The Project Gutenberg eBook, Popular Tales, by Madame Guizot, Translated by Mrs. L. Burke

POPULAR TALES.

REED AND PARDON, PRINTERS, PATERNOSTER-ROW, LONDON.

Scaramouche, [p. 27].

POPULAR TALES.

MADAME GUIZOT.

TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH.
BY
MRS. L. BURKE.

LONDON:
GEORGE ROUTLEDGE & CO.,
FARRINGDON STREET.
1854.

[PREFACE.]

The favourable reception accorded to our first introduction of Madame Guizot's Tales to the English Public, leads us to hope that our youthful readers will welcome with pleasure another volume from the pen of that talented writer.

This new series will be found in no respect inferior to the former; one of its tales, certainly, has even a deeper interest than anything contained in that volume, while the same sound morality, elevation of sentiment and general refinement of thought, which so strongly recommend the "Moral Tales" to the sympathies of the Parent and Teacher, will be found equally to pervade the present series.

[TABLE OF CONTENTS.]

[Scaramouche.]

It was a village fair, and Punch with his usual retinue—Judy, the Beadle, and the Constable—had established himself on one side of the green; while on the other were to be seen, Martin, the learned ass, and Peerless Jacquot, the wonderful parrot. Matthieu la Bouteille (such was the nickname bestowed upon the owner of the ass, a name justified by the redness of his nose) held Martin by the bridle, while Peerless Jacquot rested on his shoulder, attached by a chain to his belt. His wife, surnamed La Mauricaude, had undertaken to assemble the company, and to display Martin's talents. Thomas, the son of La Mauricaude, a child of eleven years of age, covered with a few rags, which had once been a pair of trowsers and a shirt, collected, in the remnant of a hat, the voluntary contributions of the spectators; while in the background, sad and silent, stood Gervais, a lad of between fourteen and fifteen years of age, Matthew's son by a former marriage.

"Come, ladies and gentlemen," exclaimed La Mauricaude, in her hoarse voice, "come and see Martin; he will tell you, ladies and gentlemen, what you know and what you don't know. Come, ladies and gentlemen, and hear Peerless Jacquot; he will reply to what you say to him, and to what you do not say to him." And this joke, constantly repeated by La Mauricaude in precisely the same tone, always attracted an audience of pretty nearly the same character.

"Now then, Martin," continued La Mauricaude, as soon as the circle was formed, "tell this honourable company what o'clock it is." Martin, whether he did not understand, or did not choose to reply, still remained motionless. La Mauricaude renewed the question: Martin shook his ears. "Do you say, Martin, that you cannot see the clock at this distance?" continued La Mauricaude. "Has any one a watch?" Immediately an enormous watch was produced from the pocket of a farmer, and placed under the eyes of Martin, who appeared to consider it attentively. The whole assembly, like Martin himself, stretched forward with increased attention. It was just noon by the watch; after a few moments' reflection, Martin raised his head and uttered three vigorous hihons, to which the crowd responded by a burst of laughter, which did not in the least appear to disturb Martin. "Oh, oh! Martin," cried La Mauricaude, "I see you are thinking of three o'clock, the time for having your oats; but you must wait, so what say you to a game of cards, in order to pass the time?" And a pack of cards, almost effaced by dirt, was immediately extracted from a linen bag which hung at La Mauricaude's right side, and spread out in the midst of the circle, which drew in closer, in order to enjoy a nearer view of the spectacle about to be afforded by the talents of Martin. "Now then, Martin; now then, my boy," continued his instructress, "draw: draw first of all the knave of hearts, and present it to this honourable company as a sign of your attachment and respect;" and already the two or three wits of the crowd had nodded their heads with an air of approbation at this ingenious compliment, when Martin, after repeated orders, put forth his right foot, and placed it upon the seven of spades.

At this moment the voice of a parrot was heard in the midst of the crowd, distinctly pronouncing the words, "That won't do, my good fellow." It was Peerless Jacquot, who, wearied at not having been called upon to join in the conversation, repeated one of his favourite phrases. The appropriateness of his speech restored the good humour of the company, who were beginning to be disgusted with Martin's stupidity; and their attention would probably have been bestowed upon Jacquot, had not Punch's trumpet been at that moment heard, announcing that the actors were ready and the performances about to commence. At this signal Martin's audience began to disperse; the ranks thinned, and the remnant of the hat, which was seen advancing in the hands of Thomas, effectually drove away those who still lingered from curiosity or indifference. All took the same direction; and Matthew, Thomas, La Mauricaude, Martin, and Jacquot followed, with more or less of ill-humour, the crowd which had deserted them. Gervais alone, separating from them, went into a neighbouring street to offer his services, during the fair time, to a farrier engaged in shoeing the horses of the visitors.

A far different spectacle from any with which Martin could amuse them, awaited the curious on the other side of the green. An enormous mastiff had just been unharnessed from a little cart, upon which he had brought the theatre and company of the Marionettes; and now, lying down in front of the tent and at the feet of his master, he seemed to take under his protection those things which had thus far travelled under his conveyance. Medor's appearance was that of a useful and well-treated servant; his looks towards his master those of a confiding friend. Va-bon-train (this was the name of the owner of the Marionettes) might easily be recognized for an old soldier. The regularity of his movements added greatly to the effect of their vivacity; everything happened in its proper turn, and at its proper time. His utterance was precise without being abrupt, and the tone of military firmness which he associated with the tricks of his trade, gave to them a certain degree of dignity. Words taken from the languages of the different countries through which he had travelled were mingled, with wonderful gravity and readiness, in the dialogue of the personages whom he put in action; and scenes in which he had been personally concerned, either as actor or witness, fired his imagination, and furnished incidents which enabled him to vary his representations to an unlimited extent. He was assisted by his son Michael, a fine lad about the age of Gervais, whom he very much resembled, although the countenance of the one was as serious as that of the other was cheerful and animated.

There was nothing strange in this resemblance, for Matthew and Va-bon-train were brothers, and Michael and Gervais therefore first cousins. Va-bon-train, whose baptismal name was Vincent, owed his nickname less to the regularity of his movements than to the vivacity of his disposition and the promptitude of his determinations. Having at the age of twenty-five lost his wife, to whom he was much attached, and who had died in giving birth to Michael, he could not endure even a temporary grief, and therefore determined, in order to divert his mind, to enter the army, which he did in the quality of substitute, leaving the price of his engagement for the support of his son, whom he confided to the care of Matthew's wife, who had just given birth to Gervais. She nursed both the children, and brought them up with an equal tenderness and in good habits, for she was a worthy woman. They went to the same school, where they learned to read and write, and were instructed in their religion; they began working together in Matthew's shop, at his trade of a blacksmith; and, in fine, they were united by a friendship which was no less ardent on the part of the lively Michael than on that of the graver Gervais. At the age of thirteen, Gervais had the misfortune of losing his mother, and almost at the same time the additional one of being separated from Michael. Vincent Va-bon-train, who had obtained his discharge, had come for his son, whose assistance he required in carrying out his enterprise of the Marionettes, in which he had just engaged. Soon afterwards Matthew's affairs began to fall into confusion. While his wife lived she had kept a check on his love of drink, but no sooner was she dead than he gave himself up to it without restraint. At the tavern he became acquainted with La Mauricaude, a low, bad-principled woman, who had followed all sorts of trades. He was foolish enough to marry her, and they soon squandered the little that remained to him, already much diminished by his disorderly conduct. Then she persuaded him to give up the shop, and travel through the country with his ass and his parrot, assuring him that he would thereby gain a great deal of money. This wandering kind of life accorded better than regular labour with Matthew's newly-acquired habits; and he was the more ready to trust the assurances of his wife, as Va-bon-train had just reappeared in the country in a prosperous condition, the result of the success of his Marionettes. Matthew then formed the idea of entering into partnership with his brother; but the latter was not at all anxious for the connexion, as Matthew's conduct was not calculated to inspire him with any confidence. His second marriage had displeased him, and he disliked La Mauricaude, though he had seen her but casually; but a soldier is not apt to be deterred by trifles, nor to allow his antipathies to interfere with his actions; and besides, Matthew had rendered him a service in bringing up his son Michael. For this he was grateful, and glad, therefore, to have an opportunity of manifesting his gratitude. The caravan consequently set out, Michael delighted at being once more with his beloved Gervais, and Gervais sad at leaving the respectable and regular course of life which suited him, viz. his trade of blacksmith, in which, notwithstanding his father's negligence in instructing him, he had already attained some proficiency. He was in some degree consoled, however, by the prospect of travelling, and travelling with Michael; and he was glad to leave a place where the misconduct of his father had ended in destroying the good reputation which until then his family had always enjoyed.

Unfortunately, the faults which had destroyed Matthew's reputation followed him wherever he went. Before the end of the first week, the two parties had disagreed. The baseness of La Mauricaude, and the wicked propensities of her son Thomas, who was always better pleased with stealing a thing than with receiving it as a gift, were soon discovered to Va-bon-train, in a manner which led him to determine to break his agreement with them as readily as he had made it; and when he said to his brother, "We must separate," just as when he said, "We will go together," the matter was settled, and all opposition was out of the question. Michael no more thought of opposing his father's resolution than any one else, he only threw himself weeping into the arms of Gervais, who pressed his hand sadly, but with resignation, having at least the comfort of thinking that his uncle would no longer be a witness of the disgraceful conduct of his family. La Mauricaude was furious, and declared that she was not to be shaken off in that easy style; and she determined to follow her brother-in-law, in spite of himself, in order to profit by the crowd he always attracted, and to endeavour at the same time to injure him, either by speaking ill of him in every way she could, or by trying to interrupt his performances, by the shrieks of the parrot, which she had taught to repeat insulting phrases, and to imitate the voice of the Marionettes. For two months she persisted in her resolution, notwithstanding the remonstrances of Matthew, whose remonstrances, indeed, were usually of very little avail. At first, Va-bon-train was annoyed with these things; but he soon reconciled himself to them with his usual promptitude. One day, however, he said to his brother, "Listen, Matthew: the roads are free; but let me not hear that you have allowed any one to think that that toad yonder has the insolence to call herself my sister." So saying, he showed La Mauricaude the whip with which he was accustomed to give Medor a slight touch now and then, in order to keep him attentive, and the handle of which had more than once warned Michael of some failure in discipline. From that time, Gervais no longer saluted his uncle, for fear of offending him; and La Mauricaude, notwithstanding her impudence, did not dare to run the risk of braving him openly. Besides, she would have found it no easy task to entice away his audience. Who could enter into competition with "the great, the wonderful, il vero Scaramuccia, Gentlemen, just come direct from Naples,[1] to present to you, lustrissimi, the homage of his colleagues, the Lazzaroni? Baccia vu, your hand, Monsu de Scaramouche." And Scaramouche bowed his head, and raised his hand to his mouth, with a series of movements capable of making you forget the threads by which they were directed. "Look, gentlemen, look at Scaramouche, look at him full in the face; it is indeed Scaramouche; he has not a sou, not a pezzetta, Gentlemen, but how happy he is! See him with his mouth extended from ear to ear; his foot raised, ready to run or jump: but one turn of the hand, one single turn of the wheel of fortune, and behold the metamorphosis! How anxious and grieved he looks! He is now the Signor Scaramuccia, he has become rich, he is counting his money in his hand; he counts, and now he counts more still, and ever with increased vexation. Oh! what has happened to him now? His countenance is changed. Oh! what a piteous face! He weeps; he tears his cap. Povero Scaramuccia! What! presso 'l denaro! Your money has been stolen! Come, come, Scaramouche, fa cuore, take courage. No!... Ammazarti? You want to kill yourself! Very well then, but first of all a little Macaroni. Yes, poor fellow, he will enjoy his Macaroni. See, gentlemen, how piteously he stretches out his hand, how he eats with tears in his eyes; but, pian piano, Scaramuccia, gently, vuoi mangiare tutto? Would you eat the whole? Alas! yes; tutto mangiare, all, per morire! in order that he may die! What, die of indigestion! You are joking, Scaramouche; Macaroni never killed a Lazzarone. Stop, see, he revives again; how he draws up his leg as a mark of pleasure! How he turns his eyes every time he opens his mouth to receive una copiosa pinch di Macaroni! O che gusto! che boccone! How delightful! what a mouthful! Make your minds easy, gentlemen, Scaramouche is alive again." A variety of scenes succeeded, displaying Scaramouche under numerous aspects, each more admirable than the former. The last was that in which the German on duty stopped Scaramouche, with the exclamation Wer da! Scaramouche replied in Italian, vainly endeavouring to make himself understood, and avoiding, by dint of suppleness, the terrible bayonet of the German. Then Punch came up, arguing to as little purpose in French. At length, the Devil carried away the German, and Punch and Scaramouche went to enjoy a bottle together. The beauty of the invention drew forth enthusiastic and universal applause; the politicians of the place exchanged mysterious glances; and when Scaramouche presented to the assembled crowd the little saucer which had been placed in his hands, there was no one who did not hasten to offer his sou, his liard, or his centime, for the pleasure of receiving a bow or a nod from Scaramouche.

The crowd slowly dispersed, conversing on the pleasure they had enjoyed. "His Scaramouche breaks my back," said La Mauricaude, in a tone of ill-temper.

"I have often told you, wife," replied her husband, "that by persisting in following them"....

"I have often told you, husband, that you are a fool," was the reply of La Mauricaude. To Matthew it appeared unanswerable; and Thomas, at a look from his mother, went off to visit Medor, who received him politely, and with an air of old acquaintanceship. Va-bon-train perceived him, cracked his great whip, and Thomas immediately ran away as fast as he could.

Gervais was passing along the green, leading back to its owner a horse, which he had helped to shoe. He did not approach, but Medor perceived him at a distance, got up, wagged his tail, and gave a slight whine, partly from the delight of seeing him, and partly from annoyance at not being able to go with him. Gervais gave him a friendly nod. Michael fondly kissed the great head of Medor, and a smile seemed to brighten the countenance of Gervais, at this expression of Michael's affection. It was only in such ways as this that any interchange of thought was permitted to them.

Though possessed of many good qualities, Va-bon-train had one defect,—that of forming precipitate judgments, and of being unwilling to correct them when formed. He came to a decision at once, in order that a matter might the sooner be settled; and when he had decided, he did not wish to be disturbed in his opinion, as it took up too much time to change his mind. The violence done to his feelings in enduring La Mauricaude for a whole week had so much increased his prejudice, that it had extended to the whole family. La Mauricaude was a demon, Matthew a fool, Thomas a rascal, and Gervais a simpleton. These four judgments once pronounced, were not to be over-ruled. Va-bon-train was very fond of his son, whose disposition quite accorded with his own; but he kept him, in military style, under a strict and prompt obedience, aware that the kind of life he made him follow, might, without the greatest care, lead a young man into habits of irregularity and idleness. Fortunately Michael was possessed of good dispositions, had been well brought up, and preferred to all other company the society of his father, who amused him with his numerous anecdotes. Besides, he made it a matter of pride to assist his father as much as possible, and was never so delighted as when his exertions had contributed to the success of the day. Va-bon-train's industry was not confined to his Marionettes; he took advantage of his constant journeys to carry on a small traffic, purchasing in one canton such goods as happened to be cheap there, and selling them in some other, where they were of greater value. He taught Michael how to buy and sell, and make advantageous speculations; and Michael would have been perfectly happy in following this kind of busy, useful life, had it not been for the grief he felt in being unable to share his pleasures with Gervais. But when, after having slept at the best inn which the town or village in which they happened to be, afforded, he saw Gervais in the morning, pale, from having passed a cold or rainy night with no other shelter than an old barn, his heart was pierced; and, notwithstanding his father's commands, he found means to get away, and, with a flask in his hand, hastened to offer a glass of wine to his friend, who refused it with a shake of the head, but with a friendly look. Michael sighed; yet this refusal only served to increase his affection for Gervais; for he well knew that his offer was refused from honourable feelings, not from pride or rancour. Nor was his mind relieved, except when Gervais succeeded in finding work; for then he knew that he would have a good day. When at work, the habitually sad expression of Gervais' countenance, gave place to an air of animation quite pleasant to behold; and even Va-bon-train himself had been unable to resist the temptation of stopping to look at him; and, observing the dexterity and courage with which he managed the horses, he remarked, "By my faith, that fellow works well." Then Michael hastened to reply, "Oh! Gervais is a capital workman;" and he was beginning to add, "and such a good boy too," when Va-bon-train passed on and spoke of other things. Michael then contented himself with remaining a little behind, watching Gervais at work; and when they had exchanged looks, they separated satisfied.

Up to that time Gervais had been unsuccessful in his efforts to find a master who would take him into regular employment. There was no one to be answerable for him; and those with whom he travelled were not of a character to give him a recommendation. However, he made the best he could of his wandering life, by endeavouring to perfect himself in his trade, losing no opportunity of gaining information, and examining with care the treatment employed in the various maladies of animals, and all the other operations of the veterinary art. He also managed to live on his daily earnings, which he economized with the greatest care, and thereby escaped the necessity of partaking of the ill-gotten repasts of La Mauricaude and her son. Sometimes even he shared his own food with his father, whose wretched life was spent in a state of alternate intoxication and want, giving himself up to drink the moment he had money, and the next day going without bread. As it suited La Mauricaude to have some one who could take care of the ass and the parrot, while she and her son attended to their own affairs, they were induced to treat Matthew with some degree of consideration, at least so far as to allow him a share in their profits, of which, however, they were careful to conceal from him the source, for Matthew, even in his degraded condition, preserved an instinct of honesty, which sometimes caused him to say with a significant air, but only when he was intoxicated, "As for me, I am an honest man;" for when sober, he had not so much wit. La Mauricaude had several times endeavoured to get from Gervais the money he earned, but her demands were always firmly resisted, and Gervais afterwards took especial care not to leave his money within reach of her or her son. She had likewise tried to breed dissensions between him and his father; but Matthew respected his son, and La Mauricaude found that it was not to her interest to excite too much the attention of Gervais, for his surveillance would have been very inconvenient to her. She therefore ended by leaving him in tolerable peace, one reason of which may have been that she saw little of him, as he usually left the party as soon as it was day, and did not return until bed-time, when he rarely slept under a roof, unless it was that of some deserted shed.

The performances of the morning were over, and Va-bon-train stood chatting at the door of the inn where he had dined with an old friend, a blacksmith from Lyons. They were then about twenty-five leagues distant from that town, on the road to Tournon, whither the blacksmith was going on some private business. Blanchet, such was this person's name, was clever at his trade, and well to do in the world. The blacksmith of the village in which they were then staying was a former apprentice and workman of his, and he had stopped to visit him as he passed through, and was now on the point of resuming his journey. The forge was at a short distance from the inn; and Gervais, who had just left it, as it was getting dark, came up to the spot where Va-bon-train and Blanchet were conversing. The street was narrow, and, moreover, partially blocked up by a horse that was tied in front of the inn. Va-bon-train chancing to turn his head in the direction by which Gervais was approaching, perceived him coming, and drew back to allow him to pass. Gervais blushed and hesitated; he had not been so close to his uncle for two months. At length he passed on, and, without raising his eyes, bowed to him as he would have done to a stranger, but with an expression of the most profound respect. Michael's eyes were suffused with tears, and for a moment those of Va-bon-train followed his nephew, who, turning round and encountering his uncle's looks, hastily withdrew his own and continued his way.

"Do you know that lad?" demanded Blanchet.

—"Why?"

"Because yonder at the forge, a short time since, they were talking about you."

—"And what did he say?" continued Va-bon-train, with an expression of rising displeasure.

—"He? Nothing:—but one of the men was relating something, I don't know what, about a woman with whom he had been drinking yesterday, some two leagues hence, and who told him that you had abandoned your brother in misfortune. This lad immediately tapped him on the shoulder, saying, 'Comrade, that is no business of yours. It is always best not to interfere in family quarrels.' The man was silenced; and I, learning from what passed, that you were here, for I had not then been out upon the green, I wished to add my word, so I said, that if you did leave your brother in misfortune, it must be because he deserved it, for I well knew the kindness of your heart; whereupon, the young fellow gave me also my answer, though politely enough however, for he said, 'Notwithstanding all that, Master Blanchet, it is much better not to interfere in family affairs;' and the lad was right as to that; but from all this I thought he must know you, more especially when, a short time since, while passing the inn-yard, I saw him enter it, and draw some water for your dog to drink."

Va-bon-train was visibly moved. Michael, whose heart beat violently, looked at his father.

"He was at work, then, at the blacksmith's?" demanded the latter with some degree of emotion.

"Yes; and hard at it too, I can tell you. It is vexatious that you do not know him. He was anxious to be taken as a regular hand there; but when asked who would be answerable for him, he replied, 'No one.' Had it not been for this, I would have engaged him myself, for I am sure he will turn out a capital workman."

"You think so?"

"Oh! you should see how he sets to work; he would learn more about his business with me in six months, than with any one else in three years. But one cannot take him without a recommendation. I heard him say to one of his companions, that this was the third situation he had lost in this manner, nor will he ever get one."

"Oh dear!" exclaimed Michael, who could no longer restrain his feelings.

"Well!" said Va-bon-train. "My friend Blanchet will take him on my recommendation. Take him, friend; I know him, and will be answerable for him."

"Nonsense! what are you talking about?"

"Nothing; only that I shall see you at Lyons, whither you are returning:—but when?"

"I shall be there on Monday week."

"And so shall I; and I will come and dine with you: we will arrange this matter over our glasses. But, at all events, you will take the lad if I am answerable for him; do not make me break my word."

"No, no; the thing is settled; good bye till Monday week;" and they parted.

"But Gervais must be told," said Michael, trembling with joy.

"Go, then, and make haste back; tell him to be at Lyons by Monday week, if possible; but, above all, he must take care that the old toad knows nothing about it." This was his usual epithet for La Mauricaude. Michael departed, and Va-bon-train went to a neighbouring tavern, into which he had seen Matthew and his company enter. The price of a pair of stockings worth fifty sous, which had been stolen from a shop at the fair, and sold a quarter-of-an-hour afterwards for twenty, served to defray the expenses of the party; and Matthew, owing to the cheapness of the wine that season, was just on the verge of intoxication, when Va-bon-train, coming up, said to him, "Matthew, there is but one word between you and me: when I go one way, you must take care and go the other; if you don't, your old toad and her young one will every morning get for their breakfast a sound dressing from this whip."

"As for me, Vincent, I am an honest man," stammered Matthew. La Mauricaude was about to vociferate; and the host took part with his customer.

"Friend," said Va-bon-train, "when you settle your account with that hussey, I will not interfere; but look well to the money she gives you:" and he walked out. As soon as he was gone, La Mauricaude poured forth a torrent of abuse. Those of her neighbours whose hearts began to be warmed and their wits clouded by the wine they had taken, agreed unanimously, that to come and insult in that manner respectable people, who were quietly taking their glass, without interfering with any one, was a thing not to be borne: and Matthew again repeated, "As for me, I am an honest man." The rest, as they looked at La Mauricaude and her son, made some reflections on Va-bon-train's speech, and the host thought it high time to demand payment. This completed the ill-humour of La Mauricaude.

As for Michael, he had hastened to Gervais, and delivered his message. A sudden flush of surprise and joy suffused the countenance of the latter, on learning that his uncle would be answerable for him; and when the voice of Va-bon-train was heard calling his son, the two friends pressed each other's hands, and parted, each cherishing the thought of the happiness which was about to dawn for both of them.

All was quiet at the inn where Va-bon-train had taken up his abode for the night, when, awaking from his first sleep, he thought he heard Medor in the yard, groaning, and very uneasy. He went down stairs, and was surprised to find him tied by a cord to a tree that was near the cart, and so short that he could scarcely move. As he was accustomed to allow Medor his liberty at night, feeling quite sure that he would make use of it only to defend more effectually his master's property, he concluded that some one had thought to render him a service, by tying up the dog for fear of his escaping; for in the darkness he had not perceived that the other end of the cord which attached Medor to the tree, had been passed round his nose, so as to form a kind of muzzle. Eager to liberate the poor animal, he cut the cord, which was fastened round his neck by a slip knot, and which, but for the intervention of his collar, must have strangled him. The cord once cut, the knot gave way, and, by the aid of his fore paws, Medor was soon freed from his ignoble fetters. No sooner had he regained his liberty, than he began to scent with avidity all round the yard, moaning the whole time; then he dashed against the stable door as if he would break it in. His master, astonished, opened it for him, supposing, from what he knew of his instinct, that some suspicious person might be concealed there; but Medor was contented with running across the stable, still scenting, to the opposite door, which led into the street, and which, by the means of this stable, formed one of the entrances to the inn. His master called him, he came back with reluctance, and, still moaning, laid down at his feet, as if to solicit a favour; then he ran to the vehicle, again returned, and rushed with greater violence against the first door, which his master had in the mean time closed. Astonished at these manœuvres, Va-bon-train went to his cart; but everything was in order, the trunk locked, and nothing apparently to justify the dog's agitation. Then, presuming that Medor, notwithstanding his good sense, was, like all dogs and all children, impatient to set out on his journey, and had been seized with this fancy rather earlier than usual, he gave him a cut with his whip, sent him back to the cart, and returned to bed.

The next morning, when he went down, he called Medor, but no Medor answered. He sought for him everywhere, but without success; he then recollected what had taken place during the night, and feared that some one had stolen him.

"Was he there," demanded one of the travellers, "when you went down in the night to take something from your cart?" Va-bon-train declared that he had taken nothing from his cart.

"The heat was insufferable," continued the man, "and we had the window open. One of the workmen from the forge, who slept in my room, said: 'See, there is some one meddling with the box belonging to the exhibitor of the Marionettes.' 'His dog does not growl,' said I, 'so it must be the man himself. Never mind, friend; let us sleep.'"

Va-bon-train hastened to his box, which was still locked; he opened it, and found everything in disorder: Scaramouche had disappeared, as well as a dozen of Madras handkerchiefs, the remains of a lot purchased at the fair of Beaucaire, and the greater part of which had been sold on his journey. Who could have done this? Va-bon-train remembered having found a key upon the road, a few days after he had associated himself with Matthew, and which fitted his trunk. He lost it again the next day, but had not troubled himself about it. Now he guessed into whose hands it had fallen, and felt assured that Medor would not have allowed himself to be approached and led away by any one but an acquaintance.

"That boy who was at work close by, at the blacksmith's," said the landlord of the inn, "did he not come in here, and give the dog some drink?"

"He who came with the woman and the ass?" said the hostess. "He seemed to be a respectable lad."

"You may think so," replied a neighbour; "but when I saw him enter the stable yonder, after dark, I said to Cateau, What is that little vagabond going to do there?"

"Gervais!" exclaimed Michael.

"Yes," said the landlord, "he was called Gervais at the blacksmith's." The flush of anger mounted to the face of Va-bon-train. The idea of having been duped was added to the annoyance of his loss, and he swore that he would never again be caught overcoming a prejudice. A less hasty disposition would have examined whether the innkeeper and the neighbour were not speaking of different persons, and whether suspicion ought not more naturally to fall upon Thomas and La Mauricaude. But the woman whose explanations would have thrown light upon the subject had gone home, and among those who remained there was no one who had seen them, or, at all events, who would acknowledge to have done so; for where there is not some falsehood to complicate matters, it is rare that truth does not break out, so great is its tendency to manifest itself.

La Mauricaude, who was never so persuasive as when she had been drinking, had formed acquaintance with one of the ostlers of the inn, who, on his side, was easily led by persuasion, when in the same condition. She had obtained from him a gratuitous place in the stable for Martin, and, though against his master's express orders, a corner also for Thomas. Hence, furnished with some of the remains of the travellers' supper, which he had obtained from his protector, it was an easy matter for Thomas to enter the yard, and entrap the too confiding Medor, who had no suspicion of treachery from the hand of an acquaintance. At the moment when Medor, without abandoning his post, raised his head to smell what was presented to him, Thomas passed the muzzle on his nose, and the slip knot round his neck, and the poor animal found himself tied up to a tree, without having been able to make the least resistance; for, could he have made any, he would easily have triumphed over his adversary. Thus master of the field, Thomas had no difficulty in prosecuting his designs, by means of the key which, at all risks, he had possessed himself of at the first opportunity that offered. Martin, taken from the stable before daybreak, carried off the stolen goods, and scarcely had the morning begun to dawn, when Matthew, roused from the heavy sleep of intoxication, and, almost unconscious of what he was doing, left the arch of the bridge, beneath which he had slept, in the bed of a dried-up stream.

Gervais had obtained, from the blacksmith by whom he had been employed, the permission to pass the night in his woodhouse, upon a heap of vine twigs. Awakening from a sleep which, for the first time for two months, had revived hope in his bosom, he arose with a light heart, full of eagerness to commence his journey towards his new destination. The evening before, he had told his father that he was going to leave him, for the purpose of seeking employment; and Matthew, whose paternal affections were greatly strengthened after the second bottle, gave him his benediction, with tears in his eyes, saying, "Go, my son, and gain an honest living; and wherever you go, you may declare that I am an honest man." As for La Mauricaude, she troubled herself very little about him, neither did he wish her to do so. His serious and reserved disposition had prevented anything like friendly feeling between them.

He walked with a light heart towards Lyons, calculating that in order to get there, he would require on his journey some little work and a great deal of frugality; for even by sleeping in sheds, beneath bridges, or under trees, it was impossible that his twenty-one sous, the proceeds of his work the day before, and of his previous economy, should be sufficient for the maintenance of a lad of fifteen, during the ten days that must yet elapse, before the arrival of that happy Monday, which was to bring him the protection of his uncle and of Master Blanchet. But how should he be uneasy about the means of reaching his destination? He was already there in imagination. He was about to live with those who, every day and every hour, would recognize his probity. He was going to have an opportunity of proving his right to be esteemed, a necessity keenly felt by those who, like him, have known humiliation without deserving it, and without allowing themselves to be depressed by its influence. And then, how many delights were in store for him! That pair of shoes which he carried so carefully fastened to the end of his stick, whenever he had far to walk, he might soon be able to wear continually, for he foresaw the time when he should be in a condition to buy others. Nevertheless, he must endeavour to make them last until he had purchased a second shirt, so as to avoid the necessity of going without one occasionally, as was the case, when of an evening, taking advantage of some secluded nook, he took off the only one he had, washed it in the stream and dried it on the grass of the bank. The idea of possessing a pair of stockings to dance in on holidays presented itself to his imagination in the distant future, around which crowded in perspective the inexhaustible joys of life. Then came the thoughts of a more solid happiness, and all the ambitions of an honourable man. He was able to set up for himself; to work on his own account; to withdraw his father from the wretched life his wicked companion forced him to lead, and secure to him a tranquil old age, due to his son who loved him notwithstanding his irregularities. Then, his thoughts rushing over intervening years, Gervais would quicken his steps as if to reach the future, and his imagination warmed, as the sun rose, and shed its brilliant beams over the horizon.

Whilst abandoning himself to these reveries, he felt something cool and moist pressing against his hand. It was the nose of Medor; who, after licking his hand, looked at him and wagged his tail, but with an expression which seemed to ask a question; and having smelt him from head to foot, he went on, his nose in the air, and smelling constantly with the same anxiety. Gervais called him back; Medor stopped, looked at him with an uneasy expression, and continued his journey in the same manner. It was quite evident that he was in search of something; but being ignorant of what had taken place during the night, Gervais was at a loss to conjecture what it could be. It struck him, that, separated perhaps by some accident, Medor and his master might now be in search of each other, and with this idea, he could not suppose that Va-bon-train was still at the inn, whither Medor would undoubtedly have returned; it seemed to him, therefore, the best plan, to allow the animal to obey his instinct, contenting himself with following him so as to prevent his going astray, and preserve him from the danger of being taken or killed as a dog without an owner. He rejoiced in the opportunity thus afforded him of rendering his uncle a service; and, imagining that Medor had had nothing to eat, he gave him a part of the bread he had bought for his day's provision, and which the poor thing devoured with as much appetite as his agitation would permit. They then continued their journey together, Medor being always in advance, except when, from time to time, some new fancy seemed to seize him. Then he would turn as if to retrace his steps, again stop and moan: alternately swayed by the instinct and affection which drew him towards his master, and that which hurried him on to the recovery of what had been confided to his care. Gervais would then call him, and, decided by the voice of his friend, Medor would return and continue his pursuit.

They journeyed thus for about two hours, when all at once, at a part where the road, somewhat hollow, wound in such a manner as to prevent a distant view, Medor, rushing forward, dashed round the corner with such rapidity that Gervais could not doubt that he had found his master. Then redoubling his speed, he also advanced trembling between hope and fear, and was most disagreeably surprised, when, at the turn of the road, he perceived his father, La Mauricaude, the ass, and Thomas, in the greatest embarrassment, contending with Medor, who, without any provocation, and with all the consideration due to old acquaintanceship, had seized upon Thomas in such a manner, that the boy found it impossible to disengage himself from the animal's enormous claws, which, fixed upon the lad's shoulders, served as a support to Medor, who, by smelling about in all directions, at last discovered an old cloth bag lined with leather, which was placed upon the back of the ass, and the cords of which, unhappily for Thomas, had been wound round his arm. Medor's teeth laboured both at the cords and at the bag, which he endeavoured to open, almost upsetting Thomas at every effort; the latter, in despair, and screaming with terror, clung with all his strength to Martin's pack-saddle. "What is the matter with the dog?" quietly asked Matthew, who had been a calm spectator of a scene, which to him had the advantage of rousing him from his apathy. But La Mauricaude, at once furious and frightened, gave the animal some violent blows with a stick. Medor, however, did not seem conscious of them. At length, seizing a large stone, she threw it at him; it struck him on the hind leg, and he fell howling, dragging down Thomas in his fall; the ass also was shaken, and even Matthew was astonished. Gervais only arrived in time to address a word of reproach to La Mauricaude, who was busied in raising her son: he then ran after Medor, who had fled, howling, and limping on three legs. He succeeded in catching him, and found that one of his hind legs was broken. Submissive like a suffering animal to the friend who seeks to relieve him, Medor lay down close to him, and allowed him to examine his leg. Fortunately, Gervais was able to repair the mischief. Naturally kind hearted, it was to that branch of his business which treats of the cure of animals, that he had directed his attention with the greatest interest, and he had already been successful in a case somewhat similar. Matthew, who, when left to his own free will, was always inclined to sympathise with his son, and who, moreover, was delighted at having an opportunity of returning for a moment to his former occupations, willingly assisted his pupil, now become more skilful than himself. The instruments of his art, treasures which Gervais carefully preserved, together with some medicines which he had renewed, or added to, as opportunity permitted, were found sufficient for the emergency. By the united efforts of the two operators, whom La Mauricaude also consented to aid, for reasons which may perhaps be guessed, the leg was well set; and a piece of the last handkerchief that Gervais possessed, and the enormous rents of which he had often contemplated with a sigh, served as a bandage to confine the dressing; and Medor, led by Gervais, was enabled to continue his journey without much pain.

Somewhat cast down by his accident, however, poor Medor was no longer able to pursue his search with the same vigour; and besides, during the operation, Thomas, instructed by his mother, had transferred Scaramouche, together with the Madras handkerchiefs, into one of Martin's panniers, where, covered over with straw, they were less exposed to the keen scent of the animal. Nevertheless, some secret charm always attracted him to the side on which they were, and Gervais was astonished at the difficulty which he found in restraining him. Wishing to divert him from this fancy, and determined to go direct to Lyons, as the surest place of meeting with his uncle, Gervais seized the first opportunity offered by their stopping at a tavern, to separate himself from the troop, with which he had so unluckily come up. But he was not a little annoyed at perceiving, after a few moments, that he was followed in the distance by Thomas, who seemed commissioned to act as a spy upon his movements, while the rest of the caravan appeared soon afterwards. The fertile genius of La Mauricaude had immediately suggested to her the advantage to be derived from the possession of Medor, a magnificent dog in excellent condition, who might be sold at a very high price. The difficulty was to divert the vigilance of Gervais, whom at the same time it was necessary to keep in view, until she had accomplished her design. The following days, therefore, were passed in a perpetual struggle, Gervais endeavouring to recover his liberty, and La Mauricaude seeking to prevent his escape from their odious company. She was singularly seconded by Medor, whose instinct she aroused by taking advantage of every opportunity that offered to approach him unobserved, and permit him to get a distant scent of Scaramouche, the companion of all his travels, the one of all his master's mimic company with whom he had lived on the most familiar terms, when Va-bon-train and his son, in their leisure moments, had endeavoured to invent for him new attitudes, and to rehearse new performances. Then all Medor's affection would revive, he would rush with a plaintive cry upon the cords which restrained him; but before this movement could warn Gervais of what was passing, La Mauricaude had said to Thomas, "Hide Scaramouche," and Thomas, obedient to his instructions, had concealed the precious talisman. Matthew, who was sometimes a witness of these proceedings, demanded the meaning of them; but they deceived him with a feigned tale, told him to be silent, and he was so. But in his evening enjoyments at the tavern, purchased during these days, by the successive sale of the Madras handkerchiefs, he nightly repeated, with a degree of feeling amounting even to tears, "As for me, I have nothing to do with all this; for, at all events, it is certain that I am an honest man."

To the many annoyances which, at this time, fell to the lot of poor Gervais, was added the far greater one of being unsuccessful in his attempts to obtain work. In vain had he gone to the right and to the left, wherever he had been led to hope that it might be procured. Everywhere his hopes were frustrated, and, at the same time, the expense of keeping Medor had rapidly accelerated the consumption of his little store, although the condition of the poor dog sufficiently attested the frugality of his repasts. It grieved Gervais to the heart to see his downcast look, and a certain expression of sadness, which seemed to ask for what it was out of the power of his protector to bestow; for he had given him all he could give, scarcely reserving anything for his own support.

In consequence of his many deviations from the high road in these fruitless endeavours to obtain work, and to escape the inevitable Mauricaude; they at last reached Saturday, the 21st of August, and were still eleven leagues from Lyons. It was six o'clock in the evening, and neither Gervais nor Medor had eaten anything since the previous night. Exhausted by this fast, as well as by the low diet of the few preceding days, they walked with difficulty: and yet they had still a league to go before they could arrive at the village of Auberive, where Gervais had determined to stop, and where, as a last resource, he intended to sell his shoes, in order to have the means of reaching Lyons on the following Monday, the term alike of his hopes and resources. For some moments he had watched Medor with great anxiety, for he saw that he was panting more than usual. The day had been excessively oppressive; and the idea that the want of food, added to the heat and fatigue, exposed the dog to the danger of madness, presented itself to his imagination, and filled him with terror. While seated for a moment's rest, a peasant boy, of about his own age, happened to pass by, eating, with a good appetite, a piece of bread. This sight roused the desires of the half-famished Gervais, and Medor raised his now animated eye, and wanted to run to the boy, to ask him for a portion of his meal. Unable to resist the temptation he felt, and, above all, the appeal of the companion of his journey, Gervais asked the lad if he would buy his shoes, promising that he would sell them cheap.

"How much?" demanded the boy.

"If you have some bread, I will take that, and ten sous besides."

"I have only six sous," replied the rustic, roughly; "and, besides, I don't want your shoes."

"If you have any bread, comrade," continued Gervais, who could not resist the hope with which he had just flattered himself, "give it to me with the six sous, and the shoes shall be yours."

"As for the bread, there is no difficulty about that," replied the boy; and he took from his bag a piece, weighing about a pound, too eager to conclude so good a bargain to perceive that he might have made it still better. Three two-sous pieces terminated the affair, and two-thirds of the pound of bread were at once set apart as the portion of Medor, whom Gervais saw, with a melancholy pleasure, devour in a moment, a piece to which he had nothing to add. Medor's repast, in fact, was ended, before Gervais had got half through his; and, with a longing eye, the poor dog watched the piece which the latter held in his hand, gently whined, and scratched his knee with his great paw, in order to obtain the little that remained. "You are very hungry, then, my poor Medor," said Gervais: "well then, this also shall be yours." He gave him the whole; and the sacrifice was sufficiently great, at that moment, to make him think he had acquired a right to the affection of his uncle. He then rose to continue his journey, hoping to be able to reach Auberive; but, whether from want of food, or because the heat of the day had exhausted him, after proceeding a few steps, he was obliged to lean for support against a tree, and, at last, sank to the ground, almost senseless. Induced either by curiosity or remorse, the young peasant who had bought the shoes occasionally looked back towards him. He saw him fall, and returned, but could give no assistance. He spoke to him, but Gervais was scarcely able to answer. Medor watched his friend with an uneasy look; and the peasant, who perhaps might have been little sensible to other evils, was moved by the sight of a misery which he could understand, and felt some comfort at the thought that, at all events, Gervais had not been rendered worse by having sold his shoes for a quarter of their value.

Providence at that moment directed to the spot another traveller, who came on at a vigorous pace, his coat neatly folded in a handkerchief, and suspended from a stick which he carried on his shoulder. It was Master Blanchet. He approached Gervais, but did not at first recognise him. "Has that boy fainted from hunger?" said he to the young peasant. "I think he has," replied the lad, "for he had but one bit of bread, and he gave almost all of it to his dog." Meanwhile, Master Blanchet drew from his bundle a small flask of brandy, with which he always took care to be provided when on a journey, and made Gervais swallow a few drops of it, while the addition of a piece of bread and a slice of sausage completed his recovery. "A little patience," said Gervais to Medor, who wanted to share this repast also. "Poor Medor," he continued, caressing him, "all our troubles are over now," for he had recognised Master Blanchet, but did not as yet dare to express his joy except in this indirect manner. Struck by the name of Medor, and by the voice of Gervais, which was beginning to assume its natural tone, Blanchet recognized him, was greatly astonished, and put to him many questions; while the peasant lad, who thought he saw Gervais glance towards the shoes, which perhaps at that moment he regretted having parted with so easily, blushed, and walked away, persuaded that his further stay was no longer necessary to any one, and might be disadvantageous to himself.

Gervais' tale was simple enough; he had nothing but the truth to tell; the only difficulty was to explain the nature of his connexion with Va-bon-train. Seeing that the latter had not acknowledged him as his nephew, he felt that in their respective positions it was not for him to be the first to break the silence. Thus, when Blanchet asked him how he had become known to his friend, Gervais replied, "He will tell you that himself; it is not my business to speak of his affairs." Blanchet questioned him on all sides, but without being able to elicit any further information; nevertheless, his replies displayed so much integrity, together with so much good sense and caution, that he began to feel a great respect for him; a feeling which was much increased after he had examined Medor's paw, which was then in progress of cure, and which he found perfectly well set. He could not doubt, therefore, of the talents of Gervais in the different branches of his art. He took him with him to Auberive, where he intended to pass the night, so as to reach Lyons without fatigue on the next day but one. Plenty of onion soup, and a good omelette, procured for Gervais the best meal which had touched his lips for many a day. Medor was also able to make up for his previous fast; and, to complete the happiness of Gervais, he found, at the inn where they stopped, the lad to whom he had sold his shoes. Master Blanchet commented so loudly on the disgrace of such a bargain in such circumstances, and his remarks were so fully approved of by all who heard them, that, whether from fear, or shame, or conscience, the lad consented to return the shoes at the price which he had given for them, and even made it a point of honour to refuse the value of the pound of bread, a sacrifice which procured for him from Blanchet a good draught of wine and a slice of sausage. Thus everything fell into order, and Gervais a second time thought himself at the summit of his hopes; but another day, and another trial, were still to be encountered.

The little room in which Master Blanchet and Gervais slept could not, manage as they would, accommodate a third guest, of the size of Medor. He was, therefore, lodged in the stable; and Gervais, confiding in his new-born happiness, the first earnest of which he had just received, resigned himself to sleep without any anxiety for the safety of his protegé; the more so as, since the morning, he had seen nothing of the odious Mauricaude, and therefore believed himself freed from her at last. Nevertheless, on the following morning Medor had again disappeared; whether in consequence of some new stratagem on the part of La Mauricaude, or from the instinct which urged him to the pursuit of Scaramouche, or the desire to return to his master, could never be ascertained. But certain it is, however, that by this new imprudence he fell into the snare which had long been laid for him; and the first information which the inquiries of Gervais elicited made it certain, that it was only by following the traces of La Mauricaude that he could hope to recover those of Medor. A double affection made success a necessity for him. He therefore requested the permission of Master Blanchet, under whose authority he already considered himself, to go in search of the fugitive; and Blanchet appointed, as their place of meeting in the evening, the village of Saint Syphorien, or, as it is sometimes called, Symphorien, situated about four leagues from Lyons, where he intended to pass the night.

Gervais spent a part of the day in a fruitless search in the neighbourhood. At length some indications led him to the town of Vienne; there he lost them; but, on describing the retinue of La Mauricaude, he was informed, that in all probability she was gone to Saint Syphorien, as it happened to be its fête day. He made all possible haste to reach the place, and arrived there about seven o'clock in the evening. The first object which struck him as he entered the village was La Mauricaude, in conversation with a man to whom she seemed on the point of delivering over Medor, who, sorrowfully resigned to his new condition, appeared cast down by the vicissitudes of his fate. At the sight of Gervais, however, his animation returned, and he started as if to rush towards him.

"That is my dog," exclaimed Gervais, who at the moment thought only of his claims to Medor; and the dog, by the expression of his joy, seemed anxious to confirm his words.

"'Tis false, you thief," replied La Mauricaude, with her customary amenity. "Medor!" she added; and, thus addressed, the dog turned his head, as if to prove that he recognized his name, as well as the voice by which it was pronounced. "You see very well that he knows me," she continued, with a volley of abuse and oaths, which we need not repeat.

"Nevertheless, the dog does not belong to you," said Gervais.

"Nor to you either, liar," &c. &c.

The dispute had been carried on in so vehement a tone, that it was impossible for Gervais to expose the truth of the matter. A third interest, that of the purchaser of the dog, already compromised by a considerable sum paid in advance, was here introduced, as a further complication of the affair, when an exclamation from a terrible voice announced the approach of Va-bon-train, who, having reached Saint Syphorien, and learning the cause of the quarrel, came forward to cut short all disputes. He made his way through the crowd, and had already his left hand on Medor, while his whip, raised in the other, menaced Gervais, who, drawing back with indignation, though still with respect, endeavoured to avoid the necessity of defending himself otherwise than by words. Nevertheless, had it not been for Medor's transports of joy, which somewhat embarrassed his master's movements, Va-bon-train would have been already upon him, and Gervais must have submitted to the cruel alternative of either failing in respect to his uncle, or of enduring an ignominious treatment, the bare idea of which was insupportable to him.

"He is a thief," exclaimed the perfidious Mauricaude, taking advantage of this opportunity to turn upon another the accusation which she herself merited. "He said the dog was his!" and several voices simultaneously repeated, "Yes, he did say so."

"You have been seen all along the road," continued Va-bon-train, "dragging him after you in spite of his resistance;" and a voice repeated, "I saw him." It was in vain that Gervais endeavoured to make himself heard,—the public opinion was against him. Assailed by a crowd of painful emotions, and distressed above all by the treatment he received from him whose gratitude he so much merited, he felt his courage forsake him, and could no longer restrain his tears, tears which only seemed to be an additional evidence against him. Several persons interposed between him and his uncle, but he himself no longer thought of safety; and whilst the efforts of Va-bon-train were redoubled, in order to get near him, notwithstanding the endeavours of the crowd to prevent it, Gervais was exhausting his, in demanding as a suppliant the justice due to his innocence. Michael, whom his father had pushed away from him, not knowing what to think of his friend, but deeply distressed at the sight of the misfortunes which overwhelmed him, and the danger which still threatened him, seemed to appeal to all around to intercede for a reconciliation which every moment appeared to render impossible. However, Heaven again came to the assistance of Gervais, by directing Master Blanchet to the spot. Attracted by the noise, he came out from the house of a friend with whom he had supped; and Michael, perceiving him, ran to meet him. The name of Medor, mingled in the almost unintelligible explanations given by the agitated Michael, led Blanchet to suppose that his young friend Gervais might have something to do in the matter; he therefore hastened his steps, and arrived at the very moment when, by an increased exertion of strength and anger, Va-bon-train, forcing his way through the crowd, was about to rush upon Gervais. Blanchet seized him by the shoulders, and pushed him backwards, saying, "Stop! stop! there's time enough for anger, but not always for explanation."

Less disposed than ever to profit by this good advice, Va-bon-train was, in all probability, upon the point of turning his rage against him who offered it, when a new incident arose to change once more the face of the affair. Matthew approached the scene of action, and Martin and Jacquot, under his guidance, were added to the spectators. Jacquot had not been deaf to certain words, which for several days past had struck his attentive ears. Encouraged probably by the noise, he began to repeat, though in a timid and uncertain tone, and as if he were saying a lesson, which he was not quite sure of knowing,—"Thomas, hide Scaramouche!"

—"Scaramouche!" repeated Michael, who had heard him; and now Jacquot, more sure of what he was about, went on, and constantly raising his voice in proportion as the noise around him increased, and excited him, his words at length reached the ears of Va-bon-train, who turned round; while Medor, taking advantage of his first moment of liberty, rushed upon Martin, and this time rummaging, without obstacle, in the bottom of the pannier, dragged out the unfortunate Scaramouche, who, all crippled and disordered as he was, still retained sufficient life to express by his attitudes the distress of his condition. Medor advanced and placed him triumphantly in the hands of his master; who, in his surprise and joy, knew not to which of his two friends to offer his first caresses. But Medor had not finished his task; and returning to the pannier, notwithstanding the efforts of La Mauricaude, who hastened to the defence of her booty, he drew from it the last of the Madras handkerchiefs, which she had preserved for her own use.

"Infamous old toad!" exclaimed Va-bon-train, "'tis you, then, who have robbed me." And immediately turning towards Gervais, whom the presence of Blanchet had encouraged to approach, "Why were you with her?" he demanded, in a tone which already indicated his desire of finding him less in fault.

—"I was not with her," said Gervais. "They were not together," repeated several of the voices which had at first borne testimony against him.

"And why did you take away my dog?" again demanded Va-bon-train.

—"In order to bring him back to you, and to prevent him from following her." Then the accusations began to turn upon La Mauricaude. One recognized her as having given him on the previous evening a bad ten-sous piece; another had seen Thomas skulking about his house, and an hour after, found that a fowl had been stolen. La Mauricaude began to vociferate, and then to cry as she saw the storm increase, and direct itself against her; meanwhile Gervais drew near his father, who, already more than half intoxicated, and hardly able to understand what he heard, contented himself, without taking any part in the matter, by affirming, that, "as for him, he was an honest man."

"Get out of my way, you fool!" said his brother, pushing him behind him; then advancing towards La Mauricaude, who, still vociferating and crying, was endeavouring to make her escape, amid the hootings which pursued her, he contented himself with cracking his whip in her ears to hasten her steps. The crowd by which she was accompanied, diminished as she retreated, and by degrees the clamours of the little boys, who alone persisted in following her, died away. These assailants she dispersed by throwing stones at them, and they afterwards reported that they had seen both her and her son Thomas join a band of gipsies, who were on the point of departure. From that time she has never been heard of.

Quiet was once more restored at Saint Syphorien, and Va-bon-train received from Blanchet the explanations necessary to establish the good conduct of his nephew. "But where, in the name of Fortune, did you meet with him?" continued Blanchet. "He would never tell me."

"What, Gervais!" said Va-bon-train, "will you not acknowledge me for your uncle?" Michael, transported with joy, once more threw his arms round the neck of his friend, and Va-bon-train afterwards received the acknowledgments of his nephew's grateful affection. "Now then, what is to be done with Matthew," said Va-bon-train—"now that he has got rid of his old toad?" "He cannot live alone," said Gervais, casting down his eyes.

"Well, then, let him come with me," continued Va-bon-train; "Martin will, at all events, be learned enough to carry a part of my baggage, which is becoming too heavy for Medor. I will teach Jacquot many capital things, and we shall get on very well together."

These words rendered Gervais completely happy, and the gratitude inspired by his uncle's kindness towards himself, was far exceeded by what he now experienced, on account of his father. They went for Matthew to the tavern, where they found him still drinking, the longer to defer the moment of payment. This difficulty was removed by his brother, who thenceforth considered himself as charged with his care. The arrangement was proposed to him, and he accepted it, just as he would have done, had he been sober, only that he repeated a little oftener, and with rather more emotion than usual, "You, Vincent, know very well, that I at least am an honest man."

They had a joyful supper that night, Medor remaining at the side of the table, with his head upon his master's knee, which he left only to give a slight caress to Michael, or a look and a wag of his tail to Gervais. The following day, before their departure for Lyons, Gervais received from the generosity of his uncle, the pair of stockings, the shirt, and the two handkerchiefs, necessary to complete his outfit, and had the satisfaction of arriving with him at the workshop of Master Blanchet, not as a poor boy, received almost as an act of charity, but as a good workman, countenanced and recommended by respectable relatives.

He has justified their hopes and his own, having become Master Blanchet's head workman; he is about to marry his only daughter, and his father-in-law, rich enough to retire, has given up to him a business, which Gervais will not allow to decline under his care. Matthew, who only needs guidance, contents himself with being a little merry after his first meal, and a little sleepy after the last. He hopes to spend a peaceful old age with his son, while Va-bon-train, who, without being old, is also anxious for repose, has purchased a small property, married again, and given up his marionettes and the faithful Medor to his son Michael. Matthew has generously added the ass, and Jacquot, and has announced for Gervais' wedding-day, "a performance for the benefit of friendship, in which is to be seen the wonderful dispute between peerless Jacquot and the incomparable Scaramouche."

[Cecilia and Nanette;]
OR,
THE ACCIDENT.

It was in the month of December; the church clock had just struck five, and the morning was very dark, when one of the servants of the inn came to inform Madame de Vesac, and her daughter Cecilia, that the carriage was ready, and that they could continue their journey. They had left Paris early on the previous day, for the purpose of visiting the estate of Madame de Vesac, to which she had been called by urgent business. The distance was a hundred and fifty leagues, and they had travelled by post; they had been on the road till ten o'clock on the previous evening, and were now about to resume their journey after having taken a few hours' repose. Madame de Vesac called her daughter; Cecilia, terribly sleepy, half opened her eyes, then let her head fall back again upon her pillow. Her mother was obliged to call a second, and even a third time, and she awoke up at last, exclaiming "Oh dear! dear! how disagreeable it is to get up at five o'clock in the morning at this time of year!" She would have said, had she dared, "Oh dear! what a misfortune!" for every contradiction or suffering, however slight, always assumed, with Cecilia, the character of a misfortune. At every little accident that befel her, she fancied that no one had ever suffered so much as she did, and really believed that cold, hunger, thirst, and sleepiness, were with her quite different matters from what they were with other people. When laughed at for the disproportionate annoyance which the petty inconveniences of life occasioned her, she would say "Oh! you do not feel as I feel!" and, indeed, believed so.

Nevertheless, as Cecilia possessed a generous disposition, an elevated mind, a lively imagination, and a due share of pride, she had a passionate admiration for high and noble actions, and even a great desire to imitate them, sometimes saying that she would give everything in the world for an opportunity of becoming a heroine. "Provided," her mother would add with a smile, "that your acts of heroism never exposed you to the chance of being scratched by a thorn, or to the necessity of walking a few steps in uneasy shoes." And then Cecilia, a little vexed, would maintain that such things as these had nothing whatever to do with heroism.

Madame de Vesac had not been able to bring her maid with her, as she was ill at the time they left home. This rendered their arrivals at the inns, and especially their departures, more disagreeable, as they were themselves obliged to pack and unpack their luggage, and attend to a variety of troublesome details. Madame de Vesac spared her daughter these inconveniences as far as possible. On the present occasion, she had allowed her to sleep until the last moment, and when Cecilia awoke, almost everything was ready for their journey. Still it was necessary to arrange and pack up her night-things, and see that nothing was forgotten; and the cold and the darkness had so chilled her courage, that nothing but shame prevented her from shedding tears at every effort she made, and every step she took. And yet she was thirteen years old; but at no age do people cease to be children, if they allow themselves to attach importance to every whim that may cross their minds, or to every trifling inconvenience which they may have to bear. Cecilia had much more trouble, and was much longer about what she had to do than would have been necessary had she set courageously to work. "Make haste," repeated her mother every moment, and Cecilia made haste, but with the air of one who had no heart for what she was about. To have given herself this, nothing was required but a slight effort, a slight exertion of her reason: she need only have said, "What I have to do at present is so far from being beyond my powers, as I try to persuade myself, that if I felt the least wish to do it I should find no difficulty in it." But Cecilia did not choose to desire what would have been so beneficial to her, and, for the sake of saving herself a single mental effort, sufficient to conquer her repugnance and idleness, she allowed herself to relapse into them every moment, and submitted to the continued exertions demanded by every action and movement.

At last, all was ready; Madame de Vesac and her daughter entered their carriage and departed. Cecilia's griefs, however, being still undiminished, the night was so dark, and so cold, and she had so little courage to resist the feeling of sadness which it induced. She shivered in her wadded dress, and beneath her two or three shawls; her fur shoes did not prevent her from complaining of the deadly coldness of her feet, nor could she sufficiently cover her hands with her dress, though already encased in fur gloves. At length, in spite of her distress, she fell asleep, and slept quietly until it was broad daylight. When she awoke, the sun had already dissipated the thick fog of the morning. It shone brilliantly over the country covered with snow, and was even felt through the windows of the carriage. Everything seemed to announce a fine winter's day, and her heart began to revive. They stopped for breakfast, and took it in a comfortable warm room, and this completely restored her energy and cheerfulness. Her mother then began to jest about the despair she had manifested a few hours before. "I see," she said, "that for the acts of heroism to which you purpose to devote yourself, you will be careful to select the months of July and August, for cold is quite adverse to your virtue."

"But mamma," said Cecilia, "how can you expect one to stir, when one's fingers are benumbed with cold?"

"Since, though complaining the whole time, you did nevertheless manage to do so, I presume the thing was possible, but I perceive, at the same time, that such an effort must have something in it surpassing the highest courage, and were it not for the terrible fatality which has subjected you to so severe a trial, I should have been extremely careful not to have required anything of the kind from you."

"However, it is quite certain, mamma, that one might choose some better time for travelling than the month of December."

"Not if it happened to be in that month that one had business to attend to which required travelling. You will one day learn, my child, that there are things more impossible than enduring the cold, or even than moving one's fingers when they are benumbed. You remember what Cæsar said: It is necessary that I should go, and it is not necessary that I should live.

"One might very well expose one's life, on occasions of importance, and yet not be able to do impossibilities, however important they might be."

"Such as putting in a pin or tying a shoe when one is cold?"

"I do not mean that," replied Cecilia, a little out of humour, "and besides you will allow, mamma, that our affairs are not of such importance as those of Cæsar."

"How do you know that? the importance of things is relative; I am not called upon to overturn the world; such a thing would give me no pleasure, but I have to settle a matter to which your father attaches great importance, and to show myself worthy of the confidence he reposed in me, when, on leaving for the army he placed all his affairs in my hands; in fine, it is necessary for me that he should be pleased with me, for on this depends the happiness of my life; and on your part, it is necessary that you should prove yourself able to support with courage unavoidable inconveniences. All these things are important, and yet," added Madame de Vesac, smiling, "I do not think we run any risk of dying on account of them."

"Oh, no! mamma," said Cecilia, smiling too, "but I assure you that even Cæsar would have found it very cold this morning."

"I have not the least doubt of it; but Cæsar was such a great man! Do you know, Cecilia, that if we were to examine with care, I feel sure that among his great actions we should find many which must have benumbed his feet and hands."

"In that case," said Cecilia, somewhat drily, "he must have been very fortunate if he could find matters to attend to which would prevent his thinking of the cold, for it is certainly very disagreeable."

"Undoubtedly," replied Madame de Vesac, carelessly; "but there are some persons who can manage to think of every thing. I am persuaded, for instance, that had you been in Clælia's place, when, flying from the camp of Porsenna, she crossed the Tiber on horseback, you would have found it excessively disagreeable, to have been obliged to wet your feet."

"Well, mamma," said Cecilia with animation, "you ought to be delighted at that, since you are continually telling me that instead of wishing to be a heroine, it is quite enough to attend to one's duties merely."

"Certainly; but I who make no pretensions to heroism, find that mere duty is sometimes quite sufficient to employ all our powers, and that it is impossible that we can always do what simple duty requires, unless we have learned to bear cold, fatigue, and even the misfortune of having to get up at five o'clock in the morning in the month of December."

"It is nevertheless certain, mamma, that there are things which it is quite impossible to do, such as walking when one is tired."

"Or moving one's fingers when they are cold, for instance. Undoubtedly there are things which are impossible to every one, but the difference I find between Cæsar and you is, that in his case the impossibility came much later, and that at the degree of fatigue at which you would say I cannot walk, he would have said I must walk, and would have found strength to proceed. You are not aware how much strength people possess when they really wish to make use of it."

"I assure you, mamma," replied Cecilia, with some slight degree of temper, "that when I say I cannot do a thing I really cannot."

"I am sure of that, but I should like to know whence arises the impossibility. Pray think of this at the first opportunity. It is necessary that I should know whether you are really weaker than other people."

Cecilia made no reply; she was perfectly persuaded that no one understood her sufferings, and had never asked herself whether she were not made like other people, and consequently able to endure what they endured. The day passed well enough, and when night came she slept.

She was sleeping soundly, when a violent jerk suddenly aroused her. "Gracious! what is the matter?" she exclaimed. "We are upset," said Madame de Vesac; and in fact at that moment, the carriage, which had passed over a large stone, came to the ground with a violent shock, and turned completely over on one side. Cecilia screamed, and fell upon her mother. "Do not be frightened," said Madame de Vesac, who, notwithstanding the inconvenience of her position, thought only of her daughter. The carriage was stopped, and the postilion dismounted, and came to their assistance. All this time Cecilia did not cease screaming. "Where are you hurt?" asked her mother, trembling lest she should be severely wounded. "Everywhere," replied Cecilia, unconscious of what she said, the fright had so bewildered her. When the postilion opened the door which happened to be uppermost, Cecilia knew not what to do to extricate herself from her position. "Get up," said the postilion.

"Get up," repeated her mother, but Cecilia replied, "I cannot," without knowing whether she could or not, for she had not even tried. At last the postilion, who was active and strong, raising her up, lifted her out of the carriage, and thus freed her mother from a weight which almost overpowered her and made her feel ready to faint. Then Madame de Vesac, in her turn, getting out with the assistance of the postilion, hastened to her daughter, whom she was delighted to find standing up, although motionless, and not knowing whether she had a limb of which she could make use. In a little while, being somewhat reassured by her mother's voice, Cecilia began to answer the repeated questions put to her to ascertain where she was hurt. Both her knees were bruised, and her elbow grazed: she had a slight swelling on the head, a bonnet box had pressed her side, and her foot, which happened to be under the seat of the carriage, was a little swelled. "I am so bruised all over that I cannot move," she said, moving, however, the whole time in every direction to feel where she was hurt. She asked her mother whether she, too, were not hurt. "I think," replied Madame de Vesac, "I have sprained my wrist, for it is very painful, and I cannot use my hand."

"Just like my foot," replied Cecilia, and saying so, she began to walk. Madame de Vesac smiled, but said nothing. She wrapped her hand in her shawl, the ends of which she tied round her so as to support her wrist, and then busied herself with what was to be done. Recovered from the first shock of their fall, and congratulating themselves on having escaped so well, they nevertheless found themselves placed in a very unpleasant predicament. Comtois, the only servant who had accompanied them, had gone on before, as a courier, to prepare the horses. The postilion, unable by himself to raise the carriage, was obliged to go for assistance to the post-house, from which they were still at a considerable distance. Madame de Vesac and Cecilia, therefore, as they could not follow him since he went on horseback, nor reach the post-house alone, as they were ignorant of the way, were obliged to remain on the road until his return. The night was extremely dark, and the cold, without being very intense, was sharp and disagreeable. A sleet was falling, which, as it reached the ground, was converted into ice. The carriage, completely overturned, afforded no shelter, and to the other inconveniences of their position, was added that of being quite alone at ten o'clock at night upon the high road. Madame de Vesac, however courageous, was not without uneasiness, but she knew it was useless to give way to it; and when Cecilia, a little terrified, asked her if they were to remain alone, "You see we must," she replied, in a tranquil voice, which gave her daughter to understand, that though she was aware of the inconvenience of the arrangement, she nevertheless submitted to it with calmness, because it was necessary. Cecilia herself saw this necessity so plainly that she made no reply; but when after unharnessing the horses, and securing two of them to a tree, the postilion mounted the third to go and seek assistance; when she saw him depart, when the sound of his horse's feet growing fainter and fainter at last ceased to fall upon her ear, then her heart shrank with terror, a cold perspiration covered her limbs, and she drew close to her mother. Madame de Vesac perceived her alarm, but made no remark, well knowing that nothing so much increases terror as speaking of it. She merely endeavoured to restore her confidence a little, by giving her, on her own part, an example of courage and tranquillity.

The wind became more violent, the sleet increased, and a heavy fall of snow began to mingle with it: Madame De Vesac and her daughter went over to the side where the carriage offered some defence against the rain and snow which were beating into their faces; but this shelter did not long suffice, the gusts of wind became so violent, that Cecilia was twice on the point of losing her hat, notwithstanding the ribbons by which it was confined. It was with difficulty that they kept their shawls around them; the snow assailed them on all sides, melting upon them, and penetrating their clothes; and they were benumbed by a damp coldness, from which their inability to move left them no means of escape. Cecilia did not think of complaining, for no one could have assisted her; besides, she could not doubt that her mother suffered as much as herself, and complaints are seldom made except to excite the pity of those who seem better off than we are, and who, therefore, are able to think of us rather than of themselves. Cecilia now discovered how erroneous it is to suppose that any comfort is to be derived from complaining: perhaps even she suffered less from her position, than she would have done had she lamented it; but she did not make this reflection, and it was natural that the necessity of the case should render her more courageous.

Madame de Vesac, however, fearing lest her daughter should become ill, from the cold and damp which had penetrated her clothes, proposed to her to seek shelter in a wood which extended on both sides of the road, and the trees of which, though divested of their leaves, were at least sufficiently close to break the violence of the wind and snow; but this wood was the principal object of Cecilia's dread. Terrified at the proposition, she could only utter the words, "Oh! mamma, to go into the wood!"

"Just as you like, my child," said Madame de Vesac, "but," she added, smiling, "who do you think would come after us in such weather as this? You may be quite sure there is nobody abroad but ourselves."

Cecilia made no reply, her thoughts terrified her to such a degree that she dared not utter them, and had she pronounced the word robbers, it would have seemed to her that she was calling them; but at that moment there came a gust so violent, that the carriage appeared shaken by it; one of the blinds which happened to be down, was so violently agitated that the cords snapped, and being no longer upheld it was lifted by the wind, and struck Cecilia on the head. Seized with terror she sprang from her place; the storm continued, she was unable to resist it, yet dared not return to the carriage. Completely bewildered by the wind, she neither knew where she was, nor what she did: and her mother taking her by the arm led her into the wood, where she recovered a little of her self-possession. Here the wind was much less violent, and as always happens when we look at things closely, Cecilia having entered the wood felt much less terrified, than while merely considering it from the road. A copse where there happened to be a few trees, which still retained their leaves, although it was the month of December, had protected a few feet of ground from the snow, and afforded the travellers a shelter from the wet. The double trunk of a tree furnished them with a support, and they were at least in a situation where they could await without excessive discomfort the assistance which could not be far distant, when all at once Cecilia, whose eyes were turned towards the copse, probably seeing the branches agitated by the wind, fancied she perceived a figure moving and advancing towards them. Completely bewildered by fright she seized her mother's arm, and without saying a word dragged her on, as quickly as she was able, through the bushes, plunging deeper into the wood to avoid the terrible objects by which she believed herself pursued. Her mother, astonished, after having followed her for a few steps endeavoured to stop her. "Where are you going?" she said. "What is the matter?" But Cecilia, whose terror was only increased by the sound of her mother's voice, because she was afraid of its having been heard, continued to drag her along with an extraordinary degree of strength, and her mother, who would not leave her, was obliged to follow. At length, by dint of talking she recalled her to herself; she stopped a moment and said in a low tremulous voice, "Did you see him?"—"Who?" demanded Madame de Vesac.—"Among the trees ... a man...." "I have seen no one, you were mistaken, I assure you."—"Oh! I still hear him...." And she was once more on the point of starting off, but her mother restrained her. "My dear Cecilia," she said, greatly distressed at her condition; "my dear child, be reasonable, take courage; there is no one there, I assure you there is nothing to fear; confide in me who would not lead you into danger, and whose judgment is calmer than yours." A little restored by her mother's words, and the affectionate tone in which they were uttered, Cecilia, ashamed of her fears, stopped, and restored her mother's arm, which she still held, to its former position under her shawl.—"Let us retrace our steps," said Madame de Vesac, "lest we lose our way." Cecilia did not dare to say anything, but she shuddered at the idea of again passing so near the copse. At this moment they heard some one call them, and recognized the voice of Comtois. Cecilia breathed more freely, and hastened to reply; but Comtois had entered the wood at another part, and they stood still to discover whence the voice proceeded.

"It is in that direction, mamma," said Cecilia, who, delighted at the thought of avoiding the copse, pointed to a road a little more to the right than the one they were on the point of taking. Madame de Vesac listened again, and the voice which still continued to call and answer, seeming, in fact, to proceed from the right, she took the direction indicated by Cecilia, and calling from time to time to Comtois, they walked on towards the spot whence the sound was still heard to proceed, but it seemed sometimes to approach, and sometimes to recede, for it appeared that Comtois altered his course according to the place where he thought they must be, and they themselves took first one direction and then another, without being quite sure which was the right. This state of uncertainty lasted for some minutes, but at length the voice sensibly approached, and they heard steps through the trees. "Is that you, Comtois?" It was he, and Cecilia in a transport of joy was ready to throw her arms round his neck; she forgot the cold, the sleet, and the wind; once freed from her former terror she now thought all her troubles were at an end. Comtois informed them that he had procured assistance, and that at that moment the men were engaged in raising the carriage, to which he was going to conduct them. But the question now was how to find the way, for, intent only on reaching each other, neither Comtois nor Madame de Vesac had thought of observing their route. They stopped to listen for some indication from the people at the carriage, but the wind bore the sounds another way, or when they did reach them, they were so faint and uncertain, that they concluded they must have advanced further into the wood than they had supposed. However, they directed their course towards the side on which they concluded the high road lay, listening every moment to discover whether the sounds increased in strength; sometimes Cecilia fancied she heard voices, and even maintained that she could distinguish that of the postilion: at other times hearing nothing she became uneasy, but the joy of having found Comtois sustained her courage. At length she exclaimed, "Mamma, I see an opening through the trees; that must be the road." Madame de Vesac looked, and perceived, indeed, a spot where the trees appeared to separate, but she did not think it was the high road, and was astonished at not hearing any noise. Cecilia made her hasten her steps, repeating, as she hurried her on, "There's the road, there's the road!" Her mother cautioned her not to rejoice too soon; but she did not listen to her, and was the first to reach a spot, open indeed, but so surrounded by the wood on all sides, that it afforded no means of egress, except by a path almost parallel to the one they had just left. She stood petrified.

"This is not the road," said Madame de Vesac.

"Indeed," said Comtois, "I don't know where we are now."

"What will become of us?" inquired Cecilia in a timid and anxious voice, but without those exclamations so habitual to her, for in the present moment of real fear and trouble her thoughts were more occupied with the situation itself, than with the desire of vividly displaying what she felt.

"We must endeavour to get out of this place," replied Madame de Vesac. "The road cannot be far off; but we must take a different direction from the one we have come by."

They once more stopped to listen and consult together; but they could hear nothing whatever; and as to the path they were to take, there was no choice except between the one by which they had come and another which led in the same direction. Their consultation, therefore, could not be of long duration. The second path seemed much better than the one they had left, it was tolerably wide, and pretty well beaten; and they hence concluded that it must necessarily lead to some frequented place. They therefore determined to follow it, and recommenced their journey with renewed courage; but Cecilia perceived that her mother arranged in a different manner the end of the shawl, with which she had contrived to support her arm, and that she occasionally carried her other hand to it; and concluding from this that she must suffer increased pain, she asked her about it.

"We must not think of this now," said Madame de Vesac; so that Cecilia was afraid to complain too much of her foot, which was beginning to give her pain. She only said, "My foot is rather painful." She had already endured sufficient real trouble during the night, to have learned to be silent about inconveniences not worth complaining of.

The snow fell with less violence, and the wind was somewhat abated, so that in the wood the cold was quite bearable. Madame de Vesac and her daughter, one on each side of Comtois, and supported by his arm, walked without much difficulty in a path tolerably smooth, and which the recently fallen snow prevented from being very slippery. Reanimated by this momentary relief, they pursued this part of their journey with tolerable cheerfulness, Madame de Vesac averring even that her arm was less painful since the cold had diminished, and Cecilia consoling herself with the hopes of soon being able to rest her foot in the carriage. Comtois from time to time raised his voice and called to the people at the carriage; but no one answered, and not a sound reached their ears. Again the travellers began to feel uneasy at thus continually advancing without any assurance that they were not going further away from the spot they wished to reach. However, proceed they must, for there was no reason to suppose that, in retracing their steps, they would be able to find any better way. At last they came to a point where the path was crossed by another precisely similar. They were now in the utmost perplexity, for there was no inducement for choosing one of the three paths rather than another, except perhaps that as the one they had come by did not seem to have brought them any nearer the road, it might be reasonable to choose between the other two. But on which of them were they to fix?

Comtois attempted to climb a rather tall tree which happened to be at the entrance of one of the paths, hoping to be able to see from it the road and the carriage; but, not to mention that his boots did not allow him to climb with much agility, it happened that the first branch he clung to was decayed and broke, and he fell, fortunately without being much hurt; but Madame de Vesac, as well as Cecilia, whose own fall had rendered her excessively timid, prevented him from making any further attempt, by representing the frightful situation they would all be in if any accident befell him. There was no alternative, therefore, but to proceed, and let chance direct their course. They thought they remembered that in diverging from the road they had several times turned a little to the left; they consequently supposed that in returning they must take the contrary direction. On this, therefore, they fixed, not without much regret, however, at being unable to ascertain whither the opposite path led; but it was not a time for unavailing regrets, and they therefore made up their minds to trust that they had selected the best.

Nevertheless the spirits of the travellers began again to sink, Cecilia's foot was considerably swelled, and fatigue had greatly added to the pain of Madame de Vesac's arm, although her anxiety kept her in a state of agitation which prevented her feeling it as much as she would have done in calmer moments. Still this very anxiety was itself a serious evil: there was no certainty of their finding their way; and if chance did not guide them better than it had done thus far, she calculated with terror the number of hours they must pass in the wood, and the fatigues and sufferings they must endure whilst waiting for the light.

Cecilia, still more depressed, said nothing, and began to cease thinking: fatigue and sadness absorbed all her faculties.

The path they had taken terminated in a kind of cross-way, from which branched off several narrower paths. They fixed upon what appeared the widest and best; but it soon contracted to such a degree that Madame de Vesac and her daughter were obliged to resign the arm of Comtois, and allow him to walk in front and clear the way a little for them. The density of the wood at this part had kept the ground moist, and this moisture was now converted into ice, while the snow had been prevented from falling sufficiently to cover the path. They walked one behind the other, slipping at every step, and only able to keep themselves from falling by laying hold of the trees. Every moment their feet struck against the roots, or were caught in the trailing branches; and Cecilia, constantly on the point of falling, soon became unable to restrain her sobs. At last, at a very slippery part, she lost her footing, and fell upon her knees. A bramble, which happened to be across the path, caught in her clothes; and when she had succeeded in extricating her dress from it, it became entangled in her shawl, then got fastened to her gloves, and deprived her of the use of her hands. She tried to rise, but no sooner had she put her foot upon the ground than she slipped and again fell. Worn out as she already was, this slight accident quite exhausted her courage. Madame de Vesac turned round to give her her hand; but being near falling herself, she was obliged to catch hold of a tree: she could only pity and endeavour to encourage her daughter.

"Mamma," said Cecilia, "I cannot go on; it is impossible."

"My poor child," said Madame de Vesac, "are you quite sure it is impossible? Think seriously of it; this is not a trial to be made for pleasure merely, such as I proposed to you a short time since, but an exertion of courage absolutely indispensable. Only consider, my dear Cecilia," she added, in the most tender and caressing tone, "we have nothing but our courage to extricate us from these difficulties; but with courage I think we have still sufficient strength left to enable us to go through a great deal. Would it not then be better to call it forth than weakly to yield to our distress?"

Thus saying, she assisted with her foot to extricate her from the bramble, while supporting her with her knees. Cecilia made no reply, but, raising herself up, continued her journey, and, feeling the truth of her mother's words, she exerted all her strength to avoid future complaints. Still she wept in silence; a weakness pardonable indeed, but one, nevertheless, which added to her sufferings, as weakness ever does.

Cecilia and Nanette, p. 53.

They at last reached the end of this difficult route, and once more found themselves at an opening in the wood, where several paths terminated, but without being any better able to decide which they were to take. Stopping for a moment to consider, they thought they heard at no great distance a faint sound, which was not that of the wind. They listened; "Good heavens!" exclaimed Cecilia, "I think I hear some one crying;" and she shuddered as she spoke.

They listened again, and fancied they could distinguish the voice of a child. At length, after looking in every direction, favoured by the light of the moon, which was beginning to disperse the clouds, they perceived in a corner, a little within the opening, a figure standing motionless, and leaning against a tree. Cecilia was frightened, and clung tightly to the arm of Comtois.

"Let us see what it is," said Madame de Vesac, the more anxiously, as she still heard the sounds.

On a nearer approach, they discovered that what they had seen was a poor woman, leaning motionless against a tree, and who had by her side a little girl about eight years old. The poor creature held something in her arms, which, as they came closer, they found to be an infant of about two months old, motionless like the mother. It seemed benumbed with cold; and its mother, without making any movement, or uttering a word, stood with her head bent over it, as if to warm it. One could scarcely say whether they were dead or alive. The voice which had been heard proceeded from the little girl, who, also motionless by her mother's side, continued crying in a low tone. At this moment, the moon rendered them distinctly visible. Madame de Vesac and Cecilia approached quite close to the woman, but she did not change her position. They looked at each other and trembled, for they feared that both mother and infant were dead. At last, Madame de Vesac said to her, "My good woman, what are you doing here?" She made no answer.

The little girl, who, on perceiving them, began to cry and sob more violently, pulled her by the skirt, exclaiming, "Mother! mother! some ladies!"

The poor woman raised her head, and pointed by her looks to her child, whose face she again covered with her own; they had, however, time enough to discern the face of the infant, which was pale and still as death. Madame de Vesac wished to ascertain if it yet lived, but knew not how to ask the question. At last she said in a low tone, at the same time laying her hand gently upon him, "He is very cold." "I cannot get him warm again," said the mother, in a still fainter tone, at the same time pressing him more closely to her bosom, as if anxious to make a new effort to impart her warmth to him. "Is he dead?" asked Comtois. The only reply to these terrible words were cries of despair, as the unfortunate creature pressed her infant more firmly to her heart. Madame de Vesac found means of taking its hand: it was cold as ice; but she felt its pulse, and perceiving it beat, she said with animation, "No! most assuredly he is not dead; I feel his pulse beat."

"Oh my God!" exclaimed the poor woman, with a stifled sigh, at the same time raising towards Madame de Vesac eyes beaming with gratitude, and already beginning to be suffused with tears. But she again immediately turned them upon her child, whom she passionately kissed.

"Let us take him," said Madame de Vesac; "we are better able to warm him than you are."

"Give him to me. I will put him under my great coat," said Comtois, as he unfastened his thick, warm travelling coat. The poor woman hesitated. "Give him to me," he continued. "I have children of my own. I know how to manage them."

"Let him take the child," said Madame de Vesac; and the unhappy mother placed the infant in his arms, wrapping the coat round him. In order to make room for him, Comtois removed a bottle from one of the inside pockets.

"Stop!" said he; "this won't hurt him." It was a bottle of brandy; he opened it, and poured a few drops into the mouth of the child, who swallowed it.

"He swallows!" exclaimed the mother, in a transport of joy; and the child began to breathe more freely, and to move its little arms.

"I thought so!" said Comtois; "this would bring the dead to life. It would do you no harm either, to take a little, my good woman."

The poor creature replied that she did not want anything; but Madame de Vesac persuaded her to take a little to warm her. Then the little girl, who since the arrival of Madame de Vesac had ceased crying, watching all that passed around her, again began to sob, in a low tone, but sufficiently loud to make herself heard. Cecilia was the first to observe her, and began to caress her, in order to quiet her, but the child still continued crying, with her eyes directed to the bottle. Cecilia asked if a little might not also be given to her, and Comtois declared that it would do her no harm. "Yes," said Madame de Vesac, "if she only takes a few drops; but if you give her the bottle, she will drink too much." Meanwhile the child still cried and watched the bottle, and her manner was so quiet and gentle, that the heart of Cecilia was vividly touched. At last, by an effort of which she could not have believed herself capable, Cecilia took off her glove, and told the child that she should drink out of her hand; but when the little girl had done so, she hid her hand again, observing that it was very cold; but when the child rejected the brandy, saying it burned her mouth, Cecilia observed to her that it was not worth while to have made her take off her glove. She was on the point of putting it on again, when the mother said that a bit of bread would have been much better for her, as she had eaten nothing since noon. At this the child began to cry more bitterly.

"Oh, dear!" said Cecilia, "if I had but the bun I bought this morning, and did not eat."

"Where is it?" asked her mother.

"In the carriage."

"I thought I told you to put it in your bag."

"Yes, but my bag...." She interrupted herself, and uttered a cry of joy. She had not observed that her bag had remained attached to her arm. She felt the strings, undid them, opened it, and found the bun. It was a little crushed, indeed, by her fall, but the pieces were good. She gave one of them to the mother, who, without saying a word, and thinking herself unobserved, put it into her pocket. Cecilia again felt in the bag, and taking off her other glove, asked whether, if she crumbled a little of the soft part in her hand, they could not make the infant take some of it.

"What he wants," said Madame de Vesac, "is his mother's milk; but even supposing she has any for him, he is not at present sufficiently strong to take it; we must endeavour to reach some inhabited place as speedily as possible, where we may be able to give him the attention he requires."

Then the poor woman, who, after a moment of intense joy, felt all her fears and grief revive, said weeping, "If he only lives until we reach Chambouri, I have my mother there, and she is very skilful in the care of children."

"Where is Chambouri?" inquired Madame de Vesac.

"It is a short league from here," replied the poor woman.

"It is the post town," added Comtois. "Do you know the way to it?"

"Do I know the way to it?" said the woman. "I was born there."

"Why did you not go there instead of remaining against that tree?"

"I fell three times upon the ice; the third time my poor baby gave a scream, and then was silent. At first I thought I had killed him; and then I thought if I fell again, I should be sure to kill him; besides, a moment after, finding he did not move, I believed him dead, and had no heart for anything."

"But now will you conduct us to Chambouri?"

"Certainly, provided we can get there in time," and the poor woman again began to weep.

"Yes, yes, we shall arrive in time;" said Madame de Vesac; "Comtois will carry the infant in one arm, and give the other to Cecilia. You and I," she added, addressing the mother, "will try to keep each other up."

They proceeded in accordance with this arrangement, Cecilia giving her hand to the little girl, and the poor mother walking by the side of her baby, every moment putting her hand upon its head, which was not covered by Comtois' coat, and redoubling her tears each time she felt it cold. Madame de Vesac, perceiving this, stopped to untie a small shawl, which she wore underneath her large one, and gave it to cover the head of the infant.

"It is indeed very cold," said Cecilia, who was beginning to think of her own troubles, and who found that by giving her hand to the little girl, she herself became very cold, from being unable to cover it with her shawl.

"How long have you been exposed to this cold?" inquired Madame de Vesac of the poor woman.

"We have not entered a house since noon," she replied. "I hoped to have reached Chambouri early this evening, but the bad weather and the bad roads have delayed us; and had it not been for you, my good lady, we must have passed the night in the wood."

"But would you have been able to endure the cold?" demanded Madame de Vesac.

"I don't know whether my poor little one would have survived it," she replied, with increased emotion, and then began to enumerate his perfections, as if she had already lost him. "He knew me," she said, weeping; "even this very morning he looked at me and smiled; the beautiful sunshine delighted him, and he raised his little arms, as if he wanted to jump; and then, after the sun had gone down, when, for the last time, I attempted to nurse him, he looked up at me, and tried to smile." At these words her tears again flowed with redoubled force.

"He will look at you; he will smile again," said Madame de Vesac.

"Oh!" continued the unhappy mother, "he has suffered so much; he looked at me, as if for help;" and in calling to mind the sad looks of her child, she could not restrain her sobs. Then Cecilia again, forgetful of her own troubles, withdrew her hand from Comtois' arm, and passing it under that part of his coat which enveloped the child, said to the mother, "Oh! he is very warm: feel him, he moves his little arms; I am sure he is comfortable." "Yes, he does move his arms, I can tell you," said Comtois; "see, he has pulled off the handkerchief which he had on his head;" and Cecilia let go the hand of the little girl to re-arrange the handkerchief. The poor mother knew not how to express her joy and gratitude; but the little girl, who had remained a short distance behind them, because Cecilia no longer held her hand, began to cry. "Come along," then, said her mother; but the poor little thing replied, "I cannot."

Cecilia went to her, and again took her hand, saying, "You must try to come along, my dear."

"How long have you been on foot?" inquired Madame de Vesac.

"Since noon," replied the poor woman. "I had no more money to pay for lodgings; we had eaten all the provisions I had brought for the journey, and I wanted to reach Chambouri."

"And has the child been walking all that time?"

"Yes, the whole time."

"Cecilia is right, my dear," said Madame de Vesac, addressing the little girl. "You must try to walk."

"If Comtois were not carrying the baby," said Cecilia, "I would beg him to take her up."

"Oh! I have another arm," said Comtois; "but then I could not support you, Miss Cecilia."

"Never mind me," said Cecilia. "I am much better able to walk without support, than this poor little thing is to continue the journey on foot."

Comtois then stooped down, and, seating the child upon his arm, raised her from the ground, saying, "You must take hold of my collar with both your hands;" to which the child replied, "I cannot."

"Why not?" demanded Cecilia. But on taking her hands to show her how she must hold the collar, she perceived that they were so cold that the child could not use them. "Oh dear!" she exclaimed, "she freezes me even through my gloves." Then, remembering that she had two pairs on, the outside ones lined with fur, she took them off, and after well rubbing the child's hands, put them on her; but, finding her still unable to hold the collar, she made her put her arms round Comtois' neck. The child, however, still continued to cry. "What is the matter," asked Cecilia; but she received no answer. "It is her poor feet," said her mother. "Her chilblains are broken, and yet she has walked barefoot the whole day; but now that she is no longer walking, she feels the cold more." Cecilia recollected the socks which she wore over her shoes; she took them off, and put them upon the feet of the little girl, who ceased crying. Then, taking the arm of the poor woman, Madame de Vesac having the other, she walked on courageously, complaining neither of the cold nor of the ice, though she found much more difficulty in maintaining her balance now that she was without her socks.

"My dear Cecilia," said Madame de Vesac, "how much strength we have found since the moment we thought it impossible to go any further!"

"Oh mamma!" exclaimed Cecilia, satisfied with herself, "an occasion like this gives one a great deal of strength."

"No, my child: such occasions merely show us all that we actually possess; and since we do possess it, why not make use of it on all occasions?"

"But they are not all of such importance."

"It is always important to succeed in what we undertake, and to do so as speedily and as completely as possible; we ought therefore to make every effort in our power to ensure success. When we are wanting in resolution, and think we have not sufficient strength on a trifling occasion, there is but one thing to be done, and that is to call up all we should be sure to discover in a case of great emergency."

As she concluded these words they reached the boundary of the wood, and found themselves at the entrance of the village of Chambouri.

"Here it is," exclaimed Cecilia, in a transport of joy.

"Yes!" said the poor woman; "but my mother lives close to the post-house, which is at the other end of the village."

"Oh dear!" cried Cecilia, in a mournful tone.

"Should we not be tempted," inquired Madame de Vesac, "to think it impossible to go any further?"

Cecilia, who was beginning to think so, recollected herself, examined her powers, and inwardly shuddered at the idea of all that she still felt able to endure. Trembling at the thought of being exposed to new trials, she was only re-assured when, after a quarter of an hour's further walking, she had entered the post-house, and was seated by the kitchen fire.

They had persuaded the poor woman to accompany them, to warm herself, and attend to her children, whilst waiting till her mother should be ready to receive them. The infant had fallen asleep in Comtois' arms, and when taken from them, the noise, the people, and the lights awoke him, and he began to cry.

"He cries!" exclaimed the mother, in a transport of joy; and falling on her knees with clasped hands, in front of Madame de Vesac, to whom Comtois had given the child, she repeated, "He cries!" while gazing at him intently, and kissing him. He ceased crying, and, pleased with the warmth of the fire, looked at his mother and smiled. "That is just how he looked at me this morning," she exclaimed, and burst into a flood of tears. They made him take a little milk whilst waiting until his mother was sufficiently rested to nurse him herself, and the pleasure which he manifested in taking it was a fresh subject of joy for the poor woman. Meanwhile Cecilia had taken possession of the little girl; she placed her upon her knees, and warmed her feet and hands, without even complaining that by so doing she was prevented from warming her own. At length the mother of the poor woman, hearing of her daughter's arrival, came for them and took them home, gratefully thanking Madame de Vesac, who would not suffer them to depart until they had a comfortable supper. She ordered her own supper in a private room, and sent for a skilful surgeon, who happened fortunately to be at Chambouri, and who set her arm. In the meantime Comtois had gone in search of the carriage, which he found set to rights, and waiting for them. As he returned with it, a traveller entered the inn, who proved to be Madame de Vesac's man of business. He had come from her estate to meet her, making inquiries for her at every stage on the way, in order to prevent her going farther, as the affair for which she had been summoned was arranged. Cecilia therefore retired to rest, with the satisfaction of knowing that she should not have to continue her journey on the following morning, as Madame de Vesac announced that since she had time she should remain a couple of days at the inn, in order to attend to her arm. The next day they sent for the poor woman, who was full of joy at being able to exhibit her infant, now beginning to regain both strength and colour; nor was she ever weary of looking at him and kissing him. She stated that she had been married at a village some distance from Chambouri, to a mechanic, who had turned out a worthless fellow, and, after wasting all their means, had enlisted a short time before the birth of her infant; and that as soon as she was able to travel, she had set out in order to return to her mother, who had a little property, and with whom she intended to live. Madame de Vesac told her that she should consider herself as godmother to the child, whose life she had been instrumental in saving, and that she took him under her protection. But as he must still remain with his mother, who indeed would not have consented to part with him, she contented herself with giving her some money to assist in their maintenance, and she also permitted Cecilia to beg that the little girl, whose name was Nanette, might be committed to her care.

This proposition was gratefully accepted, and after a few days given to repose, Madame de Vesac set out on her return to Paris, with Cecilia and Nanette. From that moment Cecilia looked upon the child as her own, and so greatly was she delighted with her new possession, that she could speak of nothing else. Already had she disposed of all her old dresses in favour of Nanette. Already had she measured her in every direction, to ascertain whether in a dress stained with ink, and which she was delighted to part with, there would he sufficient to make a dress for Nanette, without employing the piece that was stained. Already had she thought, that by taking from her old black apron the part she had burned at the stove, there would be enough remaining to make an apron for Nanette. Already had she made her take off her cap of quilted cotton, to measure with a string the size of her head, in order to calculate how much cambric and muslin would be wanted to make her some neat little caps, while waiting until the return of the warm weather should enable her to go bare-headed, a habit which Cecilia intended she should acquire, it being so much more healthy for a little girl. Several times already had she said to her, "Nanette, hold yourself up;" but the child, who did not know what was meant by holding herself up, having never heard such an expression, only bent her head a little lower, as she always did when embarrassed. Then Cecilia raised it for her, with a quiet gentleness of manner, mentally repeating, as she did so, that patience is the first duty of one who wishes to bring up a child. Madame de Vesac smiled at her gravity; but counselled her, however, to relax it a little, if she wished to gain the confidence of her pupil.

Cecilia had formed the most extensive projects for the education of her protegée. "First of all," she said, "I will teach her to work well; this is absolutely necessary for a girl. I mean her to learn history and geography; perhaps even, if she has talent for them, I may teach her the piano and drawing. I am not sufficiently advanced myself to carry her very far, but I shall be improving every day, and then, when I am married and rich, I will give her masters, for I intend her to be very accomplished:" and Cecilia became more and more excited as she advanced with her projects and her hopes. Her mother listened to her, and smiled. Cecilia, perceiving this, was a little annoyed, and asked whether she were not right in wishing to give Nanette a good education.

"Certainly," replied Madame de Vesac; "that is why I advise you to commence by teaching her to read."

"That is a matter of course; but perhaps she can read already. Nanette, can you read?"

The child looked at her, then bent her head without answering. Cecilia raised her chin with her finger, again repeating, "Can you read?" But Nanette's only answer was to bend a little lower than before, as soon as Cecilia had withdrawn her finger. Cecilia, with a look at her mother, which seemed to say, "What patience one must have with children!" drew from her bag a book, which she had brought to read on her journey, and opening it at the title-page, she placed it before Nanette, and pointing to an A, said, "What is that?" Nanette raised her eyes, glanced askance at the A, and then cast them down again, without saying a word. Cecilia repeated, "What is that?" But Nanette continued silent. "It is an A," said Cecilia, lowering her voice, like one becoming impatient, and anxious to restrain herself. The child looked at her earnestly, as if she would have said, "What does it matter to me if it is an A?" "It is an A," repeated Cecilia; but Nanette only looked at her without answering. Cecilia was beginning to lose patience, but she called to mind the self-control her new duties required from her, and, taking Nanette upon her knees, she began to caress her, saying as she did so, "Why will you not say A?" Nanette did not stir. "Say A," continued Cecilia, "and I will give you this plum." Nanette looked first at the plum and then at Cecilia, and smiled. Cecilia smiled too, and repeated, "Say A." Nanette, still smiling, and with her head bent down, glanced slyly at the plum, and said A in a very low tone. Cecilia kissed her with delight. When the plum was eaten, she pointed to another A, but without being able to elicit any opinion on the matter from Nanette. "Say A," she repeated, in an affectionate manner, and Nanette looked round to see if there was another plum coming. However, whether in gratitude for the one she had already eaten, or from the hope of obtaining another, or from politeness to Cecilia, she once more consented to say A. This was a new joy for Cecilia, who, persuaded that Nanette was now quite perfect in the A, and enchanted at this first triumph in her education, returned with delight to the former A, expecting her to recognize it immediately; but this time it was impossible to obtain a syllable from her. Nanette had never seen a book—did not know what it was, nor what could be its use. She could not understand this fancy of making her say A. She had said it without regarding the form of the letter, and without thinking it was the name of the thing shown to her; and had all the A's in the world been placed before her, she would not have been any the wiser. After many useless efforts, Cecilia, completely discouraged, looked at her mother, with an expression of annoyance, saying, "What shall we do if she will not even learn to read?"

Madame de Vesac represented to her that she was beginning to despair very quickly, that it was quite natural that Nanette, astonished at the novelty of her situation, stunned by the carriage, and timid at finding herself among strangers, should have a difficulty in understanding what was shown her, and that it would be better to wait for a quieter time before commencing her instructions.

Cecilia was a little consoled by these words, and glad, moreover, to have a sufficient reason for deferring lessons of which, for the moment, she was heartily tired. However, considering, in the meantime, that she must endeavour to correct Nanette of whatever faults she might have, she determined that on the following morning, when they would he obliged to start at five o'clock, she would not allow her to complain of being so early awakened, or of the cold; but she had no occasion to enforce her lessons. Nanette, accustomed to suffering, never murmured nor complained of anything; and Cecilia was at a loss to know what to do with a child so gentle and docile as not to need scolding, and so little intelligent that it was difficult to tell what method to adopt for her instruction. However, the desire she felt of setting Nanette an example, and the good opinion she began to entertain of her own sense, now that she found herself intrusted with the education of another, prevented her from even thinking of complaining of the cold, or of the annoyance of being disturbed at five o'clock in the morning. She busied herself in arranging her things, in order to show Nanette how to manage; and Nanette, who would rather have packed and unpacked a dozen parcels than have said A once, endeavoured to obey her, and did not acquit herself badly. Cecilia testified her satisfaction, and they resumed their journey, mutually pleased, and, in order to maintain this good understanding, nothing more was said about the A until their arrival in Paris.

We may easily imagine how often, after her return home, Cecilia related the history of Nanette and the forest, and mentioned her intention of bringing up this little girl. The interest inspired by her narrative, and the importance she seemed to herself to acquire, whenever Nanette was asked for, revived those projects of education which the ill-success of her first attempts had somewhat cooled. Besides, she had felt so much pleasure in commencing Nanette's wardrobe, in trying on a dress which she had made for her in two days, and thought it so delightful to have some one to command and send about her little commissions in the house, that she became daily more attached to this species of property. She wished to have Nanette sleep in her room, that she might be completely under her protection, but this Madame de Vesac would not permit, as she felt it would give rise to a thousand inconveniences, which Cecilia, in her eagerness for present gratification, could not foresee. It was therefore arranged that she should sleep with Madame de Vesac's maid, and go down to Cecilia's room every morning to receive the lessons of her young instructress. Cecilia at first declared that this was not enough, and that if more time was not allowed, it would be impossible for her to teach Nanette all she wished her to learn. Her mother, however, advised her to be content with this as a beginning, promising that, if in a little while, she still wished it, the time should be increased. The day Cecilia tried on Nanette's dress and bonnet, which seemed to delight the child very much, and while still exhibiting the apron she had cut out, she took advantage of the opportunity to tell her that if she wished to gain all these pretty things she must learn to read. Nanette did not very well know what was meant by learning to read, but she had seen Cecilia look into books, and remembered that it was in a book she was made to say A. This recollection was by no means agreeable, but as she was becoming accustomed to obey Cecilia, she consented for once to repeat after her, first A, then B, then C; and at last, all the letters of the alphabet. Cecilia made her repeat them two or three times, showing them to her in the different styles; and greatly pleased at having so easily obtained Nanette's submission, which she had so much difficulty in doing at the commencement, she flattered herself that the most important point was gained, and that her education would now rapidly advance. The same day she put her fingers on the piano, and Nanette was at first delighted with the sounds she produced by striking the keys, but she did not find it quite so amusing to go through the gamut, and repeat after Cecilia a dozen times, ut, re, mi, fa, sol, la, si, ut. However, she obeyed, and all went on to the satisfaction of the teacher. Cecilia next gave her a thimble, some needles, and a pair of scissors, which she had bought for her, together with a piece of linen, which she was to learn to hem. Nanette was farther advanced in this department than in the others. She had seen her mother work, and had tried to imitate her. Cecilia was very well pleased with the manner in which she held her needle, and fixed her hem; and praised her accordingly; and, thus encouraged, the hem was finished pretty quickly and tolerably well. At length, after two hours spent in this manner, hours which appeared to the mistress somewhat tedious, Nanette was dismissed, and Cecilia, while congratulating herself on the success of her efforts, found, nevertheless, that the task of education was not the easiest of work.

The next day she resumed her lessons with renewed courage, hoping to advance still farther than on the preceding one, but she found that everything had to be begun again. Nanette was as much puzzled to say A as she had been the first time. She did not recognize one of the letters, which she had repeated mechanically after Cecilia, who, as she now made her say them again one after the other, had the utmost difficulty in getting her to give two or three times by herself the name of the letter which had been taught her the moment before. At the piano, when Cecilia wanted her to begin the scale of ut, she put her finger upon sol, and when asked the name of the note she had struck, it was impossible for her to find any name for it: she did not even understand that the notes had names. Thus, all the success obtained that day was, that after half-an-hour's study, Nanette named at random a fa for a la, or a si for a re. Cecilia became very angry, and Nanette, who could not bear to be scolded, made so much haste to finish her hem, in order to escape from her, that when Cecilia examined it, she found six stitches one over the other, and another half-an-inch long.

The following days were not much more fortunate; for, on each occasion, Nanette had forgotten pretty nearly the whole of what little she had seemed to know on the previous day. As up to that time, she had never been taught anything, she was not accustomed to apply her mind, or fix her attention on things of which she did not understand the use, for it could not be said that she was deficient in sense, or abilities, for her age. She was by no means awkward, and did all she was capable of doing carefully enough; for instance, if she carried a light, she did not, like most children of her age, hold it in such a manner as to let the grease fall upon the ground; she even took care to snuff it for fear of sparks, before removing it from one place to another, and she managed to snuff it without putting it out; if she had to carry anything rather heavy from one room to another, she first opened the door and removed whatever might be in her way; or if, while holding a jug of water, she happened to catch her dress in any object, she did not, like most children, give a sudden jerk, and spill the water, but quietly put down her jug, and removed the obstacle. It was evident that she was accustomed to act, and seek the means of acting in the most useful manner. Moreover, she rendered a thousand little services to Mademoiselle Gerard, Madame de Vesac's lady's maid, who was extremely fond of her, and who, from having her continually with her, contrived, without tormenting her, to teach her many things which Nanette willingly learnt.

As to the lessons with Cecilia, they went on worse and worse every day: the pupil knew not how to learn, nor the mistress how to teach; Cecilia often lost patience, and Nanette, who saw her only to be scolded and wearied, feeling but little desire to please her, became at last careless; besides, after having studied for a few minutes a lesson in which she took no interest, her ideas became so completely confused by the irksomeness of her task, that she did not know what she was doing; so that, after having said her letters, and spelt very well with the lady's maid, who endeavoured to teach her, in order that she might not be scolded, when she came to Cecilia everything went wrong, and it was but an additional annoyance to the latter to find that it was only with Mademoiselle Gerard that Nanette read well.

Thanks, however, to Mademoiselle Gerard, Nanette did make some progress in reading and needlework; but as for music, at the end of six weeks she was no farther advanced than on the first day, and Cecilia, who entertained the idea of giving her an education which would enable her to shine in the world, became disgusted with efforts which could have no higher result than that of fitting her to become a shopkeeper or a lady's maid. The lessons, therefore, were but a succession of irritabilities, which prevented Cecilia from seeking the best means of making herself understood, and which ended by worrying Nanette. These two hours, so uselessly employed, became equally disagreeable to mistress and pupil, and both were delighted when any accident occurred to shorten them; and shortened they often were; for Cecilia, being on one occasion busy, hurried over all the lessons in half-an-hour, and this, having once occurred, occurred often. Sometimes, too, she made Nanette repeat her lesson without listening to her, or put her before the piano and told her to play, while she went about her own affairs, so that during this time, Nanette amused herself at her leisure, in playing whatever happened to suit her fancy. Sometimes, in fine, when Cecilia was busy with her drawing or anything that amused her, she would tell Nanette to take her books or her work, and then think no more about her. Nanette, meanwhile, would either be looking out at the window or catching flies; and when at last, after half-an-hour had elapsed, Cecilia observed her, she would scold her for her idleness, and send her away, saying that she had now no time to attend to her lessons.

All this took place in Cecilia's room, which was close to her mother's. For some time Madame de Vesac said nothing; she had never expected that Cecilia would carry out her projects of education with any perseverance, and she relied much more upon Mademoiselle Gerard, who was a respectable and sensible person, and whom she knew to be quite capable of bringing up Nanette in a manner suited to her station. Still she did not wish her daughter to get into the habit of doing carelessly what she undertook, nor to fancy that the duties of the day were performed when they were only gone through in appearance. Cecilia herself felt that things were not as they ought to be; so that, after having several times complained to her mother of the trouble which Nanette gave, she ceased to speak of the matter. At length one day, Madame de Vesac, after listening for half-an-hour to Nanette, who was strumming on the piano according to her own fancy, without receiving any attention from Cecilia, she asked the latter, if it was by giving lessons in that style that she hoped to make Nanette a great musician. Cecilia blushed, for she felt she was wrong; but she assured her mother, that Nanette had not the slightest taste for music. Madame de Vesac observed, that, from the way in which she had been taught, it was impossible to know whether this was the case or not.

"Mamma," said Cecilia, "I assure you she has no talent whatever; and it is this which has discouraged me."

"But I do not think she displays less inclination to learn to read and work than other children of her age; and yet I do not see that you are at all more zealous in these branches of her education."

"Oh, I attended especially to her music. Mademoiselle Gerard can teach her the rest, as well as I can."

"So then, you have taken Nanette in order to have her brought up by Mademoiselle Gerard?"

"No, mamma; but I thought Nanette would be able to learn what I wanted to teach her."

"And because she does not learn what you want to teach her, you do not think it worth while to teach her what she can learn: to do for her, at least, all that is in your power."

"But still, mamma, it is, I think, a lucky thing for Nanette that we have taken her, and I certainly shall always take care of her; but you must allow that there is no very great pleasure in teaching a little girl to read and sew, when it is evident that she can learn nothing more than that."

"To agree with you, I must first know precisely what kind of pleasure you expected when you took charge of Nanette?"

"The pleasure of being useful to her, by giving her a good education."

"And supposing her incapable of profiting by what you call a good education, you would not care to be useful to her by giving her at least such an education as she is capable of receiving."

"At all events, this would not give me so much pleasure."

"And to continue a good action which you have commenced, it is necessary that you should find it productive of much pleasure to yourself?"

"No, mamma; but...."

—"But, my child, there are many persons like you in that respect; they commence a good work with delight, and afterwards abandon it because their success is not as complete as they had expected."

"You must see, mamma," said Cecilia, a little piqued, "that it was not for my own advantage that I wished to give lessons to Nanette."

"I believe, indeed, it was for hers, and that you had fully reflected on the advantage she would derive from them."

"Indeed, mamma, it is a very fine thing for a little peasant girl, who would have remained ignorant, vulgar, and illiterate all her life, to be well educated and accomplished, and to be able to become amiable and agreeable, and fitted to move in elevated society."

"Especially," said Madame de Vesac, smiling, "when she is destined to move in elevated society."

"Who knows, mamma? a good marriage," resumed Cecilia, with vivacity; for her imagination was always ready to rush into romantic ideas, because it is such ideas that require the least reflection.

"Have you seen many of these marriages?" asked her mother.

"Though I may never have seen any, still..."

"Still you suppose, probably, that they are not unfrequent."

"I do not say that, but..."

"But I say," continued her mother, seriously, "that we are not permitted to amuse ourselves with such child's play, when the welfare of one of whom we have taken charge is at stake; and if you had bestowed upon Nanette an education which would make her disdain the humble career to which she is no doubt destined, you would have rendered her a very mischievous service."

"So then, mamma, you did not think I ought to give lessons to Nanette?"

"Not at all; but I was quite easy about the matter."

"Besides," said Cecilia, blushing, "here I am always interrupted, and then two hours for all the lessons are nothing; but we shall be going into the country in a month, where, if you will allow it, she will be more frequently with me, and I shall easily find the means of giving her a proper education."

"Very well," said Madame de Vesac, smiling; for she did not place much more reliance on her daughter's perseverance in the country than in Paris. Cecilia did not observe this smile; quite absorbed in her plans for the future education of Nanette, she began by interrupting it for the present, as if the good that was to be done at some distant day exempted her from performing that which was in her power at the actual moment. She therefore told Nanette, that she would give her no more lessons until they went into the country; and Nanette, to whom a month seemed a lifetime, imagined herself for ever freed, both from Cecilia and her lessons. Cecilia, whose month was taken up with two or three balls, with purchases, packing, and receiving visits from the friends who called to bid her good-bye, completely lost the habit of thinking of Nanette; and this habit she found so unpleasant to resume, that they had been a whole week in the country when her mother said to her:—

"And Nanette?"

"We are going to recommence our lessons," she replied, somewhat ashamed at not having done so earlier. "But you know," she added, "that on arriving in the country there are a thousand things to be done; besides, I do not think Nanette is very anxious."

"Nor you either, I suspect."

"It certainly does not amuse me much."

"But it will not amuse you more to-morrow than to-day; so that I do not see you have any more reason to begin to-morrow than you have had for the last week."

"But still you know, mamma, there is no need of being in a hurry when there is plenty of time."

"My child, we have never sufficient time before us to do all that ought to be done, for we can never be sure of time. A thousand accidents may deprive us of it; therefore we ought always to be anxious to do what has to be done, just as if we had only the time absolutely necessary for it. In this uncertainty as to the future, it was as necessary to have devoted to Nanette's education the week you have lost, as to give to it that which is to come."

Cecilia made no answer, but resumed her drawing. Madame de Vesac took up the book she had been reading. After the lapse of half-an-hour, Cecilia interrupted her occupation, saying, with a heavy sigh, "I am afraid I shall not succeed."

"In what?" inquired her mother.

"In what we were speaking of a short time since," said Cecilia, wishing to be understood without being forced to explain; "in Nanette's education."

"And why should you not succeed, if you desire it?" replied Madame de Vesac, still reading.

"I cannot manage to make her study properly."

"I do not see why you may not do what another can do;" and the conversation was again dropped, much to Cecilia's annoyance, for she had an idea which she was anxious though afraid to express. At length, after a quarter of an hour's silence, she again continued. "There is one very simple plan," she said.

"What for?" asked Madame de Vesac, without laying down her book.

"To educate Nanette," said Cecilia, impatiently.

"That plan would be, I think, to give her lessons."

"Mamma, I assure you it is very difficult, extremely difficult. If you would permit me to send her to the village school she would learn to read, and they could give her the elementary lessons in writing, which you know I cannot do; and when we return to Paris she will be sufficiently advanced for me to continue with her."

"Cecilia," said Madame de Vesac, "if you alone were concerned, I should not consent to this, for you must acquire the habit of persevering in what you undertake, and learn to bear the consequences of your own determinations. But Nanette would suffer from it; because, as you are neither sufficiently reasonable nor sufficiently patient to adopt the proper means of ensuring success, you would scold her for learning badly what you taught her badly, and thus she would be ill brought up and unhappy. You may therefore send her to school."

Cecilia, delighted at having obtained this permission, hastened to Mademoiselle Gerard, to beg her to inform the schoolmaster, and arrange with him the terms of Nanette's tuition. Mademoiselle Gerard, annoyed at being deprived of Nanette during so many hours in the morning, and foreseeing that this arrangement would displease her little pupil, declared that it was unnecessary, and wished to point out inconveniences in the plan. But Cecilia became angry at the first word (as always happens when we are not sure of being in the right), and said that it was Madame de Vesac's wish. The matter was therefore settled, and Nanette sent to school. For some time, Cecilia took an interest in her progress, and paid for her instruction cheerfully enough; and on her birthday, when Nanette recited some complimentary verses, composed by the schoolmaster, and in which she was styled her illustrious benefactress, Cecilia gave her a new dress, which Mademoiselle Gerard promised to make. But in course of time Cecilia had other fancies; and when the first of the month came round, she was annoyed at having to pay for Nanette's schooling. Mademoiselle Gerard had several times to remind her that Nanette required shoes; that she had worn and outgrown those she had; and that the small quantity of linen, and the caps and petticoats which had been made for her at first, were insufficient. Madame de Vesac had more than once contributed to her wardrobe; and Cecilia was one day a little ashamed at seeing the child in an apron made out of an old dress of Mademoiselle Gerard's. But in time she got reconciled to this, and began to see in Nanette only the protégée of the lady's maid. She never thought of her but when they happened to meet; and they became almost strangers to each other.

When they were about to return to Paris, Mademoiselle Gerard, whose health had been much impaired for some time past, was not in a condition to undertake the journey: so that Madame de Vesac resolved to leave her in the country until she got well. Mademoiselle Gerard had become so much accustomed to Nanette, that she could not bear the thought of parting with her; she therefore asked permission to retain her. Cecilia, as may be imagined, seconded the request; and Madame de Vesac, being then without a maid, and seeing that Nanette would only be an additional inconvenience, thought it as well to leave her with Mademoiselle Gerard, to whom she would be useful.

Thus was Cecilia, for the moment, relieved from all care of Nanette, and fully determined to think of her as little as possible, for the recollection was troublesome, as she could not but feel that she had not done for her all that she might have done. However, every month brought Mademoiselle Gerard's bill for Nanette's schooling, and other necessary expenses incurred on her account. Then came demands for shoes, linen, &c.; and although Mademoiselle Gerard was in this respect extremely economical, and not unfrequently assisted Nanette from her own wardrobe, still Cecilia found these expenses encroach sadly upon her allowance. Madame de Vesac, unknown to her, willingly undertook a part of them; but she would not undertake the whole, not thinking it right that her daughter should feel herself at liberty to transfer to her a duty which she had voluntarily imposed upon herself; and she insisted that Cecilia should not neglect the demands of Mademoiselle Gerard. But it happened that Madame de Vesac's husband was wounded while with the army, and though the wound was not dangerous, it was still of sufficient importance to prevent his being removed. His wife was therefore obliged to set off immediately to attend to him; and not wishing to take her daughter with her, she left her in the care of one of her aunts, who had two girls of her own, with whom Cecilia was delighted to have an opportunity of spending some time.

She had been with them about three days, when she received a letter from Mademoiselle Gerard. This letter could not have come at a more unwelcome moment, Cecilia having just taken a fancy to purchase a bonnet like one bought by her cousin, and imagining that Mademoiselle Gerard applied to her for money, "Oh!" she said, ill-temperedly, the moment she recognized the post-mark and handwriting, "I was quite sure this would not fail me; Mademoiselle Gerard always takes care to write whenever I want to buy anything for my own pleasure," and she threw the letter, unopened, upon the mantel-piece, and resumed her drawing, saying, "I shall read it quite soon enough."

"You had better spare yourself the trouble altogether," said the youngest of her cousins, who was very thoughtless, and, saying this, she took the letter, and threw it into the fire. Cecilia uttered a cry, and hastily rose to regain it, but before she had time to move her table, reach the fire-place, and seize the tongs, in spite of her cousin, who, laughing with all her might, endeavoured to prevent her, the letter was half destroyed. When, after having got it out, she wished to take hold of it, the flame burned her fingers, so that she let it fall, and, while vainly endeavouring to extinguish it with the tongs, her cousin, still laughing, took a large glass of water, and threw it over it. The letter ceased to burn, but the little that remained of it, was so blackened and impregnated with the water, that it was quite illegible, and Cecilia was, therefore, obliged to give up all thoughts of reading it. She scolded her cousin, telling her that she should now be obliged to write to Mademoiselle Gerard to know the contents of her letter, but, meanwhile, she bought the bonnet, and as, after having done so, she found herself without money, she was in no great hurry to know what Mademoiselle Gerard had written about; she, therefore, deferred writing from day to day, until a week or ten days had passed; then a fortnight elapsed, and the letter was still forgotten—finally, it remained unwritten at the end of three weeks. She little knew what was going on at the Château during this time.

Since their departure, the health of Mademoiselle Gerard had been constantly growing worse, she consequently became more fretful with every one except Nanette, of whom she was very fond, and who served her with zeal and intelligence. The only person who remained in the Château with her was the porter, an old servant named Dubois, a cross-grained, crabbed old man, though well enough disposed in the main. Mademoiselle Gerard, like the other servants, had frequently disputes with him, but as she was a sensible woman, these disputes were soon settled; now, however, that her temper became soured by illness, their disagreements increased in frequency and violence. It was part of Dubois' duty to supply her with everything she wanted, and when marketing for himself to buy what she required also. She was often discontented with his purchases, and, besides, if she asked for anything in the least out of the ordinary course, he told her it was too dear, and that Madame de Vesac would not permit such extravagance. Then Mademoiselle Gerard would cry, and bewail her misfortune in being left to the care of a man who would be the death of her. She had several times written to Madame de Vesac on the subject, who, well knowing her wishes to be unreasonable, endeavoured to calm her, and persuade her to wait patiently until her return; at the same time, she ordered Dubois not to vex her, as she was an invalid. Whenever the latter received these commands he became more ill-tempered than usual, because, he said, Mademoiselle Gerard had got him scolded by his mistress. At length their disagreements reached such a point, that Dubois would no longer enter the apartments of Mademoiselle Gerard, who, on her part, declared that, during the whole course of her life, she would never again speak to Dubois; so that she sent Nanette to get from him what she wanted. Poor little Nanette was often very much perplexed, as Mademoiselle Gerard, always dissatisfied with what Dubois sent her, never failed to break out into complaints whenever Nanette carried her the meat he had bought at the market, or the fruit and vegetables he had gathered in the garden. She declared he had chosen the very worst for her, and that he wanted to kill her; and such was her weakness on these occasions, that she would sometimes begin to cry. Nanette, who was very fond of her, was grieved at seeing her so much distressed, and would stand looking at her in perfect silence; then Mademoiselle Gerard would kiss her, and say, "If I were to die, who would take care of you?" for, in her weakness, she imagined there was no one in the world who would take an interest in Nanette but herself. The child returned her caresses, comforting her in her way, and assuring her that she would not die. She could not understand her friend's distress, but she would have done much to see her happy. But when Mademoiselle Gerard wanted to send her to Dubois to complain of what he had given her, she told her she dared not go, because on two or three occasions he had been so enraged with her that she was terribly frightened of him. Then she would repeat for the twentieth time what he had said the day she took back to him the decayed pears, and how, when she went to tell him that the slices of beet-root were bad, he flew into a furious passion, saying that servants were more difficult to please than their masters, then gave such a kick to his cupboard door, for the purpose of shutting it, and flung a carrot which he held in his hand with such violence across the room, that she ran away terrified, for fear of being beaten. She also repeated all that he had said about Mademoiselle Gerard herself, that he should never have a moment's peace so long as she was in the house, and that he would willingly give five pounds out of his own pocket, if she were only so far out of his way that he might never hear her name mentioned again. Then Mademoiselle Gerard became alarmed at his hatred, and could not endure the thought of remaining alone with him in the Château, saying that unless her mistress returned very soon she should be lost. If on these occasions Dubois happened to pass near her apartment, she ran to bolt and barricade the door, as if he were going to murder her. It was in moments of fever that these ideas took possession of her mind, and more especially in the evening, because the room occupied by Dubois was close to her own. The mere idea of having to pass the night so near him threw her into a frightful state of agitation. Nanette, without knowing why, shared in her alarm, and as soon as it began to get dusk she would run and bolt the doors. During the day they were more calm, and Nanette even amused herself by playing tricks upon Dubois.

He kept his fruit and other provisions in a room on the ground floor, one window of which looked upon the court-yard of the Château, and another into the poultry-yard. When the weather was fine, he used each morning to open the window that commanded the court-yard, go his rounds of the kitchen-garden and poultry-yard, and then return and close the window. Nanette had several times watched for the moment of his departure, and, taking advantage of his absence, had climbed to the window, entered the room, carried back the apples he had sent to Mademoiselle Gerard, and with which she was dissatisfied, and taken finer ones in their stead. She was careful whilst in the room to watch for Dubois through the window that looked into the poultry-yard, and the moment she caught a glimpse of him she made her escape. The first time this occurred, Mademoiselle Gerard gently reprimanded her for having gone through the window; but since her illness she had become too weak to be reasonable in anything, so that a few days later, being greatly annoyed at again receiving some apples which she declared were bad, she said to Nanette, "Could you not manage to get others for me?" Nanette desired nothing better, for she had been much amused with her first stratagem; she, therefore, again watched for Dubois' departure, clambered through the window, and accomplished her task with perfect success, and then diverted Mademoiselle Gerard, to whom her tricks had become a source of amusement, by mimicking the limping gait and surly expression of Dubois, as she had seen him returning in the distance. Nanette, who never took anything for herself, and even for her friend only made exchanges, did not feel the slightest scruple in respect to the propriety of her conduct; while to Mademoiselle Gerard, whose mind had become too far enfeebled to be capable of much reflection, it never occurred that she was encouraging the child in a bad habit, and exposing her to suspicion.

One day, when she had sent to Dubois for some dried grapes, she pretended, as usual, that he had chosen the worst for her, and, as children always see what they fancy they see, Nanette assured her that she had really observed him select the worst, and offered her good friend (as she always named Mademoiselle Gerard) to go and bring some better ones, from the cupboard in which she knew he always kept them locked up. Her friend consented, and Nanette having seen Dubois open the window and depart, started on her expedition. She got into the room, found the key of the cupboard, and began to make her selection. She was so busy that it did not occur to her that the door of the press concealed from her the window which looked upon the poultry-yard, and consequently, that she could not peep out as usual to see if Dubois were coming. Two or three times, indeed, she did interrupt her occupation, to go and look out, but not at the right moment, so that Dubois passed unperceived, and just when she considered herself perfectly safe, she heard a voice of thunder exclaiming, "Oh! you little thief; I have caught you, then!" and saw before the window the terrible Dubois, barring her passage. For the moment, she thought herself dead; but, fortunately, Dubois was too fat and too heavy to be able to get through the window: he could only overwhelm her with reproaches. Pale and trembling, her heart sinking with fright, she stood silent and motionless. But, at length, watching the moment when he went round to the door, she leaped through the window, and ran round the yard, pursued by Dubois, who, with vehement exclamations, endeavoured to reach her with his stick. Mademoiselle Gerard, hearing the noise, opened her window, and seeing the danger of her favourite, she lost all self-control, and screamed out, "Help! Help! Murder!" Dubois, furious, raised his eyes, and not knowing much better than herself what he was about, threatened her with his stick, and then recommenced his pursuit of Nanette, who by this time had gained the staircase. He mounted after her, and arrived at the moment when she and Mademoiselle Gerard were trying to shut the door; he pushed it open, and forced an entrance, almost upsetting Mademoiselle Gerard, who threw herself before Nanette, as if to prevent his touching her. Still more enraged by this movement, which seemed to imply that he intended to hurt the child, and worse in words than in deeds, he stopped, suffocated at once by anger and by his chase: then, recovering breath, he poured forth a volley of invectives, both against Nanette, whom he called a jade, and against Mademoiselle Gerard, whom he accused of encouraging her in stealing, and becoming a spy about the house. Mademoiselle Gerard, trembling at once with fear and indignation, told him that Nanette did not steal, that she only endeavoured to obtain something better than he had sent to poison her; that she was very unfortunate in being abandoned to a monster like him, but that her mistress would soon be back, and do her justice for all this.

"O yes!" said Dubois, "count upon Madame's return, but before she comes back you will have time to set out for the other world!"

After this piece of brutality, which satisfied his passion, he left them. Mademoiselle Gerard fell down almost insensible; and the surgeon who attended her found her, on his arrival, in a high state of fever. He had, besides, just been informed of M. de Vesac's wound, and of the departure of his wife, and communicated this intelligence to Mademoiselle Gerard, who now perceived the import of Dubois' words; and the idea of having to remain perhaps for six months longer at the mercy of such a man, filled her mind with a terror and agitation which it was impossible to subdue. As her imagination was now disordered by fever, she said that Dubois would kill Nanette; and when the latter declared that she could never dare ask him for anything again, Mademoiselle Gerard expected nothing less than to be starved to death. She determined therefore to go to her brother, who was married and established as a shopkeeper in a neighbouring town. It was in vain that the surgeon endeavoured to oppose this caprice, by representing to her that she was too ill to be removed without danger. Her fever and agitation increased so much by contradiction, that he found it necessary to yield to her desire. He therefore sent to the farm for a horse and cart, settled her with as little inconvenience as possible, and thus accompanied by Nanette, and taking with her all her effects, she started for the town, where she arrived almost in a dying state.

She remained several days in this condition; then became a little better, but was still so feeble that she began to give up all hope of recovery. Wishing to dispose of the little property she possessed, she sent for a notary. Her whole wealth consisted in a sum of a thousand crowns, the fruit of her savings, and which, from her suspicious character, she had been afraid of placing out at interest, for fear of being cheated, and therefore always kept in her own possession. She left two thousand four hundred francs to her brother, and six hundred to Nanette, with part of her effects. Then, on learning from the surgeon his belief that Cecilia had remained in Paris, she wrote to inform her of the condition she was in, begging her to make it known to Madame de Vesac, and to ask what, in the event of her death, was to be done with Nanette. This was the letter which Cecilia's cousin threw into the fire. Mademoiselle Gerard receiving no reply, supposed that Cecilia had left Paris; and feeling herself growing daily worse, she got the clergyman who visited her to write a long letter to Madame de Vesac. In this letter she recommended Nanette to her care, and without complaining of Dubois, whom the clergyman had prevailed upon her to forgive, she explained to her mistress that Nanette was not a thief, as Dubois had accused her of being.

Soon after this letter had been despatched she died; and thus was poor Nanette left utterly friendless. Mademoiselle Gerard's brother and his wife were selfish people; they had been annoyed at the affection she manifested for Nanette, because they were afraid she would leave her whatever she possessed. They supposed she must have amassed a considerable sum of money, and were confirmed in this opinion, when the day after her death they discovered in her apartment the thousand crowns. Knowing that she had made a will, the husband hastened to the notary, eager to learn its contents; and when it was opened in his presence he was very much astonished, and extremely dissatisfied, at finding that instead of being left a considerable legacy, as he expected, he should be obliged to give Nanette six hundred francs out of the thousand crowns, of which he had already taken possession. He returned home and communicated his information to his wife, who, being still more selfish than himself, was more enraged. She overwhelmed with abuse poor little Nanette, who, quite unconscious of what it all meant, remained terrified and motionless on the spot. Whilst giving vent to her passion the woman continued to arrange and sweep out her shop, and being near Nanette, she struck her with the broom, as if to make her get out of the way. The child ran crying to another corner of the shop. The broom which kept on its course seemed to pursue her; she jumped over it, and went to another part of the room, still it was after her. The activity of the shopkeeper seemed to increase with Nanette's terrors, and every movement she made was accompanied by threatening and abusive language. At length, not knowing where to fly for safety, the poor child ran to the threshold of the door; the woman pushed her out with her broom, saying, "Yes! yes! be off, you may be quite sure I shall not take the trouble to run after you;" and she closed the door upon her. Nanette remained for some time crying outside. At length, hearing some one about to open the door, and thinking it was her persecutor coming out to beat her, she ran off as fast as she could.

The street in which she happened to be led to the entrance of the town; when she had advanced some distance into the country she sat down upon a stone, and, still crying, began to eat a piece of bread, the remains of her breakfast, which she happened to have in her hand at the moment of her expulsion from the shop. A little boy came up to her, and asked what was the matter. Nanette at first made no reply; he repeated his question, and she told him that she did not know where to go.

"Come with me to Dame Lapie's," said the little fellow.