Moral Tales Page 3

  THE HISTORY OF A LOUIS D'OR.

  Ernestine was passing with her mother through the arcades of thePalais Royal, stopping at every shop, longing for all she saw, nowand then sighing heavily, and at each moment making the happinessof life consist in the possession of some attractive object, theremembrance of which was effaced the moment after by some other,destined in like manner to be as speedily forgotten. She was,however, more especially interested by a toy-shop; not that Ernestinehad any wish for dolls, little carts, or bureaus, in which she couldnot even have put her thimble, the drawers were so small: she was,indeed, too old for that, for she was already eleven; but the sightof a moving picture, in which were to be seen two men fighting, a dogturning a spit, a laundress, a paviour, and a stonecutter, inspiredher with a fancy, which appeared to her much more reasonable. Shestopped her mamma in order to examine it more leisurely, and hermother was kind enough to indulge her; but the picture was thenmotionless. Ernestine thought it would be delightful to see all thosefigures in action, especially the dog turning the spit, and asked ifit would not be possible to beg of the shopkeeper to wind it up.

  "Certainly not," replied Madame de Cideville, "he did not place itthere for the amusement of the passers-by; he would think I wished topurchase it."

  "It would surely be very dear?" said Ernestine.

  "One louis," replied the shopkeeper, who had overheard her.

  "Oh! mamma," whispered Ernestine, "how cheap!" for she had imaginedthat a thing so beautiful, and so ingenious, must have cost anenormous sum. "How delightful it would be," she continued, "to obtainthat for one louis!"

  "There are," said her mother, "many better ways of employing it;"and she passed on, to the great vexation of Ernestine, who wonderedto herself how it could happen that her parents, who were so rich,did not think it proper to spend a louis on so charming a thing asa moving picture, in which a dog was to be seen turning a spit: forErnestine, like all children, and upon this point she was more thanusually inconsiderate even for her age, thought her parents muchricher than they really were; besides, she was not aware that thereis no fortune, however large, which justifies unnecessary expense. Onreaching home, she spoke to her father about the picture.

  "Only fancy, papa, it might have been had for one louis. Oh! howhappy I should have been if I had had a louis of my own!"

  "You would not surely have spent it upon that?" replied her father.

  "Oh! papa, how could I have spent it on anything more delightful?"

  "Doubtless," replied M. de Cideville, "it would have been quiteimpossible to have found anything more delightful; but you might havefound something more useful."

  "For a louis, papa! What is there so very useful that can be boughtfor one louis?"

  As she said these words, Ernestine tossed in her hands her mamma'spurse, which Madame de Cideville, on entering, had laid upon thetable. A louis d'or fell out of it. "See," said Ernestine, as shepicked it up, "to what very important use can this little yellowthing be put?"

  "To what use?" replied her father; "if I were to tell you all theimportant uses to which it might be applied, all the trouble that issometimes required to gain it, all the danger there is in spending itbadly, all the good it may do to those who are in want of it, all theevil it may make them commit in order to obtain it, you would wonderhow any one could be even tempted to throw it away upon uselessobjects. Shall I relate to you the history of that particular louis,all the adventures it has met with, and to how many uses it has beenapplied?"

  "Oh! yes, papa; but how came you to know all this?"

  "That I will tell you afterwards. At present I want you to look at itmerely; it is not very ancient, it belongs to the coinage of 1787,so that it is scarcely five-and-twenty years old. Now, listen to allthat has happened to it."

  Ernestine drew a chair to her father's side, that she might listenmore attentively, and M. de Cideville began thus:--

  I will not tell you how much labour and time were required toextract from the earth the small quantity of gold of which thislouis is composed, to separate it from the other substances whichare generally found mixed with it, to melt it, to coin it, &c. Itwas in the year 1787, that it came for the first time into theRoyal treasury, and that it was afterwards given out, in payment ofa regiment, to which, I know not by what chance, several months'arrears were due. As the soldiers received five sous a day, thislouis served to discharge what was owing for more than three months'pay to a poor fellow who, had there been war, might, during thistime, have fought in a dozen battles, have been killed, or at leastwounded, have died of hunger in a besieged city, perished at sea,or been eaten by savages, had he been sent to fight in America.But as it was a time of peace, he had only caught an inflammationon the chest, in consequence of having had to mount guard duringone of the severest nights of winter, and afterwards a cutaneousdisease, from having slept in the hospital in the same bed witha comrade who had it. At length he recovered, and as he was anindustrious and well-conducted man, and had managed by his occupationof barber to the regiment, to make some little savings, he wasable, notwithstanding what I have mentioned, to send this louis tohis father, a poor peasant, at that very moment on the point ofbeing imprisoned for a debt of one louis, which he could not pay.The creditor was on the spot, threatening him, and announcing hisdetermination of sending for the sheriff's officer: the peasant'ssecond son, the brother of the soldier, furious at seeing his fatherthus menaced, had taken up a hatchet with which he was going tokill the creditor, notwithstanding the interposition of his mother,who, uttering piercing cries, rushed forward to prevent him, andwas thrown down by him, without his perceiving it, so violentwas his passion. The person who had brought the louis from thesoldier, arrived in the midst of this tumult. She had, at first,much difficulty in making herself heard; but when they did begin tounderstand what she was saying, peace was restored. The father paidhis creditor, the son rejoiced that he had not killed him, and thusthis louis d'or saved a man's life, probably the lives of two men;for the son would have been punished for his crime: perhaps, indeed,it saved a whole family, for the father and mother, who had only thisson to assist them in their labours, would, in all probability, havedied of misery and grief.

  The creditor who had exacted this louis with so much severity,belonged to the same village, and was really in absolute want of themoney, because, his harvest having failed, he had not the necessaryprovisions for his family during the winter. Had the soldier'slouis not arrived, however, it would have been useless for him tohave put the father in prison; he would have gained nothing, as theold man possessed nothing; but with this louis he bought twenty orfive-and-twenty bushels of potatoes, which were then very cheap, andthese served to support himself and his children.

  The woman, however, from whom he had purchased the potatoes, and whobelonged to another village, having the imprudence to cross in thedark a wood, through which the road to her house lay, three villainsof the neighbourhood in which she had sold her potatoes, who hadseen her receive the louis, agreed to wait for her in the wood, androb her of it. When, therefore, she had penetrated into the thicket,they burst upon her, threw her from her horse, took the louis, andwere about to tear off her clothes, and perhaps kill her, when,fancying they heard a noise, they ran off in different directions.He who held the louis, endeavoured to escape from his companions,that he might not share it with them; but they met him that sameevening at a tavern where he was spending it in drink. They demandedtheir share, quarrelled, fought, and discovered all their secrets.They were arrested and sent to the galleys. The tavern-keeperinterposed in the lawsuit; he wished to have the louis, as it hadbeen spent at his house; the woman who sold the potatoes, and whohad recovered and again mounted her horse, also claimed it, as ithad been stolen from her. I know not whether they were indemnified,but the louis, after having served as a proof of the theft, becauseit was the only one in the country, none of this particular coinagehaving been before introduced there, passed into the hands of an oldlawyer, who quarrelled with an eld
erly lady, after a friendship ofthirty years, because she had won it of him at piquet, during thecourse of six months, and had told him, besides, that he did notknow how to play. This old lady sent it as a new-year's gift to oneof her little granddaughters in Paris, who was saved by it from avery considerable annoyance. Her brother, who, though treated witha good deal of severity, was, nevertheless, very disobedient andill-behaved, had taken from her father's library, notwithstanding hishaving been forbidden to touch it, a book which contained prints;while reading it, he had let an inkstand fall upon it, and in orderthat he might not be suspected, had carried it into the anteroom. Allthis he communicated to his sister, as a great secret, making hersolemnly promise to say nothing about it, so that the servant mightbe suspected. As her father was very particular about his books, theyoung girl knew that the servant would be dismissed; still she couldnot denounce her brother. The book had been put in the anteroom,during the evening, and she wept all night at the thought of whatwas to happen next day; for she was extremely kind and just. In themorning, on awaking, the first thing she beheld was the louis, whichhad been put upon her bed as a present from her grandmamma; her joywas extreme, and she immediately sent for a copy of the book, as herbrother, who had also received a louis, finding himself screened,would not spend his in this manner. However, she consoled herself, bythinking of the terrible pain she would have experienced in seeingan innocent person punished, without daring to justify him. Thebook cost exactly one louis; this louis passed into the hands of alibrarian, and had a great influence on the destiny of a little boy,whose history I am about to relate to you.

  LITTLE PETER.

  Little Peter, when ten years old, had entered the service of M.Dubourg, a worthy man, who passed his life in the study of Greek andLatin, and was so much taken up with what happened three thousandyears ago, that he did not even think of troubling himself withwhat was actually passing around him; for he was consoled for everyinconvenience, provided he could apply to it an example or a maximdrawn from antiquity. If he cut his finger, or hurt his foot, hisfirst movement was an exclamation of impatience, but immediatelyafterwards he checked himself and grew calm, saying, "The philosopherEpictetus suffered his leg to be broken by his master, who wasbeating him, without making any complaint beyond these words: '_Itold you you would break my leg._'" One day, while dining in town,he found himself in company with some very ill-bred military men,who could talk of nothing but the stories of their regiment, andthe number of bottles of wine they had drunk at a mess dinner. Themistress of the house, in order to make him some kind of apology fora conversation which wearied him, said, laughing, "You must allow, M.Dubourg, that I have made you dine in very bad company."

  "Madame," replied M. Dubourg, "Alcibiades knew how to accommodatehimself to every grade of society, to every company, and even to thecustoms of every nation;" and in order to follow the example ofAlcibiades, he commenced talking to them of the battle of Salamis,and the feasts of Bacchus. As to the rest, M. Dubourg only dined outsix times a year; this was a rule which he had laid down for himself,however numerous might be the invitations which he received. Theonly irregularity he allowed himself was in the periods. Thus, forinstance, he might one year dine out on the 6th of March, and thefollowing year on the 7th or the 10th; it might even happen thathe accepted two invitations in the same month, though as a generalrule he placed them as nearly as possible at equal distances; but ifby any extraordinary chance, the six dinners were expended by themonth of July, no consideration would induce him to dine away fromhome during the rest of the year. His expenditure was regulated asstrictly as his manner of life. With a very small income, M. Dubourgwished to live in such a manner as to be perfectly independent ofevery one, and especially so as never to be reduced to the necessityof borrowing, which he regarded as the greatest of all faults;"for," said he, "one can never be sufficiently sure of repaying."Thus, his dinners were furnished by a restaurateur, who, for thesame sum, brought him every day the same thing. On one occasion therestaurateur wished to increase his charge. "It is all the same tome," said M. Dubourg, "I shall take less; Diogenes was able, by merephilosophy, to bring himself to drink out of his hand, although hehad still a wooden cup of which he might have made use." It wasprobably less out of respect for philosophy, than from the fear ofdisobliging a customer, that the restaurateur, by the means ofcertain arrangements, agreed to furnish him, for the old price, adinner of pretty nearly the same kind.

  The other expenses of the day were calculated with the sameprecision, so that, without ever counting, M. Dubourg, had always ayear's income in advance, and was consequently never inconveniencedby having to wait for his returns. He had, besides, a sum in reservefor extraordinary cases; such as an illness, an accident, or evena goblet broken, or a bottle of ink overturned, &c. It might alsohappen, on a rainy day, that he had to pay for crossing a stream upona plank, or, in winter, to give a sous to the little sweeper whocleaned the crossing; all these expenses fell upon the extraordinaryfund, for as to coaches, M. Dubourg had only hired two during thewhole course of thirty years. One was to pay a visit to a rich manfrom whom he had accepted an invitation to dinner, and to whosehouse he was told he must not go splashed. This broke off theiracquaintance, and he never would go again, however much he waspressed. The other he took when going to declare his sentiments to ayoung lady whom he had been persuaded to fancy himself desirous ofmarrying. He took it for fear that the wind should shake the powderout of his hair, and it gave him an opportunity of reflecting, ashe proceeded, on the disorders into which the passions lead us. Onarriving at the young lady's house, he paid the coachman, returnedhome on foot, and renounced for ever the idea of marrying. Hisreserved fund was always maintained in the same state, by means ofa portion of his income regularly set apart for this purpose. Whenit did not happen to be all spent by the end of the year, M. Dubourggave the remainder to the poor, otherwise, he neither gave nor lent;for he said that "it is not proper to give unless we are certainof not being obliged to ask, and that he who, in order to lend,exposes himself to the chance of being obliged to borrow, places hisintegrity at the mercy of a bad paymaster." It may be seen then, thatwith some follies, M. Dubourg was a man highly to be esteemed for hisintegrity.

  Little Peter passed with him the happiest of lives. Provided hewas careful not to arrange the books that were scattered or heapedtogether upon the desk or floor, which M. Dubourg called disarrangingthem; provided he took care to sweep the room only once a fortnight,when M. Dubourg had taken away certain fine editions, which he didnot wish to have exposed to the dust; provided he was careful neverto remove the cobwebs, that he might not run the risk of upsettingthe busts of Homer, of Plato, of Aristotle, of Cicero, of Virgil,&c., which adorned the top of the library, little Peter might dopretty nearly what he pleased. If he happened to be out at the hourat which the restaurateur brought, every day, M. Dubourg's dinner,so that it had to be left at the door, M. Dubourg having forbiddenthe man ever to ring, for fear of interrupting his studies, and ifM. Dubourg found his dinner quite cold, or partly eaten by the cat,Peter merely excused himself by saying, that he had been detainedby some business. Then M. Dubourg would say to him: "It is quitenatural, Peter, that you should occupy yourself principally with yourown affairs; you are not my slave; I have not purchased you withmy money: but were you my slave, the case would be very different."Then, whilst taking his dinner, he would explain to him the dutiesand condition of slaves; and how it was that their masters possessedover them the power of life and death, which was indeed but just,since they had purchased them; "But as for me, Peter," he would add,"I am not permitted to do you the least harm, for you are not myslave." And, in fact, he would not give him a caning, even when helearned his Latin grammar badly; this was, nevertheless, the greatestannoyance Peter could cause M. Dubourg; who, on this point, sometimesgot into violent passions, quite at variance with his generalcharacter; for he could not understand how it was possible for anyone to dislike so excellent a thing as the Latin grammar. Thisdislike, howev
er, was very sincere on the part of little Peter, whohad no fancy for study, and who, though he had learned to read and towrite, had done so much against his will. When M. Dubourg, who didnot wish any one to live with him without understanding Latin, firstput an _Accidence_ into his hand, his parents were delighted at theidea of his making, as they thought, little Peter a learned man likehimself; but Peter had not the slightest wish to resemble M. Dubourg,who passed the whole day in poring over books; who often only halfdined, for fear of allowing a Greek passage to escape him, themeaning of which he was beginning to seize; who took water, scarcelycoloured, because wine disturbed the judgment, and had, he said,caused Alexander the Great to commit many crimes; and who, finally,as his only pleasure, walked for two hours every day in the gardensof the Tuileries, with three other learned men, who, on their part,met there for the purpose of conversing together, after the manner ofthe Peripaticians.

  Little Peter, fancying that Latin led to nothing better than this,could not perceive in it anything very attractive, and only learnedhis Accidence, ill or well as the case might be, for the sake ofpleasing M. Dubourg, who wept with joy when he had repeated hislesson well. He read, however, with tolerable pleasure, some books ofhistory which M. Dubourg had lent him, and he passed the remainderof his time with his parents, to whom M. Dubourg had promised tosend him for several hours each day, and to whom Peter, according tocustom, remitted a very considerable portion of the hundred francswhich he annually received as his wages; for they said that, havingconsented to place him with M. Dubourg at an age in which his labourmight have been useful to them in their trade of braziers, they oughtto be indemnified, in some other manner, for the expenses he hadoccasioned them in his childhood. Little Peter, better fed and betterclothed than he could have been at home, ought to have consideredhimself very well off; but he was discontented, because he could notrun about like other boys of his age, and because he had not the freedisposal of his money; in fact he regretted all the follies whichhe could not commit, and then the Rudiments greatly disgusted him.Besides, little Peter affected to be ambitious; he must make hisfortune, and that was an impossibility so long as he remained withM. Dubourg. He related his troubles to a little groom with whomhe became acquainted, from having seen him at the door of a house,situated between the residence of M. Dubourg and his father's shop.One day this groom, whose name was John, told him that if he wishedhe would procure him a good situation, with a young gentleman, afriend of his master, who was in want of a groom. He would have totake his meals with the other servants of the family, as long asthe young gentleman resided with his parents, and receive a hundredfrancs a year, as with M. Dubourg, besides a louis d'or for hisnew-year's gift, not to mention the perquisites, which, according toJohn's account, would amount to three times as much as his wages.Peter felt himself greatly tempted by the louis d'or, which he hopedto keep for himself, and by the livery, which he thought much finerthan his grey jacket, forgetting, that from his grey jacket he mightpass to a better dress without the change being remarked, whereaslivery is a costume which once seen upon a person is never forgotten.John had taught him to groom a horse, and this pleased him much morethan the Rudiments; he thought it would be very delightful to have togroom one every day, and, besides, it seemed to him that he shouldhave his own way much more. However, he told John that the thingwas impossible; that he could not leave M. Dubourg; but as he wentalong he could think of nothing else. His parents, seeing him thuspreoccupied, said to him a dozen times, "Peter, are you ill?" Hereplied that he was not, and left them much earlier than usual, to goand find John; not that he knew what answer to give him, but simplythat he might hear him talk of the situation, of the louis d'or, ofthe perquisites, and of the horse.

  The desire he felt to obtain the situation increased at every moment.John told him that nothing was easier; that he had only to allow himto speak to M. and Madame Jer?me,--these were the parents of littlePeter; and that he would make them listen to reason. Peter took himat his word, and told him to come with him. John went, and as he wasa boy of great determination, he represented, in glowing colours, toM. and Madame Jer?me, all the advantages of the situation which heproposed, with the exception, however, of the louis d'or, to whichPeter had begged him not to allude, as he wished to keep it forhimself. "But see, Madame Jer?me," said John, "the master he willhave, lays aside his clothes almost new, and I will wager that, everyyear, Peter will be able to bring a suit to M. Jer?me; but that is oncondition that you let him have a little more of his wages."

  "We shall see, we shall see," said Madame Jer?me, who was quitecaptivated with the idea of her husband's having a smart coat to walkout with her on a Sunday. M. Jer?me urged that Peter could not leaveM. Dubourg, who bestowed so much pains on his education. "Excellent!"replied Madame Jer?me; "no doubt Peter will be very well off whenhe is as learned as M. Dubourg. They say in the neighbourhood, thatthat is not the way to get bread." And as Madame Jer?me always madeher husband do just what she pleased, it was agreed that Peter shouldaccept the situation. John went to his master to solicit it; thelatter mentioned it to his friend, who sent for little Peter, and ashe was without a servant, it was arranged, that if Peter brought hima good character from M. Dubourg, he should enter his service thefollowing day.

  Peter returned home to M. Dubourg, whose dinner had been waiting atthe door a quarter of an hour. He was so bewildered, that in layingthe cloth, he put the chair on the side of the window instead of onthat of the door, a thing which had not been done for five-and-twentyyears; and he forgot, when giving M. Dubourg something to drink, thatit was an inviolable rule with him to put the wine into the glassbefore the water. His master looked at him with astonishment, saying,"Are you ill, Peter?" He again replied that he was not, and continuedhis duties; but he was completely embarrassed, and the more so as M.Dubourg spoke to him with even more than his usual kindness, callinghim _my child_, his term of endearment for those whom he particularlyliked. He said to him, "You will soon be thirteen years old; this isprecisely the age at which the Romans took the _Pr?texta_. I eventhink that I might find instances in which it was taken earlier,though, indeed, this may have been in corrupt times. But no matter: Ithink I can in conscience, allow you to leave off your grey jacket.Since you have been with me, I have made it a rule never to dust thecovers of my books with my sleeve, as I was accustomed to do, and Ihave only failed once, and then through pure forgetfulness. Besides,although this coat has nearly served its time, for I buy one everythree years, it is in a sufficiently good condition to be done upfor you. And," added M. Dubourg, patting him on the head with an airof gaiety, "you will look like a little gentleman."

  Little Peter felt extremely troubled; this kindness, and then thiscoat, which was to make him look like a gentleman, had completelyupset all his ideas. He left the room as soon as he could, and didnot enter it again that evening. The following morning, Madame Jer?mecame to inform M. Dubourg that her son wished to leave him, and toask him for a character. However great was his astonishment, he onlyuttered these words: "Little Peter is not my slave; I have no rightto detain him against his will." He promised the character, and whenMadame Jer?me was gone, he called Peter, who had not dared to showhimself. "Peter," said he, "if you were my slave, you would deserveto be beaten with rods, or even worse, for wishing to leave yourmaster; but you are not my slave, therefore you may go."

  He said this in a tone of so much feeling, that little Peter, alreadymuch moved, began to cry. "Why do you wish to leave me, my child?"continued M. Dubourg; "you will forget all you know, with anothermaster."

  "Oh! Sir," said Peter, shaking his head, "it is not my lot to be alearned man."

  "You are mistaken, Peter; you are mistaken, my child. If you couldonce get over the rule of _que retranch?_, you would get on verywell." And thereupon he began to cite to him, with great earnestness,the examples of many celebrated men, who had at first displayed butlittle talent, but who afterwards astonished the world by the extentof their learning. "You have the opportunity of becoming wh
at theywere, Peter," exclaimed M. Dubourg, "and yet you renounce it." He wasso sure of his case, and spoke with so much enthusiasm, that littlePeter, quite carried away, felt himself on the point of losing hisfortune.

  "Oh! Sir," he exclaimed, "only consent to give me one louis more ayear, and I will remain with you all my life."

  At these words, the enthusiasm of M. Dubourg was changed intoconsternation. "If that is what is required," said he, "it isimpossible. You know yourself, that it is impossible." Peter remainedsilent and confounded, for he knew that his master, before engaginghim, had refused a boy who asked him five louis, because this wouldhave occasioned an irregularity of twenty francs in the expensesof the year. He retired in confusion. M. Dubourg, without utteringanother word, gave him a favourable character, to which, however, heconsidered himself obliged, as a matter of conscience, to add, thatPeter had always shown but little inclination for the Latin grammar.

  Little Peter soon got over his vexation; he thought himself so finein his livery, especially when John had taught him some of hisgrand airs, that he was as proud of it as if there had really beensome merit or honour in wearing it, and when, by chance, he hadto drive his master's cabriolet through the streets, he would nothave exchanged conditions with any of those triumphant heroes whosehistory M. Dubourg had made him read. One day when he was behind thiscabriolet, he saw M. Dubourg in danger of being knocked down by thehorse, and cried out, "Take care, take care!" in a louder, thoughless imperious tone than usual. M. Dubourg recognised the voice,and looked up. Peter did not very well know whether to be pleasedor ashamed, that he should thus be seen by him in all his glory. M.Dubourg gave a heavy sigh: "Is it possible," he said, "that a personwho was beginning to understand the Latin grammar could mount behinda cabriolet!" And he continued his way home, in a thoughtful mood.

  As for Peter, he did not think of the circumstance very long, heonly thought of amusing himself. John had taught him, according tohis own account, the best means of doing so; that is, he took himto the public-house, and to places where cards and billiards wereplayed. There he lost his money, and when his master paid him hisfirst quarter's wages, he owed the whole of it. For three days, hedid not dare to go near his parents; for he knew very well that theywould require their share. At length, John advised him to say, thathe was to be paid only every six months, assuring him that by thattime he would regain all that he had lost. On the contrary, he lostmore, and only got deeper in debt. At the end of the six months, hesaid that he had been mistaken, and that his master paid only oncea year. His parents began to disbelieve him, and, besides, the coatthat John had promised to M. Jer?me was not forthcoming. If Peter hadreceived perquisites, he had sold them to obtain money. Still hisdebts increased daily; he dared not pass down the street in which acertain tavern-keeper lived, because he had had drink in his house,for which he had not paid; in the neighbouring street a petty dealerin hardware, from whom he had obtained, on credit, a chain of falsegold, in order to appear to wear a watch, insulted him every timehe saw him. At every moment, he met comrades to whom he was stillindebted, for money which they had won from him, while his parents,on the other hand, were very much displeased with him, and threatenedto go and ask his master whether he told them the truth. Little Peterknew not where to hide his head.

  One morning his master's mother, who was almost as precise a personas M. Dubourg, gave him eighteen francs to carry to a shopkeeper, towhom she owed the balance of an account, for some things purchasedof him the previous evening. Peter went out, proceeding with greatprecaution and looking on every side, as he was accustomed to do,since he had become constantly fearful of meeting persons to whomhe owed money. He was absolutely obliged to pass through the streetin which the hardware-dealer lived; he looked out from a distance,saw him engaged in conversation, and hoped to pass by unperceived.But as he approached, the person with whom he was talking turnedround. It was the tavern-keeper, who called to him, and demanded hismoney, in no very polite terms. The hardware-man joined him, andthey placed themselves in the middle of the street, so as to preventhim from passing, telling him that he must pay them. Peter glidedbetween the wall and a carriage, which was standing there, and ran onwith all his might; he heard them cry after him, that it was well tohave good legs when one had not a good conscience, but that he mightspare himself the trouble of running away, as they would catch himagain. As he continued his flight, and was rapidly turning a corner,he ran against a man who was coming towards him. This man turnedout to be a groom of his acquaintance, to whom he owed some money,won at cards. He was half-intoxicated, and seizing little Peter bythe collar, and swearing at him, said that he must have his money,for the publican demanded it of him, and that he would drag Peterbefore him and beat him until he had paid it. Peter defended himselfwith all his strength. A crowd gathered round, and allowed them tocontinue. At length he heard some one cry out, "Villain, leave offbeating that child!" He recognised the voice of M. Dubourg, and sawhim, with uplifted cane, approaching to his assistance. The fearof being recognised, gave him even more strength than the fear ofbeing beaten; he tore himself out of the hands of the groom, who hadlikewise turned round, on hearing himself thus spoken to, and whom M.Dubourg, with his cane still upraised, prevented from following Peter.

  Peter, who now continued his flight with even greater rapidity thanbefore, came at last to a street where he no longer saw any onelikely to recognise him, and sat down trembling, upon a bench, notknowing what was to become of him. He had heard the groom also saythat he would catch him, and he had no doubt that he was watchingfor his return. On raising his eyes, he perceived that he was beforea tavern to which his comrades had taken him to play at cards, andwhere he had seen one of them win a hundred francs. His heart beathigh at the idea of gaining as much, and a detestable thought tookpossession of his mind. Perhaps in hazarding thirty sous only of theeighteen francs with which he had been intrusted, he might regainall that he owed; but if he happened to lose! This reflection madehim tremble. He went away; then returned, the temptation increasingevery moment. At last, picking up a stone, he said to himself, "Ifin throwing this against the wall, I hit the mark that I see there,it will be a sign that I shall win!" He placed himself very nearthe wall, that he might not miss it, threw the stone, hit the spot,and went in. He was so excited, that he scarcely knew what he wasabout. Never before had he committed so bad an action, nor would hehave committed it now, doubtless, had he been in his right mind.But it is one of the consequences of bad actions that they place usin circumstances which disturb the judgment, and deprive it of thestrength necessary for directing our conduct. Had any one, at thismoment, told Peter that he was committing the act of a thief, hewould have trembled from head to foot; yet such was, nevertheless,the fact; but he did not think of it. At first he only hazardedthirty sous, and won: he won again, and fancied himself already rich.Had he stopped there, he would have had, if not sufficient to get outof difficulty, at least enough to satisfy, in some degree, one or twoof his creditors; but by doing this, he would have been rewarded forhis fault, and by a law of Providence, evil-doers never know how tostop at the point where their faults would be unattended with danger.He who, in doing wrong, relies upon his prudence to protect him fromexposure, always finds himself deceived; the love of gain, or ofpleasure, ends by dragging him on to the action which is to bringabout his punishment. Peter was desirous of gaining more, and he lostnot only what he had won, but his stake also. The hopes that he hadat first formed, rendered him only the more ardent in the game, and,besides, how was he to replace the thirty sous? He hazarded thirtymore, lost them, then more; at last the whole eighteen francs aregone. He left the house in despair, and wandered through the streetsunconsciously, neither knowing where he was, nor what he was doing,still less what he intended to do. He heard it strike four o'clock,and remembered that at five he had to wait at table. He would beasked by his mistress's mother whether he had paid the eighteenfrancs, and though for some time past he had got into the habit oftelling falsehoods, his conscien
ce accused him so vehemently, thathe felt he should not be able to reply. However, like a man whothrows himself into a river without knowing whether he shall get outof it again, he took, mechanically, the way to the house; but ashe approached it, he fancied he saw the shop girl belonging to thetradesman, to whom he had been ordered to carry the eighteen francs,coming out of it. He had no doubt that she had been to ask for themoney, and feeling that it would be quite impossible for him to enteragain his master's dwelling, he turned away, and recommenced running,without knowing whither he went. It was winter: night came on, andhe at last stopped, and sat down upon a step, and felt that he waswithout a home. Nothing in the world would have induced him toreturn to his parents, and it would have been equally impossible forhim to expose himself to the look of the honest M. Dubourg. The coldincreased with the night, and it began to freeze rather severely.Peter had eaten nothing since the morning, and though his heart wasoppressed, yet hunger began to make itself felt at last. All he coulddo, however, was to weep; for what resource was left to him in theworld? At times this hunger, cold, suffering, and despair weighed soheavily upon him, that he would start up, and run away, whither heknew not, but determined to find some spot where he should sufferless. Then again, he would suddenly stop; for he felt that he had notthe courage to show himself anywhere, or to endure the questions orthe looks of any one; so he would slowly return, sit down again, andweep anew, while the cold wind, blowing upon his face, froze up thetraces of his tears.

  At last, overcome by fatigue and exhaustion, he fell asleep, orrather he became numbed; his state was a kind of half-sleep,which, although leaving him no distinct ideas, still left him theconsciousness of the cold and hunger, and grief. In the middle of thenight, he was awakened by some one who shook him violently. He openedhis eyes, and saw around him several armed men. It was the watch,who finding a child asleep in the street, wanted to know why he wasthere, and to whom he belonged. Peter had at first some difficultyin collecting his ideas, and when he had succeeded in doing so, heonly felt the more vividly the impossibility of replying. He darednot say to whom he belonged. He cried, and entreated them to leavehim there, as he was doing no harm to any one. They would not listento him, but told him that he must go to the guardhouse. One of themtook him by the shoulders, and as he resisted, another gave him ablow across the legs to make him proceed. Peter walked on trembling.The snow began to fall so heavily, that they could scarcely see theirway, and added to this, the wind was so strong, that it extinguishedall the lamps, and drove the snow full into their faces. At length,the soldier who held little Peter had his cap blown off by a violentgust, and left him in order to run after it. The others, blinded bythe snow, got dispersed; they sought each other; they called out. Asto Peter, stupified by the wind, the snow, and all that had happenedto him, he knew not where he was, what he was doing, or what he oughtto do. Motionless on the spot where he had been left, he heard thesoldiers inquiring for him, and asking whether he had not escaped.This brought him to himself, and finding one of them approaching, hedrew back softly, in order to get as near as possible to the wall. Ashe retired farther and farther, he was still unable to feel the wall,and at last perceived that he had entered a bye-street, which thethickness of the snow had prevented him from seeing. He then walkedfaster, and soon ceasing to hear the soldiers, he regained a littlecourage, and after many windings, he at last stopped, and croucheddown at the corner of an old building.

  After remaining there some time, he again fell asleep, and when heawoke day was breaking. He tried to get up, but the cold and theuneasy posture in which he had remained, had so benumbed his limbs,that he could not move a step, nor even stretch his legs; while theviolent effort which he made in order to move forward, threw him tothe ground. In falling, his head struck the curbstone so violentlythat he become unconscious. He did not, however, altogether faint,and after a short time he had a confused perception of personsspeaking and acting around him. It also seemed to him that he wastaken up and carried away; but all was so indistinct that he hadno proper consciousness of anything. He had neither any fear ofwhat was going to happen to him, nor any wish to be better, nor anyrecollection of what he had done. He came to himself, however, bydegrees, and his first sensation was a violent oppression of theheart. Poor little fellow! this is a feeling which he will henceforthalways experience, as often as he calls to mind what he has done.At present he does not call this to mind, he simply feels that hehas committed a terrible fault. He also feels that he is sufferingin every part of his body, but, at the same time, he perceivesthat he is in a bed, and in a room; at length he regained completeconsciousness and saw that he was at M. Dubourg's, and that M.Dubourg and his mother Madame Jer?me were by his side.

  His first impulse on perceiving them was to hide his head in thebedclothes and weep. As soon as his mother saw that he was conscious,she asked him what had happened to him, and why he had fled from hismaster. She told him that, finding he did not return during the day,they had sent at night to inquire for him at her house; that thishad made her very uneasy, and that she had gone to his master'searly in the morning, and learning that he had not slept there, shehad run in great terror to M. Dubourg, who told her that he had notseen him; and finally, that on leaving his house, she had foundhim at the corner of the street stretched upon the ground, totallyinsensible, and surrounded by several women of the neighbourhood,who were exclaiming, "Oh! it is little Peter! What can have happenedto him! What will Mother Jer?me say! He must have been drinking, andgot intoxicated, and the cold has seized him." At the same time, thewoman who attended to M. Dubourg's house had gone to tell him thenews, and he in great uneasiness came out in his dressing-gown andnightcap, a thing which had never happened to him before in the wholecourse of his life.

  She had found him at the corner of the street, totally insensible, and surrounded by several women of the neighbourhood--P. 27.]

  At the conclusion of this recital, intermingled with reproofs, MadameJer?me renewed her questions; but little Peter wept without replying.The physician who had been sent for, now arrived, and told them thathe must not be tormented, as a severe fever was coming on; and indeeda violent excitement soon succeeded to the weakness from which hehad just recovered. His fault represented itself to him in the mostfrightful colours, and threw him into fits of despair, of which theywere at a loss to conjecture the cause. At length, when Madame Jer?mehad gone home to inform her husband of what had happened, and ofthe necessity there was of her remaining to nurse Peter, he raisedhimself in his bed, and throwing himself on his knees, with claspedhands called M. Dubourg, and said to him, "Oh! M. Dubourg, I havecommitted a great crime." M. Dubourg, thinking him delirious, toldhim to keep himself quiet, and lie down again. "No, M. Dubourg,"he repeated, "I have committed a great crime." And then with thequickness and volubility which the fever gave him, he related allthat had passed, but with so much minuteness of detail, that it wasimpossible to consider what he said as the effect of delirium. M.Dubourg made him he down again, and stood before him pale and shocked.

  "Oh! Peter, Peter!" said he at last, with a deep sigh, "I had soearnestly hoped to have been able to keep you with me!"

  Peter, without listening to him, uttered aloud all that the tormentsof his conscience dictated; he said that his master's mother wouldhave him apprehended, and in moments when his reason wandered morethan usual, he declared that the guard were in pursuit of him. M.Dubourg, after reflecting for some time, went to his secretary,counted his money, closed his desk again, and Madame Jer?me returningat the same moment, he related to her what he had just learned,adding, "Madame Jer?me, little Peter, according to his own account,has committed a great crime, which prevents my keeping him with meas I had hoped to do, for I had provided the necessary means. Mymind has never been easy, from the day I saw him behind a cursedcabriolet. He had offered to remain with me for one louis more ayear, and I thought of procuring it by my labour. You see, MadameJer?me, how valuable and profitable a thing is learning. I had indeedmade it a rule never to
publish anything; but I considered thatthere were works which might be written, without compromising one'stranquillity. I have composed an almanac, in which I have recordedthe feasts and epochs of the year among the ancients. It cannot butbe very interesting to know, that on such a day began the Ides ofMarch, or, as the case may be, the Feasts of Ceres. I demanded ofthe publisher one louis for it, that being all I stood in need of.He gave it immediately, and will give me the same every year, fora similar almanac." M. Dubourg was going on to explain to MadameJer?me how he would manage to insure accuracy, notwithstanding theirregularity of the ancient calendar; "but," said he, "it is notnecessary for you to know all this:" and then added, "I had intendedthis louis for little Peter. I can dispose of it in his favour, andthe more easily as we are now at the end of the year, and I have inmy reserved fund more than sufficient to defray the expenses of hisillness. I was afraid at first that I should be encouraging vice; butI have since considered that the evil is now done, and that it is theinnocent who has suffered from it. Take, then, this louis, MadameJer?me, and carry the eighteen francs to the shopkeeper." This,said M. de Cideville, was the precise louis d'or whose history I amrelating to you.

  Madame Jer?me, he continued, had been waiting anxiously for the endof this discourse, which she did not very well understand, but whichshe had not ventured to interrupt. As she was a very honest woman,the conduct of her son had so overwhelmed her with grief and shame,that she almost threw herself at the feet of M. Dubourg, to thank himfor affording her the means of repairing it without being obliged topay a sum very considerable for a poor woman burdened with a family.She hastened out, though not without addressing some reproaches toher son, who scarcely understood them, and ran to pay the shopkeeper.As it happened, no inquiries had been made of him, nor had he, onhis part, sent for the money. Peter, therefore, had been mistaken,and as yet nothing was known about the affair. His mother, on herreturn, found him better; the fever had begun to abate, and he wasalso comforted by the intelligence she brought. But if he had escapedexposure, he could not escape from the remorse of his own conscience,or from the reproaches of his mother, who was inconsolable. Herlamentations, however, distressed him less than the cold and seriousmanner of M. Dubourg, who no longer approached his bed, or spoke tohim, but took care that he should want for nothing, without everdirectly asking him what he wished to have. Little Peter had, morethan once, shed bitter tears on this account, and to this grief wasadded, when he began to recover, the fear of returning to his father,who had come to see him during his illness, and who, being a man ofgreat integrity, had severely reprimanded, and even threatened him.

  Peter entreated his mother to ask M. Dubourg to keep him. M. Dubourgat first refused; but Madame Jer?me having promised him that Petershould not go out, and that he should study the whole of the day, hewent to consult his Xenophon, and saw that Socrates in his youth hadbeen addicted to every vice; there was reason therefore, for hopingthat labour would reform little Peter, as it had reformed Socrates.

  Peter was obliged to keep his word. His illness had left a debilitywhich long continued, and he was further restrained from going outby the fear of meeting those to whom he owed money. Study being hisonly amusement, he ended by becoming fond of it: and as he possessedgood abilities, his progress was such as to give his master muchsatisfaction. But the honest M. Dubourg was ill at ease with Peter,and no longer spoke to him with his accustomed familiarity. Peterfelt this, and was unhappy: then he redoubled his efforts to improve.One day, having made a translation which gave M. Dubourg greatsatisfaction, the latter promised, that if he continued to improve,he would have the coat, which he still kept for him, arranged. Peter,after much hesitation, begged to be allowed to sell it instead, sothat its price, together with the louis which he was to receiveat the end of the year, might serve to pay a part, at least, ofhis debts. M. Dubourg consented, and was greatly pleased that thisidea had occurred to him. While waiting, therefore, for two years,until the new coat had served its time, he continued to wear hisold grey jacket, which he was obliged to mend almost every day, andthe sleeves of which had become about four inches too short. Butduring this time he succeeded in completely gaining the friendshipof M. Dubourg, who, having received a small legacy, employed it inincreasing the salary of Peter, whom he elevated to the rank of hissecretary. From this moment he treated him as a son; but Peter, whowas now called M. Jer?me, could not perceive, without profound grief,that whenever any allusion was made in his presence to a defect ofprobity, M. Dubourg blushed, cast down his eyes, and did not dareto look at him. As for himself, whenever anything was mentionedthat could have reference to his fault, he felt a severe pang shootthrough his heart. When money was concerned, he was timid, alwaystrembling, lest his honesty should be suspected. He did not dare,for several years, to propose to M. Dubourg that he should sparehim the trouble of carrying the money to the restaurateur at theend of each month. The first time his master intrusted him with it,he was delighted, but still felt humiliated by the very pleasure heexperienced. However, he became accustomed to it: a life of steadyhonesty has at last restored to him the confidence which every man ofhonour ought to possess; but he will not dare to relate this historyto his children for their instruction, until he has become so old,and so respectable, that he is no longer the same person as littlePeter, and he will always remember, that to M. Dubourg, and his louisd'or, he owes the preservation of his character.

  CONTINUATION OF THE HISTORY OF A LOUIS D'OR.

  One day after breakfast, M. de Cideville having a leisure hour,Ernestine begged him to continue the history of the louis d'or, andhe began thus:--

  The shopkeeper to whom Madame Jer?me had carried the louis, was justgoing out as she gave it to him. He took it, returned her in changea six-franc piece, which was lying on the counter, gave the louisto his wife to be locked up, and departed. As the woman was on thepoint of putting it by, she heard her little girl, a child of twoyears old, screaming so violently in the adjoining room, that shethought she must have fallen into the fire. She ran to her, and foundthat she had only caught her finger in a door. Having succeeded inpacifying her, she returned to lock up the louis, but it was not tobe found. Her shopwoman, Louisa, searched for it also, with greatuneasiness. No one had entered the shop; she had been alone, andshe felt persuaded that her mistress, who did not much like her,and who often quarrelled with her without just cause, would accuseher of having taken it: nor was she mistaken. It was in vain thatshe asserted her innocence, that she emptied her pockets, and evenundressed herself in the presence of her mistress, to prove to herthat she had not concealed it. She was not to be convinced, and shewas the more enraged from knowing that her husband would be angrywith her for not having locked it up immediately. On his return, sherelated what had happened, and expressed her confidence that Louisahad taken the money. He was not so sure of that, however, for heknew her to be an honest girl; but he was out of temper, and Louisasuffered for it, and was dismissed.

  She went away heart-broken, yet carrying with her, without beingaware of it, the louis d'or in her shoe. At the moment that hermistress, hearing the cries of her little girl, ran to her aid, shelaid the louis upon the counter, on which Louisa had mounted for thepurpose of arranging a bandbox, placed very high. She wore thickshoes, to which, in order to render them still stronger, and bettersuited for keeping out the damp, she had had another sole put; butthis sole, which was not very good, was worn out at the side, andLouisa, making a false step upon the counter with these heavy shoes,the louis was forced into the opening between the two soles. Shefelt, as she descended, something catch at her foot, but imagined itto be a nail coming out of her shoe, and as she was very active, anddid not willingly interrupt anything upon which she was engaged, shemerely struck her foot against the bottom of the counter, in order todrive in what inconvenienced her. This made the louis enter entirelyinto the opening, and as high heels were then worn, the action of thefoot made it slip towards the toe, where it was no longer felt, andLouisa wandered through Paris in sear
ch of a new situation, carryingwith her everywhere this louis which had driven her from her old one.

  Not having a character from her master, she could not obtain anengagement. She was an orphan, and had no relations in Paris, so thatto avoid perishing from want, she was obliged to station herself atthe corner of a street, as a mender of old clothes. This occupationwas a very painful one for Louisa, who had been well brought up,her parents having been respectable tradespeople, who had failed,and died in poverty. It had required all the gentleness of herdisposition to enable her to live with the wife of the shopkeeper,by whom she was badly treated, but as she was a well-conductedgirl, she endured everything in order to continue in a respectablesituation. Now, she was compelled to hear the oaths of the streetpeople, and the talk of drunkards, who often addressed her in a verydisagreeable manner, to say nothing of the cold, the wind, and therain, from which she suffered greatly; but as her occupation did notrequire much walking, she had not worn out her shoes, so that shealways carried about with her the louis which had occasioned her somuch harm.

  One day, in spring, when the sun had been very warm, there came onsuddenly a terrible storm, which, in a few minutes, swelled thekennels to such a degree, that in several places they touched thewalls of the street. Louisa had left her station to take refuge underan opposite doorway, where she found herself by the side of a lady,dressed in a manner which indicated affluence. She was not young,appeared to be in bad health, and was much embarrassed about havingto cross, in her thin shoes, the deep pools of water formed beforeher. She was not in the habit of going on foot; but this morning, theweather being very fine, and the church in which she usually heardmass, being near her residence, she had not ordered her carriage ingoing to it. Having found it, however, very full, she went to anotherat some distance, and while there, had sent her servant on an errand.She had returned alone, had been overtaken by the storm, and was muchafraid that the damp would bring on a severe cold, from which shewas but just recovered. "If I had only some other shoes!" she said.Louisa very timidly offered hers.

  "But what will you do?" asked the lady.

  "Oh, I can go barefoot," replied Louisa; "but you, madam, cannotpossibly go in those shoes." And Louisa really believed what shesaid, for poor people, accustomed to see us surrounded with so manyconveniences, which they manage to do without, sometimes imagine itwould be impossible for us to support things which they endure as amatter of course. But although they entertain this opinion, we oughtnot to share it. We must not persuade ourselves that their skins aremuch less sensitive than our own, nor that they are constituted in adifferent manner to ourselves; but, accustomed to pain, they do notexaggerate it, and thus endure, without much suffering, things whichwe should think it impossible for us even to attempt, and which,nevertheless, would not do us more harm than they do them.

  However, continued M. de Cideville, in the present case, it was notso. Louisa was young, and in good health, the lady aged, and aninvalid. It was quite reasonable, therefore, that she should acceptLouisa's offer, and she did so. Louisa making many apologies for notbeing able to present her shoes in better condition, accompanied herbarefoot, and supported her, as she could not walk very well in suchlarge and heavy shoes. When they reached the lady's residence, shemade Louisa go in, in order to dry herself, and at the same time toreward her for the service she had rendered her. She also orderedher shoes to be dried before they were returned to her. They wereplaced near the kitchen fire; Louisa likewise seated herself there,and while talking with the servants, the kitchen-maid took one of theshoes in order to clean it, and accidentally raised up the outer solewhich the water had almost entirely detached. The louis d'or fellout. For a moment Louisa was as much astonished as the rest, butshe suddenly uttered a cry of joy, for she remembered that somethinghad entered her shoe on the day she had been accused of taking thelouis. She related her story, and the servants, greatly astonished,went and told it to their mistress. Louisa entreated the lady togive her a certificate of what had happened, that she might get acharacter from her master, and thus be able to obtain a situation.The lady caused inquiries to be made, not only at the shopkeeper's,where she learned that Louisa's account was entirely true, but alsoin the neighbourhood, where she had always been regarded as a veryhonest girl, and where no one believed that she had stolen the louis.The lady also perceived by her manners and conversation, that shewas much superior to the station in which she had found her; shetherefore took her into her service, in order to assist her lady'smaid, who was old and infirm. She sent to the shopkeeper the amountof his louis in silver, and gave to Louisa the louis d'or, which hadoccasioned her so much injury, and so much good.

  As often happens with uneducated persons, Louisa was superstitious.She imagined that her good fortune was attached to this louis d'or,which she had so long carried about her, without being aware of it.She therefore would not think of spending it, but still continuedto carry it about her. It happened that her mistress while goingto her country seat, which lay at some considerable distance fromParis, turned aside, for a few leagues, in order to spend a day witha friend, whose house was nearly on her route. She left Louisa atthe post-house, with her luggage, where she was to take her up thefollowing morning. As Louisa had nothing to do, she seated herselfupon a bench before the door which faced the high road. Presently shebeheld a young man riding up to the house, at full speed. He rode sorapidly that the postilion, by whom he was accompanied, could notkeep pace with him, and was obliged to follow at some considerabledistance behind. He was pale, apparently much fatigued, and alsogreatly agitated. He alighted from his horse, and ordered anotherto be saddled immediately; the ostlers could not make sufficienthaste. As he was preparing to remount, he sought for money todefray his expenses, but he had not his purse. He searched all hispockets, and then perceived that at the last stage but one, where hehad been obliged to change everything, in consequence of his horsehaving thrown him into a ditch full of water, he had forgotten hisportmanteau, his purse, and his watch. He was greatly distressed andagitated. "What!" he exclaimed, "not a louis upon me! A louis wouldsave my life." He inquired for the master of the inn, and was toldthat he was in the fields, and that there was no one in the houseexcept his son, a lad of fifteen, and some postilions. "Can you not,"he said, "find one louis to lend me? I will give you a cheque forten." The men looked at each other without replying. He told them hewas the Count de Marville, and that he was going two leagues furtheron. His wife was lying there ill, very ill, without a physician, andsurrounded by persons who did not understand her constitution, andwho were giving her remedies quite unsuitable to her state. The newshad reached him at Paris: he had consulted his physician, and inorder not to lose time, had taken post horses and travelled nightand day. His servant, too weak to follow him, had been obliged tostop by the way, and as for himself, he had just travelled a doublepost, so that he was four leagues from the place where he had lefthis luggage, and had not a single louis to continue his journey, andsave, perhaps, the life of his wife. But to all this, the men madeno reply; they merely dispersed; the very agitation of the countdestroyed their confidence in what he said. Besides, the postilionwho had accompanied him, and to whom he had promised a liberalreward, in order to induce him to ride a double stage, was extremelydissatisfied, at not being even paid his hire, and complained, swore,and threatened to appeal to the mayor of the place. M. de Marvillethought of nothing but the delay, and in his anxiety it seemed to himthat the loss of a single hour might be fatal to his wife. Louisaheard all this; she knew the name of de Marville, having heard itmentioned by her mistress. She thought of her louis; it was the onlymoney she had about her, for in travelling she placed the little shepossessed in the care of her mistress, except the louis, which shecould not part with. She thought it very hard to give it up: still ithad drawn her from a state of so much misery, that she felt it wouldbe a sin not to allow another to be benefited by it when it was inher power to do so. Taking it, therefore, out of the little pocketin which she always carried it, she
offered it to M. de Marville,who, greatly delighted, asked her name, and promised that she shouldhear from him; then paying the postilion, and remounting his horse,he rode off; while Louisa, though she did not repent of what she haddone, felt, nevertheless, a little uneasy, and the more so as thepeople of the inn assured her that she would never see her moneyagain.

  The following day, her mind was set at rest, by the return of hermistress, who was acquainted with M. de Marville, and had learnedthat his wife was in fact lying very ill, at the distance of twoleagues from where they were. Louisa's sole anxiety now was to regainher louis, which was still at the post-house where M. de Marville hadchanged it, and it became henceforward more precious than ever inher estimation. M. de Marville did not forget what he owed her. Hehad found his wife extremely ill, and whether from the good effectsof his treatment, or from some other cause, he had the delight ofseeing her restored to health. He attributed her cure to Louisa, andas he was extremely attached to his wife, he considered himself undergreat obligations to one whom he regarded as her preserver. He wentto see her at the seat of her mistress, repaid the louis, and alsosettled upon her a small annuity. On this occasion, his man-servant,who had some property, became acquainted with Louisa. He married her,and shortly after entered into the service of the same mistress. Ashe was a reasonable man, he wished her to spend the louis, for heknew that it was ridiculous to imagine that anything of this kindcould bring good fortune; but Louisa would only consent to part withit, in payment of the first two months' nursing of her first child.The nurse of this child was a tenant of M. d'Auvray, the father of alittle girl called _Alo?se_. To him she gave the louis, when payingthe rent of her farm, and you shall presently see what use was madeof it.

  THE RENT.

  Alo?se had for some time been very uneasy. Janette, the woman whoused to bring her every other day a bunch of fresh chickweed forher bird, had not been near her for a whole week, and each time shethought of it, she said to her nurse, "I am sure my poor little_Kiss_ will be ill, for want of some chickweed, for there is no shadein his cage when he is at the window, and the sun is shining over hishead." And Alo?se actually feared that her bird would receive a _coupde soleil_. This fear, indeed, did not often occupy her thoughts,only whenever she went to talk to Kiss, she would say, "This naughtyJanette, will she never come?"

  Janette arrived at last, and Alo?se, when she saw her, gave her agood scolding, and hastily seizing a bunch of chickweed, and withoutgiving herself the time to unfasten it, she tore a handful, andcarried it to her bird, saying, "Poor Kiss! the sun is dreadfullyhot!"

  "Oh yes! Miss," said Janette, "it is indeed very hot, especially whenone has just recovered from a fever."

  "Have you had a fever?" asked Alo?se, whose whole attention was nowturned to Janette, and whom, indeed, she perceived to be very muchaltered. Janette told her that her illness had been caused by grief,for her rent was due, and she was unable to pay it, and her landlordhad threatened to turn her and her three children out of doors, andtake away her bed, which was all she possessed in the world.

  "What," said Alo?se, "have you no chairs?"

  Janette replied that she had had two wooden stools and a table, butthat during the winter before last, which was that of 1789, she hadbeen forced to burn them, for the cold was so intense, that onemorning she found one of her children almost dead. A short timepreviously, she had lost her husband, after a long illness, which hadexhausted all their resources, so that this was the third quarter'srent which she had been unable to pay. Her landlord had given hersome further indulgence, but now told her, that if she did not payby the next quarter, both she and her children should be turned intothe street. "And well will it be for us," continued Janette, "if wefind there a little straw on which to lie down and die, for we aretoo miserable to be taken in by any one." Saying this, she beganto cry, and Alo?se, who was extremely kind and compassionate, feltready to cry also. She asked Janette if her rent was very high. Itwas six francs a quarter. Three quarters were due, a louis would,therefore, be owing in July; and this was a sum which she could notpossibly hope to pay, for her only means of living was the sale ofher chickweed, together with a few flowers in summer, and some bakedapples in the winter, all which was scarcely sufficient to find foodfor her children. She added that during her illness, they must havedied of hunger, had it not been for the charity of some neighbours,and that she was now hastening home in order to get them some bread,as they had eaten nothing all day. Alo?se took from her drawer fortysous, which was all that remained of her month's allowance, foras she was very careless, she was never rich. These she gave toJanette, and the nurse added twenty more, thus making in all halfa crown. The nurse also gave her, for the children, some old shoeswhich Alo?se had cast aside, and poor Janette went away delighted,forgetting for the time her unhappy condition, for the poor sometimesendure such pressing hardships, that when they find themselves for amoment freed from them, the happiness which they experience preventsthem from thinking of the misery which awaits them.

  After Janette's departure, Alo?se and her nurse continued talkingof her for a long time. Alo?se would gladly have saved from herallowance eight francs a month, in order to make up the louisrequired by Janette, but this was impossible; she had lost her newgloves, and was obliged to buy others; a new pair of prunella shoeswas to be brought home to her on the first of the month, to replacethose she had spoiled by imprudently walking in the mud; besides,her thimble, her needles, her scissors, her thread, all of which shewas constantly losing through her want of order, formed a source ofconsiderable expense. Although she was eleven years of age, nothinghad been able to cure her of this want of order, a defect whichresulted from great vivacity, and from the fact, that when once anidea had taken possession of her mind, it so completely engrossed itthat, for the moment, it was impossible for her to think of anythingelse. At present, it was Janette who occupied her thoughts. Shewould have been delighted to have had a louis to give her by thetime her rent became due, but she did not dare to ask her parentsfor it, for she saw that, without being in any way embarrassed,they nevertheless lived with a certain degree of economy; besides,she knew them to be so kind, that if they could do anything, theywould do it without being asked. When she went down to her mother'sroom, she spoke of Janette, of her grief for her, and of her desireto assist her. Twenty times she went over her calculations aloud, inorder to let it be understood that she could not do so out of herallowance. Twenty times she repeated, "This poor Janette says thatshe must die upon straw, if she cannot pay her rent." Her mother,Madame d'Auvray, was writing, and her father was occupied in lookingover some prints; neither of them appeared to hear her. Alo?se wasin despair, for when she once wished for anything, she had no restuntil she had either obtained it, or forgotten it. She was told thather drawing-master was waiting for her. Quite taken up with Janetteand her grief, she left, as was almost invariably the case with her,her work upon the chair, her pincushion under it, her thimble on thetable, and her scissors on the ground. Her mother called her back.

  "Alo?se," said she, "will you never put away your work of your ownaccord, and without my being obliged to remind you of it?" Alo?sereplied mournfully that she was thinking of something else.

  "Of Janette, was it not?" said her father. "Well, then, since you areso anxious to get her out of trouble, let us make a bargain. Wheneveryou put away your work without being reminded of it by your mother, Iwill give you ten sous; in forty-eight days, therefore, you will beable to gain the louis, which will not be required by Janette forthree months."

  Oh! how delighted was Alo?se. She threw herself into her father'sarms; her heart was freed from a heavy load.

  "But," said M. d'Auvray, "in order that the agreement may be equal,it is necessary that you should pay something whenever you fail. Itwould be just to demand from you ten sous, but," added he, smiling,"I do not wish to make too hard a bargain for poor Janette; I will,therefore, only require of you five sous; but mind, I shall show nomercy, and you must not expect a fraction of th
e louis, unless yougain the whole. Here it is," said he, as he took it out of his pocketand placed it in a drawer of Madame d'Auvray's secretary; "now try togain it."

  Alo?se promised that it should be hers; her parents seemed to doubtit. It was, however, agreed, that Madame d'Auvray and Alo?se shouldeach keep an account, in order to secure accuracy. And Alo?se wasso pleased, and so eager to communicate the arrangement to hernurse, that she ran out of the room without putting away her work.Fortunately, she remembered it at the door; she ran back again,seized upon it, and beheld her father laughing heartily. "At allevents," she exclaimed, "mamma did not remind me of it," and for oncethe excuse was admitted.

  For some time Alo?se was very exact, and the more so as she hadrelated the affair to Janette, who without daring to remind herof it, now and then dropped a word concerning her landlord, whowas a very severe man. During a whole month the work had only beenforgotten six times; thus, in twenty-four days, Alo?se had gainedher ten sous, but as there were six days of negligence, during eachof which she had lost five sous, there remained six times five, orthree times ten sous, to be deducted from what she had gained; shehad, therefore, secured but twenty-one, out of the forty-eight days.

  But Alo?se did not reckon in this manner. As her carelessnessextended to everything, she sometimes forgot that on the six days onwhich she had not put away her work, she had not gained her ten sous;at other times she forgot that on these days she had lost five also,so that she never considered that she had lost more than five orten sous, on those days on which her negligence had really made herlose fifteen. At the end of the month, her mother had the greatestdifficulty in the world to make her understand this calculation,and when she did understand it, she forgot it again. She had begunto keep her account in writing, and then had neglected it; shebegged her mother to let her examine hers; she did so, at the sametime warning her that it was for the last time. Alo?se recommencedwriting, but lost her paper; she then tried to reckon mentally, butgot confused in her calculations. Unfortunately, also, the hourfor her dancing lesson, which she took in her mother's apartment,was changed, and now fell at the time that Janette called; shetherefore saw her less frequently, and began to forget her a little:nevertheless the orderly habits which she had begun to contract weretolerably well kept up. She often put her work away, but she alsofrequently neglected it: still it seemed to her that she had attendedto it so many times, that she felt quite easy on the subject, anddid not even think of examining the day of the month.

  One morning she rose extremely happy; she was going to spend a day inthe country. The party had been long arranged, and Alo?se had drawn abrilliant picture of the pleasure which she anticipated from it. Theweather, too, was delightful. She had just finished dressing, whena man came to her room in the garb of a workman; he wore a leathernapron and a woollen cap, which he scarcely raised as he entered. Heappeared very much out of humour, and said in a rough manner to thenurse, that he had come on account of the woman who had served herwith chickweed for her birds; that he was her landlord; that sheowed him four quarters' rent, which she was unable to pay, and hadentreated him to go and see if any one there could assist her. "Itis not my business," he added in a surly tone, "to go about beggingfor my rent. However, I was willing to see if anything was to be got.If not, let her be prepared; to-morrow, the eighth of July, she mustquit. At all events, her moving will not be a very heavy one!"

  Alo?se trembled in every limb, at finding herself in the same roomwith this terrible landlord, of whom she had so often heard Janettespeak, and whose manner was not calculated to tranquillize her fears.Not daring to address him herself, she whispered to her nurse, thatshe would go and ask her mamma for the louis.

  "But have you gained it?" said the nurse.

  "Oh! certainly," said Alo?se, and yet she began to be very muchafraid she had not. She drew herself in as much as possible, inorder to pass between the door and the man who stood beside it, andwho terrified her so much that she would not have dared to ask him tomove. She ran quite flushed and breathless into her mother's room,and asked for the louis.

  "But does it belong to you?" said her mother. "I do not think itdoes."

  "Oh, mamma," replied Alo?se, turning pale, "I have put away my workmore than forty-eight times."

  "Yes, my child, but the days on which you have not put it away?"

  "Mamma, I have put it away very often, I assure you."

  "We shall see;" and Madame d'Auvray took the account from hersecretary. "You have put it away sixty times," said she to herdaughter.

  "You see, mamma!" cried Alo?se, delighted.

  "Yes, but you have neglected it thirty-one times, for the month ofMay has thirty-one days."

  "Oh! mamma, that does not make...."

  "My dear! thirty-one days, at five sous a day, make seven livresfifteen sous, which are to be deducted from the thirty francs thatyou have gained. Thus thirty-five sous are still wanting to completethe louis." Alo?se turned pale and clasped her hands.

  "Is it possible," she said, "that for thirty-five sous...."

  "My child," said her mother, "you remember your agreement with yourfather."

  "Oh! mamma! for thirty-five sous! and this poor Janette!"

  "You knew very well what would be the consequence," said her mother;"I can do nothing in the matter."

  Alo?se wept bitterly. Her father coming in, asked the reason. Madamed'Auvray told him, and Alo?se raised her hands towards him withsupplicating looks.

  "My child," said M. d'Auvray, "when I make a bargain I keep to it,and I require that others should act in the same manner towards me.You have not chosen to fulfil the conditions of this agreement,therefore let us say no more about it."

  When M. d'Auvray had once said a thing, it was settled. Alo?se didnot dare to reply, but she remained weeping. "The horses are ready,"said M. d'Auvray, "we must set off; come, go and fetch your bonnet."

  Alo?se then knew that all hope was lost, and she could not restrainher sobs. "Go and get your bonnet," said her father in a firmer tone,and her mother led her gently to the door. She remained outside theroom, leaning against the wall, unable to move a step, and cryingmost bitterly. Her nurse entered softly, and asked whether she hadgot the money, as the man was becoming impatient. Indeed Alo?seheard him in the hall speaking to the servant, in the same surlyill-tempered tone. He said he had not time to wait; that it was verydisagreeable and inconvenient to be sent there for nothing; and thatJanette might rest assured she would have to be off pretty quickly.The tears of Alo?se were redoubled; her nurse endeavoured to consoleher, and the old servant who was passing at the moment, not knowingthe cause of her grief, told her that she was going to amuse herselfin the country, and would soon forget her trouble.

  "To amuse myself!" cried Alo?se, "to amuse myself!" And sheremembered that during this time Janette would be in despair, andturned into the street with her three children.

  "Oh! dear," she exclaimed, "could they not have punished me in someother manner?"

  "Listen," said her nurse, "suppose you were to ask for some otherpunishment?"

  Alo?se turned towards her a hesitating and frightened look. Shesaw very well that she was going to propose to her to give up hervisit to the country; and although she promised herself very littlepleasure from it, she had not the courage to renounce it. But theservant came to tell her that the man was tired of waiting, and wasgoing away. And in fact she heard him open the door, saying in a loudvoice, "She shall pay for having made me come here for nothing."Alo?se with clasped hands, entreated the servant to run after himand stop him for a moment, and told her nurse to go and beg of herparents to change her punishment, and instead of it to deprive herof the pleasure of going into the country. The nurse having done so,Madame d'Auvray came out immediately and said to her daughter,

  "My child, our wish is not to punish you, but to fix in yourmind something of consequence which we have not yet succeeded inimpressing on it. Do you think the regret you will feel in not goinginto the country with us, will have suffic
ient effect upon you, tomake you remember to be a little more orderly in what you do?"

  "Oh! mamma," said Alo?se, "I do assure you that the grief I havehad, and that which I shall still have," she added, redoubling hertears, "in not going into the country, will make me well remember it."

  "Very well, then," said Madame d'Auvray, and she gave her the louis,which Alo?se charged her nurse to carry to the man. As for herself,she remained leaning against the door, through which her mother hadreturned into her room. Her nurse, having ordered the kitchen-maid tofollow the man, and carry the louis to Janette, found her there stillcrying; and told her that as she had taken her course, she ought toshow more courage, and dry up her tears, and go and bid farewell toher parents, who would otherwise think she was sulking, which wouldnot be proper. Alo?se dried her eyes, and endeavouring to restrainherself, entered the room. As she approached her father, in orderto kiss him, he took her on his knee, and said, "My dear Alo?se, isthere no way of engraving still more deeply on your memory, thatwhich you ought not to forget?" Alo?se looked at him. "Would it notbe," he continued, "by taking you with us into the country, relyingupon the promise which you will give us never again to forget to putyour work away?"

  "Never!" said Alo?se, with an agitated look; "but if I should forgetit on some occasion?"

  "I am sure that you will not do so," replied her mother; "yourpromise, the recollection of our indulgence, all this will force youto remember it."

  "But, oh dear! oh dear! if after all I were to forget it!"

  "Well," said her father, kissing her, "we wish to force you toremember it."

  Alo?se was greatly affected by all this kindness; but she felttormented by the fear of not keeping the promise on which her parentsrelied; and whilst her nurse, who had heard what was said, ranjoyfully to fetch her bonnet, she remained pensive, leaning againstthe window. At length, turning eagerly to her mother, "Mamma," shesaid, "I will beg of God every day in my prayers to give me grace tokeep my promise."

  "That will be an excellent means," replied her mother, "make use ofit at once;" and Alo?se raised her eyes to heaven and her heart toGod, and felt encouraged. Nevertheless she preserved throughout theday, amidst the amusements of the country, something of the emotionswhich had agitated her in the morning. At night she did not forgetto renew her prayer; the next morning she thought of it on waking,and in order not to forget it, she imposed upon herself the rule ofattending to it before she did anything else. She succeeded, by thismeans, in impressing upon her mind the duty prescribed to her. Onceonly, did she seem on the point of going away without arranging herwork.

  "Alo?se," said her mother, "have you said your prayers this morning?"

  This question reminded her both of her prayer, which, indeed, forsome time past, she had said with less attention, as she now thoughtherself secure, and also of her promise, which she had run the riskof forgetting; and she was so much terrified that she never againfell into the same danger. One day when her mother was speaking toher about the manner in which she had corrected herself, she saidtimidly, "But, mamma, in order to correct me, you surely would nothave had the heart to allow poor Janette to be turned out of doors?"

  Her mother smiled and said, "You must at all events allow thatyou are at present very happy for having been afraid of this."Alo?se assented. The louis d'or had enabled her to acquire a goodhabit, from which she derived more advantages than she had at firstexpected; for the money which she saved, by not having constantly toreplace things lost through carelessness, gave her the means of doingsomething additional for Janette, for whom also work was found, aswell as various little commissions, so that she and her children wereno longer in danger of dying of hunger, or of being turned out oftheir miserable garret.

  Here M. de Cideville, being obliged to go out, interrupted hisnarrative, deferring its continuation to another day.

  CONTINUATION OF THE HISTORY OF A LOUIS D'OR

  M. de Cideville having one day, of his own accord, continued thehistory of the louis d'or, said to his daughter, You have alreadyseen, by the several adventures which I have related, of whatimportance may be, under certain circumstances, a sum apparently sotrifling as a louis d'or. You will soon see all the advantages whichmay be derived from it; but I must first tell you in what manner itpassed out of the hands of the landlord, to whom Janette had givenit in payment of her rent.

  This landlord was a shoemaker; his house was very small, verydisagreeable, and very dirty, as may be imagined by the sum paidby Janette for rent, and he was himself the porter. He was veryavaricious, and would not go to the expense of keeping it in amoderately decent condition, or even of repairing it, so that it wasoccupied only by very poor people, or by those who had been guilty ofbad actions, for, provided his tenants paid him, he did not troublehimself about their honesty. There was one among them, named Roch,whom he knew to be a rogue, and who had several times concealedstolen goods. The shoemaker shut his eyes to this, because on theseoccasions he almost always received some little present. One day, asthe shoemaker was looking in the narrow court, which separated hishouse from that of his neighbour, for old pieces of linen sometimesthrown there, and of which, after having washed them, he made useas linings for his shoes, he stooped down to pick up one of them,when his pipe, which he had in his mouth, caught in something, andslipping from him, fell through a grating into his neighbour'scellar. He would have been glad to have gone and asked for it, but hedid not dare to do so, for misers are always ashamed of those actionswhich their avarice leads them to commit. Whilst leaning over thegrating, in the hope that it might have lodged on the slope of thewall within, and that he should be able to regain it, there suddenlyburst from the opening such a volume of smoke, that he was nearlystifled. The pipe had fallen upon some straw, recently unpacked, andwhich, not having yet imbibed the damp of the cellar, caught firealmost immediately. The shoemaker knew very well what was likely tofollow, and ran away, in order that he might not be suspected as thecause of the mischief; but trembling for his own house, to whichthe fire might extend, he gave an alarm, saying that he perceived astrong smell of smoke; and in order that assistance might be promptlyrendered, he guided the people so well in the direction of the fire,that the truth was immediately suspected.

  The flames quickly spread to a heap of faggots, thence to a quantityof goods which were near, and before there was time to suppress them,they had injured the building. The landlord entered a process againstthe shoemaker, in order to make him pay the damages, saying that itwas he who had set the place on fire, which, indeed, there was everyreason for suspecting. It was known that he was in the habit ofsearching in the court for rags, and suchlike things, that happenedto be thrown from the windows. There had also been found in the ashesunderneath the grating and on the spot occupied by the heap of straw,the remains of a pipe which had not been consumed. It was observedthat when the shoemaker gave the information, he was without hispipe, a thing quite extraordinary for him. He was also known to havebought a new one on the same day, and every one was aware that he wasnot a man to buy a new pipe if he had an old one in his possession.It was then more than probable that it was his pipe which had falleninto the cellar, and set it on fire. Besides, two persons believedthat they had seen him, from a distance, going out of the court.

  The shoemaker had nothing to oppose to these charges, but theassertion that he was not on the spot when the place took fire; butin order to have this assertion received, he must find witnesses whowould consent to give a false testimony. He thought Roch might dohim this service, and he reminded him of all the indulgence whichhe had granted to him. Roch made no objections; he was so great aknave, that he seemed to take a pleasure in doing what was wrong. Hesimply demanded, as the reward of this service, that the shoemakershould introduce and recommend him, as a servant, to M. de la F?re,a gentleman for whom the shoemaker worked, and who at that time wasin want of a servant. Roch was very desirous of getting this place,but quite at a loss as to the means of doing so, as he could find noone willing to give
him a character. The shoemaker consented; for wecan never ask others to do what is wrong for us without being obligedto do at least as much for them in return. But two witnesses wererequisite. Roch undertook to procure another, on condition that theshoemaker should give him a louis d'or.

  The latter, at first, made many objections; for he valued his moneymore than his conscience, but there was no alternative in the case.He therefore gave him the very louis d'or that Janette had paid him,and Roch and his comrade both affirmed on oath, that the shoemakerwas returning home in their company, at the time that he perceivedfrom the street the smell of the smoke then issuing from the court.They also affirmed, that during their walk, a porter had knockedagainst him so roughly, that his pipe was thrown out of his mouth,and that in stepping forward to gain his balance, he had trodden uponit, and crushed it. To give their assertions a greater appearanceof truth, they repeated the remarks which they pretended to havemade upon the occasion. The shoemaker gained his cause. Roch keptthe louis, giving only twelve francs to his comrade, and entered theservice of M. de la F?re, who was on the point of leaving France,where, like many others, he did not consider himself in safety; forit was the close of the year 1792. Neither his man-servant nor hiswife's maid was willing to accompany them; so that being in a greathurry to leave, they were compelled to take Roch without inquiry, andupon the sole recommendation of the shoemaker, whom they believedto be an honest man. They were desirous of obtaining gold for theirjourney, as being more convenient than silver, and at that time thevalue of the louis d'or was high, for it was much in request, as manyfamilies were leaving France for the same cause as M. de la F?re.Roch therefore sold to his master the louis which he had receivedfrom the shoemaker. It thus came into the possession of M. de laF?re, and you shall see presently all that it produced. As for Roch,before his departure with M. de la F?re, he defrauded the shoemakerout of the amount of a rather heavy bill which his master had orderedhim to pay. He produced a false receipt, and kept the money. Theshoemaker did not become aware of his departure till several daysafterwards, and thus found himself punished for recommending arogue. We must now see what the louis produced in the hands of itsnew possessor.

  THE WEEK.

  It was at the commencement of the year 1793, that M. de la F?re,accompanied by his wife, his son Raymond, a lad of fifteen, and hisdaughter Juliette, who was thirteen, his servant Roch, and his wife'snew maid, left France, to establish themselves in a small town inGermany. They had brought with them sufficient money to enable them,if necessary, to remain away for several years, and the more easily,as having chosen a town in which no French had as yet arrived, andwhere they were not acquainted with any Germans, they hoped to leadthe kind of life which suited them, without being obliged to incurgreater expenses than they wished. Thus they hoped, by means of areasonable, but not inconvenient economy, to pass the period oftrouble in comfort and tranquillity, attending to the education oftheir children, who, delighted with the change of scene, thought onlyof enjoying the various new objects which their journey presented tothem.

  Although much afflicted at leaving their country, and deeply grievedfor the misfortunes which were daily occurring there, M. and Madamede la F?re would not depress the spirits of their children, byrecurring to events over which they had no control; but on thecontrary, they procured for them such pleasures as were compatiblewith their situation. They had somewhat prolonged their journey, inorder to show them various interesting objects situated at a shortdistance from their route, and had been settled in the town in whichthey intended to reside only a few days, when their host, M. Fiddler,spoke of a rather curious kind of fair which was then being held atsome distance from that place. They hired one of the carriages of thecountry, and wishing to take advantage of the opportunity which theoccasion afforded of enjoying the scenery of the neighbourhood, whichwas very beautiful, they set out early, carrying with them sufficientprovisions to enable them to pass the whole day in the fields. Itwas in the month of June; they prolonged their walks so much, thatit was ten o'clock in the evening when they reached town. They weresurprised, on arriving, to find that the servant, whom they had leftin the house, did not come to assist them. They supposed that he musthave gone to the fair on his own account, together with the maid,whom they also called for in vain. They were at a loss to get in, asthe door of the house was locked, M. Fiddler having also gone to thefair. At last, a little boy who had been left in charge of it, andwho likewise had been amusing himself, came back, opened the door,and procured a light from a neighbour, who presented to M. de la F?rea letter which had arrived during his absence. M. de la F?re stoppedto read it, and then entered the house, so completely absorbed, thathe did not notice the exclamations of distress which were uttered byhis wife and children. At last they ran to him, spoke to him, rousedhim from his abstraction, and showed him all their cupboards openand emptied, the secretary forced, and their money and jewels carriedoff: there was nothing left. Roch and the maid, who had also beentaken without sufficient inquiry, and who was an equally ill-disposedperson, had several times, during their journey, given them cause fordistrusting them, and it was their intention to send them back toFrance. They had apparently suspected this intention, and profitedby their absence to rob them. This they could very easily do, as thepavilion, which was the part of the residence occupied by M. andMadame de la F?re, was separated from the rest of the house, and onone side opened upon the fields. On this side, the open doors andwindows showed traces of their flight; but there was no possibilityof following them at that hour, nor any hope of otherwise arrestingthem. The town was situated on the frontiers of two small Germanstates, and there was no doubt that they had entered the neighbouringone, as, from several circumstances which were then recollected, itmight be presumed that they had taken their precautions beforehand.However, M. de la F?re went to the magistrate of the town to lodgehis complaints, and to take the necessary proceedings.

  When he returned, his family had not yet had time to recover fromtheir consternation. Juliette was crying, and her mother, thoughherself overwhelmed with grief, was endeavouring to soothe her;Raymond, who understood German, was talking to M. Fiddler, whohearing of their misfortune on his return from the fair, had hastenedwith great kindness to offer them his assistance. All this Raymondcommunicated to his mother and sister. M. de la F?re also thanked himin German, for M. Fiddler did not understand French, and told himthat though they had indeed experienced a most serious misfortune, hehoped, nevertheless, that they would be able to extricate themselvesfrom it; and M. Fiddler, who was very considerate, fearing to beimportunate, immediately retired.

  When they were alone, assembled round a candle which M. Fiddler hadlent them, M. de la F?re, after tenderly embracing his wife andchildren, made them sit down by him, and remained for some timesilent, as if he knew not what to say to them.

  At length Raymond, who had heard his father's reply to M. Fiddler,broke the silence.

  "Papa," he said, "you told M. Fiddler that we should be able toextricate ourselves from our difficulties; does the letter, which youhave just received, say that money will be sent to us from France?"

  "On the contrary, my child."

  "What! on the contrary?" exclaimed Madame de la F?re, with a movementof alarm. Her husband pressed her hand, and she restrained herself.He had accustomed her to preserve her self-command in the presence oftheir children, in order not to give them exaggerated ideas of whatmight happen to them.

  "My beloved friends," continued M. de la F?re, taking his daughteron his knees, and retaining the hand of his wife within his own,"we must not rely, at least for a very long time to come, on anyassistance from France; for all our property is seized, and God onlyknows when we shall regain possession of it."

  Madame de la F?re turned pale, but said nothing. Juliette wept andtrembled, and Raymond, leaning on the back of a chair, listenedattentively to his father, whose calm and firm manner completelyreassured him. M. de la F?re continued--

  "Of all our effects there remains ab
solutely nothing, but what wehave upon us, and a small trunk of linen, which I see in the cornerthere, and which they seem to have forgotten. Of all our money, thereremains but this louis d'or," said he, holding it up, "which I had inmy pocket."

  "Good heavens," exclaimed Juliette, in a tone of despair, "what willbecome of us?"

  Her father pressed her in his arms. "Have a little patience, sister,"said Raymond, quickly. He saw that his father had something topropose, and whatever it might be, he was eager to execute it. M. dela F?re continued--

  "A louis, my dears, may still become a resource, provided one knowshow to turn it to account. We cannot live without work: we must,therefore, find the means of working."

  Madame de la F?re replied, that she and her daughter could embroider,and that M. Fiddler would be able to recommend them in the town."Yes," replied M. de la F?re, "but that is not sufficient. Beforethese recommendations have produced their effect, before we receivework, and before that work is finished, our louis d'or may veryeasily be spent; and my watch, which is the only thing left us thatwe can sell, for they have taken Raymond's, will not afford us a veryconsiderable resource: we must, therefore, devise some plan for notexhausting too rapidly our means of existence."

  Juliette said that M. Fiddler, who had so kindly offered his aid,would be able to assist them until their work afforded them the meansof living.

  "We must only accept assistance from others," said M. de la F?re,"when we can do absolutely nothing for ourselves. Do you feel thecourage to impose upon yourselves, for one week only, the most severeprivations?"

  All answered "Yes!" "Even if it be to live on bread and water,"said Raymond. M. de la F?re pressed his son's hand with an air ofsatisfaction. But Juliette turned towards her father with a somewhatterrified expression, and Madame de la F?re looked first upon herhusband, and then upon her children, and could not restrain a fewtears. M. de la F?re, making a great effort to preserve his firmness,said to them:

  "Listen, my dears, and I hope you will agree with me, that a week'scourage is a very trifling matter, if it can insure our preservation.This is my calculation. Our rent is paid three months in advance. Wehave in the trunk as much linen as we shall want for three weeks,without requiring anything washed; as it is summer, we shall not needany fire; the days being long, if we get up and go to bed with thesun, there will be no necessity for candles; thus, without expendinganything, we are secured on all these points, from all suffering, andindeed from every real inconvenience, for more than a week. We haveonly our food to pay for. In limiting ourselves for a week only towhat is absolutely necessary,--to bread, my dear Juliette," said he,tenderly embracing his daughter, whom he still held upon his knee,"it will be possible for us to employ a part of this louis on thepurchase of materials to enable you to embroider, and myself andRaymond to paint boxes and screens, and various other things which M.Fiddler doubtless will enable us to sell. In a week we shall probablyhave gained something by our labour. If we are compelled to waitlonger, I have still my watch, and I will answer for it, that beforeits price is expended, we shall be free from anxiety."

  Raymond, animated by the manner in which his father pronounced thesewords, embraced his mother, and then his sister, who was stillweeping a little. "Consider, Juliette," he said, "a week is so soonover!"

  Hitherto, indeed, Raymond had always been much more of an epicurethan his sister, and much more eager in the pursuit of what pleasedhim; but at the same time, he had more determination, and wasbetter able to make a sacrifice, where any great object was to beattained. Besides, the present moment had inspired him with what agreat misfortune ought always to inspire a man--an increased amountof sense and courage; whilst Juliette, on the contrary, somewhatovercome by the fatigues of the day, had not been able to recoverfrom the surprise and terror of the first moment. Their ill-lightedroom gave her melancholy impressions, everything seemed dark aroundher, and she felt excessively unhappy, without being exactly ableto tell why. The caresses of her parents calmed her a little;her mother made her go to bed, and she soon sunk into that soundsleep which grief usually produces at her age; and on awakening thefollowing morning, she felt entirely reanimated. Her mother hadalready made the purchases necessary for commencing work. It had beenthe fashion in France, for some time before their departure, to wearlawn handkerchiefs, embroidered in coloured silks; and this custom,though now rather antiquated, had not yet reached the town in whichthey were residing, although its inhabitants affected to follow theFrench fashions. She bought sufficient lawn for a handkerchief,silks to embroider it, and some card-board and colours for herhusband and son. These cost rather less than fourteen francs; theremaining ten were carefully reserved for the maintenance of thefamily. Madame de la F?re felt her heart a little oppressed when shebeheld this trifling sum, but the recollection of the watch gave herconfidence that her children would not want for bread; and besides,accustomed to rely upon her husband, of whose courage and firmnessshe was well aware, so long as she saw him tranquil, she could notfeel very uneasy. As M. de la F?re was returning with the bread hehad purchased for the family, he met M. Fiddler, who expressed hisgrief for the inconveniences which he suffered, and once more offeredhis services. M. de la F?re again thanked him, promising that if hereally stood in need of assistance, it would be to him that he wouldapply; and M. Fiddler, being a man of the greatest discretion, didnot press the matter further.

  When Juliette entered the room in which the family was assembled, shefound her mother and Raymond already occupied in arranging an oldembroidery-frame, which they had found in a corner of the apartment,while M. de la F?re was drawing upon the piece of lawn, the wreathwith which it was to be embroidered. The sun shone brilliantlyinto the apartment, which looked out upon a magnificent landscape,and Juliette, forgetting the troubles of the previous evening, setherself gaily to assist her mother and brother. The wreath was soondrawn, the frame soon mounted; the tasks were distributed, andeach commenced his labour. During this time, M. de la F?re beganto design the ornaments for a work-box, whilst Raymond, who wastolerably adroit, cut and gummed the card-board, and even assistedhis father in the less difficult ornaments. After working for sometime, Juliette began to feel hungry. She was afraid to say anythingas yet; Raymond, however, having asked his father if it was not timefor breakfast, opened a cupboard in which the bread had been placed,and exclaimed, laughing, "Behold our week's provisions!" then he cutfor his mother and sister some slices of bread, which he assuredthem had been selected with great care. As to himself, he separatedhis own into five or six pieces, calling one a cutlet, another aleg of mutton, and so on. This made them laugh, and thenceforththey constantly amused themselves, while eating their bread, withbestowing upon it the names of the most refined dishes.

  Although Madame de la F?re often made Juliette leave her work andwalk with her brother in the road that passed beneath their windows,yet in three days the handkerchief was embroidered, and M. de laF?re, on his part, had completed a box, the top of which, painted inbistre, represented one of the points of view to be seen from hiswindow, while the sides were ornamented with arabesques, also inbistre. M. Fiddler, to whom M. and Madame de la F?re had communicatedtheir determination of living by their labour, recommended them to alady in the town, the only one who understood French. Madame de laF?re called upon her, accompanied by Juliette, who although somewhatashamed at being presented under such circumstances, neverthelessfelt a certain degree of pride, in thinking that her work should beof some consequence. The German lady, to whom M. Fiddler had relatedtheir misfortunes, received them with great kindness. She purchasedthe handkerchief, at the price of a louis, in the money of thecountry, and also the work-box for twelve francs, and told Madamede la F?re that she would enable her to sell others. They returneddelighted. "Mamma," said Juliette, on their way home, "since wehave been so successful, I think for to-day at least, we might havesomething to eat with our bread."

  Madame de la F?re replied that that must depend upon her father; butwhen, after relating their success
, Juliette renewed her proposition;"My dears," said M. de la F?re, looking at his children, for Raymondhad listened to his sister's proposition with great attention,"if we break our fast to-day, it will be more difficult to keepit to-morrow, and if we do not maintain it until the end of theweek, the fruit of our courage will be lost, for we shall still beinconvenienced to purchase the materials necessary for continuingour labours; whereas our having a little in advance will make usquite comfortable."

  "Come," said Raymond, running to the cupboard, and cutting a largeslice of bread, "here is my sturgeon pasty for this day."

  "My dear Juliette," said M. de la F?re to his daughter, who seemed alittle sad, "it is merely an advice which I have given you. The moneywhich we possess is in part gained by your labour, and it would beunjust to prevent you from spending it according to your fancy; ifyou wish; we will give you your share, and you can do what you pleasewith it." Juliette threw her arms round her father's neck, and toldhim that she always wished to do as he did, and whatever he pleased;and the money was immediately employed in purchasing new materials.

  If Juliette had rather more difficulty, on this day, and thefollowing ones, in eating her bread, to which her brother in vaingave the most tempting names, she consoled herself by calculatingwith her mother, the number of hours, of minutes even, which mustintervene before the close of the last day; and then how manyminutes were required to work a flower. This shortened the time;for when Juliette had not finished her task in the period which shehad allotted to it, she found the time pass much too quickly. Shewas greatly delighted that the watch had not been sold, and felt acertain pride in thinking that they might be able to preserve it bytheir industry.

  As constant work suggests methods of abridging labour, they thistime finished, in five days, two handkerchiefs and three boxes, andto complete their happiness, on the evening of the eighth day, theGerman lady sent to inquire if any more were ready. She had given aparty on the previous evening; her handkerchief had been admired;she had shown her box also, and several of her friends expressed awish to purchase similar articles of both kinds. When Madame de laF?re and her daughter called upon her the following morning, shenot only took all that were finished, but gave orders for a freshsupply. Juliette could not contain her joy. She had eaten her drybread very cheerfully before starting, thinking that, according toall appearances, they would have a better dinner; and now on theirreturn, she assisted her mother in preparing it; she could never havebelieved it possible for her to have experienced so much pleasure asshe now felt, in peeling onions, touching greasy spoons, or broilingherself in skimming saucepans, on a hot summer's day. Her motherwished that, for this day, she should entirely lay aside all otherwork. Raymond and she, therefore, passed the morning in laughing tilltears came into their eyes, at the thousand absurdities which theirjoy prompted them to utter; and M. and Madame de la F?re, delightedat seeing them so happy, forgot for a time that they had everexperienced sorrow.

  With what delight Juliette helped her brother to set the table,to lay the cloth, to place the covers and plates lent them by M.Fiddler. Just at the moment that she was about to serve up thedinner, she heard exclamations of joy from Raymond, who came runningto tell her that the Chevalier de Villon, an old friend of hisfather, whom they had not seen for several years, as he had leftFrance a long time before them, had just arrived in the town, and wascoming to dine with them. "How fortunate!" said Raymond, "that he didnot come yesterday;" and he ran out to rejoin the chevalier.

  "He comes to diminish our dinner," said Juliette, in a tone of illtemper, which she was not able to control; for it seemed to herthat the least alteration must interfere with the happiness sheanticipated.

  "Juliette," said her mother, "if during the past week you had found afriend, who was willing to share his dinner with you, you would havebeen very glad, even though you thought that he would thereby deprivehimself of something."

  "It is because I think M. de Villon does not stand in need of it,"said Juliette, completely ashamed of what she had said. At thismoment the chevalier entered, his clothes in rags, and himself sopale and so thin, that Madame de la F?re, on beholding him, could notsuppress a cry of grief; as for him, with his Gascon vivacity, he ranto embrace her.

  "You see," said he, "to what I am reduced. This is _now_ the uniformof a French gentleman, my dear Madame. Why I am not sure that I haveeaten anything these two days."

  Madame de la F?re turned to Juliette, who with a supplicating lookseemed to entreat her to forget what she had said. The chevalier satdown, for he could scarcely stand; nevertheless his gaiety neverforsook him, as long as his strength remained; but they felt thatit was sinking with every sentence. Juliette laid a cover for him,and placed a chair at the table, for he was so much fatigued thathe seemed scarcely able to move. When the soup was served, and thechevalier, with his accustomed politeness, wished to pass to her thefirst plate, she entreated him to keep it with so much earnestness,that he could not refuse. She then raised her eyes to her mother asif to ask forgiveness: Madame de la F?re smiled, and joy returnedto Juliette's heart. She was at length helped in her turn, andthought she had never enjoyed anything so much; while Raymond, who,until then, fancied he disliked carrots and turnips, did not leavea single bit of them upon his plate. A piece of beef, and a dish ofvegetables, appeared to all this family a magnificent repast. Howhappy the poor chevalier felt, at finding himself once more seated,and at table, and in the midst of his friends! How he amused Raymondand Juliette, by relating his campaigns and adventures! M. Fiddler,knowing that M. de la F?re had a friend to dinner, had requestedpermission to send in a couple of bottles of good wine, and M. dela F?re, who was no longer afraid of being obliged to have recourseto compassion, considered that he ought not to refuse a friendlypresent. The wine completely restored to the chevalier his strength,his originality, and even his hopes. By the time the dinner wasover, he had completely forgotten that he had not a sou, that he hadnot a shirt, that his shoes were without soles, and his coat almostwithout sleeves; his friends had equally forgotten it, for on thisday no one thought of the future, and it passed away in the enjoymentof a degree of happiness of which those who have never suffered canform no conception. At night, M. Fiddler lent them a bed, and thechevalier slept in the room occupied by M. de la F?re and Raymond,who could hardly sleep from the joy he felt at having a new companion.

  The following morning, M. de la F?re said to the chevalier: "Well!you remain with us; but every one in this house works,--what can youdo?"

  "Faith, not much," said the chevalier. "I can attend to the house, goof errands, and see to the cooking, when there is any," for they hadrelated to him the history of the eight days' fast. "Oh, I forgot,"he continued, "I have a marvellous talent for mending old clothes.Look!" and he showed them his coat, which was hanging in tatters atall points. Every one laughed; but on a closer examination, theyfound, that if indeed the chevalier's coat was thus torn, it hadbeen previously well mended. "This," said he, "is the only talentI have as yet needed; set me to work, and perhaps some other willspring up." It was agreed that, for the present, he should confinehimself to the exercise of his talents as a tailor, upon the remainsof his coat, in order to make it look somewhat more respectable,while he was waiting for a better; and that he should undertake therough work, while the family was occupied in executing the orders,which were now numerous and pressing. A few days after, M. Fiddlerconsented to let them have, instead of the pavilion which theyoccupied, and which was unsuited to their present circumstances, amuch smaller dwelling, to which was attached a little garden; thisthe chevalier undertook to cultivate, and it supplied them withsome fruit and vegetables. He also prepared the card-board for theboxes and screens, and even chimney ornaments, and pendule cases,which were made by M. de la F?re and his son. These productions, aswell as those of Madame de la F?re, became quite the fashion in thecountry. The chevalier took them to the neighbouring fairs, where,at the same time, he found opportunities of making more advantageouspurchases than in the town. M
. de la F?re gave him a per-centageon all he bought and sold for him, so that in a short time he wasable to carry on a small trade on his own account, in which hedisplayed considerable ability. Raymond often accompanied him inthese excursions, and thus began to acquire a knowledge of business.As for Madame de la F?re, who added to her skill in embroidery, atalent for millinery, she had soon so much to do that she was obligedto take work-women, and she opened a shop, to which people came fromall parts, to get the French fashions, of which the chevalier, byhis activity, contrived to obtain for her the patterns. When theircircumstances had so much improved, that there was no longer anydanger of another fast, M. de la F?re said to Raymond and Juliette,"My children, you have hitherto worked for the benefit of thecommunity, it is but just that you should also work for yourselves;I give you each a louis d'or, you now know what it is capable ofproducing, turn it to profit on your own account."

  They did turn it to so good a use, that it served for theirmaintenance during the remainder of the time they continued abroad.M. and Madame de la F?re, when they returned to France, had acquiredby their industry, a sufficient sum to repurchase a portion oftheir property which had been sold, and the Chevalier de Villon,who remained with them, was in a condition to pay them a small sumannually. As to Raymond, he had acquired habits of business andindustry, and Juliette those of activity and economy. She had alsolearned never to close her heart to the miseries of others, assometimes happens with those who are very much engrossed by their owntrials; but it was in the midst of the anxieties of a most painfulposition, that Juliette had seen how little it sometimes costs toalleviate a great misfortune, and it was the louis d'or which hadtaught her all this.

  CONTINUATION OF THE HISTORY OF A LOUIS D'OR.

  The louis d'or paid by Madame de la F?re to the merchant from whomshe had bought the lawn for her first handkerchiefs, was passed byhim to a fellow-tradesman, who was going to another town of Germany,where he was established as a dealer in lace. Among the workpeoplewho supplied him, was a young girl named _Victorine_, a refugee likeM. and Madame de la F?re. Victorine worked for the support of hergodmother, Madame d'Alin, an elderly person who had formerly beenwell off; but the dread of the revolution had seized upon her to sucha degree, that almost at the very outbreak she precipitately quittedFrance, without taking any precautions to preserve her property, andwithout any money but what she happened to have at the moment for hercurrent expenses. Thinking only of flight, she took no one with herbut her godchild Victorine, the daughter of one of her old servants,whom she had brought up. She had had her instructed in every kind offemale employment; and when they fell into misfortune, Victorine,who, though scarcely seventeen years of age, possessed both sense andcourage, set herself vigorously to work for her godmother, whom age,delicate health, and weakness of character, rendered incapable ofovercoming the difficulties of such a situation.

  The first thought of Victorine, when they found themselves withoutmeans, had been to sell a piece of lace, which she had just finishedfor herself. Having succeeded in disposing of it, she continued thiskind of work. She could not devote to it as much time as she wished,having to attend to the domestic arrangements, and to wait uponMadame d'Alin, who was not accustomed to do anything for herself.Occasionally also she had to read aloud to Madame d'Alin, who wassometimes a little vexed that she could not do so more frequently.Victorine often felt annoyed at being disturbed from her work, butshe did not display this feeling; for she knew that her godmother wasso kind, that had she perceived it, she would have deprived herselfof many pleasures and dispensed with many services, which habit hadrendered necessary to her.

  Notwithstanding these interruptions, Victorine's labour wassufficient to provide for their ordinary wants; but it was onlyjust sufficient. The least additional expense would have derangedeverything, and since they had been in Germany, their wardrobeshad not been renewed. Madame d'Alin suffered no inconvenience onthis account, because she went out so rarely that her dresses werebut little used, so that the clothes she had brought with her weresufficient for a long time; but Victorine's stock, never veryconsiderable, was soon exhausted, and the poor girl, notwithstandingher good sense, was not insensible to the annoyance of going out ina dress the different parts of which did not well match the pattern,and the sleeves of which only reached half way down her arm; forshe had grown. Madame d'Alin, who was kindness itself, and who wasextremely fond of Victorine, endeavoured to improve matters by givingher some of her own dresses; but the dresses of Madame d'Alin, whowas small and thin, while Victorine was very tall and rather stout,suited her still worse than those which had, at least, been made forher; and although her godmother's bonnet and old mantle preserved herfrom the cold and rain, they gave her so strange an appearance, thatshe could not help being a little uncomfortable when she had to gointo the streets thus muffled up, and especially when she entered theshop where she sold her lace. She longed for the time when she shouldbe able to buy a dress and bonnet in the fashion of the country, andas everything was very cheap there, and Victorine had no desire todress expensively, she hoped to be able to accomplish her wish for asum of about a louis.

  The possession of this louis, then, was the object of her ambition:she thought of it night and day, and pictured to herself thedelight she should feel the first time she went out dressed likeother people: but she must first be able to spare a louis, andto accomplish this was no easy matter; for Victorine, from thesituation in which she was placed, and the whole responsibilityof which devolved upon her, had acquired such habits of economy,that she would never have run the risk of spending so considerablea sum, without having in advance sufficient money and work forseveral months. She had then put a louis aside, but determined notto purchase her dress and bonnet until she had collected a certainsum. At first she was very far from the point, then some weeks ofcheapness and the talent which she had acquired for economy enabledher to increase her store. Sometimes it augmented so rapidly thatshe hoped to see it soon complete; but all at once the price ofvegetables was raised, or the bushel of charcoal had gone morequickly: then the treasure ceased to increase: Victorine no longerknew when it would be complete, and the slightest accident whichhappened to diminish it made her lose all hope. Then would she addanother patch to her dress, which, in the anticipation of a new one,she had a little neglected, and for several days her heart would besad, and she would feel some difficulty in working with her usualdiligence and pleasure.

  One day when she happened to be in a happier mood, she carried herwork to the dealer, who, in paying her, said, "See! here is someof the money of your own country." And he showed her the louis.Victorine, on beholding it, was greatly moved; it was so long sinceshe had seen a French coin. Oh! how she longed to possess it! Butit was in vain that she calculated; the sum owing to her in thecurrency of the country did not amount to a louis. At last she beggedthe shopkeeper to save it for her, promising in a short time tobring sufficient work to make up the amount. In fact, the desireof possessing this louis redoubled her energies. Shortly afterwardsshe went to obtain it, brought it away with great delight, and aseverything was referred to her favourite idea, she determined topurchase with it her dress and bonnet, as soon as she was able.This was the louis d'or which she had put by, and which she kept socarefully.

  The increased quantity of work which she had for some time executed,in order to obtain it the sooner, together with a few weeksfavourable to her economy, brought her near the accomplishment ofher wishes. At length the day arrived when the work she was to takehome would complete the necessary amount, provided the provisionsshe had to purchase did not exceed a certain price. The provisionshappened to be cheap, and Victorine, overjoyed, stopped on her wayback at the shop of a linendraper with whom she was acquainted, andselected a pattern, in order to increase the pleasure she would havein buying it; and perhaps, also, that she might the sooner have thegratification of telling some one that she was going to purchase adress. She had not yet communicated her intention to Madame d'Alin,but she felt quite sure of
her approbation. After having made herchoice, she returned home, almost running, to leave her provisions,and to fetch her louis. On entering, she opened the door so hastily,that Madame d'Alin, who did not expect her, started, and herspectacles, which were lying on her knee, fell, and both the glasseswere broken. "Good heavens!" exclaimed Madame d'Alin, partly fromfright, and partly from the vexation she felt at having broken herglasses. As for Victorine, she remained motionless. The pleasurewhich she had promised herself was so great, that her vexation wasproportionally extreme. At length, taking the spectacles from thehands of Madame d'Alin, with a movement of impatience, which shecould not control, she said, "Now, then, there are some glasses to bebought!"

  "No, my child," replied Madame d'Alin, mildly, "I will do withoutthem." Victorine felt that she had done wrong; and telling hergodmother, in a tone of greater gentleness, that she could not dowithout glasses, she went out to replace them. However, in callingon the linendraper to tell him that she should not buy the dress,she had to turn away her head, that he might not see the tears whichstarted to her eyes.

  She purchased the glasses, returned home, and was greatly astonishedat finding with Madame d'Alin a man, whom she did not at firstrecognize, so little did she think it possible for him to be there.It was the steward of the little estate on which Madame d'Alinusually resided. He had come from France for the purpose of informinghis mistress that there was no longer the slightest danger inreturning; that she had not been put upon the list of emigrants; thather tenant, who was an honest man, had punctually paid his rent; andthat he himself, having been unable to transmit to her the money,had allowed it to accumulate, and had now come to seek her, in orderthat she might return home. Madame d'Alin, while listening to him,was agitated between hope and fear; and as for Victorine, she was sotroubled, that she knew not what she felt. Though she had longed torevisit France, yet this had appeared to her a thing so impossible,that she had never dwelt upon the idea; but from this moment it tooksuch possession of her mind, that she could think of nothing else,and her entreaties and arguments, added to those of the steward,as well as the representations of several of the friends of Madamed'Alin, from whom he had brought letters, which her spectacles nowenabled her to read, made her resolve on returning. The day wasfixed for their departure; and Victorine, for whom her godmotherimmediately bought a dress and bonnet, having no need of her louisfor this purpose, reserved it, in order to buy, when she got back toFrance, something which might afford her very great pleasure.

  On her return, she was for a long time unable to decide on the mannerin which she should employ it. Madame d'Alin, who regarded her as herown child, supplied her abundantly with everything she required, andas she was too much accustomed to economy to have any very strongfancies, she always kept it for some better opportunity than had asyet presented itself. Besides, when after some stay in Paris, theyreturned to the little estate of Madame d'Alin, Victorine was placedat the head of her household, and as she found many things whichrequired to be put in order, she was too much occupied to think aboutspending her louis. At length, one of her relatives, a servant, ina town a few leagues distant, having occasion to visit her, spokeof the difficulty she felt in managing with her low wages, havingher mother to support, whose strength no longer permitted her to domuch. Victorine thought that the best use she could make of herlouis, was to give it to her friend; the latter promised to send itas soon as possible to her mother, who was called _Old Mathurine_,and who resided two leagues distant from her. As to Victorine, sheshortly after married the son of the honest steward, who had so wellpreserved the fortune of his mistress. While Madame d'Alin lived,they took care of her, as if they had been her own children, and ather death, she left them a considerable part of her property.

  You see, continued M. de Cideville, how much time and trouble aresometimes required in order to obtain a louis d'or. The followingstory will show you how many vexations might sometimes be avoided bythe possession of a sum much less considerable.

  THE TEMPTATIONS.

  Madame de Livonne, after having been in affluent circumstances, hadfallen into, a state of great poverty. Being left a widow, with herdaughter Euphemia, who was about twelve years of age, and havingonly distant relations, who were far from wealthy, and to whom shedid not wish to be a burden, she took the reasonable and courageousresolution of providing, by her own exertions, for herself anddaughter. She therefore established herself in a small town whereshe was unknown, that she might be able to live as she pleased,without being obliged to go into company, or receive visits. Sheapplied herself to plain work, with Euphemia, who was gentle andreasonable, and who loved her mother, whom she had seen very unhappy,so tenderly, that provided she saw her tranquil, nothing troubledher. It was not because Euphemia did not, at first, experience muchdifficulty in accustoming herself to certain privations which dailyincreased, or to duties somewhat repugnant to her feelings; butshe found her mother so ready to neglect herself on her account,and so anxious to spare her as much as possible everything thatwas disagreeable, that she felt eager to anticipate her, and madea pleasure of what would otherwise have been a pain. Thus, forinstance, she had no fancy for counting the linen, or washing thedishes, but if she could manage to be the first to see the laundress,she hastened to give her the clothes, delighted with the thought thather mother would not have to do it; and after dinner she generallycontrived to surprise her, by washing and arranging the things beforeMadame de Livonne rose from table, who, upon seeing what was done,would embrace her child with the greatest tenderness.

  With the happiness which these attentions caused, would sometimesmingle a feeling of melancholy and uneasiness, relative to thefuture prospects of Euphemia; but Madame de Livonne possessed somuch fortitude, that she was enabled to overcome her fears, and toplace her trust in Providence. Besides, there could not well be anysadness where Euphemia was, for she laughed and sung over all shedid, and her mother, who was still young, and had a pleasing voice,often joined in her songs. In the evening, when the weather was fine,they walked into the country, and Euphemia, after having been shutup all day, enjoyed with transport the beauty of the weather andthe freshness of the air; and, satisfied with having worked withdiligence, she thought with pleasure of the duties of the succeedingday. To see and hear her, one would have imagined that she was thehappiest creature in the world; and in truth she was happy, for shedid nothing wrong, she had no fancies that tormented her, she wasnever wearied, and always spent her time in useful occupations.

  Madame de Livonne was so economical, and proportioned so well herexpenses to her means, that since they had been compelled to workfor their living, they had never been embarrassed. But she was takenill, even dangerously so. However, Euphemia's joy, when she beheldher convalescent, was so great, that she could scarcely think of thesituation in which they were soon to be placed. Almost all theirmoney had been spent during the time that Madame de Livonne hadbeen unable to work, and when Euphemia, occupied in nursing her,her heart always heavy, and her eyes full of tears, was scarcelyable to work either. It was not what the poor child had eaten duringthis time that cost much, but medicines and nourishing food had beenrequired for her mother. Several persons of the town who esteemedMadame de Livonne, on account of her fortitude and her virtues, had,indeed, sent her various things, of which she stood in need, but thisassistance ceased as soon as she was better, and she herself even,in order not to encroach upon their kindness, had assured them thatsuch things were no longer necessary for her. They therefore foundthemselves in such a state of destitution, that as soon as Madame deLivonne had, in some degree, regained her strength, she determinedto go to a town, about two leagues distant from where they lived, inorder to collect some money for work sent home before her illness.

  They set out very early one morning, and when just on the point ofstarting, the daughter of Mathurine called upon them. It was in thistown that she was in service, and her mother lived in the one towhich they were going. She was acquainted with them, as they workedfor her mistr
ess, and being aware of their intended journey, shebegged them to carry to her mother the louis d'or that Victorine hadgiven her. They willingly took charge of it, and set off full ofspirits. Euphemia was so delighted to breathe the morning air, that,although repeatedly reminded by her mother that they had four leaguesto walk during the day, she could not refrain from jumping about, andrunning on before, and into the fields, on each side of the road; sothat when the heat increased, she became very thirsty, and the moreso as she had eaten, while skipping about, a large piece of bread.Her mother exhorted her to bear the inconvenience with patience, asthere was no means of procuring anything to drink. Euphemia said nomore about it, as she did not wish to grieve her mother needlessly;but presently she uttered a cry of joy.

  "Oh, mamma, there is a man selling gooseberries; we can buy a poundto refresh ourselves."

  "My poor child," said her mother, "you know we have no money."

  "I thought," replied Euphemia, timidly, "that they would not be verydear."

  "But I have no money at all, my dear Euphemia; none whatever."

  "I thought, mamma, that this man might change for us old Mathurine'slouis d'or, and when we arrived, we could give her her money,together with what we had borrowed from it."

  "But we have neither the permission of Mathurine, nor of herdaughter, to borrow from this money; it was not given us for thatpurpose."

  "Oh! I am quite sure," continued Euphemia, in a sorrowful tone, "thatif they knew how thirsty I am, they would gladly lend us sufficientto buy a pound of gooseberries."

  "My poor child," replied her mother, still more sorrowfully, "we canbe sure only of our own will, and dispose only of that which belongsto us. As this money does not belong to us, is it not the same as ifwe had not got it at all?"

  As she spoke, she put her arms round her daughter's neck, andembraced her tenderly, regarding her with a look of distress, as ifto entreat her not to persist in a request which she could not grant.Euphemia kissed her mother's hand, and turned away her head, that shemight not see the basket of gooseberries which was passing by them atthe moment; and hearing her mother sigh heavily, she determined notto give her any more uneasiness.

  "Are you still very thirsty?" said Madame de Livonne to her, sometime afterwards.

  "Yes, mamma;" and she added, "this is like the child of Hagar in thedesert." But seeing that her comparison brought tears to her mother'seyes, she continued gaily, "But I shall not die of it," and she beganto skip about, in order to show that she was not overcome by the heatand thirst. Nevertheless, she was very much flushed, and her mother,looking at her with great anxiety, saw that she was really suffering.She stopped, and looked around her. "Listen, Euphemia," said she toher daughter; "it is possible that behind this rising ground, whichoverhangs the road, we may find a hollow, and perhaps some water. Getup and see."

  Euphemia ascended, and at first saw nothing but a vast plain coveredwith corn, without a tree, without the least verdure indicative ofwater. For the moment, she felt ready to cry; she stood on tiptoe,and notwithstanding the heat of the sun, which was shining full uponher head, she could not make up her mind to come down and resignthe hope of quenching her thirst. At length she heard a dog barknot far from the spot where she stood. After hearing it severaltimes, she remarked that the sound always proceeded from the sameplace, and that it was, moreover, the voice of a large dog, and notthat of a shepherd's dog. She judged that the animal must be at thedoor of some dwelling, and running in the direction of the sound,she discovered, to her extreme joy, a house which had been hiddenby the elevation on which she stood. She announced the news to hermother, who telling her to go on, followed after her. Before Madamede Livonne arrived, Euphemia had drunk off a large glass of water,with a little wine in it, which a good-natured woman had given her,although Euphemia at first refused the wine, as she had no money topay for it. She also asked for a glass for her mother, and ran tomeet her; and Madame de Livonne, delighted at seeing the poor childrefreshed and comforted, forgot half her own fatigues.

  Having fully rested and refreshed themselves, and warmly thankedtheir kind entertainer, they again set out on their journey, by apath which she had pointed out to them, as shorter and pleasanterthan the high road. Euphemia, quite reanimated, could not refrainfrom congratulating herself on her good fortune, and a little also onher cleverness, in having inferred that there was a house there.

  "You must allow," said her mother, "that you would not have shown somuch discrimination, had you not been so thirsty. Necessity is theparent of invention."

  "Oh, most certainly," replied Euphemia, "if I had eaten thegooseberries, we should not have sought for something to drink, and Ishould not have had that good glass of wine and water, which has doneme so much more good."

  Whilst thus conversing, a poor woman approached them, carrying aninfant, which was very pale, and so weak, that it could not hold upits head; she herself was frightfully emaciated, and her eyes werered and hollow from weeping; she asked them for alms.

  "Good Heavens! we have nothing," said Euphemia, in a most sorrowfultone.

  "Only enough to buy something for my poor child, who has had no milkfor two days! only enough to save it from dying!"

  "I have nothing in the world," said Madame de Livonne, withinexpressible anguish. The poor woman sat down on the ground andburst into tears. Euphemia, her heart torn with grief, claspedher hands and exclaimed, "Mamma, mamma, shall we leave this poorchild and its mother to die of hunger? Would not that be worse thanborrowing from Mathurine's money? We are still near the house; let mego and change the louis." Madame de Livonne cast down her eyes, andfor a moment appeared to reflect.

  "Euphemia," said she, "have you forgotten that as this money does notbelong to us, it is the same as if it were not in our possession?"

  Euphemia began to cry bitterly, hiding her face in her hands. Thepoor woman, seeing them stop, got up and again approached Madame deLivonne.

  "For the love of God," she exclaimed, "and that he may preserve youryoung lady, take pity on my poor child!"

  "Tell me," said Madame de Livonne, "have you sufficient strength toreach the town?" The poor woman replied that she had, and Madame deLivonne, drawing from her pocket the cover of a letter, on the backof which she wrote a few lines in pencil, told her to take it to theCur? of the town in which she resided, promising her that he wouldgive her assistance. Euphemia, hearing the poor woman thank hermother, felt courage at last to turn to her her tearful face. Theexpression of her pity seemed to shed a gleam of comfort over theheart of this unhappy creature. She looked alternately at Euphemiaand at her child, as if to tell him also to thank her. Euphemia justthen remembering that she had in her bag a piece of bread, left fromher breakfast, gave it to the poor woman, who went away loading themwith blessings, for she plainly saw that they had done for her allthat was in their power. They continued their journey: their mindswere relieved, but they were serious. Euphemia could talk of nothingbut the poor woman. "You see, my child," said her mother, "that thereare sometimes terrible temptations in life."

  "Oh, mamma! so terrible that I do not know how it is possible toresist them."

  "By fully persuading ourselves that there is nothing truly impossiblebut a breach of duty."

  "But, mamma, if you had not been able to write to the Cur?, could youhave made up your mind to allow this poor woman to die, rather thanchange Mathurine's louis?"

  "I would rather have begged for her."

  This reply, in proving to Euphemia that resources are never wantingto him who has the courage to employ all those which are allowable,calmed a little the alarm inspired by the severity of certain duties.

  At length they reached the town. One of the two persons with whomMadame de Livonne had business, lived at its entrance, and shefelt a little uneasy at seeing the shutters of the house closed.Nevertheless she made inquiries. A servant, the only one remainingin the house, informed her that her mistress was gone to see hersister, who was ill, and living at a distance of thirty leagues.Euphemia
looked at her mother with dismay; however, she thought itvery fortunate that they had not touched Mathurine's louis. They thenwent to the other customer; but she no longer resided in the town. Aneighbour told them that she had only stayed there a short time, andthat no one knew where she was gone to. On receiving this reply,Madame de Livonne sat down on a step. Her daughter saw her turn pale,and lean for support, as if she was going to faint; and indeed itwas only her courage which had until then supported her against thedebility left by her malady, the fatigues of the journey, and thevexation occasioned by her first disappointment. Now her strengthentirely gave way, and she fainted outright. Euphemia, trembling, andin despair, embraced her as long as she was able, and called her,and shook her, in order to make her revive. She was afraid to leaveher for the purpose of seeking assistance; brought up in habits ofself-restraint, she dared not cry out, and no one happened to bepassing by; every one was in the fields. At length, the neighbour whohad spoken to them again coming out, Euphemia called her, and pointedto her mother. Two other old women also come up and gave their aid inrestoring her to consciousness. Madame de Livonne opened her eyes,and turned them upon her daughter, who kneeling by her side, kissedher hands, and exclaimed in a transport of joy, "Mamma, here I am;"for at this moment she thought of nothing but the happiness of beingonce more restored to each other.

  However, she soon become very anxious about their return home; buther mother told her not to torment herself, as she would soon recoverher strength; and yet at every moment she seemed on the point offainting again. Every time she closed her eyes, Euphemia turned paleand was ready to burst into tears, but restrained herself, in ordernot to grieve her mother, and clasping her hands, she murmured ina suppressed voice, "My God! what shall we do? how are we to gethome?" One of the women told her that a coach would be passing in twohours which would take them back, but Euphemia knew very well thatthey had no money to pay for their places, and besides she thoughtthat it would be impossible for her mother, weak as she was, tocontinue her journey without taking some refreshment. However, shehad not once thought of making use of Mathurine's money; but at lastit occurred to her that if she were to carry it to her, she mightperhaps lend them a part of it. Delighted with this idea, she forgother timidity, and hastily searching for the louis in her mother'spocket, and begging one of the women to accompany her to Mathurine'shouse, she looked at her mother for permission. Madame de Livonne bya sign gave her consent, and Euphemia set off, walking so quicklythat the woman who accompanied her had some difficulty in followingher. Her heart beat violently as she reached the house; the doorwas locked; Mathurine had gone four leagues off to assist in theharvest, and was not to return until the following day. Euphemialooked at the person who gave her this information without utteringa word. She was unable to speak, for her heart was bursting, and herideas were confused to such a degree, on receiving an intelligencewhich destroyed her last hope, that, happily for her, she no longerfelt all the misery of her situation. She returned slowly, lookingmechanically around her, as if seeking some one who might give heraid; but all she saw seemed poorer than herself, though she felt thatat that moment there were none of them so wretched. Presently theair resounded with the cracking of postilions' whips; a travellingcarriage drove up, and stopped at the inn: it occupied the whole ofthe narrow street, and obliged Euphemia and her companion to stop.A lady, her husband and daughter, and a lady's-maid, descended fromit, and were quickly surrounded by poor asking for alms. This sightmade Euphemia weep, without very well knowing why. She watched them,and listened to the lady's soft voice; she looked at her husband,whose countenance was good and amiable, and at the young girl, whowas nearly of her own age; she could not make up her mind to pass on.At last she heard the husband, in a tone of kindness, say to the poorwho were begging, "My children, I can give you nothing here; but cometo B?ville, ask for the ch?teau, and you shall have work."

  A thought suddenly struck Euphemia: they might perchance give herwork too. She rushed into the yard, regardless of the horses thatwere crossing it, and stood before the lady, who was just enteringthe house; but once in her presence, she stopped, cast down her eyes,and was afraid to speak. Madame de B?ville, such was the lady's name,seeing before her a young girl neatly dressed and in tears, asked herkindly what she wanted. Euphemia hesitated, stammered, but at lengththe thought that her mother was waiting for her, and perhaps uneasy,forced her to make an effort, and with clasped hands, and downcasteyes, for she dared not look at Madame de B?ville, she said in a lowvoice, "Let me have some work too."

  "Some work, my child? certainly I will, but how--what sort of work?"

  Madame de B?ville, seeing before her a young girl neatly dressed, and in tears, asked her kindly what she wanted.--P. 92.]

  Euphemia could not reply; the little girl then approached her, andsaid in the most encouraging tone, "Come, speak to mamma."

  Euphemia took courage, and addressing Madame de B?ville in herformer manner, said, "But I want to be paid in advance, immediately;and then," she added, raising her head, and in a tone of greatearnestness, "then, I will work for you as long and as much as youplease."

  She stopped, trembling. Madame de B?ville questioned her with greatkindness, and Euphemia related her troubles; but while speaking,the louis d'or, which she held in her hand, fell to the ground. Thelittle girl picked it up, and returned it to her, blushing, grievedat the thought that Euphemia had been trying to deceive them.

  "My child," said Madame de B?ville, in a reproachful tone, "why didyou tell me that you had no money?"

  "It is not ours," replied Euphemia with simplicity, "it has beenintrusted to us for another, and therefore we cannot touch it."

  The young girl, much moved, looked at Madame de B?ville, who kissedEuphemia, and asked to be conducted to the place where she had lefther mother. At this moment, Madame de Livonne entered the yard,supported by M. de B?ville, who had recognised her from having oftenseen her in Paris, and who begged his wife to join him in persuadingher to pass a few days with them, in order to regain her strength.Madame de B?ville, deeply affected by Euphemia's narrative, pressedthe hand of Madame de Livonne, entreating her, in the kindest manner,to accompany them. Madame de Livonne turned to Euphemia, who smiledat her with a look of entreaty; the little girl had already takenher by the arm to lead her away. Madame de Livonne could no longerhesitate, and they entered the carriage of Madame de B?ville, whosehorses had arrived to conduct them to the ch?teau, which was onlya few leagues distant. Euphemia could not contain her joy when shesaw her mother seated in that comfortable carriage, and surroundedby persons who took care of her; and her pleasure was enhanced bythe thought of the delightful time they should pass at B?ville. Thefollowing day the louis was sent to Mathurine by a confidentialperson.

  Madame de Livonne only required rest, and was soon perfectlyrestored. M. and Madame de B?ville, greatly pleased with theprinciples she had impressed upon the mind of her daughter, andknowing besides that she was well educated, and very talented, toldher that, as they could not obtain in the country, where they livedthe greater part of the year, such masters as they wished for theirdaughter, they would be delighted if she would remain with them, andassist them in her education. Madame de Livonne, although for herselfshe would have preferred her independence, nevertheless accepteda proposition, which insured to Euphemia a happier existence, andprobably, also, a valuable protection.

  As to Euphemia, she was delighted beyond measure at the thoughtof having to live with Mademoiselle de B?ville, with whom she hadalready formed a most intimate friendship; and while rejoicing withher mother at this good fortune, she remarked that it would not havehappened to them, if they had been so weak as to change Mathurine'slouis d'or.

  "We have done our duty," she added, "and God has rewarded us."

  "My child," said her mother, "our present situation is a blessingbestowed on us by God, but not a reward."

  "And why so, mamma?"

  "Because this is not the kind of recompense he assigns to thefulfilmen
t of duty. Do you remember the lines I made you read to methe other day from an English book?--

  'What! then is the reward of virtue bread?'[A]

  [A] Pope. "Essay on Man."

  "It is not by giving to the virtuous the means of living, that Godrewards them, but by giving them the satisfaction of having donetheir duty, and obeyed his will. This, sometimes, is their onlyreward in the present world; sometimes, even, they are unhappy duringthe whole of their lives: do you suppose from this that God is unjustto them?"

  "No, mamma."

  "And do you not think that among these virtuous yet afflicted people,there must have been many who have had much more difficult duties tofulfil than ours, and who have fulfilled them without obtaining thosethings which you look upon as a reward?"

  "Oh, certainly, mamma."

  "It is not, then, probable, that God has wished to reward us, inpreference to others, who have better merited a recompense."

  "But, mamma, nevertheless, it is because we have done our duty, thatwe are now so happy."

  "Yes, my child; and things like this should often happen, for avery simple reason. God, who has willed that the accomplishment ofour duties should be rewarded by peace of mind, has also permittedthat happiness should usually be the portion of those who take themost pains to attain it. Now, it is certain, that he who feels nohesitation in neglecting his duty, will not, in a case of emergency,trouble himself with the search of any more difficult resource thanthis."

  "That is quite clear."

  "Whereas, he who is anxious not to fail in his duty, will exert allthe energies of his mind, in order to discover some other means ofsuccess; and as the Gospel says, '_Seek, and ye shall find_.' Thusit may often happen, that the efforts we make to avoid a breach ofduty, enable us to discover many important resources, which would nototherwise have occurred to us."

  "Yes, mamma, just as with the pound of gooseberries. And if, also,when I saw you so ill, I had considered myself justified in makinguse of Mathurine's louis, I should not have thought of addressingmyself to Madame de B?ville, which has been so much more advantageousto us."

  At this moment, the poor woman whom they had met upon the roadpresented herself. Her child was quite restored, and she herself,though still very thin, appeared happy. The Cur? had at firstrelieved her, and afterwards sent her to a manufactory, where sheobtained employment. Assured of a subsistence, she had come toannounce her happiness to those who had been the means of procuringit, and to bring her child for Mademoiselle Euphemia to kiss, _nowthat he had become handsome again_.

  "Mamma! mamma," said Euphemia, overwhelming it with caresses, "it isstill because you would not change Mathurine's louis, that you sentthem to the Cur?. Oh! how much good this louis has done us!"

  * * * * *

  Here M. de Cideville paused.

  "Is that all?" asked Ernestine.

  "Yes," replied her father, "I think that is the whole history of thelouis d'or; and that from old Mathurine it has come to me, withoutany adventures."

  "And now, papa," said Ernestine, "you forbade me to question youuntil the end of the story; but is it not true, that you do not knowwhether all the adventures you have related, have really happened tothe louis d'or you showed me?"

  M. de Cideville smiled, and said, "It is true that I do not exactlyknow whether these adventures have really happened; but you mustallow that they are possible." Ernestine assented.

  "You must also allow, that if some of them are rather romantic,some at least are probable, and may have occurred without any veryextraordinary combination of accidents." She again assented.

  "Well, then, my child," replied M. de Cideville, "it is partlyfor want of knowing the truth, and partly for want of sufficientimagination to supply its place, that I have not related many otherhistories, all more simple and more interesting than my own, inwhich you might have seen a louis d'or, or even a much smaller sum,prevent the greatest misfortunes. Picture to yourself a familywhich had eaten nothing for three days: can you imagine the delightwith which they would receive a louis d'or, which would afford themtime to await, without dying, such other assistance as might savethem entirely? And again, the unhappy wretch whose reason has beenso far disturbed by excess of misery, that he is led to attempt hisown life, can you doubt that a louis d'or, by delaying the moment,would often give him time to return to calmer feelings, and seek somebetter resource than an act of crime? I give you only two examples,but I repeat, that there are thousands remaining, of which it wouldbe impossible to think, without losing every wish to spend such a sumin a frivolous manner."

  "But, papa," said Ernestine, "is it then never allowable to spend alouis on pleasure?"

  "My child," said M. de Cideville, "if we impose upon ourselvesrestrictions too severe, on one point, we run the risk of failing inothers. There are duties proportioned to every situation in life. Itis proper that those who enjoy a certain degree of affluence, shouldoccupy in the world a position suitable to their means, and alsothat they should mix in society, which they cannot do without someexpense; for it is highly important that society should be kept up,since it binds men together, and gives them opportunities of mutuallyinstructing each other. It is also good for the poor, because theexpenses of the rich give them the means of exerting their industry,and maintaining their families. It is necessary, too, that thoseemployed in important labours, as I am every morning in my study,should be able sometimes to repose the mind by occupations of a lessserious nature, as otherwise they would end by losing the means offulfilling the duties of their station. It is for reasons of thiskind that many expenses which do not appear directly useful, arenevertheless proper and necessary. But a mind accustomed to judgeof the real value of things, will easily draw a distinction betweenmoney spent in this manner, and that which is _thrown into the sea_,as the saying is; and while such a person will never feel temptedto indulge in expenses of the latter kind, he will permit himselfto enjoy the others without remorse. I know very well, my dearErnestine, that you may easily deceive yourself in regard to yourpleasures: at your age, every pleasure appears of great importance;but I am anxious that you should at least understand the value ofwhat you bestow upon it; therefore, I promise to give you this louisas soon as you have found a really useful means of employing it."

  Ernestine, quite enchanted, promised to seek one; we shall seewhether she succeeded in her search.

  CONCLUSION OF THE HISTORY OF A LOUIS D'OR.

  For a whole week, Ernestine could think of nothing but her louis, andthe use she was to make of it, but she found none that suited her.The stories which her father had related, made her reflect on whatmight really be useful, and as her parents supplied her abundantlywith everything necessary, and even interested themselves in herpleasures, whenever they were reasonable, she saw nothing that couldjustify her in spending it on herself; besides, she had determinedto apply it to some benevolent purpose. But, at her age, she wasignorant of the best means of doing good. She often met poor people,and delighted in relieving them; but as her little monthly allowancewas almost sufficient for these acts of charity, she would have beenvery sorry to have expended her louis upon them. Besides, she didnot know whether one of these poor people was in greater need thananother, nor could she tell how to ascertain this; she thereforeexperienced great anxiety on this head; but the arrival of the seasonof gaiety dissipated her cares. She went to five or six balls; shehad never danced so much in her life, and her head was so completelyturned with joy, that she forgot her louis; for, of course, she wouldnever have thought of spending it upon her toilette. At length thetime arrived for their departure into the country; and seeing herfather paying some money at the inn, she recollected her louis d'or,and mentioned it to him. M. de Cideville told her that it was in thecountry she would find the best means of employing it to advantage,as it was there that the greatest amount of good might be done, withthe smallest amount of money.

  They had only been a few days at Saulaye, the estate of M. deCidev
ille, when Ernestine came running to her father, quite outof breath, to tell him that she required her louis, for that oneof the villagers, named Marianne, whom he knew very well, as shehad assisted at his haymaking the previous year, had just had herleg broken in the fields, by a kick from a horse. The surgeon ofthe neighbouring town, who was also the medical attendant at thech?teau, happened fortunately to pass by while she lay upon theground, screaming dreadfully. He set the leg immediately, and had hertaken home. But this was not all; Marianne would require remedies,and she was very poor; her husband was in the army, and she hadonly a very small garden and her labour to depend upon, for themaintenance of herself and a little girl, eight years of age. It was,therefore, absolutely necessary to assist her.

  M. de Cideville agreed to this. "But," said he to his daughter, "haveyou well considered the manner of employing your louis, so as torender it as beneficial to her as possible?"

  "If I give it to her, papa, she will be able to buy what is necessarywith it."

  "Do you think she will be able to buy much?"

  "Oh! dear, no; but that is always the way."

  "But if you could so employ it as to make it yield a considerableprofit to her? Do you remember the advantages which the family of M.de la F?re derived from a louis d'or?"

  "Yes, papa, but their history is not true," said Ernestine, quickly.

  "It is quite sufficient that it is possible."

  "Yes; but if it be necessary," said Ernestine, with a sorrowfuland embarrassed look, "to bring oneself, as they did, to bread andwater...."

  "You are not reduced to this extremity: this is one of thoseresolutions which we ought to have the courage to take, whennecessity demands them, but which would be ridiculous whenunnecessary?"

  These words restored Ernestine's cheerfulness. "Whilst we aretalking," said she to her father, caressing him, "poor Marianne doesnot know that we are coming to her aid."

  Her father reassured her. M. de Cideville had been informed of theaccident before Ernestine came to tell him, and had given orders tothe housekeeper, who was a confidential person, to attend for themoment Marianne's wants. "But henceforward," said M. de Cideville,"it is to you we look for her being taken care of, and for seeingthat she wants for nothing: do you think your louis will besufficient for this?"

  "Good gracious, no! What is to be done?"

  "What do you think she will stand in need of?"

  "Why, first of all, she must be nursed, for she can do nothing forherself, and Suzette, her daughter, is too young to attend upon her."

  "She has many neighbours about her, and I am sure they will relieveeach other in nursing, and taking care of her, as long as it isnecessary. You already see how much these poor women can do withoutthe aid of money."

  "Yes, but I cannot do what they do."

  "Therefore you ought to do something else. Will she not requiremedicines?"

  "We must buy some for her."

  "The greater part of the herbs, of which her draughts and poulticeswill probably be composed, grow wild in the fields: we know them, andwill teach you to distinguish them also. If you like to employ yourwalks in seeking for them, you may, I think, easily gather a goodprovision of such of them as are most required, and we will show themto the surgeon, in order to be quite sure that we are not mistaken."

  "There, again, is the surgeon! I never thought of him; he, too, mustbe paid."

  "He attends the ch?teau, and receives a certain sum annually; wetreat him well, and he is satisfied with us; besides, he is a veryworthy man, and attends gratuitously to the poor of the village, asmuch from humanity as from the wish to oblige us; while some presentsfrom our produce, as a cask of our wine, for instance, enable us,from time to time, to testify our gratitude to him."

  "But, papa, it is you and other people who do all this; it is not I."

  "You can do but little of yourself, my child, since you have neitherstrength, nor wealth; but it is precisely because you are dependenton us for all your wants, that you ought to count among yourresources the pleasure we feel in obliging you, in everything that isreasonable, and the predisposition which people feel to comply withyour requests, when you ask for what is proper."

  "Oh papa, to ask! but that is so difficult. I should never have thecourage to do that."

  "It is in this, my child, that the greatest merit of charity oftenconsists. I could relate to you many admirable stories on thissubject. In order to do good, we must often be able to conquerour pride, which makes us dislike to have recourse to others;our idleness, which makes us dislike exertion; our indolence orthoughtlessness, which makes us lose a thousand things which wouldbe useful. We must learn to do much, with little means; otherwise,we shall never manage to accomplish anything of importance. Thosewho only give money soon exhaust all they have to give, whereasthe contrivances of charity, in aid of the unfortunate, areinexhaustible."

  "Dear papa, I shall beg you to teach me to find the herbs; but Iassure you I am very much afraid I shall not be able to discoveranything else."

  "You will see: meanwhile, here is your louis; if you take my advice,you will not spend it, except in the purchase of such things asyou cannot otherwise obtain. As for the others, seek the means ofprocuring them. In a house of any consideration there are alwaysmany things which may be given away without any positive expense,as they would be otherwise lost, or nearly so. You can ask us forthese, and in this way, we will aid you, with the greatest pleasure,in succouring poor Marianne, whom from this moment I place under yourcare."

  Ernestine, though a little frightened at a duty, which she was afraidof not fulfilling in a proper manner, still felt proud and happy inhaving some one under her protection. Madame de Cideville enteringat this moment, her husband informed her of the important charge hehad committed to her daughter; and as a servant came to say thatMarguerite, one of the women who took care of Marianne, wanted someold linen for her, Madame de Cideville said, "It is to Ernestine youmust apply."

  Ernestine looked at her mother, with an air of utter astonishment."But, mamma," she said, "I have no old linen."

  "And you cannot think of any means of procuring some?"

  "Madame Bastien" (this was the housekeeper's name) "has plenty; theold sheets and napkins belonging to the house serve her for makingbandages; but she is always angry when any one applies for them. Lastyear, when my nurse hurt her foot, she hardly even dared to ask herfor any."

  "Nevertheless, you must endeavour to obtain some between this andto-morrow, for to-morrow they will be needed for Marianne."

  "Mamma, if you were to tell Madame Bastien to give me some?"

  "She would give them to you, most assuredly; but do you think shewould do so with less ill-humour? She is well aware that I wish herto give to all who require it, but as she has sometimes to supplya great many persons, she is afraid that each will take too much;perhaps too she likes to show her authority a little; therefore, youmay be quite sure that whatever she does, she will do it with a muchbetter grace for the sake of obliging you, than she would if I wereto order it."

  As Ernestine was going out, she met Marguerite, and told her that shewould endeavour to have some linen to send her, for the followingday. Marguerite replied that it was absolutely necessary, for withoutit she could not change Marianne's poultices. Ernestine was verymuch embarrassed; she was afraid of Madame Bastien, who had been inthe family thirty years, and possessed great authority. The servantsfeared her, because she was exact and economical, and Ernestine,without knowing why, did the same. At that moment, she would havebeen very glad if her papa and mamma had themselves undertaken toprovide for Marianne's wants. She saw in this charge a host ofembarrassments, from which she knew not how to extricate herself, butshe did not dare to say so. While standing, thoughtfully, on the spotwhere Marguerite had left her, she saw Madame Bastien approaching.She blushed, for she thought of what she had to ask her, and stoopeddown as if to look at her _Hortensia_, which was placed upon thestep, at the side of the yard. Madame Bastien stopped to look at it,and
remarked that it was very beautiful. Ernestine, who was anxiousto prolong the conversation, showed her two slips from it which shehad planted the preceding year; they each bore two buds which werebeginning to swell. Madame Bastien admired these also.

  "Will you accept of them?" asked Ernestine, with eagerness. MadameBastien refused, saying she did not like to deprive her of them.

  "Oh yes! yes!" said Ernestine, and taking the two pots under herarm she lightly descended the steps and ran to place them on thewindow of the lower room, where Madame Bastien usually worked. MadameBastien followed her, thanking her very much for this present, withwhich she seemed to be greatly pleased, and at the same time admiringthe hortensias. Ernestine went and got some water for them, wiped theleaves, and changed the sticks intended for their support, but whichwere beginning to be too short for them. Madame Bastien hardly knewhow to thank her sufficiently for so much attention.

  "Madame Bastien," said Ernestine, as she tied the last prop, "couldyou not give me some old linen for poor Marianne? Mamma has given mepermission to ask you for some."

  "Very willingly," said Madame Bastien, in the best-humoured mannerin the world; "the poor woman shall have as much as she requires;she is laid up for a long time;" and she took Ernestine to the linencloset, where she made up a large parcel, which Ernestine, her heartbounding with joy, carried off, and hastened to show it triumphantlyto her mother, who allowed her to take it herself to Marianne. Whilstwaiting on the step for her nurse, she saw Suzette, Marianne's littlegirl, enter the yard, walking slowly by the side of the wall, lookingfirst on one side, and then on the other, as if fearful, yet anxiousto be seen. Ernestine descended a few steps and called to her.

  "How is your mother?" she asked. "Pretty well," replied Suzette, witha heavy sigh.

  "What are you looking for?"

  "Nothing;" and this _nothing_ was followed by a sigh still heavierthan the former. She began to look at Ernestine's flowers, and said,"What beautiful flowers!" then, as if continuing the conversation,she added:

  "I have had no dinner to-day."

  "You have had no dinner?"

  "No, and I don't think I shall get any."

  "Why not?"

  "Because mother cannot give me any."

  "Stay, then," said Ernestine, and running to her mother, sheexclaimed, "Mamma, here is Suzette, and she has had no dinner."

  "Very well, my child, something must be done for her."

  "Yes, mamma; do you think," and she hesitated--"do you think it wouldbe a positive expense if Suzette were to be fed here? It seems to methat there is sufficient in the pantry...."

  "I think, my dear, there is; there would only be the bread...."

  "Oh, yes; but, mamma, they bake at home for the servants; would it benecessary to bake more on account of Suzette?"

  "I think not, provided at least that you will not waste it as you arein the habit of doing, by cutting large slices to give to Turc, whoought to have only the fragments."

  Ernestine promised, and Madame de Cideville consented to Suzette'sbeing fed at the ch?teau, during her mother's illness. While nowwaiting for her dinner, Ernestine got her a piece of bread, to whichshe added, as it was the first time, a little gingerbread cake whichshe brought from her own room, as it belonged to her. In passing byTurc, who as soon as he saw her, came out of his kennel, and got asnear to her as the length of his chain would permit, all the timewagging his tail and lowering his ears: "My poor Turc," said she,"you will have nothing now but the pieces." Nevertheless she beggedSuzette to give him a bit of her bread, as a mark of friendship, andpromised herself to go and look for some in the piece-basket, inorder not to forfeit Turc's good graces.

  She would carry the bundle of linen herself, although it was ratherheavy. Fortunately, Marianne lived quite close to the ch?teau.On reaching her house, all flushed with pleasure as well asembarrassment, she said, "Here, Marianne, here is some old linen Ihave got for you."

  "I assure you," said the nurse, "she was very anxious to bring it toyou."

  "It is very kind, Mademoiselle Ernestine," said one of the women whowas there, "to come and comfort poor people."

  This speech gratified Ernestine, but embarrassed her still more.Children, and especially girls, are timid with the poor, becausethey have seen little of them, are unaccustomed to their manners andlanguage, and do not know how to talk to them. This timidity, whichthey do not sufficiently endeavour to overcome, often causes them tobe accused of haughtiness. Fortunately for Ernestine, Suzette, whohad followed her, came forward eating, with good appetite, a piece ofbread. She was asked where she got it, and replied that MademoiselleErnestine had given it to her.

  "I have asked mamma," said Ernestine, addressing Marianne, "to lether be fed at the ch?teau, all the time you are ill."

  "This is just what was wanted to cure her," said the woman who hadbefore spoken, "for she has done nothing for a long time but cry, andsay, '_Who will take care of my poor child?_' I told her that if shetormented herself in that manner her blood would be curdled."

  "Suzette shall want for nothing, my poor Marianne," said Ernestine,with great earnestness, "nor you either, I hope."

  Joy and gratitude were painted on the suffering countenance ofMarianne; she clasped her hands under the bedclothes, for she hadbeen forbidden to move. An old woman who was seated near her bed, letfall her crutch, and taking the hand of Ernestine within her own,said to her, "You are a good young lady, and God will bless you."Ernestine was so moved, that tears almost came to her eyes. She nowfelt more at her ease and her nurse having questioned the women whowere there as to what had been done, and what ordered by the surgeon,she joined in the conversation, and in a short time her embarrassmentquite vanished. When she left, Marianne raised her feeble voice tobless her; and the old woman again said, "You are a good young lady."The other woman followed her to the door and looked after her. Shefelt that they would talk about her in that poor cottage, and saythat she was good, and this thought made her experience a pleasurewhich had hitherto been unknown to her. Suzette, who followed herlike her shadow, she considered as under her especial protection,and she seemed to herself to be older and more reasonable, now thatshe was able to protect some one. At this moment, she would nothave exchanged the pleasure of having Marianne under her charge forall the enjoyments in the world. She hastened to communicate to herparents all the joy she experienced, and they shared it with her. Shetold her mother that there was still one thing which she had to begof her, but she hoped that it would be the last. It was some brothfor Marianne; "I could easily," she said, "boil her some meat, butthen I should require wood, and besides meat would not be good forher. If the broth were made for two days, it would turn at the firststorm; and, besides, it would give more trouble to her neighbours.Perhaps some could be sent to her from here without increasing theexpense."

  "I see," said her mother, smiling, "that you begin to understand whatyou are about." This was the result of her conversation with thewomen who took care of Marianne. Madame de Cideville permitted herto ask M. Fran?ois the cook for some broth, and M. Fran?ois promisedto give her some with great pleasure, provided Mademoiselle Ernestinedid not incessantly say to him, "M. Fran?ois, do not so often give usmelted butter with asparagus in it;" "M. Fran?ois, the spinach had notaste to-day;" or else, "I do not like pease soup!"

  Ernestine promised to be satisfied with everything, and she was, atall events, perfectly satisfied with her day's work.

  In the afternoon, she gathered in the fields several of the herbswhich she had been told might be required for Marianne. She alsolearned to distinguish a few which grew in the uncultivated parts ofthe park, and even in the crevices of the walls. They were shown tothe surgeon, who thought many of them very good; some others werenecessary, and these he promised to supply himself; Ernestine askedhim the price. "Nothing to you, my dear young lady," he replied, "Ido not wish to ruin so pretty a sister of charity." Ernestine blushedand thanked him, and from that moment treated him with a degree ofrespect and politeness, whi
ch charmed the good doctor so much, thathe redoubled his attentions to Marianne. He gave Ernestine an accountof her condition, and told her what was necessary to be done, andErnestine thanked him in a manner which completely won his heart. Hejoked with her, she laughed with him; they became the best friendsimaginable. One day a rather expensive drug was wanted: Ernestineinsisted on paying for it; he would not allow it; "I am also anapothecary," he said; "I prepare that myself."

  "Yes, but you would sell it."

  "That is not certain. There are drugs which must be prepared inadvance, in order that they may always be ready in case of need, andwhich, nevertheless, if kept too long, run the risk of being spoiled.This risk we are obliged to charge against those who have money, bymaking them pay a higher price, which is but just; but it is alsojust that the poor should profit by it in receiving for nothing whatmight otherwise be spoiled."

  Ernestine was satisfied with the surgeon's arguments, but she toldher mother that as she wished to make him a present which would notbe very expensive to her, she had determined to embroider a waistcoatfor him, which would suit his portly person wonderfully well. Hermother approved of her idea, and even assisted her, and when thewaistcoat was completed, the surgeon was invited to dinner. Ernestineplaced it under his napkin, and it gave him so much pleasure, thatthere was certainly nothing in the world which he would not have doneto oblige his little sister of charity, as he always called her.

  From the moment that Marianne began to improve, she had requiredsoup, and the surgeon wished it to be made of lighter bread than thatwhich was baked for the servants, that it might not injure a stomachweakened as much by want as by illness. Ernestine, at first, boughtsome, but she afterwards remarked that large pieces were frequentlyleft from that served at their own table, which no one made use of,and which were only thrown into the refuse-basket. She had, at first,some scruples as to the propriety of making use of these.

  "Mamma," said she to Madame de Cideville, "is it not wrong to collectpieces for Marianne as we do for Turc?"

  "It is not at all the same thing, my child; for they ought only tobe given to Turc, on the supposition that they cannot be put toany other use. If you gave them to Marianne only because they wererefused by every one else, that would undoubtedly be wrong, for youknow that God punished the wicked rich man, because he did nothingfor Lazarus, except permitting him to eat the crumbs that fell fromhis table. Instead of performing an act of charity, you would show acruel and odious contempt of the poor; but so far from its being acontempt of Marianne, that you collect this bread, you do it, on thecontrary, for the sake of having additional means of benefiting her."

  Ernestine, though thus encouraged by her mother, nevertheless feltrather embarrassed when she carried these pieces to Marianne, afterhaving cut them as neatly as possible. She wished to take themherself, although Suzette was her usual messenger in these cases, andshe blushed, as she showed them to the neighbour who was to preparethe soup. The latter showed them to Marianne, who seemed much pleasedat the prospect of having such pieces every day, and Ernestinesaw plainly that where there is real kindness, there is never anydanger of hurting the feelings of those whom we oblige; it is onlyintentional slight, or inattention, which can really wound. From thistime Ernestine carefully made the round of the table each day, afterbreakfast, and after dinner, and sometimes, in order that she mightcarry to Marianne a little loaf quite whole, she said at breakfastthat she preferred the household bread with her milk and butter.

  Under all this care, the health of Marianne improved daily, butErnestine looked with anxiety to the moment when her patient wouldagain have to provide for herself and daughter, more especially asduring her illness she had been obliged to neglect her little garden,which supplied her with vegetables. One day Ernestine saw Genevi?ve,the daughter of Jacques, the gardener, returning from catechism,crying. She was to make her first communion this year, and went tocatechism to be instructed; but as she had no mother, and as herfather had not time to hear her repeat her lesson, Genevi?ve, who wasnaturally indolent, always learned it badly, and was reprimanded.Ernestine, who was much more advanced, although younger thanGenevi?ve, offered to go over her lessons with her, and by dint ofpains at last succeeded in fixing them in her mind. Her only object,at first, had been to be useful to Genevi?ve, but the same day, thegardener having asked her how Marianne was getting on, she replied,"Pretty well, but I am afraid her garden is doing very badly, for noone takes care of it."

  "We must see to that," said Jacques, and Ernestine smiled graciouslyas he went away. The next day, while in the garden hearing Genevi?veher lesson, she saw Jacques returning from Marianne's, in whosegarden he had been planting a few cabbages. He ordered Genevi?ve togo in the afternoon, and pull up the weeds, and promised Ernestine,who thanked him warmly, to take care of it as long as it might benecessary. She put Genevi?ve in a condition to receive her firstcommunion, and when on leaving the church, Genevi?ve came to thankher, Ernestine experienced great delight, and a very pardonablepride, in seeing herself already useful to several people.

  She was rewarded for her benevolence to Marianne in more ways thanone; for as she had often favours to ask for, she became obliging toevery one, and displayed a degree of attention and kindness which shehad never previously manifested, so that every one became eager togratify her. Her nurse, especially, had never before been so pleasedwith her, and hardly knew how to express her satisfaction. She tookher to Marianne as often as she wished, and offered to teach Suzetteto work; they also taught her to take care of her mother, as soon asshe became convalescent, in order that her neighbours might return totheir own affairs. They showed her, besides, how to weed and waterthe garden. Ernestine made her do this under her own superintendence,while one of the servants of the ch?teau, whom she politely begged toassist them, drew the buckets of water from the well. Ernestine oftenwatered it herself; it was her chief recreation, for she no longertook pleasure in childish sports.

  The serious and useful occupations in which she was engaged, inspiredher with rational tastes, and she could no longer amuse herself withchildish frivolities. At the same time, she had never felt so happyor less disposed to _ennui_; for when she had nothing else to do, shewould take her knitting, and make a petticoat for Marianne, or shewould arrange an old dress for Suzette, or work for herself; for hermother had promised her that the money she saved by making her owndresses, should be spent in wine for Marianne.

  At length the time arrived when Marianne was allowed to get up. "Icannot yet walk," said she to Ernestine, "but I am able to work.If I had some hemp, I could spin." Ernestine bought her some, andMarianne, who was very industrious, and terribly wearied from havingso long remained idle, spun from morning till night. She sent thethread to a weaver, who, in exchange, gave her a certain quantity ofcoarse linen cloth, which Madame de Cideville purchased of her forthe use of the kitchen. She procured some fresh hemp, and began tospin again. A short time after Marianne's accident, Ernestine hadbought for her a little pig, which she had obtained very cheap. Asty had been made for it in the yard of the ch?teau, out of some oldplanks, and it was fed from the refuse of the kitchen. Ernestine hadtaught Suzette to collect for it everything that could serve as food,and as it was now grown large, she gave it to Marianne. The gardenhad afforded a good crop of potatoes, and Ernestine was able toreturn to Paris, at the beginning of the winter, without any anxietyabout the subsistence of her proteg?e, whose health was now quitere-established.

  "Well, are you satisfied with the use you have made of your louis?"said M. de Cideville, when they were in the carriage. Ernestine threwher arms round her father's neck. This louis had made her so happy!It is true she had spent something additional, and had besides beenwell assisted.

  "You have laid us under contribution for Marianne," said M. deCideville, smiling. "When you are older, you will know that we oughtnot to concentrate the whole of our benevolence on a single object,but endeavour to make all the unfortunate who are within our reach,partakers of our bounty."


  "But, papa, I was only able to take care of Marianne."

  "Undoubtedly, and I am not blaming you; but as you will hereafterhave greater means, you will, I hope, know how to combine yourresources in such a manner that many may be benefited by them.Meanwhile, you have made so good a use of your louis, that I promiseto give you one every three months, to be disposed of in a similarmanner."

  Ernestine clapped her hands with an exclamation of surprise and joy,and again threw herself into her father's arms.

  "But remember," he said, "that this sum ought to form the smallestportion of the means you employ in doing good, and that you oughtonly to have recourse to it when you cannot manage otherwise."

  Ernestine assured him that this was her intention, and that she wouldbe very careful to spare her money.

  "We ought to spare expense," replied her father, "whenever we cansupply its place by care, industry, and order. The true use of moneyis to give us those things which we could not otherwise obtain; forinstance, we cannot make our own shoes or clothes; therefore, we payfor having them made; and according to the usages of society, wecannot enjoy a certain position, and still wait upon ourselves; wetherefore pay, in order to have servants. But a lady who, instead oftaking care of her own household, and superintending her servants,pays another to do it in her place, makes but a bad use of her money;for it is absurd to employ it in purchasing from others what we cando ourselves. The same may be said of those who, instead of employingtheir activity and care in doing good, only make use of their money.They spend a great deal, and accomplish very little; for he who doeseverything with money, has never sufficient."

  "It seems to me," said Ernestine, "that we also lose the pleasureof doing good; for if I had had ten louis to give to Marianne, theywould not have afforded me so much happiness as the care which youhave allowed me to take of her all the summer."

  M. de Cideville informed his daughter, that there were many personswho believed they could render themselves happy by getting rid ofeverything which occasioned them the slightest trouble, but who, onthe contrary, gave themselves up to the most frightful _ennui_. Hetold her that this happened to all those who shrank from strugglingwith the first difficulties and annoyances of a project: and, infact, Ernestine remembered that, at the first moment, she wouldgladly have transferred to her parents, had she dared to do so, thecare of providing for Marianne's wants, and thus have lost all thehappiness she had since enjoyed.

  Ernestine has grown up. It is usually on her father's estate that sheemploys, every year, the four louis, and especially the astonishingtalent she has acquired of doing a great deal of good with verylittle money. She is adored by every one in the village, and as shehas rendered services to many among them, she readily obtains fromthem assistance for those who stand in need of it. Thus her resourcesmultiply. She has sown, in a corner of her father's park, thosemedicinal plants which are most generally required, and has alsolearned to dry them. She hopes that Suzette, who is becoming a prettygood workwoman, will soon, under her direction, be able to instructthe other girls of the village. She and her nurse have also taughther to read. As for herself, she endeavours to learn everything whichcan aid her in doing good, without spending too much money, and shelaughs very heartily when she calls to mind the regret she once feltat not being able to spend a louis on a moving picture.