MADAME AGNES.

MADAME AGNES.FROM THE FRENCH OF CHARLES DUBOIS.CHAPTER VIII.CONFESSION.Atour return, we found my mother had prepared the dinner as usual on the days we went into the country. We joyfully seated ourselves at the table. What is more delightful than a family dinner? And we were all united. Louis was also in our midst. Victor was uncommonly lively that evening. His face, so open, intelligent, and kind, was radiant. I had never seen him so social and witty. His animation enlivened us all—we loved him so much! Excellent man! what made him so happy was the remembrance of the good deed he had done at the peril of his life. I asked him more than twenty times that evening if he felt any worse, and if it were not advisable to send for a physician. He invariably replied that he felt as well as the day before, and even better. But his cough grew worse from that time, and caused me serious alarm. During dinner we conversed on general subjects, and afterwards went to thesalon. Victor installed himself beside the blazing fire which I always had made for him in the evening. My mother and sister went up to their own apartments. We were thus left alone with M. Louis Beauvais. He turned towards Victor with a look full of respect and affection, and I observed with astonishment that tears were streaming from his eyes.“Madame,” said he to me, “I must appear strangely to you. Ah! that is not the worst of it. I am a great sinner.”Victor tried to stop him.“No,” said he; “I will not keep silence. Mme. Barnier must know everything, as well as you, noble-hearted man, whom I dare not call my friend: I feel too unworthy.”He seated himself, and, sadly gazing into the fire, began his story in a tone as grave and sorrowful as if he were making a solemn avowal of his faults before dying:Ten years ago, said he, I was a Christian, not only in name, but in heart and soul. My mother, a pious, energetic woman, such as we do not see in our day, brought me up with extreme care, and I did my utmost to correspond to her efforts. It is so easy and delightful to practise one’s religion when one has faith, and feels that his endeavors are at once pleasing to a mother and to God! My other studies over, I became a candidate for the Polytechnic School, but was not successful in my application. I then entered another, in order to learn civil engineering. By the end of a year, I had given up all my pious habits through want of moral courage. My principles, however, remained firm enough to condemn me and fill me with remorse, but they were incapable of restraining one who had imbibed a taste for error. Even my mother’s death and her last words, though they affected me, did not bring me to a sense of duty. A short time after I completed my studies in civil engineering, my father gave me possession of what I inherited from my mother, and asked what course I intended to pursue.“Remain at home,” I replied,” and work under the direction of M. C——,” an architect of the department, and a friend of the family. My father gave his consent to this.Left to myself, and master of my time and property, I made no delay in commencing a life of dissipation and pleasure. My father was, above all things, a man of forethought and calculation, and my conduct disgusted him. We had several painful disputes, and at last he declared, to use his own expressive language, he would give up the reins, and cease to reproach me, but I must not thenceforth expect of him the least advice or even aid, if I needed it. He then centred all his affections on my brother and sister. As for me, I had begun by being idle and extravagant: I soon became openly irreligious. My religious principles were a restraint, and I determined to throw them aside. I thought this would be easy. And I did prove myself uncommonly impious when the preacher we had some months ago told us so many plain, wholesome truths. I was not one of those guilty of disorderly conduct, whom all respectable people must condemn; but—the acknowledgment is due you—I approved of it, contemptible and wicked as it was. My conscience was now roused, and remorse filled my soul with secret anger.My mother being dead, there was no longer any one at home to speak to me of religious things. My father is an honorable, upright man, and attentive to his business, but as regardless of another world as if there were none. My young brother is pious to a certain degree, I suppose, but he is timid and reserved. Only my sister remains. Aline left boarding-school about six months ago. She is nearly ten years younger than I, and bears a striking resemblance to my mother. She has the same kindness of heart and the same tone of piety, at once fervent and rational, which I always loved and admired in my mother. I had been separated from my sister many years, and when I met her again, I was struck, with this resemblance, and at once conceived so much affection and respect for her as to astonish myself.As soon as Aline returned home, the appearance of everything changed: the house became more attractive. I certainly do not wish to impute any blame to my father—I love and respect him too much for that—but you know as well as I that a house is not what it should be that has no woman to preside over it. An Arabian poet says the mistress of a house is its soul, and he is right. After my mother’s death, the house became gloomy, but there was a marked change when Aline returned. It seemed as if my mother had come back after a long absence to diffuse once more around her cheerfulness, order, and piety.But the superintendence of the household affairs, and her obligations to society, did not wholly fill up Aline’s time. Like her whose living image she was, she was eager to extend her knowledge. Before her return, my father had subscribed for that wretched journal which is the delight of the unbeliever, or those who wish to pass as such. Aline sometimes read it, but she disliked it, as you may suppose. She imparted her impressions to me, but I did not conceal from her my sympathy with its irreligious views.“Well, I do not agree with it in the least,” said she; “and, as I like to know what is going on, I wish I could subscribe for M. Barnier’s paper. Mme. C—— has lent it to me for some time. It is an able, thoughtful journal, and edited by a sincere Catholic.That is the kind of a newspaper that suits me.”“Then, order it to be sent you.”“That would be ridiculous. A young girl cannot subscribe for a newspaper.”“I see no other way of having it.”“Excuse me, there is. If you were obliging, you would see the way at once.”“And subscribe for you!... I subscribe for ajournal de sacristie?... That would be going rather too far; I should be laughed at.”“You must have publicly compromised yourself, then, to fear making people talk by subscribing for a respectable paper.” ...The cut was well aimed. I reddened, but made no reply, and went away. That night I subscribed for your paper, and received my first number. Of course I opened it at once, out of perverse curiosity. I should have been overjoyed to find a single flaw in it.A short time after this, the incident at the cathedral occurred. As I have already told you, I was not among those who made a disturbance at the church door, but I was with them in heart. Père Laurent was repulsive to me, as well as to most of those who displayed their anger in so reprehensible a manner. He was everywhere the topic of conversation. At home, my sister, who never lost one of his sermons, annoyed me with his praises. Above all, she irritated me by repeating his very words—words that seemed chosen expressly to disturb me and force me to reflect.The day after that atrocious manifestation, I eagerly opened your journal. I was sure you would speak of the outbreak of the previous day, and wished to see how far you would condemn it. The article surpassed my expectations. You showed yourself more courageous than ever. Never had you written anything that so directly hit my case. You made use of certain phrases that reminded me of my shameful course, my base inclinations, and my secret remorse, and in so forcible a manner that the very perusal made me tremble with anger. That night, at our club—that well-known circle of young men devoid of reason, and so many men of riper years even more thoughtless—we had a great deal to say about the occurrence of the previous day, and your article of that morning. There was a general indignation against the preacher, and that excited by what you had written was still stronger.One of thehabituésof the club—one of those men who assume the right of imposing their opinions on others about every subject—seriously declared he had made a very important discovery: the clerical party wished to overrule the city, and assert its adverse authority as in the fearful times of the middle ages; but, however well contrived the plot might be, it had not escaped the sagacious eye of the speaker. The Conference of S. Vincent de Paul, more flourishing than ever; the new development given to the journal you edit; the arrival of an eloquent preacher—were they not all so many signs that ought to arouse us to the imminence and extent of the danger?The simplest and worst members of the club allowed themselves to be influenced by this absurd declamation. I was, I confess, of the number. Others shrugged their shoulders. The orator perceived it.“Ah! you smile, messieurs; you think I exaggerate! In a year you will confess I was right, but then it will be too late! Your wives will have become devotees, the very thought of whose bigotry is enough to make anybody shudder; yourdaughters will only aspire to the happiness of entering a convent; the theatres will be closed for want of patronage; and, if any one wishes an office, it will only be obtained by presenting a certificate of confession.Allez! allez!when that black-robed tribe undertakes any scheme, it knows how to bring it about. Instead of shrugging your shoulders when I reveal what is going on, you would do better to take proper precautions. It is high time.”A young fop in the assembly, the head clerk of a notary, notorious for his volubility, his shallowness, and his assurance, rose and took up the thread of discourse in his turn:“I agree with what M. Simon has just said. We must consider the means of utterly routing this dark race. The shortest course would be to attack their leader. I will take that on myself. Barnier shall hear from me.”“No rashness!” was the exclamation on all sides. “We must beware of making a martyr of him!”“What course shall we take, then?” asked some of the party.“Intimidate him,” said a voice. “Write him a letter of warning of so serious a character as to make him desist.”“That is also a bad plan,” objected M. Simon. “Anonymous letters are treated with contempt, or are laid before the public. In either case, the effect would be unfavorable to us.”The young fop who had begun the subject now resumed:“M. Simon, who has so clairvoyant an eye with respect to danger, ought himself to suggest some way of bringing Barnier to reason.”M. Simon assumed a solemn air: “I only know of one way, but that is a good one. We must bribe him, not to withdraw from the paper—that would be a false step, for another would take his place, and continue to annoy us—but to induce him, in consideration of a certain sum, to wage henceforth only an apparent war on us. That is the best thing to do.”“Well,” replied the young fop, “it is hardly worth while to criticise others, and then propose something not half so good. Barnier is not to be bribed.”“Why not?” asked M. Simon.“Because a man whose opinions are the result of conviction can never be bought. He fights for his flag, and is not much concerned about anything else.”“Convictions!—flag!—disinterestedness, indeed!” retorted M. Simon, with a gesture of supreme contempt.It was in vain to say that most of us had carefully observed you, and were not mistaken as to your character. We were nearly all of the clerk’s opinion. For once in his life, the fellow had a correct notion. We then separated without coming to any decision, but each one promised to think of some means of bringing you to reason, as we expressed it. I dwelt on the subject the whole evening, and was still thinking of it the next day when I took my place among the family at the dinner-table.Aline was at that time greatly interested in thesoiréeto which you were afterwards invited, and the preliminaries were discussed at table. To my great astonishment, she proposed to place your name on the list of invitations. This proposition made me angry, and I flatly declared it absurd. I was sure my father would make a similar reply. I had no idea he would open the doors of hissalonto you, for I knew there was no similarity of opinion between you. The result was precisely contrary to my expectations. Was myfather desirous of gratifying Aline? Or did he wish to seize an opportunity of showing how little value he attached to my opinion? I know not. But he allowed me to finish what I had to say, and then said, in a dry tone:“Aline, send M. Barnier an invitation. It is my wish.”I was confounded. In my fury, I inwardly swore to be revenged. The means of intimidating you, which the members of the club had not been able to find without compromising themselves, I thought I had discovered myself the night before. I communicated my plan to two of my friends whose names I will not give. They declared it excellent, and promised to second me.What took place you know, but I will give you some details impossible for you to have ascertained. I did not attend thesoirée, but one of my accomplices was there to keep me informed of your movements. When you were ready to leave, he came to my room to notify me. It took only a moment to disguise ourselves. We went out by a private door, and dogged your steps. Ah! my dear friend, what infamous behavior! What had you done to me that I should thus dare violate in your person the laws of hospitality which even savages respect?At this revelation, I turned pale. M. Louis Beauvais perceived it.“Is not such an act unpardonable, madame?” said he. “And do you not look upon me as worthy only of your contempt and hatred?”“I have forgiven those who committed this wrong, whoever they might be,” I replied. “Now I know it was you, and see how fully you repent of it, I forgive you even more willingly.”Thank you, madame, said he; but let me assure you that, culpable as my intentions were, they were less so than they must have seemed to you. We were desirous of intimidating M. Barnier, and making him believe he exposed himself to constant serious danger by the boldness of the course he had taken. We did not—I mistake—I did not intend to show any physical violence, for that I considered base and criminal. I was indignant when I saw one of our number strike him. I have ever since regarded that young man with profound contempt. I had more than one fit of remorse that night. The next morning, Aline, after accosting me, said:“You know what happened to M. Barnier last night after leaving us. It is infamous! It must have been a plot. I am sure you know the guilty authors! Who are they? They ought to be punished.”“How should I know them?” I exclaimed angrily.“You know them only too well,” said Aline, regarding me with an air of severity; ... “but you are not willing to betray your friends.... What friends!”I endeavored to appear unconcerned. She continued looking at me with a steadiness that made me shiver.“Do not add to my distress,” said she. “Do not lay aside the only virtue you have left, my poor brother—your customary frankness! I understand it all, and know what I ought to say to you, but words fail me. Ah! if our poor mother were still alive!” ...Aline went away without another word. As for me, I remained motionless and silent for some moments, by turns filled with shame, remorse, and anger.... It would seem as if so grave an occurrence should have led me to serious reflection. I felt inclined to it at first, but resisted theinclination. I found excuses for myself, and soon thought no more of it.I continued, therefore, to live as I had for five years, one pleasure succeeding another, and spending my property without reflecting what I should do hereafter. But the day was at hand when I found myself in a critical position in consequence of my prodigality.When my father, in order to avert cause for contention, put me in possession of my mother’s property, I at once took my papers to a man in whom I placed entire confidence. I did this in order to throw off all care. He had been for a long time my father’s cashier. He was and is honesty itself.“F. Martin,” said I, “here is all I possess. It will be a care for me to keep these papers and collect my income. Do me the favor to take charge of my property.”F. Martin was confused and gratified at such a proof of confidence. But his pleasure was somewhat modified when I added the following words:“F. Martin, I attach one condition to this arrangement: you are not to take advantage of it to sermonize me. I now tell you, with a frankness that will preclude all surprise, I wish to amuse myself.... To what degree, or how long, I cannot say, but such is my present intention, that is certain.”“O M. Louis, if your mother could only hear you!”“F. Martin,” said I, with a gesture, as if to take back my portfolio, “if you are going to begin to preach to me, take care!... I shall give my papers to some one who may rob me. Then, instead of merely curtailing my property a little, I shall spend it all in two years, or four at the furthest; or rather, we shall spend it between us.”“Dreadful boy! I always said you had the faculty of making everybody yield to you. Well, I will do as you wish.”“Ah! that is right. One word more. When I have but twenty thousand francs left, you may warn me—not before!”Things went on thus till a few days ago. I spent my property with a rapidity that frightened me when I thought of it. My father perceived it. My extravagance excited his indignation, but, faithful to his resolution to avoid all contention, he forebore saying anything. Not quite a fortnight ago, I met with a sad disappointment. An old aunt of mine died. I had calculated on being her heir, but she left all she had to my sister and other relatives, and gave me nothing. My unwise conduct had for some time prejudiced her against me. This disappointment made me quite thoughtful. I wrote F. Martin that I wished to know the exact state of my affairs. The next day Martin arrived at the appointed hour. He was pale and agitated—pitifully so.“M. Louis,” said he, “you anticipated me. I was going to request an interview with you. You have now only twenty thousand francs!”I made a strong effort to control myself, and replied, with a smiling air: “Well done! that is rather fast work!”“So fast that I can hardly believe you have come to this. But it is really so!”“Where are the twenty thousand francs, Martin?”“Why, I have not got them, M. Louis! I have only five thousand left besides what you took.”At this, my strength almost failed me. I at once realized I was completely ruined. Fifteen months before, I had withdrawn twenty thousandfrancs from Martin’s hands under the pretext of investing them in a particularly advantageous manner. A trip to Germany, play, and some pressing debts absorbed this sum without Martin’s knowing it. I quietly dismissed him, saying I would see him again the next day. Left alone, I balanced my accounts. Alas! my affairs were desperate! The five thousand francs in Martin’s possession were all I had left, and my debts amounted to four times that sum!All day yesterday I remained stupefied, as it were, at so unexpected a disclosure. My father had gone to Paris. I resolved to take refuge in the country, and come to some decision. I went, scarcely knowing what I was about, angry with myself, with everybody else, and desperate. All night I sought some way of escape from the terrible blow that had befallen me. I walked to and fro. From anger I sank into the most profound dejection. The very thought of applying myself to any occupation whatever appeared, above all, intolerable.When morning came, I mechanically went to walk beside the river that runs about a hundred yards from our house, and fell into a gloomy reverie. The sleepless nights, the rioting, the habits to which I had successively given myself up for years, the painful anxiety of the previous night, had excited and weakened my nervous system. I was, as it were, deprived of my reason.While I was thus lingering on the shore, it seemed as if a mysterious voice invited me to bury myself in the current before me. A terrible struggle took place between my reason, the instinct that restrained me, and the hallucination that kept drawing me nearer the bank. Reason failed me. In a fit of despair, I cast myself into the stream. As soon as I felt the cold water, my reason, my faith, awoke as ardent as in the days of my boyhood. A cry issued from the very depths of my soul: “O Mary, save me!” It would be impossible to tell you with what fervor, what terror, I uttered this short prayer—impossible, also, to express the immense joy that filled my heart when I realized I was saved. But what confusion mingled with this joy—what gratitude, too, what admiration of the designs of God, when I saw it was you who had rescued me at the peril of your life!CHAPTER IX.BROTHER AND SISTER.M. Louis Beauvais had finished his story.“And now,” said Victor, in the cheering, confidential tone of one friend who wishes to encourage another, “what are you going to do?”“That is precisely the question that preoccupies me. In fact, I see no way of solving it. Were you to ask me what I am not going to do, oh! then I should not be embarrassed for a reply. At all events, had I even the means, I should not wish to continue the life I have led. Nor do I any longer desire to escape from the trying position I am in by having recourse to the cowardly, criminal means I took in a moment of madness. Suicide fills me with horror! One must behold death face to face, as I have to-day, to realize how easily a man can deceive himself. I had really arrived at such a state of indifference and insensibility that it seemed as if I had never had any religion; but the terrible thought no sooner sprang up in my soul that I wasabout to appear before God, than I found myself as sincere a believer as on the day of my first communion. My whole life passed in review before me, and I condemned myself without awaiting the divine sentence. When I recall the inexpressible terror of that moment; when I remember if God had not sent you to my assistance, and that, had it not been for your heroism, I should have been for ever lost, there springs up in my heart a continually increasing gratitude to my heavenly Father, and to you who were the agent of his mercy.”“Then, my friend,” replied Victor gravely, “you will allow me to make one request.”“Consider whatever you would ask of me granted in advance.”“Then, forget the past six or eight years of your life, and become again what you were under your mother’s influence.”“I pledge you my word to do so, and hope by the divine assistance never to break my promise—a promise I make with inexpressible joy. But that is not all. What course do you advise me to take?”“If I may form an opinion of your sister from what you say, she must be a person of intelligence, kind feelings, and decision. In your place, I would go to her, make known my exact situation, and ask her advice.”“Yes; that is the best course to take. The idea pleases me. I will put it in execution this very evening. My father is to be absent a day or two longer. I shall have a good opportunity of talking freely with Aline. I will go directly to her when I leave you. To-morrow morning I will return and give you an account of our interview.”Louis left us a few moments after. We commended him to God with all our hearts at our evening devotions. It was so impressive a spectacle to behold a soul break loose from past habits, and return to God humiliated and conscious of his weakness—repentant, and burning with ardor to enter upon a new life.During the night, Victor was seriously ill. Fearing he was going to die, I exclaimed, in a moment of anguish:“Oh! that unfortunate adventure! That wretched young man will be the death of you!”“Take that back, dear,” said Victor; “it pains me. Instead of deploring this occurrence, and calling it unfortunate, you should thank God. He has thus granted my dearest wish. From the time I found my days numbered, I prayed God to grant me every possible opportunity of showing how earnestly I wished to serve him during the short time left me on earth. He has now granted my desire. If my going into the water to-day leads to my death, I shall have the infinite joy of being in a certain sense a martyr, for I fully realized the danger. But an interior voice whispered: ‘There is a soul to save,’ and I plunged into the river.... Others would have done the same, but God does not give every one such an opportunity. I thank him for having granted it to me.”By degrees Victor’s alarming symptoms wore off. When he awoke the next morning, he was much better than I had dared hope. He recalled with a lively joy the events of the previous day, and expressed an eager desire to know what Louis and his sister had decided upon.We were not kept in suspense long. Louis arrived about nine o’clock. Seeing his face was calm and happy, my poor husband manifested a livelier satisfaction than I had ever known him to express.“Sit down there,” said he, pointing to an arm-chair beside his bed, “andgive us the details of all you have done.”As we agreed upon last evening, replied Louis, I went directly home after leaving you, and inquired if my sister was in. They told me she was. I went to her room. It was vacant. A servant informed me that she had given up her old chamber some weeks before, and now occupied my mother’s. I found Aline sitting in the middle of the room beside a stand, in the same arm-chair my mother made use of to the last. I cannot express the emotion that overpowered me when I entered. The aspect of the room, the sight of the well-known furniture, Aline’s grave air, and her resemblance to my mother, all carried me back ten years. It seemed as if I were once more in the presence of her whom I loved so much, but whose counsels I had followed so poorly. My agitation increased when Aline sprang towards me, clasped me in her arms, and covered my face with her tears.“Wicked, wicked boy, she cried; you wished to put an end to your life! How sinful in you! and what sorrow for us! Oh! conceal nothing from me.... You are very unhappy, then?... You have no confidence in me?... Come, tell me all. Leave me no longer in a state of uncertainty. And, first, have you renounced your horrible project?”Her voice betrayed such profound emotion, her eyes such tender affection and deep anxiety, that I was affected to tears. I began by begging pardon for all the anxiety I had caused her. I pledged my word to enter upon a new life. When we were both somewhat calmer, I told her all I had related to you. At the end of the account, she looked at me as a mother would at her son, and said:“Louis, the hand of God has visibly interposed in your behalf. Everything shows you would have been drowned. And what a horrible end!—in that river where so few people go, especially the spot you chose, had not Providence, at the very moment you plunged into the water, sent a man, a noble-hearted man, to save you at the peril of his life. That is not all. When you were able to thank your deliverer, you found it was—the very man who had already been brought to death’s door through your fault. If I am not deceived, this is a wonderful interposition of Providence. You have been a great sinner, my poor boy, and your conversion had to be effected by a great sacrifice. This sacrifice has been offered by M. Barnier in risking his life in order to restore you to existence, which you wished to deprive yourself of. I believe—pardon my great frankness—God wished, I believe, to inspire you with thorough repentance by showing you your victim under the form of your deliverer. Oh! if this repentance is not lasting, I shall tremble at the thought of the chastisement that the justice of God, weary of pardoning you, has in reserve. But, no!—there is no fear of that. And now, what are you going to do?”“Put an end to my idle life.”“Very well. It was idleness especially that caused your ruin. But what occupation will suit you? No imprudent heroism! You must do something that will be congenial.”“I am an engineer. It is time to remember it. I am going to Paris. Either there or elsewhere I can easily find a place in some manufactory.”“Very well. Father is to return to-morrow evening. What has occurred cannot be concealed from him. I am even of the opinion it would be best to tell him the wholetruth. Only ... you will allow me to speak with the frankness of a sister who loves you, will you not?”“Oh! yes. Speak to me as our mother would.”“Well, then, I must acknowledge father is extremely offended with you. He is kind, very kind, as you know, but he cannot endure want of calculation, especially in money matters, and your manner of conducting has excited his indignation. I fear, therefore, he will at first be greatly irritated at learning what has taken place. Public rumor will at once inform him of it, so that, when he sees you for the first time, you will not be able to induce him to listen to you. With your consent, I will talk with him first. To prevent a premature explanation with him, I propose you should go and pass two or three days with Aunt Mary. She is now at her country-seat in M——. It is not far off. I can easily send you word when it is time for you to return.”I need not say with what gratitude I accepted this proposal, which revealed the kindness of a sister, the delicacy of a woman, and the prudence of a mother.Aline continued: “I have two more requests to make. If you were a different person, I might hesitate. But you were once pious. You are better instructed in our religion than most of the poor young men of our day. In a word, you have never lost your faith. Do not delay having recourse to the remedy. Go to confession as soon as possible. Confession develops repentance, puts a seal on our good resolutions, and confers a special grace to keep them. I speak as I think. A repentance that remains purely human cannot be lasting.”I promised to go to confession to Father——, and shall keep my promise.“One favor more,” resumed Aline. “It is a somewhat delicate matter, but let us talk with the same freedom and simplicity that we did in our childhood. That is the shortest way to come to an understanding. You say you are fifteen thousand francs in debt. Knowing my father’s disposition as I do, I am sure this will cause trouble if he knows it. He is a man who would forgive your spending a hundred thousand francs, but a debt of five hundred would make him extremely angry. This is strange, but it is so. And you may be sure as soon as your creditors hear of your ruin, they will come upon you. We must, therefore, hasten to forestall them. We must settle with them where they are. Will you permit me to render you a little service?... Sit down here, and draw up, as papa would say, a schedule of your debts. I will give it to our head clerk to-morrow, bind him to secrecy, and before noon you will be free from debt.”I was profoundly moved by so much generosity, and so profuse in my thanks as to greatly touch Aline herself. But she concealed her emotion under a lively, playful manner. I had to make out a list at once. I did so, and gave it to Aline. She took it with a smile, and folded it up without looking at it. There were two small sheets, one of which was nearly blank.“Why two papers?” she asked mechanically.“One contains the list—the sad list; the other is a note which”....“Ah! that is too much! Louis, my poor Louis, you are only half converted! You do not really love me! You are unwilling to receive anything from me. You would deprive me of the pleasure of giving this to you. Ah! that is wrong. Oh! the contemptiblerôleyou wish me to play!I lend it to you! Fie, fie!” ...So saying, Aline tore up the unfortunate note.The night was far advanced before we separated. I had already bidden my sister good-night. She retained my hand in hers, and, looking at me with a caressing air, said:“Louis, one favor more! Let us say our night-prayers together at the foot of that bed where our dear mother made us say them so often. We will pray for her. She watches over us. What has happened to you is a proof of it.”We sank on our knees beside each other. Aline said the prayers aloud. I repeated them with my lips and in my heart, and with so much joy and emotion that I melted into tears.This morning I took leave of Aline. She means to come here herself, in order to express her gratitude. My mother could not feel more. Oh! how she loves you! As for me, I am going away ruined, but happier than if my fortune were increased tenfold. Pray for me. And you, my dear friend, take care of yourself. I trembled yesterday at the thought of the danger to which you had exposed yourself in order to save my life. I trembled as I came here, fearing your heroic imprudence might have led to fatal results! Thank God! there is nothing serious. But redouble your precautions; I shall need you for a long while. You will be my best guide in the new way upon which I have now entered.Louis then departed, leaving us exceedingly happy at the favorable turn in his affairs.CHAPTER X.ALINE’S HOPES.The second day after Louis’ departure, we had in the afternoon an agreeable surprise: Aline called to see us. All that Louis had told us about her prepossessed us in her favor. The sight of her only increased our disposition to love her.Aline was at the time I am speaking of—and still is—a fine-looking woman, tall, well-formed, and with a pleasing, intelligent face. Her manner is a little cold at first, but her reserve is not unpleasing, for it indicates a thoughtful mind. When she came into the room, my husband and I were reading. She went directly to Victor, and with emotion, but without any embarrassment, said:“Monsieur, I am late in expressing my gratitude. Pardon this delay. It has not been without good reasons. I was expecting my father every moment, and was greatly preoccupied with all I had to communicate, as well as about the reply he would make.” ...“Mademoiselle,” replied Victor gently, “there is no need of excusing yourself. I am happy, very happy, to see you, but had no right to expect your visit.”“No right, monsieur?... What! did you not save my brother’s life?... And was it not you the unhappy fellow had before” ...“O mademoiselle! do me the favor never to mention that circumstance!”“You are generous, monsieur! But that is no reason why we should show ourselves ungrateful—rather the contrary. Louis and I can never forget that, before you saved his life, he had injured you to such a degree that he can never be sufficiently repentant. As to my father, I have not dared inform him of these details too painful to be acknowledged. My father, alas! is not religious. Louis’ fault would seem so enormous to him that he would never forgive him.”“It is, however, of but little account. If harm has resulted from it, Louis was only the involuntary cause. Let us adore the divine decrees, and forgive our poor friend. He had not, after all, any very criminal intentions.”Aline looked at Victor with a sadness she could not wholly conceal. His wasted features, his eyes hollowed by suffering, his air of languor, nothing escaped her observation.“I wish I could think so,” murmured she, as if speaking to herself. “Ah! poor Louis, what remorse he must feel!”This allusion to Victor’s sad condition brought tears to my eyes. Victor suspected my emotion, and at once changed the subject.“M. Louis has become my friend,” said he to Aline; “therefore pardon my curiosity, mademoiselle, if it is indiscreet. May we hope to see him again soon? Is M. Beauvais greatly offended with him?”Everything is arranged for the best, though not without difficulty. My father was not originally wealthy. It has only been by dint of order, economy, and industry, that he has attained the position he now occupies. When he learned that Louis had lost, or rather squandered, his maternal inheritance, his anger was fearful. But by degrees I made him comprehend that Louis, though ruined, had shown new resolution—that he was willing to work; he wished to become useful, and regain all he had lost. My father then grew calm. And yet all my fears were not allayed. I had to tell him of Louis’ sad attempt at suicide, of which he was still ignorant, but which he could not fail to learn. I told him of it, dwelling on your devotedness, which struck him most of all.“Has Louis shown himself duly grateful to M. Barnier for the service?” he asked. I replied that he had.“So much the better. Such a sentiment does him honor. This circumstance may lead to a friendship between them which cannot be too intimate, in my opinion. And you say our prodigal son is willing to work? What is he going to do?”“Anything you wish, father.”“That is easily said, but a poor reply. Nothing is well done that we do not like to do. Has he manifested an inclination for any special occupation?”“Louis is a civil engineer. He would like to find a place somewhere in that capacity.”“Ah! he at length remembers he is a civil engineer!... He wishes to turn his acquirements to some account?... It is a wonder! He need not exile himself for that. You know Mr. Smithson?”“Is not he the cold, ceremonious gentleman who came to see us Sunday?”“The very one. Mr. Smithson is a wealthy Englishman who has been in France these twenty years. He came on account of his health. He settled at first in Paris, where he married a charming woman—a Catholic of no property, but of a good family. This excellent Mr. Smithson was so foolish as to speculate too much at the Bourse some years since, and his losses were considerable. To withdraw himself from such a temptation, he established his residence at St. M—— six months ago. The situation pleased him, and there was another inducement: a large paper manufactory there was offered for sale. He bought it, hoping not only to find occupation, and feed his incessant activity, but to repair the losses of the last few years. The mill is well situatedand well patronized. Everything would prove advantageous if Mr. Smithson were better versed in the knowledge of machinery. But though an Englishman, he has not been through the studies necessary to enable him to superintend his industrial project as he ought. Besides this, he is subject to frequent attacks of the gout. He has therefore besought me to find him a man capable of superintending the mill under his direction, and even of taking the whole charge if necessary.”“So much for Louis’ affairs. What do you think of the arrangement? I approved of it without any restriction. And you, monsieur?”“I think, mademoiselle,” replied Victor, “that Providence continues to treat Louis with parental kindness.”“Oh! yes; truly parental! He will now remain under your influence. Even in the house he is to enter, everything will encourage him, I hope, to persist in his good resolutions. Mme. Smithson is said to be a woman of lovely character. She has a daughter who must be a prodigy, unless I have been misinformed. My father, who is very practical, and but little given to exaggeration, is enthusiastic in her praise.”Victor knowingly smiled at this last communication.“You have divined my thoughts,” said Aline, blushing a little. “Well, yes: this thought at once occurred to my mind. I said to myself, if Louis can find at Mr. Smithson’s not only an occupation that will enable him to forget the past, but an affection that will continue to sustain him in a better course, I shall consider him the most fortunate of men. But it is too soon to speak of that. This dear brother must first return home, and be accepted by Mr. Smithson, to whom my father wrote to-day.”The next day both these things took place. Louis returned. Mr. Smithson at once accepted him as his assistant. After calling on us with his father, he left for St. M——.While M. Beauvais was speaking to me, Louis said to Victor, in a low tone:“Everything is done. The bonds of iniquity are completely broken. I have been to confession and to Holy Communion, and a new life has begun!”The air of satisfaction with which he uttered these words, the calmness and unaffected gravity he manifested, all announced he had indeed become a new man.“In a year he will be an eminent Christian!” said Victor, as Louis disappeared.He was not mistaken.TO BE CONTINUED.

MADAME AGNES.FROM THE FRENCH OF CHARLES DUBOIS.CHAPTER VIII.CONFESSION.Atour return, we found my mother had prepared the dinner as usual on the days we went into the country. We joyfully seated ourselves at the table. What is more delightful than a family dinner? And we were all united. Louis was also in our midst. Victor was uncommonly lively that evening. His face, so open, intelligent, and kind, was radiant. I had never seen him so social and witty. His animation enlivened us all—we loved him so much! Excellent man! what made him so happy was the remembrance of the good deed he had done at the peril of his life. I asked him more than twenty times that evening if he felt any worse, and if it were not advisable to send for a physician. He invariably replied that he felt as well as the day before, and even better. But his cough grew worse from that time, and caused me serious alarm. During dinner we conversed on general subjects, and afterwards went to thesalon. Victor installed himself beside the blazing fire which I always had made for him in the evening. My mother and sister went up to their own apartments. We were thus left alone with M. Louis Beauvais. He turned towards Victor with a look full of respect and affection, and I observed with astonishment that tears were streaming from his eyes.“Madame,” said he to me, “I must appear strangely to you. Ah! that is not the worst of it. I am a great sinner.”Victor tried to stop him.“No,” said he; “I will not keep silence. Mme. Barnier must know everything, as well as you, noble-hearted man, whom I dare not call my friend: I feel too unworthy.”He seated himself, and, sadly gazing into the fire, began his story in a tone as grave and sorrowful as if he were making a solemn avowal of his faults before dying:Ten years ago, said he, I was a Christian, not only in name, but in heart and soul. My mother, a pious, energetic woman, such as we do not see in our day, brought me up with extreme care, and I did my utmost to correspond to her efforts. It is so easy and delightful to practise one’s religion when one has faith, and feels that his endeavors are at once pleasing to a mother and to God! My other studies over, I became a candidate for the Polytechnic School, but was not successful in my application. I then entered another, in order to learn civil engineering. By the end of a year, I had given up all my pious habits through want of moral courage. My principles, however, remained firm enough to condemn me and fill me with remorse, but they were incapable of restraining one who had imbibed a taste for error. Even my mother’s death and her last words, though they affected me, did not bring me to a sense of duty. A short time after I completed my studies in civil engineering, my father gave me possession of what I inherited from my mother, and asked what course I intended to pursue.“Remain at home,” I replied,” and work under the direction of M. C——,” an architect of the department, and a friend of the family. My father gave his consent to this.Left to myself, and master of my time and property, I made no delay in commencing a life of dissipation and pleasure. My father was, above all things, a man of forethought and calculation, and my conduct disgusted him. We had several painful disputes, and at last he declared, to use his own expressive language, he would give up the reins, and cease to reproach me, but I must not thenceforth expect of him the least advice or even aid, if I needed it. He then centred all his affections on my brother and sister. As for me, I had begun by being idle and extravagant: I soon became openly irreligious. My religious principles were a restraint, and I determined to throw them aside. I thought this would be easy. And I did prove myself uncommonly impious when the preacher we had some months ago told us so many plain, wholesome truths. I was not one of those guilty of disorderly conduct, whom all respectable people must condemn; but—the acknowledgment is due you—I approved of it, contemptible and wicked as it was. My conscience was now roused, and remorse filled my soul with secret anger.My mother being dead, there was no longer any one at home to speak to me of religious things. My father is an honorable, upright man, and attentive to his business, but as regardless of another world as if there were none. My young brother is pious to a certain degree, I suppose, but he is timid and reserved. Only my sister remains. Aline left boarding-school about six months ago. She is nearly ten years younger than I, and bears a striking resemblance to my mother. She has the same kindness of heart and the same tone of piety, at once fervent and rational, which I always loved and admired in my mother. I had been separated from my sister many years, and when I met her again, I was struck, with this resemblance, and at once conceived so much affection and respect for her as to astonish myself.As soon as Aline returned home, the appearance of everything changed: the house became more attractive. I certainly do not wish to impute any blame to my father—I love and respect him too much for that—but you know as well as I that a house is not what it should be that has no woman to preside over it. An Arabian poet says the mistress of a house is its soul, and he is right. After my mother’s death, the house became gloomy, but there was a marked change when Aline returned. It seemed as if my mother had come back after a long absence to diffuse once more around her cheerfulness, order, and piety.But the superintendence of the household affairs, and her obligations to society, did not wholly fill up Aline’s time. Like her whose living image she was, she was eager to extend her knowledge. Before her return, my father had subscribed for that wretched journal which is the delight of the unbeliever, or those who wish to pass as such. Aline sometimes read it, but she disliked it, as you may suppose. She imparted her impressions to me, but I did not conceal from her my sympathy with its irreligious views.“Well, I do not agree with it in the least,” said she; “and, as I like to know what is going on, I wish I could subscribe for M. Barnier’s paper. Mme. C—— has lent it to me for some time. It is an able, thoughtful journal, and edited by a sincere Catholic.That is the kind of a newspaper that suits me.”“Then, order it to be sent you.”“That would be ridiculous. A young girl cannot subscribe for a newspaper.”“I see no other way of having it.”“Excuse me, there is. If you were obliging, you would see the way at once.”“And subscribe for you!... I subscribe for ajournal de sacristie?... That would be going rather too far; I should be laughed at.”“You must have publicly compromised yourself, then, to fear making people talk by subscribing for a respectable paper.” ...The cut was well aimed. I reddened, but made no reply, and went away. That night I subscribed for your paper, and received my first number. Of course I opened it at once, out of perverse curiosity. I should have been overjoyed to find a single flaw in it.A short time after this, the incident at the cathedral occurred. As I have already told you, I was not among those who made a disturbance at the church door, but I was with them in heart. Père Laurent was repulsive to me, as well as to most of those who displayed their anger in so reprehensible a manner. He was everywhere the topic of conversation. At home, my sister, who never lost one of his sermons, annoyed me with his praises. Above all, she irritated me by repeating his very words—words that seemed chosen expressly to disturb me and force me to reflect.The day after that atrocious manifestation, I eagerly opened your journal. I was sure you would speak of the outbreak of the previous day, and wished to see how far you would condemn it. The article surpassed my expectations. You showed yourself more courageous than ever. Never had you written anything that so directly hit my case. You made use of certain phrases that reminded me of my shameful course, my base inclinations, and my secret remorse, and in so forcible a manner that the very perusal made me tremble with anger. That night, at our club—that well-known circle of young men devoid of reason, and so many men of riper years even more thoughtless—we had a great deal to say about the occurrence of the previous day, and your article of that morning. There was a general indignation against the preacher, and that excited by what you had written was still stronger.One of thehabituésof the club—one of those men who assume the right of imposing their opinions on others about every subject—seriously declared he had made a very important discovery: the clerical party wished to overrule the city, and assert its adverse authority as in the fearful times of the middle ages; but, however well contrived the plot might be, it had not escaped the sagacious eye of the speaker. The Conference of S. Vincent de Paul, more flourishing than ever; the new development given to the journal you edit; the arrival of an eloquent preacher—were they not all so many signs that ought to arouse us to the imminence and extent of the danger?The simplest and worst members of the club allowed themselves to be influenced by this absurd declamation. I was, I confess, of the number. Others shrugged their shoulders. The orator perceived it.“Ah! you smile, messieurs; you think I exaggerate! In a year you will confess I was right, but then it will be too late! Your wives will have become devotees, the very thought of whose bigotry is enough to make anybody shudder; yourdaughters will only aspire to the happiness of entering a convent; the theatres will be closed for want of patronage; and, if any one wishes an office, it will only be obtained by presenting a certificate of confession.Allez! allez!when that black-robed tribe undertakes any scheme, it knows how to bring it about. Instead of shrugging your shoulders when I reveal what is going on, you would do better to take proper precautions. It is high time.”A young fop in the assembly, the head clerk of a notary, notorious for his volubility, his shallowness, and his assurance, rose and took up the thread of discourse in his turn:“I agree with what M. Simon has just said. We must consider the means of utterly routing this dark race. The shortest course would be to attack their leader. I will take that on myself. Barnier shall hear from me.”“No rashness!” was the exclamation on all sides. “We must beware of making a martyr of him!”“What course shall we take, then?” asked some of the party.“Intimidate him,” said a voice. “Write him a letter of warning of so serious a character as to make him desist.”“That is also a bad plan,” objected M. Simon. “Anonymous letters are treated with contempt, or are laid before the public. In either case, the effect would be unfavorable to us.”The young fop who had begun the subject now resumed:“M. Simon, who has so clairvoyant an eye with respect to danger, ought himself to suggest some way of bringing Barnier to reason.”M. Simon assumed a solemn air: “I only know of one way, but that is a good one. We must bribe him, not to withdraw from the paper—that would be a false step, for another would take his place, and continue to annoy us—but to induce him, in consideration of a certain sum, to wage henceforth only an apparent war on us. That is the best thing to do.”“Well,” replied the young fop, “it is hardly worth while to criticise others, and then propose something not half so good. Barnier is not to be bribed.”“Why not?” asked M. Simon.“Because a man whose opinions are the result of conviction can never be bought. He fights for his flag, and is not much concerned about anything else.”“Convictions!—flag!—disinterestedness, indeed!” retorted M. Simon, with a gesture of supreme contempt.It was in vain to say that most of us had carefully observed you, and were not mistaken as to your character. We were nearly all of the clerk’s opinion. For once in his life, the fellow had a correct notion. We then separated without coming to any decision, but each one promised to think of some means of bringing you to reason, as we expressed it. I dwelt on the subject the whole evening, and was still thinking of it the next day when I took my place among the family at the dinner-table.Aline was at that time greatly interested in thesoiréeto which you were afterwards invited, and the preliminaries were discussed at table. To my great astonishment, she proposed to place your name on the list of invitations. This proposition made me angry, and I flatly declared it absurd. I was sure my father would make a similar reply. I had no idea he would open the doors of hissalonto you, for I knew there was no similarity of opinion between you. The result was precisely contrary to my expectations. Was myfather desirous of gratifying Aline? Or did he wish to seize an opportunity of showing how little value he attached to my opinion? I know not. But he allowed me to finish what I had to say, and then said, in a dry tone:“Aline, send M. Barnier an invitation. It is my wish.”I was confounded. In my fury, I inwardly swore to be revenged. The means of intimidating you, which the members of the club had not been able to find without compromising themselves, I thought I had discovered myself the night before. I communicated my plan to two of my friends whose names I will not give. They declared it excellent, and promised to second me.What took place you know, but I will give you some details impossible for you to have ascertained. I did not attend thesoirée, but one of my accomplices was there to keep me informed of your movements. When you were ready to leave, he came to my room to notify me. It took only a moment to disguise ourselves. We went out by a private door, and dogged your steps. Ah! my dear friend, what infamous behavior! What had you done to me that I should thus dare violate in your person the laws of hospitality which even savages respect?At this revelation, I turned pale. M. Louis Beauvais perceived it.“Is not such an act unpardonable, madame?” said he. “And do you not look upon me as worthy only of your contempt and hatred?”“I have forgiven those who committed this wrong, whoever they might be,” I replied. “Now I know it was you, and see how fully you repent of it, I forgive you even more willingly.”Thank you, madame, said he; but let me assure you that, culpable as my intentions were, they were less so than they must have seemed to you. We were desirous of intimidating M. Barnier, and making him believe he exposed himself to constant serious danger by the boldness of the course he had taken. We did not—I mistake—I did not intend to show any physical violence, for that I considered base and criminal. I was indignant when I saw one of our number strike him. I have ever since regarded that young man with profound contempt. I had more than one fit of remorse that night. The next morning, Aline, after accosting me, said:“You know what happened to M. Barnier last night after leaving us. It is infamous! It must have been a plot. I am sure you know the guilty authors! Who are they? They ought to be punished.”“How should I know them?” I exclaimed angrily.“You know them only too well,” said Aline, regarding me with an air of severity; ... “but you are not willing to betray your friends.... What friends!”I endeavored to appear unconcerned. She continued looking at me with a steadiness that made me shiver.“Do not add to my distress,” said she. “Do not lay aside the only virtue you have left, my poor brother—your customary frankness! I understand it all, and know what I ought to say to you, but words fail me. Ah! if our poor mother were still alive!” ...Aline went away without another word. As for me, I remained motionless and silent for some moments, by turns filled with shame, remorse, and anger.... It would seem as if so grave an occurrence should have led me to serious reflection. I felt inclined to it at first, but resisted theinclination. I found excuses for myself, and soon thought no more of it.I continued, therefore, to live as I had for five years, one pleasure succeeding another, and spending my property without reflecting what I should do hereafter. But the day was at hand when I found myself in a critical position in consequence of my prodigality.When my father, in order to avert cause for contention, put me in possession of my mother’s property, I at once took my papers to a man in whom I placed entire confidence. I did this in order to throw off all care. He had been for a long time my father’s cashier. He was and is honesty itself.“F. Martin,” said I, “here is all I possess. It will be a care for me to keep these papers and collect my income. Do me the favor to take charge of my property.”F. Martin was confused and gratified at such a proof of confidence. But his pleasure was somewhat modified when I added the following words:“F. Martin, I attach one condition to this arrangement: you are not to take advantage of it to sermonize me. I now tell you, with a frankness that will preclude all surprise, I wish to amuse myself.... To what degree, or how long, I cannot say, but such is my present intention, that is certain.”“O M. Louis, if your mother could only hear you!”“F. Martin,” said I, with a gesture, as if to take back my portfolio, “if you are going to begin to preach to me, take care!... I shall give my papers to some one who may rob me. Then, instead of merely curtailing my property a little, I shall spend it all in two years, or four at the furthest; or rather, we shall spend it between us.”“Dreadful boy! I always said you had the faculty of making everybody yield to you. Well, I will do as you wish.”“Ah! that is right. One word more. When I have but twenty thousand francs left, you may warn me—not before!”Things went on thus till a few days ago. I spent my property with a rapidity that frightened me when I thought of it. My father perceived it. My extravagance excited his indignation, but, faithful to his resolution to avoid all contention, he forebore saying anything. Not quite a fortnight ago, I met with a sad disappointment. An old aunt of mine died. I had calculated on being her heir, but she left all she had to my sister and other relatives, and gave me nothing. My unwise conduct had for some time prejudiced her against me. This disappointment made me quite thoughtful. I wrote F. Martin that I wished to know the exact state of my affairs. The next day Martin arrived at the appointed hour. He was pale and agitated—pitifully so.“M. Louis,” said he, “you anticipated me. I was going to request an interview with you. You have now only twenty thousand francs!”I made a strong effort to control myself, and replied, with a smiling air: “Well done! that is rather fast work!”“So fast that I can hardly believe you have come to this. But it is really so!”“Where are the twenty thousand francs, Martin?”“Why, I have not got them, M. Louis! I have only five thousand left besides what you took.”At this, my strength almost failed me. I at once realized I was completely ruined. Fifteen months before, I had withdrawn twenty thousandfrancs from Martin’s hands under the pretext of investing them in a particularly advantageous manner. A trip to Germany, play, and some pressing debts absorbed this sum without Martin’s knowing it. I quietly dismissed him, saying I would see him again the next day. Left alone, I balanced my accounts. Alas! my affairs were desperate! The five thousand francs in Martin’s possession were all I had left, and my debts amounted to four times that sum!All day yesterday I remained stupefied, as it were, at so unexpected a disclosure. My father had gone to Paris. I resolved to take refuge in the country, and come to some decision. I went, scarcely knowing what I was about, angry with myself, with everybody else, and desperate. All night I sought some way of escape from the terrible blow that had befallen me. I walked to and fro. From anger I sank into the most profound dejection. The very thought of applying myself to any occupation whatever appeared, above all, intolerable.When morning came, I mechanically went to walk beside the river that runs about a hundred yards from our house, and fell into a gloomy reverie. The sleepless nights, the rioting, the habits to which I had successively given myself up for years, the painful anxiety of the previous night, had excited and weakened my nervous system. I was, as it were, deprived of my reason.While I was thus lingering on the shore, it seemed as if a mysterious voice invited me to bury myself in the current before me. A terrible struggle took place between my reason, the instinct that restrained me, and the hallucination that kept drawing me nearer the bank. Reason failed me. In a fit of despair, I cast myself into the stream. As soon as I felt the cold water, my reason, my faith, awoke as ardent as in the days of my boyhood. A cry issued from the very depths of my soul: “O Mary, save me!” It would be impossible to tell you with what fervor, what terror, I uttered this short prayer—impossible, also, to express the immense joy that filled my heart when I realized I was saved. But what confusion mingled with this joy—what gratitude, too, what admiration of the designs of God, when I saw it was you who had rescued me at the peril of your life!CHAPTER IX.BROTHER AND SISTER.M. Louis Beauvais had finished his story.“And now,” said Victor, in the cheering, confidential tone of one friend who wishes to encourage another, “what are you going to do?”“That is precisely the question that preoccupies me. In fact, I see no way of solving it. Were you to ask me what I am not going to do, oh! then I should not be embarrassed for a reply. At all events, had I even the means, I should not wish to continue the life I have led. Nor do I any longer desire to escape from the trying position I am in by having recourse to the cowardly, criminal means I took in a moment of madness. Suicide fills me with horror! One must behold death face to face, as I have to-day, to realize how easily a man can deceive himself. I had really arrived at such a state of indifference and insensibility that it seemed as if I had never had any religion; but the terrible thought no sooner sprang up in my soul that I wasabout to appear before God, than I found myself as sincere a believer as on the day of my first communion. My whole life passed in review before me, and I condemned myself without awaiting the divine sentence. When I recall the inexpressible terror of that moment; when I remember if God had not sent you to my assistance, and that, had it not been for your heroism, I should have been for ever lost, there springs up in my heart a continually increasing gratitude to my heavenly Father, and to you who were the agent of his mercy.”“Then, my friend,” replied Victor gravely, “you will allow me to make one request.”“Consider whatever you would ask of me granted in advance.”“Then, forget the past six or eight years of your life, and become again what you were under your mother’s influence.”“I pledge you my word to do so, and hope by the divine assistance never to break my promise—a promise I make with inexpressible joy. But that is not all. What course do you advise me to take?”“If I may form an opinion of your sister from what you say, she must be a person of intelligence, kind feelings, and decision. In your place, I would go to her, make known my exact situation, and ask her advice.”“Yes; that is the best course to take. The idea pleases me. I will put it in execution this very evening. My father is to be absent a day or two longer. I shall have a good opportunity of talking freely with Aline. I will go directly to her when I leave you. To-morrow morning I will return and give you an account of our interview.”Louis left us a few moments after. We commended him to God with all our hearts at our evening devotions. It was so impressive a spectacle to behold a soul break loose from past habits, and return to God humiliated and conscious of his weakness—repentant, and burning with ardor to enter upon a new life.During the night, Victor was seriously ill. Fearing he was going to die, I exclaimed, in a moment of anguish:“Oh! that unfortunate adventure! That wretched young man will be the death of you!”“Take that back, dear,” said Victor; “it pains me. Instead of deploring this occurrence, and calling it unfortunate, you should thank God. He has thus granted my dearest wish. From the time I found my days numbered, I prayed God to grant me every possible opportunity of showing how earnestly I wished to serve him during the short time left me on earth. He has now granted my desire. If my going into the water to-day leads to my death, I shall have the infinite joy of being in a certain sense a martyr, for I fully realized the danger. But an interior voice whispered: ‘There is a soul to save,’ and I plunged into the river.... Others would have done the same, but God does not give every one such an opportunity. I thank him for having granted it to me.”By degrees Victor’s alarming symptoms wore off. When he awoke the next morning, he was much better than I had dared hope. He recalled with a lively joy the events of the previous day, and expressed an eager desire to know what Louis and his sister had decided upon.We were not kept in suspense long. Louis arrived about nine o’clock. Seeing his face was calm and happy, my poor husband manifested a livelier satisfaction than I had ever known him to express.“Sit down there,” said he, pointing to an arm-chair beside his bed, “andgive us the details of all you have done.”As we agreed upon last evening, replied Louis, I went directly home after leaving you, and inquired if my sister was in. They told me she was. I went to her room. It was vacant. A servant informed me that she had given up her old chamber some weeks before, and now occupied my mother’s. I found Aline sitting in the middle of the room beside a stand, in the same arm-chair my mother made use of to the last. I cannot express the emotion that overpowered me when I entered. The aspect of the room, the sight of the well-known furniture, Aline’s grave air, and her resemblance to my mother, all carried me back ten years. It seemed as if I were once more in the presence of her whom I loved so much, but whose counsels I had followed so poorly. My agitation increased when Aline sprang towards me, clasped me in her arms, and covered my face with her tears.“Wicked, wicked boy, she cried; you wished to put an end to your life! How sinful in you! and what sorrow for us! Oh! conceal nothing from me.... You are very unhappy, then?... You have no confidence in me?... Come, tell me all. Leave me no longer in a state of uncertainty. And, first, have you renounced your horrible project?”Her voice betrayed such profound emotion, her eyes such tender affection and deep anxiety, that I was affected to tears. I began by begging pardon for all the anxiety I had caused her. I pledged my word to enter upon a new life. When we were both somewhat calmer, I told her all I had related to you. At the end of the account, she looked at me as a mother would at her son, and said:“Louis, the hand of God has visibly interposed in your behalf. Everything shows you would have been drowned. And what a horrible end!—in that river where so few people go, especially the spot you chose, had not Providence, at the very moment you plunged into the water, sent a man, a noble-hearted man, to save you at the peril of his life. That is not all. When you were able to thank your deliverer, you found it was—the very man who had already been brought to death’s door through your fault. If I am not deceived, this is a wonderful interposition of Providence. You have been a great sinner, my poor boy, and your conversion had to be effected by a great sacrifice. This sacrifice has been offered by M. Barnier in risking his life in order to restore you to existence, which you wished to deprive yourself of. I believe—pardon my great frankness—God wished, I believe, to inspire you with thorough repentance by showing you your victim under the form of your deliverer. Oh! if this repentance is not lasting, I shall tremble at the thought of the chastisement that the justice of God, weary of pardoning you, has in reserve. But, no!—there is no fear of that. And now, what are you going to do?”“Put an end to my idle life.”“Very well. It was idleness especially that caused your ruin. But what occupation will suit you? No imprudent heroism! You must do something that will be congenial.”“I am an engineer. It is time to remember it. I am going to Paris. Either there or elsewhere I can easily find a place in some manufactory.”“Very well. Father is to return to-morrow evening. What has occurred cannot be concealed from him. I am even of the opinion it would be best to tell him the wholetruth. Only ... you will allow me to speak with the frankness of a sister who loves you, will you not?”“Oh! yes. Speak to me as our mother would.”“Well, then, I must acknowledge father is extremely offended with you. He is kind, very kind, as you know, but he cannot endure want of calculation, especially in money matters, and your manner of conducting has excited his indignation. I fear, therefore, he will at first be greatly irritated at learning what has taken place. Public rumor will at once inform him of it, so that, when he sees you for the first time, you will not be able to induce him to listen to you. With your consent, I will talk with him first. To prevent a premature explanation with him, I propose you should go and pass two or three days with Aunt Mary. She is now at her country-seat in M——. It is not far off. I can easily send you word when it is time for you to return.”I need not say with what gratitude I accepted this proposal, which revealed the kindness of a sister, the delicacy of a woman, and the prudence of a mother.Aline continued: “I have two more requests to make. If you were a different person, I might hesitate. But you were once pious. You are better instructed in our religion than most of the poor young men of our day. In a word, you have never lost your faith. Do not delay having recourse to the remedy. Go to confession as soon as possible. Confession develops repentance, puts a seal on our good resolutions, and confers a special grace to keep them. I speak as I think. A repentance that remains purely human cannot be lasting.”I promised to go to confession to Father——, and shall keep my promise.“One favor more,” resumed Aline. “It is a somewhat delicate matter, but let us talk with the same freedom and simplicity that we did in our childhood. That is the shortest way to come to an understanding. You say you are fifteen thousand francs in debt. Knowing my father’s disposition as I do, I am sure this will cause trouble if he knows it. He is a man who would forgive your spending a hundred thousand francs, but a debt of five hundred would make him extremely angry. This is strange, but it is so. And you may be sure as soon as your creditors hear of your ruin, they will come upon you. We must, therefore, hasten to forestall them. We must settle with them where they are. Will you permit me to render you a little service?... Sit down here, and draw up, as papa would say, a schedule of your debts. I will give it to our head clerk to-morrow, bind him to secrecy, and before noon you will be free from debt.”I was profoundly moved by so much generosity, and so profuse in my thanks as to greatly touch Aline herself. But she concealed her emotion under a lively, playful manner. I had to make out a list at once. I did so, and gave it to Aline. She took it with a smile, and folded it up without looking at it. There were two small sheets, one of which was nearly blank.“Why two papers?” she asked mechanically.“One contains the list—the sad list; the other is a note which”....“Ah! that is too much! Louis, my poor Louis, you are only half converted! You do not really love me! You are unwilling to receive anything from me. You would deprive me of the pleasure of giving this to you. Ah! that is wrong. Oh! the contemptiblerôleyou wish me to play!I lend it to you! Fie, fie!” ...So saying, Aline tore up the unfortunate note.The night was far advanced before we separated. I had already bidden my sister good-night. She retained my hand in hers, and, looking at me with a caressing air, said:“Louis, one favor more! Let us say our night-prayers together at the foot of that bed where our dear mother made us say them so often. We will pray for her. She watches over us. What has happened to you is a proof of it.”We sank on our knees beside each other. Aline said the prayers aloud. I repeated them with my lips and in my heart, and with so much joy and emotion that I melted into tears.This morning I took leave of Aline. She means to come here herself, in order to express her gratitude. My mother could not feel more. Oh! how she loves you! As for me, I am going away ruined, but happier than if my fortune were increased tenfold. Pray for me. And you, my dear friend, take care of yourself. I trembled yesterday at the thought of the danger to which you had exposed yourself in order to save my life. I trembled as I came here, fearing your heroic imprudence might have led to fatal results! Thank God! there is nothing serious. But redouble your precautions; I shall need you for a long while. You will be my best guide in the new way upon which I have now entered.Louis then departed, leaving us exceedingly happy at the favorable turn in his affairs.CHAPTER X.ALINE’S HOPES.The second day after Louis’ departure, we had in the afternoon an agreeable surprise: Aline called to see us. All that Louis had told us about her prepossessed us in her favor. The sight of her only increased our disposition to love her.Aline was at the time I am speaking of—and still is—a fine-looking woman, tall, well-formed, and with a pleasing, intelligent face. Her manner is a little cold at first, but her reserve is not unpleasing, for it indicates a thoughtful mind. When she came into the room, my husband and I were reading. She went directly to Victor, and with emotion, but without any embarrassment, said:“Monsieur, I am late in expressing my gratitude. Pardon this delay. It has not been without good reasons. I was expecting my father every moment, and was greatly preoccupied with all I had to communicate, as well as about the reply he would make.” ...“Mademoiselle,” replied Victor gently, “there is no need of excusing yourself. I am happy, very happy, to see you, but had no right to expect your visit.”“No right, monsieur?... What! did you not save my brother’s life?... And was it not you the unhappy fellow had before” ...“O mademoiselle! do me the favor never to mention that circumstance!”“You are generous, monsieur! But that is no reason why we should show ourselves ungrateful—rather the contrary. Louis and I can never forget that, before you saved his life, he had injured you to such a degree that he can never be sufficiently repentant. As to my father, I have not dared inform him of these details too painful to be acknowledged. My father, alas! is not religious. Louis’ fault would seem so enormous to him that he would never forgive him.”“It is, however, of but little account. If harm has resulted from it, Louis was only the involuntary cause. Let us adore the divine decrees, and forgive our poor friend. He had not, after all, any very criminal intentions.”Aline looked at Victor with a sadness she could not wholly conceal. His wasted features, his eyes hollowed by suffering, his air of languor, nothing escaped her observation.“I wish I could think so,” murmured she, as if speaking to herself. “Ah! poor Louis, what remorse he must feel!”This allusion to Victor’s sad condition brought tears to my eyes. Victor suspected my emotion, and at once changed the subject.“M. Louis has become my friend,” said he to Aline; “therefore pardon my curiosity, mademoiselle, if it is indiscreet. May we hope to see him again soon? Is M. Beauvais greatly offended with him?”Everything is arranged for the best, though not without difficulty. My father was not originally wealthy. It has only been by dint of order, economy, and industry, that he has attained the position he now occupies. When he learned that Louis had lost, or rather squandered, his maternal inheritance, his anger was fearful. But by degrees I made him comprehend that Louis, though ruined, had shown new resolution—that he was willing to work; he wished to become useful, and regain all he had lost. My father then grew calm. And yet all my fears were not allayed. I had to tell him of Louis’ sad attempt at suicide, of which he was still ignorant, but which he could not fail to learn. I told him of it, dwelling on your devotedness, which struck him most of all.“Has Louis shown himself duly grateful to M. Barnier for the service?” he asked. I replied that he had.“So much the better. Such a sentiment does him honor. This circumstance may lead to a friendship between them which cannot be too intimate, in my opinion. And you say our prodigal son is willing to work? What is he going to do?”“Anything you wish, father.”“That is easily said, but a poor reply. Nothing is well done that we do not like to do. Has he manifested an inclination for any special occupation?”“Louis is a civil engineer. He would like to find a place somewhere in that capacity.”“Ah! he at length remembers he is a civil engineer!... He wishes to turn his acquirements to some account?... It is a wonder! He need not exile himself for that. You know Mr. Smithson?”“Is not he the cold, ceremonious gentleman who came to see us Sunday?”“The very one. Mr. Smithson is a wealthy Englishman who has been in France these twenty years. He came on account of his health. He settled at first in Paris, where he married a charming woman—a Catholic of no property, but of a good family. This excellent Mr. Smithson was so foolish as to speculate too much at the Bourse some years since, and his losses were considerable. To withdraw himself from such a temptation, he established his residence at St. M—— six months ago. The situation pleased him, and there was another inducement: a large paper manufactory there was offered for sale. He bought it, hoping not only to find occupation, and feed his incessant activity, but to repair the losses of the last few years. The mill is well situatedand well patronized. Everything would prove advantageous if Mr. Smithson were better versed in the knowledge of machinery. But though an Englishman, he has not been through the studies necessary to enable him to superintend his industrial project as he ought. Besides this, he is subject to frequent attacks of the gout. He has therefore besought me to find him a man capable of superintending the mill under his direction, and even of taking the whole charge if necessary.”“So much for Louis’ affairs. What do you think of the arrangement? I approved of it without any restriction. And you, monsieur?”“I think, mademoiselle,” replied Victor, “that Providence continues to treat Louis with parental kindness.”“Oh! yes; truly parental! He will now remain under your influence. Even in the house he is to enter, everything will encourage him, I hope, to persist in his good resolutions. Mme. Smithson is said to be a woman of lovely character. She has a daughter who must be a prodigy, unless I have been misinformed. My father, who is very practical, and but little given to exaggeration, is enthusiastic in her praise.”Victor knowingly smiled at this last communication.“You have divined my thoughts,” said Aline, blushing a little. “Well, yes: this thought at once occurred to my mind. I said to myself, if Louis can find at Mr. Smithson’s not only an occupation that will enable him to forget the past, but an affection that will continue to sustain him in a better course, I shall consider him the most fortunate of men. But it is too soon to speak of that. This dear brother must first return home, and be accepted by Mr. Smithson, to whom my father wrote to-day.”The next day both these things took place. Louis returned. Mr. Smithson at once accepted him as his assistant. After calling on us with his father, he left for St. M——.While M. Beauvais was speaking to me, Louis said to Victor, in a low tone:“Everything is done. The bonds of iniquity are completely broken. I have been to confession and to Holy Communion, and a new life has begun!”The air of satisfaction with which he uttered these words, the calmness and unaffected gravity he manifested, all announced he had indeed become a new man.“In a year he will be an eminent Christian!” said Victor, as Louis disappeared.He was not mistaken.TO BE CONTINUED.

FROM THE FRENCH OF CHARLES DUBOIS.

CONFESSION.

Atour return, we found my mother had prepared the dinner as usual on the days we went into the country. We joyfully seated ourselves at the table. What is more delightful than a family dinner? And we were all united. Louis was also in our midst. Victor was uncommonly lively that evening. His face, so open, intelligent, and kind, was radiant. I had never seen him so social and witty. His animation enlivened us all—we loved him so much! Excellent man! what made him so happy was the remembrance of the good deed he had done at the peril of his life. I asked him more than twenty times that evening if he felt any worse, and if it were not advisable to send for a physician. He invariably replied that he felt as well as the day before, and even better. But his cough grew worse from that time, and caused me serious alarm. During dinner we conversed on general subjects, and afterwards went to thesalon. Victor installed himself beside the blazing fire which I always had made for him in the evening. My mother and sister went up to their own apartments. We were thus left alone with M. Louis Beauvais. He turned towards Victor with a look full of respect and affection, and I observed with astonishment that tears were streaming from his eyes.

“Madame,” said he to me, “I must appear strangely to you. Ah! that is not the worst of it. I am a great sinner.”

Victor tried to stop him.

“No,” said he; “I will not keep silence. Mme. Barnier must know everything, as well as you, noble-hearted man, whom I dare not call my friend: I feel too unworthy.”

He seated himself, and, sadly gazing into the fire, began his story in a tone as grave and sorrowful as if he were making a solemn avowal of his faults before dying:

Ten years ago, said he, I was a Christian, not only in name, but in heart and soul. My mother, a pious, energetic woman, such as we do not see in our day, brought me up with extreme care, and I did my utmost to correspond to her efforts. It is so easy and delightful to practise one’s religion when one has faith, and feels that his endeavors are at once pleasing to a mother and to God! My other studies over, I became a candidate for the Polytechnic School, but was not successful in my application. I then entered another, in order to learn civil engineering. By the end of a year, I had given up all my pious habits through want of moral courage. My principles, however, remained firm enough to condemn me and fill me with remorse, but they were incapable of restraining one who had imbibed a taste for error. Even my mother’s death and her last words, though they affected me, did not bring me to a sense of duty. A short time after I completed my studies in civil engineering, my father gave me possession of what I inherited from my mother, and asked what course I intended to pursue.“Remain at home,” I replied,” and work under the direction of M. C——,” an architect of the department, and a friend of the family. My father gave his consent to this.

Left to myself, and master of my time and property, I made no delay in commencing a life of dissipation and pleasure. My father was, above all things, a man of forethought and calculation, and my conduct disgusted him. We had several painful disputes, and at last he declared, to use his own expressive language, he would give up the reins, and cease to reproach me, but I must not thenceforth expect of him the least advice or even aid, if I needed it. He then centred all his affections on my brother and sister. As for me, I had begun by being idle and extravagant: I soon became openly irreligious. My religious principles were a restraint, and I determined to throw them aside. I thought this would be easy. And I did prove myself uncommonly impious when the preacher we had some months ago told us so many plain, wholesome truths. I was not one of those guilty of disorderly conduct, whom all respectable people must condemn; but—the acknowledgment is due you—I approved of it, contemptible and wicked as it was. My conscience was now roused, and remorse filled my soul with secret anger.

My mother being dead, there was no longer any one at home to speak to me of religious things. My father is an honorable, upright man, and attentive to his business, but as regardless of another world as if there were none. My young brother is pious to a certain degree, I suppose, but he is timid and reserved. Only my sister remains. Aline left boarding-school about six months ago. She is nearly ten years younger than I, and bears a striking resemblance to my mother. She has the same kindness of heart and the same tone of piety, at once fervent and rational, which I always loved and admired in my mother. I had been separated from my sister many years, and when I met her again, I was struck, with this resemblance, and at once conceived so much affection and respect for her as to astonish myself.

As soon as Aline returned home, the appearance of everything changed: the house became more attractive. I certainly do not wish to impute any blame to my father—I love and respect him too much for that—but you know as well as I that a house is not what it should be that has no woman to preside over it. An Arabian poet says the mistress of a house is its soul, and he is right. After my mother’s death, the house became gloomy, but there was a marked change when Aline returned. It seemed as if my mother had come back after a long absence to diffuse once more around her cheerfulness, order, and piety.

But the superintendence of the household affairs, and her obligations to society, did not wholly fill up Aline’s time. Like her whose living image she was, she was eager to extend her knowledge. Before her return, my father had subscribed for that wretched journal which is the delight of the unbeliever, or those who wish to pass as such. Aline sometimes read it, but she disliked it, as you may suppose. She imparted her impressions to me, but I did not conceal from her my sympathy with its irreligious views.

“Well, I do not agree with it in the least,” said she; “and, as I like to know what is going on, I wish I could subscribe for M. Barnier’s paper. Mme. C—— has lent it to me for some time. It is an able, thoughtful journal, and edited by a sincere Catholic.That is the kind of a newspaper that suits me.”

“Then, order it to be sent you.”

“That would be ridiculous. A young girl cannot subscribe for a newspaper.”

“I see no other way of having it.”

“Excuse me, there is. If you were obliging, you would see the way at once.”

“And subscribe for you!... I subscribe for ajournal de sacristie?... That would be going rather too far; I should be laughed at.”

“You must have publicly compromised yourself, then, to fear making people talk by subscribing for a respectable paper.” ...

The cut was well aimed. I reddened, but made no reply, and went away. That night I subscribed for your paper, and received my first number. Of course I opened it at once, out of perverse curiosity. I should have been overjoyed to find a single flaw in it.

A short time after this, the incident at the cathedral occurred. As I have already told you, I was not among those who made a disturbance at the church door, but I was with them in heart. Père Laurent was repulsive to me, as well as to most of those who displayed their anger in so reprehensible a manner. He was everywhere the topic of conversation. At home, my sister, who never lost one of his sermons, annoyed me with his praises. Above all, she irritated me by repeating his very words—words that seemed chosen expressly to disturb me and force me to reflect.

The day after that atrocious manifestation, I eagerly opened your journal. I was sure you would speak of the outbreak of the previous day, and wished to see how far you would condemn it. The article surpassed my expectations. You showed yourself more courageous than ever. Never had you written anything that so directly hit my case. You made use of certain phrases that reminded me of my shameful course, my base inclinations, and my secret remorse, and in so forcible a manner that the very perusal made me tremble with anger. That night, at our club—that well-known circle of young men devoid of reason, and so many men of riper years even more thoughtless—we had a great deal to say about the occurrence of the previous day, and your article of that morning. There was a general indignation against the preacher, and that excited by what you had written was still stronger.

One of thehabituésof the club—one of those men who assume the right of imposing their opinions on others about every subject—seriously declared he had made a very important discovery: the clerical party wished to overrule the city, and assert its adverse authority as in the fearful times of the middle ages; but, however well contrived the plot might be, it had not escaped the sagacious eye of the speaker. The Conference of S. Vincent de Paul, more flourishing than ever; the new development given to the journal you edit; the arrival of an eloquent preacher—were they not all so many signs that ought to arouse us to the imminence and extent of the danger?

The simplest and worst members of the club allowed themselves to be influenced by this absurd declamation. I was, I confess, of the number. Others shrugged their shoulders. The orator perceived it.

“Ah! you smile, messieurs; you think I exaggerate! In a year you will confess I was right, but then it will be too late! Your wives will have become devotees, the very thought of whose bigotry is enough to make anybody shudder; yourdaughters will only aspire to the happiness of entering a convent; the theatres will be closed for want of patronage; and, if any one wishes an office, it will only be obtained by presenting a certificate of confession.Allez! allez!when that black-robed tribe undertakes any scheme, it knows how to bring it about. Instead of shrugging your shoulders when I reveal what is going on, you would do better to take proper precautions. It is high time.”

A young fop in the assembly, the head clerk of a notary, notorious for his volubility, his shallowness, and his assurance, rose and took up the thread of discourse in his turn:

“I agree with what M. Simon has just said. We must consider the means of utterly routing this dark race. The shortest course would be to attack their leader. I will take that on myself. Barnier shall hear from me.”

“No rashness!” was the exclamation on all sides. “We must beware of making a martyr of him!”

“What course shall we take, then?” asked some of the party.

“Intimidate him,” said a voice. “Write him a letter of warning of so serious a character as to make him desist.”

“That is also a bad plan,” objected M. Simon. “Anonymous letters are treated with contempt, or are laid before the public. In either case, the effect would be unfavorable to us.”

The young fop who had begun the subject now resumed:

“M. Simon, who has so clairvoyant an eye with respect to danger, ought himself to suggest some way of bringing Barnier to reason.”

M. Simon assumed a solemn air: “I only know of one way, but that is a good one. We must bribe him, not to withdraw from the paper—that would be a false step, for another would take his place, and continue to annoy us—but to induce him, in consideration of a certain sum, to wage henceforth only an apparent war on us. That is the best thing to do.”

“Well,” replied the young fop, “it is hardly worth while to criticise others, and then propose something not half so good. Barnier is not to be bribed.”

“Why not?” asked M. Simon.

“Because a man whose opinions are the result of conviction can never be bought. He fights for his flag, and is not much concerned about anything else.”

“Convictions!—flag!—disinterestedness, indeed!” retorted M. Simon, with a gesture of supreme contempt.

It was in vain to say that most of us had carefully observed you, and were not mistaken as to your character. We were nearly all of the clerk’s opinion. For once in his life, the fellow had a correct notion. We then separated without coming to any decision, but each one promised to think of some means of bringing you to reason, as we expressed it. I dwelt on the subject the whole evening, and was still thinking of it the next day when I took my place among the family at the dinner-table.

Aline was at that time greatly interested in thesoiréeto which you were afterwards invited, and the preliminaries were discussed at table. To my great astonishment, she proposed to place your name on the list of invitations. This proposition made me angry, and I flatly declared it absurd. I was sure my father would make a similar reply. I had no idea he would open the doors of hissalonto you, for I knew there was no similarity of opinion between you. The result was precisely contrary to my expectations. Was myfather desirous of gratifying Aline? Or did he wish to seize an opportunity of showing how little value he attached to my opinion? I know not. But he allowed me to finish what I had to say, and then said, in a dry tone:

“Aline, send M. Barnier an invitation. It is my wish.”

I was confounded. In my fury, I inwardly swore to be revenged. The means of intimidating you, which the members of the club had not been able to find without compromising themselves, I thought I had discovered myself the night before. I communicated my plan to two of my friends whose names I will not give. They declared it excellent, and promised to second me.

What took place you know, but I will give you some details impossible for you to have ascertained. I did not attend thesoirée, but one of my accomplices was there to keep me informed of your movements. When you were ready to leave, he came to my room to notify me. It took only a moment to disguise ourselves. We went out by a private door, and dogged your steps. Ah! my dear friend, what infamous behavior! What had you done to me that I should thus dare violate in your person the laws of hospitality which even savages respect?

At this revelation, I turned pale. M. Louis Beauvais perceived it.

“Is not such an act unpardonable, madame?” said he. “And do you not look upon me as worthy only of your contempt and hatred?”

“I have forgiven those who committed this wrong, whoever they might be,” I replied. “Now I know it was you, and see how fully you repent of it, I forgive you even more willingly.”

Thank you, madame, said he; but let me assure you that, culpable as my intentions were, they were less so than they must have seemed to you. We were desirous of intimidating M. Barnier, and making him believe he exposed himself to constant serious danger by the boldness of the course he had taken. We did not—I mistake—I did not intend to show any physical violence, for that I considered base and criminal. I was indignant when I saw one of our number strike him. I have ever since regarded that young man with profound contempt. I had more than one fit of remorse that night. The next morning, Aline, after accosting me, said:

“You know what happened to M. Barnier last night after leaving us. It is infamous! It must have been a plot. I am sure you know the guilty authors! Who are they? They ought to be punished.”

“How should I know them?” I exclaimed angrily.

“You know them only too well,” said Aline, regarding me with an air of severity; ... “but you are not willing to betray your friends.... What friends!”

I endeavored to appear unconcerned. She continued looking at me with a steadiness that made me shiver.

“Do not add to my distress,” said she. “Do not lay aside the only virtue you have left, my poor brother—your customary frankness! I understand it all, and know what I ought to say to you, but words fail me. Ah! if our poor mother were still alive!” ...

Aline went away without another word. As for me, I remained motionless and silent for some moments, by turns filled with shame, remorse, and anger.... It would seem as if so grave an occurrence should have led me to serious reflection. I felt inclined to it at first, but resisted theinclination. I found excuses for myself, and soon thought no more of it.

I continued, therefore, to live as I had for five years, one pleasure succeeding another, and spending my property without reflecting what I should do hereafter. But the day was at hand when I found myself in a critical position in consequence of my prodigality.

When my father, in order to avert cause for contention, put me in possession of my mother’s property, I at once took my papers to a man in whom I placed entire confidence. I did this in order to throw off all care. He had been for a long time my father’s cashier. He was and is honesty itself.

“F. Martin,” said I, “here is all I possess. It will be a care for me to keep these papers and collect my income. Do me the favor to take charge of my property.”

F. Martin was confused and gratified at such a proof of confidence. But his pleasure was somewhat modified when I added the following words:

“F. Martin, I attach one condition to this arrangement: you are not to take advantage of it to sermonize me. I now tell you, with a frankness that will preclude all surprise, I wish to amuse myself.... To what degree, or how long, I cannot say, but such is my present intention, that is certain.”

“O M. Louis, if your mother could only hear you!”

“F. Martin,” said I, with a gesture, as if to take back my portfolio, “if you are going to begin to preach to me, take care!... I shall give my papers to some one who may rob me. Then, instead of merely curtailing my property a little, I shall spend it all in two years, or four at the furthest; or rather, we shall spend it between us.”

“Dreadful boy! I always said you had the faculty of making everybody yield to you. Well, I will do as you wish.”

“Ah! that is right. One word more. When I have but twenty thousand francs left, you may warn me—not before!”

Things went on thus till a few days ago. I spent my property with a rapidity that frightened me when I thought of it. My father perceived it. My extravagance excited his indignation, but, faithful to his resolution to avoid all contention, he forebore saying anything. Not quite a fortnight ago, I met with a sad disappointment. An old aunt of mine died. I had calculated on being her heir, but she left all she had to my sister and other relatives, and gave me nothing. My unwise conduct had for some time prejudiced her against me. This disappointment made me quite thoughtful. I wrote F. Martin that I wished to know the exact state of my affairs. The next day Martin arrived at the appointed hour. He was pale and agitated—pitifully so.

“M. Louis,” said he, “you anticipated me. I was going to request an interview with you. You have now only twenty thousand francs!”

I made a strong effort to control myself, and replied, with a smiling air: “Well done! that is rather fast work!”

“So fast that I can hardly believe you have come to this. But it is really so!”

“Where are the twenty thousand francs, Martin?”

“Why, I have not got them, M. Louis! I have only five thousand left besides what you took.”

At this, my strength almost failed me. I at once realized I was completely ruined. Fifteen months before, I had withdrawn twenty thousandfrancs from Martin’s hands under the pretext of investing them in a particularly advantageous manner. A trip to Germany, play, and some pressing debts absorbed this sum without Martin’s knowing it. I quietly dismissed him, saying I would see him again the next day. Left alone, I balanced my accounts. Alas! my affairs were desperate! The five thousand francs in Martin’s possession were all I had left, and my debts amounted to four times that sum!

All day yesterday I remained stupefied, as it were, at so unexpected a disclosure. My father had gone to Paris. I resolved to take refuge in the country, and come to some decision. I went, scarcely knowing what I was about, angry with myself, with everybody else, and desperate. All night I sought some way of escape from the terrible blow that had befallen me. I walked to and fro. From anger I sank into the most profound dejection. The very thought of applying myself to any occupation whatever appeared, above all, intolerable.

When morning came, I mechanically went to walk beside the river that runs about a hundred yards from our house, and fell into a gloomy reverie. The sleepless nights, the rioting, the habits to which I had successively given myself up for years, the painful anxiety of the previous night, had excited and weakened my nervous system. I was, as it were, deprived of my reason.

While I was thus lingering on the shore, it seemed as if a mysterious voice invited me to bury myself in the current before me. A terrible struggle took place between my reason, the instinct that restrained me, and the hallucination that kept drawing me nearer the bank. Reason failed me. In a fit of despair, I cast myself into the stream. As soon as I felt the cold water, my reason, my faith, awoke as ardent as in the days of my boyhood. A cry issued from the very depths of my soul: “O Mary, save me!” It would be impossible to tell you with what fervor, what terror, I uttered this short prayer—impossible, also, to express the immense joy that filled my heart when I realized I was saved. But what confusion mingled with this joy—what gratitude, too, what admiration of the designs of God, when I saw it was you who had rescued me at the peril of your life!

BROTHER AND SISTER.

M. Louis Beauvais had finished his story.

“And now,” said Victor, in the cheering, confidential tone of one friend who wishes to encourage another, “what are you going to do?”

“That is precisely the question that preoccupies me. In fact, I see no way of solving it. Were you to ask me what I am not going to do, oh! then I should not be embarrassed for a reply. At all events, had I even the means, I should not wish to continue the life I have led. Nor do I any longer desire to escape from the trying position I am in by having recourse to the cowardly, criminal means I took in a moment of madness. Suicide fills me with horror! One must behold death face to face, as I have to-day, to realize how easily a man can deceive himself. I had really arrived at such a state of indifference and insensibility that it seemed as if I had never had any religion; but the terrible thought no sooner sprang up in my soul that I wasabout to appear before God, than I found myself as sincere a believer as on the day of my first communion. My whole life passed in review before me, and I condemned myself without awaiting the divine sentence. When I recall the inexpressible terror of that moment; when I remember if God had not sent you to my assistance, and that, had it not been for your heroism, I should have been for ever lost, there springs up in my heart a continually increasing gratitude to my heavenly Father, and to you who were the agent of his mercy.”

“Then, my friend,” replied Victor gravely, “you will allow me to make one request.”

“Consider whatever you would ask of me granted in advance.”

“Then, forget the past six or eight years of your life, and become again what you were under your mother’s influence.”

“I pledge you my word to do so, and hope by the divine assistance never to break my promise—a promise I make with inexpressible joy. But that is not all. What course do you advise me to take?”

“If I may form an opinion of your sister from what you say, she must be a person of intelligence, kind feelings, and decision. In your place, I would go to her, make known my exact situation, and ask her advice.”

“Yes; that is the best course to take. The idea pleases me. I will put it in execution this very evening. My father is to be absent a day or two longer. I shall have a good opportunity of talking freely with Aline. I will go directly to her when I leave you. To-morrow morning I will return and give you an account of our interview.”

Louis left us a few moments after. We commended him to God with all our hearts at our evening devotions. It was so impressive a spectacle to behold a soul break loose from past habits, and return to God humiliated and conscious of his weakness—repentant, and burning with ardor to enter upon a new life.

During the night, Victor was seriously ill. Fearing he was going to die, I exclaimed, in a moment of anguish:

“Oh! that unfortunate adventure! That wretched young man will be the death of you!”

“Take that back, dear,” said Victor; “it pains me. Instead of deploring this occurrence, and calling it unfortunate, you should thank God. He has thus granted my dearest wish. From the time I found my days numbered, I prayed God to grant me every possible opportunity of showing how earnestly I wished to serve him during the short time left me on earth. He has now granted my desire. If my going into the water to-day leads to my death, I shall have the infinite joy of being in a certain sense a martyr, for I fully realized the danger. But an interior voice whispered: ‘There is a soul to save,’ and I plunged into the river.... Others would have done the same, but God does not give every one such an opportunity. I thank him for having granted it to me.”

By degrees Victor’s alarming symptoms wore off. When he awoke the next morning, he was much better than I had dared hope. He recalled with a lively joy the events of the previous day, and expressed an eager desire to know what Louis and his sister had decided upon.

We were not kept in suspense long. Louis arrived about nine o’clock. Seeing his face was calm and happy, my poor husband manifested a livelier satisfaction than I had ever known him to express.

“Sit down there,” said he, pointing to an arm-chair beside his bed, “andgive us the details of all you have done.”

As we agreed upon last evening, replied Louis, I went directly home after leaving you, and inquired if my sister was in. They told me she was. I went to her room. It was vacant. A servant informed me that she had given up her old chamber some weeks before, and now occupied my mother’s. I found Aline sitting in the middle of the room beside a stand, in the same arm-chair my mother made use of to the last. I cannot express the emotion that overpowered me when I entered. The aspect of the room, the sight of the well-known furniture, Aline’s grave air, and her resemblance to my mother, all carried me back ten years. It seemed as if I were once more in the presence of her whom I loved so much, but whose counsels I had followed so poorly. My agitation increased when Aline sprang towards me, clasped me in her arms, and covered my face with her tears.

“Wicked, wicked boy, she cried; you wished to put an end to your life! How sinful in you! and what sorrow for us! Oh! conceal nothing from me.... You are very unhappy, then?... You have no confidence in me?... Come, tell me all. Leave me no longer in a state of uncertainty. And, first, have you renounced your horrible project?”

Her voice betrayed such profound emotion, her eyes such tender affection and deep anxiety, that I was affected to tears. I began by begging pardon for all the anxiety I had caused her. I pledged my word to enter upon a new life. When we were both somewhat calmer, I told her all I had related to you. At the end of the account, she looked at me as a mother would at her son, and said:

“Louis, the hand of God has visibly interposed in your behalf. Everything shows you would have been drowned. And what a horrible end!—in that river where so few people go, especially the spot you chose, had not Providence, at the very moment you plunged into the water, sent a man, a noble-hearted man, to save you at the peril of his life. That is not all. When you were able to thank your deliverer, you found it was—the very man who had already been brought to death’s door through your fault. If I am not deceived, this is a wonderful interposition of Providence. You have been a great sinner, my poor boy, and your conversion had to be effected by a great sacrifice. This sacrifice has been offered by M. Barnier in risking his life in order to restore you to existence, which you wished to deprive yourself of. I believe—pardon my great frankness—God wished, I believe, to inspire you with thorough repentance by showing you your victim under the form of your deliverer. Oh! if this repentance is not lasting, I shall tremble at the thought of the chastisement that the justice of God, weary of pardoning you, has in reserve. But, no!—there is no fear of that. And now, what are you going to do?”

“Put an end to my idle life.”

“Very well. It was idleness especially that caused your ruin. But what occupation will suit you? No imprudent heroism! You must do something that will be congenial.”

“I am an engineer. It is time to remember it. I am going to Paris. Either there or elsewhere I can easily find a place in some manufactory.”

“Very well. Father is to return to-morrow evening. What has occurred cannot be concealed from him. I am even of the opinion it would be best to tell him the wholetruth. Only ... you will allow me to speak with the frankness of a sister who loves you, will you not?”

“Oh! yes. Speak to me as our mother would.”

“Well, then, I must acknowledge father is extremely offended with you. He is kind, very kind, as you know, but he cannot endure want of calculation, especially in money matters, and your manner of conducting has excited his indignation. I fear, therefore, he will at first be greatly irritated at learning what has taken place. Public rumor will at once inform him of it, so that, when he sees you for the first time, you will not be able to induce him to listen to you. With your consent, I will talk with him first. To prevent a premature explanation with him, I propose you should go and pass two or three days with Aunt Mary. She is now at her country-seat in M——. It is not far off. I can easily send you word when it is time for you to return.”

I need not say with what gratitude I accepted this proposal, which revealed the kindness of a sister, the delicacy of a woman, and the prudence of a mother.

Aline continued: “I have two more requests to make. If you were a different person, I might hesitate. But you were once pious. You are better instructed in our religion than most of the poor young men of our day. In a word, you have never lost your faith. Do not delay having recourse to the remedy. Go to confession as soon as possible. Confession develops repentance, puts a seal on our good resolutions, and confers a special grace to keep them. I speak as I think. A repentance that remains purely human cannot be lasting.”

I promised to go to confession to Father——, and shall keep my promise.

“One favor more,” resumed Aline. “It is a somewhat delicate matter, but let us talk with the same freedom and simplicity that we did in our childhood. That is the shortest way to come to an understanding. You say you are fifteen thousand francs in debt. Knowing my father’s disposition as I do, I am sure this will cause trouble if he knows it. He is a man who would forgive your spending a hundred thousand francs, but a debt of five hundred would make him extremely angry. This is strange, but it is so. And you may be sure as soon as your creditors hear of your ruin, they will come upon you. We must, therefore, hasten to forestall them. We must settle with them where they are. Will you permit me to render you a little service?... Sit down here, and draw up, as papa would say, a schedule of your debts. I will give it to our head clerk to-morrow, bind him to secrecy, and before noon you will be free from debt.”

I was profoundly moved by so much generosity, and so profuse in my thanks as to greatly touch Aline herself. But she concealed her emotion under a lively, playful manner. I had to make out a list at once. I did so, and gave it to Aline. She took it with a smile, and folded it up without looking at it. There were two small sheets, one of which was nearly blank.

“Why two papers?” she asked mechanically.

“One contains the list—the sad list; the other is a note which”....

“Ah! that is too much! Louis, my poor Louis, you are only half converted! You do not really love me! You are unwilling to receive anything from me. You would deprive me of the pleasure of giving this to you. Ah! that is wrong. Oh! the contemptiblerôleyou wish me to play!I lend it to you! Fie, fie!” ...

So saying, Aline tore up the unfortunate note.

The night was far advanced before we separated. I had already bidden my sister good-night. She retained my hand in hers, and, looking at me with a caressing air, said:

“Louis, one favor more! Let us say our night-prayers together at the foot of that bed where our dear mother made us say them so often. We will pray for her. She watches over us. What has happened to you is a proof of it.”

We sank on our knees beside each other. Aline said the prayers aloud. I repeated them with my lips and in my heart, and with so much joy and emotion that I melted into tears.

This morning I took leave of Aline. She means to come here herself, in order to express her gratitude. My mother could not feel more. Oh! how she loves you! As for me, I am going away ruined, but happier than if my fortune were increased tenfold. Pray for me. And you, my dear friend, take care of yourself. I trembled yesterday at the thought of the danger to which you had exposed yourself in order to save my life. I trembled as I came here, fearing your heroic imprudence might have led to fatal results! Thank God! there is nothing serious. But redouble your precautions; I shall need you for a long while. You will be my best guide in the new way upon which I have now entered.

Louis then departed, leaving us exceedingly happy at the favorable turn in his affairs.

ALINE’S HOPES.

The second day after Louis’ departure, we had in the afternoon an agreeable surprise: Aline called to see us. All that Louis had told us about her prepossessed us in her favor. The sight of her only increased our disposition to love her.

Aline was at the time I am speaking of—and still is—a fine-looking woman, tall, well-formed, and with a pleasing, intelligent face. Her manner is a little cold at first, but her reserve is not unpleasing, for it indicates a thoughtful mind. When she came into the room, my husband and I were reading. She went directly to Victor, and with emotion, but without any embarrassment, said:

“Monsieur, I am late in expressing my gratitude. Pardon this delay. It has not been without good reasons. I was expecting my father every moment, and was greatly preoccupied with all I had to communicate, as well as about the reply he would make.” ...

“Mademoiselle,” replied Victor gently, “there is no need of excusing yourself. I am happy, very happy, to see you, but had no right to expect your visit.”

“No right, monsieur?... What! did you not save my brother’s life?... And was it not you the unhappy fellow had before” ...

“O mademoiselle! do me the favor never to mention that circumstance!”

“You are generous, monsieur! But that is no reason why we should show ourselves ungrateful—rather the contrary. Louis and I can never forget that, before you saved his life, he had injured you to such a degree that he can never be sufficiently repentant. As to my father, I have not dared inform him of these details too painful to be acknowledged. My father, alas! is not religious. Louis’ fault would seem so enormous to him that he would never forgive him.”

“It is, however, of but little account. If harm has resulted from it, Louis was only the involuntary cause. Let us adore the divine decrees, and forgive our poor friend. He had not, after all, any very criminal intentions.”

Aline looked at Victor with a sadness she could not wholly conceal. His wasted features, his eyes hollowed by suffering, his air of languor, nothing escaped her observation.

“I wish I could think so,” murmured she, as if speaking to herself. “Ah! poor Louis, what remorse he must feel!”

This allusion to Victor’s sad condition brought tears to my eyes. Victor suspected my emotion, and at once changed the subject.

“M. Louis has become my friend,” said he to Aline; “therefore pardon my curiosity, mademoiselle, if it is indiscreet. May we hope to see him again soon? Is M. Beauvais greatly offended with him?”

Everything is arranged for the best, though not without difficulty. My father was not originally wealthy. It has only been by dint of order, economy, and industry, that he has attained the position he now occupies. When he learned that Louis had lost, or rather squandered, his maternal inheritance, his anger was fearful. But by degrees I made him comprehend that Louis, though ruined, had shown new resolution—that he was willing to work; he wished to become useful, and regain all he had lost. My father then grew calm. And yet all my fears were not allayed. I had to tell him of Louis’ sad attempt at suicide, of which he was still ignorant, but which he could not fail to learn. I told him of it, dwelling on your devotedness, which struck him most of all.

“Has Louis shown himself duly grateful to M. Barnier for the service?” he asked. I replied that he had.

“So much the better. Such a sentiment does him honor. This circumstance may lead to a friendship between them which cannot be too intimate, in my opinion. And you say our prodigal son is willing to work? What is he going to do?”

“Anything you wish, father.”

“That is easily said, but a poor reply. Nothing is well done that we do not like to do. Has he manifested an inclination for any special occupation?”

“Louis is a civil engineer. He would like to find a place somewhere in that capacity.”

“Ah! he at length remembers he is a civil engineer!... He wishes to turn his acquirements to some account?... It is a wonder! He need not exile himself for that. You know Mr. Smithson?”

“Is not he the cold, ceremonious gentleman who came to see us Sunday?”

“The very one. Mr. Smithson is a wealthy Englishman who has been in France these twenty years. He came on account of his health. He settled at first in Paris, where he married a charming woman—a Catholic of no property, but of a good family. This excellent Mr. Smithson was so foolish as to speculate too much at the Bourse some years since, and his losses were considerable. To withdraw himself from such a temptation, he established his residence at St. M—— six months ago. The situation pleased him, and there was another inducement: a large paper manufactory there was offered for sale. He bought it, hoping not only to find occupation, and feed his incessant activity, but to repair the losses of the last few years. The mill is well situatedand well patronized. Everything would prove advantageous if Mr. Smithson were better versed in the knowledge of machinery. But though an Englishman, he has not been through the studies necessary to enable him to superintend his industrial project as he ought. Besides this, he is subject to frequent attacks of the gout. He has therefore besought me to find him a man capable of superintending the mill under his direction, and even of taking the whole charge if necessary.”

“So much for Louis’ affairs. What do you think of the arrangement? I approved of it without any restriction. And you, monsieur?”

“I think, mademoiselle,” replied Victor, “that Providence continues to treat Louis with parental kindness.”

“Oh! yes; truly parental! He will now remain under your influence. Even in the house he is to enter, everything will encourage him, I hope, to persist in his good resolutions. Mme. Smithson is said to be a woman of lovely character. She has a daughter who must be a prodigy, unless I have been misinformed. My father, who is very practical, and but little given to exaggeration, is enthusiastic in her praise.”

Victor knowingly smiled at this last communication.

“You have divined my thoughts,” said Aline, blushing a little. “Well, yes: this thought at once occurred to my mind. I said to myself, if Louis can find at Mr. Smithson’s not only an occupation that will enable him to forget the past, but an affection that will continue to sustain him in a better course, I shall consider him the most fortunate of men. But it is too soon to speak of that. This dear brother must first return home, and be accepted by Mr. Smithson, to whom my father wrote to-day.”

The next day both these things took place. Louis returned. Mr. Smithson at once accepted him as his assistant. After calling on us with his father, he left for St. M——.

While M. Beauvais was speaking to me, Louis said to Victor, in a low tone:

“Everything is done. The bonds of iniquity are completely broken. I have been to confession and to Holy Communion, and a new life has begun!”

The air of satisfaction with which he uttered these words, the calmness and unaffected gravity he manifested, all announced he had indeed become a new man.

“In a year he will be an eminent Christian!” said Victor, as Louis disappeared.

He was not mistaken.

TO BE CONTINUED.

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