Ex Libris 
 C. K. OGDEN
 
 THE 
 
 WHITE HOUSE AT ST. REAL. 
 
 A STORY FOR SCHOOL-BOYS. 
 
 FROM THE FRENCH OF 
 
 MADAME E. DE PRESSENSE. 
 
 ' 
 
 AUTHORISED TRANSLATION. 
 
 SEELEY, JACKSON, AND HALLIDAY, FLEET STREET. 
 LONDON. MDCCCLXIII.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER. PAGE. 
 
 I. THE WHITE HOUSE AND ITS 
 
 INHABITANTS .... 1 
 
 II. A STEP our OF THE NARUO\V\VAT . 11 
 
 III. JEROME . ... 19 
 
 IV. A DAY'S SHOOTING ... 32 
 
 V. ARTHUR AND HIS PROFESSOR . . 50 
 
 VI. THE KNIGHT'S TOWER ... 63 
 
 VII. THE LITTLE CABIN BOY, A TRUE 
 
 STORY 77 
 
 VIII. A SAD CLOSE TO A HAPPY DAY . 86 
 
 IX. A NIGHT SCENE . . . . 95 
 
 X. THE HISTORY .... 106 
 
 XL LAST HAPPY DAYS . . . 116 
 
 XII. AN ADVENTURE . . . 129 
 
 XIII. THE LAST EVENING AT HOME. . 140 
 
 XIV. THE APPARITION . . .149 
 
 XV. JEAN PAUL'S FIRST ATTEMPT. . 160 
 
 XVI. SCHOOL LIFE . . . .172 
 
 XVII. -CIVIL WAR . . . . 184 
 
 XVIIL A LETTER 196
 
 vi CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER. PAGE. 
 
 XIX. THE SAPINIERE .... 204 
 
 XX. THE FIRE 215 
 
 XXI. THE PRODIGAL'S RETURN . . 225 
 
 XXII. A CONVERSATION BT THE FIRESIDE . 236 
 
 XXIII. A SACRIFICE .... 247 
 
 XXIV. A HAPPY FADLT . . .259 
 
 XXV. THE COLLECTION . . . 271 
 
 XXVI. CONFESSION . . . .281 
 
 XXVII. GOOD INFLUENCE . . .286 
 
 XXVIII. THE DISTRIBUTION OF PHIZES . . 295 
 
 XXIX. EXPECTATION . . . .305 
 
 XXX. ALL FOR THE BEST . . , 313 
 
 XXXI. AND AFTERWARDS 327
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE AND ITS INHABITANTS. 
 
 " How happy the people must be who live here ! " 
 was the common exclamation of the stranger, as he 
 passed before this pleasant dwelling-place, so well 
 concealed amongst the trees as to be only clearly 
 perceptible at a turning of the road, between two 
 branches of eglantine, which separated themselves 
 to be quickly reunited, and which thus formed 
 a sort of jagged archway above the bushy hedge. 
 The passer-by stopped involuntarily, for a moment, 
 to look at the pretty picture in its elegant framework 
 of verdure. The house was simply built, and its 
 walls were almost entirely hidden by clematis and 
 climbing roses. Old linden and chestnut trees over- 
 shadowed it on every side. A narrow terrace, gay 
 with flowers, which bloomed there in great profusion, 
 was all that lay between the house and a large 
 orchard. This orchard, of which the thick rank 
 
 B
 
 2 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 grass resisted the crushing footstep, and arose again, 
 in a few moments, to obliterate every trace, descended 
 by a rapid slope towards a brook, bordered with 
 willows and nut-trees, the pleasant murmur of 
 which might be heard at some distance. It was not 
 easy to believe that a streamlet so peaceful and 
 limpid could possibly lay just claim to the title of 
 " torrent," as it was proudly designated by the inha- 
 bitants of the White House, but they enjoyed 
 describing how this devastating torrent descended 
 tumultuously from the mountain, overturning every- 
 thing that obstructed it in its course; and how, 
 suddenly, on turning the foot of the hill, its 
 waters meandered gently between the flowery banks, 
 as if appeased and tranquillized by the grace and 
 beauty that surrounded them. Sometimes, however, 
 its little ripples, encountering a large stone or 
 other obstruction, would recede for a moment, to 
 return to the charge with increased force ; then their 
 white foam would scatter itself as far as the silvery 
 leaves of the willow, the overhanging branches of 
 which united themselves with those of their com- 
 panions on the opposite bank. A little bridge spans 
 the stream, and forms a communication between the 
 orchard and the extensive meadow lands that clothe 
 the adjacent hill. Sensible people appreciate this 
 contrivance, and if at all subject to giddiness, find 
 the difficulty to be encountered sufficiently great, for 
 the narrow, flexible plank rebounds under even the 
 lightest footfall. For those extravagant beings,
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 6 
 
 however, who are never satisfied with things in 
 moderation, there is a perilous crossing close at 
 hand, which they will find much more attractive. 
 
 To cross the little river from stone to stone, rest- 
 ing very lightly on their polished, slippery summits, 
 which stand just above the surface of the water, was 
 a pleasure without its equal in the opinion of the 
 little inmates of the White House, if we except the 
 sensible Clemence, a young lady of fourteen, who 
 could never understand the pleasure of getting wet 
 feet, when it could so easily be avoided. It was an 
 inexhaustible subject of contention between her and 
 her brother Robert. 
 
 Clemence was the eldest of four children. Robert 
 and Eugene, scarcely separated by a year, followed 
 her quickly. They did not resemble each other 
 in the least. The first was fair and fresh- coloured, 
 had wide shoulders, a flexible, vigorous frame, and 
 his blue eyes announced a frank, lively disposition. 
 He was the favourite of both servants and peasants ; 
 they thought his brother and sister proud, but 
 declared there was nothing in the world they would 
 not gladly do for Master Robert. 
 
 And yet Eugene was not proud; he was only 
 timid. His brown hair and pale complexion formed 
 a striking contrast with his brother's light locks 
 and rosy cheeks. He was the taller, but much the 
 more fragile of the two. He might be more often 
 seen with a book under his arm than Robert, who 
 loved better to handle the spade, the whip, or the
 
 4 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 pickaxe. The brothers loved each other dearly, but 
 their tastes were too dissimilar to allow of their being 
 very intimately united. 
 
 Isabelle was by far the youngest of the family, 
 having only completed her seventh year. She was 
 Robert's inseparable companion. As soon as ever 
 she could run alone, they were associated. Wherever 
 Robert was to be found, it was pretty certain that a 
 merry little face would not be long in making 
 its appearance. 
 
 M. and Madame Herve were entirely devoted to 
 the education of their children. They had not 
 hesitated to accept a life of comparative seclusion, in 
 order that they might be enabled more fully to con- 
 secrate themselves to this paramount duty. But 
 they were not insensible to the pleasures and varied 
 interests which the country has to offer to the true 
 lover of 'nature, even during those months in which 
 she wears her least attractive garb. There was 
 but little society at St. Real ; but their best friends 
 well knew how to find their way, during the summer 
 months, to the " frightful desert," as they persisted 
 in calling it, to the most amusing annoyance of the 
 children, who could not possibly imagine that a more 
 lovely spot existed in the whole universe. 
 
 They had some good, simple-hearted, obliging 
 neighbours, with whom they were naturally upon the 
 best of terms, and if these honest country folk knew 
 but little of what passed in the far-off world, and 
 believed that the sun arose every morning with the
 
 i THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 special, and indeed sole, design of shedding his vivi- 
 fying rays upon St. Heal, they could nevertheless 
 converse very sensibly and instructively upon topics 
 more directly connected with their individual 
 interests. 
 
 Eobert and Isabelle were quite at home in most of 
 these humble dwellings. As to Eugene, extreme 
 timidity prevented his being equally familiar, and 
 Clemence, in spite of her short stature, had a certain 
 look of loftiness, which was not very satisfactory to 
 the rustic inhabitants of St. Real. She seemed not 
 to believe that the village children were of the same 
 species as herself, and they, without knowing why, 
 were conscious of it, and never, by any chance, 
 crossed, in her presence, the extremest verge of a 
 cold respect. 
 
 There were not four happier children in the 
 world. It is charming to pass one's life in the 
 midst of flower-enamelled, meadows and thick woods, 
 in the enjoyment of a degree of liberty all unknown 
 to the poor little prisoners of the city. Thrice 
 happy they who have lived in the country from 
 their earliest childhood! Joyous recollections of 
 those favoured years will increase in vivid brightness 
 even unto old age. The sun, the grass, flowers, 
 fruits, animals of every kind, from the butterfly 
 that invites the chase, to the cart-horse on which he 
 returns from the field in slow triumph, what more 
 does the child require to make him perfectly happy? 
 Robert and Isabelle rejoiced in it all, as little birds
 
 6 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 that have never known captivity in a cage, rejoice in 
 their liberty. 
 
 Eugene was happy too in his own way. He was 
 of a dreamy temperament and not fond of violent 
 exercise. His chief pleasure consisted in lying 
 amongst the long grass, and looking at the sky 
 through the leafy branches above his head, whilst 
 he listened to the soft murmur of the streamlet. 
 He liked too to establish himself in a sort of hollow 
 formed by the knotty branches of an old apple-tree, 
 which intertwined themselves in a curious manner 
 a few feet above the ground, and there he would 
 read again and again, times without number, one of 
 his favourite books. As to Clemence, fresh air and 
 liberty were less necessary to her than to the others. 
 She preferred well-trodden roads to wild and rugged 
 pathways: liked better to seat herself on a garden- 
 chair than in cozy nooks in the trunks of trees, and 
 persisted in choosing to cross the bridge rather than 
 the slippery stones in the bed of the torrent. Her 
 dress was always irreproachably neat; and she was 
 still very little, when her mamma began to call her 
 her right-hand. 
 
 Robert, who was more especially the object of his 
 sister's sage reprimands, rarely gave her any other 
 name than that of Mrs. Reason or little Miss Perfect. 
 She owed the latter appellation to a lady, a stranger, 
 who had greatly admired her manners, and the clear 
 categorical answers she had given to all her ques- 
 tions. The anecdote had passed into a proverb in
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 7 
 
 the family, and poor Clemence thus rallied by her 
 brothers, often bitterly regretted the vanity which 
 had led her to mention the circumstance. 
 
 Madame Herve was quite an invalid, and seldom 
 left the sofa, whence, however, she watched with 
 never-tiring vigilance all that passed in the house. 
 But if much outward exertion was denied her, the 
 mild and well directed energy of her mind was but 
 the more beautifully developed. Her children re- 
 spected and loved her tenderly. Robert wearied her 
 sometimes inadvertently by the natural impetuosity of 
 his character, but Eugene, tender, attentive, eager 
 for the approbation of those he loved, rarely gave 
 her any trouble. 
 
 He was a much better scholar than his brother, 
 who had no taste for study. 
 
 Hitherto Madame Herve had been able to keep 
 her four children near her ; but now, alas ! she saw 
 the moment rapidly approaching when she should be 
 called upon to submit to a separation from her two 
 sons. Their father had never indulged the wish of 
 educating them entirely at home ; on the contrary, he 
 desired that at the proper time they should mingle 
 with boys of their own age, and join in the daily 
 struggle against the difficulties and temptations in- 
 separable from a public school. It was therefore 
 decided, that, after the vacation, Eugene and Robert, 
 bidding adieu to the White House, should become 
 the pupils of M. Bertin of Paris. This gentleman, 
 after being one of the Professors who instructed
 
 5 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 their father, remained his friend, and had con- 
 sented to receive the children of such of his former 
 pupils as were still attached to him. He had at first 
 commenced with five or six; but the number had 
 gradually increased, and this year he expected to 
 have fifteen or twenty boys, without intending that, 
 on this account, the family unity and easy familiar 
 intercourse existing in the household, should be 
 changed for severer rule. 
 
 The month of September had just commenced. 
 The air was pure and mild, and a gentle east wind 
 gave promise of continued fine weather. 
 
 The children had studied these prognostics from 
 an early hour, for to-morrow was to be a most 
 important day. Robert and Eugene were to go 
 out shooting with their father. For at least the 
 twentieth time they had examined the vane, and 
 declared that the wind was, as favourable as could be 
 desired, when M. Herve appeared at the entrance 
 of the court-yard. 
 
 " Oh, papa," exclaimed Robert, rushing towards 
 him, " we shall go, shall we not ? the weather will 
 be lovely ! " 
 
 " I think' it will, my dear," said M. Herv^ ; 
 "but an obstacle of another kind will prevent the 
 execution of our project. I have received a letter 
 from your aunt, and shall have to go to Lyons to- 
 morrow on urgent business. I shall not be back 
 again before the end of the week." 
 
 Robert's countenance clouded over.
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 9 
 
 " Could you not go the day after to-morrow, 
 papa ?" 
 
 " No, my dear, impossible. But where is your 
 mamma ? I must speak to her at once." 
 
 "It is past bearing !" cried Robert, stamping 
 violently, as soon as his father had entered the 
 house ; " they should not tell us we should go out 
 shooting, if they mean to break their promise. Well, 
 I shall not do anything to-morrow, I can promise 
 you!" 
 
 " Oh, Robert ! you surely did not see how troubled 
 papa looked ; he must have had bad news ! " 
 
 This fear in some measure calmed Robert's selfish 
 anger ; the two children approached the glass-door 
 of the drawing-room, and saw that their mother 
 wept whilst their father read a letter to her. They 
 could not distinguish the words, but the sound of 
 his voice gave sufficient evidence that he was sad 
 and uneasy. "When the letter was finished : 
 
 " There is no time to lose," said M. Herve, rising, 
 " I must go this evening ; I will get my carpet- 
 bag ready. If we sup at seven o'clock instead of 
 
 at eight, I shall manage to meet the coach at B , 
 
 and can then arrive to-morrow morning." 
 
 " Our poor sister ! " said Madame Herve, drying 
 her eyes ; " She is greatly to be felt for, and I am 
 anxious you should be with her." 
 
 "It is her own fault," replied M. Herve, with 
 some vehemence. " He certainly was not a naughty 
 boy ; he needed affection, and only met with cold-
 
 10 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 ness and indifference. If we find him and God 
 grant that it may be at once I will bring him 
 here. We will begin by loving him ; the happiness 
 of finding himself the object of real affection will do 
 him good, and then we can see what there is further 
 to be accomplished." 
 
 " Yes," said Madame Herve, " He must come. 
 Poor child, he will have been sufficiently punished 
 for his fault by all he must have suffered." 
 
 The children were not told the reason of their 
 father's sudden departure. They saw very plainly by 
 his absent manner, and by their mother's red eyes, 
 that something serious had occurred ; but they were 
 accustomed to control their curiosity and asked no 
 questions. Before he set out, M. Herve gathered 
 them around him, and desired them to give no trou- 
 ble to their mamma during his absence ; to be scru- 
 pulously obedient, whether in or out of her presence ; 
 and on no account whatever to go beyond their own 
 grounds. They promised, and took leave of their 
 papa with more sorrow than so short an absence 
 would have caused them, had the occasion of it 
 been less enveloped in mystery.
 
 11 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 A STEP OUT OF THE NARROW WAY. 
 
 TOWARDS evening the next day, Eugene left the 
 house in a very discontented mood. His mother had 
 reproved him for a fault, a slight one, indeed, yet 
 not without its importance, and he thought she was 
 unjust. 
 
 To bear anything in the shape of injustice, was 
 utterly beyond Eugene's capacity, or at least he 
 thought so. So he wandered away upon the very 
 limits of forbidden ground ; and, whether by dis- 
 traction or by revolt, it was not long before he 
 passed these limits, and found himself upon the 
 high-road. 
 
 There was, at some little distance, a sort of 
 grove, in the midst of which was a deep pond, 
 surrounded by lime-trees and poplars. It was here 
 that the village children met to play. M. Herve 
 had sometimes given his sons permission to go there, 
 and they had joined in more than one game of 
 bowls with the young rustics. There was no one to 
 be seen this evening. Eugene seated himself on 
 the bank, and leaned against the trunk of a tree.
 
 12 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 He looked at the grey motionless water, and per- 
 suaded himself that he was very unhappy, as children 
 do sometimes, before they have learnt to distinguish 
 between real and imaginary ill. He asked himself 
 seriously whether he should return to the house, or 
 whether he should penetrate still further into the 
 wood, when the sound of approaching steps and 
 whispering voices fell upon his ear. Two boys, of 
 about fifteen or sixteen years of age, stopped short, 
 just under the tree against which Eugene was leaning, 
 and which concealed him from view. 
 
 " The foolish child is not there," said one of 
 them, looking all around. "Is he trying to give 
 himself airs, by making us wait his pleasure ?" 
 
 " But, Etienne, are you sure it is wise to have 
 anything to do with him ?" asked the smaller of the 
 boys ; " he is so young, he will perhaps tell tales." 
 
 " Nonsense ! be easy ; he is too much afraid of his 
 father for there to be any danger of his ever breath- 
 ing a word of what he has done. It seems he is a 
 terrible man, this father ; the child says he would 
 kill him if he were to discover the least thing. Be- 
 sides, the boy is cunning as a serpent, and we want 
 some one less than ourselves to climb easily, and 
 without making a noise ; he is thin enough to 
 squeeze through any crevice. Shall I tell you how 
 he can make himself useful ?" added Etienne, speak- 
 ing *in a still lower key ; " if by any chance the 
 gardener gets scent of us we '11 let him be taken, and 
 look out for ourselves."
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 13 
 
 " Yes, but if he betrays us ?" 
 
 " He won't be such, a fool. I '11 teach him that 
 lesson. They '11 let him off with a slight punishment ; 
 but as for us, who have more than one affair upon 
 our shoulders, we should find small mercy." 
 
 "Yes, but the father!" 
 
 "Ah! the father The best way will be not to let 
 ourselves be caught, that's certain. Here he comes, 
 the simpleton! Do you think we have nothing to 
 do but to wait for you, you little rascal ? Come here, 
 and let me pull your ears." 
 
 " I could not come sooner," said a clear sweet 
 voice, which struck Eugene, because it was quite 
 different from that of other children of the village. 
 
 It seemed to him that the child retreated a few 
 paces, to escape the amiable reception that was 
 offered him. 
 
 "Well, let us go! we have no time to lose? They 
 unfasten the dog at the castle at ten o'clock, and 
 besides the moon will have risen before that hour. We 
 must hurry ourselves. Have you the bag, Gervais ? " 
 
 " Yes, yes, I have everything necessary." 
 
 "Very well, we will go; march!" 
 
 "But what are we going to do," asked the little 
 boy who had just arrived. " I will not steal, that I 
 wont. I declare I will not steal ! " 
 
 "Pooh, pooh! no need for such a display of virtue, 
 young one ! When one is not afraid to share the 
 booty, one should not be afraid to share the danger 
 it is rather too good a joke that! We can't do
 
 14 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 without you, and besides it's only a few pears and 
 peaches not worth making such a fuss about. Come 
 quick, let us go! You have no choice, for if you 
 don't come willingly we'll go and tell your father 
 how scrupulous you've been hitherto." 
 
 At this moment Eugene who had not lost a single 
 word of the conversation, and who had held his breath 
 for fear he should be discovered by these naughty 
 boys was obliged much against his will to sneeze 
 and he did so with even more than ordinary 
 violence, because he had for some time forcibly re- 
 sisted the necessity. All three confederates stopped 
 short. 
 
 Etienne walked round the tree, and seizing the 
 poor sneezer by the arm, dragged him out of the 
 darkness, that he might examine his features by 
 the still faintly glimmering twilight. 
 
 " You would have done well not to have sneezed, 
 and better still not to have hidden yourself behind 
 that tree like a spy, young gentleman; you shall 
 pay pretty dearly for this freak." 
 
 " What are you going to do ?" asked Gervais, on 
 seeirig his companion capture Eugene. 
 
 " Give him a bath, which shall deprive him for 
 the rest of his life of all wish to play the listener ! " 
 
 " Oh no ! let him alone, you '11 only get us into 
 trouble. Make him promise not to say anything. If 
 you put him into the water, it will all be found out." 
 
 Etienne yielded to the force of this argument, and 
 contented himself by violently shaking poor Eugene,
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 15 
 
 by more than once pulling his hair and his ears, 
 and by threatening him with the most terrible pun- 
 ishment, if a single word of what he had seen and 
 heard were ever known to pass his lips. Eugene, 
 trembling, and disgusted beyond measure at the 
 position in which he found himself, ran off as fast 
 as his legs coxild carry him. He bitterly repented 
 the disobedience which had led to such terrible re- 
 sults. He had noticed, dark as it was, a fair delicate 
 face, which looked rather that of an angel than of a 
 little thief gazing on him with a singular mixture 
 of pity and of defiance. % 
 
 Eugene began to reflect on what had passed, as 
 soon as a return to their own grounds, which he had 
 done very wrong to quit, enabled him to diminish 
 the speed of his retreat. There was no doubt that 
 the chateau d'Ermance was to be pilfered by those 
 little vagabonds, and that this very evening : they 
 had spoken of the moon, and of the hour when the 
 watch-dog would be let loose. Most likely it was the 
 wall-fruit that attracted them. And lo ! he was in 
 the secret, had promised not to betray them, was 
 himself guilty of an act of disobedience that he 
 dared not confess ! Oh, he had never before been in 
 such trouble, or had such a load upon his conscience. 
 What would he not have given to be able to retrace 
 his steps, and blot that last evil hour from the 
 history of his life ! Why, at all events, had he not 
 resisted, and refused to promise secrecy ? He thought 
 now it would have been easy to have done so ; and
 
 16 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 yet lie could not recur without trembling to the 
 terror he had felt when so roughly seized by Etienne. 
 He scarcely darecl enter the house. What should he 
 do ? What could he say ? How should he explain his 
 agitation ? He stopped a moment at the drawing- 
 room door ; it was a stranger's voice he heard : that 
 assured him ; he entered. His mother was talking 
 with a gentleman, and scarcely noticed him. This 
 gave him courage, and he suddenly resolved not to 
 say a single word of the affair ; for the confession of 
 his disobedience might induce the betrayal of the 
 secret he had promised to keep. His mother soon 
 drew him towards her caressingly, and presented 
 him to the stranger. 
 
 " You have studied late this evening, my love. 
 Had you so much to do ?" 
 
 " Yes, mamma," said Eugene. 
 
 It was the first time that he had ever told his 
 mother a lie. He felt as if an enormous weight had 
 fallen on his heart. No matter that he tried to 
 persuade himself it was only to the latter part of 
 her question that he had answered ; that his father 
 really had left him a great deal to do in his absence, 
 and that he must get up very early next morning, 
 to prepare the lessons that his mother believed to be 
 already out of hand ; he could neither satisfy his 
 conscience nor escape from his misery. 
 
 Later in the evening, after the visitor had left 
 them, a note was brought for Madame Herve. When 
 she had read it, she told the children that Madame
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 17 
 
 d'Ermance invited the whole family to pass an entire 
 day at the castle, and said she should write a few 
 lines to accept the invitation for one day in the 
 following week, when their papa would be at home 
 again. 
 
 At the name d'Ermance, Eugene trembled. He 
 could not possibly rejoice as did his brother and 
 sisters at the prospect of this unexpected pleasure ; 
 they had only very recently become acquainted with 
 the family at the castle, and it would be their first 
 visit. 
 
 In the course of a day or two Madame Herve 
 received a letter from her husband, which she 
 opened with visible signs of emotion. 
 
 " Thank God ! thank Grod ! " she exclaimed on 
 reading the first few lines. 
 
 " What is it, mamma ? " asked the children. 
 
 " You must not ask me, jny darlings, it is nothing 
 I can explain to you." 
 
 They said no more, but their curiosity was greatly 
 excited. When Madame Herve had finished read- 
 ing, she called her children around her, and told 
 them that their papa hoped to return to-morrow, 
 and to bring with him their cousin Jerome, whom 
 they had not seen for several years ; he would 
 probably spend several weeks with them. There 
 were lively outbursts of joy at these unexpected 
 tidings. Madame Herve added that she felt happy 
 to be able to tell their papa that not one of them had 
 caused her the slightest uneasiness during his absence.
 
 18 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 Eugene turned pale on hearing these words, and 
 when his mother embraced them all with even more 
 than her usual tenderness, he disengaged himself 
 from her caress, ran up stairs, undressed hastily, and 
 obstinately resisted all the efforts of his brother to 
 induce him to converse. Yet he was not in the least 
 sleepy ; and Robert had been a long time steeped in 
 forgetfulness, before Eugene had ceased to turn him- 
 self upon his uneasy pillow, like a patient in the 
 weary restlessness of fever. It was the third time 
 he had laid himself to sleep without prayer.
 
 19 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 JEROME. 
 
 THE carriage was sent to meet M. Herve at the 
 coach office. Old Nicolas was coachman, gardener, 
 valet, in a word, household factotum : the children 
 loved him dearly, although, on account of his quick 
 harsh manner, they often called him " porcupine," or 
 " thorn-bush." It was only Isabelle who knew how to 
 handle him without pricking her fingers ; she, little 
 witch, could do with him just whatever she chose. 
 Nicolas was desired to take some cords with him, in 
 case they should be needed to secure the luggage, as 
 his master would not return alone. 
 
 " And who is he going to bring with him then ? " 
 asked the old man, in a tone of vexation, as if to 
 bring home a stranger had been a personal affront 
 offered him by his master. 
 
 " One of my nephews, Mcolas/' said Madame 
 Herve quietly ; she was too well assured of the old 
 servant's attachment to be ever much troubled at his 
 whims, " a little boy who is coming to spend a few 
 days with us." 
 
 " As if there were not children enough already to
 
 20 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 turn a house topsy-turvy ! " grumbled Nicolas, roll- 
 ing up the cord. 
 
 " Have patience, Nicolas," said Robert, " we shall 
 very soon leave off upsetting things. When we are 
 gone to school, the place will be quiet enough." 
 
 " It's not that that's likely to console me any- 
 how," said the old man. " One's got accustomed to 
 you ; and a house without children is as bad as a farm- 
 yard without chickens. Besides ; those schools ! I'm 
 not over fond of 'em, not I. It's my opinion as 
 children had ought to stay where God has placed 
 'em, and as nobody can teach 'em better nor their 
 own proper parents. God made man what he ought 
 to be, but there's a many people as tries to make 
 him what he had'nt ought to be ! " 
 
 After thus giving expression to sentiments in- 
 spired by the philosophy of discontent, Nicolas 
 cracked his whip and started. 
 
 But it is high time we accounted for the sudden 
 departure of M. Herve^ and the expected arrival of 
 his nephew. 
 
 Madame Lambert, M. Herve's sister, had married 
 a merchant possessed of considerable property. He 
 was a widower, and had two sons, William and 
 Jerome. She was a proud woman, and her husband 
 had committed to her the education of his boys 
 with the most entire trust. M. Lambert occu- 
 pied himself exclusively with business, and thought 
 he had done all that devolved upon him when he 
 had secured to his family the advantage of assured
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 21 
 
 affluence. The ambition of Madame Lambert took 
 a different development. She wished that her 
 husband's sons should distinguish themselves as 
 scholars. She even longed that they should enter 
 upon a literary career, which, while it augmented, 
 would add lustre to the fortune that their father had 
 accumulated with so much effort. William, the 
 elder son, seemed at first disposed to realize these 
 bright dreams. A retentive memory, and extreme 
 quickness of comprehension, compensated in great 
 degree for the persevering attention which was 
 lacking. He obtained a few prizes without much 
 trouble, and thereby dazzled the eyes of his step- 
 mother, who construed every present success into a 
 sure promise of future triumphs. William was a 
 handsome boy, and his appearance and easy, natural 
 manners flattered her pride. 
 
 This was not the case with Jerome. The poor 
 lad had neither superior intelligence, nor an agree- 
 able physiognomy ; he was born, as people said, under 
 an unlucky planet. Whatever was the cause of joy 
 and rejoicing to the rest of the world, seemed trans- 
 formed for him into sorrow and punishment. Even 
 his very name was a source of trouble. It had been 
 borne by some member of the family for many 
 generations, indeed ever since a certain Jerome 
 Lambert performed some heroic deed, which strange- 
 ly enough history has left uncommemorated. The 
 first Madame Lambert had positively refused to give 
 the name to her eldest son, so it fell naturally to the
 
 22 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 second, who did not complain when his brother's 
 birthright was forced upon him ; but who would 
 nevertheless most thankfully have been delivered 
 from the honour at more than one stage of his 
 college life. 
 
 His step-mother treated him with constant 
 severity, she thought him without heart and without 
 intelligence, and felt humbled by his abrupt, awk- 
 ward manners. It never once entered her head that 
 this child stood more particularly in need of en- 
 couragement and tenderness, and yet any one who 
 observed Jer6me with an impartial eye, could not 
 fail to discover that he possessed many very precious 
 qualities, which needed only to be appreciated and 
 cultivated. 
 
 To love Jerome was to become persuaded of the 
 intensity of his power of loving. Notwithstanding 
 the indifference with which he was treated, and the 
 marked distinction made between him and his more 
 favoured brother, he loved his stepmother with a 
 curious mixture of fear and affection. 
 
 She was to him the personification of all that is 
 excellent and charming. Often, if she embraced 
 him, the child would go away to weep with joy in 
 some lone corner, carefully concealing the overflow- 
 ing tenderness which, had she known of it, might, 
 perhaps, have won her heart to sympathy. Jerome 
 had never known his own mother ; she died a few 
 days after his birth, so that he could not mourn her 
 loss ; but he had long nourished in the depths of his
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 23 
 
 heart, a secret thought which he dared not mention. 
 He felt sure he was a stray child, whom his parents 
 had adopted, carefully concealing the fact from him, 
 and thus it was only natural that they should love 
 his brother best. These dismal thoughts chiefly 
 troubled him in the evening ; and then he would 
 seriously resolve to starve himself to death. 
 
 But the next morning at breakfast, this determi- 
 nation vanished, like the shadows of the night before 
 the golden luminary of day, and left no other trace 
 than the ordinary appetite of a boy of twelve. 
 
 Whenever he had been scolded more than usual, 
 Jerome was very angry with himself for having 
 failed in his resolution, and determined to be 
 true to his purpose on the morrow. So the days 
 passed by, and Jerome visibly grew and prospered. 
 Not a soul could possibly have imagined that he 
 entertained such terrible designs. 
 
 And yet the crisis arrived. The letter that M. 
 Herve received from his sister announced that 
 Jerome had run away from home ; nobody knew 
 why or wherefore. Overcome, as we have seen, by 
 this news, M. Herve set out instantly for Lyons. 
 On reaching his destination, he found that the little 
 fugitive had returned home the evening before, 
 having been absent two days and two nights. 
 
 Madame Lambert was in the drawing-room, read- 
 ing the paper, when her brother entered. 
 
 " God be praised !" exclaimed M. Herve, as he 
 embraced her. "I am too late to be of any use to
 
 24 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 you. Where is the poor child ? What has hap- 
 pened to him ? How was he found ?" 
 
 " He is in his own room," said Madame Lambert. 
 " I have not seen him to-day. He must be made to 
 feel that his conduct merits severe punishment. A 
 little solitude will do him good." 
 
 "I think his mother's presence would do him 
 more good," said M. Herve' ; " but tell me how it all 
 happened." 
 
 " It is a strange story, and I really cannot under- 
 stand myself how things came to such a pass. Four 
 or five days ago we had a dinner party. I was 
 much displeased with Jerome, and sent him to his 
 room. His papa went to speak to him, but could 
 make nothing whatever of the child, who said he 
 wanted to see me, and begged many times that I 
 would go to him. You understand how impossible 
 it was for me to leave the company to gratify this 
 caprice. We left him, thinking he would fall 
 asleep ; but when every one had left, and I was 
 ready to go and see him, the room was empty the 
 child had disappeared. We passed two days in the 
 most frightful suspense, making fruitless search and 
 enquiry in all directions, when, last evening he made 
 his appearance, and begged us to forgive him. No 
 doubt hunger caused him to return, and yet he had 
 still some money in his pocket." 
 
 " I am convinced it was not hunger that brought 
 him back," said M. Herve ; " I shall go and see him 
 at once."
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 25 
 
 He went up to the child's room, and found him in 
 bed, with his face turned towards the wall. Jerome 
 did not look round when the door was opened, but 
 when his uncle (for so he called M. Herve) 
 approached him, and took his hand, he whispered : 
 
 " Mamma will not come, then ?" 
 
 " Yes she will, my child," replied M. Herve ; " but 
 you have seriously grieved her : your conduct has 
 been such as to merit punishment, and you must 
 accept it without complaint." 
 
 He talked to him for a long time, with affection 
 mingled with firmness, but could not succeed in 
 opening his little closed-up heart. All that he could 
 learn was, that he had walked more than a whole 
 day upon the road to Valence, hoping to reach the 
 sea-coast, and engage himself as cabin-boy on board 
 a vessel. Happily, he had not enough money to pay 
 his passage by steamer, but he hoped to have suffi- 
 cient to buy bread with, until he should reach the 
 end of his journey. On the morning of the second 
 day, he was so miserable at the thought that he 
 was leaving for ever all he loved on earth, that he 
 had no choice, he was compelled to retrace his steps. 
 
 "It was cowardly," said he, as he finished his 
 recital. " I had not courage to go on to the end." 
 
 "What was cowardly, my child, was not the 
 coming back, but the departure." 
 
 " Oh ! uncle," exclaimed Jerome, looking at him 
 with astonishment, as if the words presented an 
 entirely new idea.
 
 26 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 "Yes, it was weakly yielding to a temptation 
 that your heart and conscience ought equally to 
 have repelled." 
 
 Jerome thought his uncle little knew what he had 
 suffered, but he made no remark. 
 
 This conversation strengthened M. Herve's resolve 
 to take the poor boy home with him. He was per- 
 suaded that country pleasures, the society of his 
 cousins, and the mild influence of a love almost 
 maternal, which his aunt would lavish on him, 
 would be of much greater use than the severity with 
 which his parents thought it right to treat him. He 
 spoke of it to his sister, and even suggested the idea 
 of sending him to Paris with his own sons. Jerome's 
 parents did not seem disposed to negative the propo- 
 sition. 
 
 Jerome neither gave evidence of joy nor of sorrow. 
 All seemed alike indifferent to him. He saw his 
 mother ; but whilst with her, appeared constrained 
 and unhappy. He expressed no contrition, no re- 
 morse, no affection for those he was about to leave 
 one would have said he was utterly insensible. 
 Madame Lambert, beside herself at this apparent 
 apathy, said before him, in a moment of irritation : 
 " The child has neither heart nor intelligence." 
 
 M. Herve perceived, by his sudden paleness, that 
 Jerome had heard these words, which were certainly 
 not intended for his ear. He had a private inter- 
 view with his sister, and assured her that Jerome 
 was altogether different from what she believed him
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 27 
 
 to be ; that lie had a warm heart, and faculties 
 capable of right development ; that he only needed 
 to be treated with a little tenderness, which by rais- 
 ing him in his own estimation, would cause him to 
 become quite a different being, even as regarded out- 
 ward appearance. She replied, that she knew the 
 child better than any one, having lived with him 
 for twelve years, and she was convinced that every 
 effort to cultivate such a nature would most signally 
 fail. Then she spoke of William, of his success, of 
 his future, and left M. Herve fully persuaded that 
 unless she could be convinced of her mistake, it 
 was not from her would come the fructifying beam 
 that should light up and vivify the poor frozen 
 soul of her child. 
 
 So they parted. Sad separation between the 
 members of one family, where no sweet habit of 
 intimacy, no tie of love is broken ! 
 
 Jerome spoke but seldom during the journey, and 
 his uncle did not care to break the silence, think- 
 ing it better to let time and affection work their 
 way. 
 
 The poor boy certainly had little outward attrac- 
 tion. His features were irregular, and his pale 
 grey eyes seemed to betoken bad temper, rather 
 than sadness. 
 
 The constant persuasion that he was disagreeable 
 to those who surrounded him, had contracted his 
 features, and greatly spoiled their expression. 
 
 " Poor child ! " said M. Herve to himself, as he
 
 28 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 looked at him compassionately, " how much need he 
 has of love ! " 
 
 He did, indeed, need it. Young plants must have 
 heat and light, and spring's gentle showers. When 
 they have acquired a certain strength, they can 
 resist the chilling influences of a gloomy day ; but if 
 heat and light fail them in the outset, they become 
 colourless, blighted, and inodorous. 
 
 Evening had long closed in ere the travellers 
 reached the "White House. The drawing-room had 
 been made to look even more bright and attractive 
 than usual, to do them honour. As it had been a 
 wet day, a little fire of vine- wood burnt cheerily on 
 the spacious hearth ; a small table was spread near 
 it. The brackets were ornamented with vases of 
 beautiful flowers. The children had all had permis- 
 . sion to sit up to receive their papa and cousin. 
 Books, work, and divers games, which had helped 
 to keep them awake, were scattered in interesting 
 confusion over a large table drawn up to the couch 
 on which Madame Herve usually reclined. Nothing 
 could give a better idea than this apartment of the 
 happiness of their family life. 
 
 M. Herve was received with fewer demonstrations 
 than he would have been favoured with, had he 
 returned alone. 
 
 The cousins had not met for several years, and thus 
 were almost strangers to each other ; poor Jer6me had 
 to submit to a pretty close examination, whilst he 
 drank his cup of chocolate. He appeared not a little
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 29 
 
 frightened, and only replied to the affectionate 
 advances of his aunt by unintelligible monosyllables. 
 Not wishing to prolong his penance, and thinking 
 that the cousins would more easily make each other's 
 acquaintance the next morning, M. Herve was not 
 long before he showed Jerome to his little chamber, 
 which was next to that occupied by his cousins. The 
 moment he left the drawing-room, the tongues were 
 unloosed, and there was a general chorus of remark 
 and exclamation. 
 
 " How funny he looks," said little Isabelle. 
 
 " Hush !" said Clemence, " he will hear you ; they 
 have scarcely closed the door." 
 
 "I don't think I shall like him much," said 
 Eobert, " he does not seem at all merry." 
 
 " ISTor I either," added Clemence. " He makes 
 me think of a bear badly trained." 
 
 "You shall teach him good manners, then," said 
 Eugene, laughing. " As for me, I will love him, if 
 nobody else will !" 
 
 Poor Jerome ! Such was the measure of benevo- 
 lence excited by his arrival at the White House ; 
 but when he was in bed and the candle extinguished, 
 just as his ideas began to be confused, and his limbs 
 tranquillized by approaching sleep, a light hand was 
 placed upon his head ; a voice murmured : " May 
 God bless thee, my poor child !" and a fond kiss was 
 imprinted on his brow. This caress appeared to him 
 so ravishingly sweet, that he dared not move for fear 
 of breaking the spell ; and the next day he altogether
 
 30 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 lacked the courage to ask his aunt whether it was 
 really she who had come to kneel by his hed-side. 
 He felt very happy, but even more sad. 
 
 " Oh ! if my mother had done that but once, only 
 once !" he said to himself continually. 
 
 The remembrance of his guilty dissimulation was 
 now fading a little from Eugene's mind. He began 
 to be accustomed to the burden of sin, and conscience 
 was less loud in its condemnation. 
 
 He had, however, felt profoundly humbled, when 
 his father expressed to them all assembled his satis- 
 faction at their good conduct during his absence. 
 If he had only been alone with him ! then he would 
 have thrown himself into his arms and confessed 
 everything. But to do so before his sisters before 
 Robert, who had always thought him so scrupulously 
 conscientious and honorable before Jerdme above 
 all, to whom he considered himself so infinitely supe- 
 rior, and whom he so loved to patronise ! no, it was 
 quite impossible ! He waited for another opportu- 
 nity, and did not remark that he was hardening 
 himself in evil. Again, when the visit to the castle 
 was spoken of, he had another painful moment to 
 pass through. Its very name made him shudder. 
 The famous shooting party was arranged for the 
 following day, and it was decided that soon after- 
 wards they should accept the kind invitation of 
 Madame d'Ermance. 
 
 " Two days of pleasure, children ! " said M. Herve 
 " why it is enough to turn your heads. But Jerome,
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 31 
 
 my little citizen, do you think you shall be able to 
 get up and go to breakfast with us on the mountain- 
 side?" 
 
 Jerome thought it would be delightful; but the 
 next day, when Robert entered the room, shook 
 him, rolled him over and over, without being able 
 to arouse him, and finished by dragging him out of 
 bed by the feet, screaming all the time that he must 
 make haste or he would be too late, and they should 
 have to go without him, he found the pleasure smaller 
 in reality than in perspective. He needed time 
 a great deal of time, to put on his stockings and to 
 find his neck-tie, which was still more difficult, half 
 asleep as he was. When at length he ran down 
 stairs, he was not a little ashamed to find everybody 
 waiting for him outside the hall door. 
 
 " You must learn to do things quickly, my dear ; 
 a child should never keep people waiting." 
 
 Jer6me, without reply, put on his game-bag, and 
 followed his uncle and cousins into the grey morning 
 light, into which the rays of the rising sun were just 
 beginning to penetrate.
 
 32 
 
 CHAPTER IY. 
 
 A DAYS SHOOTING. 
 
 THE four early pedestrians descended the dewy slope 
 of the orchard to the little bridge which separated 
 them from the opposite hill. M. Herve crossed it 
 with a firm step, making the slight plank creak and 
 rebound beneath his feet. 
 
 Eugene and Robert followed; but when they 
 turned to look for Jerome, they were much surprised 
 to see him still standing on the other side of the 
 stream, with one foot upon the plank, looking at the 
 quiet water, as it ran beneath him, the very picture 
 of despair. 
 
 " Well, Jerome, what are you waiting for ? " said 
 his uncle ; " make haste, my boy ; we cannot be 
 stopped at every step." 
 
 " I dare not !" said Jerome, in pitiful accents. 
 
 " It is not possible !" cried Robert, bursting into 
 a loud laugh. 
 
 " Silence !" replied M. Herve : " your cousin has 
 been brought up in the city, and has scarcely ever 
 walked anywhere but in the public gardens. It is not 
 at all surprising that he should not be accustomed
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 33 
 
 to bridges without handrails. Come, Jerome, my boy, a 
 little courage ! Conquer the first step, and all will be 
 easy. Advance bravely, and look straight before you.'* 
 
 Jerome obeyed; but, arrived half way, where 
 being furthest removed from the points of support, 
 the rocking of the plank was most sensible, he 
 again stopped ; and this time nothing could induce 
 him to resume the effort. 
 
 Robert was obliged to hold his sides with laugh- 
 ing, but Eugene took pity on his cousin, and going a 
 few steps toward him, gave him his hand, and drew 
 him safely on to terra firma. 
 
 Cows, not less alert than our sportsmen, were 
 already in the pastures, a little less lively than usual, 
 it may be, cropping now and then a few tufts of 
 grass, and watching with a dreamy look those who 
 so early trod the narrow pathway. The longer they 
 walked, the more our four pedestrians felt invigo- 
 rated by the pure fresh morning air, and when the 
 sun, emerging from behind a cloud, which had long 
 obscured its splendour, bathed the tops of the trees, 
 and the summit of the mountain, in an ocean of 
 light, its foot resting in shadow, Robert and Eugene 
 absolutely shouted for joy. 
 
 It was the sure promise of a splendid day. 
 
 They soon reached the edge of a deep and precipi- 
 tous ravine, which, after following for a while, it was 
 necessary to descend, and to climb on the opposite 
 side : the distance would thus be considerably 
 shortened, and they would, without any very long 
 
 D
 
 34 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 circuit, reach the base of the mountain. Hazels, 
 young oaks, and acacias, mingled with the broom 
 which clothed the steep sides of the ravine. There 
 was no footpath, so M. Herv chose a spot where the 
 descent was less abrupt, and where it would be com- 
 paratively easy to proceed in zigzags. Those who 
 were not particularly expert might guide themselves 
 by holding on to the friendly broom, which grew to 
 a most convenient height from the ground. Robert 
 and Eugene disdained such assistance, and set off at 
 such speed down the stony descent, that they ran 
 imminent risk of spraining their ancles. 
 
 As to poor Jerome; a new trial awaited him. His 
 uncle had offered him his hand ; but, fearing to ex- 
 pose himself to fresh raillery, he had refused it. He 
 let every one go on before, then began to descend 
 very slowly, never taking a fresh step without having 
 recourse to a fresh prop. 
 
 The- others watched him, for they had all safely 
 reached the bottom before he had set out. This 
 troubled him, and, making a desperate effort, he 
 began to run, but, soon losing his balance, fell, and 
 cut his hands and face sadly on the rough angular 
 stones. M. Herve was sorry he had not insisted on 
 giving him his hand from the first, and climbing up 
 again to him, helped him down without further acci- 
 dent. Robert could not restrain a joke or two at his 
 expense ; but Eugene, seeing that he had already a 
 large lump on his forehead, ran to the stream, 
 steeped his handkerchief in the water, and made a
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 35 
 
 bandage of it. The poor lad was touched with his 
 kindness, but it was not in his nature to express 
 what he felt. After having again ascended with 
 some difficulty on the opposite side, they began to 
 follow the narrow overgrown pathway, which led to 
 the mountain. Diana, a beautiful young setter, with 
 smooth skin and intelligent eye, walked quietly by 
 her master's side ; she seemed to be reserving her 
 ardour for the moment the longed-for signal should 
 be given. The graceful animal had all the elegance 
 and beauty of form characteristic of her race ; she 
 was of a fine shining grey ; her forehead was orna- 
 mented with a white star, irregular in its contour, 
 but clearly marked. She liked the children, and 
 received their caresses with a good grace ; but all 
 her love, all her obedience, all her devotion, was for 
 her master, whose will she often seemed to study in 
 his eyes. 
 
 The base of the mountain was covered by copses 
 that abounded in game, and more especially so at 
 this early period of the season, for they were as yet 
 unravaged by the relentless fowling-piece. Diana 
 went before them to start the game. The report of 
 guns was heard at intervals ; and the children, highly 
 amused, ran hither and thither, searching amongst 
 the bushes for whatever fell. Diana, guided by her 
 instinct, always took the lead, and bore back trium- 
 phantly first a hare, then a partridge, then some 
 smaller birds which M. Herve bagged, without 
 seeming to care much about them.
 
 36 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 " It is not every day that one meets with such 
 good fortune," said he, as he stopped and seated 
 himself in the glade on the trunk of a tree, which 
 must have lain there a long time, for it was entirely 
 covered with moss, and mushrooms were growing in 
 the holes formerly occupied by its roots. " We have 
 earned our dinner." 
 
 The children hastened to take off their bags. 
 Nothing had been forgotten, from the pie with 
 golden crust to the refreshing fruits and the bottle 
 of wine, which was more efficacious than all the rest 
 in restoring their poor tired limbs after so long a 
 walk. 
 
 The happy children began their meal in great 
 glee. The branches of the hazel bent over them, and 
 protected them from the rays of the sun, which 
 would otherwise have fallen directly upon their 
 heads. 
 
 No other sound was heard than the sweet song of 
 the birds, already become less frequent and less dis- 
 tinctly audible, for it was autumn. This tranquillity, 
 this silence, contrasted vividly with the more active 
 and noisy pleasures of the morning. 
 
 Suddenly Jerome burst into tears. 
 
 " What is the matter, my boy ?" asked M. Herve, 
 anxiously. 
 
 " I wish mamma were here !" said he, and he con- 
 tinued to weep. 
 
 The beauty and extreme loveliness of all that 
 surrounded him, had awakened his most lively
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 37 
 
 affections. Perhaps lie thought that, in the midst 
 of this quiet nature, his mother could not have done 
 otherwise than show him a little affection. 
 
 M. Herve consoled him as well as he could, and 
 tried to make him understand the loving-kindness of 
 our heavenly Father, who has created this world so 
 beautiful, that we might be surrounded by the visible 
 tokens of His love. Jerome listened very attentive- 
 ly to this discourse ; he did not say much, but his 
 uncle's words sank deeply into his heart, and for the 
 first time in his life, he felt an emotion of gratitude 
 to that God of whom he had indeed sometimes 
 heard, but in language too cold to awaken his heart 
 to love. 
 
 After dinner, they laid themselves to rest upon 
 the soft moss. Some made a pillow of their bags ; 
 others contented themselves with spreading a hand- 
 kerchief under their heads. Diana lay at her master's 
 feet, a little curious to know why the sport should 
 not be resumed; and in that great silence which, 
 towards noon, reigns in the woods, as in a temple, 
 from which the crowd has departed, where the 
 human voice is no longer heard, and where there 
 remains only an invisible Presence, every one fell 
 asleep. 
 
 M. Herve took only a short nap, but when he 
 looked around him, the three little sleepers appeared 
 so perfectly happy, that he had not the heart to 
 disturb them. He again sought his make-believe 
 pillow, and as he did not push his love of sporting
 
 38 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 to extremes, it gave him no trouble to deny himself 
 the continuance of the good fortune which had 
 smiled upon the commencement of the day. 
 
 But the children awoke one after the other. The 
 shadows had begun to lengthen upon the broad 
 sloping meadows ere they reached the edge of the 
 forest. The boys could scarcely believe that the day 
 was so soon over. As they were nicely rested, M. 
 Herve proposed that they should go a little out of 
 their way to visit the " weeping rock." This name 
 excited their imaginations, and they were a little 
 disappointed on their arrival to find one of the most 
 simple of natural curiosities : for they had imagined 
 it would be something very marvellous. As it was, 
 it was merely a sort of grotto, not wider than it was 
 deep, formed by three or four masses of rock placed 
 one over the other. From one of them a drop of 
 water fell every half-minute, with monotonous regu- 
 larity, upon a stone placed beneath, in which, as it 
 always fell precisely on the same spot, a little basin 
 had been gradually excavated. How many centuries, 
 or perhaps thousands of years, had been meted out 
 in this retreat by the fall of that solitary drop, which 
 seemed to be a tear shed from all eternity by the eye 
 of some invisible being. The children themselves, 
 who at first had thought it nothing extraordinary, felt 
 the charm, and did not wish to go. It was necessary 
 to do so, however. The White House was hidden 
 from their sight by a bend of the hill, but the little 
 church of St. Real, and a few of the dwellings scat-
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 39 
 
 tered around it, appeared in the distance, illumined 
 by the last rays of the setting sun. This time they 
 chose the high road, which wound like a broad white 
 ribbon round the dusky slopes. The three children, 
 tired with their day's excursion, notwithstanding the 
 long halt that had from time to time relieved them, 
 walked not very briskly by the side of M. Herve. 
 The moon was nearly full, and they caught an occa- 
 sional glimpse of her from behind a curtain of poplars 
 which, on three sides, bordered a large tract of 
 marshy land. A few stars, looking very pale in 
 presence of their Queen, were to be seen scattered at 
 great distances in the clear evening sky. 
 
 " Where are we ?" asked Eugene. 
 
 " We are very near a house well known to me," 
 said M. Herve. " Do you not see behind those trees 
 to the right, a low, gloomy-looking dwelling ? They 
 call it the Sapiniere. It bears a bad name in the 
 country round ; people say it brings evil upon all its 
 inhabitants. Certainly there has seemed to be some 
 reason for such a report. Two of the families who 
 have resided there during the last ten years have 
 had more than ordinary trials. In. one of them, the 
 father and eldest son were accused and found guilty 
 of. a crime, and sent off as convicts to Toulon. 
 In the other, four children died in the same week, 
 of a contagious disease, and their broken-hearted 
 mother soon followed them to the grave. Since then 
 I do not think any other disaster has happened there ; 
 but it strikes me, as far as I can judge by the light
 
 40 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 of the moon, 'that the house looks as dismal and 
 desolate as ever. 
 
 At this moment, Eugene groaned. He had made 
 a false step, and had twisted his foot. Pain forced 
 him to stop. 
 
 " Oh," said he, " I have hurt myself so much ! 
 I really cannot walk any further." 
 
 After several ineffectual attempts, they were 
 obliged to admit that the poor child really could not 
 go on without great suffering, and without risk of 
 seriously aggravating the evil. There was only one 
 course to pursue, to enter the house of which they 
 had spoken, and ask assistance from its inmates. 
 
 Eugene disliked doing so extremely, but he could 
 not walk, so he was obliged to submit. 
 
 M. Herve took him in his arms, and carried him 
 to the door. He knocked twice before any answer 
 was returned ; the third time some one said, " Come 
 in !" and the door was opened. 
 
 " Who is there ?" asked the same voice, which 
 seemed to come from some neighbouring apartment. 
 
 " My son has sprained his ankle in descending the 
 mountain," replied M. Herve, "and being near 
 your house, we are come to ask you for some assist- 
 ance." "Excuse me," answered the voice, which 
 was that of a woman, " I am ill and cannot leave my 
 bed ; and my poor little girl is blind." 
 
 They could not indeed doubt that the little child, 
 who was seated in a corner of the room they were in, 
 was really blind ; a faint ray of moonlight showed
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 41 
 
 that her large motionless eyes had an expression of 
 sadness quite in contrast with the other features of 
 her pretty face. 
 
 M. Herve asked if he could not possibly have some 
 cold water, some salt, and a little old linen to make 
 a bandage for the ailing foot. 
 
 " I have everything necessary," said the poor 
 woman, " the difficulty is to give it to you. Light 
 the lamp, Esther, perhaps your little brother may 
 soon come in, he will find us what we want. In the 
 meantime, pray be seated, gentlemen. It is but poor 
 hospitality that an invalid and a little blind girl can 
 give you." 
 
 The child found a match, took the lamp from the 
 large old chimney-piece, where she knew it was 
 always kept, and acquitted herself with much tact 
 and readiness of this little duty, which a child 
 who could see would not have accomplished half so 
 well. 
 
 When the flickering light of the lamp was a 
 little more steady, M. Herve examined Eugene's 
 foot. He soon convinced himself that nothing 
 serious was the matter, and that the pressure of a 
 bandage would be sufficient help to allow him to 
 walk as far as St. Real without too much suffer- 
 ing; though afterwards he would have to remain 
 very quiet for several days. Then he looked round 
 the room they were in. It was a large, poorly fur- 
 nished kitchen, and could boast of very few cooking
 
 42 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 utensils. The door of the room occupied by the 
 invalid opened at one end ; and opposite to it was a 
 wooden staircase, leading to the upper story. The 
 miserable aspect of the house and its furniture, 
 together with the sad memories attaching to its 
 history gave it really a sinister appearance. 
 
 The little blind girl had again seated herself 
 near the open window and appeared to be listening 
 intently. 
 
 " Here conies Gaspard," cried she suddenly. 
 
 " If she hears him, it is really he, and he is not 
 far off either," said her mother ; " the child never 
 makes a mistake." 
 
 And so it was. In less than two minutes the door 
 opened, and a great boy of fifteen or sixteen entered. 
 His features were very harsh, his complexion dark, 
 his hair black. The expression of his countenance 
 did not speak much in his favour at first sight ; but 
 on closer examination it was evident that it did at 
 least denote uprightness and honesty. 
 
 His mother explained to him what had brought 
 the strangers beneath their roof. He gave M. Herve 
 what was necessary for binding up the disabled foot, 
 then went out again, without having uttered one 
 word more than was strictly required. 
 
 A few minutes afterwards, a little fair-haired boy 
 entered the room. Eugene knew him again as the 
 youngest of the three naughty boys, whom he, alas ! 
 had such good reason to remember. The little fellow 
 knew him too, for he cast a furtive glance upon him,
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 43 
 
 which expressed anything but pleasure at this un- 
 expected meeting ; but, as if by common consent, they 
 were both silent. 
 
 " Where have you been, Julien ?" 
 
 "In the garden, mother !" 
 
 " In the garden, are you quite sure ? Come to me, 
 I want to speak to you." 
 
 But the little boy pretended not to hear his 
 mother's command, and contented himself by repeat- 
 ing sullenly, that he had only been in the garden. 
 
 Robert went up to him, and asked him who was 
 the great boy who had just gone out. 
 
 " It must have been my brother Gaspard," answer- 
 ed the child, looking round in some anxiety. "I 
 did not think he would come home so soon." 
 
 " Your brother is not much like you ; have you 
 any others ?" 
 
 " Yes, I mean no," replied Julien much em- 
 barassed. 
 
 " Julien ! " exclaimed his mother, " come to 
 me." 
 
 A firm step was heard without, the door opened. 
 This time Julien did not need telling twice, he ran 
 quickly into the little bedroom. 
 
 M. Herve had been too much occupied with his 
 care of the wounded foot, to pay much attention to 
 what had passed around him ; but Eugene, notwith- 
 standing all he suffered, did not lose the most 
 trifling incident. The man who entered looked like 
 another Gaspard, only that he was older, taller,
 
 44 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 stronger, and that the expression of his countenance 
 was even more stern and severe. When he had 
 heard the history of the little accident which ex- 
 plained the presence of strangers in his dwelling, he 
 said he would take them home in his cart, though it 
 would not be very comfortable for them. 
 
 M. Herve accepted his offer, for he thought entire 
 rest would be the best thing for Eugene. 
 
 " Where is Julien ?" asked the father, before he 
 went out to harness his horse. 
 
 " He is here with me," replied the mother's voice ; 
 it trembled a little. 
 
 " How long has he been in ?" 
 
 " He has been with me all the evening." 
 
 Whilst speaking thus in a low voice, the invalid 
 seemed to make a violent effort over herself. 
 Eugene was so much surprised that he could scarcely 
 restrain an exclamation. The father looked for an 
 instant in apparent doubt and threatening on his 
 wife and child, and then he turned quickly away. 
 
 In a few minutes, the cart was before the door. 
 Eugene reclined upon a thick layer of straw which 
 did not, however, prevent his being painfully alive 
 to the violent joltings which shook him at every 
 step, and to which of course his lame foot was most 
 sensitive. 
 
 When he was alone with his mother, Julien took 
 her hand, and began to caress her. 
 
 "Naughty child!" said she, pretending to re- 
 pulse, whilst she really drew him towards her, " do
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 45 
 
 you know that all this will end badly, and then what 
 will become of us ? Your father's anger will be 
 fearful!" 
 
 " Oh, dear little mother, don't be sorry : father 
 looked so very stern, he would have flogged me 
 if he had known. I assure you it was not .telling 
 a He." 
 
 " And what was it then, miserable child ? If you 
 would but do as your father bids you, I should not 
 be obliged to deceive him to save you from punish- 
 ment." 
 
 " Hush, mother ! Gaspard is coming." 
 
 " Where were you when I came in the first time ? " 
 asked Graspard. 
 
 " In the garden," replied Julien, trying in vain 
 to speak without faltering, for he was almost as 
 much afraid of his brother, as he was of his 
 father. 
 
 " It is not true," said Gaspard, " you know you 
 are telling me a lie; speak the truth, you may just as 
 well, because I know." 
 
 " Gaspard, I will not have a disturbance here ; I 
 cannot bear it," said the invalid, in a tone of suppli- 
 cation. 
 
 " Mother," replied the young man in accents so 
 solemn, that the poor woman was quite impressed by 
 them ; "It grieves me to give you pain ; but you do 
 not see that by your weakness you are sacrificing this 
 child. And yet, in our family at least, we ought to 
 fear a lie."
 
 46 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 These last words were pronounced in a half whis- 
 per, but the invalid heard them, and groaned aloud. 
 Gaspard went nearer, took his mother's hand, and 
 kissed it with a degree of tenderness of which you 
 would not have thought him capable. 
 
 "Forgive me," said he ; " but I entreat you, mother, 
 do not allow Julien to deceive our father any longer. 
 It would be a hundred times better for him to be 
 severely punished, and made to weep now, however 
 bitterly, whilst he is a child, than to become hardened 
 
 in guilt, and be one day lost to us, like " 
 
 " Silence ! do not utter that name." 
 "No, I will not utter it; but how can one help 
 thinking of him ? " 
 
 " Ah, Gaspard ; I wish I had listened to you," said 
 the poor woman, wringing her hands ; " it is too late 
 now ! " 
 
 Gaspard had a singular influence over his mother, 
 weak as she was in body and mind. She recognized 
 in him, it is true, the same rigid adherence to prin- 
 ciple as in her husband ; but this very inflexibility 
 which in the one case made her tremble, tempered as 
 it was in the other by youth and by the relationship 
 existing between them, inspired her with a kind of 
 security. She loved to feel herself governed and 
 soothed by her son. Certainly, she felt for him no- 
 thing that could be compared to that blind passion- 
 ate tenderness with which she doted upon Julien. 
 The two kinds of affection were entirely dissimilar. 
 As for Gaspard, he saw the faults and weaknesses of
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 47 
 
 his mother, but without judging her. He no more 
 thought of accusing her of them than he would ac- 
 cuse her of a natural bodily infirmity. He loved 
 her sincerely, not quite as a son loves the mother 
 who teaches him the value of life, at the same time 
 that she instructs him to fulfil its varied duties, but 
 rather as one loves the weak. 
 
 He told her that it was not too late, and that the 
 only way to attack the root of the evil was to make 
 a general confession to his father of all that had been 
 done contrary to his will. But neither Julien nor 
 his mother felt equal to adopt such a courageous re- 
 solution. 
 
 " What have I done after all ?" said the child sul- 
 lenly. " It is nothing so very bad to go and play 
 with the children in the village." 
 
 Julien put an end to the conversation by going up 
 to bed. He occupied the same room as his brother, 
 and when Gaspard laid himself to rest by his side, he 
 made believe to be sleeping most profoundly. 
 
 Whilst this little scene was passing in the gloomy 
 house called the Sapiniere, M. Herve tried, by a few 
 judicious questions, to obtain the confidence of Gas- 
 pard and Julien's father, but he found it no easy 
 matter. All he could learn was that his name was 
 Guillaumin, and that he had only been a few weeks 
 in that part of the country. He thought he had dis- 
 covered too that a heavy load of sorrow was pressing 
 upon his poor closed-up heart. Neither his language 
 nor that of his wife and children, at all resembled
 
 48 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 the dialect of the peasantry. There was a mystery 
 about them that M. Heive* would fain have pene- 
 trated, not from motives of curiosity, but because 
 feelings of real interest had been awakened in his 
 heart. He would also have liked to offer some money 
 to their driver, as a little remuneration for his trouble ; 
 but when the cart stopped at the door of the White 
 House, he saw on his countenance such an expression 
 of half- concealed pride, that he could not venture to 
 do so. M. Herve, therefore, contented himself for 
 the moment with merely thanking him, hoping that 
 sooner or later he might have it in his power to ren- 
 der him an equal service. 
 
 The White House was very gay to welcome the 
 four wanderers. The autumnal fire burned brightly 
 on the hearth, without throwing out too much heat 
 to be agreeable ; the table had been drawn near it, 
 and covered by Cle'mence with all that she supposed 
 needful to recruit the poor famished sportsmen. But 
 the little boys, who under other circumstances would 
 have done ample justice to such a repast, were none 
 of them at all disposed to do so at present. Robert 
 and Jerome, spite of their efforts, continued the sleep 
 which had been commenced on the journey ; Eugene 
 suffered from his foot ; the sprain, though a slight 
 one, alarmed his mother sufficiently to cause her to 
 send at once for the doctor. The poor child's heart 
 was oppressed ; he knew now what it was to feel that 
 there was a falsehood between himself and his family, 
 between himself and God. This evening too, he could
 
 THE.WHITE HOUSE. 49 
 
 not pray, and although very tired, it was long before 
 he fell asleep. In the morning, when he embraced 
 his mother, he felt more than ever entangled in the 
 net, which a moment of cowardice had spread beneath 
 his feet. 

 
 50 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 ARTHUR AND HIS PROFESSOR. 
 
 SOME days certainly are inauspicious. Who can 
 doubt it ? Not Arthur d'Ermance on the morning on 
 which we make his acquaintance, the very day, be it 
 said, of the pleasant sporting excursion, that we have 
 so lately described. He awoke in a very bad temper, 
 and, as all went wrong with him, he found fault with 
 everybody and everything, the guilty party only ex- 
 cepted. He really thought there was a general con- 
 spiracy against him. His stockings would not allow 
 themselves to be put on, the tiresome shirt-buttons 
 would not pass through the button-holes ; his hair 
 persisted in taking the most unpleasing turn upon 
 his forehead, and in rising in a tuft at the top of his 
 head, just as if he were an Iroquois. Lastly, his neck- 
 tie, which also obstinately refused to be fastened in a 
 becoming manner, was thrown to the other end of 
 the room, where it remained hanging on the back of 
 an easy-chair, looking most sadly out of place ; whilst 
 the victim of all these improperly-behaved objects 
 went out slamming the door so violently, as to make 
 the whole house tremble.
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 51 
 
 Arthur, eyes and mouth alike bespeaking a troubled 
 spirit, repaired, according to custom, to his grand- 
 mother's chamber ; she had not yet risen, but re- 
 ceived him with the most tender caresses. His cho- 
 colate awaited him on a little stand near her. He 
 seated himself and put his elbows on the table, with- 
 out showing any intention of beginning his breakfast. 
 
 " What is the matter, dear child ?" asked Madame 
 d'Ermance. " Are you not well ?" 
 
 " I am not hungry," replied the little boy. 
 
 " That is not natural ! At your age one is hungry 
 as soon as ever one jumps out of bed. Would you 
 like anything better than chocolate ?" 
 
 " No !" 
 
 " Tell me what ails you, my treasure ! Is there any 
 little wish that I can gratify ? You know I will do 
 anything that is in my power. Tell me now I" 
 
 " I do not want anything." 
 
 " Would you like to go a ride on your pony to-day 
 with Benedict ?" 
 
 " That would not amuse me at all !" 
 
 " And to go out shooting in the park, they say 
 there are plenty of hares ?" 
 
 " No ; I cannot endure going out shooting with 
 those village children. It is always Benedict who 
 kills the hare, and those little peasants are as stupid 
 as they can possibly be. It is always Master Arthur 
 here, Master Arthur there ! It's a perfect bore ! " 
 
 " Oh, Arthur, what a vulgar expression ! I am 
 sorry you should copy the coarse language of those
 
 52 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 children. In showing you respect, they prove that 
 their parents have taught them well. They know 
 that if they forgot to render you your due, the 
 entrance to the park would be at once denied them." 
 
 " All that does not prevent my being dreadfully 
 dull," said Arthur, gaping so vehemently that the 
 corners of his mouth really seemed in danger. 
 
 " Look, look ! there is M. Hermann coming up 
 the avenue. I had entirely forgotten that it was the 
 day for my Latin lesson. So much the worse for 
 him. You must wait, sir ! I have not even begun 
 my breakfast. Besides, he is here before his time : 
 it is not yet nine o'clock." 
 
 At the very moment, as if to contradict the little 
 boy's assertion, and justify the Latin-master, the 
 clock distinctly struck nine. 
 
 But the bare idea of the declensions had awakened 
 in Arthur a very decided taste for chocolate, and 
 slices of bread and butter. He set to work and ate 
 so much, and spun out his breakfast so long, that 
 even his indulgent grandmother thought he exceeded 
 all bounds, and begged him to make haste. 
 
 During this time, M. Hermann awaited his pupil. 
 He was professor at the college of a small town not 
 far from the Castle d'Ermance. He was thoroughly 
 acquainted with the dead languages ; but all his 
 learning had not given him that self-confidence 
 which would have rendered his task so much more 
 easy, namely, that of inspiring the rising generation 
 with a horror of barbarisms, and a love for the
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 53 
 
 Greek roots, to which they showed themselves sadly 
 averse. He had never once been able to seat 
 himself at his desk without feeling his blood 
 run cold at the thought of the trials that awaited 
 him, from contact with the twenty unruly boys of 
 whom his class was composed. 
 
 Arthur's lesson did not cause him much less appre- 
 hension. The slow, deliberate tone of the spoilt 
 child deprived him of even the very small stock of 
 presence of mind with which nature had endowed 
 him. Arthur was not old enough to discern the 
 solid merit which often lurks under an exterior 
 rendered absurdly awkward by timidity, and treated 
 his master without the slightest respect. On enter- 
 ing the room he bowed negligently to M. Hermann, 
 who did not dare to address any reproach to him, for 
 the length of time he had been kept waiting. But 
 when he discovered that the little boy had prepared 
 nothing for his lesson, conscience spoke louder than 
 timidity, and he thought it is duty to remonstrate ; 
 but the speaker, whose voice trembled, appeared to 
 suffer far more than the little boy to whom the 
 expostulation was addressed. 
 
 After about an hour's study, "It is ten o'clock," 
 exclaimed Arthur, suddenly closing his book. 
 
 " Ten minutes to ten, sir/'' said the Professor, as 
 he looked at his watch, " and we have only just made 
 a beginning." 
 
 " Indeed, it seems to me we ought to have finished 
 long ago."
 
 54 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 The poor master was a little put out of countenance 
 by this reply. 
 
 " Look here, M. Hermann, don't be angry." 
 
 M. Hermann angry ! He never thought of such 
 a thing. 
 
 " Let us talk French a little ; it will not send one 
 to sleep like Latin. Do you think people can possibly 
 have said anything amusing in this fusty old lan- 
 guage ?" 
 
 " I think that the Greek and Latin languages have 
 served to express the finest thoughts that have 
 ever been conceived," replied M. Hermann, who 
 thus saw himself attacked on his own territory. 
 
 " It is singular how willingly I would remain in 
 ignorance of all these fine things. It seems to me one 
 ought to be old to have a taste for such antiquities." 
 
 "And yet my son is not old. He is only just 
 turned sixteen, and there is nothing in the world he 
 delights in so much as the study of the classics." 
 
 " Ah, yes ! You have often spoken to me of him. 
 The very thought of all his learning makes me yawn ! 
 Is he, then, a genius ?" 
 
 "No, sir. But Jean Paul is remarkably gifted. 
 Unfortunately, he finds himself stopped short just at 
 the moment when he has conquered the first difficul- 
 ties. He has neither books nor masters. It is a 
 great trouble to us both." 
 
 " But why do you not send him to Paris ?" 
 
 " We cannot," replied M. Hermann, with a pro- 
 found sigh.
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 55 
 
 A few minutes later, and the poor professor was 
 away again, raising quite unconsciously clouds of 
 dust beneath his feet, and turning over in his mind 
 many sad, but not bitter, thoughts. He pictured to 
 himself the Castle that he had just left, its gorgeous 
 apartments, the spacious, well-filled library, the child 
 to whom every facility was offered for an educa- 
 tion, for which he so little cared ; and then, in 
 spite of himself, his thoughts wandered off to his 
 own small dwelling, into which were crowded seven 
 children, and where he sought in vain a retreat for 
 the calm, quiet enjoyment of his favourite studies. 
 He thought of the scanty volumes ranged along a 
 few miserable planks of deal, and of the slender 
 library at the college, to which he had, indeed, 
 access, but which was wholly inadequate to cover the 
 deficiencies of his own store ; above all, he thought 
 of his own son, so studious, so greedy of knowledge, 
 and who was yet forced by poverty to stop at the 
 very outset of that career for which his extraordinary 
 talents seemed to destine him. His heart was 
 oppressed ; but he did not murmur, for his piety 
 was humble and sincere, and he firmly believed that 
 God doeth all things well. 
 
 His anxious brow relaxed a little when he entered 
 the large room in which all his family were 
 assembled, about the hour of noon. His eldest 
 daughter was spreading the cloth, another sat at 
 work, a third amused the baby in its cradle, whilst 
 a little boy seated on the floor, thundered away on
 
 00 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 his drum in such a manner as must have prevented 
 the best or most phlegmatic infant from sleeping. 
 In a corner of the room, so absorbed that nothing 
 going on around him could be the slightest dis- 
 turbance, sat Jean Paul, the eldest son, resting both 
 elbows on a table before him. The mother was 
 busy in a little kitchen, the door of which was ajar ; 
 she turned round on hearing the well-known sound 
 of her husband's footsteps ; and the tender smile 
 with which she greeted him, totally banished every 
 lingering trace of melancholy. 
 
 The professor's house was a very humble dwelling. 
 Mne persons had to live upon his modest salary ; 
 but, notwithstanding many privations and cares, 
 added to untiring effort, they were happy. They 
 not only loved, but admired each other, and every 
 one had a most implicit faith in the merit of the 
 rest. Jean Paul was the glory of this numerous 
 family; his father was proud of him, his mother 
 was proud of him, his brothers and sisters, from 
 the timid Julia who blushed every time he looked 
 at her, to the rosy-cheeked urchin in the cradle, 
 were all nurtured in the idea that it was their duty 
 to be very proud of Jean Paul. Madame Hermann 
 felt her heart dilate as she exclaimed : 
 
 " Our Jean Paul will be a distinguished scholar ! 
 He is for ever buried in his books." 
 
 The day-dreams and acts of clumsiness of which 
 the rising scholar was often guilty, were accepted as 
 proofs of his mental superiority. Jean Paul was
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 57 
 
 never censured for breaking the beautiful China vase, 
 so treasured by his mother, nor for having thrown 
 little Fanny into empty space, instead of into her 
 ^bed, as he supposed he had done. And yet, what 
 nights of anguish this good mother had passed, 
 watching over her poor little child who suffered from 
 severe concussion of the brain, in consequence of this 
 terrible accident : and how often had she regarded 
 with a sigh the mantelpiece left desolate by the loss 
 of the beautiful vase, of which it had hitherto been 
 the sole but sufficient ornament. 
 
 We must confess that Jean Paul repented so bit- 
 terly of his clumsy acts, was so inconsolable at their 
 consequences, confessed with such true humility that 
 he was good for nothing, that it would have been 
 impossible to have been angry with him, even if he 
 had not redeemed his errors by successes of another 
 kind. He was very sweet and modest, although they 
 did surround him with so much honour in his own 
 home. He allowed himself to be worried and dis- 
 turbed by the children in the midst of his most pro- 
 found studies, and always with a patience inexhaus- 
 tible. The only reproach that could be made to him 
 was that he did not always look very closely at the 
 means he took to satisfy his little tormentors. He 
 generally gave the first thing he could lay his hand 
 upon. Poor Madame Hermann consoled herself for 
 it, by saying, " Learned people are so absent !" 
 
 At the very moment the Professor put down his 
 hat and books on entering the parlor, Fanny, a pretty
 
 58 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 little fair child of four years old, liad begun a series 
 of persecutions against the poor student. She insisted 
 on his giving her something from the table that was 
 out of her reach, and as he did not hear her, she 
 dragged at him on all sides, pinched him, pulled his 
 hair, yet could not succeed in interrupting his read- 
 ing. At length, however, he perceived that some- 
 thing harassed him, and his attention a little aroused, 
 he supposed something might be wanted from the 
 table, so, without raising his eyes a moment from his 
 book, he reached out his hand, grasped the inkstand 
 and threw all it contained over the flaxen ringlets of 
 the poor child, who set up a terrible scream when 
 she felt her little face deluged by this black and bitter 
 torrent. Brought back at length to the world around 
 him, Jean Paul saw with no small alarm the disaster 
 he had occasioned. His mother raised her hands to 
 Heaven, and lost in excessive astonishment the pre- 
 sence of mind which was habitual to her, but Julia, 
 the sweet active little housekeeper, did not forget 
 herself for an instant. She seized a towel and wiped 
 the head and face of her poor little sister, before the 
 ink had time to trickle down on to her frock. It was 
 not so easy to console her. She cried so loudly that a 
 neighbour came in to ask if the child had hurt herself. 
 "Ah me ! he gets no better then, that great innocent 
 there!" said she, when she had learnt the cause of 
 little Fanny's distress. " I assure you, neighbour, if 
 I had a son like your's, I'd soon teach him to know 
 his right hand from his left."
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 59 
 
 " Neighbour," replied Madame Hermann with 
 great dignity, " we are quite satisfied with, our son, 
 just as he is. Do not trouble yourself with what 
 does not concern you." 
 
 The good lady went away a little shocked, and 
 nothing more was said of the accident. 
 
 But let us leave the Professor's family, and return 
 to improve our acquaintance with Arthur d'Ermance. 
 
 To hear him talk, and indeed to look at him, you 
 would scarcely have believed that Arthur had but 
 just reached his twelfth year. He was tall, thin, and of 
 an elegant figure. His being always accustomed to 
 be made much of, to.be listened to, and admired, to 
 be allowed, moreover, to lay down the law to every- 
 body around him, had given him more assurance 
 than was usual in a boy of his age. It rarely occurred 
 to him that anything he said or did could be worthy 
 of reprehension. Punishment was a thing utterly 
 unknown to him ; and the observations of his grand- 
 mother, few and far between, went in at one ear, 
 and out at the other, without producing any further 
 effect than causing them to tingle a little more un- 
 pleasantly than was the case with more ordinary 
 discourse. 
 
 At the decease of Arthur's father, her only son, 
 Madame d'Ermance had gathered up all her affec- 
 tions to lavish them on this child, who had no one 
 but herself to cling to. He had become the centre 
 of her every thought. She did not wish that he 
 should be ever contradicted or punished, or even
 
 60 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 reproved by anyone but herself, and, as she seldom 
 made use of the right she had reserved, year after 
 year had passed without the child's having any idea 
 that there was a law superior to his own will : and 
 he firmly believed himself to be the sun around which 
 his little world was obliged to revolve. 
 
 Thus it had happened, that Arthur d'Ermance, who 
 was born with precious and loveable qualities, had 
 gradually become a proud and self-willed child, even 
 more insupportable to himself than to others. 
 
 Arthur had an uncle, M. Gerard, whom his father 
 on his death-bed had appointed his son's guardian. 
 M. Gerard had been travelling for many years, and 
 had meddled very little with the child's education. 
 Having returned home a few months before, his first 
 care had been to come and see Arthur, and discuss 
 with Madame d'Ermance whatever might relate to 
 his character, his studies, or his future. He insisted 
 very strongly on the necessity of sending him to 
 school, as he wished to withdraw him from the ener- 
 vating moral regime to which his grandmother's 
 excessive tenderness had habituated him. Madame 
 d'Ermance at first altogether repulsed the idea ; she 
 thought it cruel both to herself and the child, but 
 she had at length yielded to the reiterated arguments 
 of M. Gerard, and being obliged to confess that 
 Arthur was not all that could be desired, had con- 
 sented to the separation, leaving it as a question of 
 time, and inwardly resolving that the period should 
 be very far distant.
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 61 
 
 After having a long conversation that day with 
 her grandson's guardian, Madame d'Ermance was 
 sad and dejected when she made her appearance at 
 the dinner-tahle. She scarcely ate anything, and 
 could not speak without an effort. Arthur paid no 
 attention, he was far too much absorbed in his own 
 feelings to be able to divine those of others. 
 
 When he retired to rest, his grandmother followed 
 him to his room. " Sit down by me a moment ; I 
 want to speak to you, my child. Your uncle thinks 
 you want a different kind of life from that you lead 
 here with me : perhaps he is right, and, notwith- 
 standing all it costs me to part with you, I have 
 consented to let you go to school." 
 
 Madame d'Ermance waited anxiously to see what 
 effect this communication would have upon Arthur. 
 She was excessively surprised to see his face light up 
 at the word school. 
 
 " To school, oh what a blessing ! "Why it is just 
 what I longed for. Grandmamma, will it be in 
 Paris, if only it may be in Paris ! " 
 
 " You think nothing of the pain of parting, 
 Arthur," said Madame d'Ermance sorrowfully. 
 
 e ' Ah I know, Grandmamma, and it makes me very 
 sad ; but I shall write to you, and six months will 
 soon be over." 
 
 " My child, my poor child, this time which to 
 you appears so short, is perhaps all I have to live, 
 and I should have liked to keep you near me to the 
 end."
 
 62 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 " Please, grandmamma, don't say such dismal 
 things, you know I never can endure them ! You 
 will live a very long time, and I will always come 
 and pass the vacations with you. Why I declare that 
 will amuse me just as much as going to school. 
 What a good thing that Uncle Gerard is come 
 back!" 
 
 Madame d'Ermance sighed, embraced the little 
 boy, and slowly left the room. She had thought 
 herself more necessary to him. It was a cruel lesson. 
 When she had closed the door, Arthur said to him- 
 self as he began to undress. 
 
 " I love grandmamma very dearly ; but still I 
 cannot pass all my life with women : she really must 
 let me become a man." 
 
 Poor Arthur ! he little thought what becoming 
 a man means, and what a difficult apprenticeship he 
 must serve ere he attained the goal.
 
 63 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 THE KNIGHT'S TOWER. 
 
 THE long expected day had arrived. Every one 
 was in movement at the White House. Eugene, 
 completely recovered, had obtained permission to 
 be of the party. Clemence and Isabelle in clean 
 white frocks, impatiently awaited the signal of 
 departure. The boys who were less quietly inclined 
 and not so much afraid of spoiling their appearance, 
 went through a series of gymnastic exercises by way 
 of preface to the pleasures of the day. There had 
 hitherto been very little intercourse between the two 
 families, so that Arthur and the brothers were but 
 slightly acquainted. As to Jerome, everything was 
 new to him ; but he so rarely gave expression to his 
 feelings, that one might have been tempted to 
 imagine he was neither influenced by joy nor 
 curiosity. 
 
 Clemence employed herself during a considerable 
 part of their walk, in exhorting her little sister to 
 be very polite, and to observe all the rules of good 
 breeding. 
 
 Her mother was not well enough to accompany
 
 64 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 them. Madame Reason felt, therefore, that a great 
 weight of responsibility rested upon her. She quite 
 despaired of inducing " the boys " to abide by her 
 code of politeness and good manners, and was, there- 
 fore, doubly anxious that at least her little sister 
 should do her honour. 
 
 Isabelle, who had rarely left her home, and never 
 without her mother, listened to it all with a serious- 
 ness and desire to do right, that gave a most charm- 
 ing expression to her large brown eyes. 
 
 After having listened to the lecture, in which 
 Clemence told her, that as soon as she had said 
 " Good morning ! " she must sit down quietly in the 
 drawing room, and not venture to touch anything 
 without permission : that she must not run, nor cry, 
 nor fall down, nor tear her frock, nor speak unless to 
 answer " Yes, Madame," or " No, Madame," to the 
 questions that might be addressed to her : that she 
 must not eat too much, but must refuse every time 
 that Clemence made her a sign to do so : the poor 
 little thing, quite overpowered by all these prohibi- 
 tions and restrictions, cried out in a tone of childish 
 despair. 
 
 " But, Clemence, I shall be so very tired ! " 
 
 " What does that matter?" said Robert, ironically, 
 "everybody came into the world to weary them- 
 selves as politely as they could, did they not, 
 Clemence? The real end of existence, little one, 
 and the sooner you get it into your head the better, 
 is, not to tumble one's frock."
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 65 
 
 " Clemence, let the child be natural," said M. 
 Herve, " let her amuse herself freely, as is right at 
 her age. I hope my little Isabelle will behave 
 nicely, because she knows that would please dear 
 mamma if she could see her ; but she may be gay 
 and happy, and amuse herself as much as ever she 
 can." 
 
 Clemence said nothing, but she wore a little air of 
 injured dignity. She evidently thought it now de- 
 volved on her alone to keep up the honour of the 
 family manners. A repast awaited their arrival. 
 The elder people conversed together, so that, whilst 
 sitting at the table, the children looked at each other 
 almost without talking. Suddenly Eugene's atten- 
 tion was aroused by a few words spoken by Madame 
 d'Ermance. " I should have liked to offer you a 
 basket of my peaches which are celebrated for their 
 beauty and size ; but, strange to say, my wall-fruit 
 has been stolen on two occasions, by some good-for- 
 nothing scoundrels, who have had the sense to avoid 
 being caught, although Vigilant is certainly noi a 
 dog to let thieves enter into the garden unmolested. 
 I cannot at all understand how it happened. Since 
 their second visit, which took place the (Jay before 
 yesterday, we have resolved to let him loose earlier 
 than usual. My old gardener is in the greatest con- 
 sternation. He says he has lived fifty years in this 
 part of the country, and nothing of the sort ever oc- 
 curred before. The people were all so honest that one 
 might very well have dispensed with locks and bolts
 
 66 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 and even with doors to all the houses. It must cer- 
 tainly have been some fresh comers, who have not 
 the honour of their country at heart. However, we 
 shall soon know, for we have taken our measures that 
 the robbers may not escape us a third time. Only 
 see what miserable fruit I am obliged to offer you ! " 
 During this discourse, Eugene had repeatedly 
 changed colour. It seemed to him as if every eye 
 would soon be fixed upon him, and that he would be 
 branded as an accomplice of the thieves. At length 
 the signal being given, the children were at liberty 
 to withdraw from the table, and to run in the park 
 on the soft green turf, over which wide spreading 
 branches threw a gentle shadow. They dispersed on 
 all sides, shouting for joy. Soon, weary of running 
 without an object, the little people assembled at the 
 foot of a large chestnut-tree to consult upon the best 
 use they could make of their day. Arthur, accus- 
 tomed to be obeyed, volunteered his opinion, which 
 he thought unexceptionable. 
 
 " I will take you to the Knight's Tower," said he, 
 " it is my favourite spot in the whole park." 
 
 "And what is the Knight's Tower ?" asked the 
 others, with lively curiosity. 
 
 " It is a wonderful ruin," said he ; " come with 
 me, and I will relate its history when we are there." 
 The Knight's Tower did indeed look much more 
 picturesque than might have been expected. Situ- 
 ated on a gentle eminence, and surrounded with 
 luxuriant vegetation, portions of which had taken
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 67 
 
 root in the crevices of its ancient stone-work, it 
 seemed to stand there amidst the young and living 
 nature, as a representative of the poetry of by-gone 
 ages. They seated themselves in a semicircle on 
 some mouldering stones in the interior of the tower, 
 and Arthur commenced his narration, which suffered 
 several interruptions from the questions of his audi- 
 tory, and was on his side prolonged by occasional 
 digressions. In fewer words, it is as follows : 
 
 In the eleventh century, a knight retired to this 
 solitary tower in order to expiate some crime known 
 only to himself. His father, in despair at thus 
 losing his son, who ought to have been the prop of 
 his old age, came himself to the foot of the high and 
 gloomy turret, and entreated him, with bitter groan- 
 ings, to leave his voluntary prison, if he did not 
 wish to bring down his grey hairs with sorrow to 
 the grave ; but the son turned a deaf ear to the old 
 man's voice. Then came his brother in arms, with 
 whom, during ten years, he had shared both diffi- 
 culty and danger, and demanded if he must hence- 
 forth defend alone the cause of the poor and the 
 oppressed, but the valiant knight replied not. So 
 at last came his promised bride, and very long she 
 rested at the foot of the dismal tower, trying to 
 change her lover's .will by wild entreaty and by 
 bitter wailing ; he did not even approach the narrow 
 window of his cell to gaze, for the last time, on his 
 betrothed, but a voice was distinctly audible, which 
 said ' Get thee behind me, Satan ! ' The poor girl
 
 68 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 withdrew, sadly weeping; and this was the brave 
 knight's last conflict. From that day he neither 
 saw a human being, nor heard a human voice. A 
 faithful old servant carried a basket of the coarsest 
 food, once a week in the hush of night, to the foot 
 of the lonely tower. The captive let fall a cord, by 
 the aid of which he drew the basket up to him. 
 Once the cord did not descend at the accustomed 
 hour, they understood that he was ill or dying 
 dead, perhaps. The door was forced open, and the 
 penitent was found stretched on the narrow plank 
 that had served him for a bed, entirely lifeless. No 
 one who had seen him enter the tower a young and 
 handsome knight, would have recognised him in this 
 old man, whose mortal remains were as if ossified by 
 solitude, fasting, and perhaps remorse. They 
 buried him with all respect in a neighbouring 
 monastery, and many a pilgrimage continued to be 
 made by the devout to the Knight's Tower, until 
 falling into ruin and become the chosen resort of 
 the bird of the night, it ceased to be otherwise es- 
 teemed than as the crowning point of an agreeable 
 excursion for lovers of the picturesque. 
 
 After having listened to this legend, which Arthur 
 almost knew by heart, so often had he read it in the 
 " Records and Traditions of the Ruins of France," 
 the children regarded the tower with entirely diffe- 
 rent sentiments. It seemed now to bear the impress 
 of that poetry of the middle ages which has such a 
 potent charm for the youthful imagination. But
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 69 
 
 Isabelle could not at all forgive tlie poor knight for 
 having said to his intended bride " Gfet thee behind 
 me, Satan ! " 
 
 " Do you not understand that she represented one 
 of the temptations which he had to overcome, in 
 order to remain faithful to his vow?" said Eugene. 
 " It was the last, and perhaps, the strongest. That 
 repulsed, he was sure of himself." 
 
 Seated on the steps of the broken stair case which 
 was now covered with verdure, but still available as 
 far as the first story of the building, they chatted for 
 a long time over this mysterious history. They won- 
 dered what crime he could possibly have committed 
 to demand so severe an expiation : what he had 
 thought and felt during those long years of solitude, 
 and what had been his sentiments when at last death, 
 the only visitor to whom an entrance could not be 
 denied, came and seated himself beside his couch, 
 and called him by the name forgotten amongst men. 
 All these, and many other questions, had pressed on 
 Arthur's spirit whenever he had sought alone his 
 favourite haunt; and sometimes he meditated so long, 
 and lost so completely the sense of things present, 
 that at the slightest rustling of the ivy growing in 
 the clefts of the tower, he would turn round expect- 
 ing to see the knight standing behind him. 
 
 But to-day such visions were chased by more lively 
 interest. Arthur was impatient to teach his friends 
 a diversion, of which the charm was quite different 
 from that of the legend, it is true, but very great 
 nevertheless.
 
 70 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 On one side of the tower, and resting against it, 
 was a sort of narrow circular terrace, surrounded by 
 a battlemented wall breast-high. This little platform, 
 which once formed part of this singular building, 
 was nearly as high as the second floor. It could be 
 reached by the inner staircase, of which the last 
 step stopped rather short of its elevation, but with a 
 little dexterity and courage, it was easy to descend 
 again on the exterior of the opposite side, resting 
 the foot on the projecting stones, and clinging for 
 support to the little shrubs which grew in great 
 abundance in the crevices of the rock. Arthur, who 
 was naturally very active, highly appreciated this 
 exercise. He proposed to his new friends that they 
 should try who could descend the quickest, and make 
 the fewest possible deviations from the perpendicular. 
 One of them was to look on, and decide upon the 
 respective merits of the three candidates, whilst 
 Clemence and Isabelle wove garlands of flowers and 
 ivy with which to crown the conqueror. 
 
 " I will be judge," said Jerome. 
 
 " All right," replied Arthur ; " I really must go 
 the first time. Afterwards I will take my part in 
 the drudgery, for I must do you the honors of my 
 tower." 
 
 Jerome seated himself on a stone in the centre of 
 the platform. 
 
 " You cannot possibly see us from there," cried 
 Robert ; " stand on the wall, you will find it much 
 better."
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 71 
 
 " I shall see you very well from here." 
 
 " It is not possible ; unless you lean quite over 
 the edge, you will not see which of us gets down the 
 quickest." But Jerome was immovable, and Robert, 
 rinding that the others were about to take the lead, 
 rushed after them. 
 
 The three boys soon returned from their perilous 
 expedition without other accident than a few rents, 
 and a few scratches. 
 
 "Now, Jerome, it is your turn;" cried Arthur, 
 rather elated at the advantage practice had given him 
 over the new comers. 
 
 " Yes, yes, Jerome, it is your turn," said his cou- 
 sins ; " show us now what you can do." 
 
 The poor boy remained where he was, quite motion- 
 less, turning now very red, now pale. 
 
 " What can be the matter with him ? " exclaimed 
 Robert, who could not believe that he was afraid of 
 what he had found so easy. 
 
 " I dare not descend by the wall," said Jerdine, 
 who made a wonderful display of courage in thus 
 confessing his cowardice. 
 
 " Oh ! the muff, the coward ! " cried Robert ; 
 " he dares to say such a thing. I would take good care, 
 if I were in his place, that nobody knew it." 
 
 " Well, then, we will leave him," said Arthur, 
 rather disdainfully. " Let us start ; this time I give 
 you a minute's grace, and if you don't know how to 
 profit by it, you will be very stupid." 
 
 Arrived at the foot of the tower, the boys called 
 Jerome.
 
 72 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 " Come down, come down, valiant hero ! Come 
 and enjoy the honours you have merited, nimble 
 Achilles ! we are waiting to carry you in triumph." 
 
 For a moment there was no reply to these ironical 
 appeals. 
 
 " Do not let us torment him any more," said 
 Eugene, at last, showing more compassion than the 
 others. " Come down, Jerome ; we are waiting for 
 you to go back to the house." 
 
 Then they saw a very red and very flurried face 
 amongst the thick shrubs which concealed the top 
 of the tumble-down staircase. It advanced, then 
 receded, then again advanced. 
 
 " Come, be quick," they shouted from below. 
 
 " You see, he is still afraid," said Robert, in a low 
 voice. 
 
 " It is not possible ! " cried Arthur. " Jer6me, 
 why do you not come down ? " 
 
 " I dare not ; my head turns." 
 
 "Three cheers for our hero !" cried Robert, rush- 
 ing up the staircase. He seized him by the arm, 
 and compelled him to come down on all-fours, notwith- 
 standing his terror. 
 
 Poor Jerome ! Stunned by the storm of jokes that 
 had been poured upon him, he seated himself in a 
 quiet, retired nook, and wept bitterly. Surely it was 
 his old misfortune that had pursued him even here, 
 and rendered this day, which ought to have been so 
 happy, a day rife with poignant humiliation. The 
 other children had not spared him ; they had even
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 73 
 
 had tlie cruelty to weave a crown of leaves, and to 
 place it on his head in mockery. It was the drop 
 too much in his bitter cup. Slowly quitting the 
 joyous but foolish little troop, he went to bury himself 
 and his sorrows in the depths of the wood. 
 
 M. Herve and M. Gerard joined the children soon 
 afterwards. To their questions about Jerome, four 
 or five voices hastened to reply, and the accounts given 
 shone more by their extreme volubility than by 
 clearness of detail. M. Herve had some trouble in 
 obtaining a correct idea of the position of affairs. 
 When he did at length clearly comprehend it, he 
 told the children they had done very wrong to amuse 
 themselves at poor Jerome's expense. lie had always 
 been brought up in the city ; and it was not, there- 
 fore, surprising that he should be awkward at bodily 
 exercises, which more properly belonged to country- 
 life ; with a little encouragement he would, no doubt, 
 be able to conquer the timidity which raillery and 
 ridicule would render utterly insurmountable. 
 
 " Many men who have become celebrated for their 
 bravery," continued M. Herve, " were born with the 
 most inconceivable weaknesses natural cowardice, 
 and shrinking over which the strength of an in- 
 domitable will has triumphed. The only courage 
 necessary, or, indeed, of any real intrinsic value, is 
 moral courage, &h'd by its aid all the other kinds can 
 be acquired. I have known a man, who, in his 
 childhood, had been made quite ill by the sight of a 
 wound, and who had turned pale at the sight of a
 
 74 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 few drops of blood. When he said he wished to be 
 a surgeon, every body laughed at him. He was 
 resolved, however 5 for he was sensible of a calling 
 superior in strength to this instinctive repugnance. 
 The hope of alleviating suffering, gave him the 
 courage to confront it in his own person. He is 
 become one of the best surgeons in the army ; and 
 although he still turns pale at the moment of per- 
 forming an operation, his hand never trembles. 
 
 " Amongst those who have made a stepping-stone 
 of their natural infirmities, to raise themselves to a 
 degree of strength more real and far more worthy 
 of admiration than if it had been innate, I may 
 mention a name well-known to history, that of 
 Peter the Great, who was born with such an extreme 
 terror of water, that he could not cross a bridge 
 without almost fainting away. Any man of less 
 energy of purpose would have accepted this infirmity 
 as one accepts an illness ; but he did not take that 
 view of the case. It was this same Peter the Great, 
 who, in order to form the Russian fleet, became 
 himself a ship-builder, who repeatedly crossed the 
 Northern seas, and who passed, in short, half his 
 life upon that element to which he had such an 
 innate, but not invincible, antipathy." 
 
 The children had gathered round M. Herve. He, 
 spoke to them of many different kinds of courage, 
 which are not necessarily found united ; that of the 
 soldier on the battle-field ; that of the sailor striving 
 against the tempest ; of the fireman or the labourer
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 75 
 
 struggling against raging flames, at even more 
 imminent peril of his life ; lastly, of that less 
 striking courage, often ignored of men, which con- 
 sists in the accomplishment of duty on all occasions, 
 and under all circumstances, without regard to 
 the consequences. " Do your duty, whatever may 
 result, is a good motto," my children : " it is simple, 
 yet far grander than appears at first sight. I hope 
 you will each of you adopt it, and never allow your- 
 selves to be induced by a cowardly fear of blame or 
 punishment to deviate from the truth, or even to 
 evade it by silence." 
 
 These words entered Eugene's conscience like a 
 sharp sword. Oh, why had he given way first to 
 disobedience, then to dissimulation ? Why had he 
 entered on that road where it is so much more easy 
 to advance ten steps than to retrace one ? And now 
 it would be even more impossible than ever for him 
 to confess his fault, for his father had stigmatised it 
 as cowardice, and the very term made him quake 
 with shame. A thought occurred to him, could he 
 not, like the Knight of the Tower, relieve his con- 
 science by the infliction of some voluntary punish- 
 ment, of which he only should possess the secret ? 
 
 But something told him that the only real expia- 
 tion was the humble avowal of his guilt, and this he 
 shrunk from. When he had again become conscious 
 of what was passing around him, he heard the others 
 earnestly begging for a story. 
 
 " Oh, Papa, please do let us have one of your
 
 76 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 stories ! "We are all so fond of them. You don't 
 know how well papa tells a story, Arthur. Do, 
 Papa, sit down on this little mound at the foot of 
 the great chestnut, and we will place ourselves on 
 the grass around you." 
 
 " I am willing," said M. Herv^, after a moment's 
 thought, " at least if M. Gerard will kindly consent 
 to explain the cause of my prolonged absence at the 
 Castle : but I tell no stories unless Jerome is amongst 
 my auditory. Who will go and seek him ?" 
 
 " I," said Isabelle. " I will soon bring him." 
 In a few minutes the little group was complete, and 
 the narrator commenced.
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THE LITTLE CABIN BOY, A TRUE STORY. 
 
 SEVERAL years ago, the wife of a fisherman of 
 Quiberon, was left a widow, with four little children. 
 She did not lose her courage in view of her great 
 responsibilities, which henceforth she must bear 
 alone, nor did she give expression to her anguish by 
 loud cries and lamentations. Her heart was broken, 
 for she had been as happy as a wife may be, but she 
 had not lost her energy. She re-commenced her 
 labours the day after the interment, or rather she 
 never ceased to work. Grief itself allows no respite 
 to the poor. Death enters their houses, but brings 
 repose only for its victim. 
 
 On the evening of this day of trial, the poor 
 woman, seated alone near her little lamp, from time 
 to time, looked at the vacant place ; but she hastily 
 dried her tears, that her sight might not be dimmed 
 by them. 
 
 The four children slept, or at least she thought 
 they did, for no sound was heard but that of their 
 regular breathing, and the distinct monotonous 
 murmur of the rising tide.
 
 78 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 This voice of ocean, to which she had been accus- 
 tomed from her infancy, harmonized well with the 
 widow's thoughts. Whilst she listened she seemed 
 to live the past over again. How often had she 
 anxiously bent her ear to the sudden squalls, and to 
 the agitated waves, whilst expecting her husband's 
 return and now she expected no one had no one 
 to feel anxious about ! It seemed to her as if, until 
 this moment, she had not felt what it was to be 
 alone quite alone and for ever. Her heart failed 
 her, and thinking on Him who bears our sorrows, she 
 knelt and prayed. Whilst thus engaged, a little 
 arm was passed around her neck, a child's head 
 rested against her own, and Yvon, the eldest of her 
 sons, not yet eleven years old, whispered 
 
 " Mother, do not weep." 
 
 Yvon, unlike the other children, had not slept. 
 He, too, had listened to the low rustling of the 
 waves ; he, too, was sad at heart, when thinking of 
 the vacant place by the cottage hearth, and of the 
 boat that must be sold, together with the nets, be- 
 cause he was still too little and too weak to make 
 use of them. " Oh ! why am I not tall and strong," 
 said he to himself, " why can I not take my father's 
 place, and provide for my mother, instead of her 
 having to provide for me ? " 
 
 The mother blessed her child, for he had com- 
 forted her, and sent him back to bed. She soon 
 extinguished her lamp, and likewise sought the 
 repose which was so much needed to fit her for the
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 79 
 
 duties of the morrow. But it was long before either 
 slept. The mother dreamed of the past, the 
 child of the future. At length, Yvon turned him- 
 self upon his couch, rested his head upon his 
 folded arm, and fell asleep. He had formed a 
 resolution. 
 
 On the following day, he paid a visit to the 
 captain of a small merchant vessel, with whom his 
 father had been on friendly terms. He knew that 
 the schooner " La Reprise " was to set sail in a few 
 days, and he wished to ask the captain to take him 
 on board as cabin-boy. His request was at once 
 granted. Yvon was quick, hardy, and accustomed 
 to the sea, as, indeed, fishermen's children mostly 
 are. That it was an honest lad you might see at a 
 glance, as he looked at you with his great brown 
 eyes. The affair was soon settled then, and the per- 
 mission of his mother was all that was wanting to 
 complete the bargain. 
 
 This permission was less difficult to gain than 
 might have been supposed. Sailor's and fishermen's 
 wives looked upon their children as vowed to the 
 service from their infancy. Accustomed to a life of 
 hardship, and to all kinds of suffering, one addi- 
 tional trial does not frighten them. Nothing 
 strengthens the soul more than continual contact 
 with danger, especially of that which, whilst it calls 
 into action all that he has of energy, leaves man 
 bowed in the presence of Him who can alone com- 
 mand the raging winds, and say to the agitated
 
 80 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 waves, "Peace, be still!" The life of a true sailor 
 is a life of struggle and of prayer. It is a type of 
 what the life of all men should be. We do not say 
 that it is the case with all ; but those who under- 
 stand the true grandeur of their calling, derive 
 from it a strength, which, simple as it is, and un- 
 known even to themselves, becomes, in the hour of 
 trial, absolute heroism. 
 
 If you question the inhabitants of seaports, they 
 will tell you the tale of their dangers, their fatigues, 
 their miseries, and their misfortunes, in language so 
 simple and earnest, and so entirely without the 
 shadow of a complaint, that your hearts are touched 
 by it. 
 
 So Yvon left his home, and was two years absent. . 
 The captain was kind to him, and the crew of the 
 little vessel loved him. He sent all his earnings to 
 his mother. They were but small, yet the little sum 
 was a treasure in the eyes of the child, and in his 
 mother's view more precious still. 
 
 It was the month of December. The sloop navi- 
 gated the Mediterranean. It was one of those 
 dismal nights on which the light of the stars cannot 
 succeed in piercing the thickness of the fog. 
 
 During such nights as those, vessels often strike 
 against each other in the open sea, as persons are 
 apt to do in the dark narrow streets of a large 
 city. Suddenly, the little vessel was shaken by a 
 terrible concussion ; a large brig had struck it in 
 the darkness. The captain, not doubting for an
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 81 
 
 instant, that his sloop was about to founder and sink, 
 with all she contained, rushed on board the brig 
 which had caused his misfortune, and called on all 
 his crew to follow him. The sailors obeyed without 
 hesitation. The little cabin-boy, more alert than 
 any, was about to follow in his turn, when he per- 
 ceived a poor sick sailor, whom all had forgotten in 
 the peril of the moment. What was to be done ? 
 The miserable man had not the strength to rise, nor 
 Yvon to take him in his arms, but he had still less 
 the selfish courage to leave him there alone. 
 
 So he stayed, and the brig departed, and was soon 
 lost to him in the darkness. 
 
 Behold him there alone ! alone upon the wide sea, 
 in complete obscurity, with a poor sick sailor, who 
 inquired why he had not left him to die. He thought 
 of his poor widowed mother, whom he should never 
 see again, and who had still so much need of him. 
 But he would not despair ; the day would soon 
 dawn, and with it might come some means of safety. 
 The wind was in the north, and drove the little 
 vessel towards the coast of Spain, where, without 
 doubt, she would be dashed to pieces against the 
 rocks. The poor sailor, incapable of action, could 
 yet direct the child, who executed all the manoeuvres 
 with activity and precision. But what could he do, 
 alone and feeble as he was, to resist the power of the 
 gale ? He hoped that the brig would return, and 
 not leave them to an end so terrible. But of this 
 there was no question ; the brig tranquilly pursued 
 
 G
 
 82 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 her course to Marseilles. Night returned, a long 
 night, without moon, without stars, without light- 
 house, without hope. The poor child prays ! He is 
 very ignorant; but he knows that God is good that 
 He is powerful ; that He can save. It is all that is 
 needful to prevent his sinking into despair. On the 
 morning of the second day three vessels passed, at a 
 short distance from the sloop ; but they either did 
 not see or did not comprehend the signals of the little 
 cabin-boy. When they had passed by, the sea 
 seemed more sad and more deserted than ever. 
 
 Suddenly oh what joy the wind changed; it 
 blew from the south. In a few hours, if well directed, 
 the little vessel may be impelled towards the coast of 
 France enter one of its ports, and the two passen- 
 gers be saved ! Yes, if it is well directed, but who is 
 there to direct it ? A child cannot suffice for the 
 labour which four or five vigorous experienced 
 sailors could with difficulty accomplish ! 
 
 But Yvon does not stand to deliberate. The old 
 sailor has explained everything, and he has perfectly 
 understood. He ran from yard to yard, and unfurled 
 the sails which at first fell heavily, but were soon 
 filled by the wind. At length they were all spread, 
 like ihe wings of birds, and the light vessel began 
 to glide away rapidly over the waves towards the 
 coasts of France. 
 
 What a moment for Yvon ! When he could speak 
 it was to say, " O my mother ! " then he praised 
 and thanked his God.
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 83 
 
 The invalid was so exhausted by anguish, and by 
 the transition from fear to hope, that he had no 
 strength to congratulate his young companion. To- 
 wards evening the pilots of the little seaport town of 
 Agde, observed a vessel of which the rigging was in 
 disorder, and the sides bore evidence of having sus- 
 tained a rude shock. They soon perceived, to their 
 astonishment, that the vessel was unmanned. The 
 deck was deserted. A single boy, a cabin-boy, was 
 there to suffice for all the manoeuvres. A sailor re- 
 clining in a corner followed and directed his every 
 movement. They were amazed, they hastened to 
 the assistance of this slender crew, and the 
 child whom they questioned related all that had 
 passed without appearing to suspect that he had 
 done anything worthy of attention or approval. 
 
 Yvon had to present himself before a board of 
 trade to make his report as captain pro tern. He 
 did not utter a word of censure on the conduct 
 of those who had abandoned him ; he attributed to 
 the sick sailor all the honour of the skilful manage- 
 ment which had saved the vessel, and the testimo- 
 nials of esteem and approbation, which were lavished 
 on him on every side, seemed to touch his heart 
 without exciting it to pride. 
 
 " And his mother ?" asked several voices, when M. 
 Herve finally stopped. 
 
 " As you wish to know everything, I may tell you 
 that although his mother still lives by the labour of 
 her hands, she is no longer in misery thanks to the
 
 84 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 interest inspired by the generous conduct of her son. 
 You can fancy how proud she is of her * brave boy/ 
 although she thought it quite natural that he should 
 have done his duty." 
 
 " Is it true, then ?" asked Isabelle. 
 
 " Quite true, my child. I read this story a few 
 years ago in a newspaper, and have always meant to 
 tell it you. Our little cabin-boy, who was placed 
 at a marine school, is now not much older than 
 you are." 
 
 " What ! not older than we are ? and yet he has 
 already saved a man's life, to say nothing of his 
 own!" 
 
 " Yes. We may be pretty sure that a child like 
 that will, if God spares him, one day become a man, 
 and France has need of men, my children." 
 
 " But, papa," said Robert, " do not all boys become 
 men, when they grow up ?" 
 
 " It is possible to be a man in stature without being 
 one in character," replied M. Herve. " You will 
 understand that some day, my child, and will be a 
 true man, I hope." 
 
 " I should like better to be a gentleman," said 
 Je'rome, who had always heard a great distinction 
 made at home between these two classes of indivi- 
 duals, men and gentlemen ; and who was only aware, 
 for his own part, that one wore a blouse or a mended 
 coat, whilst the other figured in a new coat, accom- 
 panied by the indispensables of a beautiful neck-tie 
 and a pair of shining leather boots.
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 85 
 
 This declaration was received with a burst of 
 laughter, and poor Jerome, without knowing why 
 they were so amused, regretted having again drawn 
 attention on himself. But his uncle, imposing silence, 
 took the trouble to explain wherein his views were 
 defective ; and said, that, in wishing Robert might 
 become a man, he had meant one whom straightfor- 
 wardness of purpose, strength of will, and generosity 
 of character, made worthy of the name. 
 
 " I intend to be a sailor," said Robert. " It is a 
 fine life ! Just the thing for the courageous. Yes, 
 I intend to be a sailor, and an admiral." 
 
 " Gently, my boy. I have no objection to your 
 becoming an admiral, but you must not believe that 
 the beauty of life depends on this or on that external 
 condition. Life is always beautiful if it is conse- 
 crated to duty. It is not necessary to be abandoned 
 upon the ocean, like the little cabin-boy, in order to 
 give evidence of courage and fidelity. 
 
 " A child who obeys the dictates of his conscience 
 may daily perform some act of self-renunciation 
 nothing heroic or likely to gain for him great praise, 
 but which will not be without its price in the eyes of 
 that God who reads the heart. He who accustoms 
 himself to be thus faithful in little things whilst he 
 is a child, prepares himself to be faithful in greater 
 things when he shall have become a man."
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 A SAD CLOSE TO A HAPPY DAY. 
 
 BEFORE the dinner-bell summoned the party to the 
 Castle, the little people had become thoughtful and 
 serious. It was quite dark when they left the table ; 
 for the days are short in September. 
 
 The stars were shining behind the chestnut trees 
 in the park ; and in so pure a sky that even the 
 palest amongst them was distinctly visible. The 
 groups of trees scattered here and there, had an 
 appearance quite fantastic. Madame d'Ermance 
 wrapped herself up in several shawls, and declared 
 that, although the evening was a little cool, she 
 would not deprive her guests of the pleasure of pas- 
 sing it in the open air. So they seated themselves 
 before the drawing-room window. 
 
 On either side of the wide lawn, serpentine walks 
 wound amidst the grass and flower-beds, and lost 
 themselves in a little wood situated at about three 
 minutes' distance from the Castle. 
 
 "I have a game to propose to you," said M. 
 Gerard to the children. " It is that each of you, 
 one after the other, should walk slowly round the
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 87 
 
 lawn, setting out from the right-hand side, passing 
 through the little wood, and returning on the left. 
 He who is longest absent will obtain the prize of 
 courage. 
 
 " yes, yes ! that's delightful ! It will be such 
 fun," cried the children. 
 
 " I will go first," said Arthur. 
 
 "No, we will.draw lots." 
 
 M. Gerard presented four pieces of grass of 
 different lengths to the four little boys. Each took 
 one. Robert's was the longest. He set off at a 
 moderate pace ; but they heard him quicken his steps 
 as he entered the wood, and when he reappeared in. 
 the walk on the left, he was running as if he had 
 a legion of enemies at his heels. He fell on the 
 garden-bench on which M. Gerard was sitting, com- 
 pletely out of breath. 
 
 That gentleman looked at his watch, and smiled. 
 
 " Four minutes," said he, " and even then I give 
 you good measure. You will have the prize of 
 celerity, but not that of courage, Mr. Admiral ! 
 Whatever can have induced you to run at this head- 
 long speed without regard to your future dignities ?" 
 
 Robert did not reply. He was evidently a little 
 vexed ; for he was more anxious than any of them 
 to acquire a reputation for courage. Drawing aside 
 his brother, who was about to follow him, he whis- 
 pered in his ear : 
 
 " When you reach the entrance to the little wood, 
 look carefully as far as you can see on the right-hand."
 
 '88 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 But little reassured by this mysterious caution, 
 Eugene set out, his heart beating violently. When 
 he had passed the first clump of trees which sepa- 
 rated him from the party assembled on the terrace, 
 he lacked the courage to advance further. Making, 
 however, a violent effort over himself, he entered a 
 covered pathway, without looking to the right or 
 left, then he stopped, hesitated, looked behind him. 
 A slight crackling was heard amongst the branches. 
 He could stand no more. With a loud cry, he 
 turned back, and soon after fell helplessly into 
 the seat he had., left, where he was received with 
 peals of laughter. 
 
 "Better and better," said M. Gerard. " Now it 
 is your turn, Arthur, and afterwards it will be 
 Jerome's." 
 
 " Oh, Jerome will, no doubt, ask to be excused/' 
 
 " Why so ? I excuse no one without good reason. 
 Now, Arthur, gather up all your stock of mental 
 energy." 
 
 Arthur went away, looking rather proud ; but he 
 lost a little of his assurance on seeing himself sepa- 
 rated from all human beings by the entire width of 
 the lawn, which seemed to have taken the most 
 gigantic proportions, and by the clump of trees which 
 threw their dark shadows over his path. On crossing 
 the wood, he ran almost as fast as Robert had done ; 
 but when he approached the terrace, and could again 
 distinguish the sound of voices, he slackened his 
 speed, although his heart was beating violently.
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 89 
 
 " Five minutes and a half," said M. Gerard ; " we 
 are making progress. Now, Jerome." 
 
 To every one's extreme astonishment, Jerome made 
 not the slightest objection, and slowly commenced 
 his journey. 
 
 " Ah," said Arthur, laughing, " he walks like a 
 senator, but wait till he is at the second turn of the 
 path ; then, I fancy, the senator will be changed 
 into a hare." 
 
 They listened attentively for some indication of 
 the transformation predicted by Arthur, but the 
 sound of steps was always perfectly equal, until it 
 lost itself in the distance. Five minutes were gone, 
 and no Jerome. 
 
 " No doubt he has fainted with fear at the foot of 
 a tree," said Arthur. 
 
 " There he is ! " cried Robert. 
 
 "No; it is only a branch shaken by the wind. 
 What can have become of him ?" 
 
 Five minutes more, and they heard the sound of 
 footsteps. Jerome at length appeared. He approached 
 without seeming in the least elated by his triumph. 
 
 " I think there are some robbers in the kitchen- 
 garden,'' said he, quietly, and in a low voice, to M. 
 Gerard. " Is it not the kitchen- garden which is 
 behind that wall down there ? " 
 
 " Yes," said M. Gerard ; " but what is your reason 
 for thinking there are robbers there ?" 
 
 " I heard some voices whispering together, and 
 the sound of branches breaking amongst the espaliers.
 
 90 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 I recollected what was said at breakfast this morning, 
 and have no doubt whatever that the thieves are 
 come back again." 
 
 At this moment, a loud noise was heard in the 
 same direction as that indicated by Jerome. Furious 
 barkings, and cries of lamentation, mingled with the 
 sound of an angry voice. The kitchen- garden, the 
 wall of which ran along one side of the lawn, could 
 only be entered by the inner court of the Castle. 
 Every one arose quickly, and ran in that direction. 
 It was such a beautiful evening that no one had 
 thought of lighting the lamps. It was, therefore, in 
 perfect darkness that they all assembled in the grand 
 entrance. 
 
 " Here he is ! here he is ! the rogue, the thief, the 
 little villain ! " cried a voice, recognized by Madame 
 d'Ermance as that of the old gardener. "We have 
 taken him at last in the very act, though he did 
 escape us twice. He thought it was too dark to see 
 him, and hoped to escape again, and that my brave 
 Vigilant would not be let loose ; but when his sight 
 plays a body false, he trusts to his ears, and mine 
 were on the alert this time. Here he is, taken at 
 last, the little vagabond, and we'll see if he's worth 
 the cord to hang him with." 
 
 The old gardener, whose self-esteem had been 
 severely troubled by the two blots that had fallen 
 upon his reputation for -vigilance, spoke so loud and 
 with so much vehemence, that it was impossible to 
 gain his ear.
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 91 
 
 " A light !" cried Madame d'Ermance, "we want 
 a light. How is it nobody has thought of bringing 
 us one ?" 
 
 Whilst Benedict ran to find a lamp, one of the 
 grooms brought the lanthorn he had used to look 
 after the horses. Its feeble light illumined but 
 a small part of the vast hall, but fell upon the 
 features of the little boy, whom the old gardener 
 held fast collared, and whom he shook roughly 
 whilst he spoke. Every one was surprised on 
 seeing the little robber's lovely face. He was fair 
 and delicate, and his large eyes expressed shame 
 and terror. 
 
 " Poor child !" 
 
 This was the common exclamation. 
 
 On recognising Julien whom he had fully expected 
 to see, Eugene involuntarily drew back a few steps. 
 He was afraid of what might happen, and would 
 have liked the litttle boy not to see him. 
 
 " Oh," said Julien struggling, " do not squeeze me 
 so tightly. Let me go. I will tell all. It was not 
 for myself. I did not wish to steal." 
 
 " Likely enough ! You will find that it is out of friend- 
 ship that the little beggar has robbed us," said the 
 old gardener, without relinquishing his hold ; " but 
 it's hard to swallow all the same." 
 
 " I should not be astonished if this little one has 
 played the part of Bertrand with the roasted chest- 
 nuts," said M. Gerard ; "listen to what he has to say in 
 his own defence. "
 
 92 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 Julien raised his head on hearing these words, 
 which seemed less cruel, and his eyes met those of 
 Eugene, who was half hidden behind his father. He 
 knew him at once. 
 
 " Ah," said he, " there is one who knows all about 
 it ; he can tell you if I say the truth." 
 
 " Who, then ?" said M. Gerard, much astonished 
 that amongst the persons present, there should be 
 one to whom such an appeal could be addressed. 
 
 " He !" repeated Julien, pointing to Eugene, who 
 felt ready to sink into the earth. 
 
 " How can that be ?" asked M. Herve, sternly. 
 " Speak, Eugene ! What connection is there between 
 you and this child ?' 
 
 Eugene did not answer. 
 
 " He was there when the others threatened to tell 
 my father if I would not go with them to steal ; 
 he knows that I did not want to steal ; but they 
 forced me to. He heard it all." 
 
 " What did you hear ? Speak, Eugene," repeated 
 M. Herve. 
 
 There was no longer any possibility of escape. 
 Eugene felt his heart fail him in presence of all the 
 looks of astonishment and curiosity that were 
 fastened upon him. Alas! was it to earn such 
 shame as this that he had so long concealed his fault 
 and carried the load of a troubled conscience. In the 
 midst of his distress a ray of joy crossed his mind. 
 He was going to be freed from the burden which 
 otherwise he would never have had the courage to
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 93 
 
 cast off. This thought encouraged him to speak ; he 
 felt it just that the cowardice which had prevented 
 an open avowal to his father of his disobedience, and 
 its consequences, should be punished by a public 
 humiliation, and he began this explanation in a low 
 but distinct voice. 
 
 M. Herve listened to the end without interrupting 
 him then he told him to go and await him in the 
 carriage, to which they would at once harness the 
 horses. He then entered the drawing room with 
 Madame d'Ermance. 
 
 " The poor child has been guilty of a very trifling 
 fault," said she, more, no doubt, from politeness 
 than from conviction. "I hope, sir, you will not 
 punish him severely." 
 
 " Madame," replied M. Herve, in a grave, sorrow- 
 ful tone, "it is the first time that my son has told a 
 lie, and that he has been guilty of a base action. I 
 cannot consider it as a slight fault." 
 
 " We bid you adieu, thanking you for this day, the 
 sad ending of which will not efface the remembrance 
 of the pleasures we have enjoyed. By your permission, 
 I will take with me the little boy whom your old 
 gardener would gladly see in the hands of justice. 
 It will be better to deliver him to his father, who, to 
 judge from what little I have seen of him, will not 
 err on the side of mercy. Their house is not far out 
 of our road. I will try to make him understand 
 that the child is less guilty than might appear, since 
 he has been led on, and, indeed, constrained to do
 
 94 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 wrong by two boys, older and stronger than him- 
 self." 
 
 Thereupon they parted sorrowfully, and M. Herve 
 entered the carriage with Julien, who sighed heavily, 
 and four of the children ; Robert climbing into his 
 favourite seat by the driver.
 
 95 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 A NIGHT SCENE. 
 
 M. HEE.V had desired the coachman to stop at a 
 little distance from the Sapiniere. He alighted there 
 with Eugene and Julien, and told the others they 
 must wait for him. 
 
 It was not very late, for the recent events of the 
 evening had passed quickly ; yet there was no light 
 in the gloomy-looking house, and they had to find 
 the door by feeling. M. Herve was obliged to knock 
 many times ; at length a noise was heard in the 
 house, and a voice exclaimed 
 
 " What do you want ?" 
 
 " I am M. Herve, and am bringing back your 
 son," replied the nocturnal visitor. 
 
 "My son !" was the answer, and the door quickly 
 opened. 
 
 The little lamp held by Guillaumin shook in his 
 trembling hand as he sought to obtain a glance at 
 the countenance of his three guests. He was very 
 pale, and appeared to control some strong emotion. 
 "When he had recognized Julien's dismal counte- 
 nance, he was hanging down his head he ap-
 
 96 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 peared sadly surprised, as if he had expected some- 
 thing else ; but, without saying a word, he seized the 
 child by the arm, and thrust him into the house ; 
 then turning towards M. Herve 
 
 " I do not ask any explanation, sir. The return 
 of my son at this late hour when I believed him to 
 be fast asleep, is of itself sufficient. I thank you for 
 having brought him back to me. Pardon me if I 
 receive you badly. There are moments in a man's 
 life, when he has not the heart to be polite." 
 
 And he prepared to shut the door, but this M. 
 Herve prevented. 
 
 " No, you do not know all you ought to know. 
 Let me tell you. Your unhappy son was taken at 
 the castle d'Ermance robbing the espaliers." 
 
 "Thief!" said the father, with an expression of 
 anguish, and as if the word had escaped his lips in 
 spite of himself " I suspected so." 
 
 " He has been led on by some good-for-nothing 
 fellows, older and stronger than himself, who have 
 constrained and intimidated him, and then left him 
 alone in the moment of danger. He is young ; he 
 may repent and return to the right way, if terror 
 does not destroy all his force of character. Have 
 pity on him. Be merciful to your child !" 
 
 M. Herve had drawn Guillaumin aside, so that their 
 conversation might not be overheard by Julien, who 
 seemed stupified by fear. Eugene was trembling 
 from head to foot. 
 
 " I know what I have to do, sir," said Guillaumin.
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 97 
 
 " I ask advice of no one ; and nobody has a right to 
 proffer it." 
 
 " Still I beg of you, have mercy ; remember how 
 merciful God is to us. It is by love he breaks the 
 hearts of sinners, not by anger." 
 
 " Enough, sir. I thank you again for the service 
 you have rendered me ; as for your advice, I have 
 already said it was not asked." 
 
 The door closed with these words. M. Herve and 
 Eugene were alone in the darkness. They listened 
 for a moment but heard nothing, excepting voices 
 speaking very low. 
 
 M. Herve then took Eugene's hand, and walked 
 quickly away. When they reached the turning of 
 the little path which led from the Sapiniere to the 
 high road, a long piercing cry was heard Eugene 
 nestled closer to his father. 
 
 " Oh papa ! he has killed him !" 
 " No, my boy, no, the man is severe and unmer- 
 ciful, but he is not wicked. I will see him again 
 to-morrow. May God have pity on these poor people ! 
 There is nothing so cruel as to see one's child en- 
 gaged in a course of infamy and so young." 
 " Oh papa ! when I think " 
 Eugene's sentence was finished by a sigh. 
 " I understand, my child. Yes, with a little more 
 courage, you might have prevented this boy's be- 
 coming a thief. You ought to bear your part of his 
 fault, and of his shame." 
 
 " And I too, papa I have had a lie upon my 
 H
 
 98 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 conscience for many days. Oh if you knew how un- 
 happy it has made me ! To-day, and also during 
 our shooting excursion I managed to amuse myself 
 to forget, but the misery soon returned again, and I 
 was only gay while I could stifle it. Oh, I do hope 
 I shall never tell another lie all my life long." 
 
 " You have given yourself a lesson, my child; now 
 you know how necessary it is to watch and pray lest 
 you fall into temptation. Come into my study be- 
 fore you go to bed. I have something further to say 
 to you," 
 
 "Poor Julien," thought Eugene, "if his father had 
 been like mine, most likely he would not have de- 
 ceived him. How could I deceive him ?" 
 
 Madame Herv^ was still in the drawing room 
 when they reached home. She addressed a few 
 questions to the children respecting the pleasures of 
 the day; but soon perceiving that Eugene had not 
 his usual happy expression, she embraced the others, 
 recommended them to go quickly to bed, and de- 
 tained Eugene by her side. 
 
 Eugene knelt down by the sofa, rested his head 
 upon her shoulder, and whispered 
 
 " Mamma, I have been deceiving you for several 
 
 "Eugene!" exclaimed Madame Herve, greatly 
 agitated, " my child, is it possible ! I had such 
 merit trust in you !" 
 
 " Oh forgive me, mamma, I have been so un- 
 happy."
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 99 
 
 And lie told her all. His mother listened in 
 silence, then placing her hand upon his head, she 
 said 
 
 "My poor child!" 
 
 A tear fell on the little boy's forehead. 
 
 No reproach, however severe, could have had such 
 an effect upon him, as had that drop from his mo- 
 ther's eye. On quitting her, he went to his father in 
 the study, who explained to him how much worse his 
 conduct had been, because of the great confidence 
 that was reposed in him. 
 
 " I had hoped your lips would always remain free 
 from lying, and your heart from deceit," added 
 M. Herve. " It can be so no longer. But, may God, 
 who knows how to bring good out of evil, permit 
 that this fault may be a salutary humiliation for you. 
 You see that sin is at the door, and that we cannot 
 keep ourselves for we fall even before we are con- 
 scious of the danger. May this, your first experience 
 of the bitterness of sin, cause you to cling very closely, 
 my child, to Him who has alone known it in its full 
 intensity, having emptied the cup to the very dregs, 
 and yet He was Himself pure and without spot. 
 Pray to Him, love Him. He loved you upon the 
 cross. He suffered, that your sins might be forgiven 
 you." 
 
 Eugene was overcome by his father's words. 
 Often had he heard before of the Saviour's love, 
 but not with the same feelings. Now that his fall 
 had humbled him, his indifference was overcome.
 
 100 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 The suffering and the love of Christ seemed now , 
 living realities, an dpenetrated to his very soul. 
 Eugene's heart was touched, and very sincere 
 was the resolution which he formed in that 
 moment, that he would never again pass a single 
 day without prayer. The father and child knelt 
 together, a simple but earnest petition was offered 
 then Eugene embraced his father and retired to 
 rest. 
 
 During this time a very different scene had been 
 enacting at the Sapiniere. Guillaumin had scarcely 
 waited until the strangers were out of hearing, be- 
 fore he turned towards Julien, who stood trembling 
 before him, but whom he had till then not even 
 looked at. 
 
 " Miserable liar ! miserable thief ! shame of thy 
 father ! " said he, in a low measured tone, which re- 
 sembled the rumbling of distant thunder. 
 . Then he fastened him securely upon the oaken 
 table in the middle of the kitchen, and, taking 
 his horse-whip, began to flog him severely but 
 though his hand showed no pity, anger did not make 
 it tremble. Julien screamed fearfully. His poor 
 mother, who had heard everything, and who could 
 not but acknowledge that her own weakness was 
 much to be blamed as the cause of the child's faults, 
 knowing how useless it would be to try to avert the 
 impending storm, at first attempted by covering her 
 head with the bed-clothes, to shut from her ears the 
 cries that pierced her to the heart; but they reached
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 101 
 
 her still, and almost beside herself, agony having 
 triumphed over the fear with which her husband 
 inspired her, she slipped out of bed and appeared 
 standing, pale as death, at the opened door. 
 
 " Enough ! enough ! " cried she. " I can bear it 
 no longer. Do you wish to kill your child ?" 
 
 " He won't die of it ;" replied Guillaumin. " But 
 it would be much better for him to die now, than to 
 live a life of shame and crime." 
 
 And he again raised his arm to strike, but his wife 
 rushed upon him and prevented its descent. 
 
 Then he turned, with so severe an air, that she 
 retreated in terror. 
 
 " Get thee behind me ! " said he. " Is it not you, 
 his mother, who are ruining this child by your weak- 
 ness, and by your lies. You will have to answer for 
 this soul before God. Let me, at least, try to save 
 him, if there be yet time. It is enough that you 
 have ruined one of my sons my first-born he whom 
 I loved as the apple of my eye." 
 
 On pronouncing these last words, which would 
 come, although he tried to keep them back, this man, 
 who looked so strong and hard, was seized with such 
 a violent trembling, that he let fall his whip, and 
 was obliged to seat himself. 
 
 Julien screamed no longer. After a moment's 
 silence, broken only by the groans of the child, and 
 the half-stifled sobs of his mother, Guillaumin arose, 
 unfastened the poor boy, and carried him, without a 
 word, into a room which was usually unoccupied,
 
 102 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 where he placed him on an old mattrass, the only 
 piece of furniture there was ; locked the door, put 
 the key in his pocket, and went down stairs. His 
 wife had again sought her couch. Guillaumin opened 
 the house-door and closed it after him, then he 
 walked with rapid steps into the silent Country, over 
 which the peaceful moon shed her gentle light, as 
 she slowly rose in the pure heavens, and seemed to 
 regard her sister earth with the tenderness and com- 
 passion of a celestial being, mourning over a troubled, 
 agitated, and guilty one. 
 
 What said the silence and peace of night to this 
 hard proud heart severe for himself, it is true, but 
 so little compassionate towards others ? What could 
 they say to him ? If he could have understood their 
 language, they would have spoken of pardon and of 
 mercy. But he understood it not, and, therefore, 
 abandoned himself to those bitter memories which 
 present griefs had so powerfully awakened. 
 
 What a difference between the feelings of irritation 
 with which he thought of his guilty child, and those 
 that filled the hearts of Eugene's parents, as they 
 knelt together that very evening to ask of God par- 
 don for their child, and strength to avoid transgres- 
 sion. The whole of this beautiful summer night, so 
 gloriously bright above him, so dark within, was 
 passed by Guillaumin in pacing with hurried tread 
 the meadows around his dwelling. He looked hag- 
 gard and worn when he entered it the next morning. 
 He took his accustomed meal without addressing a
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 103 
 
 single word either to his wife or to Gaspard, who 
 looked almost as wretched as himself. After having 
 carried a piece of bread and a glass of water to 
 the little prisoner, which he placed by his side 
 without awakening him, he left the house with his 
 elder son. 
 
 At an early hour, M. Herve turned his steps to- 
 wards the Sapiniere. He was anxious to know what 
 had passed there the profound silence which reigned 
 in the neighbourhood of the house, only half re- 
 assured him. The little blind girl busied herself in 
 the kitchen, obeying the commands given by her 
 mother in a voice scarcely audible, with her accus- 
 tomed alacrity. Poor little thing ! she looked even 
 more sad than usual. 
 
 She had listened whilst in bed to the terrible wail- 
 ings of the past night, and to her in her two-fold 
 darkness, the scene had borne an aspect of inde- 
 scribable horror. M. Herve apologized for his early 
 visit with as much politeness as if he had been speak- 
 ing to a lady, and said he came to enquire after the 
 poor little fellow whom he had brought home last 
 evening. 
 
 He spoke of him with so much interest, dwelling 
 upon the circumstances which extenuated his fault, 
 whilst not seeking to diminish its real enormi- 
 ty, that the mother felt constrained to open her 
 heart to him : her poor oppressed, bruised, wounded 
 heart ! 
 
 " I know I am much more guilty than the child,"
 
 104 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 said she. " I so much dreaded the consequences of 
 his father's severity, that I have helped him to con- 
 ceal his acts of disobedience. I never told a lie for 
 myself; hut I have done it for my boy. Gaspard was 
 right in saying it was my weakness that had ruined 
 him and now it is too late to blot out, to repair ^he 
 evil is done ; I have been the ruin of my child! " 
 
 " Do not say so," said M. Herve, " it is not too late, 
 and your child is not yet lost to you. Turn towards 
 Him who can repair the evil towards Jesus Christ, 
 for whom it is never too late ! " 
 
 The poor woman wept ; but without appearing to 
 find either hope or consolation. 
 
 M. Herve was about to speak again when she in- 
 terrupted him. 
 
 " Oh ! it is because you do not know," said she, 
 " you do not know all, or you would not speak to me 
 in that way. Ah, sir ! you look so kind ; I think it 
 would do me good to tell you everything, if you 
 would listen. It is so very long since I spoke to any- 
 body in the world of my poor Marcel of my first- 
 born ! My husband will not allow any one to pro- 
 nounce his name." 
 
 " What ? Gaspard is not your eldest son !/' said M. 
 nerve", who foresaw the probable explanation of all 
 that had appeared so strange to him in the family of 
 the Sapiniere. 
 
 " No ! would to God he were ! and yet if you only 
 knew how handsome and intelligent our Marcel was, 
 how proud I was of him when he was a child. Ah,
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 105 
 
 sir! who could believe that these little creatures, 
 which we receive as angels of the good God, could 
 bring us so much misery ! ", 
 
 " Well, let me hear,"- said M. Herve.
 
 106 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE HISTORY. 
 
 " MY husband was not always so severe as he is 
 now," said the poor woman ; " but I have never 
 known him other than the most conscientious and 
 upright of men. For many years our life was a 
 very happy one. Our children were talented, and 
 the easy position we occupied permitted us to give 
 them a good education. My husband was cashier in 
 a mercantile house, and enjoyed the entire confidence 
 of his employers. We had only one sorrow, our 
 little Esther was born blind ; but she was so sweet- 
 tempered and amiable that no one could suppose her 
 to be unhappy. 
 
 " It is true, Marcel, our eldest, gave us a little 
 trouble ; his father thought him giddy, and often 
 said he had no just ideas of duty. For myself, I 
 was less severe. He was so amiable, so affectionate, 
 and always at the head of his class ! My pride was 
 flattered ; I have been severely punished ! 
 
 " My husband did not understand the easy dis- 
 position that was a perpetual snare. When he 
 found that Marcel had done anything wrong, he
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE 107 
 
 spoke to him so harshly that the boy was frightened, 
 and did all he could to hide himself from his father. 
 I have often seen him tremble on hearing his voice, 
 or the sound of his approaching footsteps. This 
 terror caused him to flee the house ; he was only 
 happy when he was away. 
 
 " One day oh ! never shall I forget that day on 
 which I took my first fatal downward step Marcel 
 owned to me that he had fallen into debt, and said 
 he dared not tell his father, he was so severe towards 
 him. I gave him all the money I possessed, but 
 made him promise not to look to me again. He not 
 only did so, however, but acquired a habit of doing 
 so. Every farthing that I could save from the 
 housekeeping, or from my own personal expenses, 
 was given to Marcel without the knowledge of his 
 father. He had always some good reason by which 
 to explain away my fears ; and I did not think him 
 capable of deceiving me." 
 
 " How could you imagine that your son, habitually 
 accustomed to deceive his father, should hesitate to 
 deceive you also whenever it answered his purpose?" 
 asked M. Herve\ 
 
 " Yes, that is true, I understand it now ; but I 
 was blinded by my tenderness. And when one has 
 made one false step, it is so difficult to go back. 
 Well, sir, I approach the most terrible part of our 
 history. For several days, Marcel, who had attained 
 his eighteenth year, struck me as being sad and 
 harassed. I asked him many times to tell me what
 
 108 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 was the matter, but he said I could do nothing in it, 
 and begged I would leave him alone. Then the 
 moment after having repulsed me thus rudely, he 
 threw his arm round me, and murmured, 'Poor 
 mother !' I was certain that something lay heavy 
 on his heart, but could not win his confidence. 
 
 " One night I could not sleep ; suddenly I heard 
 a sound as if of some one walking quietly and 
 cautiously in the room above, where Marcel slept. 
 I arose without making the slightest noise, lighted 
 my lamp, and met Marcel on the staircase. He 
 looked troubled, and even more annoyed than 
 troubled, on seeing me, and reproached me with 
 watching him. 
 
 " ' Is it thus you speak of a mother's anxious 
 solicitude for her child, Marcel ?' 
 
 He seemed sorry. 
 
 " ' Go back, mother,' said he, ' my father will 
 notice your absence. I am not going to do anything 
 wrong, only to amuse myself a little. Young people 
 must have a little pleasure. My father is so severe ; 
 if he were not so, I would not deceive him.' 
 
 " ' Where are you going ?' I demanded with in- 
 creased earnestness. 
 
 " ' To the house of one of my friends. I assure 
 you we are not going to do anything wrong ; but 
 you must let me go.' 
 
 " In vain I begged him to relinquish his project. 
 I heard him descend, open the street door, of which 
 he had procured a second key, and close it. A heavy
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 109 
 
 weight had fallen on my heart. I crept back to bed ; 
 but my husband was awake, and asked me why I 
 had risen. 
 
 " ' I thought I heard a noise in the children's 
 room.' 
 
 " ' "Well, is anything the matter/ he enquired 
 anxiously. 
 
 " ' No, no,' I replied quickly, fearing he would go 
 up to see for himself, ' everything is quiet, and they 
 are sound asleep ; it would be a pity to awaken 
 them.' 
 
 " As to myself I could not sleep until towards 
 morning now I reproached myself with weakness 
 and culpability in thus aiding my son to deceive his 
 father now I accused solely the exaggerated severity 
 of my husband. 
 
 " It was not the last time that Marcel left the 
 house when his father believed him to be asleep. I 
 always heard him ; but took good care to keep out of 
 the way, thinking it best to ignore what I could 
 neither approve nor prevent. So things went on for 
 six months. Marcel had not asked me for money 
 for some time, and I tried to force myself to believe, 
 that he only amused himself in an honest way, when 
 he left the house ; and yet something continually 
 whispered to me that it was not so. 
 
 " One evening my husband brought home a large 
 sum of money. He was, as I have told you, cashier 
 in a mercantile house, and his patron had asked him 
 to settle an account early next morning, before he
 
 110 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 returned to the counting-house. We believed that 
 no one had seen him deposit the money in his secre- 
 taire. When he sought it there next morning, it 
 had entirely disappeared. 
 
 " My husband at first suspected the servant, who 
 had not been long with us, and with whom we were 
 not quite satisfied. 
 
 " Another thought, a terrible suspicion, passed 
 through my mind, but nothing in the world would 
 have tempted me to speak of it. The servant was 
 soon cleared. Then my husband paced the room 
 with a look of anguish, 
 
 " * Anna/ said he, turning towards me suddenly, 
 with a voice that made me shudder, ' if you suspect 
 anybody, say so !' 
 
 " I felt myself become pale as death. I tried to 
 answer, but had no voice ; at last I said : 
 
 " ' No one, no one in the world, but it will be better 
 to replace the money than to draw attention to an 
 affair, that we may never be able to explain.' 
 
 " Then, for the first time, he looked -upon me with 
 suspicion ; he has often done so since. 
 
 " ' If you know anything, say so,' he repeated. 
 
 " I replied that I knew nothing ; and it was true ! 
 After a pause, he said deliberately : 
 
 " ' Well then, I suspect Marcel.' 
 
 " It was impossible for me to defend the lad ; I 
 did more than suspect him ; although I had no proof 
 of his guilt, I was certain it was he. 
 
 " ' Where is he ?' asked my husband, ' go and 
 fetch him.'
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. Ill 
 
 " I went up to Marcel's room, he had just come 
 in, it had rained heavily, he was wet through, and 
 his boots were covered with mud. He was very pale, 
 and his hair was all in disorder. 
 
 " I told him his father wished to speak to him. 
 He understood it all, and looked me in the face, 
 despair was written in his eye and it terrified me. 
 
 " ' I have been gambling, and have lost all ! If I 
 had gained, I should have replaced the money in the 
 desk, and my father would never have known any- 
 thing about it. I should have paid my debts, and 
 renounced a way of life that I detest. I should have 
 passed for an honest man. Now it is too late ! I 
 am ruined, dishonoured, condemned to a life of 
 shame and wickedness, if my father will not save 
 me from it, will he ?' 
 
 " I implored him not to lose all hope. I told him 
 that perhaps his father would replace the money, 
 that he should work hard, and repay it to him ; that 
 he could still lead an honest life. He shook his 
 head. 
 
 " 'You do not know him,' said he. 'I will go, 
 yes, I will go ; But I have no hope that he will have 
 pity upon me !' 
 
 " He went down stairs with unsteady steps, and 
 entered his father's study. 
 
 " My husband, who was still pacing the room, 
 stopped short : he thought he was come to deny his 
 guilt. But Marcel said with half stifled voice : 
 
 " f Father, it was I who took the money. I knew
 
 112 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 it was not yours ; but I hoped to be able to replace 
 it this morning in your desk. I have lost it ! ' 
 
 " ' And you are nothing more nor less than a thief/ 
 said my husband, whose anger was aroused by what 
 he considered mere bravado. ' Get out of my house, 
 and let me never see you again. It is enough that 
 you should have dishonoured a name hitherto un- 
 blemished.' 
 
 " ' Father, will you ruin me for ever ?' asked the 
 poor boy in anguish that went to my heart, ' will 
 you have no pity ?' 
 
 " ' No, no pity for a thief ! shame to whom shame ^ 
 belongs, contempt to whom contempt. Get out of ^ 
 my sight, I say ! You are no longer my son !' 
 
 " ' Father,' said Marcel ; and this time with an 
 energy and power that surprised me, ' you may 
 call me your son no longer ; but God will 
 none the less call you to account for what you 
 have omitted to do to keep me from sin, and for 
 what you are now doing to cause me to sink into it 
 without remedy !' 
 
 " And he went out. I have never seen him since. 
 For a moment I thought his father was going to call 
 him back ; but it was only an involuntary emotion 
 that he soon overcame, and he forbade me to follow 
 him. I begged him to take my marriage portion, 
 which, although small, would have been amply 
 sufficient. 
 
 " I told him that a father ought not to abandon 
 his child to a life of shame and misery, for a first
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 113 
 
 fault, of which, he had not understood all the con- 
 sequences ; because he felt sure he should be able to 
 restore the money even before it had been missed. It 
 was of no use. My husband went to his employer, 
 told him in a few words what had passed, restored 
 the entire sum, by means of the dowry he would 
 not appropriate to save his son, tendered his resig- 
 nation of the post which was our only resource ; and 
 when he had done all that, he hastily realized a 
 little money by the sale of our furniture and 
 valuables, and we left the place with the rest of our 
 children. I afterwards learnt that his employer had 
 offered never to divulge the secret, saying that a 
 first fault was not irreparable, and that it was a duty 
 to give the offender a chance of recovering himself. 
 My husband refused all compromise, and replied by 
 the words which he seemed to take a bitter pleasure 
 in repeating : ' Shame to whom shame belongs/ 
 
 " Two years have passed since then, sir. We 
 have wandered from place to place, without settling 
 down anywhere ; it is a few weeks since our arrival 
 in this spot. I have been ill ever since our great 
 misfortune. I do not know what has become of my 
 child. I have lost my husband's confidence. I am 
 afraid that Julien will follow in his brother's footsteps, 
 and that his father will push him also to his ruin. 
 I have no more strength : no, no more strength. It 
 would be better both for me and for my family that 
 God should take me to Himself. I ask Him to do 
 so every day." 
 
 i
 
 114 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 " That is a prayer entirely contrary to His will," 
 said M. Herve, rather severely, though he looked so 
 kindly at the poor woman that she was not frightened. 
 " As long as God leaves you with your family, you 
 have a work to do for Him in it. Ask Him rather 
 to teach you what your work is, and to enable you 
 to do it. And then, believe me, you are wrong 
 to regret the past. An indulgence which had quieted 
 the conscience would have been utterly fatal; it 
 would have ruined your son irretrievably, whilst God 
 has most likely made use of the exceeding severity 
 that was displayed towards him to withdraw his feet 
 from the road to ruin. Have faith, faith in Him 
 who is come to seek that which is lost. Do you pray 
 to Him sometimes ?" 
 
 " Alas ! sir, it is long since I prayed. Sometimes, 
 in my distress, I say, My God ! My God ! and I 
 think He hears, but that is all." 
 
 " Do more ; God hears you, you may be sure of it. 
 Confide all your fears, your griefs, your weaknesses, 
 to Him. Speak to him of this son for whom you can 
 do nothing, and ask Him that if he is indeed lost to 
 you, he may be found and saved by Jesus. Tell Hin 
 too of the poor child to whom his father's severity 
 and your weakness may be equally fatal. And nov 
 that he has been arrested so early upon the down- 
 ward course, do all that in you lies to prevent hii 
 returning to sin ; and, above all, never on any account 
 aid him, either by your words or by your silence, fa 
 deceive his father."
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 115 
 
 And as he could see that his words of encourage- 
 ment had brought no ray of hope to the sad 
 thin features of the poor woman, M. Herve thought 
 it best to ask One more powerful than he, to speak 
 to, and to comfort her. He proposed to join with her 
 in prayer for her children. When he had finished, 
 her expression had altogether changed, and she 
 thanked him earnestly, but made no remark. 
 
 " I have perhaps done wrong to tell you all that," 
 she exclaimed, after a moment's silence, " but my 
 heart /was sore oppressed ! I needed a little sym- 
 pathy, and you are so good, sir. I do not regret 
 having told you. It seems to me that I shall be less 
 constantly pursued by the memory of that frightful 
 scene, now that I have been able to relate it to some 
 one." 
 
 M. Herve assured her that at any rate her secret 
 should be faithfully kept, and that she should have 
 no reason to regret having confided it to him. 
 
 He went away, reflecting deeply on what he had 
 just heard. It surprised him, that this woman, who 
 felt so strongly, who loved her children so tenderly, 
 and who seemed to understand all the evil that her 
 weakness had produced, and might still produce,- 
 should not have had the strength, after the first 
 terrible lesson that she had received, entirely to 
 renounce all dissimulation for ever. 
 
 But he remembered that she had not sought 
 assistance from Him who alone can give it, and was 
 surprised no longer.
 
 116 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 LAST HAPPY DAYS. 
 
 THERE was great joy in the house of the Professor. 
 M. Gerard, who took a lively interest in Jean Paul, 
 from having heard his father speak of his great talents, 
 had formed a secret plan, of which he had not 
 breathed a word to any one around him, which had 
 succeeded more quickly than he had ventured to 
 hope might he the case. Being very intimate with 
 the distinguished man to whose care he proposed 
 to confide Arthur, he had spoken to him of the 
 Professor's son as a youth so studious, persevering, 
 and gifted, tha.t it was truly deplorable, not only 
 on his own account, but also for the interests of 
 science, that he was absolutely prevented from con- 
 tinuing his studies. 
 
 M. Bertin, for it was the same gentleman who 
 had consented to receive Robert and Eugene, replied 
 to this letter by a proposition which seemed to pro- 
 mise everything that could be desired. His estab- 
 lishment was about to be augmented by several 
 fresh pupils ; and his son, who assisted him, being 
 no longer able to accomplish unaided the task 
 devolving upon him, M. Bertin proposed that Jean
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 117 
 
 Paul, notwithstanding his extreme youthfulness, 
 should take the oversight and hear the lessons of 
 the youngest class ; and he promised him, in return, 
 not only his maintenance, but lessons in the dead 
 languages, the use of the books necessary for the pro- 
 secution of his studies, and liberty to attend the 
 lectures. Delighted with this unlooked-for success, 
 M. Gerard hastened to inform M. Hermann of the 
 proposition. It is easy to imagine how it was received. 
 When Jean Paul clearly understood it, he turned 
 pale, and could not say a word. Was it joy ? Was 
 it fear at the idea of his new responsibilities ? 
 
 His mother, who was all in a nutter, and who 
 scarcely knew whether there was more reason for 
 rejoicing or sorrow, was annoyed at his silence, and 
 feared that the gentleman who was so kind to them 
 would be offended. 
 
 " Cannot you speak, then ?" said she. " Have you 
 no words to thank the gentleman ?" 
 
 Then turning to M. Gerard 
 
 "Excuse him, sir. These studious boys only know 
 how to read : when they ought to speak, they are 
 silent. Our Jean Paul has his heart in the right place, 
 for all that ; he is not ungrateful, I do assure you." 
 
 The large tears which rolled down the poor boy's 
 cheeks, and which he clumsily brushed off with the 
 back of his hand, as if ashamed they should be seen, 
 spoke even more in his favour than the eulogy of his 
 mother ; and M. Gerard was quite disposed to content 
 himself with these silent witnesses.
 
 118 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 But as soon as he was gone, the quiet tears were 
 changed to sobs, which shook the whole frame of this 
 youth, ordinarily so calm. 
 
 " I shall be able to continue my studies/' repeated 
 he, with a choking voice, as he pressed his father's 
 hand. " I shall have books ! I shall attend the 
 college course !" 
 
 "Let us thank God," said the professor, with 
 much emotion. " He has done more for us than we 
 have dared to ask." 
 
 When they arose from prayer every one was calm. 
 
 The mother embraced her son, and began to think 
 of the little outfit that she must prepare for him. Julie 
 offered her services as seamstress the children went 
 back to their interrupted games Jean Paul to his books 
 for the moment abandoned and the father went out 
 to give a lesson. His pupils remarked, that he had 
 never seemed so joyous, though at the same time he 
 had spoken to them more earnestly than usual. 
 
 As to Jean Paul, in a quarter of an hour he was 
 as profoundly buried in his books as if nothing what- 
 ever had occurred ; and when his mother insisted on 
 taking his measure for some shirts, which she wished 
 to cut out without loss of time, he found the inter- 
 ruption excessively inopportune, and could not under- 
 stand why such vanities should tear him for a mo- 
 ment from his beloved ancients, whose togas and 
 mantles seemed to him very preferable to the com- 
 plicated bandages in which they wished to dress him. 
 With that excessive simplicity that distinguishes
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 119 
 
 certain natures, he never thought of asking himself 
 whether he could suffice for all that was required of 
 him. Certainly the word oversight alone ought to 
 have made him tremble ; for he not only never took 
 oversight of anybody, but had constant need to be 
 looked after himself he, who heard nothing and who 
 saw nothing, save at the very last extremity. Yet 
 he never gave it a thought, and when his mother, 
 who thought of it for him, enquired how he should 
 manage, he simply answered, he would do his best. 
 
 There were still three weeks before the departure 
 for Paris three weeks, which to the children seemed 
 a whole existence, whilst the parents thought the 
 hour they so dreaded, close at hand. It was resolved 
 that there should be only just enough study to give 
 a zest to the pleasures of liberty and country pas- 
 times ; and, moreover, that M. Bertin's four pupils 
 elect, should meet together as often as possible, that 
 they might become thoroughly acquainted, before 
 being enrolled as members of the same family. 
 
 Madame Herve once or twice asked, whether by 
 rendering these last weeks so easy and agreeable, 
 there was not some risk of making the sudden tran- 
 sition to serious occupation more difficult for the 
 children. 
 
 But M. Herve was of opinion that bright memo- 
 ries of home never enervate the will : that the boy 
 most fond of fun and freedom is often he who works 
 the most courageously, and bends his neck most sub- 
 missively to the yoke. So they allowed these last
 
 120 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 fine days of autumn to pass, away, without requiring 
 anything further of the young people at the White 
 House than that they should be happy. 
 
 Jerome himself began to expand, and a few gleams 
 of animation and gladness lighted up his counte- 
 nance. He was especially happy when he could 
 remain quietly by his aunt's side, listening to the 
 sound of her sweet voice, and receiving now and 
 then a warm caress ; yet even this was not unmixed 
 happiness, for if he loved his aunt dearly, she did 
 not cause him to forget his mother ; and yet with the 
 new sweet sentiment that he was loved, and with the 
 clinging trust with which his aunt inspired him, 
 there arose also a hope within his soul. 
 
 Why, if others could feel affection for him, should 
 not his mother love him ? Why should he not one 
 day gain her heart ? 
 
 Often when his aunt leaned over him at night, to 
 bestow the kiss she was accustomed to impress on 
 each little sleeper's brow, before she sought her 
 pillow, he would half awake, and think it was his 
 mother ; and, on finding his mistake, sadness would 
 mingle with the grateful affection, with which he 
 returned the kiss that had caused him a momentary 
 delusion. Poor Jerome ! Was it well for him to have 
 such a loving heart enveloped in so unattractive an 
 exterior ? And yet, as it is better to love than to be 
 loved, he had, after all, the better part. 
 
 Madame Herve had quickly penetrated into Jerome's 
 character. She discovered that the only power
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 121 
 
 Affection able to arouse to activity that winch was 
 good and noble, had never been employed, and that, 
 if rightly directed, great things might be looked for 
 as the result of his development. 
 
 Seeing that the first thing necessary was to raise 
 him from that abject state to which the contempt 
 with which he had been treated had reduced him, 
 she commenced, not by praise or flattery, but by 
 showing him esteem and confidence. Then, by de- 
 grees, she taught him to regard things from a higher 
 point of view than that to which he had been accus- 
 tomed. She showed him the beauty of truth, and 
 the dignity conferred upon the soul, that never 
 shrinks from the stern uncompromising duty it im- 
 poses. She explained that truth exists not only for 
 the heart, but for the intellect, and must be earnestly 
 sought after ; and she showed him the necessity of 
 conscientious effort, and the end to be gained by 
 study. And then mentioning the defects which she 
 knew to be his particular enemies, such as slowness, 
 apathy, and certain physical weaknesses ; she showed 
 him how he might struggle against them, and by 
 persevering effort, transform them little by little into 
 entirely opposite qualities. Jerome listened, under- 
 stood, and entered upon a new existence ; he even 
 exaggerated his aunt's ideas, and ran into ex- 
 tremes. For instance, having resolved to conquer his 
 greediness, and, what his cousins termed his love of 
 ease ; he slept several nights upon the floor, and ate 
 nothing during many days, but soup and bread, his
 
 122 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 drink being pure water from the spring. His aunt 
 who had immediately divined the reason of this aus- 
 terity, said nothing for some time ; but at last, fearing 
 lest his health which was not very strong, should suf- 
 fer, she explained to him that all extremes are bad ; and 
 *hat it would be better for him to live like the rest 
 !>f the world, and moderate the severity of his self- 
 government, than to draw universal attention by his 
 exaggerated privations. 
 
 Madame Herve had succeeded in inspiring her 
 children with a certain amount of consideration for 
 their cousin, whom they had been rather tempted to 
 look down upon. Eugene especially had learnt to 
 love him tenderly, though even he patronized him a 
 little. Clemence was quite repulsed by Jerome's 
 uncultivated manners ; and, although Robert loved 
 him very much because he was a good boy, he could 
 rarely resist the temptation to make fun of his 
 oddities, unless a glance from- his mother acted as a 
 reminder. It is true, that the remembrance of 
 Jerome's bravery, on that memorable evening at 
 the castle, had somewhat modified his opinions of 
 , his cousin. If he was not courageous in open 
 day, he certainly was at night-time. This merit 
 could not be denied him. Robert was not a little 
 humbled at having to yield the palm on this point, 
 but he was loyal and generous, and did it honour- 
 ably. Therefore, when they returned to the Chateau 
 d'Ermance, no irritating allusion was made to the 
 adventure at the tower. They knew too well that
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 123 
 
 Jerome could have fought them with their own 
 weapons ; but the poor lad was slow of speech, and 
 not much given to retort. 
 
 Now that Arthur had become more at home with 
 his new friends, they were not? long in discovering 
 the less amiable phases of his character. If they 
 played, he must decide upon and direct the game ; 
 if they took a walk, he must choose the direction, how 
 far they should go, where they should rest ; in fact, 
 everything. He assumed the airs of a great gentle- 
 man ; frequently informed them, that the castle, and 
 everything they saw belonged to himself, and seemed 
 to suppose that in this way he should inspire his 
 little friends with the profoundest. respect. 
 
 But his plan succeeded badly ; and more than once 
 he saw himself abandoned to weary rumination on 
 his grandeur, whilst the others amused themselves to 
 their heart's content on the very estate of which he 
 was so proud. His young friends were not to be 
 dazzled by the display of his importance, to which 
 he had recourse whenever he thought them wanting 
 in that degree of deference which he had been accus- 
 tomed to receive from the little peasants and from 
 Benedict. It would have been well for Arthur could 
 he have found, amongst the village children who 
 shared his sports, such a little peasant-boy as is 
 described by a well-known writer of our day, in the 
 charming history which he gives us of the events of his 
 childhood. 
 
 " I led, strictly speaking, a peasant's life," says
 
 124 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 Edgar Quinet. " With my little sickle I reaped my 
 land. I was not allowed to carry away what I 
 reaped, but only, what I gleaned. Of these glean- 
 ings I made shocks that were all my own. I had 
 a threshing-floor and a little flail. I sacked my corn 
 and sent it to the mill, and oh ! what joy it was when 
 I received back the white flour. I kneaded it and 
 baked my loaves in a little oven that I made of 
 beautiful bricks, part of a hoop serving to fashion 
 and support the roof. In this field-labour there 
 was something more than mere amusement. I really 
 worked, and so tired myself out, that I learnt to look 
 upon the labour of others as a sacred thing. How sin- 
 cerely I respected the furrow crowned with ears of 
 rye, the beautiful meadow strewed over with flowers, 
 and more especially the clown who returned home- 
 wards with his plough in the eventide; for my mo- 
 ther never lost an opportunity of inculcating a pro- 
 found respect for human nature as seen in the sower, 
 the labourer, the reaper, or the mower, to whose 
 acquirements in their several particular callings, my 
 own were so far inferior. Sometimes the result of 
 her counsels went a little beyond her intentions, as 
 in the following instance. 
 
 " My almost inseparable companion was a young 
 rustic named Gustin, three or four years my senior, 
 and much stronger. Notwithstanding this difference 
 in age and strength, Gustin submitted to my will as 
 if he had been born to do my bidding. This habit 
 of command was prejudicial to me. I gave my
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 125 
 
 orders for the mere pleasure of seeing them obeyed. 
 My mother resolved to nip this despotism in the bud. 
 She summoned us both to her presence to receive 
 Oustin a lesson of pride, myself of equity. After 
 having reprimanded me on my mania for rule, she 
 told Gustin gravely that he was not born to obey all 
 my whims ; he was my equal, my friend, not my 
 servant. She was determined to have no more of 
 such nonsense. 
 
 " The barbarian was only too ready to obey her. As 
 we left the wood next day, he felt fatigued, so he took 
 off his sabots and ordered me to carry them. 
 
 " I was but four years old. I obeyed. We arrived 
 in this way before my mother, I carrying Gustin' s 
 sabots with all humility, and they were by no means 
 light. Gustin was quite proud at seeing me out of 
 breath, and overdone with my burden ; and yet he 
 was the most honest and mild of all the village boys. 
 Thus this first lesson in equity had not cured the 
 evil, but only changed the tyrant." 
 
 But if the little rustic aristocrat was not to be 
 found in the vicinity of the Chateau d'Ermance, his 
 friends of the White House were not sparing of their 
 lessons. 
 
 Only one week, and then would come the' day of 
 departure. The trunks of the young travellers had 
 already arrived, bran span new, and with the name 
 of each engraved upon a brass-plate. There they 
 stood in a corner of the room like the monk's coffin, 
 to remind them constantly that their happiness was
 
 126 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 transitory, and that they would soon be called upon, 
 not to die, but to depart. "We confess there were 
 several ways of looking at the question. Sometimes 
 they were nearly heart-broken at the thought of so 
 soon leaving all for a life of serious work, and then 
 again they thought of the change that awaited them 
 with the most joyous anticipations. 
 
 Where are the little birds that have not shaken 
 their wings in triumph at the moment of leaving the 
 nest, however soft and warm it may have been, 
 thirsting with strange desire to launch into the vast 
 unknown of promised wonders ? 
 
 A last day was to be spent at the Castle. This time 
 Madame Herve, who could not bear to be separated 
 for a single day from the children she was so soon to 
 lose, promised to accompany them. 
 
 It was one of those delightful autumn days, 
 which, although the charm of spring may be wanting, 
 have a beauty that is peculiarly pleasing. The mea- 
 dows of a greyish green, were covered with delicate 
 lilac flowers, and mingled their softened tints with 
 those far richer and more varied hues of the woods, 
 with which they united at the foot of the mountain. 
 The mountain peaks stood out with greater sharp- 
 ness upon the pale blue sky, than had been the 
 case in the hotter days of summer, when the air was 
 less transparent. It was so beautiful, so calm and 
 sweet, that even the children were less inclined than 
 usual to laugh, and chat, and amuse themselves. 
 As they were seated in the afternoon in a semicircle
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 127 
 
 on the grass, Clemence and Isabelle were surprised 
 to catch Arthur in the act of tearing off the deli- 
 cately variegated wings of a fly which had been silly 
 enough to rest for a moment on a leaf beside him ; 
 he appeared thoroughly to enjoy his occupation. 
 
 " You are doing very wrong," said Clemence ; 
 " what possible pleasure can you find in it ? " 
 
 " Oh, Arthur ! " exclaimed the impetuous little 
 Isabelle. " Naughty cruel boy ! I detest you. Poor 
 fly, it was so happy, and flew about so prettily, and 
 now it is crippled for the rest of its life ! " 
 
 " Any how, it won't be a very long one," said 
 Arthur, laughing. 
 
 " Longer or shorter, the time was given it to 
 enjoy." 
 
 Without caring in the least for these reprimands, 
 Arthur continued to take off one after another the 
 legs of the poor insect, whilst he looked at the little 
 girls, with an air of bravado. 
 
 " Oh, it is too terrible ! " cried Isabelle, hiding 
 her face in her hands. " I won't let you do it, 
 Arthur ! Will no one prevent his causing all this 
 suffering to a poor little creature that has done no 
 harm to anybody ? " 
 
 And she burst into tears. Arthur was quite as- 
 tonished, and put down the fly. It twisted and 
 turned itself about for a few moments, but soon dis- 
 covering its utter helplessness, it ceased to move. 
 
 " It will be better to finish its torments," said 
 Isabelle.
 
 128 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 She stamped on the poor fly, and thus put an end 
 to its misery. It had been so rejoicing in its life, 
 but just before. 
 
 " I cannot understand what it signifies to you/' 
 said Arthur to Isabelle, who continued to weep. 
 " You are not a fly. You don't even know if they 
 feel." 
 
 " It is ridiculous to cry in this way, Isabelle ; is it 
 reasonable now to weep for a fly ? " asked Clemence. 
 
 " I cannot bear that the poor little things should 
 be hurt," said Isabelle. " God has forbidden it ! " 
 
 " Where then ? I do not know the commandment, 
 thou shalt not kill flies." 
 
 " You may laugh if you like ; but I am sure God 
 hates cruelty. We ought to do to others as we would 
 that they should do to us." 
 
 " Well, I declare, if that is not admirable ! From 
 this day forth, when any one asks me who is my 
 neighbour, I shall reply the flies! Miss Isabelle 
 told me so." 
 
 Arthur spoke in such a droll manner, that every- 
 one burst out laughing ; even Isabelle joined, for she 
 understood how to take a joke better than any of 
 them. There was no resisting the charms of this joy 
 which trod on the very heels of sorrow. 
 
 Arthur kissed her, and they all went off in 
 quest of a new adventure.
 
 129 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 AN ADVENTURE. 
 
 THE meadows, refreshed by the moisture of the long 
 September nights, were trodden by cows of slow and 
 awkward gait, which, after cropping the short, 
 unsavoury grass, ruminated on distant visions of 
 trusses of hay, and a narrow dwelling-place, during 
 the long winter months, with the most admirable 
 supineness. And they were not alone in their care- 
 lessness as to the future. The four little boys who 
 ran so joyously about the fields, throwing the green 
 apples at each other, and now and then making large 
 bites into them, just to try their flavour, troubled 
 themselves but little about the dull house in the 
 Quartier-Latin, where they were to pass the winter. 
 The future was not either for the noisy, laughing 
 children, or for the quiet cows, they lived but 
 in the present. 
 
 Isabelle and Clemence watched, at a safe dis- 
 tance, a most formidable assault. A little hillock 
 had been put in a stage of siege, and was defended 
 as a citadel. Its courageous little garrison, all their 
 resources being exhausted, preferred to perish
 
 130 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 bravely by the sword, rather than basely to sur- 
 render. After this horrible carnage, the dead on 
 the field of battle, who might be estimated at two, 
 arose again very quickly, their features bearing a 
 striking resemblance to those of Arthur and Robert. 
 
 More and more in love with feats of knightly 
 daring, the four little boys resolved to exhibit a 
 tournament upon the lawn. The crowd of spectators 
 being represented by the two little girls, who had 
 wreathed a crown of laurel for the victor. 
 
 Our young heroes were at length fatigued with 
 such like exploits, and conquerors, vanquished, killed, 
 and spectators, all assembled together under an 
 apple-tree, situated on a mound that had anciently 
 formed part of the fortifications of the Chateau 
 d'Ermance. 
 
 " What shall we do ? what shall we do ? " 
 
 Mighty question, which presents itself continually 
 to the infant mind. 
 
 " I vote for the water," exclaimed Arthur ; " the 
 river is only at about ten minutes' distance. I have 
 my boat moored in the little hut, we will take it in 
 turns to row, and we can go to the Abbey of St. 
 Hugues." 
 
 Had Arthur forgotten, then, that he had been 
 entirely forbidden ever to venture on the river with- 
 out a grown-up person ? or did he suppose that six 
 children equalled a grown-up man ? Certain it is, 
 he said nothing about the prohibition. 
 
 Enchanted by the prompt and unanimous consent
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 131 
 
 given to his proposal, lie set off at full speed to tlie 
 river, shouting " Come along !" 
 
 The little river ran between two rather low banks, 
 which were however beautifully wooded, and between 
 which it often wound in exquisitely graceful curves. 
 When the little adventurers reached the boat-house, 
 in which Arthur's light elegant vessel was moored, 
 they ought to have known that their projected voyage 
 was out of the question. 
 
 The sun was already nearing the horizon. His 
 long oblique rays threw that mild and magic splen- 
 dour over the country which is unknown save on 
 autumnal evenings. At the foot of a little creek, 
 the reeds, on which his rays fell, gleamed like pure 
 gold. The willows which dipped into the quiet 
 stream ; the long rows of poplars on the other side 
 of the narrow pathway ; the windmill with its im- 
 moveable sails ; the clouds which floated in feathery 
 flakes upon the sky, were all reflected in the 
 transparent waters. Two pictures exactly similar 
 were stretched before them ; but the gentle ripple 
 gave an additional charm to the reflection. 
 
 Clemence felt indeed some scruples as to the pro- 
 posed expedition, and suggested that they should 
 give it up ; but the mere idea was met with such 
 vehement expressions of dissent that she abandoned it, 
 and took her place in the boat, into which the children 
 jumped so energetically that they ran great risk of 
 upsetting the fragile skiff, under the weight of such 
 an unaccustomed cargo, even before quitting the port.
 
 132 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 "Is it far off, this Abbey?" asked Robert of 
 Arthur, by whose skilful manoeuvres the boat 
 was disengaged from the long grass, and eventually 
 pushed into the stream. 
 
 "If we row hard, we shall be there in three- 
 quarters of an hour." 
 
 And the boat glided so lightly, so rapidly, that it 
 scarcely left a furrow in its track. All was mild, 
 quiet, and beautiful. Before them the river was like 
 liquid gold. It seemed as if they would lose them- 
 selves in light. 
 
 " What a good idea it was ! " said one of the 
 company. "It is such fun to go out in a boat 
 quite alone only six children. It is delightful !" 
 
 They arrived opposite the little bay that was to be 
 the place of disembarkation. At a little distance, on 
 a hill almost concealed from them by large trees and 
 the fresh vegetation which clothed its old walls on 
 every side, stood the Abbey, which was at this 
 moment lighted by a last lingering ray of the sun, 
 gilding its ruined turrets. An old woman was 
 busy trying to collect some goats, which sorely tried 
 her patience. Arthur, who marched in front of the 
 party, advanced, and asked her if they could visit the 
 Abbey? "Visit the Abbey at this hour ! Upon my word 
 you are not very particular, my little sir ! I keep 
 the key, to be sure, but I never open the gates when 
 the sun has set, at least unless it is to some English 
 gentlemen, who have a fancy to see the Abbey by 
 moonlight, and who pay well for it. They are very
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 133 
 
 fond of moonlight those English are ; and besides, 
 they like doing things a little different from the rest 
 of the world ! No, no. You can't see the Abbey 
 to-day, my children, so you had much better help me 
 to collect my goats, who are sending me almost out 
 of my wits this evening. 
 
 " Not I, indeed ! What care I for your goats ! 
 Give me the key, I say, and if you don't choose to 
 open the door, I will do it myself." 
 
 " You are not polite, young gentleman. I shall 
 not give you the key ; and as you will not help me, 
 at least do not hinder me. It is time I prepared my 
 husband's supper." 
 
 Whilst she spoke, she began to multiply the signals 
 which should recall the wanderers home. Either the 
 presence of the children excited them to insubordi- 
 nation, or it might be simply the spirit of contra- 
 diction natural to them ; but certain it is, that 
 the malicious, graceful little creatures showed that 
 La Fontaine has not been unjust in accusing them of 
 a certain spirit of liberty. They leaped and gambolled 
 about, then came quietly, until the poor woman could 
 nearly touch them, then again retreated to even a 
 greater distance, just as tiresome, ill-bred children 
 might have done. 
 
 The old dame, almost beside herself, screamed and 
 scolded, now enticing, now threatening, and the 
 naughty little spectators laughed with all their might 
 at the comical scene. Poor children ! they deserved 
 punishment ; and it was not long in coming.
 
 134 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 At length the poor old lady succeeded in assem- 
 bling the troop, by no means a large one. During 
 this time, night had closed ^in, a really dark night, 
 such as comes upon us with so little warning in the 
 month of September. The children lost much of 
 their gaiety in alarm. The dinner must be on the 
 table at the Castle, which was at more than a league's 
 distance. Arthur declared that it would be impossible 
 to return by water, because the long grass might 
 cause the boat to capsize. He knew the way very 
 well by land, and would be leader. 
 
 Arthur spoke very confidently, but in reality he 
 was not so sure of the way as he tried to make them 
 believe. 
 
 They went a short distance through the fields. 
 
 " Wait a minute, that I may find out where we 
 are," cried the guide of the little caravan. " There 
 is the north but no, that's the south ; and yet, I 
 think it must be the north, and then the Castle lies 
 in this direction." 
 
 "That's satisfactory, at any rate," said Robert, 
 " "We may follow Arthur unhesitatingly ; he will be 
 sure to lead us to one or other of the four points of 
 the compass." 
 
 By the (\\m. uncertain light, the little party trotted 
 on in silence, along a path bordered by hedges, and 
 stretching out before them like a white ribbon with a 
 dark border. Robert tried to get up a few jokes, but 
 they did not take. Every one was looking forward 
 to the probable consequences of the adventure.
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 135 
 
 Fatigue, the fear of losing their way, and the thought 
 of the alarm of their friends at home, spoiled the 
 charm of this nocturnal expedition, even for the most 
 romantic spirits. Arthur felt himself oppressed by 
 the weight of responsibility resting upon him. He 
 was not at all sure of being in the right path. The 
 night became more and more impenetrable. A few 
 stars shone in the sky ; but their light did not reach 
 the poor dwellers upon earth. After having walked 
 for half-an-hour, the children, worn out with anxiety 
 rather than by the fatigues of their excursion, found 
 themselves in the midst of an immense marshy field, 
 in which they sank at each step as far as the ankle 
 in mud. 
 
 " We have lost our way! " said a plaintive voice. 
 
 "No, no," cried Arthur, "follow me closely! I 
 see the road down there." 
 
 "Do you think they will have saved us any 
 dinner ? " asked Jerome, animated by this faint ray 
 of hope, and allowing nature for once to have her 
 way, although he had so resolutely determined to 
 conquer her. 
 
 " My opinion," said Robert, " is, that there is 
 something in store for us, that will take away all 
 our appetite." 
 
 Several sighs were heard in reply to this very 
 dismal prophecy. 
 
 The road that Arthur thought he had seen had 
 disappeared. It was impossible to find it. The 
 meadow was enclosed on all sides by an impassable
 
 136 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 hedge, in which there were no gaps. The children 
 went round it several times before they could find 
 the spot where they had entered. 
 
 " It is incomprehensible ! " cried Arthur, " it 
 seems as if it were the work of magic." 
 
 Isabelle at once thought that the old woman to 
 whom the goats belonged, was a fairy, and expressed 
 this opinion. 
 
 " You do not know, then," said Robert, with great 
 seriousness, "that there are enchanted meadows in 
 our neighbourhood, in which one may be confined 
 a whole night, without its being possible to get 
 out. When morning comes, it is astonishing to 
 find that there is nothing required but to walk 
 straight forwards. It reminds me of the story of 
 Matthew. I will tell it you ; perhaps it may break 
 the spell. 
 
 " Matthew, who was a peasant of St. Heal, went 
 to a neighbouring fair, where his wife had charged 
 him to buy her a couple of fine chickens for her hen- 
 coop. 
 
 " She had given him the money that was neces- 
 sary, and had recommended him not to drink too 
 much, and not to stay away longer than was abso- 
 lutely necessary. 
 
 " However, he did not return that night, and was 
 found, the next morning, asleep in a ditch. When 
 he had stretched himself well, and could under- 
 stand where he was, his wife asked him after the
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 137 
 
 chickens and the money. He searched his pockets, 
 looked all around, and seemed quite confounded at 
 not finding anything. 
 
 " He said he was bewitched ; and told how that 
 the evening before, when he reached this little field, 
 he had gone round it no less than twenty times, 
 without finding the way out. 
 
 " To this day, the good man believes that he 
 was the victim of a supernatural power. His 
 wife, who knows that the money, and, conse- 
 quently, the fowls, went over in the most natural 
 way to the wine merchant, keeps him shorter than 
 ever, it is said, since this occurrence." 
 
 Robert had hoped, by this anecdote, to revive the 
 drooping courage of his companions ; but no one 
 spoke. It was resolved to make one more circuit of 
 the field, when Jerome exclaimed, in a voice of 
 despair, 
 
 " I have lost my shoe ! " 
 
 " Well, then, look for it," said his cousin. 
 
 " I cannot find it ; it is buried in the mud." 
 
 " Yery well, then, leave it there, Jerome ; your 
 namesake walked barefoot." 
 
 " What shall we do ? " was now the general ex- 
 clamation. 
 
 "Arthur, it is you who have got us into this 
 scrape, and now you have made us lose our way." 
 
 " You were all delighted to go in the boat," said 
 Arthur. " It was not my fault at all ; and I beg 
 you won't say it was."
 
 138 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 Recriminations followed in quick succession, and 
 they disputed in good earnest. It is just possible 
 they would have come to blows, if it had been light 
 enough. What a sad end to an amusement com- 
 menced by disobedience ! 
 
 Feelings of discouragement triumphed in the 
 end over those of anger ; they said no more, for 
 hope had vanished. Just then a long cry pierced 
 the air. It came from some distance, and quite 
 in the opposite direction from that chosen by the 
 children. 
 
 " Listen ! are they not calling us ? " The cry 
 was repeated; and Arthur, putting both hands to 
 his mouth, answered it. A moving light was soon 
 discovered a-far off. 
 
 Several persons, one of them carrying a lanthorn, 
 approached. 
 
 " Here they are, here they are ! " cried they, t( and 
 all safe and sound. Thank God ! " 
 
 The poor little prodigals were received at the 
 Castle as if no one had ever expected to see them 
 again. Warm water was ready to bathe their tired, 
 muddy feet, and they did so much honour to the 
 supper, that their parents were somewhat re-assured 
 as to the consequences of the expedition; but, by 
 common consent, all moral reflections were reserved 
 for the morrow. 
 
 Such was the last day passed at the Chateau 
 
 / A 
 
 d'Ermance. The last ! a word at all times full 
 of sadness.
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 139 
 
 Would these six joyous children ever meet again ? 
 What would be their lot in the year just opening for 
 some a new career ? The future belongs to God. 
 In order to face it without fear, we must leave it 
 in His hands.
 
 140 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 THE LAST EVENING AT HOME. 
 
 TO-MORROW they must go ! Sorrow had entered the 
 pretty White House, usually so gay ; and it seemed 
 as if nature wished to associate herself with the grief 
 of its inhabitants, for she wore one of her saddest 
 garbs. The sky was overcast, and a dismal-sounding 
 wind rustled amongst the yellow leaves on the lawn, 
 no longer beautifully green. Hoping to drive away in 
 some measure these melancholy feelings, a large fire 
 had been kindled on the hearth. Madame Herv^ 
 was alone in the drawing-room, and much depressed; 
 she asked herself how she could bear to be relieved 
 from the daily burden of perpetual disquietude ; the 
 want of it, which as yet she had never known, 
 seemed now revealed to her in all its bitterness. 
 
 She thought of the new temptations awaiting her 
 children ; and asked herself if they had within them 
 those principles which would lead them to engage in 
 a constant and resolute struggle against sin. All 
 had been so easy for them thus far their road so 
 evident and they had been supported and raised 
 again when fallen, by kind and able hands. And
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 141 
 
 now would they still be surrounded by indulgence, 
 affection, and solicitude ? Who would undertake to 
 reprove, without wounding them, to teach them to 
 know themselves, without discouraging them? 
 Would any speak to them of Him in whom alone is 
 strength ? Would they not forget Him ; or, perhaps, 
 the sense of loneliness might drive them closer to 
 their Saviour, than either father or mother, with all 
 their anxious solicitude, had been able to do ? Oh ! 
 if it might be so, she would be happy, and could 
 part from her darlings without fear. 
 
 All these thoughts united had combined to form a 
 prayer, a silent, but intensely fervent prayer. 
 Madame Herve's eyes were closed, and she did not 
 observe that the door had opened, and that some one 
 had approached her. 
 
 When she looked up, her eyes met those of Jer6me, 
 who regarded her with such an intensity of sadness, 
 that she shuddered. 
 
 Poor child ! she had forgotten him, and for him 
 she had not prayed. She drew him towards her, and 
 kissed him tenderly, as if she would repair the 
 omission ; he, alas ! had so much need of an affec- 
 tionate enlightened guide. He put a letter that he 
 had just received into his aunt's hand. 
 
 " It is from mamma," said he, and he left the 
 room. 
 
 The letter was cold and meaningless, as if Madame 
 Lambert would not give herself the time to write. 
 Jerome had written to ask permission to return to
 
 142 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 Lyons, for one or two days, before he went to Paris. 
 She replied that it would be a great trouble and 
 expense, and that it would be better to give up the 
 idea. But not a single word of regret at not seeing 
 him again! It was very clear that it was no 
 mother's tenderness that addressed him thus. 
 
 Madame Herve at once rose and went into Jerome's 
 room. He had thrown himself on his bed, and 
 hidden his face upon the pillow, but he was weeping 
 in a very great agony of grief. She drew him 
 towards her, and pressed him a moment to her heart. 
 The child was sensible of her love and tenderness 
 which needed not to be expressed in words ; and by 
 degrees he became calmer. 
 
 "Oh, if mamma could but love me !" said he at 
 last ; he had said so often. 
 
 And Madame Herve again repeated, that affection 
 is not always expressed in the same manner : then 
 she added, that he had not given his parents all the 
 satisfaction they had a right to expect from him, and 
 therefore it was but just, that he should bear his 
 punishment ; that no doubt when they had entire 
 confidence in his desire to do right, and to profit by 
 the education that they wished to bestow, they would 
 show him more tenderness, and he ought always to 
 endeavour by his conduct and improvement to show 
 himself not unworthy of their love. 
 
 "Oh yes," said Jerome with an ardour which 
 strikingly contrasted with his habitual indifference ; 
 " yes, I will work very hard, I will make progress,
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 143 
 
 I will be the first in my class, I will carry off tlie 
 prizes ; and when mamma is no longer ashamed of 
 me, perhaps she will love me !" 
 
 From this moment so entirely was he mastered by 
 this idea, that he longed to be gone, and buried in 
 his books. It seemed to him that nothing would be 
 impossible to his efforts. 
 
 During this time, Robert, Eugene, Clemence, and 
 the little Isabelle had been visiting together, under 
 the pale autumn sky all their favourite haunts the 
 spots where they had played where they had chatted 
 together where they had been so happy. There 
 was the -tree with knotted roots, where at least three 
 of them had been able to read so comfortably, seated 
 in niches formed by the twisted branches, their feet 
 either suspended or resting on some lower bough. 
 This was the little corner where they had seated 
 themselves on the grass to bathe their feet in the 
 stream flowing gently on its sandy bed ; there were 
 no large flint stones here to wound them. From 
 that little nook the White House looked so beautiful, 
 half hidden by the lime trees. 
 
 They passed the torrent, by the plank to-day 
 all of them they had no heart for gymnastics now. 
 Up there on the other bank the little herdsmen 
 had lighted a fire of dead wood and briars to 
 warm them in the autumn fog, and to roast their 
 potatoes. The cows seemed as idle as ever, only 
 half awake ; and the little boys felt inclined to envy 
 them their vague dreamy existence, because they
 
 144 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 could remain in the dear old haunts which seemed to 
 them now more beautiful than ever. They ap- 
 proached the little shepherd boys who, knowing that 
 they were going away, going to live in Paris, were 
 seized with a certain respect for them and offered 
 them half-cooked potatoes and chestnuts, which in 
 the autumn wind had fallen like a shower upon the 
 neighbouring hill. 
 
 Clemence and Isabelle said but little. Clemence 
 was sad, in spite of her reason ; and, if Isabelle had 
 spoken, she would have burst into tears. So she 
 held Robert's hand very tightly, and walked so close 
 to his side, that he would more than once have com- 
 plained that she was troublesome, if it had not been 
 the last day. When they had seen everything, 
 the meadows, every corner of the garden, and the 
 cottages where they were accustomed to visit they 
 again sought their jnother. Yet, on reaching the 
 terrace, a last sad lingering look was cast towards 
 the ravines and the hills, the great shadowy trees, 
 and the distant summits of the mountains. 
 
 " "We shall come back in less than a year !" said 
 Robert. 
 
 "A year!" exclaimed Isabelle, " Robert, will it 
 ever come to an end a year ! And I never passed a 
 whole day away from you !" 
 
 They entered the house, their hands still firmly 
 clasped together. This last evening could not be a 
 gay one, although every one tried not to give way 
 to grief.
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 145 
 
 Before they separated on. this last night, that was 
 to be passed under the same roof, all knelt together 
 at the throne of grace, and the father's prayer 
 opened the sources of peace and confidence to every 
 heart. 
 
 It was not only at the White House that sad- 
 ness had entered. At the Chateau d'Ermance, in 
 the professor's dwelling, hearts were heavy and 
 eyes filled with tears that would not be restrained. 
 Arthur was the only one who saw in his departure 
 no cause for sadness ; and it was rather for the relief 
 of his conscience than for any other reason, that he 
 came from time to time to embrace his grandmother, 
 and to say to her : 
 
 " Don't be sorry, dear grandmamma, I will write 
 very often, and I promise you to work very hard at 
 my lessons." 
 
 The great day was come ; indeed nothing seemed 
 to have separated it from the previous evening, so 
 profoundly had the little travellers slept. Their 
 mother did not tell them how she had lain awake 
 counting the hours, the last that her children would 
 spend near her. The hurry of departure, the beauty 
 of the morning, which was in strong contrast with 
 the sober dulness of the evening before, gave an im- 
 pulse to the natural elasticity of their age, and com- 
 pletely changed the current of their thoughts. They 
 received their mother's and sisters' loving embrace 
 almost without feeling the anguish of separation. 
 It was not so with those who stayed. For them, the 
 
 L
 
 146 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 first hours of this interminable day dragged most 
 heavily. 
 
 M. Gerard had engaged to conduct the four boys to 
 Paris, and to place them under the care of his friend 
 M. Bertin. They met him at the coach office with 
 Arthur, who looked as brisk as possible in his hand- 
 some travelling costume. 
 
 Once upon the railroad, the rapid motion of the 
 train having altogether dissipated any little shadow 
 of sadness that the parting with his grandmamma 
 might have occasioned, he exerted himself to the 
 utmost to raise the spirits of his companions. 
 Robert was soon laughing heartly at his satirical 
 observations upon such of their fellow-travellers as 
 occupied the same compartment. Certainly there 
 was some cause for merriment. One of the corners 
 of the carriage was occupied by a very fat old lady 
 asleep, her double chin rested on her bosom, and at 
 every blast of the shrill whistle, she jumped up, and 
 looked about in the terror caused by this inter- 
 ruption of her peaceful slumbers. Opposite to her 
 was a very thin young man, who seemed to 
 be as hungry as his neighbour was sleepy, 
 for wherever there was a refreshment room, he 
 got a fresh stock of provisions. "We must confess 
 that our young people also, were not backward in 
 availing themselves of the varied resources offered 
 by modern civilization to craving appetites ; and it 
 was really wonderful how much more consolation 
 they found in them than could have been expected.
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 147 
 
 Such is human nature, at least in the days of our 
 childhood. 
 
 Towards evening the train finally stopped. " Paris ! 
 Paris !" This cry, death-dirge of vacations, fell 
 heavily upon more than one young heart. The 
 porters opened the doors with bustling noise. Our 
 school boys descended quite stiff from long confine- 
 ment, and felt bewildered by the crowds pressing 
 towards the place of exit. When the luggage had 
 been found, examined, and arranged upon two cabs, 
 a new journey commenced ; our little country people 
 thought it would never end. 
 
 Streets, streets, nothing but streets ! Some of 
 them lonely and sad, others so blocked up that the 
 carriage could move but very slowly onward, and 
 the noise surpassed all description. But at last they 
 left all this tumult and throng behind them, and 
 entered a quiet melancholy district. 
 
 There were large houses with irregular windows, 
 and high walls, behind which might be seen the 
 summit of some lofty trees bearing unmistakeable 
 evidence of the heat of summer, or of the clouds of 
 dust which had not spared them as they passed. 
 
 The boys looked through the windows utterly dis- 
 concerted. This was not at all the Paris they had ex- 
 pected Paris such as had been described to them, 
 and as they had seen it represented in engravings > 
 that they had only just realized for a moment on 
 crossing the boulevards. 
 
 At length the carriage stopped in a large court at
 
 148 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 the further end of which stood a rather tumbledown 
 looking house of two stories, behind which arose the 
 rounded tops of some large chestnut-trees. 
 
 Everything was old. The door steps looked worn 
 out ; grass grew in all parts of the court where there 
 was no habitual pathway, as it does in the streets of 
 some small deserted provincial towns. They ring 
 for there is no porter an old servant opens the 
 door, and takes down the boxes, which are placed in 
 an immense entrance hall. One-half of a folding door 
 opens with creaking noise ; and the travellers are 
 ushered into a large drawing-room, so dark that they 
 cannot at first distinguish whether there is anyone 
 there or not. A moment after, the same servant in- 
 vited M. Gerard to follow him to M. Bertin's study ; 
 and the four boys are left alone, with the melancholy 
 conviction that everything is very different from 
 what they had expected it to be.
 
 149 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 THE APPARITION. 
 
 THE four travellers went up to the large fire-place 
 where, though the season was not very far advanced, 
 a coal fire had been lighted, which was now dying 
 out in the darkness. The straight-backed angular 
 arm-chairs, covered by no means for the first time 
 with faded tapestry, stood around like so many severe 
 guardians. It was difficult to conceive that any one 
 could 'have passed an agreeable moment in them. 
 They looked more like instruments of unknown tor- 
 ture than like those luxurious articles of furniture 
 which choice spirits in the days of Moliere called 
 les commodites de la conversation. So the children 
 remained standing. They would as soon have dreamed 
 of seating themselves in King Dagobert's easy chair, 
 exhibited at the museum of the middle ages. The 
 very high chimney was ornamented by a tiny mirror 
 clouded by innumerable fly-stains, by an old alabas- 
 ter clock, representing Ceres armed with a golden 
 sickle, and by two candlesticks as inelegant and ugly 
 as possible. The large round table was covered by a 
 cloth, the original green tint of which now hesitated
 
 150 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 between black and yellow. The rest of the furniture 
 was ranged along the wall with most desperate re- 
 gularity. An arm chair, then a chair, an arm chair, 
 then a chair again. They seemed to say, " Don't 
 touch me, or you'll repent "; and they looked quite 
 determined to offer all their corners to any one who 
 should persist in trying to make the same use of them 
 as of ordinary chairs and easy-chairs. 
 
 Long, green, narrow curtains fell, string-like, on 
 each side of the three windows, one of which opening 
 to the ground, communicated with the garden ; some 
 other small curtains, once white, now of a smoky 
 grey, completed the attractions of the apartment. 
 
 We do not intend to insinuate that the children 
 minutely observed each of these particulars ; but it may 
 be easily conceived, that the vague impression made 
 upon their minds was not the most agreeable. 
 
 Arthur's eyes, accustomed to the elegant comfort 
 of the Chateau d'Ermance, and those of Robert and 
 Eugene to the exquisite grace which presided over 
 all the household arrangements of their mother, 
 were equally shocked at these appearances of negli- 
 gence and decay. They looked out into the garden, 
 by the half-opened door; and the glance they ob- 
 tained of it was anything but calculated to put them 
 in love with their new home. Was it a garden, 
 that great square of faded withered grass, entirely gone 
 in many places, the nakedness of which a few trees 
 had done their best to hide by a plentiful shower of 
 crisp and yellow leaves ; those walks bordered by
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 151 
 
 shabby box, and the bare excrescence at the end, 
 which seemed to represent a mountain ? 
 
 Robert and Eugene's thoughts went back to the 
 beds of flowers, and to the noble trees surrounding 
 their much-loved home, Arthur's to the park, the 
 lawns, the old tower and they were home-sick. 
 Jerdme alone was unmoved ; and when they remark- 
 ed to him, how frightful the garden was, he replied : 
 " What does that matter ? we are come to study/' 
 Whilst the old furniture and the barren garden, 
 were thus bidding the new pupils welcome in their 
 own manner ; and, as they returned disconsolately 
 into the drawing room, a door opened and a most 
 unexpected sight offered itself to their astonished 
 gaze. They would never have dreamed of seeing a 
 little girl, or a young lady perhaps we ought to call 
 her, for she seemed to be scarcely a child, and yet it 
 was difficult _to say exactly to which appellation she 
 could most justly lay claim. Like those curious 
 natural phenomena, which have not yet been scienti- 
 fically classified, it is necessary to describe this sin- 
 gular apparition, in order to give a correct idea of 
 her. It was, then, a great child, or a small young 
 lady, or, better still, a boy dressed in girl's clothing, 
 whose hair was cut short, and to judge by its dis- 
 orderly appearance, extremely averse to even occa- 
 sional contact with brush and comb. A great black 
 pinafore with long sleeves, fastened at the wrists, 
 entirely covered her, and only left exposed the 
 twisted tumble-down stockings, and the shoes that
 
 152 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 had lost their ties. The features of this singular 
 creature were not wanting in delicacy; but all the 
 muscles of her pale thin face were in constant move- 
 ment, and the fatigue occasioned by these repeated 
 contractions, barely allowed the observer to perceive 
 that the eyes, although not large, were quick, expres- 
 sive, and of a soft brown colour. Sara, for we must 
 acknowledge that it was a young lady of some fifteen 
 or sixteen years of age, was an orphan niece adopted 
 by M. Bertin. She had been subject, during her 
 infancy, to a nervous affection, which she appeared 
 to have out-grown; but it had left nervous twitchings, 
 which were much more fatiguing to the beholder 
 than to herself, for she seemed to be scarcely sensible 
 of them. 
 
 AH her movements were awkward, brusque, and 
 unpleasing, as of a clock when it runs down. In- 
 stead of opening the door sufficiently to allow her to 
 enter, she passed her head through a small crack, 
 and said to the little boys : 
 
 " Are not you the new pupils ? How is it you 
 came to-night instead of to-morrow morning ?" 
 
 " Simply because we set off this morning instead 
 of this evening," said Arthur. 
 
 "The other pupils will not be here before to- 
 morrow morning; and we expected you would be the 
 same, that is the reason you are so badly received. 
 Perhaps you are cold ? The fire is gone out, and the 
 wind is in the north, and very high this evening/' 
 This time the little nymph showed herself alto-
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 153 
 
 Aether, from the rough head to the ill-shod feet ; 
 she ran to the fire-place, seized the tongs and the 
 coal scuttle, and in a few moments had lighted a fire, 
 which was sadly wanted in this large dismal room, 
 scarcely ever cheered by one pale sunheam. 
 
 " I see, plainly," said she, when she had finished 
 her work, " that our old house does not much please 
 you. Have you heard that it is haunted ? Are you 
 frightened? You well may be, I assure you; for 
 apparitions are sometimes malicious ; they laugh at 
 the new pupils, and have no greater pleasure than in 
 tormenting them." 
 
 " Are there many ? " asked Eugene, whose ready 
 perception had shown him the bearing of the young 
 lady's joke. 
 
 " Their name is Legion; but, as they always appear 
 in the same form, one might be tempted to believe 
 that there was only one, endowed with .the gift of 
 ubiquity." 
 
 "They say that apparitions are not beautiful," 
 replied Eugene, with an expression that applied his 
 words. 
 
 " Very ugly even frightful," replied Sara, not in 
 the least disconcerted. 
 
 " Do they not appear to you when you look in the 
 glass " 
 
 " Exactly so. You show wonderful penetration." 
 
 Such was the conversation, when steps were sud- 
 denly heard in the vestibule. The door opened; but 
 certainly they were no ghosts who entered. M. Gerard
 
 154 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 was followed by a young man of slow and measured 
 movements. He was rather stout and had almost the 
 fair rosy complexion of a child, which formed rather 
 an amusing contrast with the spectacles that sat 
 upon his nose. 
 
 " What are you doing here, Sara ? " said he; " you 
 know this is not the place for you ! " 
 
 Sara made an additional grimace, and disappeared 
 without venturing a reply. 
 
 M. Gerard then presented the four new pupils 
 to M. Prosper, son and assistant of M. Bertin. M. 
 Prosper shook hands with each of them in the most 
 solemn manner, and then tried to find something to 
 say. 
 
 When he had found a question, and it had been 
 duly replied to, he racked his brain for another, until 
 he thought the conversation had been sufficiently 
 prolonged for the first interview. M. Gerard having 
 taken leave, with the promise that he would return 
 to say adieu to-morrow, M. Prosper proposed that 
 the young gentlemen should go to their own rooms. 
 
 The chambers that were appropriated to the pupils 
 of M. Bertin, and occupied by two boys conjointly, 
 were large and airy, but were furnished in the most 
 simple manner. Each had his bed, his wardrobe, his 
 writing table, and his jug and basin, on a small deal 
 table nothing more, nothing less. Arthur and 
 Robert were to occupy one, Eugene and Jerome 
 another. 
 
 The discordant sounds of a broken bell were soon
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 155 
 
 heard, and the old servant came to inform them that 
 it was the dinner bell. In spite of the visits paid 
 to divers refreshment rooms, the news was well 
 received. 
 
 M. Bertin, who was already aged and of venerable 
 aspect, received, and spoke to them kindly. 
 
 " We are a family party to-day," said he, when 
 they had seated themselves at the end of the table, 
 which occupied the whole length of the dining-room, 
 " so we can for once suspend the rules to which we 
 are subject, and every one can talk as he likes." 
 
 " I think, father," said M. Prosper, with his sen- 
 tentious manner, " that it were wiser to observe the 
 rules to-day, if you wish them to be observed to- 
 morrow." 
 
 " And what do you think, my little fairy?" asked 
 ]\I. Bertin of Sara, who was seated by him. 
 
 " You know very well what I think, you naughty 
 uncle," replied she ; " but you want to draw me into 
 some horrible profession of faith, which shall give 
 my cousin the opportunity of extinguishing me 
 utterly beneath the weight of his indignation ; there- 
 fore, I shall hold my peace." 
 
 " If so many words are needed, young lady, when 
 you do not reply, of how many should you be obliged 
 to make use in answering my question ?" 
 
 During the dinner, which was quickly over, the 
 little war between the old Professor and his sprite 
 continued; for she was never at a loss in repartee. 
 It was easy to see that they were on the best of
 
 156 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 terms, that they were thoroughly unanimous in sen- 
 timent, and, by mutual understanding, had formed a 
 sort of merry plot to maintain .the rights of liberty 
 and freedom of speech, in opposition to the worship 
 which poor Prosper had paid from his earliest years 
 to propriety and rule. 
 
 The poor boy really suffered from things which 
 gave the greatest pleasure to his father ; and what he 
 called the intolerable boorishness of his cousin, was 
 so much the more intolerable to him, because he 
 really loved her, and took care to prove it by a more 
 than usually rigorous supervision. 
 
 M. Bertin himself would have been disposed to 
 acknowledge, that when she attained the age of 
 twenty, or even earlier, if possible, Sara would have 
 to alter in a few particulars ; but, in the meantime, 
 he liked her just as she was, for he said she was like 
 nobody else. A little abrupt himself, and a man of 
 few words for the rest of the world, the tenderness of 
 his expression towards her was almost maternal, but 
 it was an expression of countenance merely, for he 
 never voluntarily indulged in any other outward 
 manifestation than a little fondling pat upon the 
 head. 
 
 M. Bertin had lived for nearly half-a-century in 
 an atmosphere of precision, reserve, and frigidity. 
 The persons with whom he was most closely united 
 were utterly unable to diflPuse around them a 
 warmth and life, which were wanting in them- 
 selves. When he suddenly welcomed to his
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 157 
 
 home a little, affectionate, gay, original creature, 
 whose bright happy spirits betokened the entire 
 absence of all depressing agency, it seemed to him as 
 if the temperature of his life had changed ; and he 
 had passed from the frozen northern zone to the warm 
 and sunny south. Sara was a very little child when 
 her mother died, and having no other protector than 
 her uncle, she attached herself to him with all her 
 heart ; and became, from the moment she was able to 
 hold a pen, his amanuensis, his reader, and constant 
 companion, excepting only the moments that he was 
 obliged to devote to the duties of his class. 
 
 The state of her health gave rise to serious dis- 
 quietude ; but it improved every year. As to her 
 mind, the Professor declared he had never known its 
 superior. 
 
 During the greater part of each day, Sara was at 
 work in her uncle's private study. No one exactly 
 knew how she spent those long hours. It was, 
 indeed, suspected that she pryed inquisitively into 
 some of the old Greek and Latin authors. 
 
 Some people said, that the Professor taught her 
 what he found too difficult for his other pupils. 
 However, neither she nor her beloved master ever 
 breathed a word of what passed bet ween them, and some 
 of the young scholars, who gloried in their prizes 
 or their laurels, hardly won, would have been not a 
 little humbled at learning that the singular little 
 girl they used to laugh at could have surpassed them 
 all in Greek translations and in Latin Exercises.
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 But if Sara was familiar with a great deal of the 
 knowledge which makes men learned, she was miser- 
 ably deficient in the usual and agreeable talents of 
 women. 
 
 She never worked with her needle, and it was as 
 much as ever she could do to sew on a button in case 
 of need. Her wardrobe, which had been confided to 
 the care of Madame Germain, a kind of housekeeper 
 who directed the whole establishment, was in a most 
 deplorable condition. When she outgrew her frocks, 
 no one perceived it. No one told her that her collar 
 was all awry, and that the body of her dress could 
 not be made to hook behind. She had such a pro- 
 found contempt for outward adornment, that she 
 persisted in wearing her large black pinafores, and 
 her hair cut short. No doubt, she was thereby pre- 
 served from sundry ink- spots, and the business of the 
 toilette was the more easily despatched ; but she lost 
 thereby something of the charm natural to her- age. 
 
 This poor sprite, then, with all her stores of know- 
 ledge, and all her good qualities, was not unfrequently 
 the butt of the merry bo}^ instructed by her uncle. 
 He was well aware of it, but did not trouble himself 
 about it the least in the world. 
 
 Sara was like the princess in the fairy tale, clothed 
 in an ass's skin. The day would come when she 
 should put on her beautiful light dress ; in the mean- 
 time, she had a precious ring upon her finger, which 
 dropping now and then into the cake she was knead- 
 ing, would betray her to the enlightened. Her
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 159 
 
 actions had already more than once manifested the 
 goodness and generosity of her character. 
 
 The four new pupils were by no means disposed to 
 abuse the permission that had been granted them. 
 Had it not been for Sara's animated conversation, 
 and the liveliness she communicated to her uncle, 
 their first meal at school would have been a suffi- 
 ciently mournful one.
 
 160 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 JEAN PAUL'S FIRST ATTEMPT. 
 
 JEAN PAUL arrived next morning, having travelled 
 third class. The poor boy had been half frozen 
 during the night. He wore a jacket which his 
 mother had made from one of his father's old coats, 
 a thin plaid of which she had deprived herself, in 
 order to supply the want of a surtout, and woollen cuffs, 
 his sister's present, which kept his wrists even warmer 
 than the season rendered necessary, but only mode- 
 rately compensated for the absence of other, more 
 comfortable clothing. No one who had known what 
 marvellous achievements his mother and sister had 
 accomplished in the way of skill and economy, in 
 order to prepare his miserable outfit, would have had 
 the heart to smile on seeing this great boy, who had 
 far outstripped his father, squeezed into his narrow 
 jacket, the short sleeves of which persisted in rising 
 continually half way towards the elbow, leaving 
 visible the famous green and brown striped gauntlets. 
 He was very sensible that he was not dressed like 
 other youths of his age ; and this persuasion tended 
 greatly to increase his natural awkwardness ; but he
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 161 
 
 could not have said in what the difference consisted ; 
 and it never occurred to him, that it might possibly 
 operate to his disadvantage upon the minds of 
 others. 
 
 M. Bertin was at once favourably impressed by the 
 young man's sweet serious countenance. As to M. 
 Prosper, he was shocked beyond all expression by the 
 strange appearance and inelegant manners of his 
 new companion. There was an important question 
 to resolve. How was Jean Paul to be presented to 
 the children, who were to be placed under his care, 
 in such a manner as to inspire them with the neces- 
 sary respect for him as their master ? 
 
 There was certainly nothing in his appearance 
 calculated to enforce it ; and, if the little people 
 commenced by laughing at, and turning him to 
 ridicule, all would be over. There were eight boys 
 in the class, of from nine to eleven years of age ; 
 they did not yet go to the Lycee, but were preparing 
 to enter there. Jean Paul was to explain the De viris 
 to them, and continue his own dear studies at the 
 same time, under the direction of M. Bertin, who was 
 a distinguished linguist. There was nothing to pre- 
 vent his entering at once upon his new functions. 
 M. Bertin introduced him into the lower class-room, 
 where the turbulent little group was assembled, some 
 of them still excited by the recently passed pleasures 
 of the vacation; others, new comers, quite asto- 
 nished at everything they saw and heard at the 
 entrance of their school life. There were only eight, 
 
 M
 
 162 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 and yet from the terrible uproar, you would have 
 thought there must be at least a dozen. 
 
 Jean Paul entered, hanging down his head, and 
 looking as contrite as if he were being led before his 
 judge, convicted of some heinous offence. 
 
 " What is to be done ?" soliloquised M. Bertin. 
 " He will never know how to do anything with 
 children. He is too young, too timid, too awkward ; 
 they will do whatever they choose with him. How- 
 ever, we will not despair without a trial. It will be 
 best to leave him quite alone, and let him get out of 
 his difficulties as well as he can." 
 
 So he took Jean Paul by the hand and presented 
 him to the little boys, who were already laughing 
 and whispering to their heart's content about him. 
 
 " M. Hermann will be so kind as to take charge 
 of you," said he, " and to overlook your studies 
 whenever he is not occupied with his own. I hope 
 you will not render his task too difficult." 
 
 Then having given a few directions for the em- 
 ployment of the next hour, he went out, and Jean 
 Paul found himself alone in the midst of a little 
 world of unpitying jokers. In this critical position, 
 not even comprehending the full extent of the diffi- 
 culties with which he would have to contend, his 
 great simplicity of heart came to his aid. 
 
 He did not even perceive the smothered jokes 
 bandied about at his expense by some of the little 
 boys, who nudged each other's elbows, and pointed 
 to the short sleeves and gauntlets.
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 163 
 
 At the upper end of the black table, by the side 
 of the master, sat a pretty little boy, whose counte- 
 nance contrasted with the bright but naughty-look- 
 ing grimace-making visages of his comrades. It was 
 to him that Jean Paul first addressed himself. He 
 asked him to show him the place in the dictation- 
 book where they had stopped at the beginning of the 
 vacation. 
 
 The little boy hastened to show it to him, and be- 
 gan to write with great earnestness as soon as Jean 
 Paul had dictated the first line, which began thus : 
 "Mentor," etc. 
 
 " That was a dog, was it not, sir," asked one of 
 the little fellows, biting his pen, to avoid bursting 
 into a laugh. 
 
 " No," said Jean Paul, " it was" 
 
 " But it is the name of a dog a singular name, 
 Mentor. Ah, I beg your pardon, I meant Medor. 
 I made a mistake. But, who was this Mentor ?" 
 
 " Mentor was a man " 
 
 " Oh yes, I know, a very amusing jolly old fellow, 
 who was always making young Telegraph laugh." 
 
 A general burst of laughter was the result of this 
 happy attempt at a joke; and Jean Paul, a little dis- 
 concerted, began to think the little folks would prove 
 ungovernable. 
 
 " Silence !" said he, in as firm a tone as possible. 
 " I will have no nonsense." 
 
 In a moment every head was bent over the desk 
 with exaggerated gravity, and the pens began to
 
 164 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 scratch upon the paper. But that could not last. 
 The next minute the little rolling tide had again 
 commenced its onward course, and the irresistible 
 merriment was on every lip. So things continued 
 for half an hour. It was unnecessary that Yalentin 
 should make any yery great efforts to enliven his 
 companions, they were easily worked upon and 
 amused. 
 
 Once wound up, they seemed as if nothing could 
 stop their merriment. 
 
 M. Prosper happened to come in for a book ; and, 
 in his distress, Jean Paul appealed to him for assis- 
 tance ; but M. Prosper had, from the first, taken 
 such an aversion for the poor boy, that he contented 
 himself by answering 
 
 " It is your affair, not mine. I cannot interfere." 
 
 Then Jean Paul remembered having heard it said, 
 or to have read somewhere, he could not remember 
 which, that the intercourse of a professor with his 
 pupils depends upon the first lesson, and the degree 
 of influence he is able to acquire over them from the 
 commencement. The thought quite frightened him. 
 Perhaps it was even now too late. He was ready to 
 burst into tears ; but he knew that would only be, to 
 put the crowning point to his misfortunes ; and yet 
 it cost him a violent effort to restrain himself. By 
 a sudden inspiration, he did the only thing that was 
 useful or reasonable in such a case. As Yalentin 
 opened his mouth again to utter one of the sallies 
 which were so highly appreciated, Jean Paul took
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 165 
 
 him by the arm, led him to the door, opened it, and 
 shut it upon him, then he resumed the dictation at 
 the point where they had stopped as if nothing had 
 happened ; feeling quite astonished at the cool de- 
 termination with which he had been able to accom- 
 plish this act of justice. The other boys looked at 
 each other in surprise ; they began to write, and did 
 not venture to move, until the young professor, for 
 whom they had begun to feel a certain degree of 
 respect, asked for their copy books. 
 
 Valentin was in his way as Jean Paul left the 
 class. He did not hang down his head, or look sorry, 
 but regarded his master with an expression of cun- 
 ning which promised nothing good. But the young 
 man did not perceive it, and returned to his own 
 room. On entering it, he felt very lonely so 
 lonely, that it seemed to him as if he could have 
 gladly renounced all his hopes, to be once more at his 
 own dear home. But he opened his trunk, and took 
 out the books that he had brought with him, 
 arranged them upon shelves which occupied a recess 
 in the wall just above his writing table, and took 
 comfort. 
 
 Whilst he was thus absorbed, some one knocked at 
 the door ; it was M. Prosper ; his spectacles were on 
 his nose, and he looked more ministerial than 
 ever. 
 
 " Sir," said he, " you are doubtless ignorant of the 
 rules and customs of such a school as ours. What 
 has happened this morning is of very grave moment,
 
 166 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 I do assure you. I can only excuse it on the grounds 
 of your ignorance of the duties imposed by refine- 
 ment." 
 
 "What has happened?" enquired Jean Paul, 
 utterly confounded by this incomprehensible preface, 
 and unable to imagine what could possibly follow it. 
 
 " Those are the words I used, Sir ; but it may be 
 as well to observe, that it is not usual, in polite 
 society, to hear one's own expressions repeated. 
 But to return to the fact to which I have already 
 made some allusion : you must know, that a child 
 confided to your care, is never to be struck." 
 
 " Struck ! No child has been struck, at least not 
 by me." 
 
 " Again ! but no matter as it is your habit to 
 repeat all that is said to you. You cannot, however, 
 deny, that Valentin Dumeril was dragged from his 
 place with inconceivable violence, dragged as far 
 as the door, and then pushed out of the room, and 
 by you, sir, by yourself ! " 
 
 " A little boy, whose name I do not know, behaved 
 very badly, and, spite of all my remonstrances, ex- 
 cited the others to revolt. I took him by the arm, 
 and put him outside the door. He had richly 
 deserved it." 
 
 " You are pleased to say so ; but the child's 
 account differs widely from your own, sir, and 
 I beg that another time you will make use of 
 more suitable measures for securing your pupils' 
 obedience."
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 167 
 
 M. Prosper went out of the room as he said these 
 words. Jean Paul was confounded. For the first 
 time in his life he had been disbelieved. For the 
 first time unjustly accused, he who had been treated 
 with so much indulgence, and that at a moment 
 when his task had appeared so difficult, in the 
 very moment of discouragement ! It was hard, 
 indeed. 
 
 But, to certain characters, the sense of injustice 
 gives an unexpected strength ; and the Professor's 
 timid, inobstrusive son, was of this number. He 
 resolved to go straight to the little boy who had 
 told the lie, and force him to confess the truth before 
 everyone. 
 
 So he went down into the class-room, where 
 the 'children were preparing their lessons ; went up 
 to Valentin, and commanded him to accompany 
 him to M. Bertin and M. Prosper. Valentin tried 
 to resist, but both gentlemen entered the room at the 
 identical moment. 
 
 " Sir," said Jean Paul, addressing M. Bertin, "this 
 little boy is going to tell you all that has passed 
 between us. He has been saying what is not true ; 
 his companions are now present. He shall tell you 
 everything. I am quite ready to be blamed if I 
 have done wrong." 
 
 Valentin would have liked to hide himself in 
 the earth. He had not expected such a display of 
 firmness in him whom he called " the poor pawn ; " 
 he had hoped, on the contrary, to be able to master
 
 168 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 him. However, lie thought it hest to repeat the 
 same 'version of the affair, that he had already given 
 to M. Prosper, supposing that his companions would 
 at least be silent, and not betray him. 
 
 " I complained," said he, " because I thought we 
 ought not to be struck. I am sure my father would 
 take me away at once if he knew I had been. As I 
 told M. Prosper, this gentleman seized me by the 
 arm with such violence, that I believed he had 
 broken it, and threw me outside the door with such 
 force that I fell down at full length ; and all because 
 I could not help laughing a little !" 
 
 A murmur of indignation passed from bench to 
 bench as the boys listened to this story ; but no one 
 spoke, perhaps because they made it a point of 
 honour not to betray a schoolfellow, perhaps be- 
 cause Valentin had made himself formidable by 
 his naughtiness, and they did not wish to make 
 him their enemy. The little boy whom Jean Paul 
 had noticed for his sweet serious expression hesi- 
 tated for a moment, like the rest, then he rose, and 
 said, 
 
 " It is not true ! " 
 
 The assertion once made, all the others supported 
 it. 
 
 " No, it is not true ! It is infamous ; it is shame- 
 ful ! He was not dragged violently ; he was not 
 pushed out of the door. He did nothing but make 
 fun, and force us to laugh ; he richly deserved it." 
 
 " That will do, my children," said M. Bertin, " you
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 169 
 
 are quite justified ! As to you, Valentin, you have 
 made a very bad beginning of the new year. You 
 shall be sent to Coventry for the next eight days ; 
 and if you fall again into so grave a fault, I shall 
 ask your father myself, sir, to withdraw you from 
 my establishment." 
 
 To be sent to Coventry was the most dreadful of 
 all M. Bertin's punishments. During the appointed 
 time, the culprit was forbidden the least intercourse 
 with his schoolfellows. No one spoke to him, no 
 one approached him. Excluded from all games, 
 from all conversation, he dared not speak to any 
 one, or seek the slightest aid or expression of 
 sympathy, under pain of having the term of his 
 punishment doubled. 
 
 Such was Jean Paul's heroic entrance upon his 
 career as professor. One might have supposed that 
 this first act of courage would have given him some 
 assurance ; but when he appeared at dinner, he 
 seemed more embarrassed than. ever. The ground 
 gained in the morning by his firmness was lost, or 
 at least was in danger of being so, by his frequent 
 fits of abstraction, which never escaped the quick 
 eyes of his little pupils. For instance, when they 
 gave him the plate full of slices of beef, to pass 
 round the table, he placed it before himself, in ex- 
 change for his own empty one. On perceiving his 
 mistake, and the interpretation that might be put 
 upon it, he blushed so excessively, and was so con- 
 fused, that when M. Bertin handed his glass to be
 
 170 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 filled with, water, he poured nearly half the decanter 
 over the side upon the cloth. Notwithstanding so 
 many absurdities, Sara did not evince the least incli- 
 nation to laugh, and as she was seated nearly oppo- 
 site the poor youth, she bestowed on him many little 
 polite attentions, which, were not habitual to her, 
 but were involuntary proofs of her kindness of 
 heart. 
 
 Sara was not in the least timid herself, and could 
 scarcely comprehend the malady ; but she saw that it 
 occasioned real suffering, and felt pity for those who 
 were afflicted with it. 
 
 That evening, M. Bertin introduced Jean Paul 
 into his private study. It was a 'large, sombre- 
 looking room, with dingy furniture, and offered no 
 other luxuries than those numerous volumes that 
 clothed the walls, from the floor to the very ceiling. 
 Study at once commenced, and the old professor was 
 charmed by the avidity of his pupil's curiosity and 
 intelligence. He saw at once, that the difficulties 
 surmounted by Jean Paul, in his persevering solitary 
 labour, had exercised and developed his faculties 
 much more than the best lessons could have done. 
 No doubt he might have learnt more under the 
 direction of a clever master; but he would have 
 learnt it less thoroughly. 
 
 Seated at a little table, with her back to him, and 
 apparently quite absorbed in the book which was 
 open before her, Sara listened to the lesson ; and 
 Jean Paul, who was at first rather surprised at her
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 171 
 
 presence, soon forgot it, and all things else, in the 
 happiness of reading the Greek of Sophocles, and of 
 Euripides, with a man who made him feel the 
 slightest shades of delicate beauty in this language, 
 " aux douceurs souveraines," so little appreciated by 
 the greater part of those who study it,
 
 172 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 SCHOOL LIFE. 
 
 SCHOOL went on its accustomed round. Each of our 
 young friends had written his first letter home, and 
 had received such a tender one in reply one which 
 had so awakened home memories, that it was only by 
 a great effort of manly pride that they had been able 
 to restrain their tears. School life had already had 
 its influence upon them they would have thought 
 it derogatory to their dignity as collegians to betray 
 to the sight of any one in the world what their heart 
 possessed pf most worth. They had also learnt to 
 understand the attraction of this mode of life, of union 
 in study, of emulation, and of rule, rendered palatable 
 by being universally binding. The elder boys went 
 twice a day to the Lycee, and then prepared their 
 lessons under the immediate care of M. Prosper, and 
 the supervision of his father. 
 
 Robert applied himself to his studies with the same 
 degree of energy that he brought to everything he un- 
 dertook, whether of work or play ; but, although he 
 was quick and intelligent, study was not his forte, and 
 he had resigned himself to being surpassed by his
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 173 
 
 brother, whose assistance he did not shrink from 
 openly seeking when he found himself unable to sur- 
 mount a difficulty. 
 
 Eugene, aided by that insatiable desire of appro- 
 bation, which was the weak side of his character, and 
 a snare, had, although very young, at once taken the 
 head of his class. Arthur, accustomed to regard 
 himself as a little phoenix, was much surprised to 
 find himself deficient in every branch; and to have 
 the conviction forced upon him that his professors 
 considered him very backward for his age. 
 
 As to JerOme, he had a goal before him. He 
 wished to take the head of his class, and worked to 
 that intent with extraordinary zeal. As he was not 
 wanting in intelligence, he made real progress. But 
 as there was a considerable disparity between his 
 present attainments and the position he strove to 
 reach, the poor child sometimes became discouraged. 
 
 One day Eugene found him seated at the foot of 
 his bed, bitterly weeping ; his elbows rested upon his 
 knees; his face was hidden in his hands. He ques- 
 tioned him as to the cause of his distress, and was in 
 the greatest astonishment when he discovered, by 
 his cousin's broken sentences, what were the ambi- 
 tious designs he cherished. 
 
 " You at the head of your class ! " said he ; " but 
 you cannot surely think of such a thing, my poor 
 Jerome ? You the first ! Why, it is very well to be 
 able to follow us; and I think M. Bertin would have 
 done better to have made you enter the fifth.
 
 174 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 " Oh, Eugene ! " said the boy, -with, touching 
 humility, " I am not quite so stupid as I seem to 
 be ; no one has ever taken the least interest in my 
 progress, and I did not care about it myself. If you 
 only could help me with some little things that I 
 cannot understand, however much I try to, you shall 
 see that I will work with all my might, and that I 
 shall not long remain in the back-ground. I have 
 never learnt the Latin grammar thoroughly it is 
 that which makes everything so difficult." 
 
 " "Well, then, you must go through it again, from 
 one end to the other, on your own account. I will 
 correct your exercises." 
 
 " Yes ; but the time ! We have not too much as it 
 is for the preparation of each day's lesson." 
 
 " And the recreation hour ? " 
 
 " That is true ; but it would not be enough. Ah, 
 I know what I will do ; I will rise an hour earlier 
 than the rest every morning to study. No one will 
 know it but you." 
 
 " But we ought to be up at five o'clock in summer, 
 and at six in winter. And the class room is neither 
 opened nor warmed before that hour." 
 
 " I can work here very well. I will make a little 
 clear space upon my dressing-table." 
 
 "And the light?" 
 
 " I have a little money ; I shall buy candles." 
 
 " All very well just now; but think what it will be 
 in the winter, when it freezes, here in this room, 
 which faces the north, and is never warmed/'
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 175 
 
 " I will roll myself up in my blanket ; I don't 
 mind if I am cold. 3 ' 
 
 " But, what can make you wish so much to make 
 progress ? " 
 
 " I want to have some prizes." 
 
 " Prizes ! Are you mad ? " 
 
 " You think, then, that however earnestly I work 
 during the whole year, I cannot gain any ? " 
 
 Eugene thought for a moment. These words of 
 Scripture passed through his mind " The last shall 
 be first," and he answered 
 
 " I do not know perhaps but it will be difficult ; 
 and then I intend to work hard too. I never thought 
 you had so much ambition ! So great a thirst for 
 glory ! " 
 
 " Oh no ; it is for my mother," said Jerome. 
 
 " Your mother ! I thought she did not care." He 
 was going to add, " about you " ; but, fearing to cause 
 pain he stopped short then said "about your 
 studies." 
 
 " That is true," said Jerome, in a tone of dis- 
 couragement ; " but I often think if I could do her 
 honour, she would, perhaps, like me better. I have 
 given her little cause of satisfaction so far. Last 
 year I saw the distribution of prizes at Lyons. There 
 was one little boy who got nearly all of them, and 
 every time that he carried one to his mother, she 
 looked on him with such joy, and seemed so proud ! 
 When we went out, I saw them again in the street ; 
 they were walking together, looking so happy. Peo-
 
 176 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 pie said she was a widow, and that he was her only 
 son. Oh, how delightful it must be to give so much 
 pleasure to one's mother ! " 
 
 " Yes/' said Eugene ; " but there are many ways 
 of giving them pleasure. At home, mamma looks 
 happy every time I have resisted temptation, or re- 
 pressed a bad feeling ; and I am sure nothing makes 
 her so sad as to see me do wrong. 3 ' 
 " And yet I think that mothers love those children 
 most who do them honour/' persisted poor Jerome, 
 who had only too much reason to be assured of the 
 fact, from his own experience. "I should like to have 
 mamma love me as much as she loves my brother." 
 
 It was the first time he had let Eugene see this 
 secret suffering of his heart. 
 
 Eugene was touched by it, and remembering the 
 love with which he had been surrounded all his 
 life, he felt a movement of tenderness towards the 
 poor child, who had been so cruelly deprived of it. 
 
 " I would willingly help you," he said, as he em- 
 braced him, " but I must work hard myself. At any 
 rate, we will encourage each other." 
 
 The next morning, Jerome rose at five o'clock, and 
 when the dressing-bell that bell so detested by the 
 idle rang at six o'clock, it found him up long since, 
 and prepared, by his private study, for the labours of 
 his class. To be able fully to appreciate this coura- 
 geous effort, you must know how much Je'rome 
 loved his bed, and how little he was naturally 
 inclined to be active.
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 177 
 
 But the actuating cause was stronger than all 
 opposing sentiments, and if once or twice he allowed 
 himself to be conquered by indolence, it made him. 
 so unhappy all the day, that he most carefully avoid- 
 ed falling into the same fault on the morrow. For 
 some time he awoke very frequently during the night 
 to look at his watch, thinking the hour must have 
 arrived ; but the habit was soon acquired, and the 
 neighbouring clock did not strike its five solemn 
 strokes until Jerome had made some progress with 
 his toilette. 
 
 Nobody in the house had the slightest idea of 
 Jerome's plan, and as the lads went to bed at nine 
 o'clock his health did not suffer from it in the least. 
 M. Bertin and his son were astonished at the little 
 fellow's progress ; for they had at first considered him 
 to rank amongst the most backward and least intel- 
 ligent. M. Bertin, knowing that those who appear 
 sleepy and stupid sometimes give proof of greater 
 facility for acquiring knowledge than the brightest 
 and most lively, merely remarked that the child did 
 not want for talent, though it had been concealed 
 under a thick envelope. In time he hoped to make 
 something of him. 
 
 His school- fellows did not look below the surface, 
 and rather despised the poor lad, who was so inexpert 
 and showed so little agility in play, and who was too 
 often so silent that they could not get a word from 
 him ; for, being altogether absorbed in his great pre- 
 occupation, he could not be merry, and did not know 
 
 N
 
 178 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 how to enter into a joke. M. Prosper was very 
 severe, and enjoyed embarrassing him before all his 
 class-mates, by asking him questions ambiguously 
 worded ; and he not ^infrequently indulged in sar- 
 casm, of which the terms were very polite. Poor 
 Jerome was often the only one unable to perceive 
 that he was being laughed at. 
 
 One Thursday morning, with the exception of 
 Eugene and J6r6me who would not allow themselves 
 to be distracted by the whisperings around them, 
 all the class was in a state of excitement most un- 
 favourable to the proper reception of the lesson. 
 Arthur, who had a natural gift for drawing, and 
 seldom exercised it but for caricature, sketched such 
 a comical resemblance of M. Prosper, that the boys, 
 as they passed it on from desk to desk, had the 
 greatest difficulty not to shout with laughter. The 
 worthy gentleman was for the moment so absorbed 
 in an explanation, that he did not perceive any- 
 thing of it; but raising his head at length, he 
 glanced suspiciously at the two rows of faces in 
 which fun was manifestly lurking. 
 
 The scrap of paper was in Jerome's hand, and he, 
 entirely absorbed by a question in Syntax, never 
 thought of passing it on ; and without being at all 
 conscious what he was doing, had written his name 
 upon it. 
 
 " Show me that paper," said M. Prosper, in a tone 
 of authority. 
 
 Jer6me stretched out his hand, and many other
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 179 
 
 hands were extended to pass it to the judge. M. 
 Prosper blushed as he looked at it. It was utterly 
 impossible to feign ignorance of its meaning. It 
 was too evidently himself with his spectacles, his 
 starched cravat, and his contracted features. Every 
 little thing was faithfully delineated ; and there was 
 an air of reality given to the whole in spite of its 
 exaggeration. Jerome's name was written quite 
 legibly underneath. 
 
 " Did you do this P" asked the original when he 
 had contemplated his image. 
 
 " No, sir," said Jerome ; " it was not I." 
 
 " But it is your name that I see written there ; is 
 it written by your own hand, examine it." 
 
 " Yes, sir I" 
 
 " You are then the author of this fine joke ? 
 Really you might do better than employ the wits 
 you generally succeed in hiding so completely, in 
 taking liberties of this kind. They will not do 
 for me, sir." 
 
 " But, sir, I do assure you it was not I ; I do not 
 know how the paper came into my hands. I was 
 thinking of something else, and did not even look 
 at it." 
 
 " A very likely story ! How did it happen then 
 that you wrote your name upon it ?" 
 
 Jer6me could not say ; he could only repeat that 
 it was not he. 
 
 " Who was it then ? At least tell me who is 
 guilty if you are not so yourself."
 
 180 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 Jerome was silent, and looked at his companions 
 with an air of entreaty. Eugene was ready to speak. 
 He was indignant that Arthur should still be silent, 
 and looked at him most significantly. The fear of 
 being thought a tell-tale restrained him. 
 
 " Leave the room !" said M. Prosper to Jerome, 
 who obeyed without a word. 
 
 M. Prosper put the paper in his pocket and re- 
 sumed his explanation ; but it was easy to see that 
 he was greatly irritated, and that he had been 
 wounded in a sore place. 
 
 " It is shameful I" said Eugene, as he leaned be- 
 hind the little boy who separated him from Arthur ; 
 " it is cowardly !" 
 
 Arthur shrugged his shoulders, and whispered 
 still lower : 
 
 " What 's the harm ? I did not say it was he." 
 
 M. Prosper was kinder to Arthur, than to any 
 other of his pupils. Was it on account of his name, 
 or his fortune ? Was M. Prosper dazzled by such 
 trivial distinctions in this sanctuary of science, 
 where the only superiority should be that conferred 
 by study and intelligence, or was it a handsome face, 
 an aristocratic mien, a little spice of the insolence of 
 a spoilt child, which caused him to show this pre- 
 ference? Nobody knew; but the fact was indis- 
 putable. 
 
 Poor JerSme went to suffer his unmerited banish- 
 ment in the garden. What most troubled him was 
 to miss the lesson on which he had so reckoned
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 181 
 
 to clear away certain difficulties tliat harassed him. 
 He walked slowly, along those paths which were the 
 furthest from the house, raising the dry leaves which 
 were lying to some depth upon the ground ; when he 
 saw a person advancing towards him whom he had 
 as yet only seen at meals. It was Sara, who only 
 entered the garden during study hours, and who 
 was quite surprised to meet with one of the boys. 
 She remarked the lad's look of consternation, and 
 came forward to ask why he was not in his class. 
 
 " I have been turned out," replied Jer6me. 
 
 " Indeed, what have you been doing ?" 
 
 " Nothing ; only it seems that without knowing it, 
 I wrote my name under a caricature that some one 
 had made of M. Prosper, and he naturally thought I 
 had done it." , 
 
 " A caricature of my dear and noble cousin," said 
 Sara, laughing with intense inward pleasure. " I 
 can understand that his dignity would suffer from 
 such an affront. But who did it, then ?" 
 
 " I do not know, nobody would confess to it." 
 
 " And he has let you be punished instead of him ! 
 He is a coward ! I despise him ! But pray don't 
 look so desperately miserable. You have done 
 nothing wrong, you are unjustly punished ; and after 
 all, perhaps you are not sorry to take a turn in the 
 garden instead of listening to my learned cousin." 
 
 " You are mistaken there," said Jerome. " We 
 were about to have a passage in Caesar explained to 
 us, that I have not been able to understand, and a
 
 182 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 rule upon the participles that I do not know how 
 to apply. Missing the lesson is the very thing 
 that annoys me." 
 
 " Really," said Sara, " you surprise me ; have 
 you your Caesar ?" 
 
 " Yes, it is here." 
 
 " "Well, what will you say if I can help you ?" 
 
 " You !" said Jer6me, who appeared still more 
 surprised at the young lady's proposition than she 
 had been at his zeal. 
 
 " Yes ; but you must promise not to tell anyone. 
 You know I told you the first day you came that 
 there were apparitions in the house, but some of 
 them are good and benevolent spirits, very useful, 
 and ready to help those who are at all embarrassed. 
 We will seat ourselves on that bench upon the grass ; 
 no one will see us there from the house, and we shall 
 have plenty of time before the play hour. Show 
 me the passage." 
 
 Jer6me obeyed without being quite sure whether 
 Sara was really in earnest. It did not take her 
 long to make clear and simple what had appeared 
 so obscure and difficult. She had a way of making 
 him understand it by himself, which rendered the 
 lesson doubly valuable to him. 
 
 She afterwards explained the rules relating to the 
 participles, which had hitherto seemed quite beyond 
 his powers of comprehension made him apply them 
 in various sentences and did not leave him until she 
 was sure that he had penetrated to the very depths
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 183 
 
 of this grammatical mystery. Then she told him 
 that whenever she could be of use to him, he had 
 only to let her know, and she would most willingly 
 aid him. 
 
 " Ah, yes ; but the Greek !" said Jerfane. 
 
 " Well, the Greek, what of that ; it is not worse 
 for an apparition to speak Greek than Latin." 
 
 " But I thought you were a little girl," replied 
 Jerome in his slow tone of astonishment, as he hesi- 
 tated with doubt and embarrassment at sight of the 
 feminine garments, and short hair of his little 
 professor. 
 
 " Learn to be a little more respectful towards a 
 personage who will be sixteen next year," said Sara, 
 laughing. " I tell you I am a spirit. Provided it is 
 useful to you, what need have you to know any thing 
 further ?" 
 
 And she ran off leaving Jer6me quite amazed at 
 his adventure, but very well satisfied with its scien- 
 tific results.
 
 184 
 
 CHAPTER XYIT. 
 
 CIVIL WAR. 
 
 had scarcely been left a moment alone, when 
 the garden-door opened, and a troop of school-boys, 
 like a cloud of talking, quarrelsome birds, alighted 
 upon the lawn, of which dry, crisp leaves formed the 
 only ornaments. A little group immediately sepa- 
 rated themselves from their companions. 
 
 It comprised all who were interested in the affair 
 of that morning. Robert and Eugene vehemently 
 attacked Arthur, and accused him of cowardice. 
 Others took his part, and pretended that, so long as 
 he was not asked the question point-blank, he had 
 a right to be silent. 
 
 " What ! and let another boy be punished in his 
 stead ?" asked Eugene. 
 
 " Pooh, pooh I" replied Arthur ; " the young cub is 
 not much to be pitied. He has been sunning himself 
 a little under this wall, and, as you may be sure he 
 will never be caught in any flagrant offence in the 
 way of caricature, this little sin will soon be forgotten. 
 As for me, do you know that it was through my 
 devotion to the common weal that I did not become
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 185 
 
 my own accuser ? It would not have done to draw 
 attention to this talent with which nature has 
 endowed me for your amusement, and for the refresh- 
 ment of your weary spirits during the long fatiguing 
 hours of study. That dear M. Prosper has so much 
 modesty, that the fear of seeing his features repro- 
 duced too often by the genius of my pencil, might 
 have induced him to observe me a great deal too 
 narrowly. He may watch Jerome as assiduously as 
 he pleases ; but I believe he will never catch him in 
 the act." 
 
 " That does not prevent its being cowardly to let 
 another boy be accused in your stead," said Robert, 
 whose high sense of honour revolted from such 
 conduct. 
 
 " "Well, then, why did you not say it yourself?" 
 
 " Because it was not for me to speak. He who 
 was guilty ought to have acknowledged it himself. 
 None of the rest had a right to speak, even to avoid 
 a universally-inflicted punishment." 
 
 "That is sublime, that is!" exclaimed Arthur, 
 ironically. " It is a pity to make such a fuss about 
 nothing/' 
 
 The dispute was growing more serious, when M. 
 Prosper's appearance on the scene suddenly brought 
 it to a close. They could not explain the cause of 
 their debate ; it was, therefore, best to appear friendly. 
 M. Prosper looked more starched and dignified than 
 usual. He wished to appear indifferent, and to make 
 them believe that he had already forgotten the offence
 
 186 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 of the morning ; but he only succeeded in convincing 
 every one that it was impossible for him to forget it 
 for a moment. 
 
 "Gentlemen," said he (he always addressed his 
 pupils in this manner), " neither my father nor I can 
 take the oversight of you this morning. An impera- 
 tive duty requires our presence elsewhere. I hope 
 that you will not profit by this circumstance to con- 
 duct yourselves in a way that would bring shame 
 upon you, and grief and affliction upon us. M. Her- 
 mann will report to me on my return." 
 
 This harangue was followed by a profound silence ; 
 but it was not the silence it had been intended to 
 produce. M. Prosper had scarcely withdrawn, when 
 the air rang with a general burst of laughter. 
 
 " How amusing he is, with his fine speeches," said 
 one. 
 
 " How stupid he is, with his solemn airs," said 
 another. 
 
 The half-hour of recreation was over, and 
 the bell sounded for class. The little boys had 
 had leave to amuse themselves in the garden 
 until noon, whilst M. Hermann presided over the 
 upper class. But he did not find the boys either 
 more reasonable or more easy to govern than their 
 juniors. For half-an-hour all went on smoothly. 
 The pens ran along the paper; dictionary leaves 
 were turned over with quick fingers ; scarcely a 
 whisper was to be heard, but such excessive good- 
 ness could not last. The greater part of the boys
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 187 
 
 soon arose, and declared that they should be ready 
 in time, and would work no longer. Jean Paul 
 vainly insisted that there must be perfect silence in 
 the class until twelve o'clock : nobody heard him. 
 They pushed aside the tables, they overturned the 
 forms, and one of the boys got upon the master's 
 desk, and began to make an oration to the assembly, 
 in a style in which the comic and heroic were 
 strangely mingled ; the orator was frequently inter- 
 rupted by loud cheers. Oh, what a task ! What a 
 sad and hopeless task for a young lad of seventeen to 
 be obliged to keep in order a troop of fellows scarcely 
 younger than himself, and very little disposed to 
 acknowledge his authority. Jean Paul was in des- 
 pair, and did not know in what way to extricate 
 himself from his difficulty. He could not even suc- 
 ceed in making himself heard. 
 
 But unexpected aid arrived in this critical moment. 
 When the tumult was at its height, the door was 
 opened, and an aged man of venerable aspect, but 
 erect and imposing, appeared standing at the 
 entrance. 
 
 " Is there a revolution ? " asked he, whilst every 
 one stopped short ; and the orator, looking foolish 
 enough, descended from the platform, in the middle 
 of one of his finest bursts of eloquence. 
 
 The elder boys were well acquainted with this 
 friend of their master, who sometimes joined them 
 unexpectedly at table, and who had always a good 
 word of advice and kindness for each of them,
 
 188 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 concealed in what seemed a joke. After a moment's 
 conversation with Jean Paul, who had turned to him 
 as to an angel sent from Heaven, he again faced the 
 boys. 
 
 " I was not deceived," said he. "It is really the 
 upper class that I see, composed of boys of twelve, 
 thirteen, and fourteen. I really might have supposed 
 you had been little fellows, who did not yet know 
 how to distinguish your right hand from your left. 
 Ah ! my young friends, you will never be Goethes." 
 
 Some of the boys knew the name he had just men- 
 tioned, and asked why they should not be like 
 Goethe. 
 
 " For many reasons, no doubt. One of them you 
 will learn from the little story I am about to relate." 
 
 They clustered around him, whilst he assured them 
 that his story was very short, and he was glad of it, 
 as otherwise he should not have time to relate it. 
 
 "It is an anecdote, the chief merit of which is, 
 that it relates to a great man, and lets us see the 
 germ of that strength of character for which he was 
 so much distinguished through life. Goethe, as a 
 child, showed a stoical indifference for the laughter 
 and jeers of his comrades, and even for the pain 
 which they inflicted on him by blows and ill-treat- 
 ment ; but, after bearing it all patiently for a con- 
 siderable time without any complaint, he sometimes 
 cast off his indifference, and allowed a righteous 
 anger to triumph for a moment over his sense of 
 dignity. But you shall see how, even at such
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 189 
 
 moments as these, he respected school-authority and 
 discipline. On a certain day, one of the professors 
 was prevented from giving his lesson ; and the boys, 
 left to their own resources, began to converse quietly 
 together ; but, after a while, Goethe's friends having 
 withdrawn, he was left alone with three young 
 scamps, who determined to drive him away by their 
 annoyances. To this end they left him a moment, 
 and returned armed with birches drawn from a broom 
 in all haste. The boy guessed their object, but as he 
 was firmly resolved never to avenge himself during 
 study-hours, he determined to remain immoveable 
 until the clock struck the hour for play. His 
 enemies began to whip his legs most unmercifully. 
 He did not stir ; but the pain he suffered seemed most 
 terribly to prolong the minutes. Anger increased 
 with suffering. At the first stroke of the clock, he 
 seized one of his tormentors by the hair, when he 
 was least expecting it, threw him on the ground in a 
 twinkling, and held him down by planting one knee 
 upon his back. Then he succeeded in passing the 
 head of another, who being younger and weaker, had 
 attacked him from behind, under his arm, whilst he 
 nearly strangled him with squeezing it against him. 
 The third remained, a strong, vigorous lad, and 
 Goethe had only his right hand to defend himself 
 with. Yet he seized him by the coat, and succeeded 
 in flooring him, there he lay extended at his feet, 
 his face against the floor. In the meantime, they all 
 three kicked, bit, and pinched him, as best they
 
 190 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 could ; but he, little hero, was all unconscious, so 
 completely was he possessed by the spirit of ven- 
 geance. He profited by the advantage given him by 
 his position to thump their heads together from time 
 to time. This made them scream so fearfully, that 
 they were soon surrounded by all the household. 
 The rods scattered all over the floor, and Goethe's 
 bleeding legs, rendered their testimony in his favour. 
 It was evident that he had been pushed to extremi- 
 ties, and they let him go without punishment. I do 
 not recommend, my young friends, that you should 
 imitate the great man in his vengeance, but only in 
 his submission to discipline." 
 
 The story had produced its effect. These great boys 
 were rather ashamed of having allowed themselves 
 to be surprised in so flagrant a dereliction of duty; 
 and when the narrator who arrived so opportunely 
 had disappeared, everyone resumed his occupation. 
 
 " Who is it ? " was asked by the new comers, of 
 the other boys. 
 
 " It is one of M. Bertin's friends. He was once 
 a professor himself. He comes here now and then, 
 and always chooses the moment when he is least 
 expected. He is very good, and everyone likes to 
 hear him talk, because he knows everything, and " 
 
 " Oh, oh ! " said Arthur, " he who knows the 
 most knows simply that he knows nothing : at least 
 so they taught me to write for six long months, in a 
 fine, bold round hand, in my copy-book, and I have 
 thought ever since that it was just as well to arrive
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 191 
 
 by one gigantic stride at the crowning point of 
 scientific lore, without passing through any tiresome 
 intermediate process." 
 
 " Keep your wit to yourself, Arthur," said one of 
 the smaller boys, " you will always know one thing 
 well enough, at any rate." 
 
 " And what may that be, pray ? " 
 
 " That you are the proprietor of the Chateau 
 d'Ermance. I do not think the fact is ever one 
 moment absent from your mind ; and there is 
 another that I will undertake to remind you of 
 occasionally, when you forget it, and that is, that you 
 are the vainest fellow I ever set my eyes upon." 
 
 This was said in consequence of a former conver- 
 sation, during the course of which Arthur had men- 
 tioned, with much ostentation, the magnificence and 
 luxury of his childhood, and had spokenconternptously 
 of two of his comrades, who confessed that they had 
 only a maid-of-all-work in their family. Certain it 
 is, the expressions, " my servant," " my horse," " my 
 chateau," were more frequently interspersed in the 
 chit-chat of the young heir than was warranted by 
 good taste ; and his school-fellows punished him 
 for it by calling him " My Lord," with an air of 
 deferential raillery, which was highly obnoxious to 
 him. He was especially haughty towards the 
 inoffensive Jean Paul, who, for his part, asked 
 nothing more than to be allowed to pursue his 
 studies, and to fulfil his duties, in peace ; and never 
 thought of desiring to measure himself in any way
 
 192 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 with his father's old pupil. Arthur, in a word, took 
 the very best method to render himself disagreeable 
 to his companions ; and it is obvious that he who 
 makes enemies and judges of his natural allies, leaves 
 himself but small chance of happiness during his 
 school career. 
 
 Discord, then, seemed upon the point of breaking 
 out. Arthur, who possessed a certain sang-froid, 
 more irritating to his adversaries than an outburst 
 of violence would have been, had replied in such a 
 manner as to impose silence for the moment. Jean 
 Paul made some ineffectual efforts to restore order ; 
 there was no one to back him, for a deus ex machina 
 cannot be expected twice in the same hour. The 
 poor youth, utterly beside himself, at the sound of 
 the bitter, wounding words that were hurled about 
 in all directions, hid his face in his hands, and called 
 all good angels to his aid. No doubt he saw in 
 vision the little quaint table where he had so many 
 times translated his Euripides, without other dis- 
 turbance than the noise made by the children in 
 their play, and by their impromptu caresses. Per- 
 haps he saw, at the same time, his mother's look of 
 resignation, his father's bald head, and slightly 
 curved figure. He raised himself with sudden reso- 
 lution, and said, in a tone of decision, 
 
 " You have no conscience ; you do not know what 
 duty is ! " 
 
 These two words, " conscience " and " duty," con- 
 veyed a distinct meaning to Robert's mind. His
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 193 
 
 father had taught him their true value. He could 
 not remain deaf to such an appeal, and returned at 
 once to his seat. One example is often sufficient to 
 draw the multitude towards good, as well as towards 
 evil ; the boys followed him, and order was re-estab- 
 lished in the class-room. 
 
 Jean Paul's trials were not always of a nature 
 equally endurable. His severest difficulties arose out of 
 the inimical feelings of M. Prosper. Ever since the 
 little boy whose part he had taken, had been publicly 
 exposed, his endeavours to convict the poor usher of 
 a fault had been ceaseless. He kept watch over 
 every instance of mal-address, or of absence of mind. 
 Valentin, now restored to his place in the school- 
 room, ably seconded his views, being one of those 
 who rarely learn anything, but who more rarely 
 forget. Between them, and yet without the appear- 
 ance of any formal compact, there was not a single 
 petty vexation that they shrank from inflicting. 
 Jean Paul bore everything with the most exemplary 
 patience ; living upon the hope of his undisturbed 
 evening labours, during those enchanting hours 
 passed in M. Bertin's study. Besides, the old pro- 
 fessor showed him quite sufficient consideration to 
 atone amply for his son's contemptuous treatment. 
 He wondered for a long time in what manner Sara 
 occupied those long evenings which she passed in utter 
 silence, apparently absorbed in reading what he sus- 
 pected to be a book for children, or an elementary 
 lesson-book. Light dawned on the fact at last.
 
 194 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 As Jean Paul read aloud a passage from the 
 (Edipus Colonus, with all the enthusiasm inspired 
 by the majestic simplicity of the poetry, he en- 
 countered Sara's beaming eyes fixed upon him, with 
 an expression of such intense enjoyment and earnest 
 attention, that he at once perceived he was understood. 
 She regretted to have been betrayed, and bent her 
 head again over her book ; but it was too late. The 
 professor's eye had followed the little scene in silence. 
 He smiled, called Sara, and, whilst drawing her 
 towards him, gave her the little accustomed taps of 
 fondness. 
 
 " Never mind, little girl, now that you have be- 
 trayed yourself; you may sit by us and listen. She 
 must be forgiven for understanding Greek ; because 
 she is, at the same time, the most devoted of the 
 little familiar spirits that an old pedagogue has ever 
 managed to confine to his study. No one but she 
 ever touches my books or papers. No one but she 
 knows how to find, in a moment, the volume I re- 
 quire, or the very paragraph at which I would open. 
 We have lived together for eight years, in this dust 
 of scientific and historic lore, nibbling together our 
 yellow old books, like an old rat and a little mouse, 
 who have sworn eternal friendship. We never tire 
 of each other. I -should not know how to work if I 
 did not hear my little mouse nibbling her share of 
 our booty at my side. Since I opened the door of 
 my study to her, more light and gladness have en- 
 tered it than I enjoyed during all the rest of my life.
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 195 
 
 " She warms up my heart, and I teach her what I 
 know. What can I do more ? If I were a woman, it 
 would be music and embroidery ; but she is obliged 
 to be satisfied to learn what her old professor has it 
 in his power to impart." 
 
 Jean Paul could make no remark ; but he thought 
 this tender union of affectionate sympathy between 
 the old man and the little girl very beautiful. 
 From that moment, Sara seated herself at her uncle's 
 side during the lesson, and though she did not 
 speak, it was easy to perceive, by the varying ex- 
 pression of her countenance, that she was no 
 stranger to any of the calm and profound delights 
 of intellectual research, which filled this hour, 
 an hour that always seemed too short to every one of 
 the trio.
 
 196 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 A LETTER. 
 
 THE time which sped for our young Lycens 
 with that degree of rapidity insured by a regular 
 succession of the same occupations, passed rather 
 more slowly for those who were left behind. Madame 
 d' Ermance was proud of the letters sent by her 
 grandson. She persisted in believing although he 
 never spoke to her of his occupations that he had 
 achieved marvellous successes, of which his natural 
 carelessness alone prevented his speaking, and often 
 pitied him for being in a house which, from his 
 report, seemed to be badly managed, and where he 
 was deprived of things which were positive necessi- 
 ties to those who were bred in a certain degree of 
 refinement. The idea that her darling should be 
 obliged to content himself with soup twice a week, 
 and be compelled to eat milky rice pudding, which 
 he had always so detested, two other days, went to 
 her very heart. She was astonished that he made 
 so few complaints ; but even more so that M. 
 Gerard should have chosen to place his nephew in 
 such a school, and many were the letters in which
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 197 
 
 she entreated him to go and see whether Arthur 
 were not really suffering, from being compelled to 
 adopt a diet so different from that to which he was 
 accustomed. 
 
 But M. Gerard went away suddenly, according 
 to custom, upon one of those distant expeditions in 
 which he so delighted ; so that when these letters 
 reached him in Asia, where he slept under a tent, 
 and lived mostly upon rice, prepared with water in- 
 stead of milk, he did not feel much disposed to 
 trouble himself about the privations of his nephew. 
 
 The solicitude of Robert and Eugene's parents 
 followed another direction. Robert's letters made 
 them fear that he was careless as to success in his 
 studies ; whilst Eugene, on the contrary, spoke of 
 them with a degree of ardour, which seemed to spring 
 rather from a desire to distinguish himself, to 
 outdo others, and to obtain commendation, than 
 from any right ideas of duty. This gave them some 
 anxiety. They knew if once the thirst for that 
 glory, which comes from this world only, enters the 
 young soul, it may speedily degrade and defile it. 
 Love of triumph may destroy the love of right. Is he 
 who accustoms himself always to work in hope of 
 reward, likely to know not only how to dispense 
 with approbation, but even . to risk incurring blame 
 in pursuance of his duty ? After having prayed 
 fervently for this child, whom she did not love better 
 than the others perhaps, but whose soul was yet
 
 198 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 linked with her's by a closer bond, Madame Herve 
 decided to write to him all that she had in her 
 heart. 
 
 It was the end of a long December night. Eugene 
 and Jer6me both astir and shivering in their frozen 
 chamber, although well wrapped up in their counter- 
 panes, were working by the light of a candle, the one 
 writing at the end of a little dressing-table, the other 
 pacing the room, reading his Ctesar. Eugene had 
 resolved to be the first in recitation. He repeated 
 several chapters of the Gallic War, over and 
 over again, and never could feel quite sure of his 
 memory. 
 
 " Eugene," said Jer6me, " I cannot understand 
 this passage." 
 
 " Leave me alone ! You must see, you put me 
 out." 
 
 " Oh, if I only might interrupt you one moment, 
 I would not do it again ; indeed I would not. I 
 cannot possibly go on." 
 
 " You are very tiresome, Jer6me ; you do not 
 know how much need I have of all my time this 
 morning." 
 
 " I will not keep you long !" 
 
 " I tell you I do not want to be disturbed. Gel 
 on as well as you can. It is not good for you either, 
 to have the most difficult parts always done foi 
 you." 
 
 Poor Jerome bent his head and recommenced his 
 work without speaking ; but his mind was bewildered,
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 199 
 
 and it was impossible for him to discover the sense 
 of the difficult passage that he had to translate. 
 Eugene could so easily have helped him through it. 
 The tears gathered in his eyes ; hut he did not let 
 them overflow. Shortly afterwards, however, he 
 thought he had a gleam of light, and saw his way 
 out of the inextricable labyrinth of words in which 
 he had found himself. He resumed his work with 
 intense ardour. At the same moment, Eugene 
 threw down his book impatiently, and exclaimed : 
 
 " I shall never be able to get all this rubbish into 
 my head !" 
 
 " Will you say it to me/' said Jerome, stretching 
 out his hand for the book ; " you shall repeat all 
 the passages of which you are the least sure." 
 
 " No," said Eugene, who did not wish to receive 
 a service from one to whom he had just refused 
 assistance. " No, I do not need to trouble you." 
 
 And he resumed his walk, again whispering his 
 lesson. 
 
 When the bell rang at the end of half an - hour, 
 Eugene declared himself ready. 
 
 " I wish I were !" said poor Jer6me, who, by 
 offering to help his cousin, had lost the thread of the 
 ideas which had begun to dawn upon his intellect". 
 The trouble caused him, by the knowledge that time 
 was fast passing, together with the muttered recita- 
 tions of Eugene, which he could not prevent himself 
 from hearing, effectually prevented any further 
 illumination.
 
 200 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 Eugene took the first place, according to his 
 ardent wish. On returning home, he found the 
 following letter from his mother. 
 
 " Your last letter, my dear boy, gave us great 
 pleasure ; for it assured us that you continue to study 
 with as much zeal as success. You are quite right 
 in thinking that your progress is the best proof you 
 can give us of your love. We- desire that you 
 should have your brother and yourself as com- 
 plete an education as possible ; and to this end it is, 
 we have submitted to our separation, which has been 
 a great sacrifice ; so that it would be very trying to 
 us if you did not do all in your power, to profit by 
 the opportunity we have given you. I rejoice over 
 the perseverance and strength of will you have 
 manifested in your studies, and wish my own dear 
 child could read in his mother's eyes the happiness 
 he has occasioned her. 
 
 " But still, perhaps, it would not be unalloyed. 
 You know that I desire the development of your 
 heart still more ardently than, that of your intellect. 
 Do you let it have its due, this heart-culture, 
 in the life of study you are leading, where there 
 seems to be no other positive duty than that of 
 work ? I fear you do not enough remember that 
 in the sight of God, all you can acquire ancf learn, 
 is of little importance in itself, and that if pride and 
 selfishness are nourished by success, it is positively 
 displeasing to Him. It is not in order to discourage 
 you that I speak in. this manner, my boy ; but be-
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 201 
 
 cause I wish that you should put everything in its 
 legitimate place, and that you should remember that 
 the end of life is neither to know nor to succeed, but 
 to do the will of God. 
 
 " Never allow the desire to be first in your class 
 make you forget or set aside the interests of others ; 
 above all, never let your studies interfere with 
 prayar 
 
 " When you are conscious of a movement of 
 satisfied vanity, carry the feeling to God, and ask 
 Him to help you to overcome the temptation ; and 
 if you perceive that your heart is becoming harder 
 and less loving, ask Him to warm it ; and remember 
 that in His sight who has given His life for us, and 
 accepted for our sake all earthly scorn and humiliation, 
 the most trifling act of love is of greater value than 
 the most brilliant intellectual successes." 
 
 Eugene read these pages again and again. 
 
 He seemed to hear his mother's" voice. How many 
 times had she spoken to him in this way, and put 
 him on his guard against his besetting sin. In her 
 presence he had never forgotten to watch ; but, far 
 away, he had yielded to the impulses of his nature, 
 and for some time past, had had no thought for 
 aught save study, or, rather, the rewards that study 
 could procure ; for it was not with him, as with Jean 
 Paul, a disinterested passion. He had neglected 
 prayer, too, and felt able to sleep in peace when his 
 lesson was prepared for the following day ; hurrying 
 to bed, in order that he might arise the earlier on
 
 202 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 the morrow. How could his mother have divined 
 the truth ? No doubt her love for him had estab- 
 lished some mysterious connection between her heart 
 and that of her child, of which she alone was 
 conscious. The letter arrived at the right moment ; 
 Eugene read it once more, and kissed it, as he 
 thought of the dear hand that had traced its lines, 
 then put it carefully into his pocket-book, and 
 turned towards his cousin, who had also received a 
 letter, and having read it, had let it fall upon the 
 table with an expression of disappointment. 
 
 " I was very selfish this morning ! Forgive me, 
 Jerdme. Would you like to work with me for an 
 hour every day ? I will help you, and you will see 
 how much faster you will get on." 
 
 " But," said Jerome, whose countenance had 
 lighted up with hope, " you cannot lose your time 
 because of me." 
 
 " I shall not be losing my time. People always 
 know that best, which they have explained to others : 
 besides, I will try to study all the more diligently 
 the rest of the day. But what is the matter ? You 
 have not had bad news ?" 
 
 " Oh very good ; cannot you read me a little of 
 my aunt's letter ?" 
 
 Eugene read some of it to him. 
 
 " You see," said he, " mamma approves of my 
 helping you, even if I make less progress myself. 
 But what can be the matter with you ? You are 
 crying."
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 203 
 
 Jerdme in reply handed his mother's letter. 
 There was a great contrast between it and that 
 he had just heard. His mother gave him a little 
 advice, which showed she had no idea of the great 
 thirst of his heart, or of the struggles especially 
 incident to one of his peculiar disposition ; there 
 were a few particulars respecting his home, and 
 then you saw too clearly how glad the writer 
 had been to arrive at the end of her troublesome 
 duty. She spoke with indifference of his studies, as 
 if she thought him incapable of anything beyond 
 mediocrity, and seemed to ask nothing of him, be- 
 cause she expected nothing. 
 
 " Do you not think, that if she should one day be 
 proud of me, she would love me more ?" repeated the 
 poor child. 
 
 Eugene could scarcely understand the connection 
 between the two things ; but he entered fully into 
 Jerome's ardent desire, and secretly determined to 
 help him to realize it as far as he was able ; and to 
 this end he resolved to watch over his cousin's pro- 
 gress as anxiously as he did over his own. If it was 
 touching to see the younger of these boys helping 
 and encouraging the other with so much solicitude, 
 it was no less so to witness Jerome's humble docility 
 and indefatigable perseverance. Eugene soon found 
 so much pleasure in his cousin's advancement, that 
 what he derived from commendation of his own 
 efforts seemed comparatively tame.
 
 204 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 THE SAPINIERE. 
 
 POOR JULIEN ! It is long since we left him shut 
 up in his chamber, and braised all over by the 
 terrible flogging he had received from his father ; 
 it is time to ask whether he was really reformed 
 since the events of that sad evening. No ! Sudden 
 reformation is rare. Long patience and persevering 
 effort, joined with earnest love, must be employed, 
 before habits of inveterate deception can be uprooted 
 even from a child's soul. God continually employs 
 this patient love in his dealings with us ; fathers and 
 mothers often have it with their children, but Guil- 
 laumin knew nothing of it. 
 
 He was rough and inflexible, and without any 
 pity for certain faults. When Julien was himself 
 again, and permitted to take his place in the family, 
 his father treated him with such marked coldness 
 and displeasure, that the child's heart, which had 
 been humbled for a moment by solitude and priva- 
 tion, closed and hardened itself anew. 
 
 This terrible, lesson only taught him one thing, to 
 have recourse to greater cunning, and more skilful
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 205 
 
 subterfuge, in order effectually to conceal his acts of 
 disobedience. 
 
 His mother, more feeble and poorly than ever, had 
 neither strength to resist, nor to punish him, and put 
 a stop to his deceit. M. Herve came to see her 
 several times, and often tried to win a repetition of 
 the confidence with which she had once relieved her 
 burdened heart. She appeared to regret having 
 spoken, and was more reserved and impenetrable 
 than ever. 
 
 One morning Guillaumin was at home when M. 
 Herve called, and gave him to understand in such 
 unequivocal terms, that the visits of strangers were 
 anything but agreeable, that M. Herve, seeing he 
 could neither do good to the mother or to her little 
 boy, who could never be induced to open his mouth 
 in his presence, thought it best to take the hint. 
 The little blind girl only had seemed to appreciate 
 his visits ; she knew the sound of his footfall, ran to 
 open the door before he had time to knock, and raised 
 her head towards him with a smile, which rendered 
 the blank expression of the large sightless eyes, very 
 touching. She was so sad, poor child, you might 
 have said she was sensible that evil brooded over 
 their household. She ought by rights to have been 
 encircled by all that was most beautiful in life, affec- 
 tion, and gladness. A mother always ailing, who 
 spent her time in groaning and weeping as soon as 
 they two were left alone ; a father moody and 
 silent ; brothers, of whom one was naturally grave
 
 206 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 and reserved, the other, cross and embittered by an 
 evil conscience, and by the severity with which he 
 was treated ; all this could not constitute a family- 
 circle favourable to such a child's development. 
 
 Everything essential was wanting ; light and heat ; 
 therefore she resembled a flower faded before it blew. 
 
 As the poor woman grew worse every day, Guil- 
 laumin at length decided to take her to the city, to 
 consult a physician of greater eminence than any 
 they could hope to meet with in the country. The 
 invalid dreaded the journey very much. It appeared 
 long to her in prospect, though the whole of it could 
 be accomplished in the course of a single day ; but 
 at length she consented to undertake it, and a 
 mattress was spread at the bottom of the waggon on 
 which she could partially recline. Guillaumin had 
 contrived to adjust a sort of awning over the 
 wretched vehicle, which effectually guarded its oc- 
 cupant from the piercing rays of the sun, and from 
 the inquisitive glances of the passer-by ; but he could 
 not secure her from the jolting caused by the stony 
 roads over which they were obliged to pass. Gas- 
 pard had to accompany his parents, so that Julien was 
 left to take care of the house, and of his little blind 
 sister. As he had always loved Esther, they thought 
 he might be trusted ; and his father's last words on 
 parting confided her to his care ; so the two children 
 were left alone in quiet possession of the house, with 
 bread, milk, cold potatoes, and cream cheese, in the 
 pantry, and a long day before them. At first the
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 207 
 
 responsibility laid upon Julien appeared anything but 
 onerous. He evinced more than usual tenderness for 
 the little girl who had only him to lean upon. He 
 led her into the orchard, and made her sit down 
 under a tree, then he began to cut up little pieces of 
 wood into the form of household utensils ; she did so 
 love to guess what they were by the touch, and to 
 store them afterwards amongst her treasures. 
 
 He gathered flowers for her to weave into gar- 
 lands ; she could not discern their colours, but had 
 sufficient taste and skill to twine them in graceful 
 wreaths. 
 
 " How happy you must be, Julien," said the little 
 girl after a long silence, during which she had been 
 smelling the flowers he had placed upon her lap. 
 
 " Me happy ! you are very much mistaken." 
 
 "Yes, indeed, you are very happy to see these 
 beautiful flowers that I shall never see. The scent 
 is so exquisite, and they are so softly delicate to the 
 touch ! Come, tell me a little about this one that I 
 have in my hand." 
 
 It was a white flower shaded with white and 
 yellow, and its corolla was finely formed. Julien 
 did his best to describe it, and the little girl again 
 repeated with a sigh, " How happy you must be !" 
 
 " Yes, I was happy enough, certainly, when my 
 father nearly whipped me to death, and when he 
 starved me for eight days upon bread and water, 
 leaving me all alone ! Nobody will envy me my 
 happiness at any rate !"
 
 208 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 " Listen to me, Julien ; you might be happy, if 
 you only would not do wrong things. You do not 
 know the trouble you cause our mother. Some- 
 times at night when I am lying near her, I hear her 
 groan and sob. She says such sad sad words she 
 repeats your name and you know whose." 
 
 " My brother Marcel's ! I am not ashamed to 
 speak of him ; not I indeed." 
 
 " Yes, Marcel's," whispered the little girl, in a low 
 voice, as if she feared to be overheard. " Oh, Julien, 
 how dreadful it would be if the time should ever 
 come when we should not dare to speak of you in 
 father's presence. I should die of grief, I know. I 
 love you so dearly ! " 
 
 " Be quiet," said Julien, " you tease me ! " 
 
 Notwithstanding this unamiable reply to words 
 breathing such ardent affection, the morning passed 
 satisfactorily away ; and the little fellow's heart was 
 refreshed by the thought, that for once at least he 
 had shown himself worthy of the confidence reposed 
 in him. They went indoors a little before dinner, 
 and the little blind girl, accustomed as she was to 
 render herself useful in the household, very soon 
 spread upon the table their modest store of pro- 
 visions. 
 
 " Cold potatoes are not nice," said Julien, looking 
 at them contemptuously. 
 
 " No, it is a pity we have no fire ; if they were 
 fried in butter, they would be much nicer. I know 
 there is a little butter in the crock."
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 209 
 
 " Well, there's not much, difficulty in lighting a 
 fire there's plenty of wood to be found. I will run 
 and fetch some, and, with a few shavings, we shall 
 have a fire in no time." 
 
 Esther clapped her hands, 
 
 " And we shall have a hot dinner instead of the 
 cold one mother prepared for us ! How funny it is 
 to be here alone, and to do whatever we like, is it 
 not, Julien ?" 
 
 Julien lighted the ,fire without much trouble. 
 Meanwhile, his little sister cut the potatoes in slices, 
 and her brother then busied himself with the 
 cookery. He did not manage his duties very well. 
 The potatoes were either burnt, or remained white as 
 before, but the children made light of the failure, and 
 ate them with good appetite. 
 
 As they were terminating their repast with a 
 morsel of cream- cheese, a voice behind startled them. 
 
 "Hey day! the little creatures live well. Bel- 
 shazzar's feast, I do declare ! Nothing left for a friend ! 
 Oh, no ! Not even the outside of the cheese ; they 
 have eaten up every thing. " 
 
 Julien had turned round at the first outburst, and 
 had recognized, with much consternation, his evil- 
 genius, the red-haired boy, Etienne. What chance 
 had brought him there, just when they were all gone 
 out, he could not guess. 
 
 " And so/' said the naughty boy, " this is the way 
 you receive me. It is charming to see how much 
 pleasure one's visit confers, when one has taken a 
 
 p
 
 210 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 world of trouble to find out people's whereabouts. 
 But, come, I say, I want to tell you something. 
 "When you know what I came for, you won't look 
 quite so cross. Stop, stop, little girl," said he to Esther, 
 who was about to follow. " We don't want you." 
 
 He drew Julien a little to one side, and whispered 
 a few words to him. He looked disturbed and irre- 
 solute, and replied that it was impossible. 
 
 " Nonsense ! " replied Etienne. " When the cat's 
 away, the mice will play ! Now or neyer ! I heard 
 your father tell the blacksmith, who was shoeing your 
 old nag, that he most likely should be away till seven 
 or eight o'clock, and people are always longer than 
 they expect to be, so you have nothing to fear." 
 
 " But I cannot leave my sister/' 
 
 " Nonsense, I say ! You have only to shut her up, 
 and forbid her to stir." 
 
 " Oh no, it is impossible ! and then she might tell. 
 No, really ; I cannot do it." 
 
 "Very well, then, Simpleton. You don't know 
 what you are refusing. We are going to amuse our- 
 selves most thoroughly. Two or three of us have 
 got our pockets full of money, and we meant to treat 
 you. But as you won't accept a kindness, stay where 
 you are, and act the watch-dog. I don't envy you 
 your occupation. Good-bye ! I have already lost 
 too much time for such a good-for-nothing fellow." 
 
 " Stay a minute, stay ! " said Julien, as he saw him 
 turn upon his heel. "Are you sure I can be at home 
 again by seven o'clock ?"
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 211 
 
 "What is there to hinder you ? The fair is only 
 a mile and a half from here, and you see the sun." 
 
 "Very well, then. I will go!" replied Julien, 
 resolutely. "Make believe that you are going away, 
 that Esther may not suspect anything. And wait 
 for me under the large apple-tree at the turn of the 
 road ; I shall be there in a quarter of an hour at the 
 very latest." 
 
 " Yery well ; though it is a deal of time to waste. 
 A quarter of an hour, then, without a minute's grace. 
 Good bye/' said he, aloud, so that the child might 
 hear the leave-taking, although she had caught no 
 word of the preceding conversation. And he went 
 off, whistling. 
 
 Julien had no time to lose. 
 
 " Shall I tell you what we'll do, my little Esther?" 
 said he. " I have the headache, and must lie down 
 a little, you shall do the same, and when we have 
 had a little nap, we will return to the orchard. Do 
 not call me when you wake, for I feel as if I should 
 sleep a long time." 
 
 ' I don't want to go to sleep at all," said the little 
 girl. 
 
 Julien felt impatient, but restrained the expression 
 of his feelings, and insisted upon the adoption of his 
 plan with a degree of gentleness to which the expres- 
 sion of his countenance bore small analogy. At 
 length Esther allowed herself to be persuaded, and 
 lay down upon her mother's bed in the further 
 chamber. Julien ran to his own room, put on his
 
 212 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 Sunday clothes, and came down so softly, with his 
 shoes in his hand, that even Esther, to whom sounds 
 were peculiarly audible, suspected nothing. He closed 
 the door of the house with the greatest care, laid the 
 key under a large stone, and ran quickly to the apple- 
 tree, near which Etienne awaited him. 
 
 They were bound for a fair in a neighbouring vil- 
 lage. Etienne and his friends had determined to 
 enjoy themselves thoroughly, and to finish off with 
 some little affair that should not compromise them 
 too much. For this they counted upon Julien, who 
 had already served them upon a similar occasion, and 
 who, although habitually deceiving his father, had 
 made it a matter of conscience not to betray them. 
 
 They had been suspected of robbing the espaliers ; 
 but Julien's testimony was wanting to confirm their 
 identity, and this he refused to give. 
 
 Esther, tired with being up before her usual hour, 
 and with having passed all the morning in the open 
 air, soon dropped asleep. When she awoke, she 
 waited some minutes before disturbing her brother, 
 when, at last thinking he had slept quite long enough, 
 she called him several times. There was no answer. 
 She ascended the staircase leading to his room, 
 listened at the door for the sound of his breathing, felt 
 in the bed, and was greatly astonished neither to hear 
 nor touch him. Down she hastened, supposing him 
 to be already gone into the garden. 
 
 Several minutes elapsed. Deceived in her expect- 
 ations, she called and re-called his name. Still no
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 213 
 
 answer. Where could he be? She searched the 
 kitchen, hoping he might be hiding from her in some 
 obscure corner, and at last resolved to go out into the 
 garden ; but what was her astonishment to find the 
 door fastened ! 
 
 She could not move it with her poor little trembling 
 hands, and knew not what had become of her brother. 
 She sank down on the floor, leaned her head against 
 the wall, and burst into tears. Why had he left her 
 alone ? Was she not already sufficiently miserable ? 
 The most unlikely ideas presented themselves to her 
 imagination. Now she asked herself whether there 
 had not been some family conspiracy to forsake her ; 
 then, again her fears took another direction, and she 
 pictured to herself her mother stretched alone and 
 dying upon the road. She extended her arms towards 
 her, and cried, " Oh, mother !" The sound of her 
 own voice made her sadder, and aroused her from 
 this waking dream ; but she soon fell into another. 
 The profound silence reigning around frightened her. 
 Poor child ! she had no idea of life and security but 
 from the sounds of human motion around her. Now 
 no familiar voice was heard ; not a movement dis- 
 turbed the tranquillity of the dwelling. She felt as 
 the clairvoyant might be supposed to feel, who should 
 be suddenly transported from the brilliant sunshine 
 to the depths of the darkest night. The motion of 
 the pendulum was heard, it is true ; but during a 
 space of time, the duration of which appeared incal- 
 culable, no hour was struck. A fresh notion seized
 
 214 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 her ; perhaps the night had come whilst she slept ? 
 The idea of this double obscurity was a fresh source 
 of terror. For a moment there was a sound of wheels, 
 and the conductor's cries gave a truce to her fears, 
 but the waggon passed on, and solitude was but the 
 more dreary. 
 
 When at length the clock struck six, Esther plucked 
 up a little courage ; she knew now it could not be 
 night, and hoped her parents would not bemuch longer 
 absent. Alas ! how ignorant the poor child was of 
 what was passing around her. The fire lighted by 
 Julien, and on which he had put far too much wood, 
 had long smouldered quietly at the back of the chim- 
 ney, but at length some burning chips had, in falling, 
 lighted up a morsel of dry wood in front of the hearth, 
 which was surrounded by shavings. It lighted up, 
 and blazed cheerily. Little by little the fire com- 
 municated with a straw mat which the children had 
 drawn there to kneel upon whilst they did their 
 cooking ; from the mat to a chair ; from the chair to 
 a table was the work of a few seconds.
 
 215 
 
 CHAPTEE XX. 
 
 THE FIRE. 
 
 HOWEVER slowly the old horse went, and however 
 bad might he the waggon, our three travellers at 
 length arrived at their destination. The doctor's 
 report was not very satisfactory : he spoke of rest, 
 good nourishing food, and tranquillity of mind, all 
 things more or less difficult to obtain. The consulta- 
 tion over, Guillaumin took his wife to a small hotel, 
 and asked for refreshments. He then left her to rest 
 under the care of his son, and went out. 
 
 He traversed several streets, and stopped at a 
 small house, into which he was soon admitted. He 
 was shown into the study of an aged venerable look- 
 ing man, who put down his book, and asked him to 
 take a seat by his side. 
 
 " You are the father of Marcel Guillaumin, I 
 think ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir," replied Guillaumin, with a slight con- 
 traction of the muscles, which showed how painful 
 the bare mention of that name was to him.
 
 216 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 " And you have received the letter I sent you ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Then you know " 
 
 " I know nothing, and desire to know nothing. I 
 did not read the wretched boy's letter. I burned 
 it/' 
 
 " What could induce you to do that ? " 
 
 " I will have nothing to do with him ! From the 
 day when he dishonoured his name, he ceased to be 
 my son." 
 
 " But if he repents I If he only asks one thing, the 
 opportunity of repairing the past ? " 
 
 " Sir, there are things that can never be repaired ! 
 If a member mortifies, it is cut off. That is what I 
 have done. The young man belongs to me no 
 longer." 
 
 " But what you say is terrible ! If there are 
 things that cannot be repaired, all at least may be 
 pardoned. What would become of us if God should 
 treat us as you" treat your child ? If there were no 
 hope in Him for the poor sinner ? Take care ! You 
 are preferring what you call ' your honour ' to the 
 boy's soul. God will call upon you to account 
 for it." 
 
 " Every one has his own burden, sir. Mine is a 
 heavy one, but God will only call me to account for 
 my own actions." 
 
 " If you did not read your son's letter, you at 
 least read mine ? " 
 "Yes, I read it."
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 217 
 
 " And you saw what I said to you of the sincerity 
 of your son's repentance. You know how I became 
 acquainted with him ? " 
 
 " Sir, this young man is deceiving you ; perhaps 
 he deceives himself. There is no truth, no sincerity 
 in him. He never had a conscience. Don't you be 
 taken in by mere plausible appearances/' 
 
 " You are very severe ! It seems to me, however, 
 that he has given proof of the sincerity of his inten- 
 tions, first in quitting the course of life he had 
 adopted, as offering an easy means of earning a 
 livelihood, and secondly by the act of courage and 
 devotion of which I was witness." 
 
 " To renounce the worthless trade of travelling 
 comedian, that is to say the prospect of nearly dying 
 every day of hunger, until you really die in the cor- 
 ner of a wretched hovel, is but a small sacrifice. And 
 there is neither man or dog who would not be capa- 
 ble of the heroism of saving a child's life. I see 
 nothing at all that will vouch for the future of him 
 who has performed these great actions." 
 
 " Listen," said the old gentleman with much emo- 
 tion. " The mother of that child whom he has 
 saved, prays every day for him who has preserved 
 to her her only earthly treasure. She is my child 
 my only child, and this infant is all that remains to 
 her of a happiness which the hand of God has shat- 
 tered. You must understand the interest we take in 
 this young man's career. If he is neither to find 
 compassion nor pardon in his own father's heart, he
 
 218 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 shall at least command kindness and assistance from 
 us." 
 
 It was useless to prolong the conversation. Guil- 
 laumin rose, and bowed stiffly to the old gentleman, 
 who conducted him as far as the door of his study 
 and waited with his hand on the handle, as if to give 
 him a last opportunity of bending his iron will 
 saying 
 
 "Beware, lest you draw down chastisement on 
 your own head. The merciful shall obtain mercy. 
 We have all need of it." 
 
 The inflexible Guillaumin did not reply, but went 
 out with haughty look and firm step ; his countenance 
 was clouded, and his heart full of bitterness. 
 
 On leaving his father's house, Marcel, having no 
 taste for the army, which is the ordinary resource of 
 people in his position, engaged himself to a troop of 
 wandering comedians. For some time this kind of 
 life amused him; but the sentiment of right and 
 wrong still left within his heart, united with the 
 memory of the serious and exemplary habits of his 
 father's house, again arose strongly within him, and 
 soon disgusted him completely with the disorderly 
 vagabond life he was then leading. 
 
 He sought for some employment which would 
 enable him to relinquish the career so distasteful to 
 him, by providing him with other means of gaining 
 a livelihood ; and, whilst reflecting upon the subject, 
 strayed one evening upon the banks of a river, when 
 heart-rending cries attracted his attention. He ran
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 219 
 
 hastily to the place whence they proceeded. A lady 
 and an elderly gentleman were bending over the 
 river, at a point where it was deep, and running be- 
 tween steep banks. The lady wrung her hands 
 wildly, and called for help, whilst the old gentleman, 
 with more calmness, sought out a spot where it would 
 be less impossible for him to descend. 
 
 Marcel perceived the fair hair of a little child, 
 floating on the water, as he was carried rapidly away 
 by the current. 
 
 To tear off his coat, throw himself into the river, 
 seize the child by those radiant locks, and bear him, 
 living indeed, but all unconscious, to his mother's 
 arms, was but the work of a moment. Thus it was 
 that the outcast had won to himself a friend a 
 protector. 
 
 Marcel had never been utterly corrupted. At the 
 very time when lightness of heart and love of plea- 
 sure caused him to deceive his father, there had 
 been secret aspirations in his soul towards a life 
 dignified by honour and ennobled by truth. He was 
 weak and had not the courage to make any sacrifice 
 to duty, and to those better instincts that struggled 
 within him, against more powerful tendencies towards 
 evil. Had his father stretched towards him a helping 
 hand, and united indulgence and sympathy with the 
 indomitable firmness of his rule, the poor boy might, 
 perhaps, have retained his place amongst those ac- 
 counted honourable by their fellow-men. Yet it 
 may be, that it was only through his fall, and by
 
 220 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 means of the humiliations and sufferings that attend- 
 ed it, that he was to find the moral strength so want- 
 ing to his character. Perhaps he might otherwise 
 never have been able to appreciate between good and 
 evil, and have been continually tossed about by their 
 opposing influences. Certain natures require severe 
 discipline. 
 
 On leaving the house where he had made another 
 sacrifice to his implacable pride for he had been 
 more moved than he cared to avow, even to himself 
 Guillaumin returned to the hotel where he had left 
 his wife. He said nothing to her of the conversation 
 that had just taken place, nor had he told her of the 
 letter received a few days previously from Marcel's 
 new protector, accompanying that which he had 
 burned unread. Pity was the only emotion excited 
 by his poor groaning wife, whose weakness he con- 
 sidered as the cause of one child's ruin, and as at 
 present slowly, but surely, working that of his little 
 Julien. He never either asked counsel of her, nor 
 reposed on her the troubles of his own over-bur- 
 dened heart. Graspard was his only comfort, in him 
 he saw reflected his own nature, softened a little by 
 youth ; and the transcript of his firmness and 
 inflexible justice, united with a little spice of 
 benevolence. 
 
 The poor invalid resumed her place in the waggon, 
 and they started. Seated in the front with his son, 
 the father let his thoughts, usually so well controlled, 
 wander free. He pictured to himself the time when
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 221 
 
 Marcel, his first-born child had lisped the name of 
 father. 
 
 Souls, moulded like his, are less accessible than 
 some to those daily repeated impressions which con- 
 stitute the life of tenderer beings ; but the emotions 
 that do penetrate have a depth and intensity, which 
 other men cannot even comprehend. He lived over 
 again the time of his boy's childhood ; and it seemed 
 but yesterday that, assured of a position which would 
 enable him to bestow a superior education upon his 
 children, he had made plans for their future ; and 
 now what was become of it ? Sad change ! And 
 all by the fault of that son who might have been the 
 joy and prop of the family that he had ruined and 
 dishonoured. 
 
 His fault, and a voice from the inner depths of 
 his soul added " thy fault still more ! " but he 
 silenced it. 
 
 No word was uttered. The jaded horse advanced 
 but slowly, and frequently required the whip. The 
 last turn of the road had brought him to a spot 
 whence they might perceive the Sapiniere half 
 hidden amongst large gloomy trees. Night had 
 fallen on the world. The sun had set behind a 
 curtain of clouds, and no reflection of its beams 
 lingered upon the horizon. At the very moment 
 when all naturally turned their eyes to seek the 
 well-known roof, a burst of flame rises up behind the 
 trees, and casts its lurid glow upon the heavens. 
 Guillaumin and his son observe it with astonish- 
 ment.
 
 222 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 They cannot account for the phenomenon, for all 
 is again obscured ; but now a second blaze, more 
 fierce than the former, leaves them no room for 
 doubt. Guillaumin leaps from the waggon, throws 
 the reins to Gaspard, and tells him to drive his 
 mother, whilst he takes a shorter path. 
 
 He soon disappears behind the high hedges, and 
 the horse continues the same jog-trot pace, which 
 nothing can persuade him to change for one more 
 befitting the agonizing apprehensions of the tra- 
 vellers. Gaspard tried to encourage a doubt whether 
 it were really their own cottage, in the hope of re- 
 assuring his poor mother, but how could they doubt ? 
 There was no other dwelling in the neighbourhood, 
 and the flames showed only too clearly the familiar 
 outline of the trees immediately surrounding their 
 home. 
 
 Guillaumin has run with supernatural speed; 
 leaping ditches, hedges, and fences, and not allowing 
 any obstacle to turn him aside from the direct route. 
 He had but one thought the children ! From time 
 to time the words were uttered by his hoarse, panting 
 voice. When he arrived, part of the roof had 
 already fallen in. The house was partly made of 
 wood, and worm-eaten, so that little resistance was 
 offered to the progress of the flames. He saw no 
 one ; and repeating yet again his cry of distress, 
 was about to rush amongst the burning mass, when 
 a man came from it, bearing a child in his 
 arms.
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 223 
 
 " Father," cried he, " she is saved ! Do not go 
 there ; you will perish ! " 
 
 At the same moment, a fragment of the roof 
 gave way, and fell upon the speaker. He rolled 
 upon the ground, with the child whom he had 
 shielded in his arms, and who had thus escaped the 
 blow. What followed no one knew. The neigh- 
 bours arrived, drawn thither by the lurid flames 
 that had long smouldered, to burst forth with a 
 power utterly relentless ; everything was devoured, 
 as if by magic. 
 
 Marcel had been laid in the carriage in his 
 mother's stead ; she forgot everything, in the joy of 
 having found her boy, though she knew not whether 
 he were still alive. Little Esther was seated on the 
 knees of a woman, who vainly endeavoured to calm 
 the nervous trembling which agitated her whole 
 frame. It had been found impossible to enter the 
 house. The fire had done its work, and one of the 
 children was still missing ! 
 
 Guillaumin was almost beside himself. He was 
 like a feeble infant alike incapable of thought or 
 action. The strong man was bowed down. Had it 
 not been for Gaspard's presence of mind, not even 
 the most necessary measures would have been taken. 
 In the meantime, evening was closing in, and as 
 nothing more could be done for the miserable 
 tenement, they were compelled to abandon it, and 
 renounce, alas ! at the same time, all hope of lighting 
 upon any trace of the lost Julien.
 
 224 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 As they still hesitated, an old man joined the 
 sorrowful group. They consulted together in the 
 utmost consternation, and he gathered that they 
 were mourning over the frightful death of a child 
 whom they believed to have perished in the flames. 
 
 "Of whom are you speaking; of the little fair- 
 haired boy ? Take my word for it, you've no need 
 to trouble yourselves about him. He is not dead 
 not he ! I have seen him myself, this very after- 
 noon. ; he was on his way to the fair with his com- 
 panions. Do you think a smart lad like that would 
 stay and be burnt up like a grain of incense ? No, 
 no, depend upon it, bad seed is not so easy to lose." 
 
 So it became pretty evident that the accident had 
 happened through some fault of Julien's. And now 
 that all fears for his safety were removed, their 
 thoughts turned upon their own miserable condition. 
 "Where should they find a roof to shelter them for 
 the night, a cold night, in the very heart of No- 
 vember ? The peasants seemed to vie with each 
 other who should be most pressing as to the simple 
 hospitality offered by their cottage-hearths. The 
 family should be quartered here and there amongst 
 them; but M. Herve, who arrived at the moment when 
 the mystery respecting Julien had been explained, 
 had room for all ; and took them home with him.
 
 225 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 THE PRODIGAL'S RETURN. 
 
 THERE were four invalids taken that evening to 
 Madame Herve's care, for only Gaspard had escaped 
 unhurt. Marcel appeared to be grievously wounded, 
 and remained for many hours utterly unconscious. 
 His father, whose state awakened still more anxious 
 fears, was delirious, and either repeated, over and 
 over again, in his incoherent wanderings, the curse 
 he had pronounced upon his son, or ever and anon 
 uttered, with wild anguish, those words he had him- 
 self listened to, on the very morning of the fire : 
 "Beware, lest you draw down chastisement upon 
 your own head ! " words that seemed prophetic, 
 in their terrible and speedy realization. He seemed 
 to have forgotten everything of recent occurrence, 
 and to cherish only the memory of incidents re- 
 lating to his eldest son. Julien was come back to 
 them, and no one had had the courage to reproach 
 him. He was 'moody and restless, and seemed in 
 continual dread lest the conversation should turn 
 upon the past ; but they all thought it better to try 
 to cheer and encourage him, than to crush by him 
 
 Q
 
 226 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 the severity of reproof. The catastrophe itself 
 loudly spoke his accusation. In reply to their many 
 questions, they drew forth the acknowledgement of 
 his fault ; but it was accompanied by no tokens of 
 sorrow or repentance. He could give no clue to the 
 origin of the fire ; that which he lighted to cook 
 the potatoes must, he said, have died out long before. 
 There was no doubt, however, that it had caused all 
 this disaster. It was more difficult to understand 
 how Marcel should have arrived at the cottage at the 
 very moment when his sister's life was in such 
 imminent peril. As soon as he was able to speak, he 
 gave the following account : 
 
 "Not receiving any reply to the letter he had 
 addressed to his father, he had not been able to 
 resist the desire to come and wander around the 
 dwelling, in the hope that he might at least behold 
 him in the distance. He had remained a long time 
 concealed in a coppice hard by, in the constant hope 
 that some of the family would be going out of the 
 house. He arrived after Julien's departure for the 
 fair, and, therefore, saw no one. Astonished at the 
 profound silence, and afraid to approach nearer to 
 the cottage, in case he should meet his father, he 
 was about to take warning by the fast approaching 
 shades of evening, and withdraw, when suddenly a 
 bright light and vivid sparks announced the fire, 
 which had made the inside of the cottage a wreck 
 before it mounted to spend itself aloft. He was 
 on the spot in_ a moment, trying to enter by the
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 227 
 
 door, which he found it impossible to open. He was 
 more than once repulsed from the windows, by 
 torrents of flame and smoke, and was nearly con- 
 vinced that the house was absolutely untenanted, 
 when a feeble groan fell upon his listening ear. 
 
 The certainty that there was some one to save 
 made him brave every danger. He burst into 
 the cottage, and searched all around, in momentary 
 dread lest he should be suffocated ere he had time 
 to reach the object of his exertions. His foot 
 struck against the body of the poor little child, who 
 was stretched upon the floor. He raised her in his 
 arms, rushed from the furnace, and found himself 
 face to face with his father. 
 
 One day when Guillaumin was entirely restored 
 to consciousness, M. Herve entered his chamber with 
 a book in his hand. He began to ask after his 
 health, and whether he still suffered pain, and 
 then enquired, whether he would like to listen to 
 a few verses from the New Testament. As the 
 invalid made a sign of assent, M. Herve read slowly 
 and impressively from one end to the other, that 
 most touching of all histories the Parable of the 
 Prodigal Son ; but he did not look at the sick man, 
 or give him reason to suppose that he read it with a 
 view to any personal application. When he reached 
 the verse But when he was still afar off, his father 
 saw him, and VMS moved with compassion the large 
 tears which had been gathering in the eyes of Mar- 
 cel's father, flowed slowly clown his rugged cheeks.
 
 228 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 Perhaps it was the first time in his life that the hard 
 man wept. He said 
 
 " I cannot go to him, but I wish he would come to 
 me!" 
 
 M. Herve went to seek the poor boy, who was 
 beginning to get about again, with his arm in a 
 sling. He was quite overcome as he approached his 
 father's bedside. The lost son was clasped to his 
 father's breast, and held there long in a loving close 
 embrace. Neither of them spoke, but their hearts 
 met. 
 
 Later in the day, when he was again alone with 
 M. Herve, Guillaumin exclaimed 
 
 " There is more than one prodigal son ! I am one 
 myself; and I too wish to return to my Father. 
 Will he receive and pardon me, although I could not 
 forgive my boy ?" 
 
 " God does not measure his love by ours I" replied 
 M. Heire*. 
 
 When he became convalescent, Guillaumin might 
 be seen pacing one of the retired walks of the garden, 
 leaning on the arm of that son who had long been 
 lost to him, but who was now not only restored, but 
 in a sense given afresh, for the relationship between 
 them had gained a sweetness which had before been 
 wanting. There were one or two subjects of reserva- 
 tion between them too sad to be touched upon. 
 Guillaumin could never bear to hear speak of the 
 time when his son had been attached to the band of 
 travelling comedians; neither could he make any
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 229 
 
 allusion to the circumstance in which all their mis- 
 fortunes originated. These reserves prevented the 
 establishment of perfect freedom of intercourse 
 between father and son. 
 
 The time had come when he must, as it were, 
 re-organize his life. The poor dwelling and still 
 more humble furniture it contained, had constituted, 
 if we except the plot of ground surrounding the 
 little tenement, all Guillaumin's earthly possessions. 
 He could not return to it with his family ; for it was 
 uninhabitable. M. Herve had anticipated the 
 moment of decision, and had already written to one 
 of the partners of the firm in which he had so long 
 held a situation. This gentleman replied by a letter 
 addressed to Guillaumin himself, in which he offered, 
 in the most honourable and affectionate terms, that 
 he should- resume his former occupation, the post 
 having become vacant by the recent death of his 
 successor. 
 
 To return to the very town where he believed 
 his honour compromised ; to occupy again the posi- 
 tion he had so suddenly abandoned ; to see all the 
 well-known faces ; and to place himself and his 
 actions, as it were, before the tribunal of the evil- 
 disposed and envious, by whom he had so laboured 
 to be forgotten ; certainly it was a great sacrifice, 
 and the best proof he could give of the change 
 which had been accomplished in him. 
 
 M. Herve represented that he owed it as a duty to 
 his wife and children, to restore to them the situation
 
 230 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 they tad formerly occupied in society. He hoped 
 that a careful education might be the means of 
 arresting the growth of those evil tendencies which 
 had so early begun to develop themselves in little 
 Julien. 
 
 Guillaumin was persuaded. They took leave of 
 the White House, and its inhabitants, and for 
 some months M. Herve had no tidings of them 
 whatever. At length, the following letter was put 
 into his hand : 
 
 " Honoured Sir, 
 
 " I ought to have written to you long ago, 
 to thank you for all that you have done for us, and 
 to give you some account of our present position ; 
 but I have put off writing from day to day, in hope 
 that the moment would come when I could say, All 
 is right ! 
 
 " But it is not come ; and I begin to perceive that 
 bad seed must always produce its own evil fruit, and 
 that it would be mere infatuation for us to hope that 
 this universal law should be reversed in our favour. 
 We are reaping that we have sown, and so it must 
 ever be. God may pardon, but He does not repair 
 the ruin caused by our errors in this life. I am con- 
 vinced of it, and do not murmur ; but it cuts me to 
 the heart, that my severity, and my wife's weakness, 
 should have ruined our child. 
 
 " Not that I am angry with her, poor thing ! She 
 is gone, where no blame, no harsh judgment can 
 wound her more. Ever since our return here, my
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 231 
 
 wife's health, has continued rapidly to decline, and 
 it is now eight days since we committed her remains 
 to the tomb. She suffered much in this world, 
 especially towards the close ; and, although she 
 placed all her confidence in Jesus Christ, who has pur- 
 chased our redemption ; yet, her physical sufferings 
 were great, and extreme fear as to what might be 
 Julien's future, caused her inexpressible anguish. It 
 was out of our power to comfort her. 
 
 " The miserable boy has continued to cause us the 
 most anxious solicitude. 
 
 " Immediately after our return, I placed him at 
 school, under a very clever pious master, to whom I 
 represented that Julien required to be held with a 
 tight hand, and to be most carefully watched over. 
 When he saw the child's sweet quiet manners, he 
 seemed to think I must have exaggerated the case, 
 and that he would be very easy to manage. 
 
 " For some time I heard no complaints ; his 
 obedience and other amiable qualities met with 
 commendation. I allowed myself to hope that the 
 disasters he had caused had been the means of 
 changing his character ; but, now I am convinced 
 that nothing can transform the heart but the Spirit 
 of God. Julien was ashamed and troubled at being 
 looked upon as the instrument of our misfortune, but 
 he was neither humble nor repentant ; and since that 
 time his heart seems to have been even harder than 
 before. You will see by what follows that I have 
 not judged him too severely.
 
 232 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 " His mother was ill, when he was one day sent 
 home to us with a letter, stating that he had been 
 guilty of lying and stealing ; in short, that he had 
 conducted himself in so disgraceful a manner, that 
 he was expelled the school. It was the drop in his 
 poor mother's cup of sorrow that caused her death ; 
 for we could not hide our trouble from her. On the 
 ensuing night she told me she was going, and wished 
 the children to be called. They were soon all four 
 gathered round her bed. She embraced and blessed 
 them one after the other, and said she had no fear 
 on Esther's account, God would be her light, and 
 she confided her to Him. When Julien's turn 
 came he had stood a little on one side, partly con- 
 cealed amongst the bed curtains she said, in a voice 
 so thrilling, that it made us all tremble 'Poor 
 child ! poor child !' then added, raising her eyes to 
 heaven, ' God, pardon ! O God, repair the wrong, 
 and save my child for His sake, who came to rescue 
 the erring ! ' She spoke no more, save to ask 
 occasionally for a drop of water ; for her lips were 
 dry and parched. 
 
 " When all was over, I looked round for Julien ; 
 he had left the room, and nothing could make him 
 enter it again to gaze on her whom he had so 
 afflicted during her life. And yet she was beautiful 
 to look at ! It seemed as if the loveliness of youth 
 had returned with the holy calm of death. Julien 
 had wept ; but how can we know the cause of those 
 tears ? God alone knows whether any of them 
 flowed from genuine repentance.
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE 233 
 
 " This, sir, is what I have to tell you. As to my 
 gratitude, it is too deep for words to express. If 
 my poor wife had hope and consolation in Christ, it 
 is to your instrumentality we owe it. To you, too, 
 I owe the blessing of having a son, my first born, 
 now walking in the right way, beset by difficulties, 
 but struggling on undaunted. He also, poor lad, 
 has had to reap the bitter fruits of his past errors 
 coldness of former friends, distrust ill concealed, 
 extreme difficulty in finding any honourable employ- 
 ment. More than once he has been on the point of 
 renouncing city-life, and enlisting as a soldier ; but 
 his mother had such an invincible repugnance to 
 this, that he was not willing to pain her, and now he 
 has found something to do in a commercial estab- 
 lishment. 
 
 " As to Gaspard, he has resumed his studies, and 
 his masters say he has not forgotten anything during 
 this long vacation, and that, if he has not added to 
 his stock of learning, his understanding is enlarged 
 and his mental faculties, much more vigorous. He 
 will probably be able to become a tutor. Our little 
 Esther is at Quinze-Vingts, where she studies music. 
 It makes her very happy, and consoles her for the 
 loss of sight. But she has been very delicate and 
 sickly ever since she experienced such terrible 
 emotions on the night of the fire. At the bare 
 mention of the Sapiniere she trembles like a leaf, and 
 has a horror of fire that will very likely continue 
 with her through life. And now, sir, I have written
 
 234 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 you a long letter. I would fain believe that it may 
 possess some little interest for you, and that you will 
 at your leisure, honour me with a reply. 
 
 " Your obedient and grateful Servant, 
 
 " GUILLAUMIN." 
 
 M. Herve read this letter with deep interest. 
 He replied to it without loss of time, and whilst he 
 expressed affectionate sympathy for Guillaumin, 
 beset as he was with trials and with fears, he told 
 him not to despair ; for to do so would be to cir- 
 cumscribe ^he power and goodness of God, who is 
 perfectly able to avert the evil consequences naturally 
 resulting from our faults, and to sow the good seed 
 where we have been sowing tares. " WTiat would be- 
 come of us/' he added, " if we were always to pay 
 the price of our misdeeds, and if a mandate of 
 divine mercy were never pronounced to break the 
 chain of innumerable links that sin forges and binds 
 about us. As Jesus Christ came to sever by His 
 Almighty power that chain of countless evils and of 
 perdition, in which Adam's fall was the first link, 
 even so there is a moment in the life of a man, 
 when the Spirit of God comes into the heart to 
 burst the net which sin has woven. 
 
 " He does not break all the cords at once ; 
 there are many which remain in force to the latest 
 day of our existence, and which cause our hearts to 
 bleed even to the end ; but we know that we are safe 
 in our Father's hands, and that while He does not
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 235 
 
 wish us to forget the bitter consequences of sin, He 
 does wish us to remember who is called the Repairer 
 of the breach." 
 
 This letter was read over and over again ; but it 
 was not easy to open the poor heart so long accus- 
 tomed to bitter brooding, to the joy and consolation 
 of hope.
 
 236 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 A CONVERSATION BY THE FIRESIDE. 
 
 IT is now time to revisit our friends of the Quartier- 
 Latin. "Whilst the events we have detailed took 
 place at St. Real, their school-days passed away in 
 tranquil calm monotony, like the peaceful flow of a 
 streamlet confined by verdant banks. M. Bertin had 
 become aware of Jean Paul's struggles to maintain 
 order amongst the little fellows composing his class ; 
 and seeing that he was unfitted for the labour, and 
 exhausted by it, had almost liberated him from his 
 onerous duties, with the ostensible purpose of pushing 
 him forward in his own studies. He took such a 
 real interest in the development of this extraor- 
 dinary intellect, that he would willingly have 
 sacrificed his own hours of study, to add to those at 
 the youth's command. The evening hours spent 
 together in the dusty library, became longer and 
 longer, and the lamp frequently grew dim ; ere one 
 of the three happy friends thought of giving the 
 signal for departure. No doubt, these long vigils 
 were bad for Sara, as her pale cheeks and the dark 
 circles around her eyes abundantly testified; but
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 237 
 
 she was not likely to complain, and her uncle never 
 dreamed of the propriety of curtailing her enjoy- 
 ment. Little by little the similarity of their tastes 
 had established a certain degree of familiarity 
 between the grave student and the little household- 
 witch, in spite of all diiferences of character and 
 disposition. Jean Paul found her a less formidable 
 personage than an ordinary well-educated young lady 
 would have been, and less jealous of the prerogatives 
 of her advancing age. He bore with her merry 
 jokes, and even allowed her to make fun of, and 
 imitate his provincial accent, and to repeat in saucy 
 mirth, whilst imitating some gauche movement or 
 inelegant attitude : 
 
 Oui, jefus Grec, Pylhagore a raison. 
 Her very impertinence put him at his ease ; and if 
 her vivacity and hasty words sometimes troubled 
 him, at other moments her sudden gleams of inspir- 
 ation served to illumine many an arduous task and 
 obscure passage. Any one who had seen them 
 bending together over Euripides would have taken 
 them for two of those children of the middle ages, 
 whose minds were nourished with the honey of 
 antique literature imbibed at the feet of some 
 hoary headed philosopher. But the illusion would 
 soon be dissipated by Sara's lively peals of laugh- 
 ter, which quickly transformed her from the repre- 
 sentative of the past, to the joyous creature of the 
 present. To tell the truth, Jean Paul's pensive 
 heavy expression did not aid you, any more than did
 
 238 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 the constantly varying one of his companion, to lose 
 yourself in poetical illusion. 
 
 Amongst the pupils, whom Sara rarely met with, 
 save at the hour of repast, Eugene appeared to her 
 to be the most amiable and intelligent. He never 
 conversed with her ; for her manners shocked him 
 to such a degree, that he would rather have fled 
 from than courted her presence. However, one 
 Sunday afternoon he happened to be alone in the 
 drawing-room, a slight indisposition having caused 
 his detention at home, whilst the rest of his com- 
 panions were spending the day amongst their rela- 
 tives and friends. 
 
 Seated in one of those inhospitable arm-chairs, 
 with which we have already made acquaintance, 
 near a fire that was on the eve of dissolution, 
 Eugene's thoughts flew to his father and mother and 
 sisters, and to the dear White House where 'his early 
 years had sped away so happily. 
 
 Not that he was sorry to have left it. Eugene 
 knew too well that if he would become a man, the 
 child should early engage in those struggles which 
 cannot be met with in his father's house ; but yet he 
 was rather sad, and could not help contrasting the 
 slowly dying embers with the bright beautiful flame, 
 which was no doubt at that very moment consuming 
 the great Yule Log in the chimney at his mother's 
 side. 
 
 Absorbed in his reflections, he did not hear Sara 
 enter the room. She approached him softly, and
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 239 
 
 guessed the current of his thoughts. Taking a foot- 
 stool, she confronted Eugene on the other side of the 
 fire-place, her chin supported by both hands in her 
 accustomed attitude. 
 
 " Tell me something about your sisters," said she, 
 plunging at once into the subject. 
 
 " What do you want to know about them ?" asked 
 Eugene, in a tone that gave small encouragement to 
 his questioner. 
 
 " Whatever you like. In the first place, are they 
 pretty?" 
 
 " What in the world do you want to know for?" 
 
 " Oh, I like everything that is beautiful very much, 
 and nothing pleases me more than a pretty face ! I 
 saw a lady yesterday whom I could have looked at 
 for hours, she was so beautiful." 
 
 " My sister Clemence is very pretty." 
 
 " Is she, really? Do describe her." 
 
 " She is fair, has blue eyes, and a small mouth ; 
 and then her hair is always so smooth and glossy, 
 so carefully arranged, and her hands are so 
 white." 
 
 Sara involuntarily passed her hand over the locks, 
 which being long, had escaped from the restraining 
 net, and were now flowing in wild disorder round her 
 face and shoulders, and in doing so she became con- 
 scious that two of her fingers were stained with 
 ink. She laughed, but blushed a little at the same 
 time. 
 " " Let us see ! Light hair, very smooth ; blue eyes
 
 240 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 and clean hands, that does not make a being at all. 
 Try to tell me something else. Is she tall? v 
 
 " Neither tall nor short." 
 
 Lively ? " 
 
 " Neither lively nor sad." 
 
 "Intelligent?" 
 
 " About the same as other people, I think." 
 
 " Does she like study or play ? " 
 
 "Neither." 
 
 " Neither one nor the other ! Neither this nor that ! 
 What a compound of negatives this sister of your's 
 must be ! "Well, I think I should neither like nor 
 dislike her ; she would be perfectly indifferent to me. 
 And now the other, the little one ?" 
 
 " Oh, as to her, she is just the opposite, lively, 
 quick, and amusing. But you must not despise 
 Clemence, she has some very good qualities ; she is 
 mamma's right hand in domestic matters. Oh, if 
 you only knew how beautifully nice everything is in 
 our house ! There are flowers everywhere. Our 
 drawing-room is so pretty." 
 
 Whilst speaking thus, Eugene cast a glance around 
 him, the meaning of which Sara had no difficulty in 
 comprehending. 
 
 " Yes/' said she. " I know that our house is badly 
 arranged ; everything is old and ugly and faded. I 
 am quite conscious of it, I assure you. When I am 
 in this room, it makes me so sad, that I often shut 
 my eyes, and dream of a beautiful cottage in the 
 country, under the blue sky of Greece or Italy, such
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 241 
 
 a cottage as I read of in my books. It is so pleasant 
 only to nave to shut your eyes to see whatever you 
 like. It consoles you for everything." 
 
 " But it is still more agreeable to see with the eyes 
 open," said Eugene. 
 
 " I am not sure. Certainly what you see in ima- 
 gination is more beautiful than what presents itself to 
 the natural eye. But do give me a description of your 
 drawing-room, and then I can picture it to myself 
 sometimes, if I feel inclined." 
 
 " Yery well. I will tell you exactly what it looks 
 like. In the first place, there are four windows, two 
 of which look into the court, the other two towards 
 the orchard, the brook, the hills, and the summits 
 of far-off mountains. Opposite to the door is a large 
 fire-place, in which a clear fire is now burning, and 
 lighting up one part of the drawing-room, whilst the 
 other remains in shadow, until the lamp is brought 
 in. In summer time, my sisters fill the fire-place 
 with flowers and moss. Mamma is lying on the 
 couch near the fire, with a small table covered with 
 books and work by her side ; and further on is our 
 large table, with chairs around it. Mamma does not 
 allow the servants to put any books or ornaments 
 upon it they have their own places on the brackets 
 and shelves, it is our own peculiar table ; here we 
 may draw, read, spread our wild-flowers to dry, or 
 do anything we choose. Then there is a large sofa, 
 then the piano, then " 
 
 " Oh, stop, stop ! you will spoil my picture. It is
 
 242 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 never necessary to enter into every minute detail in 
 giving descriptions. I see a large fire-place, with its 
 surroundings. That is all I need. And I see your 
 mamma half reclining on her couch. She is rather 
 tall, rather pale, with auburn hair, blue eyes, and 
 such sweet manners !" 
 
 "Have you seen her, then?" asked Eugene, in 
 astonishment. 
 
 " Yes/' said Sara, laughing. " I have seen her in 
 imagination, when Jerome has spoken to me of her, 
 and if you yourself were to tell me that she is different, 
 I should not believe you. Perhaps I should not 
 believe it, even if I saw with my own eyes that I was 
 mistaken. There are people of whom you form certain 
 ideas ; and, do what you will, these ideas cannot be al- 
 tered. Two or three times it has happened, that my 
 eyes have seen differently from my mind; but why 
 should they be trusted in preference ? At all events, 
 everybody has taken the right shape in my thoughts." 
 
 Eugene listened, wonderingly. 
 
 " This time you are not mistaken, at any rate," 
 said he. " That is just like mamma ; she is pale, and 
 looks very sweet, and sometimes even a little sad ; 
 because she is always an invalid." 
 
 " I like that. I cannot bear people who have great 
 red cheeks, like my cousin Prosper, who is so 
 like his name. And what did you do last winter, 
 at this time, in t^ie twilight ? " 
 
 " I often seated n^self on a little footstool at 
 mamma's feet, when she could no longer see to work
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 243 
 
 or read. I leaned my head upon her knee, and she 
 caressed me softly whilst we chatted." 
 
 " And what did you chat about ?" 
 
 " Oh, how can I tell you? About everything. I 
 told her all ; and sometimes she spoke to me of the 
 time when she was a little girl ; about her parents, 
 who died before I was born ; or of people and things 
 of long ago ; and sometimes of what is now passing 
 in the world. Mamma is pleased when I take in- 
 terest in what interests her, and she often used to relate 
 to me acts of courage or devotion, of which she had 
 either read or heard. At other times, we talked of 
 my future life, and of what I should be and do. Oh, 
 if only I could be in my old place again, with my 
 head on mamma's knee, listening to her voice ! " 
 
 Eugene could not control the emotion caused by 
 these vivid memories, and, although a student at the 
 Lycee, he so far broke through conventional pro- 
 prieties, as to allow a tear or two to fall ; but he 
 hastened to wipe away all trace, hoping the action 
 was unnoticed. 
 
 " How happy you are to have such a mother ! " 
 said Sara, who never thought of making fun of him, 
 as he had feared she might, but who, on the contrary, 
 was drawn towards him by the warmth of affection 
 he displayed. " I can remember mine a very little ; 
 but I was quite a tiny child when she died. My un- 
 cle is very good to me, and loves me so tenderly, that 
 I ought not to complain ; but he does not caress me. 
 It must be very pleasant to be caressed. Poor Jerome !
 
 244 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 I don't think he knows much about it either. He 
 seems sad and shut-up. I don't think he can have 
 been loved. Is it so ? or is it his nature to be close?" 
 
 Eugene told the little girl all he knew of his cousin. 
 He spoke of his joyless childhood, and of the ardent 
 desire he felt to win his mother's heart by his pro- 
 gress and success at college. 
 
 " But she is not his own mother?" said Sara. 
 
 " He cannot remember his own mamma," replied 
 Eugene; "so it is very natural he should wish her to 
 love him." 
 
 " And do you think he can gain a prize?" 
 
 " I am sure I do not know. He is sadly behind- 
 hand in many ways, because no one took any trouble 
 about him when he was at Lyons. He has a most 
 wonderful memory, and if he can but once thbroughly 
 understand a thing. I doubt whether he ever forgets 
 it. The worst of it is, he has often very great diffi- 
 culty in comprehending." 
 
 " And do you not help him ? " 
 
 " Yes, early in the morning ; but I am obliged to 
 work myself." 
 
 " Obliged to work yourself ; a fine excuse, indeed !" 
 exclaimed Sara, vehemently ; " and what will it 
 signify, pray, if you do not gain a prize ? " 
 
 " Why, of course, it would be a great disappoint- 
 ment to my parents." 
 
 " Your parents would not love you one whit the 
 less, would they ? And you may assure yourself, for 
 your consolation, that if they knew the reason, they
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 245 
 
 would love you a great deal better. But as for 
 Jer5me, the question is not whether he shall have a 
 little more or less of joy, endearments, and praise ; 
 the question is, Shall he or shall he not beloved ?" 
 
 Sara spoke with so much ardour, that she drew 
 Eugene along with her. After a pause, she con- 
 tinued, in a tone of hesitation, 
 
 " And yet it is very strange that one person 
 should love another on account of his success. It 
 seems to me, that the very contrary is the more 
 rational mode, and that if the child is not really to 
 blame, a mother ought to love him even more, 
 because other people neither praise nor admire him. 
 However, it seems as if the case were sometimes so, for 
 Jer6me thinks everything depends on his success." 
 
 "If you only knew how ardently he desires it. 
 It is his one only thought. I verily believe that 
 disappointment will make him quite ill, if he does 
 not attain his end." 
 
 " I wish I could help him," said Sara, as she rose 
 to leave the room. " If I were in your place, I 
 would leave no stone unturned, and count nothing 
 too much for its accomplishment. Good-bye, till to- 
 morrow ; I hope you will be better then." 
 
 Eugene's eyes followed her to the door. "She has 
 a generous heart," thought he, "beneath a very 
 strange exterior." Then, as his head ached sadly, 
 he leaned back in his uneasy chair, and dozed a 
 minute or two, during which time he had the follow- 
 ing dream :
 
 246 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 He saw himself in the large courtyard of the 
 Lycee. It was beautifully adorned, and crowded 
 with elegantly dressed ladies and gentlemen, as 
 he had heard it would be at the distribution of the 
 prizes. The military band played, and when the joy- 
 ous notes died away, a voice pronounced his name. 
 
 He tried to rise and ascend to the platform, but 
 it was impossible ; he could not move ; it seemed just 
 as if his limbs were weighted with lead, or as if 
 gome unknown agency kept him rooted to his seat. 
 Then he saw Jer6me rise and mount the platform ; 
 and the crown was placed upon his head. 
 
 This took place several times, and he thought it 
 very strange that Jerome should thus appropriate 
 what did not belong to him, just as if he were doing 
 the most natural thing in the world. He tried to 
 speak, but could not say a word; his tongue was 
 no less taken captive than the rest of his body. 
 Then, as he turned partly round to see what Jerome 
 would do next, he observed that his mother was 
 seated by his side, though he had not perceived 
 her before. She looked at him with great tender- 
 ness, and exclaimed, " I am quite satisfied." This 
 word of commendation sounded so sweetly in his 
 heart, that he awoke, asking himself "What could 
 have happened"; and had no rest until he had 
 gathered up the broken fragments of his dream, and 
 disengaged them from the mists in which they floated 
 on his awakening.
 
 247 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 A SACRIFICE. 
 
 WINTER was come in all its rigour. It was no 
 longer by a slight effort of the will that the boys 
 could rise at five o'clock in the morning, to study in 
 an icy-cold room. Jerome had to wage a short but 
 desperate warfare every day with his old enemy, 
 Sloth, resuscitated by the frost. But Eugene, natu- 
 rally of a more lively temperament, had no mercy, 
 and dragged him out of his comfortable bed on to 
 the cold flagged floor, the third time of calling. 
 Eugene was rather cross sometimes, and compared 
 himself to Buifon's servant, whom his master paid 
 to force him to rise, whether he stormed or not. 
 When the victory was won, their eyes thoroughly 
 opened, and the candle sufficiently bright to throw 
 a somewhat less obscure light upon the page, the 
 two boys, wrapped in their blankets, and nestling 
 close together, for more warmth, began to study in 
 good earnest. 
 
 Eugene was quite right in saying that Jerome was 
 rather dull of comprehension ; but if he was slow, he 
 was sure, and having a tenacious memory, what he
 
 248 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 had once learnt was thoroughly acquired. It was 
 more difficult for him to study alone than for many 
 boys, because he never guessed at anything. Eugene, 
 on the contrary, seized things easily ; he might be 
 almost said to know some things intuitively, but all 
 that was connected with grammatical rules and 
 subtleties, very soon slipped out of his memory, and 
 when he had once managed to imbue the mind of 
 his cousin with some abstruse portion of the Greek 
 or Latin syntax, the tables were not unfrequently 
 turned, and Jer6me recalled to his young master the 
 lesson he had been at so much pains to teach him. 
 Thus, there was a system of exchange organized 
 between the boys, which was not altogether without 
 its utility to Eugene ; although the advantage he 
 derived from it could not be of immediate and 
 visible service. 
 
 As Jerome rose in his class with slow but sure 
 steps, Eugene lost his footing. His masters were 
 astonished ; they had hoped better things of him- 
 At length, in the month of February, Jerome 
 attained to an equal standing with his cousin ; 
 indeed, he sometimes even surpassed him, because 
 his attention having been forcibly chained to the 
 subject in hand, he contrived to avoid faults of care- 
 lessness. 
 
 It was about this time that the postman, that 
 wonderful dispenser of joys and sorrows, left a letter 
 at the door one day, for Jean Paul. He opened it, 
 without having the slightest idea as to what might be 
 its contents, and remained petrified. His father,
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 249 
 
 whom he had left strong, well, and still in the very 
 prime of manhood, was dead ! A few days' illness 
 had snatched him from his family. His mether 
 wrote herself. It was a short letter, and only con- 
 tained a simple account of the event, penned with a 
 trembling hand ; but this very simplicity was affect- 
 ing. It clearly showed that grief was no stranger 
 to the writer, and that she had schooled her heart to 
 its reception even in this most crushing stroke. Jean 
 Paul locked his door, seated himself at the foot of the 
 bed, and tried to realize the truth of what he had 
 just read. He could not believe these words, " He 
 died last evening," had any real signification. He 
 read them again and again, and could not credit 
 them. Suddenly he took out his pocket book, 
 opened it, and saw the last letter he had received 
 from his father's hand. His heart was ready to 
 break as the consciousness broke upon him, that the 
 hand which had traced those lines was cold in death ; 
 that the heart which had dictated them beat no 
 longer ; and that it was indeed true he had now no 
 father. He pressed the letter to his lips and knelt 
 down, but no words were audible, through his 
 heaving sobs, save these only " My mother, my 
 poor mother !" 
 
 He remained for a considerable time in that 
 stupor, which follows, as a natural consequence, upon 
 the descent of an unlooked-for and terrible blow such 
 as that under which he was then bowed. By slow 
 degrees his ideas became clearer. What would
 
 250 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 become of his mother and the children ? "I am the 
 eldest," said he ; " the only one old enough to help 
 my mother. But what can I do ? my studies are 
 but just commenced." 
 
 At that moment his eyes fell on the letter which 
 he still held in his hand, and he read these words, 
 "Always do your duty, my boy, and don't be 
 anxious for the rest. God requires nothing of thee 
 but what thou art able to perform. Of what thou 
 canst not do, He will Himself take charge." 
 
 This was written in reply to a letter couched in 
 a strain of deep discouragement, when his troubles 
 were at their height with his ungovernable little 
 troop. Was it not also 'in reply to his thoughts at 
 the present moment. His father's voice spoke to 
 him a second time. He arose from his knees feeling 
 more calm, and comprehending that he had been 
 strengthened to make a great sacrifice. 
 
 Jean Paul was of the number of those who possess, 
 in an eminent degree, the courage of self-sacrifice. 
 The little acts of renunciation that marked his 
 every-day life, had induced a very humble opinion 
 of himself. It seemed quite a thing, of course, that 
 he should take his part in the common heritage of 
 suffering. So he seated himself, and wrote as short 
 and simple a letter to his mother, as was that he had 
 just received ; saying, that he hoped to be with her 
 on the morrow. 
 
 Whilst this was passing in the student's chamber, 
 M. Bertin had entered the library, where Sara was
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 251 
 
 employed with, her lessons, in a very joyous frame of 
 mind, rubbing his hands, as was his wont when 
 under excitement. 
 
 " Good news !" he exclaimed. "Our Jean Paul is 
 on the sure road not to fortune I doubt he cares 
 but little for that ; but to science. One of the 
 German literati whom I saw the other day, and to 
 whom I spoke of his extraordinary endowments, and 
 of his ardent love of study, has offered to take him 
 with him, first into his own country, where Jean 
 Paul will study for two years, under his direction ; 
 afterwards on a grand tour that he proposes making 
 in the East, as envoy of some prince or other, who 
 takes an interest in science. Seldom does such a 
 rare opportunity occur in a man's experience. All 
 his expenses will be defrayed, and, no doubt, a 
 splendid career opened before him. " Oh, I am so 
 glad ! I am so very glad !" cried Sara, getting up 
 and jumping round her uncle. " You must tell him 
 directly ; and if such a piece of news as this does not 
 rouse him up a little, why, I shall be really angry, I 
 can promise him." 
 
 At this moment, there was a knock at the door, 
 which was quickly opened ; it was Jean Paul him- 
 self who entered, but so pale, that the words died 
 upon Sara's lips. 
 
 " What can be the matter ?" she asked. 
 
 " My father is dead," replied the young man, in a 
 scarcely audible voice ; though he evidently spoke 
 with a strong effort.
 
 252 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 M. Berlin took the poor boy's hand, made him sit 
 down, and expressed for hyn the tenderest sympathy. 
 He asked a few questions, to which Jean Paul had 
 some difficulty in replying ; his information was so 
 very slender, and added 
 
 " We will do all that lies in our power to console 
 you a little, my poor boy. You must often talk with 
 us of this good father/ whom I have learnt to respect 
 since I knew you intimately ; for he has educated 
 you in the love of truth and duty." 
 
 " But I must leave you, sir," replied Jean Paul, 
 with firmness. " I must now return to my mother." 
 
 " Are you serious !" cried M. Bertin " and your 
 studies ! Does your mother really ask you to 
 return ?" 
 
 " No, sir, she says nothing about it ; but she must 
 certainly wish it, because she has only me and my 
 sister Julie to help her. I think it is my duty to go." 
 
 These last words were uttered in a low voice, and 
 without the least idea of impressing his friends with 
 the notion that the sacrifice was in the least 
 meritorious. 
 
 " But what do you think of doing for her ?" 
 enquired the old professor, who did not exactly see 
 the connection between Jean Paul's literary and 
 scientific pursuits, and necessary aid for his mother 
 in her trying and difficult circumstances. 
 
 " I will work !" 
 
 "No doubt you will ; but at your age no one will 
 employ you !" 
 
 " Oh yes ! I shall perhaps find some private
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 253 
 
 pupils. My poor father had several. Those who 
 knew him, and who can testify to the conscientious 
 manner in which he discharged his duty, will, I 
 hope, kindly interest themselves in me, and my 
 sister Julie will bear her part of the burden. We 
 shall live in a very humble manner ; but I think we 
 shall be able to make a living. My mother is so 
 clever in turning every little thing to good account." 
 
 " Must we tell him ?" whispered M. Bertin to his 
 niece. 
 
 " Yes, Uncle, tell him everything," said the little 
 girl, in the same low tone. Her eyes were full of 
 tears and brilliant with feeling. 
 
 M. Bertin had had his doubts whether it w,ould 
 be better that the youth should go his way unassailed 
 by temptation, and allowed to accomplish his resolu- 
 tion without dreaming of the extent of the required 
 sacrifice. But like Sara, he soon saw he had not the 
 right to lessen the virtue of his resolve ; and besides, 
 he rather wished to prove him to the last extremity. 
 
 " Let me at least beg that you will wait, my dear 
 young friend, until you have given a candid hearing 
 to a proposition I have now to lay before you. 
 Perhaps your decision may not be irrevocable." 
 
 M. Bertin then repeated what he had just 
 announced to Sara, and dwelt upon the advantages 
 it afforded for the future. Jean Paul's colour rose, 
 and his eyes assumed for a moment an unwonted 
 brilliancy ; but it was merely a transitory emotion, 
 and before he could reply, the bright hue had faded
 
 254 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 from his cheek, and his countenance resumed the 
 appearance of depression. 
 
 " Had my father lived, it would have been the 
 greatest happiness that could have occurred to me ; 
 but now, I cannot leave my mother !" 
 
 " But reflect, I pray you ; how very little you 
 will be able to do for her, if you at once enter upon 
 the path you propose. You will have but misery to 
 share with her ; and on the other hand if you become 
 a learned man, a Professor, or what not celebrated 
 perhaps you would eventually be able to share your 
 prosperity together." 
 
 Jean Paul made no reply. He appeared agitated. 
 Sara looked at him in visible anxiety, but he thought 
 not of her. 
 
 " Perhaps I may be wrong, but I cannot help it. 
 The future is not mine, the present is." 
 
 M. Bertin was again about to speak when Sara 
 hastily stopped him. 
 
 " Enough, Uncle, enough ! For pity's sake do 
 not torment him any longer. Don't you see that 
 my uncle thinks the same as you do," said she turn- 
 ing to Jean Paul and clasping his hand with both 
 her own. " You are a noble-hearted fellow, and 
 God will bless you. I am certain you will never 
 regret what you are doing now." 
 
 " Sara is right," continued M. Bertin, shaking 
 the hand of his beloved pupil. " I cannot renounce 
 the brilliant future which seemed to be opening be- 
 fore you without pain ; but you have chosen the good
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 255 
 
 part, my boy, the part of duty and of conscience. 
 I quite approve your decision. It is well !" 
 
 It is well ! The highest term of praise that ever 
 fell from the old professor's lips. No one had ever 
 been known to receive from him a more flattering 
 eulogium ; but pronounced by him, these simple 
 words were felt to possess a depth of meaning a 
 great price and those who knew him intimately 
 could desire no more. So Jean Paul went to 
 his home, where the chief place was now vacant. 
 Great trouble was upon them all ; but no one 
 lost their courage. Madame Hermann accepted 
 her son's sacrifice in all simplicity. When he 
 communicated his resolution to her, she merely 
 said : 
 
 " Thy father would have done the same." 
 They remained together therefore. Julie devoted 
 several hours of each day to the undisciplined 
 children of one of the families in the town, for the 
 modest remuneration of twenty francs a month; Jean 
 Paul soon found a few private pupils, thanks to the 
 interest excited for the bereaved family, and he 
 could still devote a portion of the day, and some 
 hours of the night, to his beloved studies. His mother 
 was untiring in her exertions, and found a thousand 
 ingenious ways of economizing the money brought 
 to her by her children, that precious money which 
 they had earned by the sweat of their brow. The 
 little ones went to school, and rendered many useful 
 but trifling services on their return, according to
 
 256 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 their several capacity. The youngest could of course 
 do no more than amuse the household by its chatter- 
 ing and joyous laughter. And yet, in the midst of 
 such ceaseless activity, the sweet satisfying sense of 
 accomplished duty, and the cheering influence of 
 home affections, the shadow of death which had 
 fallen upon the humble dwelling, was still there. 
 The bravest hearts are ever the most faithful. 
 
 Jean Paul never spoke to a single creature of the 
 sacrifice he had made in abandoning the bright career 
 which had opened before him. 
 
 He had thought it best not to mention the proposi- 
 tion, even to his mother, for he knew that, although 
 she was utterly unable to comprehend the extent of 
 the sacrifice he had made, she yet felt deeply his 
 being obliged to renounce a more brilliant position 
 for an obscure existence, and a very modest, though 
 honourable, livelihood. He was too sincerely sub- 
 missive to the will of God, and too seriously devoted 
 to his mother, ever to regret his resolution for a 
 single moment; yet we should evince but slight 
 knowledge of the human heart, did we conclude that 
 the struggle ceased when .the decision was accom- 
 plished. 
 
 There must be continuous struggle, a daily 
 conflict; but, if we wage the war valorously, 
 our strength will sensibly augment, whilst that of 
 our enemy will as certainly diminish. Sometimes 
 in the evening when the family was gathered 
 around the little lamp which had to serve for all,
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 257 
 
 when the little ones had retired to rest, and the 
 anxious mother bent over her needle, which plied its 
 weary way with ceaseless monotony of sound, whilst 
 she turned over in her mind some difficult problem 
 of economy whilst Julie asked herself what plan 
 she could devise to captivate the attention of her in- 
 subordinate pupils on the morrow sometimes then 
 our poor young friend would close his eyes and 
 dream of what ? Neither of the past nor of the 
 present, but of what might have been. In the first 
 place, Germany presented herself to his view, as if 
 seen through a light mist. Germany, the land of 
 science and deep thought, of old collegiate cities, of 
 grave profound doctors, who are for ever poring over 
 the secrets of the human soul, or those of nature. 
 And there he might have lived for two whole years ! 
 And after that, the East would have opened to him 
 her golden gates. He would have visited the abodes 
 of the ancients have seen the ground once trodden 
 by men who lived in the earliest ages, whose 
 
 */ O ' 
 
 language and life he so loved to study. He would 
 have been able to trace their footsteps ; to read 
 inscriptions that their hands had carved hands 
 which had been for thousands of years motionless 
 in the grave. He might have drunk deeply into the 
 past, and enriched himself with a plenteous harvest 
 of knowledge, a rich store of ideas to communicate 
 on his return to those who, less happy, could only 
 receive them through intermediate aid.
 
 258 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 All these visions passed before him, and when he 
 again sought to fix his attention upon his book, its 
 pages seemed to have lost their accustomed interest. 
 He was sad, and in danger of losing courage for the 
 arduous and ill-requited labours of the morrow. At 
 length, his mother looking anxiously at him, would 
 say 
 
 " What is the matter, my boy ? You are tired ; 
 you have been working too hard. Leave your book, 
 and go to rest." More than once these words had 
 caused him a slight feeling of impatience. Could not 
 his mother understand ? Could she not guess ? But 
 when he met her anxious gaze, and observed the 
 anxiety and fatigue upon her features, he was angry 
 with himself that he had wasted a thought upon 
 his own private griefs, when all his strength was 
 required to carry the common burden.
 
 CHAPTER XXIY. 
 
 A HAPPY FAULT. 
 
 SCHOOL-LIFE was not in all respects just what Arthur 
 had expected to find it. He soon became aware that 
 his companions cared very little about his fancied 
 superiority. In the little world called "school," the 
 means of success are not quite similar to those of the 
 world without its boundaries : it is more difficult to 
 dazzle children than men. In order to gain any 
 great ascendancy over them, honesty of purpose is 
 necessary the firmness and decision of an upright, 
 energetic, and enterprising character, or at least an 
 intellectual superiority wholly incontestable; and 
 they are less easily won by the intellect than by the 
 heart. 
 
 Arthur had nothing of all this ; so he occupied but 
 an inferior position amongst the young gentlemen of 
 M. Bertin's establishment, was very small in fact, 
 and his self-esteem suffered most cruelly in conse- 
 quence. At first he thought he should not trouble 
 himself much with study ; but, when he found how 
 lightly he was esteemed, he remembered to have 
 heard it said, that he was remarkably gifted. His
 
 260 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 masters had always spoken to his grandmamma of 
 the extreme facility with which he acquired know- 
 ledge ; complaining only that her extreme fondness 
 was frequently a hindrance to his progress. 
 
 He resolved now to call his talents into requisition; 
 and supposed nothing would be more easy than to 
 secure by the aid of such gifts as his, that supremacy 
 to which he had always been accustomed hitherto, 
 because no one had yet disputed it with him. But it 
 was less easy than he had supposed ; he soon became 
 aware that he had a very formidable competitor in 
 Eugene, and that Jerome himself, heavy and timid 
 as he was, had, by untiring industry and resolution, 
 already far outstripped him. Arthur was not dis- 
 posed to engage in a struggle, the issue of which, 
 notwithstanding the good opinion he entertained of 
 his abilities, he yet considered doubtful. He assured 
 himself, over and over again, that he did not care in 
 the least for a prize, and that he would ten times 
 rather leave at the very commencement of the vaca- 
 tion than stay to see who were the successful com- 
 petitors. 
 
 He really was, secretly, extremely vexed, to find 
 that Arthur d'Ermance did not hold the place which 
 he would fain have occupied. So he began to think 
 of the chateau, of his grandmother, of his pony, 
 and of his conversations with Benedict, as of a sort 
 of Paradise lost. 
 
 He persuaded himself that he had too tender a 
 heart to bear this prolonged absence ; and, after
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 261 
 
 three or four days spent in this frame of mind, he 
 wrote a letter to his grandmamma, which disturbed 
 her exceedingly, because she thought it the expres- 
 sion of a sad, down-cast, home-sick heart, and she 
 wrote forthwith to M. Bertin, to know if the health 
 of the poor unhappy boy was not giving way, and 
 whether it would not be a suitable time to relax the 
 severity of his studies. 
 
 One day, after their return from college, Arthur 
 went up to Robert, who was amusing himself to his 
 apparent satisfaction by drawing a magnificent ship 
 of war, that he meant to enclose in a letter to his little 
 sister Isabelle. 
 
 " What is your place in Greek translation ? " he 
 enquired. 
 
 " You know very well," replied Robert. " I am 
 thirty-first." 
 
 " And your brother ? " 
 
 " Third." 
 
 " And Jerome has been first ; it is wonderful ! " 
 
 " Yes," said Robert. " I am quite satisfied : poor 
 Jerome has worked so hard that he deserves to suc- 
 ceed." 
 
 " And you are contented with your own place ? " 
 
 " What would you have ? I must needs be. I 
 have no memory ; when I have learnt a thing it goes 
 clean out of my head again directly. I am sure I 
 have worked harder here than I did at home : I can 
 do no more. Mamma always tells me that what she 
 requires is, that I shall do my duty not that I
 
 262 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 shall succeed ; so that, if I can conscientiously say I 
 have not been thoughtless and idle, she will not be 
 displeased with me. I ought to be a sailor, I know I 
 ought ; that is my vocation. I might have had a 
 chance of becoming something on the sea, but on 
 terra firma I shall never be a distinguished person- 
 age. "Well, never mind ; I don't care ; I have taken 
 for my motto 
 
 ' Fais ce que dois, advienne que pourra,' " 
 
 " You are always the hero ! " said Arthur ; my 
 motto is 
 
 * Fais ce que veux, advienne que pourra.' " 
 
 " As to that, I think it will be rather difficult,'' 
 said Eugene, now approaching. "Who is there in 
 this world who does what he most wishes to do ?" 
 
 " Why, many people ; amongst others, my uncle 
 Gerard, who is always travelling about. What an 
 amusing life that must be ! I will do the same when 
 I grow up. I should amazingly like to see every- 
 thing. 
 
 ' Voir, c'est avoir, 
 
 Et tout voir, c'est tout conquerir.' 
 
 " My uncle often says this. But I shall not travel 
 just in the same way; for he has been a walking tour 
 through the whole of Switzerland. I shall have my 
 carriage and servant." 
 
 " And, no doubt, you will enjoy it far less than he 
 has done," said Robert ; " for I have often heard that 
 those who travel the most simply have the largest 
 share of enjoyment."
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 263 
 
 ' " That is according to taste," replied Arthur, as 
 he turned over in his pocket the money with which 
 his grandmamma kept him liberally supplied. 
 
 This money, which never failed him, was often a 
 source of temptation. The young gentlemen at M. 
 Bertin's were not allowed to go out alone during the 
 week-days, but their friends at the Lycee willingly 
 undertook to make Arthur's purchases, charging 
 him, of course, with a small commission. Sometimes 
 it was tarts and sweatmeats, sometimes novels, all 
 things equally forbidden in the school, but none the 
 less ardently coveted by Arthur. He frequently 
 returned home with his pockets full ol sweetmeats or 
 trashy publications, which were carefully put by in 
 his wardrobe, to be made use of in secret. Robert's 
 presence in the room greatly discomforted him ; more 
 than once he had tried to purchase his silence at the 
 cost of a part of his secret hoard ; but Hobert would 
 never accept the bribe, and openly blamed Arthur 
 for thus trying to evade the watchful care of his 
 master. 
 
 One Saturday evening, as the boys returned from 
 college, under the care of M. Prosper, who walked 
 on in front, a poor woman who stood in the 
 shadow of an angle of the wall stopped them with a 
 look of entreaty. She neither spoke a word, nor ex- 
 tended her hand, but her expression bespoke her 
 misery more indisputably than many words could 
 have done. She had a child, a few months old, in 
 her arms, and a remarkably pretty little girl of five
 
 264 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 or six years old walked by her side, but slie was so 
 pale and thin, that it made one's heart ache to look 
 at her. The poor mother seemed ready to sink. 
 Eugene was much struck by her sad expression ; he 
 stopped, put his hand in his pocket, drew out all that 
 he had, and gave it to her. It was a mere trifle, 
 enough, however, to buy bread for herself and 
 her children. He was rushing away, when a sudden 
 thought crossed his mind. He left his place, and ran 
 back to the unfortunate woman, who did not seem to 
 have strength to leave the spot, and said to her, 
 hurriedly : 
 
 " Give me your name and address." 
 
 Surprised at this demand, she appeared to hesitate, 
 then gave it reluctantly. It was a Polish name, and 
 Eugene could scarcely make it out ; so having depo- 
 sited his books on the footpath, at the foot of the 
 wall, he drew, out his pocket-book and wrote from 
 her dictation. All this was not done in an instant, 
 and M. Prosper had discovered his absence. When 
 at length he arrived, out of breath with running, he 
 was received with a severe reprimand. M. Prosper 
 declared that he should be kept in the next day for 
 having left the ranks. Eugene attempted no excuse; 
 he well knew that a breach of discipline was un- 
 pardonable. 
 
 Next day, thanks to the punishment inflicted by 
 M. Prosper, he found himself alone in the garden 
 with Sara in the afternoon, a few rays from the 
 winter sun having drawn them both thither.
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 265 
 
 Sara asked the cause of his punishment, and 
 listened with extreme interest to the history of his 
 encounter, and the feelings of pity it had awakened. 
 
 " You did right," said she, " and I recognize my 
 cousin Prosper to the life. It is just like him to 
 punish you for a feeling of sympathy. If he only 
 could change the whole host of humanity into a col- 
 lection of automata, nothing would be wanting to his 
 happiness ; but as he cannot, he is obliged to console 
 himself by punishing those who are guilty of spon- 
 taneous actions. But you have the poor woman's 
 address, do show it me." 
 
 " Here it is," said Eugene, turning over the con- 
 tents of his pocket-book. " What a barbarous name ! 
 Kociuleszinska. I wrote it at her dictation, letter 
 by letter, otherwise I should think there was some 
 mistake/' 
 
 " Walnut-street," said Sara, looking at the address. 
 " It is not very far from here. Can you guess what I 
 intend to do, Eugene ? I will talk to her myself, 
 and try to gain her confidence. Madame Germain 
 shall take me to see her ; she shall tell me her whole 
 history, and then we will see what we can do to 
 comfort her." 
 
 It was an excellent plan, and Eugene agreed to it 
 with all his heart. He only regretted that he, too, 
 could not accompany Sara. 
 
 The little girl was not one to be satisfied with good 
 intentions only. With her, action almost immediately 
 followed thought. In five minutes she had put on
 
 266 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 her bonnet in some fashion, thrown her mantle over 
 her shoulders, and drawn on her gloves, through the 
 holes of which her fingers were, alas ! too often 
 visible ; then she started with Madame Germain. 
 The good lady was not, it must be confessed, much 
 pleased with this errand; she was thrown by it 
 quite out of her accustomed routine, but the child's 
 impetuous eloquence had been more than she could 
 resist. 
 
 " What folly are you making me commit now ?" 
 exclaimed she, as she trotted after Sara. " No doubt 
 the woman gave a false address ; these miserable 
 wretches always do. They deceive everyone who is 
 stupid enough to be taken in by their silly make- 
 believe desperation. You will see, we shall no more 
 find Poles there than in my head at this moment. I 
 know all about that, I do. I have had a little more 
 experience of the world than you have, Miss Sara : 
 people don't take me in quite so easily." 
 
 " I would rather be deceived a hundred times than 
 run the risk of leaving a poor creature in the streets 
 whom we could save," said Sara. " And what is the 
 good of accusing her beforehand." 
 . They had now reached the house indicated by the 
 woman. Sara made enquiries of the porter, who was 
 sitting before the door. Yes, they were right. Madame 
 Kociuleszinska lived at No. 8, Seventh Corridor, to the 
 right of the seventh story. Seventh story! Ma- 
 dame Germain longed to know, when she arrived 
 panting for breath, up the fifth flight of stairs, how
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 267 
 
 ever human creatures could live at" such an unnatural 
 elevation. When she reached the goal she was 
 obliged to stop at least five minutes to recover her 
 breath ; her impatient young lady had already dis- 
 covered No. 8, in a wondrous labyrinth of corridors, 
 when at last she felt able to rejoin her. 
 
 A gentle voice said " Come in." She opened the 
 door, and a sadder sight than she had ever looked to 
 see, presented itself before her. A man, once of a 
 fine figure and noble countenance, sat near the fire 
 wrapped in an old blanket, which was insufficient to 
 prevent his emaciated limbs shuddering with the chil- 
 liness of fever. 
 
 The little girl, with light hair and dark blue eyes, 
 described by Eugene, was stretched upon the bed, 
 pale and motionless. The mother, holding her baby 
 in her arms, knelt upon the hearth, endeavouring to 
 re-kindle some dying fuel. It was, indeed, the same 
 whom Eugene had so pitied. Grief and misery had 
 withered the bloom upon her cheek, though she was 
 yet young ; but it was easy to see that, for herself 
 alone she would not have wrung her hands, and that 
 it was only the sufferings of those she loved that 
 had reconciled her to receive the gift of charity. 
 She rose up, with a look of surprise, on seeing her 
 visitors. 
 
 " Poor little thing," said Sara, as she looked at 
 the sick child. " What is the matter with her ? " 
 
 "She is weak," said the mother; "she wasted 
 away without any other disease than misery. I have
 
 268 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 not been able to take her out to-day ; she had not 
 strength for it. It is hard not to have bread to give 
 one's children. She would have had nothing to eat 
 for two days, if a young gentleman who passed us 
 yesterday, had not guessed at our misery, for I dared 
 not hold out my hand." 
 
 " It is he who has spoken to me of you," said 
 Sara, with vivacity. " You gave him your address, 
 did you not ? " 
 
 " Yes ; and I shrunk very much from doing so, at 
 the very moment when I had received the gift of 
 charity for the first time." 
 
 Her countenance changed as she said these words. 
 
 " It was for your children's sake," suggested Sara. 
 It was the very best thing she could possibly have 
 said. 
 
 " Yes," said the young mother, as she raised her 
 head ; "it was for them ; no one can blame me ! " 
 
 She looked at her husband with a mixture of fear 
 and resolution. He turned away his head, but said 
 nothing. 
 
 " We have been without the necessaries of life for 
 several months/' she continued ; " my husband used 
 to give lessons, and earn something for the children's 
 food. But when sickness came we had no resource." 
 
 " I can do nothing more for them," said the invalid, 
 in a fit of coughing, which nearly choked him. 
 
 " It is God's will," replied his wife, when he be- 
 came a little calmer. 
 
 The tears were in Sara's eyes ; she rose and em-
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 269 
 
 braced the little girl, who smiled feebly upon her, as 
 she slipped a five- franc piece it was all she possessed 
 into the little firmly clasped hand, and went away. 
 
 When she had descended the seven stories, and 
 passed by the porter, who looked at her with evident 
 curiosity, she said to Madame Germain : 
 
 " I should think that now you are for once cured 
 of your mania of suspicion ; " and she launched out 
 in warm praises of her new friends. 
 
 Arrived at home, Sara ran into the drawing-room 
 where, as she hoped, she found Eugene. She drew 
 a poetical picture of the exiles' home. The beautiful 
 pale countenance, and noble bearing of the invalid 
 the charming delicate features of the child, dying of 
 hunger the sad dignity of the mother, clad in her 
 robe of poverty nothing was forgotten which could 
 awaken interest, sympathy, and compassion. 
 
 Eugene caught her ardour, and they formed many 
 a plan for aiding this unfortunate family. At length 
 it was decided that a collection should be raised 
 amongst the boys, and that Sara should return on 
 the following day to carry the proceeds of it to the 
 Poles. 
 
 This union of sentiment and interests had already 
 formed a strong link between the two young people. 
 Eugene could scarcely believe Sara to be the same 
 girl who had made such an unfavourable impression 
 on his mind, during the early days of their acquaint- 
 ance ; he now felt himself irresistibly drawn towards 
 her by her simplicity and warm-heartedness. On her
 
 270 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 part, Sara admired in him a delicacy of feeling, 
 and an almost feminine gentleness, which were the 
 more pleasing because so rarely encountered. When 
 their plans had heen duly weighed, and so many 
 marvels wrought with the products of the collection, 
 that you would have thought the donors were to be 
 millionnaires, instead of young Lyceens, who with 
 the single exception of Arthur, only received the 
 modest allowance of five-pence per week, Eugene 
 remarked, with a little growl of satisfaction 
 
 "And it is to my disobedience that we owe the 
 discovery of this poor family ; for I knew quite well 
 that M. Prosper had absolutely forbidden any one to 
 leave the ranks." 
 
 " Felix culpa !" exclaimed Sara, laughing. "I wish 
 all your faults may be as innocent, and lead to as 
 happy a result."
 
 271 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 THE COLLECTION. 
 
 THE amount gained by the collection was not so large 
 as Eugene and Sara had expected it to realize. Some 
 of the donors had plenty of good will, but little 
 money ; and with others the case was exactly re- 
 versed. Eugene was numbered amongst the first ; 
 he had given all the money he possessed the evening 
 before. When M. Bertin became aware of their 
 project which by the way he cordially approved 
 he suggested that a subscription-list should be 
 drawn out, headed with a pathetic description of the 
 case. 
 
 " What will be the use of that/' enquired 
 Sara, who always liked to go straight to the point, 
 and in general troubled herself but little with ac- 
 cessaries. 
 
 " I speak advisedly," replied her uncle ; " in general 
 I am not at all fond of petitions, but in the present 
 case I think it is allowable to make use of one." 
 
 So Sara wrote the rough sketch, and Eugene copied 
 it in his best style upon a large sheet of paper. A 
 stirring appeal was made to the pupils' generosity,
 
 272 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 irresistible for those who possessed any heart at all. 
 Some of the names did not figure in the list at all 
 names of those whose hands had vainly turned their 
 pockets inside out,as if in hope of discovering some 
 miraculous hoard, for they must have known but too 
 well their actual poverty; so their hands, finding 
 no treasure, had to renounce the honour of writing 
 their names in the beautifully prepared sheet, ruled 
 so carefully by Eugene without a single blot ; we 
 cannot say who was the most disappointed, he 
 who had nothing to give, or he who had nothing to 
 receive. 
 
 WTien Arthur's turn came, M. Bertin's wisdom 
 was fully justified. Had a simple demand been made 
 upon him, he would certainly only have given the 
 smallest sum possible, for he had never learnt to feel 
 any interest in suffering. And, although he had 
 never given expression to his opinion, he held that 
 some were come into this world to enjoy all the 
 blessings of fortune, and others to suffer the priva- 
 tions of poverty. But when Arthur saw this sheet 
 so nearly blank, and thought of the figure his name 
 would cut, he decided to make a little sacrifice to his 
 self-esteem. A new gold ten franc piece remained 
 in his purse, part of his grandmother's last remit- 
 tance. He took it out with a gesture of affected in- 
 difference, placed it upon the table, and seized the 
 pen to write his name. 
 
 "Arthur," exclaimed Eugene, with some hesita- 
 tion, " if you will lend me five francs, I will pay you
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 273 
 
 by degrees, as I receive my allowance. You would 
 render me a great service, for I have nothing to give." 
 
 " No, I cannot," said Arthur, " I have nothing to 
 lend you." 
 
 " And are you, then, going to give these ten 
 francs ? " 
 
 "Yes, certainly!" 
 
 " Well ! but if you could have lent me even two of 
 them, you would still have given a large sum, and 
 I could then have added my name to the list." 
 
 " I shall only put down a round sum," said Arthur, 
 " what does it matter to me whether your name is 
 upon the list or not." 
 
 As he spoke, he took the pen and wrote his name 
 in his best fashion, surrounding it with a noble 
 nourish, and then inscribed the sum of ten francs, 
 under a modest subscription of twopence halfpenny 
 which looked overwhelmed by its very imposing 
 neighbour. 
 
 The list, when completed, was carried by Eugene 
 to Sara in the study. 
 
 " Twenty -three francs fifty centimes," exclaimed 
 the young lady ; " that is very nice ! Oh, but what 
 is this I see ? Arthur d'Ermance, ten francs ! How 
 generous ! I don't wonder that his name should 
 cut such a splendid figure amongst the others." 
 
 M. Bertin smiled, as he listened to these observa- 
 tions. 
 
 " Ah," said she, surprising him in the act, " that 
 explains your advice, uncle. Whoever would have 
 
 T
 
 274 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 given you credit for such, profound penetration. 
 "Well, the poor boy has fallen with all his heart into 
 the trap; so much the better for our Poles, but 
 I never should have been clever enough to hit upon 
 this contrivance." 
 
 " I have had more experience of the human heart 
 than you," replied M. Bertin, " but I am rather sorry 
 to have laid the trap for Arthur ; I only wanted to 
 give him a useful lesson. You can go back to your 
 class, Eugene, and send him to me." 
 
 Arthur found M. Bertin alone. He had a few 
 directions to give him about his studies, and then 
 taking up the list which Sara had left on the table 
 
 " You have shown great generosity, Arthur," re- 
 marked M. Bertin, " but I am afraid the desire to 
 appear liberal, ;or perhaps to show that you have 
 more money at your command than the other boys, 
 has had some influence upon your charity." 
 
 Arthur blushed, to the very roots of his hair, at 
 M. Bertin's penetration, but said nothing. 
 
 " "Well, well, my child," kindly added the profes- 
 sor, "you may go; only remember, another time 
 when you give to the poor, that your left hand must 
 not know what your right hand doeth, and that the 
 opinions of others must not be allowed to influence 
 your charity." 
 
 Eugene might also have profited by a similar 
 lesson for the humiliation of not being able to add 
 his name to the list of contributors was almost 
 equal to his sorrow at having nothing to give. Sara,
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 275 
 
 too, had nothing, but she did not care a straw about 
 that, as she had somebody's money to carry to the 
 poor family. As soon as Madame Germain could go, 
 she set off, running rather than walking, and was 
 obliged to wait constantly for the arrival of her re- 
 spectable companion, who could not possibly travel at 
 such an extraordinary pace. Madame Germain was in 
 reality a very good sort of person whose only fault was 
 inclination to suspicion of evil, which said defect 
 became a positive good quality in her position, as it 
 constantly saved her from being imposed upon. She 
 had been really touched by the unfortunate position 
 of these Poles, and wished for nothing better than to 
 be of some use to them. She felt herself quite the 
 right person to assist Sara, or rather to direct her in 
 this good work restrain her wild impetuosity, and 
 substitute some of her wise decisions, and practical 
 good sense, for the too ambitious projects of the 
 child. 
 
 Alas ! poor Sara had indeed to learn, that but a 
 very limited store of articles can be purchased for 
 the sum of twenty-three francs fifty centimes. 
 
 After conversing for about a quarter of an hour 
 with the poor woman, the treasure she had thought 
 inexhaustible assumed very limited proportions. So 
 many things were required ! The little girl had no 
 bed, the father no flannel waistcoat, the mother 
 neither gown nor linen, and the little child 
 was but barely covered with the clothing she
 
 276 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 formed from her own most scanty wardrobe. Fuel 
 was wanted, and bread, and light nourishing food 
 for the two invalids, who seemed already a little re- 
 vived by a few basins of broth which Sara's bounty 
 had provided. 
 
 And there was the rent to pay ! Only twenty- 
 three francs for all that ! It was gratefully received 
 notwithstanding. It would at least furnish bread and 
 lodging for many days to come. 
 
 " Ah, Miss/' said the young woman, with tears in 
 her eyes, " if my husband could only get well, and 
 give lessons, we should be quite happy. It is only 
 work we want." 
 
 A sudden idea crossed Sara's mind. She could 
 not speak of it to any one before she had consulted 
 her uncle; but the brilliant smile with which she told 
 the poor people to be of good courage, left a ray of 
 hope and joy in their humble home. Half an hour 
 afterward Sara was very busy in her little chamber. 
 She was routing through the stores in a wardrobe to 
 which Madame Germain consigned worn-out gar- 
 ments, and had certainly found some real treasures 
 dresses, stockings, of her own, outgrown, and 
 lots of old linen, part of which, if skilfully selected, 
 pould very well be used. Sara spread all these things 
 over her bed, and regarded them in great perplexity. 
 What was she to do ? Nothing seemed suitable for 
 her poor friends. Everything was either too small 
 for the woman or too large for the child. As for the 
 baby, perhaps she did not quite know what sort of
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 277 
 
 clothes were needful to wrap up such tiny creatures. 
 Ah, if she only knew how to cut out, and sew, and 
 mend all these things, she would soon clothe that 
 poor little shivering child in something warmer 
 than its old print frock! But Sara did not know 
 how to do anything, not even to hem a handkerchief 
 respectably, so, after having gazed for some time 
 upon her useless treasures, she uttered the exclama- 
 tion 
 
 " Miserable Greek, and miserable Latin. I would 
 far rather know how to make a shirt than be able to 
 say I have read the Iliad." 
 
 "Who can be speaking thus?" exclaimed a 
 voice, with comical emphasis. " What is it you, 
 Sara ; do you talk in this way ? But what an ex- 
 hibition ! What a chaos ! I am not surprised that 
 I called three times, without your hearing me." 
 
 " Well, really, uncle ; however it may scandalize 
 you, I could repeat what I have just said a thousand 
 times over. I would give all you have taught me to 
 be able to make a shirt ; that knowledge would be of 
 much more use to me now." 
 
 " But it might be well to know both," replied M. 
 Bertin, "and the art is really not so difficult as you 
 suppose. Could not Madame Germain give you some 
 idea how to set about it ?" 
 
 " She is busy at present ; and besides, she has often 
 tried to teach me to sew, and I never could learn, 
 she has such intolerably patronizing airs, and says, 
 shaking her head at me, ' Ah, Mademoiselle Sara,
 
 278 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 if you would only have listened to me, you would 
 have known how to sew by this time ! I told you 
 you would repent it ! ' I cannot endure that phrase 
 ' I told you.' Poor Madame Germain has repeated 
 it so often. She puts me quite out of patience." 
 
 Sara remained till quite evening, shut up in her 
 room, turning the old garments and pieces over and 
 over; she tried to cut out a little frock, but suc- 
 ceeded so badly, that she let fall her scissors, and 
 was very much inclined to have a good cry. 
 
 There was nothing for it but to accept the convic- 
 tion of her thorough incapacity ; so she threw the 
 things all back into the wardrobe pell-mell, and ran 
 down to calm her agitation in the garden. Going 
 along the corridor she met Eugene, to whom she 
 gave the history of her defeat. 
 
 "What a pity that my sister Clemence is not 
 here," said he, " she is so very clever in this sort of 
 thing. She would soon put you in the way of 
 making them as well as she can herself." 
 
 " I should be so glad ! " said Sara, humbly and 
 sorrowfully ; " but it is of no use to wish for im- 
 possibilities." She then ran away into the garden, 
 where the cool March breezes soon refreshed her 
 throbbing temples. 
 
 Whilst the little girl had been thus occupied with 
 useless regrets and wishes, her uncle had been busy- 
 ing himself in a very quiet manner, and without 
 mentioning his scheme to anybody, for the effectual 
 help of the unfortunate Poles. He had made
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 279 
 
 inquiries, and ascertained that the man was very 
 worthy, and had always supported his family 
 honourably, until sickness rendered it impossible. 
 He had even pushed his scruples of delicacy so far, 
 that his wife had gone out without his permission, 
 to beg the bread which had saved the child's life. 
 
 M. Bertin sent one of his friends, a medical man, 
 to see them, who reported that there was nothing to 
 be alarmed at, and that in a few days, if he was well 
 nursed, he would, he hoped, be in a state to resume 
 his drawing lessons, provided pupils could be found 
 for him. 
 
 " And this will really," continued the doctor, " be 
 the very best medicine he could have ; for inaction is 
 wearing him away ; a little fatigue would be a much 
 less evil." 
 
 There only remained to discover, then, what was 
 his merit as an artist. 
 
 Once assured that his pupils would be gainers by 
 the change, M. Bertin resolved to give him the 
 place of a professor with whom he was not at all 
 satisfied; and thus Sara's ardent wishes were 
 realized. 
 
 There was one important consideration to take 
 into account. M. Bertin did not choose, in admitting 
 the exile into his establishment, that he should be 
 subjected to the slightest humiliation. 
 
 He sent for Eugene, and desired that neither he 
 nor Sara would drop the slightest hint which should 
 lead the boys to suppose that the drawing-master,
 
 280 TJIE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 M. Kociuleszmska was the same person for whom 
 the collection had been made. Eugene dared not 
 mention that he had already told his brother and 
 Arthur the name of the Pole. The fear of being 
 blamed for indiscretion, which was, however, quite 
 pardonable, as he had never dreamed that there 
 could be any motive for silence, made him forget the 
 horror of dissimulation, with which his first false- 
 hood had inspired him, and he promised to keep the 
 secret, saying to himself that he would exact like 
 silence from his friends. 
 
 This fault, which he afterwards bitterly repented, 
 occasioned trouble.
 
 281 
 
 CHAPTER XXVL 
 
 CONFESSION. 
 
 ROBERT would not have caused pain for anything in 
 the world, and especially to an unfortunate individual, 
 whose sorrows had won for him an especial claim to 
 respectful sympathy. So Eugene was sure of his 
 brother, but he could not feel the same confidence in 
 Arthur, who, without being precisely unkind by 
 nature, had been so little accustomed to place himself 
 in the position of others, that he did not calculate 
 the effect of his jokes upon their feelings, and sought 
 only his own private amusement. 
 
 His talent for caricature was a weapon which 
 he was fond of using, and it inflicted many an 
 unsuspected wound upon its victims. M. Kociules- 
 zinska's debut was made in a costume which, notwith- 
 standing the wonders wrought upon it by his young 
 wife's industry, yet betrayed his exceeding poverty. 
 The frock coat was mended in several places, and 
 when, forgetting that great caution was necessary, 
 he stretched his arm rather too quickly across the 
 table, to take a drawing that was handed to him, the 
 poor sleeve, worn to the very threads, gave way to
 
 282 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 such a degree, that further efforts at reparation 
 would be obviously in vain. Arthur set to work to 
 sketch the professor in this critical moment. The 
 rents in the poor garment were represented with 
 most scrupulous fidelity ; he held his hat in one 
 hand, and seemed to be holding it out towards his 
 pupils ; in the other was a paper, on which might be 
 read, in very small, yet clear characters, "List of sub- 
 scriptions," and below, "for mending the holes, if you 
 please" 
 
 This caricature was not even witty; it was no- 
 thing, in fact, but unmitigated naughtiness. It was 
 passed on to Eugene, and he was about to tear it 
 into a hundred pieces, in excessive disgust and in- 
 dignation, when a hand suddenly arrested him. It 
 was M. Kociuleszinska himself. 
 
 " Who did that ? " he inquired. He was very 
 pale, but calm. 
 
 "I did not do it, sir, indeed," said Eugene, 
 earnestly. 
 
 " I believe you," said the Pole, when he had 
 looked at him attentively. " He who has had the 
 baseness to do it, can surely scarcely be so cowardly 
 as to let the blame fall upon the innocent ! " 
 
 Nobody spoke. Arthur felt a weight upon his 
 heart, but succeeded in schooling his countenance. 
 
 " There is one amongst you, gentlemen, whom I 
 deliver up to the tribunal of his own conscience," 
 continued the professor. " I have known unhappi- 
 ness many times during my life, but I rarely have
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 283 
 
 felt it so cruelly as when my eyes fell upon this un- 
 worthy production. It is a weakness, I own ; for I 
 certainly am neither better nor worse for having 
 been obliged to accept charity at a time when it was 
 utterly impossible for me to work. On him only the 
 contempt really falls, who takes advantage of such a 
 necessity to insult me ! " 
 
 There was a kind of solemnity in the tone, induced 
 by the strong emotion which he felt. The boys 
 were struck with consternation. The remainder of 
 the lesson passed in complete silence ; and when it 
 was over, the boys rose and took leave of their pro- 
 fessor in a much more reverential manner than they 
 were accustomed to exhibit. 
 
 In the evening, M. Bertin sent for Arthur into 
 his study. His manner was cold and severe. 
 
 " Are you the author of this infamous production?" 
 said he, sternly, pointing to the caricature, which 
 lay upon the table. 
 
 Arthur held down his head ; for the first time in 
 his whole life he felt ashamed of himself. 
 
 " I have nothing more to say to you, sir! If your 
 heart does not make itself heard, I should try in 
 vain to convince you of the cowardly wickedness of 
 such an action. Here are the ten francs you gave 
 as your subscription ; take them back ; you are not 
 worthy of the honour of assisting the unfortunate !" 
 
 Arthur dared not refuse to take it ; but it seemed 
 as if the gold coin would burn his hand. He richly 
 deserved the humiliation.
 
 284 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 " One instant !" said M. Bertin as he went out. 
 " M. Kociuleszinska does not know that you are the 
 author of this caricature. I shall not betray you ; 
 and I do not suppose that your companions will do 
 so either." 
 
 Arthur's hand was on the handle of the door ; he 
 hesitated a moment, then turned round and exclaimed 
 passionately : 
 
 " I heartily wish I had never come !" 
 
 " Poor child !" said M. Bertin in a tone so dif- 
 ferent from that in which he had last spoken, that 
 Arthur was as it were transfixed. 
 
 He was half inclined to return, confess his fault 
 and his penitence, and implore forgiveness, and aid, 
 to overcome his evil disposition ; but pride restrained 
 him. He went out and shut the door behind him. 
 
 Eight days passed by. Arthur had spent the 
 time in great trouble of mind, which he did his best 
 to conceal from others, and to dissimulate, if it were 
 possible, from himself. It was a violent death- 
 struggle between pride and repentance. 
 
 The day for the drawing-lesson had returned, the 
 dreaded hour arrived, but M. Kociuleszinska did not 
 make his appearance. 
 
 At last, the bell. Yes, it is he ; he enters the 
 class-room. He was pale, much . paler than usual ; 
 his movements were constrained, and his lips 
 trembled in spite of all his efforts to appear calm. 
 He passed along the ranks, distributed copies, and 
 tried to give directions to his pupils.
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 285 
 
 Arthur rose, walked to the further end of the 
 class-room, and stopped short before his master. 
 
 " Sir," said he, in a low but firm voice, " it was I 
 who drew that caricature the other day. I am 
 ashamed of it now. I dare not ask your forgive- 
 ness ; but, at any rate, I do not wish you to suspect 
 any of my companions." 
 
 A tremor passed through the class. 
 
 " That is well done !" said some of the boys. 
 Others seemed altogether astonished at such an un- 
 expected exhibition of courage and candour. 
 
 " An avowal like this makes amends for your fault," 
 replied M. Kociuleszinska, as he embraced the 
 boy. Arthur returned to his place without raising 
 his eyes ; but his cheeks glowed with generous 
 emotions. 
 
 " And Arthur did that ?" exclaimed Sara, when 
 they told her of it. " Well done, well done, indeed ! 
 It must have cost him a great deal. I love him now 
 with all my heart. I detested him before. What do 
 you say, uncle, are you not pleased with him ?" 
 
 " Yes ; and I hope that this first act of true moral 
 courage, is the sign of an awakening conscience, 
 which may give an entirely different direction to his 
 whole life. Nobly to acknowledge a fault is some- 
 times much more beautiful than never to commit 
 one."
 
 286 
 
 CHAPTER XXYII. 
 
 GOOD INFLUENCE. 
 
 SPRING had given place to summer. Were it not for 
 the passionate ardour with which the children pur- 
 sued their studies, they would have bemoaned the 
 sadness of the seasons, which had hitherto been dis- 
 tinguished by the varied pleasures which they 
 brought in their train. Robert, who was not pos- 
 sessed, as were the others, 'with the spirit of labour, 
 often sighed when he thought of the White House, 
 the orchard and the stream, the refreshing murmur 
 of which seemed, as his thoughts visited it, to be 
 distinctly audible : he sometimes altogether forgot 
 his lessons for several minutes in succession, so deeply 
 had he plunged into the hay-cocks which must be 
 now sweetly scenting the meadows. At the White 
 House, too, the months were counted, then the weeks, 
 then the days. M. Herve had fixed to go to Paris 
 at the beginning of August, that he might be present 
 at the distribution of the prizes, and be ready to 
 take charge of the young Lyceens, and of Sara who 
 was invited to take her first look of the real country, 
 the wild uncultivated country. Her uncle threatened
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 287 
 
 indeed to come and bring her back in a very few days ; 
 for he said he could do nothing worth doing without 
 her. The White House was to be a general rendez- 
 vous, for Madame Lambert had promised to be there 
 on her brother's return with the young collegians, 
 and to spend a portion of the vacation with them in 
 the country. 
 
 But even in Paris summer has its pleasures. The 
 heat was not felt to be oppressive in the old house 
 of the Quartier- Latin ; the great chestnut trees and 
 high walls surrounding the garden nicely inter- 
 cepted the rays of the sun, so that the shade which, 
 was gloomy and disagreeable in winter, was now 
 quite an advantage. 
 
 When Jerome and Eugene got up, and putting 
 their heads out of the window in the early morning, 
 watched the purple line of light which preceded the 
 rising of the sun in the horizon when they heard 
 the birds sing joyously amongst the leafy branches, 
 and felt the fresh breezes of awakening day, they 
 certainly felt no doubt whatever as to summer being 
 preferable to the dismal winter, whose rigours 
 they had so resolutely braved. It was now the last 
 week in July ; Jerome's name was on the list of 
 competitors in Latin prose, history, and Greek 
 translation. Eugene's name stood only for history. 
 He had been for some time past feeling very agi- 
 tated and uncomfortable ; it was so difficult to 
 substitute, with entire good will, the desire to do 
 right for that of securing, as he so easily might
 
 288 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 have done, the applause of others. The very idea 
 of being thrown into the shade by his cousin, to 
 whose advancement he had certainly contributed in 
 no small degree, occasioned him several violent 
 struggles, the effects of which were felt from time to 
 time by poor Jerome. As to himself, he was much 
 too deeply engrossed with his own idea, to dwell 
 for a moment on Eugene's feelings at being obliged 
 to take the second place; and he comprehended 
 little or nothing of those freaks of temper and 
 strange rebuffs of which he was the victim. Jerome 
 was no physiognomist he was no reader of hearts 
 he never guessed what was not told him. As in 
 science, so in friendship ; it was necessary to explain 
 everything. 
 
 On the evening preceding the important day, 
 Eugene paced the garden walks alone. Some of the 
 boys who had nothing to hope, as well as a few of 
 the very youngest, were already gone. M. Herve 
 was expected shortly. Eugene was less anxious to 
 see his papa than he could have believed possible. 
 He walked backwards and forwards along the most' 
 retired paths, agitated by sad and troubled thoughts. 
 
 " If Jerome had at least been grateful for the sacri- 
 fice I have made, or if I had renounced in his favour 
 prizes which I myself merited, it would have been 
 different ; but now he has them, and I have the 
 humiliation. It is true, he deserves them ; no one else 
 could have worked so indefatigably as he has done, 
 but he would not be where he is, if I had not helped
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 289 
 
 him at the commencement, to set in order the chaos 
 in which all his ideas were scattered. And all those 
 hours I spent in explaining the rules about the par- 
 ticiples, and the elements of geometry, could 1 not 
 have employed them very usefully in my own affairs ? 
 And now, who thanks me for my pains? The pro- 
 fessors are vexed with me, my companions have a 
 poor opinion of me, and my parents will most likely 
 be both grieved and disappointed! If it were to 
 come over again, I would act differently." 
 
 "What are you about there, all alone, Eugene?" 
 enquired Sara, who came suddenly upon him. " You 
 are looking as black as a thunder-cloud !" 
 
 "I am thinking," replied Eugene, "and one's 
 thoughts are not always merry ones. Here I am 
 about to return home, with one prize ; that is not 
 very pleasant." 
 
 " Oh, that is all !" said Sara. 
 
 " You may think nothing of it, but I should have 
 liked to give my mother pleasure." 
 
 "Pleasure! and won't she be pleased when she 
 sees you well and happy, and when she reads in your 
 eyes that you have done your duty ?" 
 
 " But they may think I have been idle, they may 
 blame me !" 
 
 " Eugene, you think far too much of what people 
 think about you. You have done your duty ; you 
 ought to leave the rest. Your father and mother 
 will not be deceived, and as to anyone else, what 
 does it matter ?" 
 
 u
 
 290 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 "You have always given me good advice, Sara," 
 said the boy, after a moment's reflection. " Thank 
 you! you are right. I do think too much of the 
 opinion of others. I must learn to be contented with 
 the approbation of my own conscience, and of God. 
 But do you not think it will be very hard if my 
 parents seem grieved?" 
 
 " Yes, certainly ; and yet, even then, I think you 
 ought to keep your secret." 
 
 " I think so, too ; for I am sure if the desire to be 
 praised for what I have done enters my mind, it will 
 spoil everything. But shall I tell you what troubles 
 me most, Sara ? It is, that Jerome never seems to 
 have an idea that I have made any sacrifice for him. 
 He never says a word about it, and when he sees me 
 sad, he never tries to encourage me at all. I don't 
 think it has ever entered his head, that the time I 
 have devoted to him this winter might have been 
 spent in my own studies. I am sure I do not know 
 myself what I might otherwise have done. It is 
 very certain, that it has not been altogether thrown 
 away, for what I have explained to him is so. 
 thoroughly impressed upon my own mind, that I 
 shall never forget it. We have almost gone over all 
 the studies of the fifth division in preparing for our 
 fourth. It will not be labour lost, but my lessons 
 this year have been much less carefully prepared, 
 than if I had had nothing else to do ; and it is by 
 that they judge us, and not by any hidden stores of 
 learning that may have been acquired."
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 291 
 
 "But how has Jerome managed to get before 
 you?" asked Sara. 
 
 " When Jerome once gets started, he studies most 
 resolutely. Nothing is too difficult in the long run 
 for his patient toil. But he would have floundered 
 about amidst insurmountable difficulties, if no one 
 had helped him ; for his first ideas were not clear 
 enough to enable him to make any solid progress. 
 It was, therefore, necessary that he should go over 
 all the groundwork again. Whatever he does know 
 seems to be perpetually present to his mind. If he 
 has thoroughly understood a rule, he never forgets 
 to apply it." 
 
 " He is a happy fellow indeed," said Sara. 
 
 " And now, Sara, you know all," continued 
 Eugene. " I am glad to think there is at least one 
 person in the world who does not think worse of me 
 than I deserve." 
 
 "Always the same, quite incorrigible !" exclaimed 
 Sara, laughing. " All I can promise you is, that 
 your secret shall be well kept. I do not promise even 
 to remember it myself." 
 
 M. Herve arrived a few hours after this conversa- 
 tion had taken place. He found his sons much 
 developed in every way, and Jerome greatly improved 
 in appearance, inasmuch as he was taller and thinner. 
 He announced his intention of setting off as soon as 
 the distribution of prizes had taken place, and said 
 that there was an almost equal degree of impatience 
 felt, as to the result, by the inhabitants of the White
 
 292 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 House as by the heroes themselves. Eugene blushed 
 as he listened to his father's words ; he stifled a sigh 
 ready to betray his uneasiness, and relapsed into 
 those mournful thoughts which had been suspended 
 for a little moment by the pleasure of meeting. 
 
 M. Herve scarcely had a moment with his children 
 alone that day. He remained with M. Bertin in his 
 study until a late hour, and only arrived from his 
 hotel the next morning at the moment they had to 
 start for the Lycee ; but when he embraced the three 
 boys, he seemed so happy, that it was almost as if he 
 had said, 
 
 " I am quite satisfied with you, my children. I 
 have heard a very good account of all of you." 
 
 As they crossed the great court, Sara approached 
 Eugene, and whispered, 
 
 " Eugene, you might have been guilty of a crime, 
 you look so miserable ! I cannot understand you." 
 
 "It is easy enough to understand that I should 
 rather take back some prizes to my mother than go 
 to her empty-handed," replied Eugene, bitterly. 
 
 " Think. of Jerome : think what happiness it will 
 be for you to be able to say, it is to you, in great 
 measure, that he owes his success." 
 
 " Yes, indeed ; and it never enters his head. It is 
 fine pleasure, indeed, to sacrifice yourself for people 
 who are all-unconscious of the fact." 
 
 "I want to tell you something, Eugene," said 
 Sara, very seriously. " The sacrifices that we make 
 for those we love are only of worth whilst they are
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 293 
 
 unsuspected. If we were rewarded by their gratitude, 
 where would be the sacrifice ? "We should gain more 
 than we should lose." 
 
 Eugene seemed to be struck with this idea ; it had 
 never occurred to him before. 
 
 " That is true ! I understand it now. Oh, Sara, 
 I wish you would always help me to struggle against 
 my pride. My mother was right in saying it was 
 my worst enemy. It is not difficult to do right when 
 everybody approves of and praises you, but when no 
 one does, it is very difficult." 
 
 " No one ! And God, who knows everything," 
 replied Sara. " If you knew how often I have been 
 made miserable by people praising me for actions 
 which proceeded from unworthy motives, and which 
 must have been displeasing to God, people who could 
 not see my heart. Nothing is so humiliating as that." 
 
 " What gives me the most pain is that I am sure 
 papa expects great things of me, and at home they 
 are all fancying that I shall return laden with books 
 and laurels. It will be a real sorrow for them. Cle- 
 mence will be very angry with me, for she thinks a 
 great deal of maintaining the honour of the fa- 
 mily, and she quite reckoned upon me to uphold it 
 at the Lycee. Oh, Sara, I wish Clemence was like 
 you." 
 
 " I don't suppose she would feel much flattered by 
 your wish," said the young lady, laughing. " Well, 
 you are yourself again, Eugene, so I will leave you 
 to go to your father, who seems very much astonished
 
 294 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 at our long conversation. When Jerome is called 
 up, we will rejoice with him, will we not ? " 
 
 " Yes/' said Eugene, with all his heart, " but I 
 shall be even more glad than you, because he is my 
 cousin almost like a brother to me, in fact." 
 
 " And more especially because you can say to 
 yourself, that his success is in great measure owing 
 to you." 
 
 So they separated ; Eugene with renewed serenity, 
 looking joyous and light-hearted ; Sara happy in see- 
 ing him so.
 
 295 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 THE DISTRIBUTION OF PRIZES. 
 
 IT is certainly a very imposing ceremony, this 
 distribution of prizes. The large hall or court, 
 decorated with laurels, and lighted up to-day by 
 the sun's brilliant rays. The grave and learned 
 figures clustered on the platform, the splendid cos- 
 tumes, the speeches, the fashionably dressed crowd, 
 animated, and becoming very excited by the delay 
 mothers and sisters anxiously wondering whether 
 the names of their sons and brothers will be pro- 
 nounced ; bursts of music, blending continually with 
 thunders of applause : all this made such a vivid 
 impression upon Eugene, that he entirely forgot 
 for the time being, the part he had to play in 
 the ceremony. He had time to recover his conscious- 
 ness, however, whilst the honours were adjudged to 
 the first, second, and third classes. Then came the 
 fourth. 
 
 "First prize for Latin prose, Lambert Jerome," 
 said the voice of the professor. 
 
 Jerome mounted the platform as if in a dream,
 
 296 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 held his head to be crowned, as he would have sub- 
 mitted to the knife of the executioner, received the 
 customary salutation with the books, and descended, 
 the crown still resting on his brow, appearing so 
 embarrassed, and so thoroughly ashamed of his tro- 
 phies that the people quite pitied him. On taking 
 his place again by his cousin's side, he caught Eu- 
 gene's whispered " Take your crown off again," and 
 turned as red as fire at the idea of the ridiculous 
 appearance his awkward timidity had occasioned him 
 to make. 
 
 The next minute was announced, " First prize for 
 Greek translation, Lambert Jerome, une fois cour- 
 ronne." He re-ascended the platform; and this time 
 did not forget to remove his chaplet. 
 
 Eugene was so bewildered by all that passed 
 around him, that it might have been entirely unex- 
 pected. Was he dreaming again, or was it a reality? 
 When at length his own name was called, he scarcely 
 heard it, and his companions were obliged to arouse 
 his slumbering faculties with a nudge, before he had 
 any idea of responding to the call ; but he only once 
 mounted the platform, and Jerome had still three 
 times to bear away the laurels. The cheering re- 
 doubled in intensity each time, and the military 
 music seemed to associate itself with the general 
 enthusiasm. 
 
 Jerome himself seemed rather overcome than in- 
 ebriated by his many honours. 
 
 When all was over, he whispered low to Eugene :
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 297 
 
 " If she had been here, do you think she would 
 have been satisfied with me ?" 
 
 " Oh yes ! " answered his cousin, as he pressed his 
 hand, " she will be both happy and proud too, and 
 so will mamma ; you know how dearly she loves 
 you." 
 
 Eugene had really conquered himself! At this 
 moment he had no other feeling than that of joy at 
 his cousin's success. He was proud of him, and in 
 the most disinterested way possible, for he even 
 forgot that he had played a very important part in 
 securing his triumph. As to Jerome, he had no 
 pride. One feeling absorbed all others, it was a 
 mixture of joy and apprehension, for he had 
 attained the end of his anxious efforts ; he had 
 realized the dreams of the year, but he did not 
 know whether he should be loved ; and it was for 
 affection, not for honour, that his soul had thirsted. 
 
 M. Herve warmly embraced and congratulated his 
 nephew ; he spoke no word of blame to Eugene, but 
 the boy thought he looked surprised and pained at 
 his very small measure of success. He envied Robert, 
 from whom nothing had been expected, and who had, 
 therefore, caused no feeling of disappointment. 
 
 " I had hoped better things of you, Eugene," said 
 M. Bertin, as they returned to the house; "you 
 could have succeeded if you had worked a little 
 harder, for your cousin was much more backward 
 than you at the beginning of the year, and you see 
 how far he has left you behind him."
 
 298 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 Eugene coloured, and his lip trembled. He was 
 about to burst into tears, for he could hardly bear to 
 be accused unjustly, even when he knew it to be 
 altogether involuntary ; but he met Sara's anxious 
 eye fixed upon him, and his courage returned. 
 
 "I do assure you, sir, I have not been idle," 
 replied he, gently. 
 
 " I do not reproach you, my boy, but you must 
 remember another year, that the competition at the 
 Lycee demands more earnest labour tjian you have 
 expended upon it this time." 
 
 M. Herve looked anxiously at Eugene. He could 
 not understand what had wrought the change in one 
 who had formerly been so ambitious, and so capable 
 of persevering effort. The look of intelligence that 
 he had noticed passing between the two children 
 before the ceremony, made him think there must be 
 some mystery, to which he had not the clue. So he 
 resolved to wait patiently until it should either come 
 out in the natural course of events, or until Eugene 
 should himself give the explanation. Surely, ten 
 months' separation, during which constant cor- 
 respondence had been maintained, could not have 
 sufficed to close the child's heart against so watch- 
 ful and tender a parent ! 
 
 The hour of departure arrived. All the prepara- 
 tions were concluded. A table was spread under the 
 large chestnuts for their last repast, on the self- 
 same spot where, ten months before, the new comers 
 had received such dismal impressions, from a com-
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 299 
 
 parison between the withered grass, and leafless trees 
 of the square and formal garden, enclosed with in four 
 high walls, and those beautiful scenes of natural 
 loveliness they had so lately quitted. And now, 
 they loved this poor garden, in which, during those 
 ten months just ended, they had abandoned them- 
 selves to the somewhat boisterous delights of the 
 recreation hour, or to sad memories of their father's 
 house, when attacked, as they sometimes had been, 
 by that worst of all maladies, home -sickness. 
 
 They loved it, and would have left in great 
 sorrow, but for the almost certainty of a speedy 
 return. What calls forth real attachment to a 
 place, is not its beauty, but. rather what we have felt 
 whilst there ; what we have learnt there of life. 
 
 There was, in fact, nothing to make the departure 
 very heart-rending. Sara was of the party, and 
 M. Herve had contrived to obtain a promise that she 
 should spend the entire two months of the vacation 
 at the White House ; her uncle was to come for her, 
 and spend the last fortnight with them. No end of 
 diplomacy had to be put in requisition, before such a 
 sacrifice could be obtained. M. Herve had spoken 
 of Sara's pale cheeks, and of the great advantage she 
 would be likely to derive from exchanging the studies 
 she was pursuing too ardently, for the pleasures and 
 amusements of an active country life, and for the 
 pursuits more especially adapted to her sex and age, 
 into which his young folks at home would soon 
 initiate her. This was all so obviously true, that it
 
 300 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 was impossible to deny it. Sara decidedly wished to 
 go ; she was promising herself great pleasure from 
 this new phase of existence, and her uncle's love for 
 her was not mere selfish love. So he had given his 
 consent to the plan ; yet, not without many expres- 
 sions of regret, half of them serious half in jest. 
 
 " Who is to find me the volume and page I want 
 now?" said he. "Who will find my spectacles, 
 when I have mislaid them ?" 
 
 Sara began to laugh at this. 
 
 "Don't you remember, uncle, that when you 
 thought you had mislaid them, it was ten to one 
 that they were upon your nose?" 
 
 " That is a calumny. They were not there one- 
 half the times! But who is to arrange all my pa- 
 pers? For I would rather throw them into the fire 
 at once, than let Madame Germain touch them. If 
 she once set them in order, there would be small 
 hope of finding anything again. But, above all, 
 who will make my study ring again with merry 
 peals of laughter, and fill it with sunshine, even on 
 wet days?" 
 
 " And who will interrupt you a hundred times, 
 when you are busy reading ? And who will make you 
 keep awake so unmercifully, when you would fain 
 have a nap, instead of talking to her in the evening? 
 And what wicked little personage will hide your open 
 book under the large dictionary, where you never 
 think of seeking for it, if she fancies she would rather 
 take a lesson from her old professor than let him
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 301 
 
 study on his own account, which she knows all the 
 while, he would fain be doing ? Ah, my dear uncle, 
 you must confess that you are about to gain quite as 
 much as you lose." 
 
 " It is very possible ! I will try to take that view 
 of the case, and, at any rate, I hope not to become a 
 complete hermit ere the day arrives for me to join 
 you at St. Real. It is an evil which certainly menaces 
 us old sages," added the Professor, addressing him- 
 self to M. Herve, who had just joined the party. 
 " We are in danger of forgetting, in our search after 
 the lore of the ancients, that life, always young, is 
 circulating as abundantly to-day as in the past. It 
 is certain that the past ought not to triumph over the 
 claims of the present and the future. It is a good 
 thing to be surrounded with young people. They 
 warm the heart and re-kindle the imagination. If 
 grown persons are necessary to children, I believe 
 that children are even more necessary to old gentle- 
 men like me, who would otherwise forget how to live." 
 
 Most of their companions were already gone. 
 Those who remained joined them at the table, under 
 the still green branches of the chestnuts. Everyone 
 had permission to talk that day, so that the repast 
 was both animated and joyful. The perspective of 
 those nine vacation-weeks, that most delightful 
 period of the whole year, not yet commenced, but 
 separated from them now by no frightful obstacle, 
 this enchanting perspective set free the tongues even 
 of the timid and morose.
 
 302 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 | 
 
 Jerome's health was drunk, he being the hero of 
 the little feast, and he bore the trial with better 
 grace and less embarrassment than they could have 
 supposed possible. He blushed a good deal, it is true, 
 but held his glass to those who claimed the honour 
 of touching it with theirs, returned thanks without 
 any redundancy of expression, and what created the 
 most astonishment, was able to swallow down his 
 wine without choking. 
 
 Towards the close of dinner, M. Bertin spoke of 
 Jean Paul. After adverting to the marvellous 
 facility he possessed for the study of languages ; he 
 recounted the sacrifice that he had made with such 
 entire simplicity and unselfishness, and the courage 
 with which he had entered upon and now pursued 
 his scarcely palatable duties. M. Herve listened to 
 the recital with great interest. He had heard of M. 
 Hermann's decease, and of his son's return, but was 
 unacquainted with any of the circumstances of the 
 case. 
 
 " And what sort of prospects do you suppose the 
 young man has now?" asked H. Herve, when he had 
 expressed his admiration of the lad's noble conduct. 
 
 " None at all ! I see nothing before him but the 
 constant repetition of the daily round of duties in 
 this fatiguing and badly-remunerated calling. His 
 university education is so incomplete, that he cannot 
 take any position, notwithstanding his acquirements ; 
 and really in his present station, these are more of 
 an incumbrance than anything else, instead of being
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 303 
 
 a treasure -whence lie might draw continually fresh 
 stores for the world's benefit. I am certain he now 
 expends a great deal of labour in the preparation of 
 the most simple of his lessons." 
 
 "It is mournful, indeed, to think that he who 
 might have had such a brilliant career, will now do 
 nothing of any account," said M. Prosper. 
 
 " And is it nothing to have nobly done his duty ! 
 Is he not rather to be envied than pitied?" exclaimed 
 Sara, drawn on by an irresistible enthusiasm. 
 
 " True !" replied M. Bertin. " We are wrong to 
 speak of wasted talents, and a useless life. In the 
 sight of God, his career will be more noble than 
 the most brilliant or the most useful could ever 
 be in the eyes of men. I believe that hidden actions 
 of self-sacrifice, similar to that of Jean Paul, are 
 much more frequent than we have any idea of, and 
 that when Grod looks down from Heaven upon our 
 world, He sees a whole army of these unknown 
 labourers, who, having renounced the honour and the 
 glory which come from men only, are bravely toiling 
 in their own humble furrow, seeking their strength 
 solely in the knowledge of His approbation, and in 
 the satisfaction resulting from accomplished duty. 
 They are not themselves aware that they have per- 
 formed anything meritorious ; men despise and reject 
 them, but He who knows them, and has watched the 
 struggle and the sacrifice, does not leave them unre- 
 quited in the secret of their own hearts. It should 
 never be forgotten, that warmth of heart is infinitely
 
 304 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 superior to quickness of intellect, and that he who 
 loves others, whilst he forgets himself, is the greatest 
 before God !" 
 
 Sara looked at Eugene in triumph. He blushed 
 as he remembered the many egotistical regrets which 
 had been silenced with so much difficulty. What 
 was his sacrifice compared with Jean Paul's ; and 
 yet he had not been able to make it joyfully. He 
 was ashamed of himself. 
 
 It was a beautiful summer evening. The day had 
 been intensely hot, and now the cool breeze was felt 
 to be most refreshing. The stars had come out one 
 by one upon the clear blue sky. All were silent ; 
 each one occupied with quiet serious thoughts. So 
 this last day of school- life was concluded as it might 
 have been in the most intimate family circle, and 
 when at length M. Herve gave the signal of 
 departure, and they bade each other adieu, they all 
 rejoiced in being able to add, Au revoir!
 
 305 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 EXPECTATION. 
 
 WHILST the travellers were rapidly approaching St. 
 Heal, the inhabitants of the White House were 
 counting the minutes of the few remaining hours of 
 separation. Madame Herve, whose pale cheeks were 
 now glowing with anticipation, which also imparted 
 to her eyes an unwonted lustre, had planted herself 
 on the terrace, whence might be seen the hilly road 
 stretching away into the distance. Partly reclining in 
 a large easy chair, by her side, was a pale, thin lady, 
 who would scarcely have been recognized as the 
 lively and brilliant Madame Lambert. She was 
 recovering from a serious illness, which had brought 
 her to the very verge of the grave; and she had by no 
 means regained her strength. The conversation of 
 the ladies was interrupted by long pauses, during 
 which some fragments of one carried on between 
 Clemence and Isabelle, as they sat on the grass in the 
 orchard, fell occasionally upon the ear. They were 
 weaving garlands of flowers and evergreens, to sus- 
 pend over the hall door and within the vestibule. 
 
 " When do you think they can be here ?" asked 
 Isabelle.
 
 306 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 " At seven o'clock, I think ; certainly not before. 
 
 " We must make haste, Clemence. I want to have 
 everything pretty to receive them. The tops of our 
 old trees will be gilded with the rays of the sun, and 
 the house will be half in light, half in shadow. 
 With these garlands of flowers, it will be just like 
 fairy-land. Do you think they will be pleased?" 
 
 " No doubt they will. I wish it had never come 
 into papa's head to invite Sara; it spoils all our 
 pleasure." 
 
 " Oh, I should have been so sorry if he had not 
 asked her. I quite long to make her acquaintance. 
 Eugene seems to have been very fond of her for some 
 time past. Mamma said the other day she thought 
 Sara had done him a great deal of good ; and, from 
 the way in which she spoke, I think she must be a 
 good-hearted generous girl. I hope she will not 
 think me too little for her to notice. Don't you 
 think, Clemence, she will find us very ignorant ; she 
 is so clever herself? " 
 
 " It is just that which makes me afraid of knowing 
 her," replied Clemence. " I don't think a girl has 
 any business with Greek and Latin ; she is sure to 
 be either insufferably pedantic or just like a boy. I 
 will be polite towards her, because we ought to be 
 polite to all our guests, but I know I shall not like 
 her." 
 
 " Well, it does not much matter to me what she 
 is ; I am going to see Eugene and Robert again ! my 
 Bobert ! and poor Jerome, too. I like him, don't 
 you, Clemence P"
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 307 
 
 " Yes, certainly," replied her sister. " I am afraid 
 lie has been sadly vexed, poor fellow. He seems to 
 nave worked very hard, but no doubt Eugene has 
 run away with all the prizes. I am sorry for him." 
 
 " And so am I ! It must be so disappointing to 
 have taken so much trouble for nothing." 
 
 " Take care, Isabelle ! You are putting too much 
 heather in that garland ; there will not be enough 
 left for the others." 
 
 " There is plenty upon the hills ; there is no need 
 to be careful about a little heather." 
 
 " Yes ; but we shall not have time to go and fetch 
 it; everything must be ready before we go up to 
 dress, and I have to arrange the table." 
 
 " Not time ! Oh how delightful to think we shall 
 not have time. Now I begin to believe they are 
 really coming. See, Nicolas is going down the hill 
 with the carriage. How happy he is too ! You may 
 know by the way in which he smacks his whip. 
 Clemence, suppose we put some flowers on the table. 
 Don't you think it is a good idea ? " 
 
 " Yes, garden flowers. You may gather them if 
 you like whilst I finish the wreaths, but be careful 
 not to gather too many of those before the house 
 choose a flower here and there those that are not 
 much seen and not quite fully blown ; a little green 
 will be wanted too. If you bring them all to me, I 
 will arrange the bouquets. Be sure not to gather too 
 many red and yellow flowers, only just a few to 
 relieve the softer colours."
 
 308 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 Isabella set off on her mission, singing and jump- 
 ing for very joy. 
 
 The ladies had been talking, too, upon the terrace 
 above of the expected arrivals. 
 
 Madame Lambert remarked 
 
 " You may be right, sister, and this poor Jerome" 
 why in the world did everyone persist in tackingpoor 
 on to the lad's name ! "may have more heart than I 
 have given him credit for ; and yet his letters this 
 winter have strengthened my impression. You 
 would scarcely believe, that when his papa wrote to 
 inform him of my serious illness, he made but little 
 remark that evinced his feeling." 
 
 " He is timid, and afraid of exposing the treasured 
 feelings of his heart," replied Madame Herve. 
 "Natures of this kind need drawing out, and 
 encouraging ; the very circumstance of their 
 being believed in, inspires them with confidence in 
 themselves. If you will permit me to give you a 
 hint, my dear sister, I would beseech you to try this 
 method ; you will find that your, impressions of 
 Jerome will soon be materially influenced." 
 
 " He is of an age at which the heart's best affec- 
 tions usually develop themselves," pursued Madame 
 Lambert, who shrunk from avowing, even to herself, 
 that this development might have taken place much 
 earlier had she encouraged it ; " but, as regards his 
 intellect, he will always be dull and heavy. The 
 poor boy will never be able to accomplish what to 
 others is mere play- work, without great effort ; and
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 309 
 
 as he unfortunately is not fond of trouble, we can 
 only hope he may get through his studies respectably. 
 His master has given him a very good character all 
 the year. No doubt he has done his best, and we 
 ought not to expect more than that, so I am deter- 
 mined never to reproach him. As to you, sister, 
 your pride will be fully satisfied, your Eugene will 
 bring you a whole harvest of laurels." 
 
 , " Gfod grant that he may not bring me more pride, 
 than merit," thought Madame Herve, who felt no 
 doubt, either, that Eugene had terminated the year 
 most brilliantly. 
 
 The day seemed longer to the two mothers, who 
 waited, and could not wile away the hour in work, 
 than it did to the young ladies who, with all their 
 activity, could barely manage to complete their pre- 
 parations. 
 
 When the sun began to dart his rays obliquely 
 from the verge of the horizon, Clemence was climb- 
 ing up a ladder to suspend the garlands in graceful 
 festoons over the entrance. The hall was adorned 
 already, and the drawing room full of flowers accord- 
 ing to custom. The dining-room table, which was 
 covered with a clean white cloth, was ornamented by 
 two magnificent bouquets carefully arranged by Cle- 
 mence. There were, too, some large cakes, such as 
 Robert and Eugene had never seen since they left 
 the White House. Everything wore a holiday as- 
 pect, ravishing to the eyes ; even inanimate objects 
 seemed to be associated with the joy of every 
 heart.
 
 310 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 Clemence, extremely well-satisfied with her handi- 
 work, then went up with Isabelle to dress. She wished 
 to preside over her sister's toilette, and put the poor 
 girl's patience for she had but small possessions in 
 that line to cruel proof. 
 
 "Clemence, oh Clemence, won't you soon have 
 done ? Don't you see the sun is going to set ? They 
 will be here before I have my frock on ! Well, I 
 don't mind. You can't prevent my running to wel- 
 come them. What does it matter if one curl 
 does hang lower than the other ! There they are ! 
 I hear a carriage. Oh, Clemence, you torture me ! " 
 
 And Isabelle, tearing away from her sister, ran to 
 the window ! It was no carriage at all only a heavy 
 waggon belonging to the farm. She returned, there- 
 fore, to her imperturbable sister, who said quietly 
 
 " If you go on so, you will certainly succeed in 
 not being ready." 
 
 Diana seemed also to participate in the state of 
 general expectancy; perhaps she was aware that the 
 people of the house were not conducting themselves 
 in their usual manner. At any rate, instead of re- 
 maining quietly in the corner, darting upon the poor 
 flies as they came in her way, watching the passing 
 clouds, or shutting her eyes upon all things visible, 
 she rushed backwards and forwards, sometimes ap- 
 pearing in quest of something that could not be found, 
 then again uttering a short quick bark, by way of 
 question to those around, who, alas ! not being ac- 
 quainted with her language, were unable to utter one
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 311 
 
 word that might be effectual in calming the agita- 
 tions to which her mind was evidently a prey. 
 
 The two little girls having made their toilet, re- 
 appeared in clean muslin frocks. 
 
 Clemence, with her smooth glossy hair and the beau- 
 tiful white hands of which Eugene had spoken to Sara, 
 whilst Isabelle's sunny beaming face was surrounded 
 with a halo of clustering golden curls. The child 
 ran up to Diana, who placed one paw on each of hei 
 shoulders, according to her favorite custom. 
 
 " Down, Diana, down ! " exclaimed Clemence, who 
 was indignant at such an ill-timed exhibition of ten- 
 derness. " How can you let the creature make your 
 frock so untidy, Isabelle ? " 
 
 " I never refuse caresses," replied the little 
 girl, as she took Diana's beautiful head between her 
 hands, and pressed it against her. "But what 
 can be the matter ? She is all in a tremble, 
 from head to foot : she expects them evidently. 
 Oh, Diana, if you could but speak, how much 
 you would have to tell us ; you love them dearly, 
 too, don't you ?" 
 
 The next moment, and Diana tore herself impul- 
 sively from the embrace of her young mistress, and 
 rushed like an arrow towards the door leading into 
 the court, whence she gained the road. A few 
 seconds and she was out of sight. 
 
 " She must have scented them in the distance," 
 said Clemence. " I am sure they are coming !" 
 
 " They are here, they are here !" cried Isabelle,
 
 312 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 opening the drawing-room door, her mamma and 
 aunt having left the terrace at sunset. 
 
 When Madame Herve reached the door, the carriage 
 was already in the court, and two great boys sprang 
 out into their mother's arms even before it stopped. 
 For a moment there was a scene of strange confusion : 
 kisses, laughter, tears, exclamations, caresses, many 
 of which were lavished upon Diana who seemed 
 wild with joy; words all unconnected, questions 
 which nobody waited to have answered, answers 
 which did not in the least refer to the questions pro- 
 posed. Jer6me, who had stood a little in the back 
 ground, now came forward to embrace his aunt. He 
 looked round for some one he had evidently ex- 
 pected to see, and seemed more moved than joyful. 
 
 " Your mother is in the drawing-room, my dear 
 boy," said his aunt ; " she is too weak still to be able 
 to stand about, but is all impatience to embrace 
 you." 
 
 She tried to push him towards the drawing-room 
 door ; but he hung back as if afraid to enter, and 
 took refuge behind his aunt whilst she cordially 
 welcomed Sara, whose turn was now come. Cle- 
 mence shook hands with her in a way that formed 
 a decided contrast to her mother's warm-hearted 
 kiss.
 
 313 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 ALL FOR THE BEST. 
 
 JEROME went up to his mother timidly, and when 
 she opened her arms, he did not dare to rush into 
 them as he had so often panted to be allowed to do. 
 So he kissed her rather coldly, and rather repressed 
 the show of affection she was prepared to make ; he 
 then left the room, according to an ancient custom of 
 his, as if his place was anywhere but in the family 
 circle. The other children grouped themselves 
 round the two mothers, and in the midst of anec- 
 dotes of school-life, caresses, and bursts of joy, no 
 one noticed Jerome's absence, particularly as he did 
 not very often take a prominent part in conversation. 
 M. Herve now entered ; he had staid behind to give 
 some necessary orders. Approaching his sister, 
 whom he had not yet seen since his return, he 
 said : 
 
 " I bring you back a laureate. Your boy returns 
 laden with crowns and college-honours. He has had 
 four prizes, and has borne the trial with a modesty, 
 which could scarcely be surpassed." 
 
 " You are speaking of Eugene, I suppose," replied
 
 314 THE WHITE HOSE. 
 
 Madame Lambert. " I quite expected it. I had 
 foretold it all to his mamma. Come here, my dear, 
 and let me congratulate you on your brilliant 
 success." 
 
 " But I was not speaking of Eugene," replied M. 
 Herve ; " even had he merited it, I should certainly 
 not have spoken of him thus in his presence. It is 
 Jerome who is the hero of the day. Has no one 
 told you, then, that he was the first boy of his 
 class?" 
 
 " Jerome !" exclaimed Madame Lambert in great 
 astonishment; "can it be possible?" 
 
 " It is, indeed ; and his success has been gained by 
 studies, which could only have been mastered by such 
 dogged perseverance and strength of will, that his 
 masters all agree in saying they have reflected 
 equal honour on his character and on his abilities. 
 He has really played the part of a little hero ! 
 struggling with energy against every disadvantage, 
 gaining ground day by day, and not allowing any 
 difficulty to discourage him. M. Bertin says he has 
 never before seen a boy make such surprising and 
 continued progress in one year. There have been 
 boys who made desperate efforts, it is true ; but they 
 often lost as much ground by negligence, after an 
 achievement, as they had gained by study ill-sus- 
 tained. 
 
 " Je'ro'me is the very first whom he has seen 
 advance, first slowly, but surely, then faster and 
 faster, passing from the last place to the first, through
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 315 
 
 all the intermediate stages. The boy has given us a 
 specimen, during this year, of what he can do ; and 
 an earnest of what he may become." 
 
 Madame Lambert could not overcome her astonish- 
 ment. 
 
 " But is it really of Jerome you are speaking, 
 of the child of whom I expected nothing ?" 
 
 " I expected great things of him, and yet not so 
 much as this," said the sweet voice of Madame Herve. 
 " He is very young to give proof of such strength of 
 character. Why is he not here, dear fellQW, that we 
 may embrace him, and tell him of all the joy he has 
 given us ?" 
 
 " He never is present when it is a question of 
 praise," said Robert laughing ; " but, on the con- 
 trary, he has more than once been at hand very 
 conveniently, to receive reproofs and punishments 
 that others have deserved." 
 
 " I see he is still the same unfortunate fellow he 
 ever was," said his mother, smiling. " But what 
 can have inspired Jerome, who used to be so 
 idle, with this intense love of study? I cannot 
 understand it. It seems perfectly inexplicable." 
 
 " Oh, aunt," cried Eugene, "it is all for you that 
 he has done it ! " 
 
 " For me ! What do you mean ?" 
 
 Eugene stopped and blushed painfully. He was 
 obliged to explain himself, however, and stammered 
 out in considerable trepidation : 
 
 " He wished he had such a great desire he did 
 it all that you might love him, aunt ! "
 
 316 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 A profound silence followed these words. Eugene 
 had spoken them involuntarily, and without reflec- 
 tion, and was afraid he had done wrong. Madame 
 Lambert seemed both affected and embarrassed, but 
 soon recovered herself, and added : 
 
 " And you, Eugene ! surely you have some 
 prizes, too, my boy. Jer6me's unexpected triumphs 
 must not make us overlook yours." 
 
 Eugene hung down his head, and replied almost 
 inaudibly, that he had scarcely gained anything. 
 
 " Eugene has only one prize," said M. Herve ; 
 " nothing very brilliant." 
 
 " Oh, Eugene ! " exclaimed Clemence reproach- 
 
 " And we thought he would have won them all," 
 cried little Isabelle. " I am very glad that Jerome 
 has some ; and yet all my pleasure is spoiled. I 
 wish they had both been equal." 
 
 " That was impossible, Isabelle," said Clemence, 
 " because they were in the same class." 
 
 " I know that," replied the child; "but it does 
 not prevent my wishing it." 
 
 Madame Herve looked tenderly, but rather sadly, 
 on her boy. 
 
 " He will do better another year," said she, pass- 
 ing her arm around him ; "he knows now, from his 
 cousin's example, that if anyone wants to succeed 
 he must work. We won't be discouraged. I am 
 sure this year has not been a lost one." 
 
 " Mamma," whispered Eugene, with a look so
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 317 
 
 frank and open, that it was impossible to doubt the 
 perfect veracity of his words, " I do assure you I 
 have worked well ; and it is not my fault that I have 
 not succeeded better." 
 
 " Very well, my child, I believe you ; and this 
 assurance enables me to rejoice unhesitatingly in 
 Jerome's victory, for he is also a little bit my boy ! 
 But where can he be ? It is strange that he should 
 have disappeared at the moment he must have known 
 we were wanting to embrace him." 
 
 " I will go and fetch him," said Isabelle. " I can 
 find him well enough, even if he is hiding in the 
 attic or in the cellar." 
 
 "Tell him we are going to sit down to table. 
 Travellers are hungry people; we must not wait any 
 longer." 
 
 " What flowers ! what cakes ! " exclaimed M. 
 Herve, as he seated himself at the table so care- 
 fully decorated by Clemence and Isabelle. "This 
 is indeed a feast ! What is your opinion, Miss Sara ? 
 My little girls know how to make use of the garden, do 
 they not ? All that you see before you is grown by us or 
 made in the house, the flowers, the sweet honey, the 
 beautiful fruit, the butter, cream, and cakes. I shall 
 have pleasure in showing you over the fields and 
 village to-morrow, as you are so very fond of the 
 country." "You can scarcely imagine," he continued, 
 addressing the ladies, " what ecstasies this little 
 Parisienne went into during 'the journey. A flock 
 of sheep scattered over the meadow, a cluster of
 
 318 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 trees, a hill, a flower by the road-side everything 
 delighted her. I am curious to know how she will 
 bear the strong emotions which the view of our woods 
 and mountains will occasion her." 
 
 " You must not say too much of them beforehand, 
 or she may be disappointed," observed Madame 
 Herve. 
 
 " Oh no, never ! " cried Sara, " do I not already 
 know this country is a little paradise ? Oh, Eugene, 
 I have no longer'any wish to close my eyes and look 
 within. However can any one have the courage to 
 go and shut themselves up in the city, when they 
 live in such a delicious corner of the world ? " 
 
 Robert and Eugene clapped their hands with 
 glee. 
 
 " That's something like talking," said they. 
 " Sara, you are worthy to be a guest at St. 
 Re'al!" 
 
 At this moment the door opened, and Isabelle 
 appeared, holding Jerome's hand. He was quite red 
 and out of breath, she had made him run so fast. 
 
 " I was sure I could find him," she cried ; " but I 
 had some trouble to do it. Guess where he was ? 
 Why, in his old room, quite alone ; his head was 
 buried on the pillow as if he felt ashamed [of himself, 
 instead of being proud of carrying off so many prizes. 
 But, however, here he is he did not want to come, 
 although I told him the table was covered with 
 cakes."
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 319 
 
 Madame Lambert had risen ; she went hastily to 
 Jerome and folded him to her heart. 
 
 " Your papa will be so pleased," said she. Jerome 
 raised his eyes as if this were not just what he ex- 
 pected. He seemed to say, " And you, mamma ? " 
 
 She clasped him again fondly, and, answering the 
 look, added, " and I am very happy." 
 
 Jerome blushed, then turned pale, but dared not 
 reply. His aunt and cousins pressed around to con- 
 gratulate him. 
 
 "Dear boy, your success* has given me as much 
 pleasure as if you were my own son," said Madame 
 Herve. " God has blessed your effort ; may He now 
 graciously bless your joy, and mingle it with humility 
 and thankfulness." 
 
 "Ah, but you must not only congratulate me, 
 aunt," said Jerome, trying to control his voice which 
 trembled with emotion. "You must congratulate 
 Eugene too. If it had not been for him, I should have 
 been still at the bottom of the class. It was he who 
 helped me, encouraged me, and sacrificed his hours 
 of study to me ; if it had not been for that, he would 
 certainly have won every prize." 
 
 M. and Madame Herve exchanged glances. This, 
 then, was the cause of Eugene's failure ; and he had 
 kept his secret ! He had endured the pain of being 
 misunderstood, perhaps even of being unjustly 
 blamed, rather than diminish in any way the 
 lustre of his cousin's triumph ! To those who knew 
 him intimately, it seemed a most heroic sacrifice.
 
 320 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 His parents' hearts were filled with far purer joy 
 than they would have been, had all the crowns of 
 the world been heaped upon their child. 
 
 Sara was perfectly happy, for her friends were so. 
 Eugene had acted nobly, and Jerome had followed 
 in his track ; both had proved themselves worthy of 
 the friendship she entertained for them, and her 
 heart beat right joyously, and her eyes glistened like 
 the very stars for brightness : her countenance at that 
 moment was lighted up by the generous feelings 
 that animated her. 
 
 It was a happy evening for the group that filled 
 the drawing-room at the White House. 
 
 The fatigues of the day did not permit of its being 
 greatly prolonged, however ; although there were a 
 few dissentient voices, when the question of separa- 
 tion was mooted. 
 
 " But we are so comfortable here ; and there will 
 be no unmerciful bell to force us from our beds in 
 the morning. Mamma, please do not send us off so 
 very early the first day ! " 
 
 But Madame Herve remarked, that the first day 
 was not the last that they hoped to meet again and 
 continue their interrupted conversation; and that 
 they might, in the meantime, prolong the pleasures 
 of the day by weaving them into the peaceful dreams 
 of the night. 
 
 This last consideration silenced all complaint. 
 M. Herve opened the family Bible and read a psalm ; 
 then knelt down and thanked God from a full heart,
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 321 
 
 that He had so mercifully preserved them all during 
 their first year of separation, and loaded them with 
 blessings. Thanksgivings, even more ardent than 
 those to which he gave expression, arose from his 
 heart to Him who had not only restored his children 
 to their home, but had permitted them to return such 
 as he most desired to see them, equally sincere, sim- 
 ple, and affectionate, yet stronger in spirit and more 
 capable of self-renunciation and sacrifice, than when 
 they left him. 
 
 Whilst Clemence and Isabelle went to introduce 
 Sara to her room, the boys descended to the kitchen 
 to renew acquaintance with the cat, the cook, and in 
 fact, with the whole of that portion of the dwelling, 
 every corner of which had its place in their memory. 
 Nicolas was seated in a corner, apparently pleased to 
 enjoy his well-earned repose. 
 
 " Well, Nicolas, my good friend, and do you re- 
 member us, or are we as frightfully changed for the 
 worse as you seemed to expect when we started for 
 Paris?" 
 
 " Upon my word, I am not very famous for pay- 
 ing compliments, as you know, Master Robert ; but 
 I may Confess that I feel quite myself to-day. This 
 house has seemed deserted these last ten months. It 
 is only to-day I seem to know myself." 
 
 " I am glad to hear you say so, Nicolas. I was 
 afraid you would be only too glad not to have any- 
 body to torment you, to lose your tools, and trample 
 over the flower borders. Now tell me honestly, was
 
 322 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 it not more pleasant, in these respects, to know that 
 I was safe, two or three hundred miles away ? " 
 
 " Well, you may believe it or not, as you like; but 
 I quite missed having anybody to find fault with. I 
 was used to you, and it came quite natural to have to 
 repair the mischief you had done; and poor Miss 
 Isabelle was so dull too, poor little lady ! Ah sir, I 
 wish you would believe me, when I tell you there is 
 not a happier spot on earth than this ; and as God 
 has given you a good nest here, why should you go 
 about seeking another ? " 
 
 " I am as thoroughly convinced as you can be, that 
 there is no place in the world like St. Real that 
 the White House is the most charming and delight- 
 ful of all dwelling-places, and that I love the persons 
 who live in it better than any others upon earth ; 
 and yet I must go away, notwithstanding." 
 
 "Yes, because your papa wishes it. We must 
 suppose he knows what is really best for you; and it 
 is not for me to judge. But still, if I had a voice in 
 the matter, I should say, 'Why go so far to seek 
 what can be found at home?' Life is too short 
 to allow of our spending its best years apart. 
 Would not children learn more if surrounded by the 
 works of the good God, than from the books and 
 fancies of the learned, who cannot even explain how 
 a blade of grass rises from the earth ? " 
 
 "Good night, Nicolas,", said Robert, laughing. "I 
 have no time now to take up the cudgels in defence
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 323 
 
 of these poor literati. I must go to bed ; we will 
 continue the discussion to-morrow." 
 
 " The brave Nicolas is just the same," he exclaimed, 
 whilst he ran up stairs with his brother ; "he talks 
 just as he did last year ; his conversation does not 
 vary much, but it is very pleasant to look upon his 
 kind old face again." 
 
 When Jerome was in bed that evening, the door 
 of his room opened, and Madame Lambert approached 
 with a light step, whilst she shaded the light with 
 her hand, in order that it should not arouse him. 
 She placed it behind the shadow of the curtain, 
 seated herself near the bed, and watched him long. 
 It was easy to see by her expression, that she was 
 absorbed by sweet, yet sad and serious thoughts. 
 
 " Poor child ! " she thought, "he has suffered, and 
 has not found in me the tenderness that I ought 
 to have shown him, and that he richly deserved. 
 I have not been able to understand his character 
 it is my duty to develop and enrich his heart. I 
 have not done it, and yet it would have been a most 
 noble task. May God pardon me that I have failed 
 to accomplish it ! It is a sad, yet a sweet thought, 
 that whilst I treated him with so much severity, he 
 loved me so tenderly; and that this affection has been 
 the occasion of all his efforts and of his astonishing- 
 progress. Yes, but it was not I who directed him 
 and strengthened him in his heroic struggle. I 
 have only done him harm ; his help has come from 
 others. It seemed to me most difficult to love him.
 
 324 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 I thought his nature would not repay culture. How 
 little I knew him ! Ah, in future he shall have a 
 mother, a true mother ! "We will begin, as it were, 
 a new life, and a new relationship. I hope it may 
 be possible to gain his confidence, as I already pos- 
 sess his affection. At any rate, no effort shall be 
 wanting on my part to secure it." 
 
 She arose, bent over him, and gently pressing 
 her lips upon his brow, whispered, "My poor child, 
 may God bless thee ! " 
 
 This kiss, and the kind words by which it was 
 accompanied, awoke Jerome ; he dimly saw a figure 
 bending over him. "Was it his aunt? "Was it ? He 
 dared not hope he dared not believe that the happi- 
 ness he had so often dreamed of had become a reality. 
 And yet it was not his aunt it was that mother so 
 ardently yet so secretly loved, who was really now 
 bending over him with an expression of tenderness 
 on her pale sweet face, such as he had never yet seen 
 there. 
 
 He threw both arms around her neck, and whis- 
 pered 
 
 " Oh, mamma, you do love me, then ! " 
 
 What happy dreams he had that night, and what 
 exquisite joy, when, on awakening in the morning, 
 he clearly recalled to his mind the incidents of the 
 evening. He was so light-hearted, that he scarcely 
 recognised himself; and a change seemed likewise to 
 have passed around him. He could have doubted 
 whether he had ever seen the blue sky, or heard the
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 325 
 
 sweet song of the birds at day-break so much more 
 blue did the heavens now appear, so much more 
 harmonious the notes of the feathered warblers. 
 Could he really be the same Jerome who had arrived 
 at the White House less than a year ago, morose, 
 discouraged, and distrustful of himself ? Certainly, 
 the past year had been to him especially a most 
 eventful and happy one. His uncle, Eugene, and 
 Sara presented themselves, by turn, to his mind as 
 especial objects of his gratitude. Each of them had 
 held out the helping hand, had raised him in his own 
 opinion, had helped him to triumph over his idle- 
 ness, and to vanquish difficulties which had appeared 
 insurmountable. He said nothing, for happiness had 
 not rendered him suddenly expansive ; but, in his 
 heart, he was not ungrateful. 
 
 A crowd of radiant faces assembled round the 
 breakfast table. It is really delicious on the first 
 day of vacation-time, to feel that many such days will 
 follow in its train, one is not in a hurry to exhaust 
 its joys, there is time enough before you; they 
 must be enjoyed one by one. To do nothing, to have 
 no fixed duty, to let the hours run on without count- 
 ing them, is a pleasure of itself sufficiently great. 
 
 Subjects of the most intense interest are not at 
 once entered upon with those just reunited, conver- 
 sation is left to flow easily, divers' topics are dipped 
 into ; it is happiness enough to listen to the voices 
 we love, to recognise familiar gestures, to feel our- 
 selves near each other.
 
 326 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 In this manner the first day was passed. Many 
 projects were made, and none executed, -and when 
 evening arrived, although everyone made a reso- 
 lution to pass the next day more profitably, none 
 regretted that this had been so spent. 
 
 Clemence and Sara, in spite of all fears 'to the 
 contrary, got on very well together, and appeared to 
 like each other. Isabelle had found her Robert, and 
 hung about him like his very shadow. Eugene and 
 Jerome were inseparable, too : so that they had each 
 their own individual happiness to unite with the 
 common stock. 
 
 "We are about to take leave of these happy inmates 
 of the White House. Well, is it not pleasant to 
 know that they are happy ? And may we not hope 
 that we leave them better than we found them ?
 
 327 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 AND AFTERWARDS ? 
 
 AND afterwards ? Such is always the exclamation 
 with which children greet the conclusion of a narra- 
 tive, whether it be longer or shorter, mournful or 
 gay, amusing or serious, at least if it has inspired 
 them with the slightest degree of interest. 
 
 And afterwards ? Perhaps our young readers 
 uttered this question when they reached the end of 
 the preceding chapter. They may not be satisfied to 
 leave our young friends happy ; but are longing to 
 know whether their happiness was continuous, if the 
 harmony reigning amongst them remained undis- 
 turbed, whether the vacation realized all their sunny 
 expectations ; and whether, on returning to Paris, 
 school-life did not appear a little more rugged after 
 their recent experience of the joys of home. Possibly 
 curiosity may even lead still further, and they may 
 enquire what has become of their young friends, 
 what future is opening before them, and whether the 
 promise of their childhood has been realized in 
 maturer age. 
 
 It would be difficult to reply satisfactorily to these
 
 323 THE WHITE HOUSK. 
 
 varied inquiries. The year of which we have re- 
 lated the annals is scarcely closed, and the future is 
 folded as a mysterious scroll, into which neither they 
 nor ourselves can penetrate. 
 
 Let us try, however, if we can lift but a little 
 corner of the veil wHich covers it, not to obtain an 
 answer to the questions, " What will they do ?" or 
 " What will happen to them?" those are God's 
 secrets ; but to this, " What will they become ?" 
 
 " What will they become ?" If it is true that the 
 child is father of the man, this question will not be 
 left entirely unanswered. Oh how much more im- 
 portance would children attach to the years of youth 
 and study, if they could but be persuaded that they 
 enclose the seed that will bear fruit in their future 
 life : with how much more serious effort would they 
 wage war against evil, could they but be convinced 
 of the fact that every victory, and every defeat, 
 will bear a lasting influence upon their life ! Study 
 would appear more useful, labour more precious, 
 could they remember, that, by study and labour, they 
 must acquire the intellectual and moral strength 
 which will be needed alike in the search after, and in 
 the practice of virtue. But these are facts which are 
 only fully understood later in life, when the happy 
 years are gone never to return, and when the 
 memory is too often charged with bitter conscious- 
 ness of their utter waste ! 
 
 Happy, then, a thousand times more happy are 
 those children, who, under the guidance of a firm
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 329 
 
 and tender hand, are accustomed to labour, to effort, 
 and to self-renunciation, before they can comprehend 
 their value ! 
 
 " What will they become ?" Those who love them 
 often ask themselves this question. "Will they go 
 through life without object, and without any high 
 ambition, only dreaming of present enjoyment, 
 utterly forgetful of the fact, that the time which is 
 given us to pass upon this earth is meant for high 
 and holy purposes, and the accomplishment of great 
 duties, that we may conquer ourselves, and serve our 
 neighbour and our Grod ? "Will Robert always re- 
 main careless, instinctively good and loyal, but 
 incapable of sustained effort ? Will the thirst for 
 approbation continue to be the motive of Eugene's 
 every action ? Will Jer6nie always have to do fierce 
 battle against his old enemies, idleness and dis- 
 couragement, although for a little moment he sur- 
 mounted them by the strength of an affection that 
 was stronger than they ? 
 
 Each of us has an enemy in his bosom, akin to 
 his very nature : it is of most essential consequence 
 to be convinced of this, and to declare war against 
 him to the death. He will not be vanquished by one 
 blow ; but his strength will be weakened by every 
 struggle, and eventually from having been the 
 master, he will become the slave. 
 
 Eugene will have to watch against his pride all 
 his life long, and Jerdme against the propensity to 
 self-indulgence.
 
 330 THE WHITE HOUSK. 
 
 But the battle has commenced ; they have already 
 known something of the blessedness of accomplished 
 duty, and self-sacrifice ; and of both it can be said 
 with confidence, 
 
 4 Enfant tu t'es vaincu, tu serns homme un jour. 
 
 And the others ? Jean Paul will follow his 
 humble calling ; he will always love science, but he 
 will love duty better, and will only reserve for the 
 first that to which the second makes no claim. His 
 life will not be a happy one, if this word is under- 
 stood to signify a brilliant career in which his facul- 
 ties would be fully appreciated and developed ; but 
 it will be, if, on the other hand, the word be taken 
 in its more extended sense, his inheritance will be the 
 peace of a good conscience, and the joy of knowing, 
 that his act of self-sacrifice has been smiled upon by 
 his Heavenly Father. Arthur will, no doubt, learn 
 that to be his own aim and centre is not the surest 
 way of securing happiness ; but that a man, or even 
 a child, is valued according to what he is, not 
 according to what he has : and that a life, which is 
 useless to others, is miserably wasted, however bril- 
 liant it may appear to a superficial observer. He, 
 too, has gained one victory ; let us hope it is the 
 earnest of frequently recurring strife, and of repeated 
 triumphs, which will end in the transformation of 
 this vain and selfish child into a man. It is a more 
 slow and difficult process than he supposed it to be 
 on the day when we first met him ; but, perhaps, he 
 begins to comprehend that life has a noble object,
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 331 
 
 and that it is clothed with peculiar beauty for those 
 who regard it seriously. We may reasonably hope 
 that Sara and Clemence have exchanged some of 
 their precious and estimable qualities during the 
 time passed together. Sara may have communicated 
 something of her ardour, her generosity and love of 
 literature, and have received some of the more 
 feminine gifts of her companion, such as order, 
 quietness, method, general capability, and, to specify 
 a little more particularly, the envied talent of shirt- 
 making. ' Knowledge of the Greek language will 
 not be found an insuperable obstacle to the study of 
 needlework, the two things are not absolutely incom- 
 patible. 
 
 Happy will it be for Sara, if, on taking leave of 
 the White House, she can not only read Homer, but 
 braid her glossy hair, and make clothing for the 
 poor. And why not ? True superiority may 
 adorn any sphere, and Sara is too intelligent and 
 noble to be satisfied to be but half a woman. 
 
 And afterwards? is there not another life in 
 which account must be rendered of the manner in 
 which this one has been spent? Can their own 
 strength suffice for their conduct through that 
 narrow pathway which leads above ? No ; they 
 are well aware that their strength is but weakness, 
 that evil is rooted in their very soul, and that 
 there must be another life, a life superior to their 
 own infused into it, to change and purify it. 
 No labour, no effort, no victory gained over self
 
 332 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 will suffice them. It is a great thing to resolve, 
 it is a greater thing to act ; but where are strength 
 and perseverance in what is good to be found in 
 this world, where evil has so much power and 
 attractiveness, if it be not in Him who lived a 
 life of holiness and love, and died a cruel 
 death, in order that we might be partakers of 
 His holiness to all eternity ? Even a child may be 
 a sharer of this divine life. God does not dis- 
 dain to dwell in the youngest heart, and even men 
 must go to him, with childlike humility and trust, 
 before He is willing to make their hearts His habita- 
 tion. 
 
 May every child, who reads this little book, under- 
 stand that it is only by humility and prayer that he 
 can conquer himself. Let him not be discouraged if 
 his early efforts sometimes seem vain ; but let him 
 turn towards his Saviour, who loves and is waiting to 
 bless him. In Him is the strength and the life, as in 
 Him is also the truth. Without His aid, it is but 
 little we can do ; with it nothing is impossible ! 
 And to ( those who, with a sincere heart, seek His 
 grace and assistance, we may say, without fear of 
 mistake as to Eugene and Jerome, 
 
 Enfant tu fes raincu, tu seras homme un jour ! 
 
 THE END. 
 
 WERTHEIMER AN1> <(>., PHINTER3, CIRCUS PLACE, FINSBCHT CIRCrS.
 
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