CECILIA AND NANETTE;
OR, THE ACCIDENT.
It was in the month of December; the church clock had just struckfive, and the morning was very dark, when one of the servants of theinn came to inform Madame de Vesac, and her daughter Cecilia, that thecarriage was ready, and that they could continue their journey. Theyhad left Paris early on the previous day, for the purpose of visitingthe estate of Madame de Vesac, to which she had been called by urgentbusiness. The distance was a hundred and fifty leagues, and they hadtravelled by post; they had been on the road till ten o'clock on theprevious evening, and were now about to resume their journey afterhaving taken a few hours' repose. Madame de Vesac called her daughter;Cecilia, terribly sleepy, half opened her eyes, then let her head fallback again upon her pillow. Her mother was obliged to call a second,and even a third time, and she awoke up at last, exclaiming "Oh dear!dear! how disagreeable it is to get up at five o'clock in the morningat this time of year!" She would have said, had she dared, "Oh dear!what a misfortune!" for every contradiction or suffering, howeverslight, always assumed, with Cecilia, the character of a misfortune. Atevery little accident that befel her, she fancied that no one had eversuffered so much as she did, and really believed that cold, hunger,thirst, and sleepiness, were with her quite different matters from whatthey were with other people. When laughed at for the disproportionateannoyance which the petty inconveniences of life occasioned her, shewould say "Oh! you do not feel as I feel!" and, indeed, believed so.
Nevertheless, as Cecilia possessed a generous disposition, an elevatedmind, a lively imagination, and a due share of pride, she had apassionate admiration for high and noble actions, and even a greatdesire to imitate them, sometimes saying that she would give everythingin the world for an opportunity of becoming a heroine. "Provided," hermother would add with a smile, "that your acts of heroism never exposedyou to the chance of being scratched by a thorn, or to the necessity ofwalking a few steps in uneasy shoes." And then Cecilia, a little vexed,would maintain that such things as these had nothing whatever to dowith heroism.
Madame de Vesac had not been able to bring her maid with her, as shewas ill at the time they left home. This rendered their arrivals atthe inns, and especially their departures, more disagreeable, as theywere themselves obliged to pack and unpack their luggage, and attend toa variety of troublesome details. Madame de Vesac spared her daughterthese inconveniences as far as possible. On the present occasion, shehad allowed her to sleep until the last moment, and when Cecilia awoke,almost everything was ready for their journey. Still it was necessaryto arrange and pack up her night-things, and see that nothing wasforgotten; and the cold and the darkness had so chilled her courage,that nothing but shame prevented her from shedding tears at everyeffort she made, and every step she took. And yet she was thirteenyears old; but at no age do people cease to be children, if they allowthemselves to attach importance to every whim that may cross theirminds, or to every trifling inconvenience which they may have tobear. Cecilia had much more trouble, and was much longer about whatshe had to do than would have been necessary had she set courageouslyto work. "Make haste," repeated her mother every moment, and Ceciliamade haste, but with the air of one who had no heart for what she wasabout. To have given herself this, nothing was required but a slighteffort, a slight exertion of her reason: she need only have said,"What I have to do at present is so far from being beyond my powers,as I try to persuade myself, that if I felt the least wish to do it Ishould find no difficulty in it." But Cecilia did not choose to desirewhat would have been so beneficial to her, and, for the sake of savingherself a single mental effort, sufficient to conquer her repugnanceand idleness, she allowed herself to relapse into them every moment,and submitted to the continued exertions demanded by every action andmovement.
At last, all was ready; Madame de Vesac and her daughter enteredtheir carriage and departed. Cecilia's griefs, however, being stillundiminished, the night was so dark, and so cold, and she had so littlecourage to resist the feeling of sadness which it induced. She shiveredin her wadded dress, and beneath her two or three shawls; her fur shoesdid not prevent her from complaining of the _deadly coldness_ of herfeet, nor could she sufficiently cover her hands with her dress, thoughalready encased in fur gloves. At length, in spite of her distress, shefell asleep, and slept quietly until it was broad daylight. When sheawoke, the sun had already dissipated the thick fog of the morning.It shone brilliantly over the country covered with snow, and was evenfelt through the windows of the carriage. Everything seemed to announcea fine winter's day, and her heart began to revive. They stopped forbreakfast, and took it in a comfortable warm room, and this completelyrestored her energy and cheerfulness. Her mother then began to jestabout the despair she had manifested a few hours before. "I see," shesaid, "that for the acts of heroism to which you purpose to devoteyourself, you will be careful to select the months of July and August,for cold is quite adverse to your virtue."
"But mamma," said Cecilia, "how can you expect one to stir, when one'sfingers are benumbed with cold?"
"Since, though complaining the whole time, you did nevertheless manageto do so, I presume the thing was possible, but I perceive, at thesame time, that such an effort must have something in it surpassingthe highest courage, and were it not for the terrible fatality whichhas subjected you to so severe a trial, I should have been extremelycareful not to have required anything of the kind from you."
"However, it is quite certain, mamma, that one might choose some bettertime for travelling than the month of December."
"Not if it happened to be in that month that one had business to attendto which required travelling. You will one day learn, my child, thatthere are things more impossible than enduring the cold, or even thanmoving one's fingers when they are benumbed. You remember what Caesarsaid: _It is necessary that I should go, and it is not necessary that Ishould live_.
"One might very well expose one's life, on occasions of importance, andyet not be able to do impossibilities, however important they might be."
"Such as putting in a pin or tying a shoe when one is cold?"
"I do not mean that," replied Cecilia, a little out of humour, "andbesides you will allow, mamma, that our affairs are not of suchimportance as those of Caesar."
"How do you know that? the importance of things is relative; I amnot called upon to overturn the world; such a thing would give meno pleasure, but I have to settle a matter to which your fatherattaches great importance, and to show myself worthy of the confidencehe reposed in me, when, on leaving for the army he placed all hisaffairs in my hands; in fine, it is necessary for me that he shouldbe pleased with me, for on this depends the happiness of my life; andon your part, it is necessary that you should prove yourself able tosupport with courage unavoidable inconveniences. All these things areimportant, and yet," added Madame de Vesac, smiling, "I do not think werun any risk of dying on account of them."
"Oh, no! mamma," said Cecilia, smiling too, "but I assure you that evenCaesar would have found it very cold this morning."
"I have not the least doubt of it; but Caesar was such a great man!Do you know, Cecilia, that if we were to examine with care, I feelsure that among his great actions we should find many which must havebenumbed his feet and hands."
"In that case," said Cecilia, somewhat drily, "he must have been veryfortunate if he could find matters to attend to which would prevent histhinking of the cold, for it is certainly very disagreeable."
"Undoubtedly," replied Madame de Vesac, carelessly; "but there are somepersons who can manage to think of every thing. I am persuaded, forinstance, that had you been in Claelia's place, when, flying from thecamp of Porsenna, she crossed the Tiber on horseback, you would havefound it excessively disagreeable, to have been obliged to wet yourfeet."
"Well, mamma," said Cecilia with animation, "you ought to be delightedat that, since you are continually telling me that instead of wishingto be a heroine, it is quite enough to attend to one's duties merely."
> "Certainly; but I who make no pretensions to heroism, find that mereduty is sometimes quite sufficient to employ all our powers, and thatit is impossible that we can always do what simple duty requires,unless we have learned to bear cold, fatigue, and even the misfortuneof having to get up at five o'clock in the morning in the month ofDecember."
"It is nevertheless certain, mamma, that there are things which it isquite impossible to do, such as walking when one is tired."
"Or moving one's fingers when they are cold, for instance. Undoubtedlythere are things which are impossible to every one, but the differenceI find between Caesar and you is, that in his case the impossibilitycame much later, and that at the degree of fatigue at which you wouldsay _I cannot walk_, he would have said _I must walk_, and would havefound strength to proceed. You are not aware how much strength peoplepossess when they really wish to make use of it."
"I assure you, mamma," replied Cecilia, with some slight degree oftemper, "that when I say I cannot do a thing I really cannot."
"I am sure of that, but I should like to know whence arises theimpossibility. Pray think of this at the first opportunity. It isnecessary that I should know whether you are really weaker than otherpeople."
Cecilia made no reply; she was perfectly persuaded that no oneunderstood her sufferings, and had never asked herself whether she werenot made like other people, and consequently able to endure what theyendured. The day passed well enough, and when night came she slept.
She was sleeping soundly, when a violent jerk suddenly aroused her."Gracious! what is the matter?" she exclaimed. "We are upset," saidMadame de Vesac; and in fact at that moment, the carriage, which hadpassed over a large stone, came to the ground with a violent shock,and turned completely over on one side. Cecilia screamed, and fellupon her mother. "Do not be frightened," said Madame de Vesac, who,notwithstanding the inconvenience of her position, thought only ofher daughter. The carriage was stopped, and the postilion dismounted,and came to their assistance. All this time Cecilia did not ceasescreaming. "Where are you hurt?" asked her mother, trembling lest sheshould be severely wounded. "Everywhere," replied Cecilia, unconsciousof what she said, the fright had so bewildered her. When the postilionopened the door which happened to be uppermost, Cecilia knew not whatto do to extricate herself from her position. "Get up," said thepostilion.
"Get up," repeated her mother, but Cecilia replied, "I cannot," withoutknowing whether she could or not, for she had not even tried. At lastthe postilion, who was active and strong, raising her up, lifted herout of the carriage, and thus freed her mother from a weight whichalmost overpowered her and made her feel ready to faint. Then Madame deVesac, in her turn, getting out with the assistance of the postilion,hastened to her daughter, whom she was delighted to find standing up,although motionless, and not knowing whether she had a limb of whichshe could make use. In a little while, being somewhat reassured by hermother's voice, Cecilia began to answer the repeated questions put toher to ascertain where she was hurt. Both her knees were bruised, andher elbow grazed: she had a slight swelling on the head, a bonnet boxhad pressed her side, and her foot, which happened to be under the seatof the carriage, was a little swelled. "I am so bruised all over thatI cannot move," she said, moving, however, the whole time in everydirection to feel where she was hurt. She asked her mother whethershe, too, were not hurt. "I think," replied Madame de Vesac, "I havesprained my wrist, for it is very painful, and I cannot use my hand."
"Just like my foot," replied Cecilia, and saying so, she began to walk.Madame de Vesac smiled, but said nothing. She wrapped her hand in hershawl, the ends of which she tied round her so as to support her wrist,and then busied herself with what was to be done. Recovered from thefirst shock of their fall, and congratulating themselves on havingescaped so well, they nevertheless found themselves placed in a veryunpleasant predicament. Comtois, the only servant who had accompaniedthem, had gone on before, as a courier, to prepare the horses. Thepostilion, unable by himself to raise the carriage, was obliged togo for assistance to the post-house, from which they were still ata considerable distance. Madame de Vesac and Cecilia, therefore, asthey could not follow him since he went on horseback, nor reach thepost-house alone, as they were ignorant of the way, were obliged toremain on the road until his return. The night was extremely dark,and the cold, without being very intense, was sharp and disagreeable.A sleet was falling, which, as it reached the ground, was convertedinto ice. The carriage, completely overturned, afforded no shelter,and to the other inconveniences of their position, was added that ofbeing quite alone at ten o'clock at night upon the high road. Madame deVesac, however courageous, was not without uneasiness, but she knew itwas useless to give way to it; and when Cecilia, a little terrified,asked her if they were to remain alone, "You see we must," she replied,in a tranquil voice, which gave her daughter to understand, that thoughshe was aware of the inconvenience of the arrangement, she neverthelesssubmitted to it with calmness, because it was necessary. Ceciliaherself saw this necessity so plainly that she made no reply; but whenafter unharnessing the horses, and securing two of them to a tree, thepostilion mounted the third to go and seek assistance; when she saw himdepart, when the sound of his horse's feet growing fainter and fainterat last ceased to fall upon her ear, then her heart shrank with terror,a cold perspiration covered her limbs, and she drew close to hermother. Madame de Vesac perceived her alarm, but made no remark, wellknowing that nothing so much increases terror as speaking of it. Shemerely endeavoured to restore her confidence a little, by giving her,on her own part, an example of courage and tranquillity.
The wind became more violent, the sleet increased, and a heavy fall ofsnow began to mingle with it: Madame De Vesac and her daughter wentover to the side where the carriage offered some defence against therain and snow which were beating into their faces; but this shelter didnot long suffice, the gusts of wind became so violent, that Ceciliawas twice on the point of losing her hat, notwithstanding the ribbonsby which it was confined. It was with difficulty that they kept theirshawls around them; the snow assailed them on all sides, melting uponthem, and penetrating their clothes; and they were benumbed by a dampcoldness, from which their inability to move left them no means ofescape. Cecilia did not think of complaining, for no one could haveassisted her; besides, she could not doubt that her mother suffered asmuch as herself, and complaints are seldom made except to excite thepity of those who seem better off than we are, and who, therefore, areable to think of us rather than of themselves. Cecilia now discoveredhow erroneous it is to suppose that any comfort is to be derived fromcomplaining: perhaps even she suffered less from her position, thanshe would have done had she lamented it; but she did not make thisreflection, and it was natural that the necessity of the case shouldrender her more courageous.
Madame de Vesac, however, fearing lest her daughter should become ill,from the cold and damp which had penetrated her clothes, proposed toher to seek shelter in a wood which extended on both sides of the road,and the trees of which, though divested of their leaves, were at leastsufficiently close to break the violence of the wind and snow; but thiswood was the principal object of Cecilia's dread. Terrified at theproposition, she could only utter the words, "Oh! mamma, to go into thewood!"
"Just as you like, my child," said Madame de Vesac, "but," she added,smiling, "who do you think would come after us in such weather as this?You may be quite sure there is nobody abroad but ourselves."
Cecilia made no reply, her thoughts terrified her to such a degree thatshe dared not utter them, and had she pronounced the word _robbers_, itwould have seemed to her that she was calling them; but at that momentthere came a gust so violent, that the carriage appeared shaken by it;one of the blinds which happened to be down, was so violently agitatedthat the cords snapped, and being no longer upheld it was lifted by thewind, and struck Cecilia on the head. Seized with terror she sprangfrom her place; the storm continued, she was unable to resist it, yetdared not return to the carriage. Completely bewildered by
the wind,she neither knew where she was, nor what she did: and her mother takingher by the arm led her into the wood, where she recovered a littleof her self-possession. Here the wind was much less violent, and asalways happens when we look at things closely, Cecilia having enteredthe wood felt much less terrified, than while merely considering itfrom the road. A copse where there happened to be a few trees, whichstill retained their leaves, although it was the month of December,had protected a few feet of ground from the snow, and affordedthe travellers a shelter from the wet. The double trunk of a treefurnished them with a support, and they were at least in a situationwhere they could await without excessive discomfort the assistancewhich could not be far distant, when all at once Cecilia, whose eyeswere turned towards the copse, probably seeing the branches agitatedby the wind, fancied she perceived a figure moving and advancingtowards them. Completely bewildered by fright she seized her mother'sarm, and without saying a word dragged her on, as quickly as she wasable, through the bushes, plunging deeper into the wood to avoid theterrible objects by which she believed herself pursued. Her mother,astonished, after having followed her for a few steps endeavoured tostop her. "Where are you going?" she said. "What is the matter?" ButCecilia, whose terror was only increased by the sound of her mother'svoice, because she was afraid of its having been heard, continuedto drag her along with an extraordinary degree of strength, and hermother, who would not leave her, was obliged to follow. At length, bydint of talking she recalled her to herself; she stopped a moment andsaid in a low tremulous voice, "Did you see him?"--"Who?" demandedMadame de Vesac.--"Among the trees ... a man...." "I have seen no one,you were mistaken, I assure you."--"Oh! I still hear him...." And shewas once more on the point of starting off, but her mother restrainedher. "My dear Cecilia," she said, greatly distressed at her condition;"my dear child, be reasonable, take courage; there is no one there, Iassure you there is nothing to fear; confide in me who would not leadyou into danger, and whose judgment is calmer than yours." A littlerestored by her mother's words, and the affectionate tone in which theywere uttered, Cecilia, ashamed of her fears, stopped, and restored hermother's arm, which she still held, to its former position under hershawl.--"Let us retrace our steps," said Madame de Vesac, "lest welose our way." Cecilia did not dare to say anything, but she shudderedat the idea of again passing so near the copse. At this moment theyheard some one call them, and recognized the voice of Comtois. Ceciliabreathed more freely, and hastened to reply; but Comtois had enteredthe wood at another part, and they stood still to discover whence thevoice proceeded.
"It is in that direction, mamma," said Cecilia, who, delighted at thethought of avoiding the copse, pointed to a road a little more to theright than the one they were on the point of taking. Madame de Vesaclistened again, and the voice which still continued to call and answer,seeming, in fact, to proceed from the right, she took the directionindicated by Cecilia, and calling from time to time to Comtois, theywalked on towards the spot whence the sound was still heard to proceed,but it seemed sometimes to approach, and sometimes to recede, for itappeared that Comtois altered his course according to the place wherehe thought they must be, and they themselves took first one directionand then another, without being quite sure which was the right. Thisstate of uncertainty lasted for some minutes, but at length the voicesensibly approached, and they heard steps through the trees. "Is thatyou, Comtois?" It was he, and Cecilia in a transport of joy was readyto throw her arms round his neck; she forgot the cold, the sleet, andthe wind; once freed from her former terror she now thought all hertroubles were at an end. Comtois informed them that he had procuredassistance, and that at that moment the men were engaged in raisingthe carriage, to which he was going to conduct them. But the questionnow was how to find the way, for, intent only on reaching each other,neither Comtois nor Madame de Vesac had thought of observing theirroute. They stopped to listen for some indication from the people atthe carriage, but the wind bore the sounds another way, or when theydid reach them, they were so faint and uncertain, that they concludedthey must have advanced further into the wood than they had supposed.However, they directed their course towards the side on which theyconcluded the high road lay, listening every moment to discover whetherthe sounds increased in strength; sometimes Cecilia fancied she heardvoices, and even maintained that she could distinguish that of thepostilion: at other times hearing nothing she became uneasy, but thejoy of having found Comtois sustained her courage. At length sheexclaimed, "Mamma, I see an opening through the trees; that must bethe road." Madame de Vesac looked, and perceived, indeed, a spot wherethe trees appeared to separate, but she did not think it was the highroad, and was astonished at not hearing any noise. Cecilia made herhasten her steps, repeating, as she hurried her on, "There's the road,there's the road!" Her mother cautioned her not to rejoice too soon;but she did not listen to her, and was the first to reach a spot, openindeed, but so surrounded by the wood on all sides, that it afforded nomeans of egress, except by a path almost parallel to the one they hadjust left. She stood petrified.
"This is not the road," said Madame de Vesac.
"Indeed," said Comtois, "I don't know where we are now."
"What will become of us?" inquired Cecilia in a timid and anxiousvoice, but without those exclamations so habitual to her, for in thepresent moment of real fear and trouble her thoughts were more occupiedwith the situation itself, than with the desire of vividly displayingwhat she felt.
"We must endeavour to get out of this place," replied Madame de Vesac."The road cannot be far off; but we must take a different directionfrom the one we have come by."
They once more stopped to listen and consult together; but they couldhear nothing whatever; and as to the path they were to take, there wasno choice except between the one by which they had come and anotherwhich led in the same direction. Their consultation, therefore, couldnot be of long duration. The second path seemed much better than theone they had left, it was tolerably wide, and pretty well beaten; andthey hence concluded that it must necessarily lead to some frequentedplace. They therefore determined to follow it, and recommenced theirjourney with renewed courage; but Cecilia perceived that her motherarranged in a different manner the end of the shawl, with which shehad contrived to support her arm, and that she occasionally carriedher other hand to it; and concluding from this that she must sufferincreased pain, she asked her about it.
"We must not think of this now," said Madame de Vesac; so that Ceciliawas afraid to complain too much of her foot, which was beginning togive her pain. She only said, "My foot is rather painful." She hadalready endured sufficient real trouble during the night, to havelearned to be silent about inconveniences not worth complaining of.
The snow fell with less violence, and the wind was somewhat abated,so that in the wood the cold was quite bearable. Madame de Vesacand her daughter, one on each side of Comtois, and supported by hisarm, walked without much difficulty in a path tolerably smooth, andwhich the recently fallen snow prevented from being very slippery.Reanimated by this momentary relief, they pursued this part of theirjourney with tolerable cheerfulness, Madame de Vesac averring even thather arm was less painful since the cold had diminished, and Ceciliaconsoling herself with the hopes of soon being able to rest her footin the carriage. Comtois from time to time raised his voice and calledto the people at the carriage; but no one answered, and not a soundreached their ears. Again the travellers began to feel uneasy at thuscontinually advancing without any assurance that they were not goingfurther away from the spot they wished to reach. However, proceed theymust, for there was no reason to suppose that, in retracing theirsteps, they would be able to find any better way. At last they came toa point where the path was crossed by another precisely similar. Theywere now in the utmost perplexity, for there was no inducement forchoosing one of the three paths rather than another, except perhapsthat as the one they had come by did not seem to have brought them anynearer the road, it might be reasonable to choose between the othertwo. But on which of them w
ere they to fix?
Comtois attempted to climb a rather tall tree which happened to be atthe entrance of one of the paths, hoping to be able to see from it theroad and the carriage; but, not to mention that his boots did not allowhim to climb with much agility, it happened that the first branch heclung to was decayed and broke, and he fell, fortunately without beingmuch hurt; but Madame de Vesac, as well as Cecilia, whose own fall hadrendered her excessively timid, prevented him from making any furtherattempt, by representing the frightful situation they would all bein if any accident befell him. There was no alternative, therefore,but to proceed, and let chance direct their course. They thoughtthey remembered that in diverging from the road they had severaltimes turned a little to the left; they consequently supposed that inreturning they must take the contrary direction. On this, therefore,they fixed, not without much regret, however, at being unable toascertain whither the opposite path led; but it was not a time forunavailing regrets, and they therefore made up their minds to trustthat they had selected the best.
Nevertheless the spirits of the travellers began again to sink,Cecilia's foot was considerably swelled, and fatigue had greatly addedto the pain of Madame de Vesac's arm, although her anxiety kept herin a state of agitation which prevented her feeling it as much as shewould have done in calmer moments. Still this very anxiety was itselfa serious evil: there was no certainty of their finding their way; andif chance did not guide them better than it had done thus far, shecalculated with terror the number of hours they must pass in the wood,and the fatigues and sufferings they must endure whilst waiting for thelight.
Cecilia, still more depressed, said nothing, and began to ceasethinking: fatigue and sadness absorbed all her faculties.
The path they had taken terminated in a kind of cross-way, from whichbranched off several narrower paths. They fixed upon what appeared thewidest and best; but it soon contracted to such a degree that Madamede Vesac and her daughter were obliged to resign the arm of Comtois,and allow him to walk in front and clear the way a little for them. Thedensity of the wood at this part had kept the ground moist, and thismoisture was now converted into ice, while the snow had been preventedfrom falling sufficiently to cover the path. They walked one behindthe other, slipping at every step, and only able to keep themselvesfrom falling by laying hold of the trees. Every moment their feetstruck against the roots, or were caught in the trailing branches;and Cecilia, constantly on the point of falling, soon became unableto restrain her sobs. At last, at a very slippery part, she lost herfooting, and fell upon her knees. A bramble, which happened to beacross the path, caught in her clothes; and when she had succeeded inextricating her dress from it, it became entangled in her shawl, thengot fastened to her gloves, and deprived her of the use of her hands.She tried to rise, but no sooner had she put her foot upon the groundthan she slipped and again fell. Worn out as she already was, thisslight accident quite exhausted her courage. Madame de Vesac turnedround to give her her hand; but being near falling herself, she wasobliged to catch hold of a tree: she could only pity and endeavour toencourage her daughter.
"Mamma," said Cecilia, "I cannot go on; it is impossible."
"My poor child," said Madame de Vesac, "are you quite sure it isimpossible? Think seriously of it; this is not a trial to be made forpleasure merely, such as I proposed to you a short time since, but anexertion of courage absolutely indispensable. Only consider, my dearCecilia," she added, in the most tender and caressing tone, "we havenothing but our courage to extricate us from these difficulties;but with courage I think we have still sufficient strength left toenable us to go through a great deal. Would it not then be better tocall it forth than weakly to yield to our distress?"
Thus saying, she assisted with her foot to extricate her from thebramble, while supporting her with her knees. Cecilia made no reply,but, raising herself up, continued her journey, and, feeling the truthof her mother's words, she exerted all her strength to avoid futurecomplaints. Still she wept in silence; a weakness pardonable indeed,but one, nevertheless, which added to her sufferings, as weakness everdoes.
Cecilia and Nanette, p. 53.]
They at last reached the end of this difficult route, and once morefound themselves at an opening in the wood, where several pathsterminated, but without being any better able to decide which they wereto take. Stopping for a moment to consider, they thought they heard atno great distance a faint sound, which was not that of the wind. Theylistened; "Good heavens!" exclaimed Cecilia, "I think I hear some onecrying;" and she shuddered as she spoke.
They listened again, and fancied they could distinguish the voice ofa child. At length, after looking in every direction, favoured by thelight of the moon, which was beginning to disperse the clouds, theyperceived in a corner, a little within the opening, a figure standingmotionless, and leaning against a tree. Cecilia was frightened, andclung tightly to the arm of Comtois.
"Let us see what it is," said Madame de Vesac, the more anxiously, asshe still heard the sounds.
On a nearer approach, they discovered that what they had seen was apoor woman, leaning motionless against a tree, and who had by her sidea little girl about eight years old. The poor creature held somethingin her arms, which, as they came closer, they found to be an infant ofabout two months old, motionless like the mother. It seemed benumbedwith cold; and its mother, without making any movement, or uttering aword, stood with her head bent over it, as if to warm it. One couldscarcely say whether they were dead or alive. The voice which had beenheard proceeded from the little girl, who, also motionless by hermother's side, continued crying in a low tone. At this moment, themoon rendered them distinctly visible. Madame de Vesac and Ceciliaapproached quite close to the woman, but she did not change herposition. They looked at each other and trembled, for they feared thatboth mother and infant were dead. At last, Madame de Vesac said to her,"My good woman, what are you doing here?" She made no answer.
The little girl, who, on perceiving them, began to cry and sob moreviolently, pulled her by the skirt, exclaiming, "Mother! mother! someladies!"
The poor woman raised her head, and pointed by her looks to her child,whose face she again covered with her own; they had, however, timeenough to discern the face of the infant, which was pale and still asdeath. Madame de Vesac wished to ascertain if it yet lived, but knewnot how to ask the question. At last she said in a low tone, at thesame time laying her hand gently upon him, "He is very cold." "I cannotget him warm again," said the mother, in a still fainter tone, at thesame time pressing him more closely to her bosom, as if anxious to makea new effort to impart her warmth to him. "Is he dead?" asked Comtois.The only reply to these terrible words were cries of despair, as theunfortunate creature pressed her infant more firmly to her heart.Madame de Vesac found means of taking its hand: it was cold as ice; butshe felt its pulse, and perceiving it beat, she said with animation,"No! most assuredly he is not dead; I feel his pulse beat."
"Oh my God!" exclaimed the poor woman, with a stifled sigh, at the sametime raising towards Madame de Vesac eyes beaming with gratitude, andalready beginning to be suffused with tears. But she again immediatelyturned them upon her child, whom she passionately kissed.
"Let us take him," said Madame de Vesac; "we are better able to warmhim than you are."
"Give him to me. I will put him under my great coat," said Comtois,as he unfastened his thick, warm travelling coat. The poor womanhesitated. "Give him to me," he continued. "I have children of my own.I know how to manage them."
"Let him take the child," said Madame de Vesac; and the unhappy motherplaced the infant in his arms, wrapping the coat round him. In orderto make room for him, Comtois removed a bottle from one of the insidepockets.
"Stop!" said he; "this won't hurt him." It was a bottle of brandy; heopened it, and poured a few drops into the mouth of the child, whoswallowed it.
"He swallows!" exclaimed the mother, in a transport of joy; and thechild began to breathe more freely, and to move its little arms.
"I thought so!" said Comtois; "this would bring the dead to life. Itwould do you no harm either, to take a little, my good woman."
The poor creature replied that she did not want anything; but Madamede Vesac persuaded her to take a little to warm her. Then the littlegirl, who since the arrival of Madame de Vesac had ceased crying,watching all that passed around her, again began to sob, in a low tone,but sufficiently loud to make herself heard. Cecilia was the first toobserve her, and began to caress her, in order to quiet her, but thechild still continued crying, with her eyes directed to the bottle.Cecilia asked if a little might not also be given to her, and Comtoisdeclared that it would do her no harm. "Yes," said Madame de Vesac,"if she only takes a few drops; but if you give her the bottle, shewill drink too much." Meanwhile the child still cried and watched thebottle, and her manner was so quiet and gentle, that the heart ofCecilia was vividly touched. At last, by an effort of which she couldnot have believed herself capable, Cecilia took off her glove, and toldthe child that she should drink out of her hand; but when the littlegirl had done so, she hid her hand again, observing that it was verycold; but when the child rejected the brandy, saying it burned hermouth, Cecilia observed to her that it was not worth while to have madeher take off her glove. She was on the point of putting it on again,when the mother said that a bit of bread would have been much betterfor her, as she had eaten nothing since noon. At this the child beganto cry more bitterly.
"Oh, dear!" said Cecilia, "if I had but the bun I bought this morning,and did not eat."
"Where is it?" asked her mother.
"In the carriage."
"I thought I told you to put it in your bag."
"Yes, but my bag...." She interrupted herself, and uttered a cry ofjoy. She had not observed that her bag had remained attached to herarm. She felt the strings, undid them, opened it, and found the bun. Itwas a little crushed, indeed, by her fall, but the pieces were good.She gave one of them to the mother, who, without saying a word, andthinking herself unobserved, put it into her pocket. Cecilia againfelt in the bag, and taking off her other glove, asked whether, if shecrumbled a little of the soft part in her hand, they could not make theinfant take some of it.
"What he wants," said Madame de Vesac, "is his mother's milk; buteven supposing she has any for him, he is not at present sufficientlystrong to take it; we must endeavour to reach some inhabited place asspeedily as possible, where we may be able to give him the attention herequires."
Then the poor woman, who, after a moment of intense joy, felt all herfears and grief revive, said weeping, "If he only lives until we reachChambouri, I have my mother there, and she is very skilful in the careof children."
"Where is Chambouri?" inquired Madame de Vesac.
"It is a short league from here," replied the poor woman.
"It is the post town," added Comtois. "Do you know the way to it?"
"Do I know the way to it?" said the woman. "I was born there."
"Why did you not go there instead of remaining against that tree?"
"I fell three times upon the ice; the third time my poor baby gave ascream, and then was silent. At first I thought I had killed him; andthen I thought if I fell again, I should be sure to kill him; besides,a moment after, finding he did not move, I believed him dead, and hadno heart for anything."
"But now will you conduct us to Chambouri?"
"Certainly, provided we can get there in time," and the poor womanagain began to weep.
"Yes, yes, we shall arrive in time;" said Madame de Vesac; "Comtoiswill carry the infant in one arm, and give the other to Cecilia. Youand I," she added, addressing the mother, "will try to keep each otherup."
They proceeded in accordance with this arrangement, Cecilia giving herhand to the little girl, and the poor mother walking by the side ofher baby, every moment putting her hand upon its head, which was notcovered by Comtois' coat, and redoubling her tears each time she feltit cold. Madame de Vesac, perceiving this, stopped to untie a smallshawl, which she wore underneath her large one, and gave it to coverthe head of the infant.
"It is indeed very cold," said Cecilia, who was beginning to think ofher own troubles, and who found that by giving her hand to the littlegirl, she herself became very cold, from being unable to cover it withher shawl.
"How long have you been exposed to this cold?" inquired Madame de Vesacof the poor woman.
"We have not entered a house since noon," she replied. "I hoped to havereached Chambouri early this evening, but the bad weather and the badroads have delayed us; and had it not been for you, my good lady, wemust have passed the night in the wood."
"But would you have been able to endure the cold?" demanded Madame deVesac.
"I don't know whether my poor little one would have survived it,"she replied, with increased emotion, and then began to enumerate hisperfections, as if she had already lost him. "He knew me," she said,weeping; "even this very morning he looked at me and smiled; thebeautiful sunshine delighted him, and he raised his little arms, as ifhe wanted to jump; and then, after the sun had gone down, when, for thelast time, I attempted to nurse him, he looked up at me, and tried tosmile." At these words her tears again flowed with redoubled force.
"He will look at you; he will smile again," said Madame de Vesac.
"Oh!" continued the unhappy mother, "he has suffered so much; he lookedat me, as if for help;" and in calling to mind the sad looks of herchild, she could not restrain her sobs. Then Cecilia again, forgetfulof her own troubles, withdrew her hand from Comtois' arm, and passingit under that part of his coat which enveloped the child, said to themother, "Oh! he is very warm: feel him, he moves his little arms; I amsure he is comfortable." "Yes, he does move his arms, I can tell you,"said Comtois; "see, he has pulled off the handkerchief which he had onhis head;" and Cecilia let go the hand of the little girl to re-arrangethe handkerchief. The poor mother knew not how to express her joyand gratitude; but the little girl, who had remained a short distancebehind them, because Cecilia no longer held her hand, began to cry."Come along," then, said her mother; but the poor little thing replied,"I cannot."
Cecilia went to her, and again took her hand, saying, "You must try tocome along, my dear."
"How long have you been on foot?" inquired Madame de Vesac.
"Since noon," replied the poor woman. "I had no more money to payfor lodgings; we had eaten all the provisions I had brought for thejourney, and I wanted to reach Chambouri."
"And has the child been walking all that time?"
"Yes, the whole time."
"Cecilia is right, my dear," said Madame de Vesac, addressing thelittle girl. "You must try to walk."
"If Comtois were not carrying the baby," said Cecilia, "I would beg himto take her up."
"Oh! I have another arm," said Comtois; "but then I could not supportyou, Miss Cecilia."
"Never mind me," said Cecilia. "I am much better able to walk withoutsupport, than this poor little thing is to continue the journey onfoot."
Comtois then stooped down, and, seating the child upon his arm, raisedher from the ground, saying, "You must take hold of my collar with bothyour hands;" to which the child replied, "I cannot."
"Why not?" demanded Cecilia. But on taking her hands to show her howshe must hold the collar, she perceived that they were so cold thatthe child could not use them. "Oh dear!" she exclaimed, "she freezesme even through my gloves." Then, remembering that she had two pairson, the outside ones lined with fur, she took them off, and after wellrubbing the child's hands, put them on her; but, finding her stillunable to hold the collar, she made her put her arms round Comtois'neck. The child, however, still continued to cry. "What is thematter," asked Cecilia; but she received no answer. "It is her poorfeet," said her mother. "Her chilblains are broken, and yet she haswalked barefoot the whole day; but now that she is no longer walking,she feels the cold more." Cecilia recollected the socks which shewore over her shoes; she took them off, and put them upon the feet ofthe little girl, who ceased crying. Then, taking th
e arm of the poorwoman, Madame de Vesac having the other, she walked on courageously,complaining neither of the cold nor of the ice, though she found muchmore difficulty in maintaining her balance now that she was without hersocks.
"My dear Cecilia," said Madame de Vesac, "how much strength we havefound since the moment we thought it impossible to go any further!"
"Oh mamma!" exclaimed Cecilia, satisfied with herself, "an occasionlike this gives one a great deal of strength."
"No, my child: such occasions merely show us all that we actuallypossess; and since we do possess it, why not make use of it on alloccasions?"
"But they are not all of such importance."
"It is always important to succeed in what we undertake, and to do soas speedily and as completely as possible; we ought therefore to makeevery effort in our power to ensure success. When we are wanting inresolution, and think we have not sufficient strength on a triflingoccasion, there is but one thing to be done, and that is to call up allwe should be sure to discover in a case of great emergency."
As she concluded these words they reached the boundary of the wood, andfound themselves at the entrance of the village of Chambouri.
"Here it is," exclaimed Cecilia, in a transport of joy.
"Yes!" said the poor woman; "but my mother lives close to thepost-house, which is at the other end of the village."
"Oh dear!" cried Cecilia, in a mournful tone.
"Should we not be tempted," inquired Madame de Vesac, "to think itimpossible to go any further?"
Cecilia, who was beginning to think so, recollected herself, examinedher powers, and inwardly shuddered at the idea of all that she stillfelt able to endure. Trembling at the thought of being exposed to newtrials, she was only re-assured when, after a quarter of an hour'sfurther walking, she had entered the post-house, and was seated by thekitchen fire.
They had persuaded the poor woman to accompany them, to warm herself,and attend to her children, whilst waiting till her mother should beready to receive them. The infant had fallen asleep in Comtois' arms,and when taken from them, the noise, the people, and the lights awokehim, and he began to cry.
"He cries!" exclaimed the mother, in a transport of joy; and fallingon her knees with clasped hands, in front of Madame de Vesac, to whomComtois had given the child, she repeated, "He cries!" while gazing athim intently, and kissing him. He ceased crying, and, pleased with thewarmth of the fire, looked at his mother and smiled. "That is just howhe looked at me this morning," she exclaimed, and burst into a flood oftears. They made him take a little milk whilst waiting until his motherwas sufficiently rested to nurse him herself, and the pleasure whichhe manifested in taking it was a fresh subject of joy for the poorwoman. Meanwhile Cecilia had taken possession of the little girl; sheplaced her upon her knees, and warmed her feet and hands, without evencomplaining that by so doing she was prevented from warming her own. Atlength the mother of the poor woman, hearing of her daughter's arrival,came for them and took them home, gratefully thanking Madame de Vesac,who would not suffer them to depart until they had a comfortablesupper. She ordered her own supper in a private room, and sent fora skilful surgeon, who happened fortunately to be at Chambouri, andwho set her arm. In the meantime Comtois had gone in search of thecarriage, which he found set to rights, and waiting for them. As hereturned with it, a traveller entered the inn, who proved to be Madamede Vesac's man of business. He had come from her estate to meet her,making inquiries for her at every stage on the way, in order to preventher going farther, as the affair for which she had been summoned wasarranged. Cecilia therefore retired to rest, with the satisfactionof knowing that she should not have to continue her journey on thefollowing morning, as Madame de Vesac announced that since she hadtime she should remain a couple of days at the inn, in order to attendto her arm. The next day they sent for the poor woman, who was fullof joy at being able to exhibit her infant, now beginning to regainboth strength and colour; nor was she ever weary of looking at him andkissing him. She stated that she had been married at a village somedistance from Chambouri, to a mechanic, who had turned out a worthlessfellow, and, after wasting all their means, had enlisted a short timebefore the birth of her infant; and that as soon as she was able totravel, she had set out in order to return to her mother, who had alittle property, and with whom she intended to live. Madame de Vesactold her that she should consider herself as godmother to the child,whose life she had been instrumental in saving, and that she took himunder her protection. But as he must still remain with his mother, whoindeed would not have consented to part with him, she contented herselfwith giving her some money to assist in their maintenance, and she alsopermitted Cecilia to beg that the little girl, whose name was Nanette,might be committed to her care.
This proposition was gratefully accepted, and after a few days givento repose, Madame de Vesac set out on her return to Paris, with Ceciliaand Nanette. From that moment Cecilia looked upon the child as her own,and so greatly was she delighted with her new possession, that shecould speak of nothing else. Already had she disposed of all her olddresses in favour of Nanette. Already had she measured her in everydirection, to ascertain whether in a dress stained with ink, and whichshe was delighted to part with, there would he sufficient to makea dress for Nanette, without employing the piece that was stained.Already had she thought, that by taking from her old black apron thepart she had burned at the stove, there would be enough remaining tomake an apron for Nanette. Already had she made her take off her capof quilted cotton, to measure with a string the size of her head, inorder to calculate how much cambric and muslin would be wanted to makeher some neat little caps, while waiting until the return of the warmweather should enable her to go bare-headed, a habit which Ceciliaintended she should acquire, it being so much more healthy for alittle girl. Several times already had she said to her, "Nanette, holdyourself up;" but the child, who did not know what was meant by holdingherself up, having never heard such an expression, only bent her head alittle lower, as she always did when embarrassed. Then Cecilia raisedit for her, with a quiet gentleness of manner, mentally repeating, asshe did so, that patience is the first duty of one who wishes to bringup a child. Madame de Vesac smiled at her gravity; but counselled her,however, to relax it a little, if she wished to gain the confidence ofher pupil.
Cecilia had formed the most extensive projects for the education of herprotegee. "First of all," she said, "I will teach her to work well;this is absolutely necessary for a girl. I mean her to learn historyand geography; perhaps even, if she has talent for them, I may teachher the piano and drawing. I am not sufficiently advanced myself tocarry her very far, but I shall be improving every day, and then, whenI am married and rich, I will give her masters, for I intend her to bevery accomplished:" and Cecilia became more and more excited as sheadvanced with her projects and her hopes. Her mother listened to her,and smiled. Cecilia, perceiving this, was a little annoyed, and askedwhether she were not right in wishing to give Nanette a good education.
"Certainly," replied Madame de Vesac; "that is why I advise you tocommence by teaching her to read."
"That is a matter of course; but perhaps she can read already. Nanette,can you read?"
The child looked at her, then bent her head without answering. Ceciliaraised her chin with her finger, again repeating, "Can you read?"But Nanette's only answer was to bend a little lower than before, assoon as Cecilia had withdrawn her finger. Cecilia, with a look ather mother, which seemed to say, "What patience one must have withchildren!" drew from her bag a book, which she had brought to read onher journey, and opening it at the title-page, she placed it beforeNanette, and pointing to an A, said, "What is that?" Nanette raised hereyes, glanced askance at the A, and then cast them down again, withoutsaying a word. Cecilia repeated, "What is that?" But Nanette continuedsilent. "It is an A," said Cecilia, lowering her voice, like onebecoming impatient, and anxious to restrain herself. The child lookedat her earnestly, as if she would have said, "What does it matter to meif it is an A?"
"It is an A," repeated Cecilia; but Nanette only lookedat her without answering. Cecilia was beginning to lose patience, butshe called to mind the self-control her new duties required from her,and, taking Nanette upon her knees, she began to caress her, saying asshe did so, "Why will you not say A?" Nanette did not stir. "Say A,"continued Cecilia, "and I will give you this plum." Nanette lookedfirst at the plum and then at Cecilia, and smiled. Cecilia smiledtoo, and repeated, "Say A." Nanette, still smiling, and with her headbent down, glanced slyly at the plum, and said A in a very low tone.Cecilia kissed her with delight. When the plum was eaten, she pointedto another A, but without being able to elicit any opinion on thematter from Nanette. "Say A," she repeated, in an affectionate manner,and Nanette looked round to see if there was another plum coming.However, whether in gratitude for the one she had already eaten, orfrom the hope of obtaining another, or from politeness to Cecilia, sheonce more consented to say A. This was a new joy for Cecilia, who,persuaded that Nanette was now quite perfect in the A, and enchantedat this first triumph in her education, returned with delight to theformer A, expecting her to recognize it immediately; but this time itwas impossible to obtain a syllable from her. Nanette had never seen abook--did not know what it was, nor what could be its use. She couldnot understand this fancy of making her say A. She had said it withoutregarding the form of the letter, and without thinking it was the nameof the thing shown to her; and had all the A's in the world been placedbefore her, she would not have been any the wiser. After many uselessefforts, Cecilia, completely discouraged, looked at her mother, with anexpression of annoyance, saying, "What shall we do if she will not evenlearn to read?"
Madame de Vesac represented to her that she was beginning to despairvery quickly, that it was quite natural that Nanette, astonished at thenovelty of her situation, stunned by the carriage, and timid at findingherself among strangers, should have a difficulty in understanding whatwas shown her, and that it would be better to wait for a quieter timebefore commencing her instructions.
Cecilia was a little consoled by these words, and glad, moreover, tohave a sufficient reason for deferring lessons of which, for themoment, she was heartily tired. However, considering, in the meantime,that she must endeavour to correct Nanette of whatever faults she mighthave, she determined that on the following morning, when they would heobliged to start at five o'clock, she would not allow her to complainof being so early awakened, or of the cold; but she had no occasion toenforce her lessons. Nanette, accustomed to suffering, never murmurednor complained of anything; and Cecilia was at a loss to know what todo with a child so gentle and docile as not to need scolding, and solittle intelligent that it was difficult to tell what method to adoptfor her instruction. However, the desire she felt of setting Nanette anexample, and the good opinion she began to entertain of her own sense,now that she found herself intrusted with the education of another,prevented her from even thinking of complaining of the cold, or ofthe annoyance of being disturbed at five o'clock in the morning. Shebusied herself in arranging her things, in order to show Nanette howto manage; and Nanette, who would rather have packed and unpacked adozen parcels than have said A once, endeavoured to obey her, and didnot acquit herself badly. Cecilia testified her satisfaction, and theyresumed their journey, mutually pleased, and, in order to maintainthis good understanding, nothing more was said about the A until theirarrival in Paris.
We may easily imagine how often, after her return home, Cecilia relatedthe history of Nanette and the forest, and mentioned her intention ofbringing up this little girl. The interest inspired by her narrative,and the importance she seemed to herself to acquire, wheneverNanette was asked for, revived those projects of education which theill-success of her first attempts had somewhat cooled. Besides, shehad felt so much pleasure in commencing Nanette's wardrobe, in tryingon a dress which she had made for her in two days, and thought itso delightful to have some one to command and send about her littlecommissions in the house, that she became daily more attached tothis species of property. She wished to have Nanette sleep in herroom, that she might be completely under her protection, but thisMadame de Vesac would not permit, as she felt it would give rise to athousand inconveniences, which Cecilia, in her eagerness for presentgratification, could not foresee. It was therefore arranged that sheshould sleep with Madame de Vesac's maid, and go down to Cecilia's roomevery morning to receive the lessons of her young instructress. Ceciliaat first declared that this was not enough, and that if more time wasnot allowed, it would be impossible for her to teach Nanette all shewished her to learn. Her mother, however, advised her to be contentwith this as a beginning, promising that, if in a little while, shestill wished it, the time should be increased. The day Cecilia triedon Nanette's dress and bonnet, which seemed to delight the child verymuch, and while still exhibiting the apron she had cut out, she tookadvantage of the opportunity to tell her that if she wished to gain allthese pretty things she must learn to read. Nanette did not very wellknow what was meant by learning to read, but she had seen Cecilia lookinto books, and remembered that it was in a book she was made to say A.This recollection was by no means agreeable, but as she was becomingaccustomed to obey Cecilia, she consented for once to repeat after her,first A, then B, then C; and at last, all the letters of the alphabet.Cecilia made her repeat them two or three times, showing them to her inthe different styles; and greatly pleased at having so easily obtainedNanette's submission, which she had so much difficulty in doing at thecommencement, she flattered herself that the most important point wasgained, and that her education would now rapidly advance. The same dayshe put her fingers on the piano, and Nanette was at first delightedwith the sounds she produced by striking the keys, but she did not findit quite so amusing to go through the gamut, and repeat after Cecilia adozen times, _ut_, _re_, _mi_, _fa_, _sol_, _la_, _si_, _ut_. However,she obeyed, and all went on to the satisfaction of the teacher. Cecilianext gave her a thimble, some needles, and a pair of scissors, whichshe had bought for her, together with a piece of linen, which she wasto learn to hem. Nanette was farther advanced in this department thanin the others. She had seen her mother work, and had tried to imitateher. Cecilia was very well pleased with the manner in which she heldher needle, and fixed her hem; and praised her accordingly; and, thusencouraged, the hem was finished pretty quickly and tolerably well.At length, after two hours spent in this manner, hours which appearedto the mistress somewhat tedious, Nanette was dismissed, and Cecilia,while congratulating herself on the success of her efforts, found,nevertheless, that the task of education was not the easiest of work.
The next day she resumed her lessons with renewed courage, hoping toadvance still farther than on the preceding one, but she found thateverything had to be begun again. Nanette was as much puzzled to sayA as she had been the first time. She did not recognize one of theletters, which she had repeated mechanically after Cecilia, who, asshe now made her say them again one after the other, had the utmostdifficulty in getting her to give two or three times by herself thename of the letter which had been taught her the moment before. At thepiano, when Cecilia wanted her to begin the scale of _ut_, she put herfinger upon _sol_, and when asked the name of the note she had struck,it was impossible for her to find any name for it: she did not evenunderstand that the notes had names. Thus, all the success obtainedthat day was, that after half-an-hour's study, Nanette named at randoma _fa_ for a _la_, or a _si_ for a _re_. Cecilia became very angry,and Nanette, who could not bear to be scolded, made so much haste tofinish her hem, in order to escape from her, that when Cecilia examinedit, she found six stitches one over the other, and another half-an-inchlong.
The following days were not much more fortunate; for, on each occasion,Nanette had forgotten pretty nearly the whole of what little she hadseemed to know on the previous day. As up to that time, she had neverbeen taught anything, she was not accustomed to apply her mind, or fixher attention on things of which she did not understand the use, forit could not be said that she was deficient in sense, or abi
lities,for her age. She was by no means awkward, and did all she was capableof doing carefully enough; for instance, if she carried a light, shedid not, like most children of her age, hold it in such a manner as tolet the grease fall upon the ground; she even took care to snuff itfor fear of sparks, before removing it from one place to another, andshe managed to snuff it without putting it out; if she had to carryanything rather heavy from one room to another, she first opened thedoor and removed whatever might be in her way; or if, while holding ajug of water, she happened to catch her dress in any object, she didnot, like most children, give a sudden jerk, and spill the water, butquietly put down her jug, and removed the obstacle. It was evident thatshe was accustomed to act, and seek the means of acting in the mostuseful manner. Moreover, she rendered a thousand little services toMademoiselle Gerard, Madame de Vesac's lady's maid, who was extremelyfond of her, and who, from having her continually with her, contrived,without tormenting her, to teach her many things which Nanettewillingly learnt.
As to the lessons with Cecilia, they went on worse and worse every day:the pupil knew not how to learn, nor the mistress how to teach; Ceciliaoften lost patience, and Nanette, who saw her only to be scolded andwearied, feeling but little desire to please her, became at lastcareless; besides, after having studied for a few minutes a lesson inwhich she took no interest, her ideas became so completely confused bythe irksomeness of her task, that she did not know what she was doing;so that, after having said her letters, and spelt very well with thelady's maid, who endeavoured to teach her, in order that she might notbe scolded, when she came to Cecilia everything went wrong, and it wasbut an additional annoyance to the latter to find that it was only withMademoiselle Gerard that Nanette read well.
Thanks, however, to Mademoiselle Gerard, Nanette did make some progressin reading and needlework; but as for music, at the end of six weeksshe was no farther advanced than on the first day, and Cecilia, whoentertained the idea of giving her an education which would enableher to shine in the world, became disgusted with efforts which couldhave no higher result than that of fitting her to become a shopkeeperor a lady's maid. The lessons, therefore, were but a succession ofirritabilities, which prevented Cecilia from seeking the best meansof making herself understood, and which ended by worrying Nanette.These two hours, so uselessly employed, became equally disagreeable tomistress and pupil, and both were delighted when any accident occurredto shorten them; and shortened they often were; for Cecilia, being onone occasion busy, hurried over all the lessons in half-an-hour, andthis, having once occurred, occurred often. Sometimes, too, she madeNanette repeat her lesson without listening to her, or put her beforethe piano and told her to play, while she went about her own affairs,so that during this time, Nanette amused herself at her leisure, inplaying whatever happened to suit her fancy. Sometimes, in fine, whenCecilia was busy with her drawing or anything that amused her, shewould tell Nanette to take her books or her work, and then think nomore about her. Nanette, meanwhile, would either be looking out at thewindow or catching flies; and when at last, after half-an-hour hadelapsed, Cecilia observed her, she would scold her for her idleness,and send her away, saying that she had now no time to attend to herlessons.
All this took place in Cecilia's room, which was close to her mother's.For some time Madame de Vesac said nothing; she had never expectedthat Cecilia would carry out her projects of education with anyperseverance, and she relied much more upon Mademoiselle Gerard, whowas a respectable and sensible person, and whom she knew to be quitecapable of bringing up Nanette in a manner suited to her station.Still she did not wish her daughter to get into the habit of doingcarelessly what she undertook, nor to fancy that the duties of the daywere performed when they were only gone through in appearance. Ceciliaherself felt that things were not as they ought to be; so that, afterhaving several times complained to her mother of the trouble whichNanette gave, she ceased to speak of the matter. At length one day,Madame de Vesac, after listening for half-an-hour to Nanette, who wasstrumming on the piano according to her own fancy, without receivingany attention from Cecilia, she asked the latter, if it was by givinglessons in that style that she hoped to make Nanette a great musician.Cecilia blushed, for she felt she was wrong; but she assured hermother, that Nanette had not the slightest taste for music. Madame deVesac observed, that, from the way in which she had been taught, it wasimpossible to know whether this was the case or not.
"Mamma," said Cecilia, "I assure you she has no talent whatever; and itis this which has discouraged me."
"But I do not think she displays less inclination to learn to read andwork than other children of her age; and yet I do not see that you areat all more zealous in these branches of her education."
"Oh, I attended especially to her music. Mademoiselle Gerard can teachher the rest, as well as I can."
"So then, you have taken Nanette in order to have her brought up byMademoiselle Gerard?"
"No, mamma; but I thought Nanette would be able to learn what I wantedto teach her."
"And because she does not learn what you want to teach her, you do notthink it worth while to teach her what she can learn: to do for her, atleast, all that is in your power."
"But still, mamma, it is, I think, a lucky thing for Nanette that wehave taken her, and I certainly shall always take care of her; but youmust allow that there is no very great pleasure in teaching a littlegirl to read and sew, when it is evident that she can learn nothingmore than that."
"To agree with you, I must first know precisely what kind of pleasureyou expected when you took charge of Nanette?"
"The pleasure of being useful to her, by giving her a good education."
"And supposing her incapable of profiting by what you call a goodeducation, you would not care to be useful to her by giving her atleast such an education as she is capable of receiving."
"At all events, this would not give me so much pleasure."
"And to continue a good action which you have commenced, it isnecessary that you should find it productive of much pleasure toyourself?"
"No, mamma; but...."
--"But, my child, there are many persons like you in that respect; theycommence a good work with delight, and afterwards abandon it becausetheir success is not as complete as they had expected."
"You must see, mamma," said Cecilia, a little piqued, "that it was notfor my own advantage that I wished to give lessons to Nanette."
"I believe, indeed, it was for hers, and that you had fully reflectedon the advantage she would derive from them."
"Indeed, mamma, it is a very fine thing for a little peasant girl, whowould have remained ignorant, vulgar, and illiterate all her life, tobe well educated and accomplished, and to be able to become amiable andagreeable, and fitted to move in elevated society."
"Especially," said Madame de Vesac, smiling, "when she is destined tomove in elevated society."
"Who knows, mamma? a good marriage," resumed Cecilia, with vivacity;for her imagination was always ready to rush into romantic ideas,because it is such ideas that require the least reflection.
"Have you seen many of these marriages?" asked her mother.
"Though I may never have seen any, still..."
"Still you suppose, probably, that they are not unfrequent."
"I do not say that, but..."
"But I say," continued her mother, seriously, "that we are notpermitted to amuse ourselves with such child's play, when the welfareof one of whom we have taken charge is at stake; and if you hadbestowed upon Nanette an education which would make her disdain thehumble career to which she is no doubt destined, you would haverendered her a very mischievous service."
"So then, mamma, you did not think I ought to give lessons to Nanette?"
"Not at all; but I was quite easy about the matter."
"Besides," said Cecilia, blushing, "here I am always interrupted, andthen two hours for all the lessons are nothing; but we shall be goinginto the country in a month, where, if you will allow it, she will bemore
frequently with me, and I shall easily find the means of givingher a proper education."
"Very well," said Madame de Vesac, smiling; for she did not place muchmore reliance on her daughter's perseverance in the country than inParis. Cecilia did not observe this smile; quite absorbed in her plansfor the future education of Nanette, she began by interrupting it forthe present, as if the good that was to be done at some distant dayexempted her from performing that which was in her power at the actualmoment. She therefore told Nanette, that she would give her no morelessons until they went into the country; and Nanette, to whom a monthseemed a lifetime, imagined herself for ever freed, both from Ceciliaand her lessons. Cecilia, whose month was taken up with two or threeballs, with purchases, packing, and receiving visits from the friendswho called to bid her good-bye, completely lost the habit of thinkingof Nanette; and this habit she found so unpleasant to resume, that theyhad been a whole week in the country when her mother said to her:--
"And Nanette?"
"We are going to recommence our lessons," she replied, somewhat ashamedat not having done so earlier. "But you know," she added, "that onarriving in the country there are a thousand things to be done;besides, I do not think Nanette is very anxious."
"Nor you either, I suspect."
"It certainly does not amuse me much."
"But it will not amuse you more to-morrow than to-day; so that I do notsee you have any more reason to begin to-morrow than you have had forthe last week."
"But still you know, mamma, there is no need of being in a hurry whenthere is plenty of time."
"My child, we have never sufficient time before us to do all that oughtto be done, for we can never be sure of time. A thousand accidents maydeprive us of it; therefore we ought always to be anxious to do whathas to be done, just as if we had only the time absolutely necessaryfor it. In this uncertainty as to the future, it was as necessary tohave devoted to Nanette's education the week you have lost, as to giveto it that which is to come."
Cecilia made no answer, but resumed her drawing. Madame de Vesac tookup the book she had been reading. After the lapse of half-an-hour,Cecilia interrupted her occupation, saying, with a heavy sigh, "I amafraid I shall not succeed."
"In what?" inquired her mother.
"In what we were speaking of a short time since," said Cecilia, wishingto be understood without being forced to explain; "in Nanette'seducation."
"And why should you not succeed, if you desire it?" replied Madame deVesac, still reading.
"I cannot manage to make her study properly."
"I do not see why you may not do what another can do;" and theconversation was again dropped, much to Cecilia's annoyance, for shehad an idea which she was anxious though afraid to express. At length,after a quarter of an hour's silence, she again continued. "There isone very simple plan," she said.
"What for?" asked Madame de Vesac, without laying down her book.
"To educate Nanette," said Cecilia, impatiently.
"That plan would be, I think, to give her lessons."
"Mamma, I assure you it is very difficult, extremely difficult. Ifyou would permit me to send her to the village school she would learnto read, and they could give her the elementary lessons in writing,which you know I cannot do; and when we return to Paris she will besufficiently advanced for me to continue with her."
"Cecilia," said Madame de Vesac, "if you alone were concerned, I shouldnot consent to this, for you must acquire the habit of persevering inwhat you undertake, and learn to bear the consequences of your owndeterminations. But Nanette would suffer from it; because, as you areneither sufficiently reasonable nor sufficiently patient to adopt theproper means of ensuring success, you would scold her for learningbadly what you taught her badly, and thus she would be ill brought upand unhappy. You may therefore send her to school."
Cecilia, delighted at having obtained this permission, hastened toMademoiselle Gerard, to beg her to inform the schoolmaster, andarrange with him the terms of Nanette's tuition. Mademoiselle Gerard,annoyed at being deprived of Nanette during so many hours in themorning, and foreseeing that this arrangement would displease herlittle pupil, declared that it was unnecessary, and wished to pointout inconveniences in the plan. But Cecilia became angry at the firstword (as always happens when we are not sure of being in the right),and said that it was Madame de Vesac's wish. The matter was thereforesettled, and Nanette sent to school. For some time, Cecilia took aninterest in her progress, and paid for her instruction cheerfullyenough; and on her birthday, when Nanette recited some complimentaryverses, composed by the schoolmaster, and in which she was styledher _illustrious benefactress_, Cecilia gave her a new dress, whichMademoiselle Gerard promised to make. But in course of time Ceciliahad other fancies; and when the first of the month came round, shewas annoyed at having to pay for Nanette's schooling. MademoiselleGerard had several times to remind her that Nanette required shoes;that she had worn and outgrown those she had; and that the smallquantity of linen, and the caps and petticoats which had been madefor her at first, were insufficient. Madame de Vesac had more thanonce contributed to her wardrobe; and Cecilia was one day a littleashamed at seeing the child in an apron made out of an old dress ofMademoiselle Gerard's. But in time she got reconciled to this, andbegan to see in Nanette only the _protegee_ of the lady's maid. Shenever thought of her but when they happened to meet; and they becamealmost strangers to each other.
When they were about to return to Paris, Mademoiselle Gerard, whosehealth had been much impaired for some time past, was not in acondition to undertake the journey: so that Madame de Vesac resolvedto leave her in the country until she got well. Mademoiselle Gerardhad become so much accustomed to Nanette, that she could not bear thethought of parting with her; she therefore asked permission to retainher. Cecilia, as may be imagined, seconded the request; and Madame deVesac, being then without a maid, and seeing that Nanette would onlybe an additional inconvenience, thought it as well to leave her withMademoiselle Gerard, to whom she would be useful.
Thus was Cecilia, for the moment, relieved from all care of Nanette,and fully determined to think of her as little as possible, for therecollection was troublesome, as she could not but feel that she hadnot done for her all that she might have done. However, every monthbrought Mademoiselle Gerard's bill for Nanette's schooling, and othernecessary expenses incurred on her account. Then came demands forshoes, linen, &c.; and although Mademoiselle Gerard was in this respectextremely economical, and not unfrequently assisted Nanette from herown wardrobe, still Cecilia found these expenses encroach sadly uponher allowance. Madame de Vesac, unknown to her, willingly undertooka part of them; but she would not undertake the whole, not thinkingit right that her daughter should feel herself at liberty to transferto her a duty which she had voluntarily imposed upon herself; and sheinsisted that Cecilia should not neglect the demands of MademoiselleGerard. But it happened that Madame de Vesac's husband was woundedwhile with the army, and though the wound was not dangerous, it wasstill of sufficient importance to prevent his being removed. His wifewas therefore obliged to set off immediately to attend to him; and notwishing to take her daughter with her, she left her in the care ofone of her aunts, who had two girls of her own, with whom Cecilia wasdelighted to have an opportunity of spending some time.
She had been with them about three days, when she received a letterfrom Mademoiselle Gerard. This letter could not have come at a moreunwelcome moment, Cecilia having just taken a fancy to purchase abonnet like one bought by her cousin, and imagining that MademoiselleGerard applied to her for money, "Oh!" she said, ill-temperedly, themoment she recognized the post-mark and handwriting, "I was quite surethis would not fail me; Mademoiselle Gerard always takes care to writewhenever I want to buy anything for my own pleasure," and she threwthe letter, unopened, upon the mantel-piece, and resumed her drawing,saying, "I shall read it quite soon enough."
"You had better spare yourself the trouble altogether," said theyoungest of her cousins, who was very though
tless, and, saying this,she took the letter, and threw it into the fire. Cecilia uttered acry, and hastily rose to regain it, but before she had time to moveher table, reach the fire-place, and seize the tongs, in spite ofher cousin, who, laughing with all her might, endeavoured to preventher, the letter was half destroyed. When, after having got it out,she wished to take hold of it, the flame burned her fingers, so thatshe let it fall, and, while vainly endeavouring to extinguish it withthe tongs, her cousin, still laughing, took a large glass of water,and threw it over it. The letter ceased to burn, but the little thatremained of it, was so blackened and impregnated with the water, thatit was quite illegible, and Cecilia was, therefore, obliged to give upall thoughts of reading it. She scolded her cousin, telling her thatshe should now be obliged to write to Mademoiselle Gerard to know thecontents of her letter, but, meanwhile, she bought the bonnet, andas, after having done so, she found herself without money, she was inno great hurry to know what Mademoiselle Gerard had written about;she, therefore, deferred writing from day to day, until a week or tendays had passed; then a fortnight elapsed, and the letter was stillforgotten--finally, it remained unwritten at the end of three weeks.She little knew what was going on at the Chateau during this time.
Since their departure, the health of Mademoiselle Gerard had beenconstantly growing worse, she consequently became more fretful withevery one except Nanette, of whom she was very fond, and who served herwith zeal and intelligence. The only person who remained in the Chateauwith her was the porter, an old servant named Dubois, a cross-grained,crabbed old man, though well enough disposed in the main. MademoiselleGerard, like the other servants, had frequently disputes with him, butas she was a sensible woman, these disputes were soon settled; now,however, that her temper became soured by illness, their disagreementsincreased in frequency and violence. It was part of Dubois' duty tosupply her with everything she wanted, and when marketing for himselfto buy what she required also. She was often discontented with hispurchases, and, besides, if she asked for anything in the least outof the ordinary course, he told her it was too dear, and that Madamede Vesac would not permit such extravagance. Then Mademoiselle Gerardwould cry, and bewail her misfortune in being left to the care ofa man who would be the death of her. She had several times writtento Madame de Vesac on the subject, who, well knowing her wishes tobe unreasonable, endeavoured to calm her, and persuade her to waitpatiently until her return; at the same time, she ordered Dubois notto vex her, as she was an invalid. Whenever the latter received thesecommands he became more ill-tempered than usual, because, he said,Mademoiselle Gerard had got him scolded by his mistress. At lengththeir disagreements reached such a point, that Dubois would no longerenter the apartments of Mademoiselle Gerard, who, on her part, declaredthat, during the whole course of her life, she would never again speakto Dubois; so that she sent Nanette to get from him what she wanted.Poor little Nanette was often very much perplexed, as MademoiselleGerard, always dissatisfied with what Dubois sent her, never failed tobreak out into complaints whenever Nanette carried her the meat he hadbought at the market, or the fruit and vegetables he had gathered inthe garden. She declared he had chosen the very worst for her, and thathe wanted to kill her; and such was her weakness on these occasions,that she would sometimes begin to cry. Nanette, who was very fond ofher, was grieved at seeing her so much distressed, and would standlooking at her in perfect silence; then Mademoiselle Gerard would kissher, and say, "If I were to die, who would take care of you?" for, inher weakness, she imagined there was no one in the world who would takean interest in Nanette but herself. The child returned her caresses,comforting her in her way, and assuring her that she would not die. Shecould not understand her friend's distress, but she would have donemuch to see her happy. But when Mademoiselle Gerard wanted to send herto Dubois to complain of what he had given her, she told her she darednot go, because on two or three occasions he had been so enraged withher that she was terribly frightened of him. Then she would repeatfor the twentieth time what he had said the day she took back to himthe decayed pears, and how, when she went to tell him that the slicesof beet-root were bad, he flew into a furious passion, saying thatservants were more difficult to please than their masters, then gavesuch a kick to his cupboard door, for the purpose of shutting it, andflung a carrot which he held in his hand with such violence across theroom, that she ran away terrified, for fear of being beaten. She alsorepeated all that he had said about Mademoiselle Gerard herself, thathe should never have a moment's peace so long as she was in the house,and that he would willingly give five pounds out of his own pocket,if she were only so far out of his way that he might never hear hername mentioned again. Then Mademoiselle Gerard became alarmed at hishatred, and could not endure the thought of remaining alone with himin the Chateau, saying that unless her mistress returned very soon sheshould be lost. If on these occasions Dubois happened to pass nearher apartment, she ran to bolt and barricade the door, as if he weregoing to murder her. It was in moments of fever that these ideas tookpossession of her mind, and more especially in the evening, becausethe room occupied by Dubois was close to her own. The mere idea ofhaving to pass the night so near him threw her into a frightful stateof agitation. Nanette, without knowing why, shared in her alarm, and assoon as it began to get dusk she would run and bolt the doors. Duringthe day they were more calm, and Nanette even amused herself by playingtricks upon Dubois.
He kept his fruit and other provisions in a room on the ground floor,one window of which looked upon the court-yard of the Chateau, andanother into the poultry-yard. When the weather was fine, he usedeach morning to open the window that commanded the court-yard, go hisrounds of the kitchen-garden and poultry-yard, and then return andclose the window. Nanette had several times watched for the moment ofhis departure, and, taking advantage of his absence, had climbed tothe window, entered the room, carried back the apples he had sent toMademoiselle Gerard, and with which she was dissatisfied, and takenfiner ones in their stead. She was careful whilst in the room to watchfor Dubois through the window that looked into the poultry-yard, andthe moment she caught a glimpse of him she made her escape. The firsttime this occurred, Mademoiselle Gerard gently reprimanded her forhaving gone through the window; but since her illness she had becometoo weak to be reasonable in anything, so that a few days later, beinggreatly annoyed at again receiving some apples which she declared werebad, she said to Nanette, "Could you not manage to get others for me?"Nanette desired nothing better, for she had been much amused with herfirst stratagem; she, therefore, again watched for Dubois' departure,clambered through the window, and accomplished her task with perfectsuccess, and then diverted Mademoiselle Gerard, to whom her tricks hadbecome a source of amusement, by mimicking the limping gait and surlyexpression of Dubois, as she had seen him returning in the distance.Nanette, who never took anything for herself, and even for her friendonly made exchanges, did not feel the slightest scruple in respectto the propriety of her conduct; while to Mademoiselle Gerard, whosemind had become too far enfeebled to be capable of much reflection, itnever occurred that she was encouraging the child in a bad habit, andexposing her to suspicion.
One day, when she had sent to Dubois for some dried grapes, shepretended, as usual, that he had chosen the worst for her, and, aschildren always see what they fancy they see, Nanette assured her thatshe had really observed him select the worst, and offered her goodfriend (as she always named Mademoiselle Gerard) to go and bring somebetter ones, from the cupboard in which she knew he always kept themlocked up. Her friend consented, and Nanette having seen Dubois openthe window and depart, started on her expedition. She got into theroom, found the key of the cupboard, and began to make her selection.She was so busy that it did not occur to her that the door of thepress concealed from her the window which looked upon the poultry-yard,and consequently, that she could not peep out as usual to see ifDubois were coming. Two or three times, indeed, she did interrupther occupation, to go and look out, but not at the right moment, sothat Dubois passed unp
erceived, and just when she considered herselfperfectly safe, she heard a voice of thunder exclaiming, "Oh! youlittle thief; I have caught you, then!" and saw before the window theterrible Dubois, barring her passage. For the moment, she thoughtherself dead; but, fortunately, Dubois was too fat and too heavy tobe able to get through the window: he could only overwhelm her withreproaches. Pale and trembling, her heart sinking with fright, shestood silent and motionless. But, at length, watching the moment whenhe went round to the door, she leaped through the window, and ranround the yard, pursued by Dubois, who, with vehement exclamations,endeavoured to reach her with his stick. Mademoiselle Gerard, hearingthe noise, opened her window, and seeing the danger of her favourite,she lost all self-control, and screamed out, "Help! Help! Murder!"Dubois, furious, raised his eyes, and not knowing much better thanherself what he was about, threatened her with his stick, and thenrecommenced his pursuit of Nanette, who by this time had gained thestaircase. He mounted after her, and arrived at the moment when sheand Mademoiselle Gerard were trying to shut the door; he pushed itopen, and forced an entrance, almost upsetting Mademoiselle Gerard, whothrew herself before Nanette, as if to prevent his touching her. Stillmore enraged by this movement, which seemed to imply that he intendedto hurt the child, and worse in words than in deeds, he stopped,suffocated at once by anger and by his chase: then, recovering breath,he poured forth a volley of invectives, both against Nanette, whomhe called a jade, and against Mademoiselle Gerard, whom he accusedof encouraging her in stealing, and becoming a spy about the house.Mademoiselle Gerard, trembling at once with fear and indignation, toldhim that Nanette did not steal, that she only endeavoured to obtainsomething better than he had sent to _poison her_; that she was veryunfortunate in being abandoned to a _monster_ like him, but that hermistress would soon be back, and do her justice for all this.
"O yes!" said Dubois, "count upon Madame's return, but before she comesback you will have time to set out for the other world!"
After this piece of brutality, which satisfied his passion, he leftthem. Mademoiselle Gerard fell down almost insensible; and the surgeonwho attended her found her, on his arrival, in a high state of fever.He had, besides, just been informed of M. de Vesac's wound, and ofthe departure of his wife, and communicated this intelligence toMademoiselle Gerard, who now perceived the import of Dubois' words;and the idea of having to remain perhaps for six months longer at themercy of such a man, filled her mind with a terror and agitation whichit was impossible to subdue. As her imagination was now disorderedby fever, she said that Dubois would kill Nanette; and when thelatter declared that she could never dare ask him for anything again,Mademoiselle Gerard expected nothing less than to be starved to death.She determined therefore to go to her brother, who was married andestablished as a shopkeeper in a neighbouring town. It was in vainthat the surgeon endeavoured to oppose this caprice, by representingto her that she was too ill to be removed without danger. Her feverand agitation increased so much by contradiction, that he found itnecessary to yield to her desire. He therefore sent to the farm for ahorse and cart, settled her with as little inconvenience as possible,and thus accompanied by Nanette, and taking with her all her effects,she started for the town, where she arrived almost in a dying state.
She remained several days in this condition; then became a littlebetter, but was still so feeble that she began to give up all hope ofrecovery. Wishing to dispose of the little property she possessed, shesent for a notary. Her whole wealth consisted in a sum of a thousandcrowns, the fruit of her savings, and which, from her suspiciouscharacter, she had been afraid of placing out at interest, for fear ofbeing cheated, and therefore always kept in her own possession. Sheleft two thousand four hundred francs to her brother, and six hundredto Nanette, with part of her effects. Then, on learning from thesurgeon his belief that Cecilia had remained in Paris, she wrote toinform her of the condition she was in, begging her to make it knownto Madame de Vesac, and to ask what, in the event of her death, was tobe done with Nanette. This was the letter which Cecilia's cousin threwinto the fire. Mademoiselle Gerard receiving no reply, supposed thatCecilia had left Paris; and feeling herself growing daily worse, shegot the clergyman who visited her to write a long letter to Madame deVesac. In this letter she recommended Nanette to her care, and withoutcomplaining of Dubois, whom the clergyman had prevailed upon her toforgive, she explained to her mistress that Nanette was not a thief, asDubois had accused her of being.
Soon after this letter had been despatched she died; and thus was poorNanette left utterly friendless. Mademoiselle Gerard's brother andhis wife were selfish people; they had been annoyed at the affectionshe manifested for Nanette, because they were afraid she would leaveher whatever she possessed. They supposed she must have amassed aconsiderable sum of money, and were confirmed in this opinion, whenthe day after her death they discovered in her apartment the thousandcrowns. Knowing that she had made a will, the husband hastened tothe notary, eager to learn its contents; and when it was opened inhis presence he was very much astonished, and extremely dissatisfied,at finding that instead of being left a considerable legacy, as heexpected, he should be obliged to give Nanette six hundred francs outof the thousand crowns, of which he had already taken possession. Hereturned home and communicated his information to his wife, who, beingstill more selfish than himself, was more enraged. She overwhelmed withabuse poor little Nanette, who, quite unconscious of what it all meant,remained terrified and motionless on the spot. Whilst giving vent toher passion the woman continued to arrange and sweep out her shop, andbeing near Nanette, she struck her with the broom, as if to make herget out of the way. The child ran crying to another corner of the shop.The broom which kept on its course seemed to pursue her; she jumpedover it, and went to another part of the room, still it was afterher. The activity of the shopkeeper seemed to increase with Nanette'sterrors, and every movement she made was accompanied by threateningand abusive language. At length, not knowing where to fly for safety,the poor child ran to the threshold of the door; the woman pushed herout with her broom, saying, "Yes! yes! be off, you may be quite sure Ishall not take the trouble to run after you;" and she closed the doorupon her. Nanette remained for some time crying outside. At length,hearing some one about to open the door, and thinking it was herpersecutor coming out to beat her, she ran off as fast as she could.
The street in which she happened to be led to the entrance of the town;when she had advanced some distance into the country she sat down upona stone, and, still crying, began to eat a piece of bread, the remainsof her breakfast, which she happened to have in her hand at the momentof her expulsion from the shop. A little boy came up to her, and askedwhat was the matter. Nanette at first made no reply; he repeated hisquestion, and she told him that she did not know where to go.
"Come with me to Dame Lapie's," said the little fellow.
"Who is Dame Lapie?" demanded Nanette.
"Why Dame Lapie; she lives in the village yonder, but just now she isbegging on the high road. Come along," and he wanted to take Nanetteby the hand, but she drew back. The little boy was dirty and ragged,and Nanette had been accustomed to neatness. Moreover the sorrow shehad endured the previous day, the death of her protector, the abuseof the shopkeeper's wife, and her own precipitate flight, had quitebewildered her, as is nearly always the case with children whenanything extraordinary is passing around them. At those times, notknowing what to do, they remain in one spot, without coming to anydecision. Nanette sat there on her stone without knowing what was tobecome of her, because at that moment her mind was not sufficientlyclear to enable her to decide on leaving it. After several fruitlessattempts to induce her to accompany him, the little boy left her, andNanette remained still seated on the stone. Some time after, however,on looking towards the town, she saw a woman approaching, whom shemistook for the shopkeeper; she became afraid, got up, and again wenton, still following the high road.
She walked for a full hour, without knowing whither she went, when ata turn in the road she perc
eived an old woman sitting at the foot ofa tree, and surrounded by five or six little children, of from two tofour years of age. The little boy who had spoken to her, and who mightbe about seven or eight, was standing talking to the old woman. Themoment he perceived Nanette he pointed her out, saying, "See, thereshe is, that is her." Nanette crossed over to the other side of theroad, for she was afraid of every one, but the old woman rose and wentto her. Nanette would have run away, but the woman took her by thehand, spoke gently to her, and told her not to be frightened, for shewould do her no harm. Nanette looked at her, felt reassured by her kindexpression of countenance, and told her that she had run away from thetown because they wanted to beat her.
"It is your mother who wanted to beat you," said Dame Lapie; "wellnever mind, we will settle that; come, we will go and ask her toforgive you, and then she will not beat you;" saying this, she madea movement as if wishing to lead her back to the town. Nanette,terrified, began to scream and struggle, saying that it was not hermother, and that she would not return to the town. "Well, then, wewill not go, you shall come with us," but Nanette still struggledto withdraw her hand; Dame Lapie let it go, and as Nanette went on,contented herself with following and talking to her. "Who will giveyou anything to eat to-day?" she demanded. Nanette, crying, replied,"I don't know." "Where will you sleep to-night?" asked Dame Lapie. "Idon't know," said Nanette, still crying. "Come with me," continued DameLapie, "I promise you we will not return to the town." "Come with us,"said the little boy, who had also followed her, and Nanette at lastsuffered herself to be persuaded. Dame Lapie led her back to the footof the tree, gave her a piece of black bread and an apple, and whileeating it, for she was beginning to feel hungry, she recovered hercalmness a little.
Dame Lapie was an old woman to whom the people of the village intrustedtheir children, whilst they went to work in the fields. She had alwaysfive or six, whom she went for in the morning, and took home againat night. The little boy who had spoken to Nanette, and whose namewas Jeannot, was one of those she had taken care of in this way. Hisparents dying whilst he was very young, Dame Lapie would not abandonhim, but not being able to support him herself, she sent him to beg.She herself also went, and sat by the road-side, with the littlechildren around her, and asked alms of the passers by; and the parentsof the children were either ignorant of this, or did not troublethemselves about it, especially as Dame Lapie always shared with thelittle ones whatever she obtained.
Jeannot seeing Dame Lapie receiving children every day, imagined thatall who had no homes ought to go to her; and therefore he had soughtto lead Nanette to her; and the dame, meeting with a little girlneatly clad, wandering about alone, without knowing where she went,was persuaded, notwithstanding Nanette's assertions that she had runaway from her mother, to whom she should be rendering a service byrestoring her. She intended, therefore, as soon as she had learned fromNanette who were her parents, to go and see them, promising to restoretheir daughter, on condition that they would not beat her, for DameLapie could not bear the idea of having children ill treated, or evenannoyed. Meanwhile, when she returned at night to the village, she madeNanette accompany her, and gave her two of the children to lead; thisamused Nanette, but she was not quite so much diverted, when at nightthe dame had nothing to give her for supper but the same kind of blackbread which she had had for dinner, and this too without the apple.Neither did she feel much inclined to sleep with Dame Lapie, whosebed was very disagreeable; still it was necessary, and she slept verysoundly after all. Jeannot, as usual, slept upon some straw in a cornerof the hut.
During the night, Dame Lapie was seized with so violent an attack ofrheumatism that she could not move a limb; and, as she was unable to goto the town, she told Nanette that she must return home to her mother.Nanette again began to cry, saying that her mother did not live in thetown, that her good friend was dead, and that there remained no one butof her good friend's sister, and she wanted to beat her; she did notallude to the Chateau, for she was still more afraid of Dubois thanof the shopkeeper. Dame Lapie asked where her mother was, but Nanettescarcely remembered the name of her native village; everything shesaid on the subject was so confused, and she cried so much, that theold woman could make nothing out, and resolved to let the matter restfor the present. On several occasions, during the following days, sherenewed her questions, but always with the same result; and, too ill toinsist much on the matter, she determined, as soon as she was better,to go to the town and make inquiries herself.
Nanette, meanwhile, rendered her a thousand little services; she wasgentle and attentive, and delighted in giving pleasure. The constantattention required by Mademoiselle Gerard had rendered her alive to thewants of sick people. She also took care of the little children, whowere always brought to Dame Lapie's, and, accompanied by Jeannot, wentout with them upon the road. Jeannot did all he could to cheer her; butshe was sad. She remembered the good dinners she had with MademoiselleGerard, and the black bread became distasteful to her; nevertheless,there was nothing else for her, and not always enough even of that. Onone occasion, she was obliged to go to bed supperless, and passed apart of the night in crying; but so as not to be heard by Dame Lapie,because, whenever the dame saw her crying from hunger, she scolded her,and asked her why she did not go and beg like Jeannot.
The winter had passed; the spring was very wet; and when it rained,the water penetrated into Dame Lapie's hut, which was somewhat belowthe level of the street. This rendered it very unhealthy. It was alsounhealthy for Nanette to sleep with this old woman, who was an invalid.Nanette was naturally of a delicate constitution, and the misery inwhich her infancy had been passed left her in a state of but verymoderate health at the time she was taken by Madame de Vesac. Underthe care of Mademoiselle Gerard, she recovered her strength, but notsufficiently to enable her to bear the present relapse into misery.If Jeannot was able to endure the same inconveniences, it was becausehe was of a strong, lively, and active temperament, which preventedhim from yielding to depression; whereas Nanette, mild, quiet, andeven a little inclined to indolence, gave way to discouragement andsadness--a thing which always increases our troubles. Jeannot besideswas a favourite with the neighbours; every one caressed him, and gavehim something; but they had been greatly displeased by the arrivalof Nanette, and thought it very wrong of Dame Lapie to take chargeof a child of whom she knew nothing, and who, they said, was onlyan additional beggar in the village; so that not unfrequently, whenNanette went into the streets, she heard the women and children cryingout against her. Under the combined influence of grief, unwholesomefood, and want of cleanliness, Nanette soon fell ill. She was seizedwith a fever, and in the course of a few days became dreadfullychanged. Dame Lapie, who was now able to leave her bed, and attend tothe children, told her that, as she could not beg, she must at least gowith Jeannot, who would beg for her; and that she would get the morewhen it was seen that she was so ill. Jeannot, who was much more quickand shrewd than Nanette, led her by the hand, and she suffered him todo so, for she had no longer the strength to resist anything. Whenthey reached a spot where they could be seen by those who passed alongthe road, she seated herself on a stone, or at the foot of a tree, andJeannot solicited alms for his little sister who was ill; and, indeed,she looked so ill and so unhappy, that she excited commiseration, andobtained for Jeannot additional contributions.
Meantime, Cecilia carried into execution her determination of writingto Mademoiselle Gerard; but as she, of course, addressed her letterto the Chateau, it was received by Dubois, who for some days had noopportunity of forwarding it to the town, and in the interval learnedthat Mademoiselle Gerard was dead. He was then grieved at havingtreated her with so much brutality the day before her departure; butas for Nanette, when told that she had run away from the shopkeeper's,and had not since been heard of, he took no further trouble in thematter, quite satisfied in his own mind that she was a thief, and thatthey were very fortunate to be rid of her. Of all these matters he sentan account to Madame de Vesac; but her husband having re
covered andreturned to active service, she had just left for Paris, and neitherreceived this letter nor the one sent to her by Mademoiselle Gerard afew days prior to her death, and which, having passed through Paris,had been delayed a considerable time on the way. Madame de Vesac stayedonly a few days at the capital, and then set out with her daughterfor her country-seat, ignorant of all that had lately happened there.She had made inquiries of Cecilia respecting Mademoiselle Gerard;and Cecilia being unable to give her any information, was obliged toconfess her negligence. Her mother severely reprimanded her, thoughlittle imagining the misfortunes this negligence had produced.
They were four days on their journey, and while changing horses atthe last post but one, Cecilia descended from the carriage, andleaving the yard of the inn, went to breathe the fresh air on the highroad. Immediately a little boy came towards her, asking charity forhis little sister who was ill, at the same time pointing her out toCecilia, who, in fact, beheld a little girl seated on the ground, witha dying look, and her head leaning against a stone; at that momentshe was sleeping; her clothes were in rags, and so dirty, that theircolour could scarcely be distinguished. Cecilia, while looking ather, was seized with pity, and struck by her resemblance to Nanette;but it never occurred to her that it could be Nanette. Just then shewas called, and giving the little boy a penny, telling him it wasfor his sister, she returned to the carriage, her mind filled withthe thought of the poor little girl she had just seen; yet she didnot dare to speak of her to her mother, fearing that by recallingthe memory of Nanette she might revive those reproaches which herconscience told her she deserved. What, then, was her consternation,when, on arriving at the Chateau, she was informed of the death ofMademoiselle Gerard, and the disappearance of Nanette. While Duboiswas relating these particulars, Madame de Vesac fixed her eyes uponher daughter, who at one moment looked at her with an expression ofgreat anxiety, and at the next cast down her eyes ashamed. As soon asDubois had left the room, Cecilia, pale and trembling, with claspedhands, and a look of despair, said to her mother, "Oh! mamma, if itwas that little girl I saw close to the post-house, who looked as ifshe were dying." Her mother asked her what grounds she had for such anidea. Cecilia informed her, and, while doing so, wept bitterly; forthe more she thought of the subject, the less doubt did she entertainof its being poor little Nanette. "I am sure I recognised her," shecontinued; "and now I remember that she wore the blue dress I gave her.It was all torn, and I could scarcely tell the colour; but it was thesame, I am sure. Poor little Nanette!" And with this, she redoubled hertears. She entreated that some one might be sent immediately to theinn, to make inquiries; but it was then too late in the day, and shedreaded lest the delay of a few hours should render Nanette so muchworse as to be past recovery. Her agitation increased every moment.Madame de Vesac gave orders that the following morning, as soon asit was light, some one should go to the post-house, to ascertain ifthe people knew anything of the little girl who was begging at thedoor on the previous day. Cecilia passed a sleepless night, and rosethe next morning before daybreak; and she was awaiting the return ofthe messenger even before he had started. He did return at last, butwithout any information. Nanette had never before been at the inn, andthe people had not noticed her, and were at a loss to understand theobject of all these inquiries. Cecilia was in hopes she would returnthere during the day, and a messenger was again sent to inquire; butNanette did not make her appearance, for the post-house was situatedat a considerable distance from the village in which Dame Lapie lived;and, in her feeble and suffering condition, the walk had so muchexhausted her that she found it impossible to return. "Oh, mamma,"exclaimed Cecilia, "perhaps she is dead." At that moment she felt allthe anguish of the most dreadful remorse; her agitation almost threwher into a fever. Inquiries were made in the town; and the shopkeeper'swife stated that Nanette had run away, and no one knew what had becomeof her. The neighbours were also applied to; and they, disliking thesister-in-law of Mademoiselle Gerard, and having heard of the will,said, that to avoid paying the six hundred francs to Nanette, she wasquite capable of forcing her, by her ill treatment, to run away, andthat perhaps even she had turned her out of doors. To this were addedconjectures and rumours, some declaring that a little girl had beenmet one night in the fields, almost perished with cold; others sayingthat one had been found on the high road, nearly starved to death;but when questioned further on the point, no one could tell who hadseen this little girl, nor what had become of her; for these were onlyfalse reports, such as are always circulated in cases of disaster.Cecilia, however, believed them, and they threw her into despair. Atthis time, Mademoiselle Gerard's letter reached them; it contained acomplete justification of Nanette, whom Dubois persisted in regardingas a thief; it also proved that, if Cecilia had written immediately onthe receipt of her first letter, Nanette would not have been lost. Thisredoubled Cecilia's distress. To complete it, there arrived anotherletter, bearing the post-mark of the village in which Nanette's motherlived. It was written by the clergyman, at the poor woman's request. Inthis letter, she said that they had several times heard--but not untilit was too late,--that Madame de Vesac had passed by. This had verymuch grieved her, as she would have been glad to have seen her daughterfor a moment; but she was told that Nanette was not with them, andfeeling extremely uneasy, she entreated Mademoiselle Cecilia--to whomthe letter was addressed--to send her some intelligence of her child.The clergyman concluded by saying: "God will bless you, my dear younglady, because you do not abandon the poor." This letter pierced Ceciliato the heart. She grew thin with grief and anxiety; every time thedoor opened, she fancied there was some news of Nanette. Her eyes wereconstantly directed towards the avenue, as if she expected to see hercoming; and at night she woke up with a start at the slightest noise,as if it announced her return. At last her mother resolved that theywould themselves make inquiries in all the neighbouring villages, andspeak to all the clergymen, although still fearing that they were toolate. They therefore set out one afternoon, and as they approached avillage, but a short distance from the town, Cecilia, who was anxiouslylooking in every direction, uttered a cry, exclaiming, "Mamma, mamma,that's her! there she is! I see her! I see the same little boy!" andshe caught hold of the coachman's coat, to make him stop the quicker,and darting out of the carriage, rushed towards Nanette, who was lyingon the ground, with her head leaning against a tree, seeming scarcelyable to breathe. Cecilia threw herself on the ground by her side,spoke to her, raised her up, and kissed her. Nanette recognised her,and began to weep; Cecilia wept also, and taking her upon her knees,she caressed her, called her her dear Nanette, her poor little Nanette.The child looked at her with astonishment, while a faint flush animatedher cheeks. Madame de Vesac soon reached the spot. Cecilia wanted tohave Nanette put instantly into the carriage, and taken home; butMadame de Vesac questioned Jeannot, who stood staring in the utmostastonishment, utterly unable to comprehend the meaning of what hesaw. While Cecilia was arranging Nanette in the carriage, Madame deVesac, conducted by Jeannot, went to Dame Lapie's cottage. The oldwoman was sitting at her door, still unable to walk, and related allshe knew about the child. Madame de Vesac gave her some money, andreturned to Cecilia, who was dying with impatience to see Nanette home,and in a comfortable bed. She got there at last. Cecilia nursed herwith the greatest care, and for a whole week never left her bedside,frequently rising in the night to ascertain how she was. At last thesurgeon pronounced her out of danger; but it was long before she wasrestored to health, and still longer before she recovered from thesort of stupidity into which she had been thrown by such a series ofmisfortunes and suffering. When quite well, Cecilia was desirous ofresuming her education with more regularity than formerly; but thiseducation had now become still more difficult than at first, andCecilia could no longer assume her former authority; for, whenever shewas going to scold Nanette, she remembered how much she had sufferedthrough her negligence, and dared not say a word. She felt that to havethe right of doing to others all the good we wish, and of orderingwhat may
be useful to them, we must never have done them any injury.She therefore sent Nanette to school, and economized her allowance,in order to be able afterwards to apprentice her to a business. Thebrother of Mademoiselle Gerard was made to refund the six hundredfrancs; but Cecilia desired that the sum might be kept for a marriageportion for Nanette, when she was grown up. Madame de Vesac gaveJeannot a suit of clothes; and Dame Lapie had permission to send everyweek to the chateau for vegetables. Madame de Vesac spent not only thissummer, but the winter also, and the following summer, in the country;so that Nanette had time to learn to read, and make some progress inwriting. This was a source of great joy to Cecilia, who, for sometime, feared that her mind was totally stupified. In conversing on thesubject with her mother, after she had been relieved of all anxiety inregard to it, Madame de Vesac said to her: "We never know what injurywe may do when we confer favours heedlessly and solely for our ownpleasure, and without being willing to give ourselves any trouble. Thisis not the way to do good. Those whom you neglect, after having ledthem to expect assistance, find, when you have abandoned them, thatthey had calculated upon you, and are now without resource; so that youhave done them more harm than if you had never aided them."
THREE CHAPTERS IN THE LIFE OF NADIR.