribed by the law, though he might afterwards have endeavoured to obtain his pardon from the sovereign.
Gustavus.—The Jew, however, had not loaded his pistols: he did not intend to commit murder.
M. de Flaumont.—Consequently, he would have been sentenced to a punishment less severe than that inflicted upon murderers; but still he committed robbery.
Clementine.—Yes; but it was to save the life of his benefactor: he exposed his own from gratitude; this was assuredly a great sacrifice. He would not have robbed from any other motive.
M. de Flaumont.—Therefore this Jew was doubtless susceptible of very generous sentiments and of noble devotion; this ought to count for much in the opinion we form of him: it would probably have obtained for him his pardon, or at least a great mitigation of his punishment; but, in a moral point of view, and for the interests of society, justice and firmness of principle are still more necessary than generosity of sentiment. It would be impossible to allow every man the privilege of making use of whatever means he pleased to gratify his feelings and display his generosity. Even virtue itself is subject to laws, whose wisdom is recognised and whose advantages are unquestionable. These prescribe the route in which it must exercise itself, and the bounds which it must not overleap. Thus, in the conduct of our Jew, everything which preceded and followed his act,and some of the circumstances of the act itself, were praiseworthy; his sole object was to preserve his benefactor: he took only what was required for that purpose: he kept nothing for himself, he scrupulously repaid the sum with interest, he did not even reserve any portion of the prize gained in the lottery, since, after having returned to the nobleman the two thousand five hundred pounds and interest, he gave the remainder to the manufacturer's children. All this was very well, and very disinterested, but it does not prevent the action itself from being blameable. And this is what often happens, when we allow ourselves to be governed by our feelings, however good they may be, instead of regulating our conduct by steady principles, which, though they may sometimes restrain the feelings, always insure virtue.
Henry.—Still, papa, the nobleman promised more to him who should bring him the Jew alive, than to him who should inform him of his death.
M. de Flaumont.—That was because he knew that a man capable of such generous sentiments and remarkable devotion was one who, to be rendered altogether virtuous, only required firmer principles, and a less embarrassing position. He doubtless wished to make him feel, that if it be noble to sacrifice one's life for gratitude, that sacrifice ought never to be made at the expense of honesty; perhaps, too, he wished to take him into his service, to place him in easy circumstances, to remove him, in fact, out of the way of those temptations in which generosity of feeling so easily deceives us in regard to the true nature of our duties. Generosity may carry us farther than mere duty; but it should always go in a right line, and never lead us to neglect duty.
Caroline—Madame de Boissy, working.
Madame de Boissy.—Caroline, did you really require that sash, which you induced your uncle to give you, by asking him to lend you the money to buy it?
Caroline.—I am very glad to have it, mamma, since it has cost me nothing.
Madame de Boissy.—You knew, then, that your uncle would make you a present of it?
Caroline.—Mamma, I only asked him to lend me the money.
Madame de Boissy.—I know that; but did you expect you would have to repay him?
Caroline.—Certainly! if he wished it.
Madame de Boissy.—But did you think he would wish it?
Caroline(embarrassed).—I do not know, mamma.
Madame de Boissy.—Tell me candidly,—when you asked your uncle to lend you the money to purchase this sash, which you did not want, and which, in all probability, you would not have bought had you been alone,—did you not know that it was a means of obtaining it as a gift?
Caroline.—Dear me, mamma! you make me examine my conscience as if I were going to confession.
Madame de Boissy.—And it is thus you should always examine it, my child.
Caroline.—Yes, mamma, when one has done anything wrong.
Madame de Boissy.—Or to ascertain whether one has done wrong.
Caroline(much confused).—But what wrong can I have done? My uncle could act as he pleased, and it was certainly quite true that I had no money in my purse.
Madame de Boissy.—There was one thing, however, which was not quite true, but which you, nevertheless, wished to make him believe, and that was, that you really intended to buy this sash yourself.
Caroline(still confused).—But, mamma, my intentions do not concern any one but myself.
Madame de Boissy.—You seem to fear the contrary, since you conceal them. You would not have been willing that your uncle should have discovered them; therefore, while you were really actuated by one motive, you led him to suppose that you were influenced by another. You would not have asked him to give you this ribbon, because you know that we ought not to accept a gift, unless we feel that the giver has as much pleasure in presenting it as we have in receiving it, and, in that case, it will occur to him as readily as to ourselves. You have, therefore, allowed your uncle to believe that you had the delicacy not to desire a present, which it had not occurred to him to make you, while, at the same time, you endeavoured to make him think of it by underhand means. You have sought to obtain, at one and the same time, both the esteem which delicacy merits, and the gift which it would be necessary to sacrifice in order to deserve this esteem. It is evident that both cannot belong to you, and that you have committed a theft in the transaction.
Caroline(shocked).—Oh! mamma, we only commit theft when we injure some one, and I have not injured any one.
Madame de Boissy.—You have extorted from your uncle a present, which he probably would not have made to any one whom he believed capable of subterfuge. You have cheated his intentions of giving you an unexpected pleasure.
Caroline.—He cannot know that; therefore his pleasure will be all the same.
Madame de Boissy.—Caroline, would you think you were not stealing, if you took money from thecoffers of a rich man who made no use of it, and did not know how much he had? If you did not do him an injury of which he was conscious, you injured those to whom his money would one day go, and who might not be either so rich or so indifferent as himself. In like manner, if you did not do your uncle any positive wrong, by usurping an esteem which was not your due, you at least were unjust to those whom he might place on a level with you in his esteem, or whom he might set beneath you; for either you must share with them an esteem which you did not merit, and which is always more flattering when obtained alone, or you must diminish the consolation they would otherwise have in finding an additional example to excuse them. Be well assured that we can never deceive without injuring some one, and that there can be no unfair advantage which is not gained at the expense of our neighbours.
Caroline.—But really, mamma, this advantage is so very trifling.
Madame de Boissy.—The case is trifling, but the principle is the same, and you would no more wish to steal needles than diamonds. Besides, my child, we must attach some value to, and derive some advantage from, a thing which we take the trouble to steal; and who can, with propriety, desire an advantage which he has not merited? Listen, Caroline: you are now growing a great girl, and it is time you should understand all that is due to yourself and others, in regard to uprightness and honesty in the most trifling things, and how mean it is to wish to deceive others, or to think it necessary to do so.
Caroline.—Mamma, I have never wished to deceive any one, I assure you.
Madame de Boissy.—I grant you that we do not say to ourselves,I wish to deceive; we should be horrified; but, without telling absolute falsehoods, people often pass their lives in endeavouring to make others believe things which are untrue. If we arecold, or hot, or tired, we complain of our sufferings; we exaggerate them in order to attract attention, and gain pity, or at least to make people think of us. We laugh louder than we feel inclined to do, to make it appear that we are very gay; we look in the glass, and exclaim, "How, I am sunburnt!" in order that we may be told that it is imperceptible, and be complimented on our complexion. We complain of a dress that fits badly, and say, "What a fright I look to-day," in the hope of finding some sycophant who will assure us that we look well in everything. Or, finally, we give expression to some worthy sentiment in order to be praised for it.
Caroline.—But, mamma, if the sentiment be sincere?
Madame de Boissy.—My dear child, there is always insincerity in the means employed to obtain praise for it; for good feelings are not intended to gain us admiration, but to make us do what is right. We should not esteem the benevolence of a man, who did good merely for the sake of obtaining commendation; nor the fraternal sentiments of him whose sole object in displaying them was to be praised for his attachment to his brothers and sisters. Thus, those who make a display of feeling for the sake of being praised, must take care to conceal their intentions; consequently, if they obtain the praise, it is quite clear that they have stolen it.
Caroline.—But one must then watch every movement of the mind, for these things may escape us without our in the least intending it.
Madame de Boissy.—To prevent them from doing so, it is only necessary to think, once for all, of two or three things. First, that we display very little respect or consideration for ourselves when we stoop to deceive others, in order that they may condescend to pay attention to us. Secondly, that we place ourselves in a very humiliating position when we thus beg for a flattery, a compliment, or a mark of attention, which is usually granted from mere politeness, or for the sake of pleasing us, just as we give a penny to a beggar in the street. Finally, that these kinds of stratagems, when they are discovered—and they are discovered oftener than people imagine—may overwhelm us with ridicule, or even with shame, and that the most trifling untruth exposes us to a risk far greater than the pleasure which it procures. Tell me if your sash would ever afford you a pleasure as great as the annoyance you would feel, if your uncle were to discover the subterfuge you employed in order to induce him to make you a present of it.
Caroline.—Oh! mamma, you have made me absolutely hate it. I will never even look at it again.
Madame de Boissy.—There you are wrong, my child; you must look at it, and think of it, in order that it may remind you of the necessity of always acting honourably.
Monsieur de Bonnel—Augustus, his Son.
M. de Bonnel.—Augustus, I hope you have returned to George, as I told you, that little cart you took from him?
Augustus(ill-temperedly).—I was obliged to do it, since you desired me, but I did not take it from him; I paid him what it cost. If he was so obstinate as to refuse the money, that was not my fault.
M. de Bonnel.—He did not want your money, and he wished to keep his cart; you had no right to force the bargain upon him.
Augustus.—I have a right to make him do as I please.
M. de Bonnel.—And how came you by this right?
Augustus.—His father Antony is your servant.
M. de Bonnel.—And is that any reason that George should have no will of his own?
Augustus.—No; but it is a reason why he should give up to me; and the best proof that he very well knows this, is that he always does give up to me. To-day, though he would not sell me his cart, he did not think of preventing me from taking it; and had it not been for you he would certainly not have got it back again.
M. de Bonnel.—Very well; but, what is singular in the matter is that for the future he will think differently, and that henceforward he will be obliged to resist you.
Augustus.—I should like to see him do that.
M. de Bonnel.—Well, you shall be gratified. Antony had forbidden his son to use force against you for fear of hurting you. I have just told him that if he did not order George to defend himself against you when you torment him, as he would defend himself against one of his own companions, George should not come here again. You will now see whether it is his duty to humour you, and whether it is from respect that he has hitherto yielded to you.
Augustus.—It would be a fine thing for George to treat me like one of his comrades.
M. de Bonnel.—Very well; you need not make free with him.
Augustus.—Making him obey me is not making free with him.
M. de Bonnel..—When you have no right to exact obedience, you can only obtain it from his politeness by requests such as we use towards an equal, or exact it by force, which he will repel with his fist, and that is the greatest familiarity I know of.
Augustus.—But George is to be my servant one day: he has told me so a hundred times: he will have to be submissive and respectful then.
M. de Bonnel.—He will only be submissive in those things in which he has agreed to obey you: he will only be respectful so long as you fulfil your obligations to him. A servant agrees to obey in everythingthat concerns the service of his master, and that does not injure himself. Thus, if a master commanded him to go and fight for him, or to give him up the money which he had saved, the servant would no longer be obliged to obey.
Augustus.—But people do not require such things from servants.
M. de Bonnel.—It is quite as unjust and absurd to expect them to labour for you beyond their strength, or to compel them to give up what belongs to them at a price which does not suit them. If you force them to do anything against their inclinations, they then lay aside their respect, and resist you as well as they can, for they have only agreed to obey your orders in certain things; nor have they consented to incur any other risk, in case of disobedience, than that of being reprimanded or sent away. If you go further than this, you break a covenant of which insults formed no part any more than blows; both equally exempt a servant from all duty.
Augustus.—Nevertheless, there are servants who remain in their places, although their masters overwork or ill-treat them. I have heard my cousin Armand say all sorts of insulting things to Jack, his groom, and even threaten to horsewhip him, because he harnessed his horse badly. Jack went on with his work without saying a word, because he knew that he must bear it.
M. de Bonnel.—And what would have happened to Jack if he had answered his master impertinently, as he deserved to be answered?
Augustus.—Why, Armand would have turned him out of doors without a character, so that he would have been unable to get another situation.
M. de Bonnel.—At this rate, masters have the means of treating their servants as ill as they please; and if all masters were to do so, all servants would be obliged to submit to it, I suppose?
Augustus.—Certainly they would.
M. de Bonnel.—But if all servants were to take it into their heads to resist their masters, then the latter would either have to put up with this or do without servants.
Augustus.—But that would never happen.
M. de Bonnel.—That would happen, if service became so intolerable that servants had no interest in humouring their masters. But as masters and servants stand mutually in need of each other, they have felt it to be to their advantage that the former should be kind and the latter obedient and respectful. It is, therefore, because there are many good masters whom it is to their interest to serve, that they serve respectfully even those who are bad. Consequently, he who abuses this respect is a coward, who shelters himself behind others to take advantage of their good actions, and commit wrong with impunity.
On the New Year's night of 1797, a man, over whose head had passed sixty winters, was standing at a window. He raised his mournful eyes towards the azure vault of heaven, where floated countless stars, as float the white blossoms of the water-lily on the bosom of a tranquil lake; then he looked down upon the earth, where there was no one so destitute of happiness and peace as himself, for his tomb was not far distant. He had already descended sixty of the steps that led to it, and bore with him from the bright days of his youth nothing save errors and remorse. His health was destroyed; his mind a blank, and weighed down with sorrow; his heart torn with repentance, and his old age full of grief. The days of his youth rose up before him, and brought back to his memory that solemn moment when his father placed him at the entrance of those two paths, of which the one leads to a peaceful and happy country, re-echoing with sweet song, and cheered by an ever-cloudless sun, whilst the other leads to the abodes of darkness—to a chasm without issue, peopled by serpents, and filled with poison.
Alas! the serpents had coiled around his heart; the poison had polluted his lips, and he now awoke to the reality of his condition.
He again raised his eyes to heaven, and exclaimed, with inexpressible anguish, "Return, oh, Youth! Return, oh, Father! place me once more at the entrance of life, that I may make a different choice." But his youth had passed away, and his father slept with thedead. He beheld a marsh-fire arise, dance over the morass, and disappear; and he said, "Such were my days of folly!" He beheld a falling star shoot along the sky, tremble, and then vanish; and he exclaimed, "Such am I;" and the sharp arrows of repentance sank deeper into his heart.
Then his thoughts turned upon all those men who had attained to his years, who had been young when he was young, and who now, in different parts of the world, were spending, in peace and tranquillity, this first night of the year, as good fathers of families and friends of truth and virtue. The pealing of the bell which celebrated the new step of time, vibrated on the air from the turret of the neighbouring church, sounding to his ear like a pious song. This sound re-awakened the memory of his parents,—the wishes they had breathed for him on that solemn day,—the lessons they had inculcated:—wishes which their unhappy son had never fulfilled,—lessons from which he had never profited. Overwhelmed with grief and shame, he could no longer gaze into that heaven where his father dwelt: he turned his grief-worn eyes towards the earth; tears flowed from them, and fell upon the snow which covered the ground; and finding nothing to console him in any direction, he again cried, "Return, oh, Youth! Return!"
And his youth did return; for all this was but a troubled dream, which had disturbed the slumbers of this first night of the year. He was still young,—his faults alone were real. He thanked God that his youth was not passed, that he had still the power to leave the path of vice—to regain that of virtue; to return into that happy land covered with abundant harvests.
Return with him, my young readers, if, like him, you have strayed; this terrible dream will henceforward be your judge. If, one day, overwhelmed with grief, you should be found to exclaim, "Return, oh, happy Youth!" the prayer will be vain, for youth will not return.
The Curé of Chavignat was an excellent man. He was very fond of children, and was, consequently, a great favourite with them. He chatted with them as if it were for his own amusement, and whilst thus engaged he gave them useful advice, with which they, in their turn, were highly delighted; because his instructions were usually accompanied by stories, which accustomed them to reflect on their own characters, on the best means of correcting their faults, and on the pleasure arising from the possession of good qualities. Whenever the Curé of Chavignat met with a story of this kind, he wrote it down, that he might afterwards give it or relate it to those children to whom it might prove useful. He went frequently to the château of Chavignat, where the children received him with demonstrations of the greatest delight, whilst the parents were continually thanking him for his kindness to their children.
One day he perceived that Juliana, the eldest of the children, who was scalloping a piece of muslin, was quite out of temper because her mother had reproved her.
"When I see," said he, "a little lady who is out of humour with her mamma, I begin to think what would be the state of matters if mammas, on their side, were to be out of humour with their little girls."
"It would be strange, indeed," said Juliana, "ifpapas and mammas were out of humour, when they are masters, and can do exactly as they please! That would he very just, truly!"
"People do not then get out of humour without just cause, Miss Juliana?" asked the Curé. "I was not aware of that."
"Witness Madame Gonthier, our housekeeper," cried Amadeus, "who, this morning, when her coffee overturned into the fire, scolded the girl who has charge of the poultry-yard, because the hens' eggs were so small."
"Just, Monsieur le Curé," said little Paul, raising his finger to his face, "as if it was the poultry girl that made the hens' eggs."
"Yes, my little friend; or, as if your mamma were to give Miss Juliana a slap on the face because the apricots do not ripen this year."
The children began to laugh, with the exception of Juliana, who, shrugging her shoulders, said in a disdainful tone, "Fortunately, people do not have relations so ill-bred as Madame Gonthier."
"Indeed, young lady," replied the Curé, "there are, I assure you, many persons in that unfortunate predicament. Besides," he added, "it is possible that a young lady very well brought up, like Miss Juliana, who just now gave her little brother a kick because her mamma had found fault with her—it is quite possible, I repeat, that when she grows up to be a woman, she may pull her little daughter by the ears because her footman failed to execute a commission properly."
"Oh, she did not hurt me," cried Paul, "I drew back."
"True," said the Curé, "but when it is the mamma who gives the blow it is not always so easy to draw back. I was once acquainted with a youth whose aunt was extremely ill-tempered, and who when she was dissatisfied with one person would vent her anger on another; and I can assure you, the young gentleman found this anything but agreeable."
"Oh, a story! a story! Monsieur le Curé," exclaimed both the little boys at once; "pray relate it to us."
"I will," said the Curé, giving a side glance at Juliana, "some day when nobody is out of humour here, for a certain person might take it to herself, and I do not wish to be uncivil to any one."
"Oh! pray relate your story, by all means, Monsieur le Curé," said Juliana, very sharply; "people can take it as they please."
"Young lady," replied the Curé, "when I relate a story, I wish it to be taken as I please." Juliana was silent, for she clearly perceived that she had spoken impertinently.
The next day, as soon as the Curé arrived, the little boys failed not to remind him of the promised story: he did not wait to be pressed, for he had brought the manuscript with him.
He seated himself at the table where Juliana was at work; she neither advanced nor drew back her chair. Amadeus placed his as close to the Curé as possible, and little Paul established himself between his knees, with upturned eyes and open mouth: the Curé then related what follows:—
One day Louis entered his mother's room quite beside himself; his eyes sparkled with anger, and his whole countenance expressed the strongest resentment.
"I saw her! there is no gainsaying it, I saw her with my own eyes," cried Marianne, the cook, who rushed in after him, and who was almost as much excited as himself. "Madame Ballier attempted to give him a box on the ear," she continued; "fortunately he drew back in good time, but trust me, if he did not feel the wind of it——"
"Had it not been my grand aunt," said Louis,pacing the room with hasty strides and folded arms; "had it not been my aunt——"
"Oh, he would have strangled her for certain," rejoined Marianne; "I saw that clearly, and in my opinion she would only have had what she deserved, the horrid thing."
"Marianne!" said Madame Delong, in a severe tone, and Marianne left the room shrugging her shoulders. Then addressing her son, "Are you quite sure, Louis," she said, "that you are not in some degree to blame?" Louis continued to pace the apartment without making any reply. Madame Delong repeated the question, but Louis had not yet sufficiently recovered himself to understand exactly what his mother was saying. At this moment Madame Ballier made her appearance; she looked confused, and speaking hurriedly, like a person who is afraid of being prevented by some disagreeable speech, she said, "Louis, will you go with me to the play this evening?"
Louis started and appeared surprised; but after a moment's hesitation, he replied, in a gloomy manner, turning away his head, "No, thank you, aunt."
"There are two actors arrived from Paris," added Madame Ballier, still more embarrassed.
"I am aware of it: I saw the notice posted up as I came from the college, and they are going to performThe Templars."
"Well, will you not come?"
"No, aunt," replied Louis again, rather sharply. Excited at once by resentment and the regret of losing the play, he was about to add some angry expression, but he restrained himself, and replied in the calmest tone that he could command, "I have to work for the examination of the inspectors who are coming this day week."
"Very well, I can go by myself," said Madame Ballier, still more annoyed. She went to the windowas if to look at something, and then left the room without saying another word.
"If any one else had asked me," said Louis, in a tone of vexation, as soon as she was gone, "nothing would have delighted me more. Ever since I read the announcement I have been thinking how much I should like to seeThe Templars; but," he added, in an altered voice, "I will not give her the pleasure of thinking she can afford me the slightest gratification."
His anger increased from the sacrifice which it had induced him to make. His mother, wishing to calm him a little, said caressingly, as she took his arm, "But you will givemethe gratification, will you not, of taking a walk with me? I have a headache, and want the air;" and, seeing that he did not take any notice, she added, with a smile, "I shall not resign myself to going out without you, so readily as my aunt does."
Louis never refused his mother anything, and, although only fourteen years of age, he was so right-minded, and possessed so noble and generous a disposition, that Madame Delong treated him with entire confidence, and never, in any thing she required of him, appealed to any other motive than his own good sense and affection. Louis immediately took his hat, went to fetch his mother's parasol, and, without saying a word, offered her his arm to go out. Madame Delong saw the effort he was making to control himself, and said, "Thank you, my dear." These words began to restore peace to the soul of Louis. He was devotedly fond of his mother, and felt proud of being able to make her life more agreeable and happy. Almost always absent from her husband, and continually anxious and trembling for the dangers to which his military life exposed him, Madame Delong required the exertion of much fortitude to preserve her equanimity; and Louis, witnessing her trials, had early learned to avoid whatever might render her resignation more difficult. Very different in character fromthose children who imagine they obtain a species of triumph over their superiors when they have excited their displeasure, Louis took a pride in being able to ward off troubles and annoyances from his mother. It was not in a few instances, but in all cases that he was in the habit of doing this. If he gave her his arm in the street or the fields, he would avoid a rough path where she might hurt herself, lead her away from the herd of cows she did not like to venture amongst, or remove the horse she had to pass. Quick, and even thoughtless in his own case, he became prudent where his mother was concerned. Madame Delong would observe, with a smile, "Louis is my protector;" and Louis would smile also, and at the same time slightly blush, but not from annoyance; at such moments he felt himself a man, and in a position to be useful to others.
This kind of relation between Louis and his mother had not in the least diminished the respect due to her maternal authority and the superiority of her understanding. To this authority Louis submitted the more cheerfully, because the possibility of her at any time abusing it never entered his mind. He could not for a moment believe that his mother could ever be unjust or unreasonable; scarcely could he even believe that she could ever be mistaken; and if at any time he hesitated to perform his duty, the moment she said, "My dear, it must be done," Louis thought he heard the voice of his own conscience.
Nevertheless, since Madame Ballier had become an inmate of the house, Louis had more frequently experienced the difficulty of submission; and, upon certain points, all his affection for his mother was scarcely sufficient to supply what was wanting in his yet immature reason. Madame Ballier, who was formerly a mercer at Paris, had never received the advantage of a good education; she was sister to Monsieur Delong's mother, and when, at twelve years of age, he was left an orphan, she had given him a home. Atfifteen he entered the army, obtained promotion by his bravery and good conduct, and neglecting no opportunity of improving himself and acquiring knowledge, he rose to the rank of colonel, and to the reputation of a distinguished man. Madame Delong, though without fortune, had been extremely well educated, and the congeniality of their minds and characters had established between them the most tender and perfect union.
When, two or three years before the time of our story, Madame Ballier, then a widow, had retired from business, in rather indifferent circumstances, Madame Delong proposed to her husband to offer her a home with them. Monsieur Delong at first hesitated, from the fear of giving his wife an associate by no means agreeable; but he soon yielded to the noble motives by which she was influenced in making this proposal, and to his conviction, that the mingled gentleness and firmness of her character would greatly diminish the inconveniences which might otherwise result from such an arrangement. Madame Ballier accordingly joined the family of her niece in the small town where the latter resided, in the absence of her husband, and where with a very moderate income she endeavoured, by strict economy, to meet the expenses occasioned by the war, and provide for the education of her son. A good-hearted woman in the main, but often weary of her position, and, notwithstanding the deference with which she was treated by Madame Delong, dissatisfied at not being the mistress, Madame Ballier was frequently out of humour, and found means of showing her temper on a thousand occasions; for persons who have no taste for serious occupation are apt to become very fanciful about trifles. The two greatest sufferers were Louis and his black wolf-dog Barogo: as for Marianne, a quarrel was not positively disagreeable to her, and it was a pleasure which Madame Ballier seldom hesitated to afford her. Madame Delong would by no means have permitted Marianne to fail in respect to heraunt, but neither did she like that Madame Ballier should uselessly torment Marianne, an old and faithful servant, who had been in the family ever since her mistress was born, and who was determined to end her days in it; both, therefore, were equally interested in keeping their quarrels secret, and thus being sure of each other, they observed no mutual consideration; and a coffee-pot placed on the fire precisely where it would most inconvenience Marianne, or removed at the very time Madame Ballier wished to have it heated; a commission given inopportunely, and received with a bad grace, and, above all, the delinquencies of Robinet, Madame Ballier's cat, who was afraid of mice and devoured every thing in the larder, kept up a fund of animosity, and underhand quarrels, which interestingly occupied one half of their lives.
But between Louis and his aunt, the game was by no means so equal.
As Madame Ballier had no authority whatever over him, she made a point of contradicting him in everything. His shoes were too tight, or his trowsers too wide; he wore his hair too short, or his sleeves too long: and as the next day neither hair, nor sleeves, nor shoes, nor trowsers, differed in any degree from what they were the night before, the remarks were repeated with as much acrimony as if Madame Ballier were herself obliged to wear the things in question. Madame Delong, perfectly mute during these disputes, in which she never took any part, was not equally reserved with her son, whom she scrupulously compelled, much against his inclination, to restrain his conduct within the bounds of proper respect; but all her authority, and her severe looks, were scarcely sufficient to effect this, when the injustice fell upon Barogo, whom Madame Ballier regularly turned out of the room, two or three times a day saying that he gave her fleas. Louis would then immediately follow, in order to be with his dear Barogo, and usually found him engaged in avengingupon Robinet the insults received from her mistress. Warned by the noise he made in pursuing her favourite, Madame Ballier would fly to the rescue; snatch up, in her alarm and anger, a broom, a pair of tongs, or whatever came to hand, as a weapon against the aggressor, and while the latter made his escape growling, Madame Ballier, drawn away by a deeper interest, ran to seek and console her cat. Then Barogo, satisfied with having proved his right of resistance, by displaying his white teeth through his black moustaches, would return and take quiet possession of the sitting-room, where he soon became the object of a fresh contest.
"Why should we be obliged to submit to my aunt's caprices and ill-humour?" Louis would sometimes exclaim in a fit of uncontrollable indignation. "Why should we be obliged to live with our relations at all?" asked Madame Delong one day in reply. "Why should we be obliged to keep up any ties of kindred? Why should not brothers and sisters, fathers and children, go each their own way, without troubling themselves about each other? If I were to become peevish, morose, and difficult to please, tell me, Louis, would you be obliged to retain any regard for me?"
"Oh! my dear mother!" cried Louis, wounded at such a supposition.
"My child," replied his mother, "when we once believe that we may quarrel with our duties, because they are difficult, there is none of them that may not be brought into question, for there is none of them, the fulfilment of which may not at some period or other occasion us some inconvenience. Do you not think a nephew owes to his aunt, and anagedaunt, respect and complaisance?"
"Undoubtedly, but—"
"But you would prefer that your aunt should be careful to render this duty more agreeable to you:—this I can conceive; yet a duty is not the less a duty because it is painful."
"I should think my aunt has duties also," said Louis, with a little asperity.
"My son," returned his mother, very seriously, "when you have found out a suitable manner of representing them to her, you will be quite justified in thinking of them."
"What is to be done, then?" Louis would sometimes exclaim, quite out of patience at seeing no means of avoiding what he knew not how to endure. One day, when the heat was extreme, and he was continually wiping his face during a discussion of this kind, his mother said to him, "Six or seven years ago, my dear, you would not have been able to bear such heat as this without repeating every moment,Oh, how hot it is!but now you scarcely pay any attention to it, because you know that it is unbecoming in a man not to show himself superior to petty inconveniences."
Louis was quite old enough to understand his mother's arguments, but he had not yet acquired sufficient resolution to submit to them. When his aunt was out of humour with him, he became angry in his turn; if she wished to subject him to some caprice of hers, he was the more obstinately bent on a contrary whim; and to make him feel it a matter of great importance that his hat should remain on the table, it was only necessary that Madame Ballier should take it into her head to throw it upon a chair.
When out of his mother's presence, and no longer restrained by her looks, which habitually followed him, and which he dared not avoid, Louis was always more disposed to forget himself, and did not often escape the danger, particularly as he was then more openly attacked by Madame Ballier, who was no longer held in check by the fear of disobliging her niece. The last quarrel had been occasioned by one of those trifles which so often occasioned them, and Louis, exasperated to the utmost by his aunt's ill-humour, and perhaps not very well disposed himself that day had taken the liberty to indulge in remarks so little measured, that the anger of Madame Ballier had gone beyond all bounds. She was sorry for it afterwards; not that she considered it anything extraordinary for an aunt to box the ears of a nephew who had spoken impertinently to her; but such things were not in accordance with the tone of the family, and although she herself constantly found fault with her niece, she would not have liked her niece to find fault with her.
She thought to repair all by the offer of taking Louis to the theatre, and could not understand his retaining so much resentment as to refuse. Consequently, she was much out of humour the whole of dinner-time, and when upon leaving the table a fresh proposal was again met by a refusal on the part of Louis, she went off shrugging her shoulders with a sigh of indignation.
She had only just left the room, when in came M. Lebeau, a friend of Madame Delong's.
"Come, come, my boy!" he said to Louis, "to the theatre:—quick! there is not a moment to lose, or we shall not find places. Charles and Eugenia are on the way with their mother; we will overtake them."
Louis and his mother looked at each other without making any reply. "Well! are you coming?" said M. Lebeau, impatiently. "I do not think that Louis can go to the play this evening," said Madame Delong, at length, looking earnestly at her son.
"And why not?"
"He has work to finish."
"I worked hard enough when I was young, and learned my profession as a notary as well as any one else, but I did not give up my amusement, for all that. Why, my lad, at your age, when I wanted to go to the play, I spent the night in work, and there was an end of it."
"That would not be very difficult," said Louis, looking at his mother, whilst his face was scarlet withanger and anxiety. Madame Delong suppressed a sigh, called forth by the sight of her son's vexation, and said to him; "You know very well, my dear, that that is not the difficulty:" then, turning to M. Lebeau, she added, in a firmer tone, "It is impossible; Louis has refused to go with his aunt."
"His aunt! his aunt! What then? He has changed his mind; surely he has a right to be more amused with my children than with his aunt. Come, come, I will undertake to make her listen to reason, though we do not generally understand one another particularly well."
Louis seemed in suspense. "M. Lebeau," said Madame Delong, very seriously; "since it must be confessed, Louis has had a slight quarrel with his aunt, and it was for that reason that he declined going with her to the theatre. I do not blame him for it, it was the most respectful manner of letting his aunt know that she had wounded his feelings; but I leave him to judge," she added, looking at Louis, "whether it be becoming in him to go and brave her as it were, and as if he said to her, 'I did not choose to accept your favours, I can dispense with them.'"
"Such punctilios are only fit for a girl," cried M. Lebeau. "My dear friend, I tell you plainly, you will make a milksop of that son of yours."
"I am not aware," said Madame Delong, still looking at her son, "that Louis feels himself any the weaker, or the less worthy of esteem, when he submits to his duty, than when he fails in it in order to follow his pleasures."
Louis shook his head; he knew very well that his mother was right; but he found it impossible to make any answer. At this moment Charles rushed into the room: quite out of patience at not seeing his friend Louis arrive, he had run to look for him. "Come, make haste!" he cried; "you will make us lose the first scene, and perhaps even our places."
Louis, with eyes cast down, pressed his hand, andnot daring to trust his voice, said, in a tone scarcely audible,—"I am not going to the theatre."
"Not going! and why not?" asked Charles, much astonished.
"On account of my aunt."
Charles, in consternation, looked alternately at his father and at Madame Delong; the latter hastened to observe: "It is a voluntary sacrifice which my son makes to his sense of propriety, and one which I hope we shall be able to make up to him another time."
"Another time!" cried M. Lebeau, striking the floor with his cane; "another time! why, they are going away to-morrow; I tell you they set off to-morrow."
Louis started. Madame Delong, looking at him, sorrowfully, but firmly, said, "Is that any reason, my son?" Louis hurried out of the room; he was choking. Charles left the house in grief, and M. Lebeau, as he took his departure, repeated, "I always said so; the most sensible woman in the world knows nothing about bringing up boys."
Madame Delong immediately went to her son's room and found him leaning against the corner of the mantel-piece; his fortitude was completely overcome; the poor boy was in tears, and his mother felt much disposed to join him. As if suddenly struck with resentment upon her entrance, he exclaimed, "You wished to punish me because I dared to be angry with my aunt when she tried to box my ears;" and these last words were uttered in a still more passionate manner.
"To punish you!" said Madame Delong, putting her arm round her son's neck, "to punish you! Oh, my dear child, it is a very long time since I have even thought it possible that I could have occasion to punish you!"
The tears of Louis were now flowing abundantly. Madame Delong leant her head on his shoulder, saying, with much emotion, "My dearest child, overcome this weakness, I entreat you. What will become of me who have the responsibility of making you acquainted with your duties, if you have not resolution enough to fulfil them? How cruel will be my task, Louis! I have laboured all your life to inspire you with fortitude, in order that your courage might sustain my own."
"This disappointment cannot grieve you as much as it does me," said Louis, still a little angry, though already in some degree softened by his mother's words.
"My dear boy," replied Madame Delong, "if you were now at the theatre, I should be watching the clock, and although alone, should fear to see the hours pass, for I should say, 'he is now enjoying himself,' and that would render my whole evening delightful." Louis kissed her hand. "But," she continued, "if after having refused your aunt, you had been weak enough to accompany M. Lebeau, and I weak enough to consent to your doing so, we should both of us have had our pleasure destroyed; the sight of your aunt at the play would have disturbed you the whole time; on your return we should not have dared to converse together on what would have been a subject of self-reproach to both, and you would have gone to bed without having anything to relate to me."
Louis was insensibly calmed by the conversation and affection of his mother; nevertheless, he had some difficulty in applying steadily to anything during this evening, and he dreamed all night that he had gone to the theatre, and was wandering round and round the house without being able to find the entrance, whilst all the time the play was going on, and he could hear the applause.