Monsieur and Madame de Vaucourt saw very little society in the country. It happened, however, that a Polish Princess, with whom they had been formerly acquainted, having arrived in Paris, sent them word that she would come and spend a week with them. At this news the children were in the greatest commotion. Adela, like most little girls, imagined that a princess must be a very extraordinary personage, and Amelia could not picture her otherwise than in dresses embroidered with gold. Adela had no doubt that her mother would order a new bonnet for her on the occasion, and inquired how she was to dress during the princess' visit. She was astonished when her mother, laughing at her, told her she was to dress justas usual. "What, mamma! even in my common cambric frock for the morning?" Her mother assured her that she saw nothing in her dress that required change. This time Adela was indeed out of humour; she was seriously grieved even, but she dared not show her feelings, because she saw that she should be laughed at. However, during the whole week which preceded the arrival of the princess, she was more than ever inclined to indulge in her habitual complaints, crying out, whenever any one came near her, that they would soil her dress, and screaming aloud if a drop of rain touched her bonnet. Little Amelia said it was because she was afraid it would not be nice enough for the arrival of the princess, and also remarked that her sister, who could never be persuaded to put on a pair of shoes in the least worn down at heel, pretending that she could not walk in them, during this whole week wore none but old shoes, in order to keep the new ones for the arrival of the princess.
At last the princess came. The little girls, who were upon the terrace, were greatly astonished to find her dressed much in the same style as their mamma, but then she had a coat of arms on her carriage, and the liveries of her servants were richly laced; this greatly impressed Adela, who had besides been so long prepared to consider her as a person of great importance, that she could not give up the idea she had formed. When therefore little Stanislas, the son of the princess, trod on her foot, in coming up the steps, Adela, for the first time in her life, bore the accident without a murmur. Nay, more, for when her sister happened accidentally to strike her elbow in passing quickly into the drawing-room after the princess, in order to obtain a better view of her, Adela opened her lips to complain, but immediately checked herself, on finding that the princess looked round at the moment.
Scarcely had they entered the room when the princess' little dog put its paws into Adela's work-basket,threw down her thimble, her scissors, and needle-case, and scampered about the room, carrying her work in his mouth, and shaking it about his ears. Amelia screamed. On ordinary occasions such a misfortune would have been a subject of distress and lamentation for an hour, but Adela did not give way to anger. She picked up all her things, ran after the dog, but not too hastily, for fear of appearing out of temper, and although when she at last caught him, she was quite crimson with impatience, she did not say a single word to Stanislas, who was laughing heartily at the trouble she had to get back her work. Stanislas asked to go into the garden, and upon Madame de Vaucourt's desiring her daughters to accompany him, Adela did not begin by replying that he could go very well by himself. When in the garden, Stanislas, who was a spoiled child, threw sand into her shoes, without her uttering a complaint, and on her return to the drawing-room the first thing he did was to seat himself in the chair which she had appropriated to herself, and which was a continual source of disputes between her and her sister, whom she would never allow to sit in it, except by Madame de Vaucourt's express command. Amelia, who began to be on familiar terms with Stanislas, pulled him by the arm, saying, "Come away, that is my sister's chair," and Adela, quite ashamed, touched her sister's arm, and whispered to her to mind her own business.
"But he is upon your chair," said Amelia.
"What is that to you?"
"Oh! very well, then I shall sit there after him;" and as soon as Stanislas quitted the chair, she took possession of it, while Adela, in the presence of the princess, did not even think of preventing her. Amelia soon left the chair, to run and take from Stanislas her sister's draught-board, which he was preparing to open. "I want to play with the draughts," cried the little fellow, while Amelia exclaimed in return, "But my sister will not let any one touch them." Adela, quitealarmed at the idea the princess might form of her, hastened to take the draught-board from the hands of Amelia and gave it to Stanislas.
"Very well, then, I shall play with them too," said Amelia. Stanislas began to roll the draughts about on the floor. Amelia at first tried to check him, and then began rolling them still faster herself. When he was tired of playing with them, she wished to persuade him to put them away in order, but he dragged her to the garden, and called out from the door, that they must leave the draughts where they were, as he meant to come back and play with them again. The next day two of them were missing. Amelia came to tell the news, looking terribly frightened, and as no one seemed to listen with much attention, she said, "But they belong to my sister's draught-board?"
"What does that signify?" said Adela quickly.
"Ah! if I had lost them!" said Amelia: but a sign from her sister imposed silence on her.
"Adela seems very gentle and sensible," observed the princess. Adela cast down her eyes, not daring to look at her mother or sister.
All this lasted several days. At table, Madame de Vaucourt's old servant, who was not very alert, and had more to do than usual, could not wait on Adela as attentively as on other occasions, and was surprised not to hear her say sharply, "Chambéri, do you not mean to give me a plate?" He remarked to her, "Gracious! Miss Adela, how gentle and well-behaved you have become lately!" "That is because she is afraid of the princess," said the mischievous little Amelia, laughing. Adela, who began to lose patience, was sometimes on the point of forgetting herself, but Amelia would then take flight and run into the drawing-room, laughing, as she knew that Adela would not venture to scold her there, while Stanislas, of whom she had made an intimate friend, joined in her laughter without understanding its cause. Adela, though burning with impatience, endeavoured to smile lest someindiscretion on Amelia's part might betray to others the cause of her ill-humour. Her temper, however, would have obtained the mastery at last; and she was beginning sometimes to treat Stanislas and the little dog rather harshly, when, fortunately, the princess took her departure. For the first few days afterwards the effect of the habit which Adela had acquired of restraining her temper was still visible; but as Amelia had also got the habit of fearing her less, and laughing at her, it was not long before the old disputes were renewed. They first began about the chair, which Amelia took without ceremony, even removing her sister's work, which had been left there, as if to keep the place in her absence.
Adela became angry. "I thought that fancy was over?" said Madame de Vaucourt.
"Oh, mamma," replied Amelia, "that was only on account of the princess."
Madame de Vaucourt observed that Adela must have felt there was something very absurd in such childishness, since she was ashamed to show it before the princess; and she hoped, therefore, that they should hear no more of it. The argument was unanswerable, and besides Madame de Vaucourt's tone forbade reply. Adela therefore contented herself with leaving the room, slamming the door with all her might. Her mother called her back.
"My dear," she said, "when the princess was here you used to shut the doors gently, and as that proves to me that you can do so without great inconvenience, I beg you will do it in future."
Thus obliged to close the door quietly, Adela went into the garden to exhale her ill-temper, since she saw that it was now determined to allow no excuse for it. During their evening walk, it happened that the path they had to take was very dirty. Adela said it was insupportable.
"Surely," replied her mother, "you do not mean to let that disturb you? The other day when we werewalking with the princess, the mud was ten times as bad, yet you never made the least complaint."
"I found it very disagreeable though."
"Why then did you not complain?"
"It was not necessary."
"And is it necessary to-day?"
"Must one never say a word then about what is unpleasant?" replied Adela in a very impatient tone.
"I would ask you that question, my dear; you best know the reasons which induced you to refrain from murmuring whilst the princess was present."
After some reflection, Adela could find nothing better to say than that her mother had enjoined her to behave well before strangers. Madame de Vaucourt observed that she had enjoined her to behave well at all times. "But," she added, "since you think you ought to refrain from complaints in order to maintain a proper appearance before strangers, why did you, when you cut yourself the other day, whilst the princess was present, say that you were hurt, and hold your finger in water, and then keep it wrapped up in a handkerchief for an hour?"
"But, mamma, it pained me very much."
"You believe then that one may complain before strangers of things which give real pain? Suppose now that you had received a letter from the school, saying that your brother was ill, would you not have thought it allowable to show your grief on such an occasion before the princess?"
"Yes, indeed, mamma," replied Adela quickly.
"You see then that when we suffer real evils we may complain of them before strangers, it is only when things are too trifling to deserve notice, that it is ridiculous to make complaints in their presence, and since they do not deserve notice, it is just as ridiculous to complain of them when strangers are not present."
Adela might not perhaps have been convinced by this reasoning, but thenceforth whenever she said thatanything wasinsupportable, her mother replied, "You did not find it so when the princess was here." Nor would Amelia suffer herself to be harshly treated without talking of the princess: even Chambéri, if Adela scolded him, would say, "Ah! Miss Adela, I see we want the princess here again." Adela began to be terribly annoyed with this raillery; then she got frightened, lest from its being so often repeated it might at last reach the ears of the princess; so that to avoid these constant allusions to her name, she endeavoured to be less impatient. When she had once become convinced that it was possible to repress her angry feelings, she found it was easy to do so; she perceived that three fourths of the things which vexed her, were in reality of no consequence to her, and that the only real harm she experienced from them, was that which she inflicted on herself by losing her temper. Some years afterwards, she saw the princess again, and could not help blushing a little when she thought of all the taunts which her first visit had brought upon her; but these things were now forgotten by her friends, for Adela had ceased to be a grumbler.
"Well!" said the Curé to Juliana, when he had finished his story. "What do you think of it?"
"I think," replied Juliana, a little discontented, "that she was a very ridiculous girl with her princess."
"What! ridiculous for correcting herself?"
"No, but for doing so on account of the princess."
"When we correct our faults it must be for some motive."
"There are many more important motives," said Juliana a little proudly, "which ought to have induced her to correct herself."
"Since you are so well acquainted with these things, Miss Juliana, let me know them," said the Curé, "and we will make a story about them."
"A story?" asked Juliana, uncertain whether to laugh or be offended.
"Certainly: I shall begin it from the point where Miss Juliana made the discovery that there were many good reasons for inducing her to correct her faults, and I shall terminate it by saying—Miss Juliana, whose only serious fault was that of losing her temper when anything was disagreeable to her, corrected herself completely, and became a most amiable young lady."
At this moment, the two little boys, quite disappointed that the Curé would not admit them to his conversation with Juliana, came to teaze him to tell them at least the story. "You shall hear it," he said, "when you have quite left off tormenting your sister," for in correcting Juliana he would not encourage bad habits in her brothers; then turning towards her, "you know now, Miss Juliana, what you have to do in order to silence them."
"That will not be giving them much trouble, at all events," said Juliana.
"But who will have the advantage?" said the Curé; and Juliana appeared pleased at the idea of being some day free from a defect which made her pass many unhappy moments; besides she felt touched and flattered by the pains which the Curé took to be useful to her.
It began to rain; Juliana, whose bonnet was almost new, was anxious to return to the house; but before they could reach it they had to cross a large flower garden, and in an instant the shower became so violent that it was impossible to escape it. Juliana, in running, caught in some trellis work, which tore her dress and threw her down. The Curé, though not running, came up however in time to assist her in rising, and thinking her much disposed to be angry, said to her, "Providence has soon given you an opportunity, Miss Juliana, of introducing a fine passage into our story."
Juliana had sufficient command over herself to make no reply, and that was a great deal for her, as besides spoiling her bonnet, and tearing her frock, she was covered with dirt from head to foot, and had also hurt her knee in her fall. The Curé gave her his arm to assist her to the house, and she might have remarked that although by touching her he had soiled the sleeve and skirt of his coat, and that on their way she had accidentally splashed some water into his shoe and almost filled it, he did not show the slightest mark of displeasure. When, however, they entered the drawing-room, and Zemira came jumping upon her to testify his joy at seeing her again, she was very near giving him a kick, but she checked herself, and the Curé who observed this, said to her, "I shall write on my tablets that Zemira didnotreceive a kick." If Juliana smiled, it was perhaps against her will, and her brothers, who now entered and began laughing when they saw the plight she was in, would no doubt have felt the weight of her long repressed vexation, if the Curé had not said, "I perceive, Miss Juliana, that these little rogues will not deserve to hear the story of the princess, till you have succeeded in curing them of their faults." Juliana made her escape to her own room, where she changed her dress, not, it is suspected, without more than once showing her impatience to her nurse, who was eagerly busied in assisting her. At all events it is certain that when she came down stairs, and her mother had complimented her on the patience with which she had endured her accident, Juliana could not help blushing.
From that day forward, whenever the Curé came to the château, he asked Juliana if there was anything to be added to the story; sometimes Juliana shook her head, having nothing good to relate; at others, she would smile, because she felt satisfied with herself. On such occasions, she liked to converse with the Curé about the temptations to which she had been exposed; but in recounting them she found them farless serious than they had appeared at the time, and felt more completely how foolish it would have been to have yielded to them. This confirmed her in her good resolutions; and she was further confirmed in them by the satisfaction which her friends testified in her improvement. She afterwards went with her parents to Paris, and remained there three years; during which time she kept up a regular correspondence with the Curé of Chavignat. On her return she was seventeen, and felt happy in the thought that he would find her cured of her childish fault. Amadeus, instead of teazing, now treated her with respect, for she no longer scolded him unjustly; he was consequently accustomed to listen to her when she warned him gently of any fault. Neither did she make any difficulty in relating to him the story of the princess; and Amadeus, when talking of it to the Curé on the day of his return, said, "At all events Juliana was never so disagreeable as that;" and the good Curé rejoiced to find that Juliana's defects were so well concealed that they had even been forgotten. During this time Juliana was looking for her bag, which she had mislaid, and although it was half-an-hour before she could find it, and Paul was all the while tormenting her with a thousand childish tricks, she was not in the least put out of temper.
"Since my story is so well ended, Miss Juliana," said the Curé, when she had found her bag, "pray inform me how you have managed to bring things to so satisfactory a conclusion."
Juliana blushed and smiled as she replied, "By being always, thanks to you, Monsieur le Curé, so full of the desire of being reasonable, that it drove out of my head whatever might have prevented me from keeping my resolution."
Henry was a youth of fifteen, which is as much as to say that he had good intentions, but did not always carry them out in practice. He loved his father and his tutor, but he loved his pleasures still more; he would have done anything to make them happy, but he did not give them the greatest of all happiness, that of seeing him docile and well-conducted. The impetuosity of his disposition often drew from those he loved bitter tears, which in the end made his own flow. His life was thus divided between faults and repentance; and his good intentions were so continually rendered useless by reprehensible actions, that his friends at last gave up all hopes of his amendment. His father, the Count of A——, was constantly thinking, with increasing anxiety, of the time when Henry must leave him to enter the university, or to travel. The paths of vice would then present themselves to him under the most seductive aspects, and there would no longer be the hand of a father to restrain or his voice to call him back; he might fall deeper and deeper into error, and return to the paternal mansion with a heart corrupted, despoiled of its purity and elevation, and incapable even of that feeling which is at least the reflection of virtue—repentance.
The count was of a mild but feeble character, and his health was delicate; the death of the countess, hiswife, had mined beneath his feet the ground on which he rested. Henry, on the return of his father's birthday, fancied that he could hear a secret voice saying to him, "The fragile layer of earth which bears thy father, and separates him from thy mother's ashes, will soon crumble away, and he will disappear from thy view without carrying with him to the tomb the hope of thy amendment." This day he shed burning tears; but what avail tears and softened feelings when they do not produce amendment? He went into the park where stood the tomb of his mother, together with the empty sepulchre which, during an illness, his father had caused to be constructed for himself. There, he made a solemn vow to combat the violence of his temper and his love of pleasure; but, alas! I should too deeply grieve my young readers were I to relate in detail how only a few days before that appointed for his going to the university, he was guilty of a fault which cruelly pierced the heart of his unhappy father, already so deeply wounded. The count fell ill, and was confined to his bed without being able to flatter himself with the hope that he might witness the return of his son to virtue, before he was called upon to exchange his melancholy couch for the bed of stone which awaited him in the park.
I will not then describe to you either the fault or the regret of Henry; but in passing a severe judgment on his errors you may as well extend it also to those of which at any time you may yourselves have been guilty. What child can approach the dying bed of his parents, without saying to himself, "Alas! if I have not deprived them of whole years of life, who knows by how many weeks or days I may not have shortened their term? I may perhaps have added to the sufferings which now I would so gladly have mitigated, and my follies may have closed before their time those eyes which, but for me, might still enjoy the light of day!" It is because the fatal consequences of our faults are concealed from viewthat reckless mortals are so bold in the commission of crimes: man gives free scope to the ungoverned desires of his heart, as he might let loose a set of ferocious animals; he permits them under favour of the darkness to wander amongst mankind; but he sees not how many innocent people are wounded or torn to pieces: he madly flings around him burning brands, lighted by guilty passions, and when he has already sunk into the tomb, the neighbouring houses on which the fatal spark has alighted, burst into flames, and the dense column of smoke hovers over the place of his repose like a monument raised to his shame.
Henry, when all hope of recovery was at an end, could no longer support the melancholy and care-worn aspect of his father: he remained in the adjacent chamber, and there, whilst the count's ebbing life was struggling against repeated fainting-fits, he addressed his silent prayers to Heaven, closed his eyes to the future, and dreaded, like the explosion of a terrible shell, those first awful words, "He is dead." The time, however, came when he must present himself before his father, take leave of him, receive his forgiveness, and give him his promise of amendment.
Alone in the apartment adjoining that of the invalid, he had roused himself from a long and painful stupor: he listened, and heard only the voice of his aged tutor, who had been his father's preceptor also, and who, now seeing the approach of the shadows of death, gave him his blessing in these words: "Go calmly to thy sleep, virtuous soul! May all thy good actions, all thy promises fulfilled, all thy pious thoughts, be gathered around thee at the close of life, as the beautiful clouds of evening gather round the sun when sinking in the west! Smile once more if you can hear my words, and if your dying heart has still the power of feeling." The invalid made an effort to rouse himself from the heavy sleep of his swoon, but he did not smile, for, in the confusion ofhis senses, he had mistaken the voice of his preceptor for that of his son. "Henry," he stammered in imperfect accents, "I cannot see you, but I hear you. Lay your hand on my heart, and solemnly promise me that you will become virtuous." Henry rushed forward to make this promise, but the preceptor had already placed his hand on the fluttering heart of the father, and, with a sign to the son, said, in a low voice, "I promise for you." The heart of the count was still beating with that slow and languid motion which announces the near extinction of life; he neither heard the vow, nor the friends who surrounded him.
Henry, sinking under this heart-rending scene, and trembling for that which must succeed it, resolved to quit the château, and not return till the most agonizing hours of his affliction should have passed away, but he felt that this amendment must not commence by a secret flight. He therefore announced to his preceptor, "that he could no longer support this dreadful sight, but that he would return in a week," and then he added, in a voice choked with grief, "I shall still find a father here." He embraced him, told him where he meant to seclude himself, and left the house.
With faltering steps he traversed the park. He perceived the two white sepulchres visible through the trees, and approached them. Not daring to touch the yet empty tomb beneath which his father was to repose, he leaned against the one which covered a heart which he had not broken, that of his mother, whom he had lost many years before. On that mother's tomb, and in the presence of God, he renewed his vow of amendment.
Every step he took brought back the memory of his errors; a child led by his father, a pit, a fading leaf, the sound of a church-bell, all awakened the most painful recollections.
He reached the place of his retreat, but after four days of remorse, of tears and of anguish, he felt thathe ought to return to the château, and prove the sincerity of his regret for the loss of his father by imitating his virtues. The most noble commemoration that man can offer to those whom he has loved, and whose loss he deplores, is to dry the tears of those who suffer;—a series of good works is the fairest garland that can be suspended over their tombs.
Henry again turned his steps homewards: it was evening when he crossed the park; and the dusky pyramid which surmounted his father's tomb looked through the trees, like one of those grey clouds which float in the azure sky, over the blackened ruins of a village destroyed by fire. Henry stopped: he leaned his head against the cold marble, his face bathed with tears, but there was no gentle voice to bid him "be consoled." No father there to show his affection by tenderly repeating, "I pardon thee." The rustling of the leaves sounded to him as a murmur of anger, and the obscurity of the evening chilled him with the terror of some horrible gloom. However, he recovered himself, and renewed in these words the vow which his tutor had pronounced in his name: "Oh! father! dear father! Do you hear your poor child who is weeping over your grave? Look at me; on my knees I implore your forgiveness, I promise to fulfil the vow which my tutor pronounced for me upon your dying heart. Oh father! father!"—here grief stifled his voice—"will you not give your child some token of your forgiveness!"
A rustling among the leaves was audible, a figure slowly advancing put aside the branches, and said, "I have pardoned you." It was his father! That which is intermediate between sleep and death, a deep swoon, had restored him to life by throwing him into a salutary lethargy. It was the first time he had been out, and he came, accompanied by his ancient preceptor, to offer his thanks on his tomb. Tender father! if thou hadst indeed passed into another world, thy heart could not thus have throbbed with joy, northine eyes shed tears of happiness, on the return of a penitent son who came to cast at thy feet a regenerate man!
I cannot draw the curtain over this affecting scene, without addressing one important question to my young readers. Are you still so happy as to possess a father and a mother, to whom you may afford inexpressible joy by your affection and your good conduct? Ah! if any one of you has hitherto neglected to procure them this felicity, I will take upon me the office of a conscience which cannot fail some day to awaken, and I tell him that a time will come when nothing can afford him consolation if he has to say to himself, "They loved me above all things, yet I have seen them expire without having given them the happiness of being able to say, My child is virtuous."
On the 15th of May, 1801, an honest, but wretched woman breathed her last, in a garret of one of the highest houses in the Rue Saint-Honoré. She was still young; but misery more than sickness had rendered her condition hopeless. Stretched, since the morning, without food, upon a bed of straw, her strength was nearly exhausted; and she already was speechless, when the cries of her only child, a boy of about six years of age, attracted the neighbours, as well as the portress of the house. Their assistance, however, was of no avail. The poor creature expired without having the power to utter a single word, and her eyes closed in death while still fixed upon her child, whose tears had already ceased to flow on beholding himself thus surrounded. The portress took him in her arms, and kissed him. "Poor little José!" she said. "Poor José!" repeated the neighbours, and taking the child, they left the garret, to go and consult with Dame Robert, a shoemaker, and owner of a shop six feet square, attached to the same house. She was the friend and adviser of all who lived near her: the most trifling circumstances were referred to her superior judgment, and, in the present embarrassment, it was to her that the neighbours turned to decide on the fate of the unfortunate orphan. Before revealing the result of this noisy conference, we will relate in a few words the melancholy, but too common history, of the parents of poor José.
His father, a native of Annecy, in Savoy, was named Joseph Berr, or José, according to thepatoisof the province. The name, thus corrupted, is so common in that part of the country, that, if ignorant of a man's name, one may call him José, without being often wrong; and, under all circumstances, the appellation is received with pleasure. José Berr, then, possessed the usual qualities of his countrymen; he was honest, intelligent, and energetic. He had lately married, and not finding sufficient work to maintain his little family in comfort, he, like many other ignorant people, committed the folly of going to settle in Paris, after having expended in a long and wearisome journey, one half of his little store. The simple-hearted Berr firmly believed that he should make his fortune; but he soon found that, if a large city does offer great resources, there are also obstacles to be met with on all sides. He wished to station himself at the corner of a street, to do porter's work, but he found the ground already occupied by rivals, who determined to beat him off the field. They would have nothing to say to the new comer, and it was not until he had expended what was to him a considerable sum, in treating the whole party at a tavern, that he obtained the honour of being admitted into their fraternity. But as, at the corner of almost every street, companies of porters are to be met with, similar to the one into which Berr was received, the profits, consequently, were very trifling, while living in Paris is very dear. His wife, on her side, endeavoured to work, but having neither acquaintances nor patrons, and obliged, moreover, to take care of little José, who was just born, she earned still less than her husband. For some years, this unfortunate family thus struggled against poverty, Berr often repenting that he had left his native town, where, if he did not earn much, he was at least sure of being employedand assisted. Finally, at the close of a severe winter, during which he had made redoubled efforts to obtain a subsistence for his wife and child, Berr was seized with inflammation of the chest, and died in four days' time for want of proper care. From that moment, his wife languished, and unable to endure this loss, and the privations of all kinds which were hourly increasing, she terminated her miserable existence, as we have already seen.
In the meantime, the council of neighbours, assembled at Dame Robert's, deliberated, without coming to any conclusion, upon the fate of little José, who, without troubling himself as to the future, was quietly sleeping in the shoemaker's shop. The charity and the means of most of these women were about sufficient to make them willing to keep the child for a week, but not longer. One had a large family, another was in service. A moment's silence ensued; then a voice uttered the word "Workhouse." "The workhouse!" exclaimed Dame Robert, with indignation. "Send this poor little innocent, the only child of these worthy people to the workhouse! No, you shall not go to the workhouse, my little cherub," she continued, taking up the sleeping José; "I have five children of my own, but you shall share their bread, even if I have to work an hour more morning and evening, I will take care of you until you can provide for yourself; and God will help me."
The idea of the workhouse, so distressing to the poor, had greatly excited Dame Robert, but the kindness of her heart soon confirmed her generous promise. Left alone with the child, after being overwhelmed with praise by her neighbours, who envied her the good action, which they had not themselves courage to perform, she laid the little orphan in the same bed with her own boys, and retired to rest with the satisfaction of having done her duty.
The good done by the poor is more meritorious, and requires more self-denial, than that done byothers; for their charity is always at the expense of necessaries, while that of the rich takes from nothing but their superfluity. Dame Robert had recently become a widow. Her small business was tolerably flourishing; but to suffice for the maintenance of a sixth child, she made it a rule to work, as she had said, an hour longer morning and evening. This was a great deal for her, who, with the care of her six children, her work and her business, could only obtain these two additional hours by taking them from her time of rest.
The produce of this surplus labour was amply sufficient for the maintenance of a child so young as José; besides, Dame Robert was not a woman to spoil him any more than the rest, for all her kindness of heart did not prevent her from displaying the roughness of manner so common to her class; his share of potatoes was the same as those of the two younger children; he occupied the small space left in the poor bed provided for them; and when the six little rogues made too much noise, broke anything, or drank the milk of Dame Robert's favourite cat, the reproofs and thumps which followed these misdeeds were equally distributed between José and his adopted brothers. As to the rest, Providence seemed willing to reward the good shoemaker for her humanity. The labour of the two additional hours was scarcely sufficient to satisfy her numerous customers; and, as she herself observed to her neighbours, who were astonished at her constant cheerfulness, "I laugh to see the people passing and repassing in such a hurry, little thinking that by wearing out their shoes they are helping to make my pot boil."
José was beloved by all his little comrades on account of his gentle and obliging disposition; but he was more especially the friend of Philip, the youngest of Dame Robert's children. Somewhat older than José, Philip protected him in their quarrels, gave him the best of everything, and became seriouslyangry whenever any one called him the little Savoyard, this appellation appearing to him insulting, without his very well knowing why. However, as the children grew older, Philip had no longer any need of exerting his influence for the protection of José. The intelligence of the latter had developed so much, and rendered him so far superior to his young friends, that he assumed over them that kind of ascendancy which the grossest minds cannot refuse to superior intellect, when it does not interfere with their own self-respect.
José had just attained his eighth year; he was small for his age, but strong and active. Dame Robert had neither the means nor the capacity to bestow upon him any education beyond some notions of religion, rather limited, it is true, but still sufficient for his age. The whole moral code of this worthy woman was contained in these four sentences, which she was incessantly repeating to her children, and which they always beheld her put in practice:—
"Be thankful to God for the bread he gives you.
"Never tell a lie, even to gain your bread.
"Earn your bread honestly, otherwise it will profit you nothing.
"When you are grown up, return to your father and mother the bread they have given to you."
It may be seen, that if Dame Robert was not possessed of much eloquence, the principles which guided her conduct were just and solid, and that their correct application was sufficient to direct her children in the narrow path they were destined to tread.
"Now, my boy!" she said, one Sunday morning, taking José upon her knees, "we have something besides sport to think about to-day; you are now eight years old, and you may, in your turn, begin to assist me as I have assisted you. There are no idlers with Dame Robert. My eldest boys have begun their apprenticeship; Philip goes of my errands; and ofyou I intend to make a little shoe-black, who will bring home every night the pence he has earned in the day. See! here is the little box I have bought for you."
José was enchanted at these words. How delightful to be able, at his age, to earn money, to be useful to his kind mother; for the tenderness of his little heart made him already feel this joy. It must also be owned, that the seductive idea of being almost his own master, and of being able to go through a few streets when executing commissions, delighted him beyond measure, and made him eagerly accept Dame Robert's plan; and he immediately ran to admire his little shoe-cleaning apparatus. Nothing had been forgotten; the box, two hard brushes, two soft brushes, a little knife, some blacking, some spirit for the tops of the boots, a supply of rags, and a vessel to contain water; these articles comprised the whole of José's new possessions. They were looked at, touched, and turned about, not only by himself, but by the other children also; while José, impatient to make use of them at once, wanted to clean all the dirty shoes in the house, and Dame Robert decided, if he succeeded in this his first attempt, that he should the next day be established sole master of his brushes, on the grand Place du Musée. José, full of zeal, immediately set to work, aided by the advice of his brothers and sisters. The first pair turned out badly: José cut the strings; at the second attempt he gave his hand a great scratch, but this only proved that his knife was good, so he did not cry. Finally, he succeeded very well with the third pair, better with the next, and still better with the succeeding one; so that, when he came to Philip's shoes, which he intentionally reserved till the last, the young novice executed what the apprentices term theirmasterpiece, and it was therefore decided that he might exercise his talents in public.
It was with difficulty that José closed his eyes thatnight, and when he did sleep he beheld in his dreams more than one passer-by stop before him to require the exercise of his skill. As I have already said, Dame Robert lived in the Rue Saint-Honoré, near the corner of the Rue Froidmanteau; and, although but a short time has elapsed since the period at which little José commenced his labours, this part of Paris then bore no resemblance to what it is at the present day. The wide and handsome street leading from the Carrousel to the Place du Musée did not then exist, and the Place du Musée itself terminated in a rapid descent at the end of the Rue Froidmanteau, while this narrow, low, and always dirty street was almost the only thoroughfare leading to the Louvre in this direction. Nevertheless it was the one usually taken by the artists who were attracted either by business or pleasure to the Palace of the Louvre, in which at that time, as now, the exhibition of pictures was held, and in which, moreover, were situated the free academy for drawing, the rooms for the exhibition of prize pictures, both of which have been removed elsewhere, as well as the studios of a great number of painters then situated in the immense wing which extends from the Pont-des-Arts to the Pont-Royal. Dame Robert, in her tender solicitude for José, and wishing also to justify her reputation for prudence, had carefully examined all the localities I have mentioned; the inevitable mud which every foot-passenger must necessarily collect in crossing the Rue Froidmanteau, first suggested to her the idea of the useful establishment, of which José was to be the founder, and having with joy discovered that no rival in this department had yet thought of taking advantage of so favourable a site, she hastened, as we have already seen, to inform her adopted son of his new destination.
On the Monday morning, therefore, José commenced his new career. The whole of the little family was awake at an early hour, anxious to accompany and install José in the situation indicated by Dame Robert, who herself carried the neat little box, while each of the children took possession of one of the utensils. José alone, as the hero of the day, carried nothing; he marched proudly at the head of the merry troop, and never did conqueror take possession of a kingdom with greater satisfaction than was experienced by the little Savoyard, when he established his apparatus in a hollow, some feet in depth, faced by two enormous posts, between which José appeared as in a fortress. Dame Robert, after having strongly cautioned him not to leave his post, and not to eat up at once his provisions for the day, which she had given to him in a little basket, at length made up her mind to leave him, and went away, accompanied by the other children, though not without often looking back. Having reached the end of the Place du Musée, she once more turned round, and saw, with infinite satisfaction, that José was already engaged in cleaning some boots, which a lazy servant had brought to him, in order to save himself the trouble of doing them. With a contented heart, the good woman then redoubled her speed, and returned home to resume her ordinary occupations; but the image of José frequently presented itself to her imagination, and interrupted her labours. The day seemed to her very long, and she had to exercise her self-denial, in order to resist the temptation she felt to go and take a distant peep at him, to ascertain how he was getting on; but not to give her more credit than she deserved, it must be told that she turned away her eyes when, at lunch-time, Philip, stealing by the side of the houses, bent his steps towards the Place du Musée. When he returned empty-handed, and with a smiling countenance, the kind soul became quite easy, and resumed her needle with more activity than ever.
At the close of this day, so memorable to the little family, the moment José was perceived in the distance, dragging along his new possessions, all thechildren ran to his assistance; José, throwing himself into the arms of Dame Robert, commenced a confused recital of his wonderful adventures; then, suddenly interrupting himself, he drew from his pocket and presented to her, with inexpressible pride, twelve sous, carefully tied up in a bit of rag. This was the result of his day's labour, and José, encouraged by this first attempt, and having almost completely overcome the timidity natural to his age, like all children who are compelled by necessity to work while very young, he devoted himself with so much assiduity and intelligence to his new calling, that he soon became the most skilful, as well as the smartest little shoeblack in the whole neighbourhood. As he grew older, his earnings increased; he sometimes went of errands, called hackney coaches, &c., &c., while his gentle disposition and pleasing manners gained for him the esteem of all who lived in the neighbourhood of his ambulatory establishment. Besides, José was industrious and docile, and not given to mischief, neither was he greedy, as is sometimes the case with children even better brought up than he could have been, and his good conduct was all the more remarkable from his being entirely his own master during the whole of the day, while fate, as if for the very purpose of trying him, had placed objects of temptation in almost every street through which he had to pass on his way backward and forward. One of these objects was an attractive gingerbread shop, another, a troop of little urchins, who endeavoured to entice every child that passed by to join in their follies. It really required strength of mind, and even what at José's age may be termed virtue, to withstand these terrible rocks, but he was always triumphant, and if he did sometimes cast a longing look towards the somersets and tricks of these little vagabonds, or upon the delicious piles of Madame Legris' crisp gingerbread, his daily treasure was always faithfully carried home to Dame Robert, andnever had the mud-soiled pedestrian to complain of having to wait a single minute for the services of the useful shoeblack.
As our reputation commences with ourselves, and is almost always dependent on our own will, José, who was truly anxious to do what was right, had already obtained for himself a very flattering one, considering his age; and we will now relate the good fortune which this reputation was the means of procuring for him at the expiration of a year.
In addition to Madame Legris', and many other enticing shops, there was, at that time, upon the Place du Musée, one which kept an excellent assortment of colours, canvasses, and everything connected with painting, and which the artists and students of that period may remember to have been well acquainted with. M. Barbe, the owner of this establishment, was a kind-hearted and excellent man, very intelligent, and very active in his business. His shop was always filled with artists and young men engaged in painting, the proximity of a great number of studios rendering it convenient for the purchases perpetually required in this pursuit. Moreover, the length of time it had been established, the confidence inspired by the worthy owner, and the advantages it offered to the poorer class of students, had rendered it a kind of rendezvous for that little world of its own which we term artists. Barbe kept in his lumber-rooms those inferior pictures which could not obtain a purchaser, and with which, otherwise, the unfortunate authors would not have known what to do; he supplied one with colours, for a certain time, gratis; lent a palette or an easel to another; had a kind word for all, and took as much interest in them as if they had been his own children. Madame Barbe seconded him wonderfully, and shared his tastes and occupations with a degree of skill and intelligence worthy of all praise; but, as there is nothing perfect in this world, Madame Barbe will notbe offended if I reveal two little defects, of which, besides, I have since learned, that she has corrected herself. She was a little too fond, to use a common expression, ofstormingat those about her; and she possessed such an amazing volubility of tongue, that it was difficult to keep pace with her, so that she almost always remained master of the field. Still young and very agreeable, she exercised great influence over her excellent husband, while she possessed sufficient attraction for her numerous customers, who were amused with her eloquence without suffering from her irritability. Her usual victims were her husband, her little girl of four years old, and a man of about forty, named Gabri, M. Barbe's head assistant and confidential clerk. Naturally taciturn, Gabri had become still more so since the marriage of his patron with this eloquent dame. He had remarked, with his usual discrimination, that when these fits of passion commenced, the very mildest answer was only pouring oil upon the fire; he maintained, therefore, in such cases, the most perfect silence; and Madame Barbe, satisfied with this evidence of the force of her arguments, went elsewhere to exercise her power. Gabri was nevertheless esteemed by her, as by every one else; and it is even asserted, that in one of her better moments she acknowledged, that a great portion of the prosperity of their business was due to his intelligence and integrity. He therefore, with a few exceptions, fared pretty well in the house; not to mention, that Barbe himself treated him altogether as a friend. Still, poor Gabri could not overcome the melancholy induced by irreparable misfortunes. In the course of six weeks he had lost his three children and their mother, by the small-pox; and, even after the lapse of many years, this man, apparently so cold, shed tears whenever he spoke of his poor children. "They were three fine boys," he would say, but could not finish. With a heart so sensitive, it was impossible for himto behold without interest our amiable little José. He carefully watched his disposition and conduct for a long time, became more and more attached to him, and the fortunate child thus acquired by his own merits alone a prudent and sincere friend.
But it was not enough for Gabri that he should love José with his whole heart; he wished also to take measures for his future welfare; and after repeatedly talking over the matter with Madame Legris, who also took a great interest in his youngprotégé, they commenced their innocent plot in the following manner.
Madame Barbe entertained some partiality for Madame Legris, who, wishing to maintain a good understanding with her neighbours, listened more patiently than others to the long speeches of this chatterbox. Besides, she often gave cakes to the little girl, a generosity which Madame Barbe could not find it in her heart to blame, notwithstanding her desire to discover faults. The friendly vender of gingerbread went, therefore, one morning, to call upon her at the hour she was sure to be in the best humour, her shop being then filled with purchasers. "Well, neighbour," she said, on entering, "how goes on business this week?"
"Pretty well, pretty well," replied Madame Barbe, (all the while dexterously filling and capping some bladders of colour, an occupation which she always reserved till the middle of the morning, in order to display the grace of her pretty fingers,) "but sit down, neighbour; I am really very glad to see you.... Ah! good morning, sir; you shall be attended to in a moment.... Pussy, my darling, here is Madame Legris, who has brought you some cracknels.... Be so kind as to take a seat, ladies.... Barbe, bring some canvasses.... Yes, ladies, they are excellent and very fine, and have been made these twelve months and more.... Your servant, sir; I know what you want.... Gabri,bring some pencils to this gentleman.... Naples yellow and white? In a moment, my little friend.... Gracious! what a crowd! what confusion! and only myself to attend to it all! for as to my husband and Gabri ..." And Madame Barbe shrugged her shoulders in a most significant manner.
"Really, friend," resumed Madame Legris, "you seem to me ..."
"What, sir!" exclaimed Madame Barbe, in a higher tone, "those brushes good for nothing!... Brushes carefully sorted, and made with brass wire.... Just look at them a second time, sir. Here's a glass of water. Good heavens! those brushes ill made!"
"Pooh!" exclaimed the discontented purchaser, "I don't want any water;" and putting the brush into his mouth, "I see," he repeated, "that they divide;" and he threw them on the counter with contempt.
"You have them, however, from the best makers, my dear friend," said Madame Legris, wishing to maintain the choleric shopkeeper in good humour in order to attain her object; "and doubtless ..."
"Doubtless!" resumed Madame Barbe, becoming scarlet, and biting her lips; "the gentleman, doubtless, knows nothing about the manufactory of Dagneau; so it's no use talking. Get out of my way, you little stupid," she said, addressing her daughter, at the same time giving her a slap. "Yes, five sous for every dip-cup[2]you bring me to clean, young gentleman, and quite enough, I think; other people only give four. Mercy! Gabri: you bring so many things at a time, that you will let them all fall." Andwhether Madame Barbe's quick eye really saw what was going to happen, or whether the sharp tones of her voice startled poor Gabri, certain it is that he let fall the whole of his load in the middle of the shop. His mistress, greatly irritated, rushed forward, and she might, perhaps, have even ventured to have added acts to words had not the entrance of a new comer suddenly changed the expression of her features.
This was a distinguished artist, one of M. Barbe's best customers, who also affected to be an admirer of his wife, at whose expense he amused himself, by deluding her with the hope that he would one day paint her portrait.
"What's the matter now? Here is truly a fine subject for a picture;" he exclaimed, as he beheld the crayons and other articles floating in a sea of oil, while Gabri, with folded arms, stood petrified, and Madame Legris was engaged in restraining the infuriated mistress of the establishment. "It might be called the Broken Cruse. But do not spoil your pretty face, my charming model. My picture will be completed in a week, and then we will commence the sketch of our portrait; but really your complexion is so delicate, so transparent, that we shall have to use all the resources of our art, and I have a great fancy to try it on wood. Have you any panels at hand, as, if so, we will choose one at once."
Whilst Madame Barbe, now calmed and delighted, resumed her seat with an affected air; the painter, half reclining upon the counter, amused himself with sketching a small figure with a piece of white chalk, while he related all the important news of the artistic world. "I told you, Madame Barbe, that the number of fools was increasing; pictures of ten feet are nothing to these gentlemen now. There is G——, whom you know very well; he has just hired the tennis-court at Versailles, in order to commence his picture, as no studio would be large enough for it; and this they call painting."
"Ah! Ah!" said Madame Barbe, smiling, "we shall see that at the Exhibition. But what has become of that young man, a pupil of Monsieur V——'s, so talented, and so admired? I never see him here now."
"Lost! utterly lost!" replied the artist, with a malicious smile. "He gave the greatest hopes, but his master's false system has ruined him. That man will never turn out a first-rate pupil; I have said so for a long time past.... But, Madame Barbe, they are not bringing me anything I want. How is it that you have not more attendance for your numerous customers? It is very strange, upon my word."
"Indeed, neighbour!" said Madame Legris, who had been watching for an opportunity of getting in a word, "Your business is getting so extensive that it will be impossible for you to attend to it all yourself, notwithstanding your activity. Were I in your place, I should take an assistant—a child, for instance, that would not be much expense."
"You are right, neighbour," said Barbe, who at that moment joined them. "Gabri is overwhelmed with messages and work, and an errand boy would be very useful."
Madame Barbe looked at her husband, and then at Gabri: but the latter continued quietly to grind his colours, and Barbe saying no more, the desire of contradicting them passed away almost immediately; and this capricious woman, turning graciously towards the artist, begged him to give his opinion upon a subject of so much importance.
"Certainly!" he replied. "It is a good thing; you are quite right;" and he had already forgotten the matter in question.
"Since it is decided," resumed Madame Barbe, who now calculated that she should have an additional person to exercise her authority over, "tell me, neighbour, whether you happen to know a lad likely to suit us. You know as well as we do what we require."
"As to that," replied Madame Legris, concealing the pleasure she felt at this question, "it is a difficult matter. I am not sure that I know any one at this moment who would suit you in every respect.... Yes! stop; I know a poor boy.... But no, it is impossible; his mother would not consent...."
"His mother would not consent!" exclaimed Madame Barbe, offended at the supposition. "What! not consent to his entering a house like ours, to be my husband'spupil, to live as we do! And for all this, what do we ask in return? Almost nothing, in truth! only to be intelligent, faithful, obedient, active, industrious, and not greedy, nor awkward;" and as she named the last of the required qualifications, she glanced towards Gabri, who bent his head in silence. "In fine, Madame Legris, represent these advantages to the child's parents, and I cannot think that they will hesitate for a moment."
"They will not be so foolish," replied Madame Legris, "besides, this boy has only adoptive parents. It is poor little José, the pretty little Savoyard, who is established down yonder, between those two great stones. His is a singular history, and when you know it...."
"You shall relate it to me at our first sitting," interrupted the painter, taking up his hat; and the hope of being able to relate an interesting story, increased the desire which Madame Barbe then felt of possessing José. The kind-hearted Madame Legris therefore went away perfectly satisfied with the success of her project, and if Gabri's conversation was still as laconic as usual, a close observer might have seen him several times during the day rub his hands and smile, a thing quite extraordinary for him.
The day after this conversation, Dame Robert, dressed in her Sunday clothes, and holding our little hero by the hand, called upon Madame Barbe. The story was long, and the dialogue which followed it still longer: and it may be presumed that MadameBarbe's eloquence was more flowing and animated than usual; but, as her auditors did not take the trouble to report it, we can only inform our reader that it was agreed—firstly, that José should serve Madame Barbe during the space of seven years, without receiving any remuneration whatever; and that, after that time, if his conduct was good, he should be paid a small sum monthly. Secondly, that the said José should, during his seven years' apprenticeship, be lodged and boarded by his new masters, and that Dame Robert should take charge of his clothing.
Every thing being arranged to the satisfaction of both parties, José was immediately set to work, and from the first moment displayed a degree of intelligence which greatly delighted the kind-hearted Barbe and much astonished his difficult partner. He had a wonderful faculty for remembering where the different articles were kept, and, if he happened to hesitate for a moment, Gabri, from the extremity of the back shop, where he was grinding his colours, would quickly make him a sign, which the intelligent child immediately understood. Poor Gabri dared not display all his joy, for his tormenting mistress would have punished him by scolding the innocent José; but, taking advantage of a moment when the latter came to fetch something from where he was, he would cast a rapid glance towards the counter, and, clasping the child in his arms, press him with transport to his heart. Madame Barbe would turn her head, but Gabri's grindstone was already in motion, while little José was at the top of the ladder.
In the evening, the mistress ordered Gabri to conduct theapprenticeto his room. Oh! how delightfully did these words fall upon José's ears! he who had hitherto possessed only one-third of the dark loft in which the brothers slept! He was going to sleep alone, and in his own room! After having gaily mounted seven stories, Gabri opened a little door, andentered a very small room which led to the roof of the house, and adjoined M. Barbe's lumber-room. "A window! a window!" exclaimed José, on entering; "Monsieur Gabri, I have a window!" and he clapped his hands, and jumped for joy. Gabri showed him his bed, which was of fresh straw, covered with a sheet; the little fellow was in such a state of joyous excitement that it was with difficulty his protector could induce him to lie down.
José was roused from his pleasant slumbers by the first rays of the morning sun, when he was gladdened by another agreeable surprise, on discovering that the walls of his garret were smooth and perfectly white, for it had just undergone repair, and was then in a state of cleanliness rarely met with in such places; but José, little sensible to this advantage, was very much so to the cheerful appearance of his room, and especially to the facilities which those white walls afforded him for continuing his first attempts in art. For it must be known that José, in the leisure moments left by his former occupation, used often to exercise his talents by daubing with his blacking and clumsy brushes upon stones or bits of wood a thousand figures of his own invention. What pleasure, then, for him to be able to adorn his room with drawings of soldiers and horses! and he was already on the point of commencing operations when he heard the voice of Madame Barbe, and hastened to obey the summons.
For a whole week the house resounded with nothing but the name of José. The poor boy, constantly watched and tormented, was subjected to a very severe test; but the natural goodness of his disposition and his indefatigable zeal, softened by degrees the severity of his mistress. Besides, his kind friend Gabri, by his judicious advice, saved him from many an act of thoughtlessness, and Madame Barbe scolded so often that her husband never scolded at all. José was, therefore, good, beloved, and happy.His taste for painting was increased by the conversations which he daily heard in this house; still, perhaps, this taste might never have been developed, had it not been for a singular occurrence, and his genius, like the fire shut up in a rude stone, might never have emitted a spark, had not some one struck upon it.
Amongst the numerous houses to which José was sent with the orders executed by M. Barbe, there was one at which he was received with especial kindness, and which, notwithstanding all his prudence, he found great difficulty in leaving when his errand was performed. This was the house of one M. Enguehard, a respectable man, in only moderate circumstances, who, being passionately fond of art, had exercised his talents in engraving until compelled to discontinue, by weakness of sight. Married, late in life, to an amiable woman; who made him happy, their constant occupation was the education of their only son, a lad about two years older than José. Francisco, as he was named, had from his birth been destined to be a painter, and being brought up with this idea, he manifested both facility and power; but naturally of a lively, volatile temperament, and still too fond of amusement, he worked but little, and his progress was consequently not rapid. Like many other children he did not reflect on the sacrifices which his father's slender means obliged him to make for his education, and he lost or destroyed, without scruple, books, maps, mathematical instruments, and other expensive articles, which his parents could only replace by depriving themselves of some personal comfort.
Francisco was nevertheless of a good disposition, and when he chose to make an effort, his progress was so astonishing, that his kind parents forgot his past faults. M. Enguehard was at first inclined to restrain the liking which his son manifested for José, fearing lest this child, whom he naturally supposed had notbeen very carefully brought up, might lead his son to contract some bad habits; but feeling himself an interest, which it was indeed difficult not to feel, on seeing the boy's frank and amiable countenance, he made inquiries about him, and what he learned was so satisfactory that it removed all apprehension with regard to his intimacy with Francisco. The two boys grew daily more and more attached to each other, and José divided all his leisure moments between Dame Robert and his beloved Francisco. Philip, however, was not forgotten; but José, always beyond his years in mental powers, preferred the advantage of being enlightened by the conversation of M. Enguehard and Francisco, to the pleasure of being admired by Philip. His ideas became enlarged and elevated; and, grieved at his own ignorance, he envied Francisco the happiness of an education from which he profited so little.
One day when the latter had thrown aside, in a passion, a book which wearied him, José picked it up, and, turning it round, looked at it with a sigh.
"You are very fortunate," said Francisco, "in not knowing how to read or write, for you are not forced to learn lessons."
"Ah!" replied José, "that is my greatest grief: it is you who are fortunate in having the opportunity of learning. Oh, if you would but teach me to draw!"
"Yes, yes!" cried Francisco, enchanted at the idea: "I will be your master; but take care if you do not do well—upon the knuckles, my lad!"
José smiled at this threat, and M. Enguehard, who entered at the moment, having approved the project, it was decided that Francisco should give José a lesson every Sunday, and of an evening during the week whenever José could obtain permission to go out; but Francisco thought no more about rapping knuckles. José comprehended so readily and advanced so rapidly, that, in order to maintain the proper distance between master and pupil, his friend was obliged toset seriously to work, and this little experiment led him to make a few salutary reflections. M. Enguehard, struck by José's astonishing aptitude, neglected no opportunity of maintaining an emulation so advantageous to both the boys. He often talked to them about the celebrated masters of the old school, and related to them portions of their history. "Almost all of them," he said, "displayed their genius from childhood. Lanfranc, one of the most distinguished pupils of the Caracci, being in the service of Count Scotti, covered all the walls with charcoal drawings, his paper being insufficient to contain the fertility of his imagination. Philippe de Champagne, a native of Brussels, but classed amongst the painters of the French school, and who died President of the Academy, used, when about eight or nine years of age, to copy every picture and engraving that came in his way; and Claude Gelée, called Lorraine, a real phenomenon, such as the history of the arts can offer but few examples of, could learn nothing while at school; his parents therefore apprenticed him to a confectioner, with whom he succeeded still worse. Not knowing what to do, he went to Rome, and, unable to find employment, he entered by chance the service of Augustin Tasso to grind his colours and clean his palette. This master, in the hope of obtaining some advantage from his talents, taught him some of the rules of perspective; and Lorraine, devoting himself entirely to painting, passed whole days in the fields sketching and painting, and became the celebrated and almost unique landscape painter, whose works we still daily admire in our Museum."
José had listened to this recital with an attention which scarcely permitted him to breathe. When M. Enguehard had finished speaking, a silence of a few moments ensued, which José at length interrupted by rising suddenly and crying out with all his might, "Why not? why not?"... He then blushed when he beheld Francisco and M. Enguehard laughingheartily. M. Enguehard sent them to play, and, reflecting upon the words which had escaped from José, he felt tempted to direct him into a career to which everything seemed to call him; but the kind-hearted engraver was poor; to charge himself with José was impossible; and then, was he not wrong in diverting the child's mind from the ideas that were suitable to his present position? Again he hesitated. "Good God! what a pity!" he repeated; "but if I should render him unhappy without being able to assist him!" And from that day M. Enguehard related no more stories, nor gave himself any further anxiety about the lessons which Francisco continued to give to José. But all precautions were now useless; José was born a painter; Claude Lorraine incessantly recurred to his mind, and for want of fields, which he was denied the privilege of beholding, he sketched horses and figures in every corner, and sought subjects for composition in the historical anecdotes which Francisco related to him. Francisco, however, could only teach him the elements and mechanical details of art, things which José's genius rendered almost useless to him. Drawing even was not enough; he burned with a desire to paint, and found a secret pleasure in touching palettes and colours. Examining with attention the occupations of the various painters on whom he waited with parcels, his imagination became excited, and when alone in his garret, he grieved at being only able to work with black and white. He took good care, however, to keep from Madame Barbe the knowledge of his favourite amusement. It was at the expense of his sleep that he exercised his talents; and his friend Gabri, his only confidant, did not feel tempted to betray his secret.
But a circumstance occurred, which all his prudence could not have foreseen, and which, by enlightening Madame Barbe, cost poor José many tears.
We have already spoken of Barbe's kindness in giving room in his house, not only to those pictures, whether good or bad, which their authors had no convenience for keeping; but also to the colour boxes of the young men employed in copying in the Museum; as well as to the studies which the pupils were very glad to bring under the notice of the crowd of artists, who were continually congregated in the shop of the honest colour vender. Before being admitted to compete for the great prize for painting which annually sends to Rome, and maintains there, at the expense of the government, the person who has the good fortune to obtain it, the students have a first trial with a full-length figure, and afterwards with painted sketches; and the six or eight most successful competitors then take their places, and commence the pictures for which the prize is to be awarded. It may easily be conceived how great is the importance attached to these competitions by those young and poor students, who behold in them the termination of their elementary course, and the possibility of pursuing their studies on a more extended scale. One of the most promising pupils of that time had just obtained the prize for the figure. As Barbe had assisted him in various ways, he was anxious to make him a participator in his joy, and place in his hands his triumphant work. He arrived, therefore, followed by a dozen of his companions and rivals, who, the first moment of disappointment over, usually participate cordially in the delight of the victor, especially when they happen to study under the same master. José was a witness to the transports of these young men, and heard the praises lavished by the spectators on the fortunate student. Agitated by a thousand varied emotions, jealous, but with that noble and rare jealousy which made Cæsar weep at the feet of Alexander's statue, he would doubtless in his excitement have drawn upon himself a severe reprimand fromMadame Barbe, had not Gabri whom nothing could divert from his silent watchfulness, led him away, in spite of himself.
"Ah!" said José, with emotion, "Do you see that young man? He is only fifteen.... Claude Lorraine was a confectioner.... And I, what am I?... I feel that I, too, have something in me!..."