MADELEINE: A TALE OF AUVERGNE, FOUNDED ON FACT. BY JULIA KAVANAGH. ACTHOE OF "NATHALIE," ""WOMEN OF EARLY CHRISTIANITY," ETO. "For verily I say nnto you, if ye have faith as a grain of mustard-seed, ye shsl eay unto this mountain, P.emove henco to yonder place, and it shall remov. and noihing iliaU he impossible tinio yoit."— Matt. xviL 20. NEW YORK: D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, 549 & 551 BROADWAY. 1873. ?R 'WW MADELEINE. Kn CHAPTER I. In one of the wildest districts of Auvergne there exists a narrow and secluded valley, which seems shut out on every side from the surrounding world by a barrier of high and rugged hills. On one of the southern eminences arises a small village called Mont-Saint-Jean, a name which in the course of time has been extended to the whole valley. ITotwith- standing the wild and solitary loveliness of this quiet spot, its existence is scarcel}^ known beyond the mountainous region in which it lies buried, and the travelling artist passes it by, miconscious of the un- explored beauties he is leaving behind him. The village itself is small and of little importance. Its low, straggling cottages climb up the brow of the Mont-Saint-Jean ; on a high, projecting peak stands the rude and massive little church ; and near it nestles, as though seeking its shelter, a low and still ruder building, known by the dignified name of the " Presbytery." In front of the church there extends an open, uneven space, called the "Place," in the centre of which arises, according to the general cus- tom, a large stone cross. From the steps of this crosa the eye of the beholder commands a view of the valley, and of a considerable portion of the surround- ing country. MADELEINE. Wild and picturesque mountains, some entirely clothed with the dark pine, others of a deep purple liue, and some again covered with snow, arise on every side; the shadowy outline of the farthest hills mingling in the distance with the deep blue of the sky. Between those mountains and the Mont-Saint- Jean extend numerous valleys, with solitary dwellings gleaming through woods of fir and mountain ash, and rushing torrents, vv'hich come foamingly down from their wild hiding-places in the hills. The deep and narrow valley of Mont-Saint-Jean ia not without its own share of wild and romantic beauty. The rocky heights which inclose it, though barren towards their summits, become everywhere clothed with rich, deep verdure at their base, until the calm and lovely little lake, which sleeps in the lowest hol- low, looks from the village on the hill like the last clear drop of water left in the bottom of an emerald cup. The beauty of the whole scene is greatly en- hanced by its deep solitude. No human dwelling is to be seen in all the valley ; and, though a few narrow defiles in the hills lead from it to the neigh- boring villages, they are so concealed by the thick vegetation through which they wind as to be almost invisible. The village of Mont-Saint-Jean itself scarcely breaks on the solitude of this quiet spot, whence, with the exception of the church on its projecting rock, it is but imperfectly perceived. Tliough fertile-looking, the valley is in reality inap- propriate to agricultural purposes, and for this reason, doubtless, none of the cottagers, whose dwellings are scattered on the neighboring heights, have chosen to fix their home on its green bosom. MADELEINE. The character of the inhabitants of this secluded region is such as might be expected from the spot in which their life is s]5ent. They are a hardy, half- wild race; poor, but satisfied with their lot. Their Darren hills they look upon as an earthly paradise, and their world literally ends with Mont-Saint- Jean. Their subsistence is chiefly derived by cultivating the indifferent land around them ; some so in their youth to Paris, or other large cities, where they be- come fruiterers, retail dealers of coal, water-carriers, &c. ; but, so strong is the love of their native soil, that when they have amassed a sufficient sum of money they invariably return to the place of their birth, there to end their days in peace. Towards the beginning of the present century, and during the first years of N^apoleon's reign, the period when this tale opens, the condition of the villagers of Mont-Saint- Jean was far more precarious than it is now, unenviable as it may still aj^pear. They were plunged in gross ignorance, superstition, and poverty ; and, owing to their hereditary and national obstinacy, did not seem likely to emerge from this deplorable state. Save that they had no rich landlord to tyran- nize over them, their condition had not been much improved since the middle ages. The great convul- sions which, had racked the heart of France since then, appeared to have passed unheard of in quiet Mont-Saint-Jean, or at least to have left no token of their presence. The cottagers knew that something had been changed in the land, but they cared not what it was ; and thus, indifferent to the surrounding world, their life might have been compared to the lake in the valley, as it lay alone in quiet, unpretend- MADELEINE. iug beauty, reflecting in its clear waters the surronnd- ing hills, with their woods of pines, and, still spreading above all, the deep blue summer-sky. It was on the margin of this limpid little sheet of water that two peasants, a man and a woman, might have been seen standing on a lovely Sunday evening in the autumn of the year 18 — . The hour was full of melancholy rei30se. The deep, cool shadows of even- ing had already filled the valley, whilst the rays of the setting sun still lingered with a pale golden hue on the rocky heights. The growing twilight gave to this narrow spot vague and indefinite limits which it did not possess in the day-time, when the glad sun- shine was abroad, lighting up every nook and crevice. The trees, which grew in fantastic groups along the margin of the lake, now looked in the gathering gloom like the outskirts of mysterious forests j^lung- iug amongst wild passes in the hills. The shadows on the bosom of the lake had already become more vast and indistinct, and the faint cry of the distant water-fowl, as it broke on the surrounding stillness, seemed to increase instead of dispelling the repose of that evening hour. It was, perha23s, the sense of this deep solitude of nature which unconsciously influenced the two indi- viduals already alluded to, and rendered them both thoughtful and silent. The man seemed to be about twenty-five years of age ; he was tall, handsome, and his peasant's dress became him well. The nat- ural expression of his features was evidently mirth and good humor, but on this day they were clouded and overcast, as though by the shadow of some secret thought, riis name was Maurice, and lie was a na MADELEINE. tive of Mont-Saint-Jean. He bad lost his parents in childhood, and possessed no surviving relatives, bui he lived with a farmer in one of the neighboring val- leys as gar^on de ferme, or farmer's boy. His com- panion was Madeleine Giierin, his betrothed, with whom he had been attending vespers in the church of Mont-Saint-Jean, and whom he was now accom- panying home. "We have said that they were both standing by the lake ; but the young girl, either through fatigue, or to enjoy the coolness of the even- ing, had seated herself on a small ledge of rock, whence she gazed abstractedly on the dim recesses of the hills, around which already floated the light mists rising from the water. Madeleine was a few years younger than her be- trothed ; she was delicate and slightly made ; her features had no pretension to beauty ; they did not even possess that rustic grace and prettiness which often characterizes the peasant girl ; her cheek, though clear and healthful, was almost colorless ; her noble chiselled brow and eyes of a deep azure blue were the only attractions of her meek counte- nance ; her hair, of a dark, rich brown, was almost completely hidden under her close white cap, and a coarse gray mantle entirely shrouded her figure. Upon the whole, the expression of Madeleine's fea- tures was mild and grave, and, though some thought it sorrowful, to keener and more correct observers it told of a calm as deep and serene as that of the lake tit her feet ; like it reflecting earthly images, but liv- ing beyond them in a world of its own. Madeleine had been sitting for some time on the ledge of the rock, when she turned away her glance from the dis- MADELEINE. tant hills on which it had been resting till then, and fixed it on the unconscious Maurice, who, with his arms folded across his bi*east, seemed plunged in a dark and moody revery. " Mamice," said she, in a low yet singularly mu- sical tone, and addressing her betrothed in the dia- lect of the country, " why are you thoughtful this evening ?" On hearing her words, Maurice started and looked up. "Am I more thoughtful this evening than at any other time ?" he evasively answered. " l!To," she calmly replied, " for you have been sad and given to moody thought since the month of June." Maurice eyed his betrothed with some surprise. "Madeleine," he observed, after a short pause, "ex- plain yourself." " I will," she gravely replied : " it was in the month of June, at the feast of Saint John, that you first met Hosette Besson." Maurice colored deeply, and said in a displeased tone, " I understand ; you are jealous. I thought we had agreed that there should be confidence be- tween us." " It is because there must be truth and confidence between us that I speak as I do now," answered Ma- deleine, with the same calmness, " and that I say again. You are sad since the feast of Saint John, be- cause it was then you saw Eosette Besson, whom you .ove." " Madeleine," almost harshly exclaimed Maurice, " you are a foolish girl ; you know not what you eay." JIADELEINE. 9 Mjicleleine sorrowfully shook her head, but re- plied : " You cannot deceive me, Maurice ; seek not to deceive yourself. Do you remember," she added, in a low mournful tone, " my father's death- bed?" " Yes, I remember it," gloomily answered Maurice. " And I see it," continued Madeleine, with a fixed glance, whilst a faint flush crossed her cheek. " My poor father was already speechless, but he signed us to draw near him ; he took my hand, placed it in yours, and, gazing on us with our two hands clasped in his, so he died." " For heaven's sake, Madeleine," exclaimed Mau- rice, with feverish impatience, " teaze me not with all this ; you know that, with God's will, we are to be married next spring." A mild surprise betrayed itself in Madeleine's up- raised glance. "What!" said she, with a melan- choly snjile ; " did you not understand me, Maurice ? did you not see that when I said you loved Eosette Besson I meant to tell you you were free, and that my poor father — the j^eace of heaven be with his soul ! — would never have joined our hands had he known that our hearts were asunder ?" " Madeleine," exclaimed Maurice, who seemed much staggered, " you cannot be in earnest." " I have told you so already," she calmly replied ; " you are free ; we are no longer betrothed." "But I do not love Eosette, Madeleine. How could I, since I never saw her but once in all my life ?" " Ay, we have known each other for years," sadly answered Madeleine, " and you have known Eosette 1* 10 MADELEINE. only for one fair summer's day; and yet you love her ! Yon love me, too ; but you would leave me forever, and never gaze* on me again, merely to look upon her! How strange, Maurice, that the love which comes so suddenly should be deeper than that of many years !" The eyes of Maurice filled with tears. " My own, good Madeleine," he fervently exclaimed, " I will never forsake you," " Oh, I did not intend reproaching you, Maurice," gravely said Madeleine ; " the fault is not yours ; I merely meant to say that it was strange it should be so. But, as you love God and truth," she earnestly continued, " lie no more to your own heart, for you cannot lie to me ; I have read it in your every word and glance. You love Kosette ; she is good and fair, and I have prayed that she might love you too ; but, even were this not to be, we are parted forever." Maurice eyed the young girl with surprise^ he had ever looked upon Madeleine as the most gentle and passive of human beings ; as one to whom the word will was unknown; and he now heard her with astonishment ntter her resolve in a tone so decided, and yet so gentle and so meek, that it only rendered her firmness the more apparent. " But if I forsake you," said he, " you will die with grief, like poor Catherine, when her lover went away last year." " No," replied Madeleine, with earnest simplicity, " do not think so. I have sorrowed, but my sorrow is past ; and if you are happy with her whom you love, I shall be happy too." Maurice looked at her doubtfully, as though ho MADELEINE. 11 mistrusted her words ; but her clear, open counte- nance bore liis scrutinizing gaze without shrinking. A cloud passed over the young man's brow. Ilis pride was hurt, and he bitterly observed : " Made- leine, I now see that you never loved me ; we part not thus from those we love." " Whether I loved you or not, God alone knows," gravely answered Madeleine, slightly coloring; "my father joined our hands ; and, had I become your v/ife, I should have done my duty w^illingly, and with a cheerful heart. Further than this I cannot tell; for I have not loved another, to be able to say— that is love, but this is not." " Oh !" continued Maurice, with increased irrita- tion, " I am glad to see you bear our parting so well* it shows what you felt for me all along." Madeleine now colored deeply, and rose. " And what right," said she, in a tone of oftended womanly pride, " have you to know whether my heart is sor- rowful or at peace ? Is it," she added with melan- choly bitterness, " that you may tell Rosette Besson how well you were beloved by the poor Madeleine, who is not fair like her, and whom you left for her sake? — Say, Maurice," she reproachfully continued, « is it for this?" " Forgive me, Madeleine, forgive me," ejaculated the young man in a penitent tone ; " you are right, I love Kosette ; but to see you so cold, so altered — I cannot bear it." " I am not cold, Maurice," kindly said Madeleine, '• I love you, and you love me still ; grieve not, there- fore, that we part ; I shall be lonely at first, but I shall feel happy again when I know that Rosette Bes- 12 MADELEINE. son loves you ; and indeed she almost said she did." "Ha! Avhat was it? what did she saj?" eagerly asked Maurice. Madeleine smiled sadly, but gently replied : " She said to me on the feast of Saint John, after dancing with you, that you doubtless had the prettiest girl of Mont-Saint-Jean for your sweetheart; and when 1 answered that I was your betrothed, she became thoughtful and spoke no more. Since then she has seemed to avoid me; and, whenever I address her, coldly turns away. Upon perceiving which, and marking your altered behavior, I saw clearly that God had destined you for another, and I resolved not to oppose His holy will." " And is this all ?" almost imj^atiently asked Maurice, whose ear greedily drank in every word she uttered. " It is all," she meekly said. Maurice remained thoughtful for a while ; then, seeing that Madeleine was standing as though she waited for him to accompany her, he took her arm, and they silently walked homewards, following the margin of the lake. They had not proceeded far, when Maurice began to speak ; his heart was full of Rosette, and, though he endeavored to check him- self, her name often rose to his lips. Madeleine saw that if he refrained from speaking of her whom he loved it was merely that lie might not give her pain; and a deep though involuntary sadness filled her heart as she felt bow lonely now was her lot upon earth. After walking for some time along the lake they MADELEINE. 13 took a silent and shady path which led to Made- leine's dwelling, and also to the burial place of Mont- Saint-Jean, near which it stood. On either side of the narrow and winding way arose a high bank sur- mounted with trees, whose waving branches met over head, and even in mid-day shed a kind of hallowed gloom around. As Maurice and Madeleine went along, the evening breeze played gently among the tall poplars and aspens which rose above them, whilst the withered leaves rustled beneath their tread. Ac- customed as Maurice was to the subduing melancholy of the place, it now seemed to come over him more strongly than ever, hushing even in his heart the dreams of love and happiness in which he had been indulging. "When they had followed this path for some time, they came to a low, black door, over which arose a wooden cross. This was the gate of the cemetery. The path extended beyond it, winding around the low walls of this place of rest ; but Made- leine and Maurice both seemed to pause instinctively, and went no fm-ther. " "Will you go in ?" asked Maurice, as he glanced somewhat hesitatingly at the gathering gloom of the sky. "Yes," she thoughtfully replied, "let us once more pray over his grave together." Maurice pushed the gate open, and they entered. There was nothing remarkable about the burial ground of Mont-Saint-Jean, and yet it was a wild and lovely spot. It extended over a grassy slope, and was overshadowed by a few tall pines, which grew on its highest eminence, and flung their broad, waving arms to the wind. The low, ruined wall 14 MADELEINE. which inclosed it was overgrown with ivy and othei creeping plants ; all the graves w-ere marked by wooden crosses inscribed with the name of the deceased ; there was not a single tomb-stone in the whole spot, which seemed filled with the Sabbath- stillness of everlasting rest. 'No human dwelling was visible from this retired place; it lay as though en- shrined in the quiet bosom of the surrounding hills, %r from the eye of man, or from aught else that might break on its deep repose and solitude. It was quite solitary when Madeleine and Maurice entered it ; all the mourners had departed with the shadows of evening which now filled the lower hollows, though the rays of the setting sun still lingered among the waving branches of the pines which crowned the height. Madeleine took a narrow path which wound among the lowly hillocks and fallen crosses that marked the more ancient graves, and, after following it for some time, paused on reaching a mound of earth half con- cealed by thickets of the wild hollyhock. She knelt down near the cross which marked the head of the grave, and her example was followed by Maurice, whose heart was troubled with a remorseful feeling as he thought of the trust which his adopted father had reposed in him on his death-bed, and of the man- ner in which he was requiting it now. After a few minutes spent in prayer, Madeleine rose and slowly left the burial-ground, followed by Maurice. They Bilently resumed the path, which, by a sudden turn- ing, led them to Madeleine's dwelling, a rustic cot, backed by the same sloping bank over w^hich the cem- etery extended, though the trees by which it was MADELEINE. 15 partly surrounded prevented it from being discerned. It was in this lonely place that Madeleine had been brought up, and that she had resided since her father's death. When she raised the latch of the door, which had never known lock or key, Maurice paused. " Farewell, Madeleine," he hesitatingly observed ; " we shall soon meet again." " Nay," replied Madeleine, in a low and earnest tone, " this cannot be ; here we part — not forever I trust — but never to meet as we have met. Take it not unkindly that I say to you. Come no more. But my spirit is now at rest ; it is quiet, though alone. I will not tempt Heaven by seeking for pain. I shall pray for you and for her, though I see you not. Fare- well." Maurice attempted to speak, but he could not : his voice faltered, and the words died unuttered on his lips. He took Madeleine's hand between his own and ')ressed it, then turned away and departed silently. For a long time Madeleine looked after him, stand- ing motionless on the threshold of her humble home like one wi-apt in a thoughtful mood. The sound of his footsteps was at length lost in the distance ; he was gone, and she was now alone. The thought fell upon her heart with a singular melancholy, perhaps for the first time in her life. She listened as though to catch the sound of his returning step ; but he came not back, for, though Madeleine knew it not, thej' were parted forever. • X6 MADELEINE. CHAPTER 11. Madeleine was an orphan ; she had lost her moth- er in lier infancy, and her father had now been dead more than a year. Jacques Guerin was, during his lifetime, a schoolmaster of the most humble descrip- tion, even in Auvergne. For nearly thirty years he had resided in the small cottage where Madeleine was born, and in which she now dwelt alone. It consisted of two rooms : the first and largest was the kitchen, parlor, school -room, and even the . sleeping apartment, of the schoolmaster. The second room was his daughter's ; it overlooked the green church- yard, with its low hillocks and tall pines, and, during the summer time, the young girl liked to sit spinning at her wheel near the open window. From the first room there was a fine view of the neighboring hills, and of a rude, brawling mountain- stream that dashed foamingly by within a few yards of the cottage, the only human dwelling that arose on its banks. The whole scene was singularly wild and picturesque ; the old mossy trunk of a tree thrown across the torrent was the only bridge which led to the opposite side, whilst a few weeping birch-trees, which grew along the rugged banks, almost dipped their waving branches into its foaming waters. High and ancient-looking hills that rose on every side gave to this quiet spot an air of additional wildness and solitude. It was here that Madeleine had passed her youth. She seldom went to Mont-Saint-Jean, imless on Sundays to hear mass and vespers ; her time was MADELEINE. 17 cliiefly spent at home in order to assist her father, who, not being the regular schoohnaster of the vil- lage, had only a few straggling pupils on his side of the hill. As they paid him en nature^ that is to say, by small presents of fruit and vegetables, the gains he derived from his school would have proved insuf- ficient for the support of himself and his daughter but for the produce of a few acres of land, which he found time to cultivate, and the unceasing industry of Madeleine, who, when not engaged in attending to the garden belonging to the cottage, was always busy at her wheel. The young girl had learned all that her father knew, that is to say, how to read, write, and speak French, a language scarcely understood by the villagers, who used the dialect or patois of Auvergne. But this was the sum of Madeleine's knowledge. She had never read but two books in all her life, an abridc-ment of sacred history and her prayer-book. Her father and his occasional pupils were, as long as the former lived, the only beings besides Maurice with whom she held any intercourse : even to them she sj^oke little ; her youth seemed devoted to toil and silent thought. This comparatively solitary mode of life developed the in- nate gravity of Madeleine's character. She could sit for hours spinning at her wheel without uttering a word, and gazing all the time in a dreamy mood on the quiet little churchyard, or on the clear mountain- stream that leaped down from the rocks as if pos- sessed of a living spirit. Though she was silent and loved solitude, Madeleii^e was not, however, either of a melancholy or of an unsocialile disposition. When she sat in the sunshine near her father's door she al- 18 MADELEINE, ways had a kind word and still kinder smile for the villagers who might chance to pass by ; ])ut, as she asked no questions and gave brief replies, those con- versations, if such they might be called, never lasted long. She seemed, indeed, like one who lived apart in a world of her own ; her wishes were as limited as her literary knowledge ; she had never once in her 3ife been beyond the hill on which the village of Mont- Saint-Jean arose. That there were other villages, and even towns and cities, she knew ; she believed in them as we do in any distant country, but she never ex- pressed a wish to visit them. Had she been confined between the torrent and the green churchyard, her inward world of thought would still have been wide and deep enough for her meditative S23irit. Madeleine was, however, far too ignorant and un- sophisticated to understand the beautiful in nature — • the only beautiful which had ever come under her no- tice. She had been accustomed to it since her birth, and she saw and felt it, though she knew not why nor how. Had she been asked if the sunset on the hills was fair, she might liave been at a loss for a reply, and yet slie had gazed on it evening after evening until its loveliness and that of the surroundino; earth and sky had sunk deeply into her heart, filling it with inward peace and love. So little was she conscious of what passed within her, that when a jDcasant- woman of Mont-Saint-Jean once asked her why it was that she seemed so fond of listening to the wind as it swept down from the hills round her father's cottage, Mad- eleine looked up with surprise, and, after reflecting for a while, answered, that she knew not; and yet she had listened to it for hours at a time as it moaned MADELEINE. ID like a human voice among the distant hills, or waved to and fro the branches of the weeping birch-trees that grew near the torrent. Her solitary life had given Madeleine a taste for singing long and almost interminable ballads in the patois of Anvergne, sometimes relating a pathetic and melancholy love-tale, but oftener still some wild and poetic saint's legend. Her father had taught her to sing a few of those canticles and ballads in Trench. One of them, the well-known story of the pure and holy Genevieve of Brabant, who, banished from her husband's court, spent ten years in a forest with her child, waited upon by the faithful fawn, Madeleine seemed never weary of repeating. The history of the penitent Magdalen, and the mournful comjplainte of the Wandering Jew, were also among her favorites. Her voice, though low, was clear and musical ; and when some passing peasant heard it arise in the silence of the hills, wakening with that plaintive monotonous tune and those words of an unknown tongue the echoes of the quiet churchyard, he often paused to listen as he gazed on the thoughtful maiden, wonder- ing what could be the theme of her endless song. It was thus that Madeleine's dreamy youth and childhood passed away. She was twenty when she lost her father. Maurice, an orphan of Mont-Saint- Jean, had been reared up by the old schoolmaster almost as his own child, and he died with the belief that he loved Madeleine with a more than brotherly affection. The impression produced upon her be- trothed by the sight of Rosette Wesson had shewn Madeleine the truth ; she had brooded over it in silence for several months, at the end of which she re- 20 MADELEINE, leased Maurice from his engagement in the manner described in the preceding chapter. It was not long before what had happened was known in Mont-Saint- Jean. Some pitied Madeleine, and blamed Mam'ice ; others declared they had long expected that matters would end thus ; and, whether through curiosity or a more kindly feeling, a good many made the chm'cli- yard path their way. They found Madeleine sitting at her door in the sunshine, spinning and looking as usual. To those who S23oke to her of Maurice, she merely replied, " It was not the will of God that we should be man and wife ; His holy will be done ; may Maurice and Hosette be happy !" Her whole de- meanor was so different from what had been expected, that many persons asserted Madeleine had never loved her betrothed; instead of reproaches, she breathed words of love and peace, and those who had at the utmost expected her to be resigned, found her apparently as calm and serene as ever. To say the truth, although religion and solitude had given a strong poetic coloring to Madeleine's mind, there was too much simplicity and earnestness in her nature to leave room for romance. She saw life as it was, without exaggerating to herself either its joys or its sorrows. When her fother died, she grieved long for his loss, and often felt lonely and sad ; but every night whilst remembering him in her prayers she said to herself, " It is the will of God," and with these few words the bitterness of her sorrow seemed to pass away. This was all Madeleine's philosophy. Those who thought, however, that she had not felt keenly the loss of her betrothed's affection wronged her. She had sorroM'ed over her loneliness in silence. MADELEINE. 21 and sadlv wondered why Maurice did not love licr as he loved Kosette ; but, alas ! she was no novel hero- ine, and her life could not become a blank, like that of Shakspeare's maiden, because she was no longer loved. She felt that this earth would be as green, and the sky as serenely j^ure, now as they had ever been before, and, though she was sad, she could not resign herself to cheerless gloom and melancholy for the rest of her days. PerhajDS her thoughts did not take exactly this form ; such, however, was their sub- stance. Poor Madeleine would have been pronounced an imperfect being by many individuals ; for, though she loved truly and tenderly, with all the fervor of a woman's heart, she was not capable of feeling that intensity of passion which is so often only another name for selfishness, and makes two beings delight in one another to the exclusion of the whole world. The poetry of Madeleine's mind was naturally strong, though scarcely developed; still its pure, healthful tone pervaded her whole being ; it was the poetry of nature, full of hope, trust, and gladness, and widely different from the morbid feeling which has often usurped the name. It is scarcely necessary to say that of those nice distinctions Madeleine herself knew nothing ; poetry for her was any rude rhyme which might be sung to a still ruder air, and of prose she was as naively ignorant as the renowned Mon- sieur Jourdain himself. Madeleine's religious feelings had partly taken the tone of her mind and partly given it ; with the dif- ferences of creeds or dogmas she never troubled hcr« self; her faith was that of a child, implicitly believing all that its teachers tell ; but, though she keenly felt 22 MADELEINE. the poetic beauty of religion, she had only a very slight portion of mysticism, — even in this she was eminently practical. Her soul overflowed with a boundless love of God ; but that love was not satis- fied with remaining in heaven; human-like, it re- turned to earth, and spread itself over every earthly creature. Though free from mystic tendencies, Mad- eleine delighted in mental prayer, which to her was thought. It was, besides, the only mode in which she could relieve her heart from the many feelings with which it was crowded. 'No one in Mont-Saint- Jean could have understood her; how could they, when she did not understand herself, and would have been unable to express her feelings by language? Thus it was that the thought of God was seldom away from her mind ; but it brought no terrors with it ; it never dwelt there save as a pure and holy feeling of love. Though her life might thus in one sense be said to be spent in prayer, Madeleine had set apart a certain daily portion of time which she devoted to that holy exercise ; this was towards twilight, when it grew too dark for her to work any longer. Then, in summer-time especially, she would kneel before a small crucifix near an open window, and, often allow- ing her gaze to wander from the sacred image to the clear blue heavens as they fast filled with countless stars, she repeated in a low tone some sim])le litany or orison. But her lips alone uttered the hallowed words, for in her heart there dwelt a silent prayer of love still far more pure. If we have been thus explicit in drawing at some length the chief traits of Madeleine's character, it is not merely that she is to act a leading part in this MADELEINE. 23 history, but also because she belonged to that numer- ous class of beings whose thoughts are never expressed by words but by deeds, and who pass away from earth unknown, leaviiig the mystery of their nature a mys- tery still. It has already been observed that the general be- lief in Mont-Saint-Jean was, that Madeleine had felt little or no grief for the loss of her betrothed. But a peasant girl named Marie Michon, who lived among the hills on the other side of the torrent, and who happened to be Madeleine's nearest neighbor, thought otherwise. To her it seemed that the schoolmaster's daughter looked more sad or more thoughtful — which she could not tell — since Maurice no longer came to her cottage. When she passed by her door she found her at her work as usual, but she missed her gentle though melancholy song, and noticed that her revery seemed to grow deeper every day. Marie was the daughter of a poor peasant, and a kind of friendly, though very limited intercourse, had sprung up be- tween her and Madeleine, She was a short, thick-set girl, with a grotesque and good-humored countenance. Though she might certainly be termed one of the happiest and most contented of human beings, she entertained, nevertheless, a painful consciousness of her want of personal attractions, and often alluded to the fact as though she would willingly have doubted it. The coarse jests which were continually made at her expense, were not calculated, however, to leave her any illusion. Marie Michon appeared to take all this raillery in good part. She knew that to seem hurt or offended would only add to the satisfaction ot her ill-natured antagonists, and increase the persecu 24: MADELEINE tion; but every word which reminded her of her ugliness fell on her heart with singular bitterness. Still it never occurred to her that those who took such a mean advantage of her infirmities were to blame. She felt that if she had been handsome she would not have had to suffer from their remarks, and she laid all the fault to her unfortunate want of good looks. If Marie had been asked why she took pleasure in Madeleine's company, she would have found it diffi- cult to answer correctly ; Madeleine was silent and reserved, and always carefully avoided speaking of the affairs of others ; now Marie, though exceedingly good-natured upon the whole, was somewhat of a gossip, and never scrupled, unless in the presence of her friend, perhaps, from making remarks on the be- havior of her acquaintances. She might .walk a league to oblige a neighbor, but this would not pre- vent her from observing to the first person she met afterwards, that "Joseph's wife did not keep her house clean, and was a great scold." This difierence of disposition rendered the conversations of Marie and Madeleine exceedingly short and uninteresting. But the secret of Marie's friendship for the school- master's daughter was, that she was, perhaps, the only jjerson who had never reminded her by word or look of her want of attractions. Marie was not hum- bled in Madeleine's presence by the sense of her per- sonal inferiority ; nay, she sometimes fancied that she was almost her equal in point of good looks. It is true that Madeleine was not pretty, and Marie knew, " For quickly comes such knowledge," that there was not a woman in the village who had MADELEINE. 25 hair like her own ; but that hair, which would have been invaluable to a fashionable ladj, was almost thrown away on the peasant girl, for no one ever saw it. Occasionally, however, Marie gave herself the satisfaction of displaying it before Madeleine, either pretending that it wanted to be settled, or that her cap was not right on her head, and allowing her dark silky tresses to fall down around her until they formed a natural mantle which a queen might have envied. On those occasions Madeleine never failed to ex- claim, " Oh ! Marie, how beautiful your hair looks to-day !" Upon which Marie would color up with glad sm-prise, for to her a word of praise seemed an ever new pleasure, and for one day at least, she would feel happy to think she really had something that could be admired. But gratified vanity was not the only feeling tliat made Marie seek the company of Madeleine ; she loved her for her unvarying gentle- ness, and at the same time looked upon her with in- gtinctive awe, as a being above human fears, living as she did, alone, near that old churchyard. " Do you never feel afraid ?" she one day asked of her. "Afraid of what?" simply replied Madeleine. " Of the spirits of the dead," answered Marie, cast- ing a terrified glance towards the neighboring graves. " IS'o, I do not fear them," calmly said Madeleine, for she was not so far above the superstitions of her native hills as to deny the existence of spirits ; " if they are evil," she continued, " God will not suffer them to injure me, and the spirits of the good will rather watch over me and protect me from harm. I should like to see a good spirit," she added in a tlir ughtful tone. 26 MADELEINE, Marie opened Ler eyes very wide, and wondered to hear this ; slie said nothing, but from that time her awe of Madeleine increased, and she almost looked upon her as one who held communion with the other world. Although she did not say as much to her acquaintances, her hints on the subject, added to Madeleine's strange and solitary mode of life, caused the villagers to look upon her as a being apart from themselves. One day when Marie had crossed the torrent as usual, in order to pay her friend a visit, she found her engaged in conversation with a travelling pedler. ^Neither Madeleine nor the stranger seemed to notice her approach, and instead of joining them, Marie silently entered the small garden which extended be- tween the cottage and the churchyard. Although such was not her intention, she thus overheard part of their discourse. "I have seen Maurice," said the pedler. " Is he well ?" asked Madeleine. " He is, and greets you kindly." "How is Kosette Besson?" she continued, after remaining silent for a while. The pedler made no reply. " I understand you," said Madeleine in a low, mournful tone, " they are married. May God bless and render them happy," she added, after a long pause. The pedler loitered about the door as though he felt unwilling to depart, and at length observed, "I suppose you have no message to give me ?" "Yes, I have," she calmly replied; "tell them that you found me here in good health, spinning on the doorway, and repeat to them the words T have said." MADELEINE. 27 The pecller, merely bidding her farewell, shouldered his pack and dej^arted, Marie was much concerned by what she had overheard ; she felt for Madeleine, and longed to go to her, but dared not. She at length left the garden and drew near, but Madeleine was so deeply absorbed in thought, though she was still spinning abstractedly, that she neither saw nor heard her friend. Her usually serene features now wore a slight shade of sadness ; she gazed fixedly upon the mountain-torrent, but her mind was evidently far away. After waiting for some time to attract her notice, Marie, seeing her still in the same state of abstraction, slowly and silently left the place. The following day Marie did not fail to pass as though by chance opposite Madeleine's cottage ; she entered into conversation with her, but, though she longed to speak to her of Maurice's marriage, and to tell her that he had left Mont-Saint-Jean, and was now living wdth the family of his wife, besides all the particulars of the wedding which she had industriously collected, she found no oj^portunity of mentioning the subject, to w^hich Madeleine, who seemed in her usual state of mind, made no allusion. Yet from that day forward Marie Michon thought that there was something changed in Madeleine; she was not more sad, but rather more grave than before ; at times her pale cheek flushed and her deep blue eyes kindled as though she were stirred by some emotion within ; often too she w^ould sit in the same attitude and gaze on the same spot for hours, like one indifferent to surrounding objects, and wrapped up in the shadow of some solemn and lofty thought. Occasionally, when Marie called upon her, she missed 28 MADELEINE. her from the doorstep, and found her within kneeling before her crucifix, and so deeply absorbed in prayer that she remained unconscious of her presence, the more so as the young girl always drew reverently away, hushing the sound of her footsteps and drawing in her breath, for, as she averred, Madeleine then wore a look so pure and holy that she seemed more like a saint than like any thing human. Far however from relaxing in her usual labors, Madeleine now worked incessantly; her wheel might be heard by the passer-by at break of day, and the light in her cottage showed that she toiled until a late hour of the night. This increased industry caused much specula- tion in Mont-Saint-Jean ; for, what with the produce of her garden, the price she received for her labor, and the small income which she derived from the few acres of ground her father had left her, Madeleine had certainly enough to live upon. Some said she was going to get married, without being able to guess to whom, and asserted that, being a prudent, thrifty girl, she wanted to prepare for her new state by hoarding up a little fortune. A fact that gave some confirmation to this report was, that towards the end of autumn Madeleine purchased several sacks of flour and of dried vege- tables ; she even got in some wine, and converted her narrow cottage into a kind of storehouse. It was also ascertained that one of the pedlers who crossed the country towards the "beginning of the cold weather had sold her a large assortment of clothing for winter wear. But Marie Michon, who was known to be well informed, asserted that no one ever came near Madeleine's cottage, so that, though slowly and re- MADELEINE. 29 luctantly, the belkf in lier approacliing marriage was given up by the wise heads of Mont-Saint-Jean. Some of those individuals who are always able to explain every thing soon surmised, however, that the silent and solitary Madeleine knew more than people thought, and, foreseeing that the coming winter would be one of unusual severity, thus prudently provided herself beforehand with every thing needful. A woman more inquisitive or less in awe of Madeleine than the other villagers asked her one day if this were true. " I know nothing of the winter that God will send us," gravely said Madeleine, who seemed unwilling to give any other explanation of her conduct. CHAPTER III. TuE winter set in with unusual severity ; of course, notwithstanding her denial of the fact, Madeleine was asserted to have foretold it, and she accordingly began to be looked upon as a gifted being in Mont- Saint- Jean. Towards the beginning of ISTovember th-ere was a heavy fall of snow, which rendered many of the paths along the hills entirely impracticable. Still Marie Michon continued to visit Madeleine : she did not always venture to cross the fragile bridge which led to her dwelling, but there was a safer one about a league farther down the stream, and she never hesitated walking that distance in order to see her friend, though Madeleine frequently remonstrated with her on the subject. so MADELEINE. One morning Marie came as usual, but, though tlie day was fine and clear when she set out, the sky grew so clouded and overcast towards the afternoon, and the snow, which then began to fall, gave so threatening an aspect to the weather, that she did not like to venture to return home, and was easily induced by Madeleine to spend the day with her, and postpone her departure until the next morning. Marie was delighted with this proposal; her pa- rents, she said, would not feel uneasy, for they knew where she was, and could easily guess on seeing the state of the weather why she did not return. Made- leine smiled on hearing her speak thus, for she knew that it was more the wish of remaining with her than the fear of being lost in the snow, that had induced the young girl to stay. Marie had probably reckoned that by spending the day with Madeleine she would have an opportunity of speaking to her, and of learning a great many cir- cumstances of her past life, of which she was still ignorant. In this, however, she was mistaken ; Made- leine listened to her patiently, but she spoke little, and seemed even more abstracted than usual. Con- trary to ner custom, she sat in the inner room, near the window, and often paused in her work to look on the falling snow. Marie could not help asking her why she did so. " I am thinldng," answered Madeleine, " of the widow who lives on the hill." " Ah ! yes, up there," exclaimed Marie, glancing towards one of the neighboring heights, on the sum mit of which arose a solitary cottage. " Why, the poor woman must suffer greatly from the cold ; and, MADELEINE. 31 if the snow should block her in, how dreadful it vrould be !" Madeleine made no rej^lv, but she looked long and earnestly at the widow's cottage ; though it was partly covered with snow, a thin curling smoke still arose from its tall and narrow chimney. Marie's fancy was excited ; she loved the terrible and the marvellous, and always had a host of legends on any kindred subject at her command. She now began relating to Madeleine strange and melancholy histories of snow-storms, of travellers who had been lost in them, and of cottages that had vanished for- ever, with their inhabitants, being buried many feet deep by the snow ; all of which narratives were per- fectly authentic, as they had been handed down in Mont-Saint Jean, almost as she told them, for several generations. The moment was a propitious one to give such recitals their full effect. It was night, but a cheerful fire blazed on the cottage hearth, near which sat Madeleine, busy at her wheel ; without, however; all was dark and dreary ; the snow fell fast and was still drifted by the fitful gusts of wind, which moaned dismally among the old churchyard trees. Though Madeleine did not seem much affected by Marie's stories, with which she was already familiar, the young girl noticed that when she spoke of the wolves which had lately been seen prowling around the woods, near the eastern hill — that on which the widow's cottage stood — her friend listened to her with deep attention. It snowed all night, and even dm-ing the greater part of the following morning. At about twelve o'clock there was a moment of cloudy rest; the wind 32 MADELEINE. ceased, but the sky still wore a dull, gray hue. Marie was pondering in her mind whether she ought to go home or not, and wondering if her parents felt much alarmed at her long absence, when Madeleine, who had been for some time in her room, now came out into that where her guest was sitting near the fire. The young girl noticed with much surprise that she was dressed as though to go out, having her gray cloth cloak wrapped around her, and holding a long staff, with an iron spike at one end of it, in her hand. " Why, Madeleine, wherever are you going ?" cried Marie. Madeleine, who was now busy jratting some jjro- visions into a basket, calmly replied, " To the eastern hill." " To the eastern hill !" repeated Marie, with a be- wildered glance : " whatever can you want there?" " I must see the widow," said Madeleine ; " this whole morning the smoke has ceased to arise from her chimney." Marie glanced towards the hill ; the cottage was almost buried in the snow, but, though the chimney was still visible, it had ceased to pour forth the thin, curling smoke which announced that a living being inhabited that dreary dwelling. " Perhaps she has no more fuel," hinted Marie ; " that may be the reason that her fire is out." Madeleine shook her head : " It is but two days ago," she observed, " that the priest sent her a dozen of faggots ; they passed before my door, and dame Ursula told me they were for a poor sick widow on the hill ; she cannot have burned them all vet ; she must be either very ill, or, peniaps, alread;^ dead." MADELEINE. 35 " Madeleine,'' auxioiislv olDserved Marie, " the snow is at least two feet deep ; depend npon it, jou are not the only person who has thought of this poor woman, yet you see no one ventures to go near her ; and if strong men did not dare to climb up there what can you do ?" " Attempt it," calmly answered Madeleine, mov- ing towards the door. But Marie, taking hold of her gray cloak, endeavored to detain her ; " Madeleine, my dear Madeleine," she exclaimed, in broken ac- cents ; " oh ! do not go, for the blessed Virgin's sake ; for if you do, something tells me I shall never see you again." Madeleine looked back with a kindly smile on the weeping girl. "Marie," said she, gravely, "trust me, if God blesses, as I hope he does, the task which I have taken upon myself. He will not suifer me to perish now. This is but the besrinnino; of that work which must be the work of my whole life. ]N"-vertheless pray for me ; you will know that I am sale H'hen the smoke rises once more from the widow's cottage." Madeleine bent towards Marie as she spoke, gently pressed her lips upon her brow, and, freeing herself from Ler grasp, she swiftly descended the stone steps, and took the path which, after winding round the little cemetery, led to the eastern hill. It was in vain that Marie called her back, earnestly conjuring her to return. Madeleine did not even look behind, and was soon hidden by the churchyard wall from the sight of her friend. The task which Madeleine had undertaken was both difficult and dangerous. The widow's cottage 34: MADELEINE. stood on one of the highest peaks of the eastern hill, and, though the distance which now divided her from it was aj^parently short, it was rendered considerable by a deep ravine, which compelled her to turn round the base of the hill in order to take a narrow, wind- ing path leading to its summit. In ordinary weather this would not have happened, for Madeleine, who was exceedingly agile, and well acquainted with the locality, could easily have ascended the hill even on its steep and rocky side, now entirely covered with snow. In order to reach the path already alluded to, she was obliged to cross a wide plain, skirted on one side by a w^ood of some extent, which grew at the foot of the hill. "When she entered this plain Made- leine was struck with its dreary and solemn aspect ; accustomed as she was to such scenes, the silence and the solitude of this struck awe into her heart, and made her involuntarily pause to look around her be- fore she went on. A wide sheet of dazzling snow extended before her, mingling in the distance with the faint, shadowy outline of the hills, which in their turn almost vanished on the dull gray of the sky. The same dim and indistinct hue seemed to pervade the whole landscape. On her right arose the wood already alluded to ; it covered the lower j^ortion of the hill, and the spectre-like forms of its tall pines, clothed with snow, only stood in faint relief on their white background. The sounds of beast or bird, which usually broke on the silence of this wild spot, were now hushed ; the voice of the wind itself had died away among the distant hills ; no trace of a human being was to bo discerned. All was solemn etillncss and undisturbed solitude. MADELEINE. 35 After gazing around lier for a few minutes, Made- leine continued her journey, casting a glance into the dim recesses of the wood as she passed it by, and oc- casionally pausing to listen and ascertain if it was a distant howling, or the far voice of the wind, which reached her ear. She walked for about an hour with- out meeting with any serious obstacle to her progress, thouo;h she noticed with uneasiness the increasing gloom of the shy. When she reached that part of the hill where the path which was to lead her to its summit should have been, Madeleine could see no token of it. It was not only hidden by the snow, but even the hollow along which it wound was completely filled up. The whole hill, though Madeleine knew it to abound with small clefts and ravines, which bor- dered the path on either side, now wore the same smooth and treacherous covering of dazzling white- ness. Her first act was to endeavor to ascertain where stood a small wooden cross which rose at the foot of the path, and from which she knew she could not be far away, though it wa^ now entirely hidden. After driving her long staff into the snow for some time, without discovering the object of her search, she at length felt resistance in a particular place, and clearing away the snow in that spot, found to her sat- isfaction that it was occasioned by the summit of the wooden cross, which, though partly bent down by the wind, still stood in its usual place. This fact showed Madeleine that the snow was not quite so deep as she had thought at first, and encouraged her to begin her ascent. The path which led to the summit of the hill took the form of the letter S ; the cross marked the lower 36 MADELEINE, point, and the widow's cottage tlie ripper one ; a stunted beech which grew in one of the windings and a rock which arose on the other side also acted as hind-marks. Madeleine's fear was, not of mistaking the riglit path, but of being surprised by the snow before she had reached the end of her journey. She now began her ascent Avithout loss of time, but she i^voceeded, however, with the greatest caution, sound- ing the depth of the snow and partly clearing it away as she went along. Madeleine possessed both cour- age and j^atience ; she was not therefore disheartened by the difficulties or the tediousness of her ascent, but she was not naturally strong, and even the light bas- ket which she carried considerably impeded her prog- ress. Though she would gladly have gone on with- out pausing, she was occasionally obliged to rest in order to recruit her failing strength. When she then looked back on the way along which she had come, Madeleine saw with an anxious feeling that it was as nothing in comparison to the distance over which she had yet to journey, ^lie also knew that time waned apace ; it was at least two hours since she had set out, and she could already see some lights twinkling in the valley on the other side of the hill. More than once she glanced towards the widow's cottage ; it still wore the same air of death-like rej)0se which had induced her to undertake her present expedition ; and every time she looked on it, the thought of the suffer- ings its lonely tenant might then be enduring urged her on to new efforts. Madeleine had toiled about half way up the hill when she perceived with great uneasiness that it was beginning to snow. She was aware of the danger of MADELEI]JfE being surprised by a storm in this desolate spot, and hastened on, hoping to reach the goal of her journey in time. In less than a few minutes, however, she found herself enveloped in one of the densest falls of snow which she had ever witnessed, even in this mountainous reo-iou. It was in vain she endeavored to advance, the thick flakes which the wind drove full in her face almost blinded her ; she instinctively turned round to look for some place of shelter, but none met her eye. A projecting rock which had at- tracted her notice a few minutes before, had now dis- appeared ; the valley and its lights, the widow's cot- tage, the very path she had been following, all were gone, or rather, all had vanished from her view in the surrounding mist : she could see nothing but the white snow as it sped by her with the swiftness of an arrow on its way. A chilliness now fell upon Made- leine's heart : she felt that she stood alone on that snowy peak, alike removed from human ken or hu- man aid. Already a swift insidious torpor crept over her wearied frame, her eyes involuntarily closed, and that treacherous sleep, which is the forerunner ol death, was beginning to allure her^ now that the ex- ertion of toiling up the hill no longer rendered hei insensible to the intense cold. Madeleine possessed that coolness which consti- tutes real courage. She knew the exact peril of hei present position, and could look her danger in the face with as much calmness as though it were not for her a matter of life or death. She saw that she must decide on remaining where she was, or on con- tinuing her ascent, and a moment's thought showed her the danger of either course. If she remained, it 38 MADELEINE. was only too probable that, in S2:)ite of all her eflbrts to keep awake, she might fall asleep and be frozen to death ; if, on the contrary, she went on, there was the risk of losing her way altogether, and of being led by some treacherous snow-drift over the edge of a ravine or precipice ; still this last course afforded a chance of safety, and she soon decided on adopting it, first fervently imploring the blessing of Heaven. All that Madeleine knew about the way she was to take was, that she must face the snow, for she had noticed when it began to fall that the wind blew it towards her from the widow's cottage. Althouirh this fact served to guide her, it also impeded her progress ; her clothes were now thoroughly wet, and, being thus rendered heavier, clung to her limbs. More than once did Madeleine stop through very weariness, though the gathering darkness told her that every pause might be death ; she never rested long, however, but soon resumed her ascent, toiling blindly on with a desj^erate energy, inspired by the instinct of self-preservation, and a still more hallowed motive. Half an hour thus elapsed, during which Madeleine, though often driven back by the eddying gusts of snow, had, by dint of perseverance and heroic efforts, made considerable progress. But her sinking limbs at length refused to bear her any longer. The wind had changed, and she knew not where she was, yet she strove to go on, hoping still in the very face of death ; the effort, however, was vain, and, utterly exhausted, Madeleine sank down on her knees in the Snow. She instinctively extended her hands to seek for support, and as she did so she felt a hard, flat substance resisting her touch. Madeleine uttered a MADELEINE. 39 cry of glad surprise; the goal of her journey waa reached, for, though she had not seen it under its covering of snow, the cottage now stood before her. 'New strength seemed poured into her; she rose hastily, felt for the door, removed the snow which lay heaped around it, and, raising the latcb, quickly en- tered. By the faint light which still reigned within, she could discern the fomi of the widow extended on a low pallet, and apparently lifeless. In a second, and without a thought of self, Madeleine drew a flask of wine from her basket which she had carried through so much danger, and hastily applied it to the mouth of the widow, from whose form she perceived that life had not yet fled. When she had succeeded with some difiiculty in pouring a few mouthfuls down her throat, she began chafing her frozen limbs until she had restored to them a certain degree of animal heat. As soon as this was effected, she struck a light from the flint she had prudently brought with her, and applied it to a few faggots which she threw in the chimney. In less than a second a cheerful blaze sprung u]) from the hearth and filled the cabin with its genial glow. Madeleine's first look was for the sick woman, who now seemed to be slowly reviving. CHAPTER IV. As her dim and glazed eyes recovered the powei of sight, the widow looked around her like one awa- kening from a long and deep slumber ; but when her glance fell upon the form of Madeleine, she started 40 MADELEINE, slightly, and, raising herself by an efibrt on her elbow e;azed on her visitor with evident astonishment, " Who are you ?" she at length exclaimed, in a low and hollow tone. " My name is Madeleine Guerin, and I am come to see yon," calmly replied the young girl. The widow passed her hand across her brow, as though striving to collect her thoughts. "I have been dreaming," she said abstractedly; " methought I was dying, and going to be buried in the snow." "It has been snowing," observed Madeleine ; "how do you feel now ?" "I am cold," replied the sick woman, with a shiver. Madeleine immediately set about removing her, with the wretched bed on which she was lying, so that she might receive as much of the heat of the fire as was possible. When she had eflected her object in the most gentle manner, she began once more to cliafe the widow's limbs. In less than half an hour the poor woman was completely restored, and, though the fearful ravages which disease had made upon her frame were still strongly visible, she seemed now quite sensible. She might be about fifty, but a life of toil and penury made her look at least twenty years older. Care and grief had imprinted their deep wrinkles on her withered countenance, whilst her wasted cheek and sunken eye told of long and linger- ing illness. She looked attentively at Madeleine, as though striving to recollect her features, and wonder • ing who she might be. " Have you been long here ?" she asked at length. MADELEINE. 41 " Not much more than an hour," rej^lied Madeleine. " Ah !" said the sick woman, thoughtfully, " I re- member it now : for two days I watched the snow as it fell ; I knew that I was going away, yet I found it hard to die here alone ; but who was to come near me through the snow? At last I fell asleejx Thank God, the snow has ceased !" " It is snowing still," said Madeleine. "Then how did you come?" asked the widow, looking on her with astonishment. " It was not snowing when I left home." " Well, but why did you come ?" almost harshly exclaimed the sick woman ; " I do not know you." " I knew that you were ill," calmly replied Made- leine ; " and when I saw that there no longer came any smoke from your chimney, I feared you were much worse. Besides," she added in a melancholy tone, " there are some in this world, doomed to a life of solitude, who can risk more than others ; who may take on themselves tasks neglected by the happier ones ; I am of these." " And so you came through the snow to see me, a stranger, whilst all in Mont-Saint-Jean would have let me die here alone," said the Avidow, in a tone so low and gentle, that Madeleine looked up with surprise. Without making any direct reply, the young girl merely asked her how she felt. " Better, thank you." "This is a dreary place," observed Madeleine, looking round her ; " when the snow has ceased you must come down the hill with me ; I will give you a warm room." 4:2 MADELEINE The widow sliook her head. " I shall never leave this place alive," said she, sadly ; " I am dying." " Dying !" exclaimed Madeleine ; " you said you were better." " To die is to be better," answered the widow. Madeleine gazed on her with pitying surprise, for there was a bitterness in the tone of her who spoke thus which showed that the thought came from desj)air, and not from resignation. " You have suf- fered much," said she, sitting down near her, and drying her still wet garments oj^posite the fire. " Oh ! you may say that," exclaimed the woman, " you may say that. Look at me," said she, throw- ing back the grizzled and matted locks which shaded her haggard countenance. " I was once the prettiest girl in all Mont-Saint-Jean — every one said so. Well, see me now ; and yet I am not old." " I thought you were from Paris," said Made- leine. " Yes, they called me the Parisian, because when I came back no one knew me ; yet I had not beec thirty years away, and I knew all those whom I had left behind me ; but they had not suffered like me." Madeleine gazed on her with silent pity. The widow continued : " It is little more than twent^^-five years since I left this place a happy woman, with my husband and my child. "VVe went to Paris, where Mathurin became a water-carrier ; 'tis a hard trade for a woman, yet I assisted him, and every one called me still the handsome Jeanne. "We worked from morning till night, but we were happy for all that, for we loved one another, and our only wish was to put a little money by and come back with it to Mont- MADELEINE. 43 Saint-Jean, Well, we worked so hard, that after fit' teen years, we had saved five thousand francs." " And did you come back then ?" asked Madeleine. Jeanne smiled bitterly. " The rich are hard of heart," said she ; " Mathurin had confided our little all to a rich man whose business it was to take care of the money of other people and make it bring in more. One day that man went oft' to another coun- try, taking away all that did not belong to him, and our money with the rest. From that time I saw there was something at Mathurin's heart ; he said little, and worked as usual, for he knew that if he did not, his three children might starve. Our eldest son, who could have assisted us now, had been taken away from us to become a soldier, and only the younger ones remained. But one day he fell down in the street, like a horse when the burden is too heavy for him. When they brought him home, I saw in his eye that he could not live ; he knew as much himself, for he said to me, ' Jeanne, I shall never see Mont- Saint-Jean again !' and he heaved such a sigh, that I knew, for all the doctor could tell me, his heart was broken at that very hour. He never uttered another word, and died the next morning." " Alas !" sorrowfully said Madeleine, " you have indeed sufiered inuch ; your husband's death was doubtless a sad grief to you." " Yes," said the widow, in a tone of singular bit- terness, " I grieved that he had not died six months sooner ; for then," continued she, without noticing Madeleine's look of horror, " I should have been a widow, and they could not have taken away from me my son, my first-born child." 44: MADELEINE. " And did they not restore him to you ?" asked Madeleine, whose horror was now changed to deep pity. " Restore him !" echoed Jeanne. " ITo, it was easy enough to take him away from us, but God alone could now have ffiven him back : he was killed in battle the clay before his father's death. The people all said there was a great victory won, and I recollect that on the evening of Mathurin's burial the city was lit up, and there were great rejoicings. God foi'give me for it, but when I saw how happy the people looked who passed by, as though a victory were such a glorious thing, I almost wished, in the bitterness of my heart, that they had lost a son like me ; where ;vould have been their gayety then ?" " jSTay," gravely said Madeleine, " that was a sin- ful wish." " Why then did they mock me with their mirth, their fireworks, and their rejoicings ?" fiercely ex- claimed the widow. " He had not asked to become a soldier; but they took him away from his peaceful and honest calling — to kill him !" " That is, indeed, a hard law which sends men to death," sadly rejoined Madeleine, " but I have heard tliat conscripts can be bought ofl" with money." " Yes," gloomily replied the widow, " the rich can give gold, but the poor must give the flesh and blood of their children."* There was a fierce energy in thvi tone of this woman who had suffered so much, which startled the quiet and thoughtful Madeleine. With a feeling ol * Tlic new French constit'ition will no longer allow this iniquHoua distinction ; rich and poor must alike take the chance of war. MADELEINE. 45 sad siu'prise she began to understand tlie deep wretch- edness daily endured by thousands in a h\rge city. She remained a while wra|)ped in silent thought, and then observed — " "What did you do after your husband's death ?" " I worked : ay, the very day he was buried 1 worked ; the poor have no time for idle sorrow." "And did you succeed in earning a liveli- hood?" " Yes, if to be half-starved is to live. Yet God knows there was nothing I did not try to do ; but what are a woman's earnings ? and I had three chil- dren. I was now too weak and broken down to carry water ; no one called me any longer the handsome Jeanne. I stayed at home and did a little needle- work ; I washed, I ironed, I did every thing that could give us bread, and yet we never had enough. Eight weary years passed away; two of my children died, and I believe in my heart that misery killed them. Though sorely grieved, I thought I might now be more at ease, and earn at least enough for myself and my remaining child ; but long toil had taken all my strength away : I fell ill and could not work, and 3^et I was hungry. Some poor peoj^le who lived in the house were very kind to me, but their kindness was a weight to my soul ; for, though the bread they gave me prevented me and my child from starving, I knew that every morsel was taken from the mouths of their own children. A rich lady at length heard of my miserable state and came to see me, bringing me money and food, so that for some time, at least, star- vation was kept away." " How grateful you must 'have felt !" said Made- 46 MADELEINE. leiue, whose heart -wiirmed towards the benevolent lady as she spoke. " Grateful !" harshly exclaimed the widow, " and for what ? because she e;ave me food 1 Had not my child and I as good a right to eat our daily bread as she had ? and had I not earned that bread until then by the sweat of my brow, whilst she lived in luxury and idleness? No, no, Madeleine, I did not feel grateful, and, though she was kind, yet in my heart I hated and I envied her." Madeleine was struck with dismay at this display of a bad and malignant feeling, of which she coukl not until then have suspected the existence ; she did not know all that misery will produce in the human heart. The widow doubtless read her thoughts on her expressive countenance, for she observed in a bitter tone — " I know what you think ; you mean to say, like the rich, that were you to give ever so mucli to the poor still they would not be satisfied, that they are a thankless race ; but I tell you, Madeleine, that it is the rich who are hard-liearted. What do you think that rich, kind lady said to me when I complained of the toil which had witliered my youth before my time ? She told me that toil was the curse which God had laid upon xldam and his children ! I could have laughed to hear her speak so ; there she stood before me clothed in rich silks, and with rings on her fingers, one of which could have saved me and mine from all the miserj^ we had endm'ed. It came to my lips to ask her wliat toil had been hers during the whole of her idle life ; to know whether the cmvse was only for tlie poor'; whether they alone were MADELEINE. 47 descended from Adam ; but I thought that if 1 offended her she wouki give ns nothing, and I was silent." There was something in this speech, notwithstand- ing the selfish feelings it displayed, and the fierce tone of the widow, which came home to Madeleine's heart with a sense of truth ; she looked up to Jeanne and said earnestly — " You are right ; God never placed us upon this earth that we might starve ; there must be something wrong." " I know it," replied the widow, " yet it was a long time before I found it out ; but sufi'erinoj tauo-ht me many things, and that amongst the rest. How often have I sat alone in my garret, faint with fast- ing, thinking of the rich corn which covered the earth, of the flocks that fed upon the hills, of the sunny fruit that grew in the valleys, until I asked myself why I and my child had not a share of those good things which God had meant for all his crea- tures. Oh ! Madeleine, it stirred bitterness in my heart to think of the malice of man ! I have told you many of my sorrows, but the last and deepest I have not told. It was when the rich lady was gone from Paris. I was recovering, and she left me some money ; but before it was all spent I tried to work again in order to save it. ^7ould to God I had not done so ! I soon grew worse than befoi'e ; our money only lasted a little while, and we were more wretched than ever — we were starving ! AYhat would you do, Madeleine, if that was your case ?" she added with startling suddenness, and riveting her glassy eyes on the young girPs countenance. 4S MADELEINE. "What would I do?" eclioed Madeleine; "I should work, or, if I could not, pray." " You would not steal ?" asked the widow. " God forbid !" cried Madeleine, aghast at the mere idea ; " did you steal, Jeanne?" " 'No, but she did." "Who did?" " My child, Mathurine — I had called her so for the sake of her father ; she was then about nine years old ; poor child, one day she felt hungry, and took a loaf from a baker's shop ; she was caught in the act, and led before a magistrate, who told her how sinful in the poor it was to steal. ' But if you were hungry, sir, would you not wish to eat ?' said Mathurine, and a woman who was there told me that the magistrate remained dumb, and could make her no answer. He said the child was too young to be punished, and so she was brought back to me. The baker told me how sorry he felt to have made all this stir, but he did not know the child was really hungry. He was a good man, and though y>ooy himself, he sent us from that time a loaf every week. Oh, how my heart yearned towards that man !" " And did Mathurine steal again ?" asked Made- leine. " ISTo," answered the widow, in a tone which made tlie young girl's heart sink within her ; " she died !" " Oh ! it was a hard, a bitter trial," she continued after a short pause. " I had loved her more tlian aught else on earth ; and, God forgive me for the sin, but when any of my other children died I was glad with all my sorrow that it was not she. When eveiy tiling was over, a doctor came to learn, as he said, MADELEINE. 49 the cause of her death ; he told me it was consump- tion, for he could always give names to the illnesses of my children ; but I knew that they had been kill- ed by one disease, and that was hunger. For two days I sat by the body of my child, for, though I was aware that she was truly dead, I did not wish to be- lieve it. People came in and out of the room, and pitied my sorrow, yet they all agreed that the poor child's death was a relief and a mercy of God. I heard them and said nothing ; but when I looked on the stiff, cold corpse of my Mathurine, and remem- bered the gay, merry thing she had been, I could not think it a mercy that she was dead. About that time a great lady in the neighborhood lost her little boy ; they said that grief nearly made her mad, and I pit- ied her. But when I heard those who had told me it was a mercy for Mathurine to be taken away, de- clare that the lady's misfortune was great, and that the hand of God was heavy upon her, then my heart sickened within me, and I thought I would come home here to die." " God help thee, poor creature," said Madeleine, with deep pity ; " thou hast indeed suifered much." " I suffered still more when I came back. It broke my heart to see again the place where I had been so happy, and which I had left with my husband, think- ing then to return a rich woman with a house and lands of my own, but where I now appeared a poor and lonely wanderer." These worldly thoughts grated on Madeleine's spirit. " "What !" said she meekly, but in a tone of Bm*prise, " you wished to become rich ?" " And why not V harshly asked the widow. 3 50 MADELEINE " Why should I not wish to become rich like every one?" " You say that the rich are all hard of heart ?" " So they are. But, though I should become hard to the poor like them, is that a reason why I should not seek to enjoy all their comforts ? "What should 'I then care for the poor ?" " I^ay, this is wrong, very wrong," sorrowfully said Madeleine, " and I know that you think not as you speak," " You are right, I do not," replied the widow ; " but my heart is changed from what it was once. "What has the world done for me that I should love it ? It has let me live. Why was I starving ? Why did I see my children die from hunger, when others had more wealth than they could spend ? I once said to a pious man that it seemed to my poor judgment the world would be better arranged if all human crea- tures shared in its wealth alike, and there were nei- ther rich nor poor. He told me my wish was a sin- ful one ; that it was flying in the face of God's will and the order of his providence. I asked him if it was the will of God that I should starve, or in the order of his providence that I should commit some sin in order to be able to live ? He could not answer me. Oh ! Madeleine, think how bad and cruel the world must be when good and pious men will say such things !" " Well, but what is to be done?" asked Madeleine, sorely puzzled. " I know not," abruptly answered the widow; "I am a poor, ignorant woman : how should I ? But there are wise men in the land paid to find out every MADELEINE. 51 thing ; let them find out that." And, with a smile of unutterable bitterness, she sank back on her pallet, exhausted bj the exertions of the last half hour. Madeleine pressed her to take some refi-eshment, but she refused ; she could not eat, she said, and the only beverage she would taste was a little wine dilu- ted with water. This seemed to cool the fever within her, and in a short time she sank into a deep sleep. Madeleine sat by her bedside wrapped in a thought- ful and melancholy mood. The sick woman's narra- tive had made a deep impression upon her mind : it had shown her that, though in villages like Mont- Saint-Jean there might reign a certain equality, that is to say, that all were poor, though some might be poorer than the rest, yet in that other world, of which she knew nothing, the case was diiferent ; for there lived the luxurious rich and the starving poor side by side, and often beneath the same roof. " Has God, then, made some of his creatures merely to suffer ?" sorrowfully thought Madeleine. But she immedi- ately discarded the idea as a blasphemy. " It can- not be," she earnestly repeated to herself, " it cannot be ; God is all goodness ; the fault must be with man ; He will take his own time to alter this, and perhaps inspire one of those wise men of whom Jeanne spoke with the means of relieving the suffering poor." As she dwelt upon it, this idea strengthened itself in Madeleine's mind : her perfect faith banished the doubt which, for the first time perhaps, had entered there. The cloud passed away from her spirit, and, in her renewed confidence, she wondered how she could have mistrusted the power and goodness of God. 52 MADELEINE CHAPTER y. The next day found the widow mucli more com- posed and also mucli weo.ker. The snow had ceased, but the weather was still cloudy and overcast, and the sick woman complained of cold, though her bed lay near the fire, which Madeleine supplied plentifully from the faggots sent by the curate. Jeanne looked upon her with a grateful glance, and often urged her to take some food, or at all events to rest a while ; for whenever she had chanced to wake in the night she had seen Madeleine sitting by her bedside, watching her troubled slumbers and telling her rosary. Madeleine, who was somewhat surj^rised at the change in her tone and manners, felt still more aston- ished when the sick woman observed, in a low and subdued voice, " Madeleine, you must forgive me all the mad and sinful things which I said yesterday ; but, God hel}) me, I have suffered much, and at times I have thought I should go mad. You see, Madeleine, there are some who can suffer quietly ; who can feel their hearts break within them : ay, who can die, without uttering a word. But I was never of these ; I could not bid my grief be silent ; and when I was starving, I felt that life was still too strong within me to be given up without a murmur. It was only when my sorrow was too great for utterance that I did not com- plain ; and then people thought me resigned. Yes- terday I dare say I said that which was wrong ; and MADELEINE. 53 jet who can tell? To-day at least I have a more Christian feeling, and I can forgive the rich." This woman talked so boldly of forgiveness and of her wi'ongs, that Madeleine began to think that she might be justified in doing so ; that she might have the right of forgiving those who had let her and her children die of want ; and that they had wronged her, though perchance they knew not of her exist- ence : still she was glad to mark her altered frame of mind, and she said so. The widow smiled sadly : " Why, you see, Made- leine," said she, " it behooves the dying to forgive every thing." " Dying !" exclaimed Madeleine ; " nay, Jeanne, you look better than yesterday." " Yes ; but my pulse is low, and I can scarcely feel the beating of my heart. Madeleine, I have learned to know the signs of death from those I most loved on earth." Madeleine said nothing; but as she marked the sharp, pinched features of the sick woman, her thin lips, cold glassy eyes, and low altered voice, she could not help thinking that she had said the truth, and was indeed drawing near her last hour. " Madeleine," said Jeanne, after a short silence, " I am not afraid to die, yet I am sad ; I know not why. Yesterday you appeared to me like one near whom grief could not come ; have you never known sorrow T' " I have," calmly said Madeleine, " I have known deep sorrows, but God always seemed to make them pass away from my spirit like the dark clouds fron) heaven." 54 MADELEINE, " But why are you happy ?" urged the sick woman. " Because God is good," answered the young girl. " Ah ! why then did he let my children die?" sor- rowfully asked Jeanne. " You say that this is a sad world ; perhaps it was to spare them the grief and misery which are in it " " But why has God made the world sad ?" said the widow, looking wistfully at Madeleine. " Alas ! I know not," answered she, shaking her head doubtfully, for this was a question to which her philosophy suggested no rej)ly. The sick woman tossed restlessly about upon her couch, and Madeleine seemed lost in deep thought. " Madeleine," at length said Jeanne, " tell me something that may comfort me, for my heart sinks within me." " "What can I tell you ?" gently asked Madeleine. " Tell me that God is good, though this world is so hard to the poor ; and that he loves them though he lets them suffer." " And do you then doubt the goodness of God ? do you think that he forsakes the poor ?" sorrowfully asked Madeleine. " Did he not send his Son on earth to suffer with them { and did he not say, ' Blessed are they that weep, for they shall be comforted V " " Say that again," eagerly exclaimed Jeanne, " it does my soul good to hear you : say that again." Madeleine did so. " And yet," continued the widow, " why does he let them suffer and weep ?" " Alas ! I know not," again sadly replied Made leine; " I wish I knew, that I might tell you: but oh ! Jeanne, whatever you say of tho world and the rich, do not, oh ! do not doubt the goodness of God." MADELEINE, 55 Madeleine had uttered these words m an earnest and solemn tone : and as she stood hy that bed oi the dying, with her hands clasi3ed, and her eyes raised to heaven in the intensity of her feeling, dis- carding those vain and worn-ont arguments which prove nothing, but full of trust in that inward voice which never yet deceived the heart of man when he listened to it sincerely, she looked the picture of liv- ing faith — of that faith which is strong within its own strength, and turns to heaven without earthly alloy. "I believe you," said the widow earnestly, and raising herself on her elbow to look at Madeleine ; " you would not say so if you did not think it was true ; I believe you." And she sank down once more upon her couch, closing her eyes as though she wished to sleep. Madeleine took a seat near her bed, and fell into a deep fit of musing. A quarter of an hour had scarcely elapsed when the sick woman opened her eyes ; she had not been asleep, but thinking. " Madeleine," said she abruptly, " do you knov>^ what makes me believe most in the goodness of God ?" "ISTo," said Madeleine, looking up, " what is it?" " It is that in all my troubles I found some of his creatures willing to help me. Those peoj^le who gave me food when I was ill were very j)oor : the baker too was poor, and yet he gave me bread ; and you, Madeleine, did you not come through the snow that I might not die alone ? Ah ! if there is still so much goodness in this wicked world, how good must Hebe!" Madeleine made no reply ; no argument Wiis needed to impress her with the goodness of God ; and the widow, whose hands were clasped as though in prayer, 56 MADELEINE. did not seem to i-equire an answer ; her eyes closed once more, and by her breathing Madeleine soon ascertained that she was now sleeping. The yonng girl then took her missal, which she had brought with her, and began reading in a low tone the prayers appointed for the sick. The widow slept for several hours. It was night when she awoke, and there was no other light in the cottage save that afforded by the fire, which still burned brightly on the hearth. When she opened her eyes and spoke to Madeleine, the young girl perceived that her life was ebbing fast away ; for her words came incoherently forth, and her eyes were glazed and dim. She also complained of cold ; and though Madeleine chafed her limbs assiduously, it it seemed as though nothing could dispel their icy chillness. The sick woman thanked her by a glance full of gratitude, but she signed her to desist from her useless efforts. " Do you not feel warmer now ?" asked Made- leine. " I see that you are rubbing my feet, but I do not feel you doing so," answered Jeanne, feebly : " it is all of no use, Madeleine, my hour is come. What time is it ?" she asked, after a pause. " It has been night for some time ; it must be now about six." " How is the weather?" " It is snowing: ac-ain." " Oh ! my God, my God," anxiously nnittered Je- anne. " What is the matter ?" gently asked Madeleine. " Oh ! I am thinking that I am going to die. I 5IADELEINE. 57 know that I cannot live beyond this night ; and that if this snow lasts yon will perhaps be shut up here with ray dead body ; that would be dreadful, Madeleine." "There is no fear of the cottage being blocked up," answered Madeleine, " for the wind drives the snow from it." This assurance comforted Jeanne for a moment, but, with that restlessness peculiar to the sick, she asked the next minute if it were snowincr still. " Yes, but the snow is very thin," answered Made- leine. " Well, but the road will perhaps be too bad for you to go down," said the widow, " and you will die of cold and hunger up here." " I have still provisions in my basket for several days, and the people of Mont-Saint-Jean will know that when the smoke ceases something has happened to me." " Will you not be afraid ?" " Afraid of what V simply asked Madeleine. " Of remaining alone with a corpse," sadly an- swered the widow. " 'No, why should I fear ? I know that even if you could hurt me you would'not." "You are right, I would not ; and when my poor husband and my children died I never felt afraid of them." " Well, then, I shall not fear you," said Madeleine. "What is the matter?" she added, as Jeanne, whose glance was fixed upon the wall, seemed to be clasing something away from her bedside with her hands. She made no reply, and Madeleine renewed her question. 3- 58 MADELEINE. " I know not how it is," said the widow, in a faintj low tone, " a while ago I seemed to tbink it a relief to die, but now I am afraid. Where do we go when we die ?" " To heaven," devoutly said Madeleine, to whose mind the idea of any other place had never perhaps seriously offered itself. " Oh ! heaven must be a long way from earth," exclaimed Jeanne, in a wearied tone, and like one whose head sinks from the prospect of a long and tedious journey ; " but my time is come, and I must go ; I should have wished to have confessed my sins to a priest before I died, yet God's will be done. There is not much that lies heavy on my soul since T last received absolution ; still I wish the cure were here to speak to me, for oh ! my soul, it is faint and sick at the thousrht of death." '' I cannot talk to you like the cure^'' said Made- leine, meekly, " but I have my prayer-book here ; will it comfort you if I read something out of it ?" " Yes, yes, do," almost eagerly exclaimed the dying woman, " read me the litanies for the dvinc; ; it will do my soul good in this last struggle." Madeleine knelt at the foot of the bed, and, open- ing her prayer-book at the litanies, whicli, according to the Roman ritual, form j)art of the recommenda- tion of a departing soul, she read them in a slow and solemn tone, whilst the voice of Jeanne faintly uttered the responses. AVhen the litanies were ended, Madeleine gazed on the face of the sick woman ; she saw that her glance was fixed and dim, and that her spirit was nearly departing. She then rose, and in a low, tremulous MADELEINE. 59 tone read the following beautiful adjui-ation ; " Go forth, thou Christian soul, out of this world, iu the name of God the Father Almighty, who created thee : in the name of Jesus Christ, the Son of the living God, who suffered for thee : in the name of the Holy Ghost, who sanctified thee : in the name of the Angels, Archangels, Thrones, and Dominations, Cher- ubim and SerajDhim : in the name of the Patriarchs and Prophets, of the Holy Apostles and Evangelists, of the holy Martyrs, Confessors, Monks, and Hermits, of the Holy Yirgins, and of all the Saints of God : may thy place be this day in j^eace, and thy abode in Holy Sion. Through Christ our Lord." Madeleine paused ; no voice responded Amen ; a strange stillness pervaded the room ; she listened, but all was silent. At last she looked towards the bed ; she was alone ; the spirit had fled, and naught save the mortal clay was there. For a few seconds Madeleine gazed with silent and involuntary awe on the face of the dead, then she sank on her knees, and prayed fervently for the soul that had left its earthly home. And thus she passed away the night in vigil and prayer, whilst the fire burned dimly on the hearth, and the snow drifted by the cottage window. CHAPTER VI. Makie Michon's grief on seeing Madeleine dej)art, in Bpite of her entreaties, on her dangerous errand of love, had been in proportion to the afiection she bore 60 MADELEINE her. But when she found herself alone other thoughts came to her mind ; she felt afraid, she knew not ol what, though the neighborhood of the old cemetery certainly did not tend to increase her sense of secu- rity. Marie was naturally superstitious, and her education had rendered her still more so ; the thought of remaining alone, near the abodes of the dead, filled her with inward terror ; and, as the snow had ceased to fall, she soon resolved on leaving Madeleine's cot tage and returning to her parents. She arrived at their dwellino; in safetv, and found them mnch alarmed by her long absence. She soon diverted their feelings of uneasiness or surprise from her own case by relating to them how Madeleine had gone to visit the sick widow, who lived on the sum- of the eastern hill. Tlie news spread rapidly through Mont-Saint- Jean. The astonishment and alarm were universal, for the oldest and most experienced mountaineers de- clared that it was a miracle if Madeleine escaped, as a snow-storm was coming on, the like of which had not been seen for many years. The event showed the truth of this prediction, for in the com'se of the after- noon, and when it was surmised that Madeleine must still be engaged in her ascent — as was the case — the snow began to fall, and soon became so dense and heavy that the widow's cottage vanished in the mist. It snowed dm-ing the whole of the day, and all night long. The greatest anxiety prevailed in the mean time concerning Madeleine's fate ; some conjec- tured that she had been lost in the snow, or had mis- taken her path and fallen into one of the deep ra- vines loiown to exist on the slope of the hill ; and MADELEINE. 61 all agreed that, if she still lived, it could only be through the most manifest intervention of Providence Marie Michon was in despair, and her faith in the truth of the presentiment which assured her that she should never see her dear Madeleine again became stronger every minute. The morning was dark and cloudy, the tnow had ceased, but, though almost all the inhabitants of the village assembled at an early hour around the stone cross which stood op^^osite the church of Mont- Saint-Jean — this spot being that which commanded the best view of the eastern hill — they could see nothing yet ; a thick mist still intervened between them and the cottage which they so anxiously longed to behold. An horn' of suspense thus elapsed ; at length the wind rose, the mist began to roll slowly away from the valley which lay between Mont-Saint- Jean and the eastern hill ; for some time it still floated gracefully around its rocky brow, but sud- denly, and as if parted asunder by violence, it opened, disclosing the snow-covered cottage, which rose in faint relief on the white background of the hill. Marie Michon, who was standing on the highest step of the cross, now bent forward ; her strained eyes were eagerly fixed on the cottage for a few seconds, then a cry burst from her lips : " The smoke, the smoke !" she exclaimed, clasping her hands together, and sinking down on her knees in a transport of joy. A faint blue streak which slowly ascended from the chimney of the cottage was indeed visible to every eye. All anxiety was over for the present ; the joy- ful news immediately spread through the village, and 63 MADELEINE. M. Bignon the little cure^ who bad been waiting foi the result with trembling anxiety like the rest, hastened in out of the cold to convey the tidings to his old housekeeper. As for Marie Michon, she declared repeatedly that this was her happiest day. The mist which had thus been dispelled for a mo- ment soon rose again from the valley, and shrouded both the hill and the cottage in its dim recesses ; but as the safety of Madeleine was now ascertained, all anxiety ceased for the time being. The next morn- ing, however, a crowd, though not so numerous as on the preceding day, again assembled on the Place, op- posite the church. Marie took her stand at the foot of the cross, where, notwithstanding the intense cold, she eagerly waited until the mists should melt away, and the cottage be seen once more. She was the first to perceive it when the mist slowly rolled away from the brow of the hill ; but, though the tall chimney was fully as visible as on the preceding day, no smoko now issued from it. She looked again and again, but in vain ; all those around her were equally unfortu- nate ; they saw the chimney, but not even the slight- est trace of smoke. Marie's heart sank within her ; her presentiment returned with all its force ; she felt quite sure that Madeleine must be dead, that she had been frozen with the cold during the night, and her tears flowed fast as she came to this conclusion. But, at the very moment when she declared that such must be the case, she spared no entreaties to induce those around her to make an effort to rescue Madeleine. When she spoke, however, of the practicability ot reaching the summit of the eastern hill, the old moim taineers shook their heads doubtfully, though tliey all MADELEINE. 63 agi-eed " that the girl who had gone up there to re- lieve a dying Christian should not be allowed to perish without an effort on their part to save her." "May heaven bless and reward you!" fervently exclaimed. Marie. " Shall I run and fetch you what you want ?" " Thank you," coolly answered one of the men who had offered themselves for this dangerous service; " all that is very well, of course, but you need not be in such a hurry to fetch our things, my good girl, we shall not set out for another hour yet." " ]^ot for another hour !" exclaimed Marie in a tone of dismay. " Oh ! blessed Virgin ! Madeleine will perhaps be dead by that time." " Why you see, Marie," calmly observed the man, v,ho, having more experience than his comrades, was to act as guide, " we have all wives and children, and we cannot throw our lives madly away ; the sky is getting darker and darker, and before the hour is past the weather will either clear up or there will be an- other snow-storm, worse than that of before yester- day ; in the first case there is risk, but it is such as men may brave, and we will go." " And if the storm does come on V anxiously asked Marie. " If the storm does come on," gravely replied the peasant, " the will of God must be done." " "What do you mean to say ?" inquired Marie, with a sinking heart. " I mean to say," answered the mountaineer, " that it is in heaven Madeleine must put her trust, and not in the helj) of man." "But what will you do?" urged the young girl G4 MADELEINE, "We will stay." All indignant exclamation rose to Marie's lips, but Blie repressed it ; of what use would it have been ? But never bad an hour passed so slowly away for her as that which now followed, and never had she watched with such deep attention the state of the weather. For nearly half an hour it remained undecided ; at the end of that time, however, the sky became gradu- ally overcast. Marie did not dare to question the men who were smoking near her, but she endeavored to read the truth on their stolid countenances. The silence they preserved increased her fears ; for some time she hardly ventured to look at the church clock, lest she should find the hour which had been ap- pointed nearly elapsed ; and when it struck at last, the glance which she cast on the lowering sky was so full of grief that one of the men, taking pity on her distress, observed, " You may make your mind easy, Marie, there will be no storm this morning." " May God be praised !" she fervently exclaimed, relieved by these few words from all her fears. The men now lost no time in preparing for their exjiedition ; but first one thing was forgotten just when all the rest were ready, and then another again, so that, though it only lasted a few minutes, the whole seemed an age to Marie. At length, however, and to her infinite satisfaction, the men were all prej)ared and ready to start. They had taken leave of their wives and children, and had, cap in hand, ofiered up a brief prayer in the church ; their brandy flasks were firmly fixed in their leathern belts, and they each held that long staif, the indispensable companion of the mountaineer. But, as the foremost man was taking MADELEINE. 65 the steep path which led to the eastern hill, Marie suddenly arrested him hy laying her hand npon his arm, and observing, in a low tone, " Jean, what black speck is that which is moving down the hill ?" The man followed the direction of her eye and, after a brief pause, exclaimed, "It is a human being 1" Every glance was now riveted on the black speck, which moved so slowly that many averred it was stationary. Jean and Marie, however, kept to their opinion, which was confirmed by M. Bignon the parish priest, who, after looking through his pocket telescope, declared that it was a woman, and that she was coming down the hill. " Is it Madeleine, Sir ?" eagerly asked Marie. " I cannot see her features, but she wears a gray cloak." "Then it is her," exclaimed Marie joyfall3\ But as she looked at the mountaineers near her, and marked the ominous glances which they exchanged, she anxiously asked if there was any danger for Madeleine. "There is, and great danger," gravely answered Jean, "danger which we cannot prevent, for long before we could reach the peak where she is now Madeleine will either be amongst us in safety or every thing will be over." And, taking the telescope from the hands of the priest, the man looked through it, shook his head, and passed it to his neighbor. After looking like the rest and distinctly recognizing Madeleine, Marie, who felt as thougli it would choko her to utter a word, sat down on the stone step of tho cross, and anxiously watched the slow progress of her 66 MADELEINE. friend. A quarter of an hour had thus elapsed when the form of Madeleine was suddenly concealed from the view of all those on the Place by a small wood ot pines which clothed the foot of the hill. The men looked at one another. " Ay," said Jean, with a clouded brow, " now is the time for Madeleine to have a steady stej) and a cool head." " "Why so ?" asked Marie, though she understood their meaning but too well. "Why! know you not that when she leaves the wood she has to cross the Black Hole, over a bridge of rock not much more than a foot wide, and covered with snow besides. I say it again, now is the time for her to have a steady stej? and a cool head." Marie buried her face in her hands. " If she crosses it safely," continued Jean, " and though it is narrow it is not long, the rest will be mere child's play to her, for, by the way in which she came down the hill, she does not seem one to be frightened by a stumble or a false step." " How long do you think it will take her to be here ?" asked Marie, looking up. " About half an hour," he answered, after a mo- ment's pause ; " for you see, though the way she took is a dangerous one, it is also short ; and if she is not here by that time, you may conclude that all is not right."' Marie looked at the church clock ; it wanted twenty minutes to twelve. Though the hand moved slowly along, she could not keep her eyes off it ; at last the hour struck; ten minutes more and Made- leine's fate would be known. Tlie ten minutes MADELEINE. 67 passed away, yet no human form appeared along the steep path which led from the eastern hill to the village. The poor girl's heart sank within her ; and in every coimtenance she read the confirmation ol her fears. The cure^ who was pale with anxiety, now approached Jean, and observed, " I am afraid, Jean, something has happened to this poor child." " I fear so, too. Monsieur le Cure ; but indeed it was a rash thing for her to attempt to cross the Plack Hole over a rock covered with snow." "What can be done?" asked M. Bimion. " ITothing, Sir ; but we can, if you like, go and see what has become of her ; man can do no more." " Perhaps," here interposed Marie in a tremulous tone, " Madeleine has only taken another path, and has no intention of coming hither now ?" "ISTay," said Jean, shaking his head in tokei. of dissent, " this cannot be. Knowest thou not, Marie, that the snow has blocked up all the paths leading from the eastern hill save this one, and this she must have seen as soon as she left the wood? 1:^0, no, Madeleine was on her way hither, and something, I fear, must have happened to her ; at all events we will go and see." "I will go with you," said Marie rising. Every one present remonstrated with her ; for even this expedition was not without danger ; but Marie was resolved to go, and heeded not their representa- tions. " Living or dead, I wiH see Madeleine once more," she said, in a tone which silenced her advisers. But scarcely had the little party proceeded a few steps, when Jean's watchful eye detected something 68 MADELEINE. moving along the piues whicli grew in the valley at their feet. Marie, wrapped in melancholj reflection, saw nothing. When Jean, however, tapped her shoulder, and bade her look up, she started, then stopped short, pale and trembling. "It is either Madeleine or her spirit !" she at length exclaimed. It was indeed Madeleine herself, who, unconscions of the anxiety felt on her account, was slowly coming up the path. On perceiving her the little escort paused ; but Marie ran to meet her friend. " Oh ! Madeleine," she cried, clasping her arms round her neck, " how much anxiety you have made us endure !" " I am indeed sorry for this," replied Madeleine, with a concerned air, as she returned the embrace of iier friend ; " but when the snow ceased I tliought it best to come." When Madeleine reached the place, the satisfaction became universal. On understandino; the uneasiness which had been felt on her account, and the efforts on the point of being made in order to rescue her from her supposed danger, she warmly thanked those who had volunteered to come to her assistance, and was evidently moved by the general sympathy mani- fested for her. But when the priest, seeing how wet her clothes were with the snow, wanted her to enter his house, where dame Ursula would provide her with a change of raiment, " If you please. Sir," calmly answered Madeleine, " I shall first go into the church and return thanks to God for my preservation." In a few minutes Madeleine's devotions were over, and she entered the house of the cure^ where every MADELEINE. 69 tliino- that could tend to her comfort was devised. When M. Bignon, however, after hearing the account of her adventures, praised her heroism, Madeleine seemed surprised, and observed, with her usual sim- plicity, " Kaj, Sir, I was the poor woman's nearest neighbor ; was it not then my duty to go and see her V CHAPTER VII. On the evening of the day on which Madeleine had returned to Mont-Saint-Jean, the snow fell so lieavily that those who had accused her of rashness now confessed she had acted prudently in leaving the cottage. It continued to snow for a week, until the end of which time it was impossible to go to the eastern hill in order to give the widow's remains decent burial. Even then this was not effected with- out considerable difficulty. The interment of the poor woman, whom almost every one had neglected so long as she lived, attracted a large number of per- sons. The chief source of interest, however, was the presence of Madeleine, who seemed unconscious not only of this fact, but even that she had done any thing worthy of admiration. " For," as she always observed when addressed on this subject, " was she not the widow's nearest neigli- bor?" There are few virtues so much admired by unin- formed minds as courage. The disregard of danger manifested by Madeleine in undertaking her expedi- tion, and the coolness which had enabled her to bring TO MADELEINE, it to an end in safety, were therefore more valued in Mont-Saint-Jean than the noble motive of Christian charity which had led her to the widow's cottage. Hitherto she had only been the solitary girl who lived near the churchyard, or poor Madeleine whom Mau- rice had left for Rosette Besson ; but now she became the brave Madeleine who had gone up to the eastern hill in the snow-storm. If she had been inclined to act the part of a village heroine, Madeleine certainly possessed an excellent opportunity of doing so. 'No- thing, however, was farther removed from her thoughts. She remained the same simple, retiring maiden she had ever been ; and, as she sought not to keep up her reputation for bravery by any feat of darins:, the matter soon ceased to be the theme of wonder and admiration. Madeleine, however, did not so soon forget all that had passed between her and the widow, whose his- tory had made a deep impression npon her mind, by showing her how much misery and suffering reigned in the world. The more she reflected on the subject, the more she felt confirmed in a resolve which she liad taken since her parting with Maurice, but which was as yet known to herself alone. "I never knew all this before," she inwardly thought; " then, may there not be misery in Mont- Saint-Jean of which I am unaware ; and, even if there is, can I change this ?" But, though Madeleine knew that she was herself only a poor peasant girl, that her power was limited, she also felt that every individual, however humble, can aid others more humble still. Living as she did alone, Madeleine had leisure to MADELEINE. 71 think. She was of a speculative, though not of an inquiring disposition ; if she did not seek to extend her information, it was because she could have no definite object in doing so. Madeleine was ignorant, and those onlj who have made some progress in knowledge can value it for its own sake, and feel that it is always useful. But, notwithstanding those disadvantages, there was a characteristic in her mind which could not have failed to strike any one in the least given to metaphysical observation : it was, that whenever a fact offered itself to her as sufiiciently remarkable to be remembered, she never dismissed it from her thoughts until she had examined it in all its bearings, and this she did with a tenacity and acute- ness which might well have excited admiration in persons greatly her superiors in knowledge. In the present case the fact which struck Made- leine was, that the poor suffered in a manner which could never have been intended by their beneficent Creator, and that they had a right to relief. She re- membered that the widow had forgiven the rich on her death bed, and, on comparing this fact with her sad history, she could not help coming to the conclu- sion, that when a human being dies of want or misery the whole community are to blame, and ought in reality to be held answerable for that being's death. But, granting this to be the case, what was she to do ? Could she alter a state of things which had been en- during for ages, and would probably endure for ages still ? She could not, but she might at least do her share, and an inward voice told Madeleine that if every one adopted this principle the whole world would soon be right. Her first step was to ascertain 72 MADELEINE. the exact amount of poverty which prevailed in Mont- Saint-Jean. This she did in her own quiet and silent maimer ; and, though people wondered why she now came so often to the village, visiting the j^oorest cot- tages in preference to the more comfortable dwellings, none suspected her real motives. Madeleine already knew that there were many poor families in her native place, but she had not been prepared for the extent of the wretchedness which she now witnessed. Iler first impulse was to relieve the poverty of the miser- able suflerers by giving them money and food ; but, though this plan succeeded in some cases, it failed in many others. The money was often squandered away in an improvident manner, and the food so soon con- sumed, that Madeleine wondered whether she had really done any good by her charity. She soon per- ceived, indeed, that the poor are too frequently their own enemies ; but with a truly Christian spirit she attributed this to their condition. She did not, like so many individuals, divide society into two classes — the wise rich and the foolish poor. A little experience taught her that human nature was the same in the aristocrats and the plebeians of Mont-Saint-Jean, though she saw that it is unfortunately the fate of poverty to bring out the recklessness and improvi- dence which increase its evils. But, though Madeleine always came to the conclu- sion that the poor, such as they are, have a right to relief, or, to sj^eak more plainly, that the mere act of living gives us all an equal right to live, she often asked herself, when she saw how soon her means of administering this relief would be exhausted, whether she had adopted the best method of etfecting her MADELEINE. 73 object. The thought was one well worthy of con- sideration, and henceforth it became uppermost in Madeleine's mind. Amongst the individuals whom she assisted in the village was a poor, old, blind woman, whom her in- firmity rendered wholly dependent on the aid of oth- ers, Madeleine, pitying her sad condition, was never weary of giving her food, and made it a rule not to come to Mont-Saint-Jean without paying her a visit. But, though she supplied almost all her wants, the old woman never seemed satisfied; and Madeleine learned with some surprise that she received from various quarters almost as much as she gave her : that consequently she had more than enough. The fact, however, admitted of an easy explanation. Mother Pierre's blindness made her w^aste much that was useful ; then it would happen that perhaps on the very same day when Madeleine had been giving her some soup. Dame Ursula brought her a dishful, whilst the next day she got nothing ; thus she often had too much, and often not enough, Madeleine soon understood this, and she saw that, much as was given to her. Mother Pierre might frequently be in want. In order to remedy this evil, she resolved to take the old woman home with her. "When she proposed this to her, Mother Pierre accepted it joyfully, for the na- ture of her infirmity rendered a solitary life doubly irksome to her. One evening she accordingly went home with Madeleine, to the great surprise of the villagers, who wondered what she could possibly want with her. Madeleine spared nothing to render her guest com- fortable ; she gave her up the best bed, and attended 4 74 MADELEINE. to all liei' wants "with the tender care of a devoted daughter. Though neither Madeleine's expenses nor her trouble were lessened by this arrangement, she was satisfied with it, for she felt conscious that she had thus relieved the community from the burden of supporting Mother Pierre. She knew also that the individuals who had formerly aided the old woman could not give her any thing without feeling the want of it in some way or other ; by taking the sole charge of her upon herself, she had thus evidently rendered them a service. Her new task was not, however, without unpleasantness. Mother Pierre, though at first delighted with the change in her condition, soon grew accustomed to its comforts, and began to lament living in this solitary spot, far from all her friends and acquaintances ; she declared that this life was intolerable, and insisted on leaving Madeleine to re- turn to her old place of abode. It was in vain the young girl remonstrated. Mother Pierre would have her way, and Madeleine at length gave a reluctant consent ; but Mother Pierre now took another humor — she would not go : in short, Madeleine perceived that the old woman only wanted to grumble at some- thing. Mother Pierre had not been long in her house when Madeleine, in her visits to Mont-Saint- Jean, noticed the wretched condition of a poor old woman named Catherine, who, after a life of toil and industry, was now reduced to the deepest misery. Though Mad- eleine assisted her as much as lay in her power, she could only alleviate her distress without re- moving it. " Ah ! Mother Pierre must be very happy with MADELEINE. 75 you," one day said Catherine to lier ; " you are so kind and good." Madeleine could not resist this indirect aj^peal. " "Would you like to come and live with me also ?" said she, sitting down near the old woman. Catherine looked up wistfdly into her face, then incredulously shook her head, and observed, — " I will not say you do not mean it, ITadeleine ; for you are too good to mock a poor old thing like me. But how could this be ? You have already Mother Pierre to support ; and we all know that you have only your earnings to do it with. The bm-den would be too great for you." "Do not think of that," earnestly rej^lied Made- leine ; " for though, as you say, I have nothing but my own gains on which to rely, I have found them more than enough hitherto. Let not this, therefore, prevent you from coming." Catherine, however, continued to raise numer- ous objections, but Madeleine overruled them all ; and the poor creature, whose heart secretly inclined towards the proposal, ended by giving her consent to it. Madeleine had feared that her o;uests mio-ht not agree together ; but it fortunately happened that they were old friends, and thus the utmost harmony pre- vailed between them. Upon the whole, Catherine gave her benefactress no reason to repent of her kindness. She was of the o-reatest use in attendinfr on Mother Pierre, who was very infirm ; she heljDed Madeleine to clean the cottage and cook the victuals ; and she even insisted on mending up the linen and old clothes. In this latter task, her failing sight 7G MADELEINE. made her commit many mistakes, which Madeleine, who saw how bent she was on rendering herself use- ful, feigned not to notice, lest she should grieve her. At night, however, she secretly undid the work in which Catherine took so much pride. The old wo- man, whom she thought asleej), once perceived her thus engaged, and, understanding at once Made- leine's motive, withdrew unnoticed ; but from that time forward she gave up needlework. Madeleine had thought, when she received old Catherine into her house, that her expenses would be increased in proportion to the numbers of her family ; that is to say, that where she formerly spent one franc, she should now spend three. But, to her surprise, she found that when she was alone it cost her almost half of what it did now ; thus, that three persons could be kept for double the sum which would be expended for one alone. When this fact presented itself to Madeleine's mind, she could not help exclaiming in- wardly, "What a pity the poor people will not all live together, and thus be comfortable, instead of re- maining miserable and alone !" Then Madeleine asked herself if this was impos- sible ; but, though she reflected much on the plan, she could not see how it was to be rendered practi- cable. About two months after she had taken in Cathe- rine, and when the weather was still very cold, Made- leine was leaving her cottage one morning for the village, when she perceived sitting on the stone steps an old man whom she recognized as old Michel, au inhabitant of one of the neighboring parishes, who occasionally came to Mont-Saint- Jean to beg ; for, not MADELEINE. ^7 being a native of these parts, he had no relatives to assist him. " Why do you sit here in the cold, Michel ?" gently asked Madeleine. The old man, who had long been in a state of sec- ond childhood, looked np into her face, and muttered some unintelligible reply. " Come in," said Madeleine, assisting him to rise, and leading him in. Michel entered the cottage with great alacrity. Ho immediately sat down near the fire, and eat the bread and meat which Madeleine laid before him with evi- dent relish. "What brought you so far out of your usual rounds on this cold day, Michel ?" asked Madeleine, when the old man had done eating. "I am come to live with you," he quietly replied. " To live with me !" echoed Madeleine, much astonished. " Yes," continued Michel ; " they say in our place that you are taking all the old people in to live with you, and so I thought I would come too." Madeleine, was greatly embarrassed ; she knew not how to tell the old man that she could not re- ceive him. She at length did so in the most gentle manner, giving him to understand that her cottage was not large enough for four persons to live in it. But Michel was too childish to feel the force of her reasoning, and, looking up wistfully into her face, he merely said, " I will not take up much room, Made- leine." Madeleine turned away that he might not see the tears which rose to her eyes. She was wavering in 78 MADELEINE. her purpose ; but Mother Pierre and Catherine, who were both present, now interfered, and, as they by no means liked the prospect of having Michel for a fellow-guest, they omitted no argument likely to pro- duce an effect upon Madeleine. She yielded to their prudential motives, which agreed with her own judg- ment, and gently though firmly told Michel she could not keep him, and that he must go with her to Mont- Saint-Jean, whither she was proceeding now. The old man had heeded nothing of what either Mother Pierre or Catherine said, but kept his eyes fixed on Madeleine all the time. When he heard her decision he looked distressed, but prepared to follow her ac- cording to her request with the passive obedience of a child. It was not without a sorrowful heart that Madeleine parted from him when they reached Mont- Saint-Jean ; she placed a silver coin in his hand, and told him to apply to her whenever he was in distress ; but he seemed to care little for this. What he wanted, he said, was to live with Madeleine. The unerring instinct which leads the weak and infirm to recognize those who wiL treat them kindly, had drawn him towards the young girl, and made him cling with strange j^ersistency to the idea of residing with her. A feelhig like remorse filled Madeleine's mind as she went home alone ; and yet what could she have done — her cottage was so small ? But though she reasoned thus, she could think of nothing but Michel and of the sorrowful look he gave her when they parted, and she again told him he must go back to his own village. Two days elapsed, during which nothing was heard of Michel, but on the third day MADELEINE. 7'J after his visit, the first object Vv-hich Madeleine saw on 025ening the "window of the front room, was the old man sitting on the door-step in the same attitude as on the former occasion, " Do not scold me, Madeleine," he beseechingly observed, when she opened the door, " I tried to stay away, but I could not ; do not bid me go." " Bid thee go, poor creature I* exclaimed Made- leine, her eyes filling with tears as she spoke, " Heav- en forbid ; God sent thee hither, and He will surely enable me to provide for thee." " You need not mind about a bed," hurriedly ob- served Michel, as though he feared some objection ; " I have brought my blanket with me : it is a very warm one," he added, as he produced a thin worn- out article, which might, from its aspect, have been as old as Michel himself. " Come in," said Madeleine, w^ith a smile : " hence- forth this is thy home." The old man entered as though it were the most natural thing in the world. He sat down to break- fast with Madeleine and the old women, who were any thing but pleased at his appearance, and the same night he took possession of Madeleine's bed, whilst she slept on a chair as a matter of course. Having gained his point, he relapsed into his usual state of childishness, the act of providing himself with the blanket being the last proof of forethought which he gave. Although Mother Pierre and Cathe- rine held from Madeleine's bounty all the comforts which they enjoyed, the selfish spirit engendered by long struggling with the world made them repine at seeing those enjoyments shared by another individ- 80 MADELEINE. ual, whose claim to them was as well founded as their own. Catherine, who instinctively felt that this was not right, and not likely to please Madeleine, for whom she entertained a sincere affection, strove to conceal her feelings on the subject, but Mother Pierre was loud in her complaints ; any one might have thought on hearing her that she had undergone some real wrong. Seeing, however, that all her murmurs did not induce Madeleine to turn the old man out of doors, she at length desisted, sullenly foretelling that Michel would give his hostess infinite trouble, and that the additional cost his presence entailed would cause her to break up her establishment. The fii"st prediction was soon verified, for Michel, who was too childish to be reasoned with, always got into some new scrape, from which he had to be ex- tricated by Madeleine. His chief propensity was to roam over the country, no matter in what weather, and without any object. Madeleine vainly tried to keep him in ; he slipped out at the first opportunity, and often wandered to a distance of several leases. On those occasions he was either brought back to Madeleine's dwelling by some child, who knew that he would be rewarded with a handful of nuts for his trouble, or Madeleine had to go and search for the truant herself He always promised never to offend again, but his j^romise was as soon forgotten as made : it was in vain the two old women scolded and railed at him ; foolish as he was, he had an instinctive con- sciousness tliat they possessed no real power over him, and he never heeded all their talking, whilst one word from Madeleine was enough to make him weep. Though she lost a good deal of time with the old MADELEINE. 81 man, and though her expenses were necessarily in- creased by his presence, Madeleine could still, accord- ing to a homely phrase, make the two ends meet, and this circumstance strengthened the growing faith in Providence which was within her. Three helpless beings were now dependent on her exertions, and she had been able hitherto to supply their wants with every necessary comfort. It was true that since she had given up her bed to the old man, she had been obliged to sleep either on the floor or on a chair, but her own convenience was the least consideration which ofiered itself to her mind. Had she been one to remain satisfied with doinoj her duty, Madeleine might now have stopped in her work, for she had certainly done more than enough. But she could not pause merely because she had per- formed her share of the task ; she aimed at general utility, and she knew there was still much to be ef- fected in Mont-Saint-Jean. But how was she to rem- edy this, or what was she to do ? For many nights, instead of sleeping, she sat upon her chair watching the fire and revolving this subject in her mind, " What was to be done for Mont-Saint- Jean ?" Though they knew not the nature of the thoughts which rendered her so silent and abstracted, the old women and Marie Michon, who continued to visit her friend, now noticed a marked change in Madeleine's demeanor. After some time, however, this passed away, and she resumed without any apj^arent cause the cheerful composure which was habitual to her. Madeleine had been meditating long and deeply on a subject which to her was one of powerful inter- est — the fate of the poor. Her experience was brief 82 MADELEINE, and limited, but during the last few months she had observed much and attentively. She had visited the poorest and most remote dwellings of the surround- ing valleys, and the poverty and wretchedness of their inhabitants had struck her with sorrow and dis- may. One fact especially impressed itself on Made- leine's mind. It was that, though misfortunes may have been intended by the Almighty to chasten and purify the human heart, poverty and its attendant evils produce a very different effect. She saw that those who were born and reared in misery looked upon life as on a long struggle, in which those who possessed most strength or cunning iiad the best chance of success ; hence that intense selfishness, which is so often a characteristic of the poor, and which seems indeed a condition of poverty. By poor, Madeleine never understood those who could by working supply the wants of nature ; amongst these wild hills they were looked upon as rich, however deficient they might be in worldly wealth. The poor were for Madeleine those unhappy beings — and there were, alas ! too many around her — who owned noth- ing on earth save the wretched hovel in which they iwelt, and who earned a precarious subsistence by assisting their wealthier neighbors in the summer. During the winter they lived, according to their own plirase, on whatever God pleased to send them. The wretchedness of these unhappy families, the deep ignorance in which they were plunged, the recklessness and apathy of the parents, the hunger and nakedness of the children — all these filled Made- leine's heart with deep pity. She was chiefly struck, however, with the increase of misery brought on by MADELEINE. 83 disease when it happened to light on anj member of the family, and it was perhaps owing to this feeling that she mostly visited and relieved the individuals thus afflicted in preference to others equally wretch- ed. Madeleine seemed, indeed, to feel a strange and deep interest in the fate of all the sick of Mont-Saint- Jean : if they were poor, she relieved them ; but even when they needed not her assistance she always managed so as to be near them, rendering them all the little services in her power, and studying with marked attention the symptoms of their various dis- eases. This conduct excited much surprise and spec- ulation in Mont-Saint-Jean, where she now became a frequent visitor, and whenever her gray cloak was seen some villager failed not to remark, '• There goes Madeleine to see some sick person, I'll be bound. What can make the girl so fond of the sick ?" Vulo;ar minds seldom admit of actions bcino- done merely for the sake of principle. "When Madeleine had gone up to the eastern hill the people of Mont- Saint-Jean had chiefly admired her courage ; when she received into her house the two old women and Michel, thev wondered what she meant to do with them ; and in her present persevering attention to the sick they only saw a whim which would soon pass away. But Marie, either because her friendship for Madeleine led her to put a different construction on her actions, or because she knew her better than those who judged her thus, never failed to observe when addressed on the subject, " Nay, depend upon it, Madeleine has a motive for what she does, though U'hat that motive is Heaven alone knows." "Whatever it was, Madeleine seemed in no hurry to 84 MADELEINE. reveal it; though many broad hhits were dropped in her presence, she never answered thera, but si- lently persevered in the mode of conduct she had adopted. Notwithstanding the severity of the winter, which was unusuallv cold and tedious, Madeleine continued to visit and relieve, as much as her slender means allowed, the neighboring sick and poor. There did not exist in the whole vicinity a snowy peak on which arose some solitary dwelling which the once retiring and quiet peasant girl had not visited ere the winter was over, bringing comfort and consolation with her gentle presence. To use the language of the inhab- itants of Mont-Saint- Jean, " Her gray cloak was to be seen wherever there was sorrow or suffering," — in the depths of the silent valleys or on the steep heights of the ancient hills. CHAPTER VIII. When spring came on, Madeleine, without relaxing in her labors, seemed to change their aim. She went out less and worked more ; and, such was her assi- duity at her wheel, that both the old people and Marie Michon conjectured this increase of industry must be intended to further some definite object, though what that was they were unable to guess. Marie's first impression led her to believe that Made- leine meant to augment her expenses by taking some other helpless being imder her care ; but the small- ness of her cottage, which rendered this literally im* MADELEINE. 85 possible, f,oou banished the idea from her mind. She wished to question Madeleine on the subject, without darins; to do so ; for the calm reserve of the Y0un not leave the j)lace without its full harvest of vic- tims ; the strongest precautions must therefore be used : and here Dr. Detrimont entered into a variety of explanations and recommendations useless to re- peat. Madeleine listened to him attentivelv; and, when he had ceased speaking to M. Dubois, whom the Latin names of the medicines threw into a state of perfect bewilderment, she aj)proached, and quietly asked him for a few instructions. The doctor knew Madeleine, by having met her several times in the winter attending on the sick, and he had often admired the sagacity with which she administered the proper remedies in his absence, and observed the symptoms of the diseases. Though his manner was generally very rough and abrupt, he now comj)lied with her request, which M. Dubois had looked upon as a great piece of presumption, and patiently explained to her the use of the various med- icines in her possession, as well as the precautions to be employed in order to prevent the contagion from spreading. Madeleine listened to him with the deepest attention, and promised to profit by his ad- vice in case of an emergency. '•TThy, who ever heard M. Detrimont speak so politely before ?" imprudently exclaimed Jean Ec- naud, when the doctor had left the mairie. " Hold your tongue, sir," shar^^ly observed M. Du- bois, for, though he had been entertaining precisely the same opinion, he did not care to give it utterance in the presence of Madeleine, who, even if she noticed it, was, however, the last person to be elated by the doctor's politeness. Kothing occurred during the v\hole of that da}' to 136 MADELEINE. justify the apprehensions which had been conceived; but the next morning, when Madeleine left her house at an early hour in order to go to the mairie, she read the dreaded tidings in the eves of the first person she met. " Where is it ?" she inquired. * " In the house of Michel Mandrin," replied the woman ; " Heaven help us, this is a woeful day for Mont-Saint-Jean !" " Who is with them ?" asked Madeleine. " Xo one as yet ; it is he who is taken ill, and they say the three children are laid up too. They lost their mother last spring ; but- who knows that all is not for the best ? His poor old mother came out at three o'clock this morning wringing her hands and asking for help; but, though they gave her some medicine at the mairie, no one would go in with her, nor even so much as touch her." " "Where is the cure V " Gone off on horseback for the doctor. Oh, bless- ed Mary, this is a sad day !" Madeleine made no reply ; but, re-enteriug the house, she merely took a small basket, in which the necessary medicine had been jDlaced since the pre- ceding day, and once more directed her steps towards the mairie. M. Dubois and Jean Renaud, both pale and anxious-looking, were talking to several terrified villagers. When Madeleine entered, they thought she came to announce some new misfortune, and im- mediately grew silent, " Sir," said she calmly, addressing the mayor, " I come here to declare before you and every other per- son now present, that if it does not please God tc MADELEINE. 13'7 spare mj life in this trial, I bequeath whatever I may die possessed of to Marie Michon, who has promised me to provide for my children when T am no more, as I did during my lifetime." " Why, what do you mean V cried the mayor, somewhat disturbed ; " have you got the fever, that you talk of death ?" He had scarcely uttered the words when every one instinctively drew away from Madeleine, who soon stood alone in the centre of the room. " ISTo, thank God ! I have not got the fever," she quietly replied ; " but I am going to the house of Michel Mandrin, and, though I do not think so, yet, as I may never come out of it alive, I believe it right to provide in that case for those whom I shall leave behind me." At this announcement every one drew round Made- leine again with exj^ressions of sympathy and admira- tion. Even the stern heart of M. Dubois was softened by the young girl's calm and heroic devotedness. " My dear Madeleine," said he kindly, " this must not be. Michel Mandrin's mother can attend upon him for a while. You only risk your life uselessly by going near them." " She is old and weak," replied Madeleine ; " what can she do ? Besides, she may fall ill herself. I must go." All those present looked on one another with silent astonishment. Madeleine spoke so calmly that they could not understand her. " But do you not know that it is certain death to enter that house?" exclaimed one individual, address- ing her. 138 MADELEINE. "It is not certain death," she answered firmly; " but, even if it were, ninst they be allowed to die without help?" " Madeleine," gravely observed M. Dubois, " I say again, this must not be. If you die, what will become ot your hospital ?" There was no irony in the mayor's tone, and in- deed he was deeply moved. Though he was often selfish, and too fond of authority, he had many ex- cellent qualities, wdiich now asserted their suprem- acy, and spoke in Madeleine's favor. She heard liim in silence ; but at length observed in a solemn tone, " God alone knows whether I shall die or not in the attempt ; yet I believe that He who gave mo a task to accomplish, will not call me aw^ay ere it is begun." "Then you persist in going, Madeleine?" " I must go, sir." Exclamations of disapprobation were heard from all those present. " Do not go, Madeleine, do not go," was the remonstrance which assailed her on every side. "I must go," she repeated, shaking her head, "in- deed I must ; seek not to detain me ; but if you wish to help me, you can do it thus. There is a low wall which extends at the back of Michel Mandrin's gar- den, you can easily lower down over it a basket with some provisions in it ; if you will give me some paper, with pen and ink, I shall write for whatever I want, and return it with the basket ; but let no one, save the doctor or the priest, enter the house : it is sinful to risk our lives uselessly." MADELEINE. 139 M. Dubois gave Madeleine tlie articles for which she had asked; after placing them quietly in her basket, she prepared to leave the office. If she had been going to certain death, scarcely less emotion would have been testified by the assistants. " Fare- well, Madeleine, may God bless you !" was the sor- rowful exclamation uttered, as though she were never to return, which she now heard everywhere around her. Madeleine was moved but not dismayed by those proofs of action ; she spoke cheerfully, and re- turned the blessings of all with a grave and kindly smile. " There goes a noble girl !" exclaimed M. Dubois as she left the oflice, and there was not one present who did not fervently echo the sentiment. Madeleine found the streets of Mont-Saint-Jean as silent as the grave. Occasionally, however, some anxious face would appear at a window and vanish again. A few persons, who from the direction which she took guessed her object, opened their doors and came out to remonstrate with her. But no warnings, however urgent, could prevail ; Madeleine remained unmoved. On reaching the infected house, she found that even the neighboring dwellings had been de- serted by their terrified inhabitants. The door of Michel Mandrin's abode was still half open, but no one for any sum, however large, would have crossed the fatal threshold. Madeleine entered unhesitatingly. Before closing the door behind her, she turned round and waved her hand in token of farewell to a few women who had followed her at a distance, and now watched her movements. As she stood before them in that solemn moment, calm and serene, whilst 140 MADELEINE, entering tlie liouse of death, they felt that Madeleme looked like some holy spirit on the brink of a better world. CHAPTER XII. M. BiGNON came back alone towards noon; tha fever was raging in all the neighboring villages, not a single doctor had been able to accompany him. .When he was told of Madeleine's conduct his eyes tilled with tears, and he merely observed : " She is a saint, and the spirit of God is with her." Thongh Marie partly suspected Madeleine's inten- tion in case the fever should break out, she knew not that she had carried it into effect until apprised of this fact by one of the women who had seen her friend entering Michel Mandrin's house. She at first turned pale, on hearing this, and was much agitated ; but she soon remarked, in a composed and resigned tone, that heaven would surely watch over Madeleine. Great anxiety prevailed in the village during the whole of the day, for Doctor Detrimont's prediction, that the fever would not be satisfied with one or two victims, recurred to all, and contributed to increase the gloomy feelings visible on every countenance. Towards evening a basket of provisions was lowered down over the garden wall of Michel Mandrin's house, according to Madeleine's request. Jean Re- naud, whom M. Dubois had commissioned to execute this task, heard the basket touching the ground, and, without waiting till Madeleine should appear, he MADELEINE. 141 liurried away, having previously fastened the rope from which it was suspended to a neighboring tree. He came the next morning and drew up the empty basket, to which a small piece of paper was attached with a pin. It was not without using the greatest precautions that Jean ventured to carry this danger- ous article to the mairie, where M. Dubois submitted Madeleine's letter to various fumigatDry processes before he attempted to touch it. As an anxious crowd had by this time gathered round the office, the mayor stepped out, and, standing on the flight of stone steps, gravely announced that he was going to read Madeleine's letter aloud. A deep death-like silence immediately prevailed, every breath was hushed, though many hearts beat audibly. M. Dubois put on his spectacles, unfolded the scrap of paper, " coughed, and in a loud tone read the following words : " Michel Mandrin died last night ; his mother and all the children are very ill. Pray for us." " May the peace of heaven be with his soul !" ex- claimed M. Dubois, in a tremulous tone ; and, though he often boasted that he was not a devout man, he now doffed his cloth cap and bent on one knee. Of all those present there was not one who did not follow his example, all uttering in a deep, heartfelt tone, " Amen." The mayor was the first to rise; he still held Madeleine's brief letter in his hand, and, as he once more glanced over it, he perceived a few words written in one of the corners, and which had pre- viously escaped his notice. Signing every one to be attentive, he thus resumed his reading: *' I have laid out the corpse, and conveyed it, with 142 MADELEINE. the help of old mother Mandrin, to the garden, whence it can be taken away, in order to receive Christian burial ; but let no one enter the house, for I stand in need of nothins;." A dead silence followed this communication. M. Dubois was at first much disturbed, but, aware that the eyes of all were upon him, and actuated also by a conscientious desire of fulfilling his duty, he suc- ceeded in banishing every outward sign of emotion, and said in a tone of seeming cheerfulness, '' Well, my friends, this is no pleasant duty, but it must be done ; who will come with me to take poor Michel's body away?" jSTo one answered this appeal. The mayor repeated his question ; a peasant then stepped out from the crowd and observed : " Others may speak for themselves, but I will not' risk my life merely to bury the dead." These words were received with a general murmur of approbation. " Jacques, you are a coward," ijidignantly cried the mayor. " Jean Eenaud, follow me." But, though the adjoint said "Yes, Sir," he did not move from the spot where he was standing, and his pale countenance and trembling limbs showed ]\L Dubois that it was hopeless to count upon his aid. " Come," said he, once more addressing the crowd, " I only want one man to help me ; who will show his courage now ?" There was some stir amongst the men, but none tavae forward ; a few of those who thought themselves unperceived silently crept away. "Go, then, for a set of cowards," exclaimed the MADELEINE. 143 major, no longer endeavoring to control his indignant contempt ; " not one amongst jou has the one-tenth of Madeleine's courage, since you dare not even re- move the dead body of him on whom she feared not to attend." His angry glance fell, as he spoke thus, on Jacques, to whom he attributed the disinclination to accom- pany him manifested by the crowd. The man turned pale as he met his eye ; he seemed irresolute for a few moments ; fear kej^t him back, but shame urged him on ; at last he came forward, and said, in a de- termined tone, " I will go with you, ]\I. Dubois." " Or I will, and I will," immediately cried several voices. " Peace," sternly said the mayor, " no one shall come with me but Jacques ; you may go home." The abashed crowd dispersed, and M. Dubois pro- ceeded with his comjDanion to the house of Michel Mandrin. By taking down a few stones from the low and loosely built garden wall, they easily bore the corpse away ; it was immediately put into a coffin and conveyed to the church. AVhilst reading the prayers for the dead, M. Bignon was deeply atfected ; and when, on returning- from the churchyard, he re- entered his house, he sat down with evident agitation on the chair offered to him by his old housekeeper. " Why, Monsiem*, what is the matter with you ?" she exclaimed, noticing his emotion. " Ah, I see M'hat it is ; you take it all to heart as though it were your own case ; you are so good !" " Praise me not, Ursula," hastilj' interrupted the priest, in a tremulous tone ; " my place is by the death-bed of every member of my flock, and yet I 144 MADELEINE, allowed Micliel to die alone ; I have acted like the negligent and mercenary pastor, and not as the faith- ful shepherd. Poor Michel ! yet, heaven be praised, he was a good and pious man ! But this shall happen no more ; his mother is ill, I must go and see her ; Ursula, give me my hat." " Jesus, Monsieur, you cannot mean to go ; you -ook very ill." "Peace, Ursula, do as I bid thee; I am quite well." " Sir," solemnly said the housekeeper, now really iilarmed, "you look unwell ; your lips are as pale as ishes." " Well, I believe I am rather faint," replied M. Bignon, whose features were deadly pale ; " give me a glass of wine, Ursula, before I go." But Ursula had not had time to obey the order, when the priest staggered and fell back in his chair. She immediately summoned assistance, and had her master conveyed to his bed. When he opened his eyes he was slightly delirious, and every one pro- nounced him afflicted with the fatal fever ; but Ursula, who had seen him in the same state once before, knew that his illness was only caused by the heat and ex- ertions of the preceding day, and was not therefore likely to terminate fatally if properly treated. On the evening of this day the basket of provisions destined for Madeleine was lowered over the garden wall, as on the preceding occasion ; it was drawn up the next morning with a letter, which M. Dubois again read outside the mairie to the assemljlcd crowd : its contents ran thus : "Mother Mandrin is verv ill ; I scarcelv think she MADELEINE. 145 will live beyond the niglit ; the children are in the same state; we all need your prayers." " Poor Madeleine ! how much she has to go through," exclaimed Marie Michon, who assisted at the reading of the letter, though she had been absent on the preceding day ; " may God watch over her !" she anxiously added, as the crowd dispersed in gloomy silence, and she took her way homewards. M. Dubois immediately dispatched Jean Kenaud in search of Dr. Detrimont, or of any other medical man, but he proved as unsuccessful on his errand as ^he cure^ and came back alone in the evening. In her letter on the following day Madeleine an- nounced the deaths of Mother Mandrin and of the two eldest children, " I have placed them," she stated, " in the garden. The poor old woman was very thin and light to carry. Though little Lise still lives, I do not think she will survive her brothers long." These melancholy tidings spread the deepest con- sternation throughout Mont-Saint-Jean. The mother and children of Michel Mandrin were buried near him the same day, without any of the customary rites for the dead, for M. Bignon was still very ill, and it was not thought expedient to delay the funeral until one of the neighboring clergymen could be summoned. In the course of the following day, M. Detrimont came to the village, and immediately entered the house of death. In about half an hour he came out again ; a numerous crowd awaited his egress at some distance. "How is Madeleine?" eagerly asked Marie Mi- chon, coming forward. T 14G MADELEINE. "Well, but very miich fatigued." "All! ma}^ heaven bless her!" exclaimed many voices. " How is the child ?" was the next question. The doctor shook his head : " There is little hope," he briefly said, proceeding without loss of time to the house of the cure ^ whom, owing to the judicious treatment of Ursula, he found much better. The doctor's reply caused great anxiety and disap- paintment in the village. The four successive deaths which had taken place in the fated family of the Man- drins had filled every heart with gloom and terror, and caused a superstitious value to be attached to the life of the child. Madeleine's letter on the followine: day only confirmed the fears generally entertained. " Lise is still in the same state," she said ; " I dare not hope, but oh ! how I have prayed that Grod may spare the life of this child !" On hearing these tidings many sadly shook their heads, and predicted that Lise would follow her rela- tives to the gi'ave ; others more sanguine persisted in hoping for her recovery ; but all agreed that the bas- ket ought to be returned before the evening, with a request that Madeleine would let them know how the child was. Madeleine's rejDly diflered but little from her last letter: "The child," she said, "still contin- ues in a most precarious state. There is little reason to hope." TVo days thus elapsed during which Madeleme alternately spoke of Lise as on the brink of the grave, or as getting somewhat better. The whole of that time, little else was thouglit of in Mont-Saint-Jean save the state of the child's health, as announced by ISIADELEINE. 147 her various letters. It was not until the eighth day of her abode in Michel Mandrin's house, that Made- leine communicated the hopes of Lise's recovery, which she then began to entertain. The child, she said, though weak, was certainly much better. These tidings spread the most unfeigned joy in the village, but the feeling was immediately chilled by Madeleine's next letter. " I hoped for too much," she sorrowfully observed, " Lise is ill, very ill, again." For three days the child remained literally between life and death ; a general gloom seemed to hang over Mont-Saint- Jean, and when on the Sunday morning M. Bignon, who was now recovered, requested, after mass, the congregation to pray for Lise Mandrin, now dangerously ill, the most fervent prayers were offered up in her behalf. On the morning of the third day Madeleine's letter was expected with the greatest impatience. As soon as he had received it, M. Dubois unfolded it with a trembling hand, and read its contents aloud to the anxious and silent crowd which had gathered round the mairie. " God be praised for his infinite mercy ! tlie dear child is saved !" Glad exclamations arose on every side; if some piece of good fortune had happened to all Mont-Saint- Jean, greater joy could not have been manifested. The stoic M. Dubois himself was obliged to wijie his spectacles, which had unaccountably grown dim ; Jean Renaud applied his coat-sleeve to his eyes ; M. Bignon, who was present, audibly returned thanks to heaven, and many followed his example. 14S MADELEINE, " Poor Madeleine ! bow bappy slie must be, and yet bow fatigued !" was Marie Micbon's remark. In tbe course of tbe same day Madeleine was seen to leave tbe bouse of sickness ; a few of tbe most courageous of tbose wbo witnessed ber egress ven- tured to aj)proacb ber near enougb to question ber concerning ber bealtb, ard tbat of Lise. "Sbe sleeps," answered Madeleine, witb a smile of pm'e bappiness wbicb an angel migbt bave envied. " And bow are you, dear Madeleine ?" exclaimed one individual, " bow wearied you must be !" But, tbougb Madeleine did indeed look pale and fatigued, few persons could bave suspected, on seeing ber, bow sbe bad been employed for tbe last twelve days. Her attire was not quite so neat as of wont, but sbe wore tbe calm and composed aspect wbicb o-enerallv cbaracterized ber. " I am well, tbank you," sbe replied to tbose wbo questioned ber ; " but delay me not, for I bave little time to spare, and tbe dear cbild may waken." Sbe accordingly went on, and soon reacbed tbe village cburcb ; sbe entered it, and, kneeling near tbe door, remained a few instants engaged in prayer, after wbicb sbe rose and proceeded to ber dwelling On seeing ber Marie Micbon uttered a joyful excla- mation, clasped ber in ber arms, and tben began to weep. Madeleine embraced ber tenderly, but ex- plaining to ber tbat sbe bad only come for tbe pur- pose of cbanging ber attire, and procuring several articles of wbicb sbe stood in need, sbe gently put ber aside, and proceeded to ber own room. In less tban five minutes sbe came out again, witb a small bundle of tbings in ber band. " Good-bye, Marie," MADELEINE. 149 said she, kindlv, " watch well over my children ; I shall come again to-morrow." And without pausing to speak to the cure^ or to M. Dubois, who were both waiting for her at tlie door, she hastened back to tlie house where the sick child lay sleeping. In a few days M. Detrimont declared that Lise could be safely removed to Madeleine's dwelling, which was accordingly done. She grew rapidly bet- ter, and her recovery was looked uj^on as a kind of miracle in the villao;e. The child's nearest relatives, indeed, called Madeleine her guardian angel, and unanimously requested her to take the sole chai'ge of Lise, and administer the little property to which she was entitled. Madeleine joyfully agreed to this, for her only fear had been to lose her whom she al- ready called her daughter, l^ever, indeed, had her heart clung so closely to human being as it now did to that child. She felt a claim upon her. Had she not snatched her from the grave? might she not truly call her her own? CHAPTER XIII. The recovery oi little Lise had led many people to hope that the fatal malady by which her lamily had been caiTied off would exercise no further ravages in Mont-Saint-Jean. When Dr. Detrimont heard any one giving utterance to this opinion, he shook his head, and declared that he did not feel so sanguine. Time unfortnnately showed the correctness of liis sur- mises. 150 MADELEINE. Towards the close of the week in which Madeleine had left the house of the Mandrins, several cases of the same malignant fever by which they had been at- tacked manifested themselves almost simnltaneonslj in the village. Madeleine no sooner heard of the event than she aastened to the bedside of one of the sufferers. She there met the doctor, who had been called ill, as he fortunately happened to be on the spot. "Well, Madeleine," said M. Detrimont, whose re- spect for the young girl's character always showed it- self in the tone of equality with which he addressed her, " what shall we do now ?" " Is the fever truly contagious ?" asked Madeleine, in French. ^ " It is," gravely replied the doctor in the same language, which was understood by none of the rest present. " Then I think we had better remove all the pa- tients to the house of Michel Mandrin," j)romptly answered the young gh-1 ; "it has been well aired since I left it, and, as from what you said I feared what was going to happen, I privately placed in it all the necessary linen and the little medicine I had left ; I can spare two beds, which I shall send down imme- diately." " Do," apj)rovingly said the doctor, and Made- leine immediately left the house on her errand. In the course of the same day three sick persons were conveyed to the house, which, owing to Made- leine's prudence and forethought, was ready to re- ceive them. As the doctor went over it and superin- tended all her arrangements, he could not but admire MADELEINE. 151 inwardly tlie coolness and self-possession of that sim- ple peasant girl, who, though so quiet and silent, al- ways seemed ready for any emergency, however great or sudden. " Madeleine," said he to her in the evening, " the fever is over in all the neighboring villages ; I fear that it is now the turn of Mont-Saint-Jean to suffer from it, and that this is only the beginning of a great trial ; M. Bignon has offered me a bed, and, as I be- lieve that my services are more needed here than elsewhere, I shall stay." " Thank you, sir," earnestly replied Madeleine, " I did not like to say so, but it also seemed to me that the fever was going to sj^read." " And how did you know that ?" asked M. Dctri- mont, with some surprise. " I noticed, sir, that just before Mother Mandrin and her two grand-children fell ill their skin became slightly yellow, and this morning, when we removed Julien, I thought I saw the same color on his wife's countenance ; that was why I so earnestly prayed her to come here if she felt at all unwell. It also seemed to me, as we came along, that several persons looked ill and sallow, and this made me fear many were go- ing to suffer from the fever." " You are right ; that is one of the signs of illness," answered M. Detrimont, " and it sometimes appears for several daj'S before any other symptom is mani- fested. I also noticed the sallowness of Julien's wife, and this it is that induced me to remain." The event showed that neither the doctor nor Mad- eleine had been mistaken in their melancholy pre- visions. The next day several other persons wero 152 MADELEINE. taken ill witli the fever, and found a refnge in the temporary bosj^ital. In less than a week it was quite full, and there were, unfortunately, many other cases of illness in the village. Owing to the intermixture of the sick M-ith the healthy, a large number of individuals who might not perhaps have been attacked otherwise, fell ill and died ; the survivors, who trembled every moment for their lives, now began to understand Avhat Madeleine had meant by saying that a hospital would be use- ful both to those who were sick and to those who were not. During three weeks the fever raged in Mont-Saint- Jean with the greatest violence; nothing could ex- ceed the devotedness displayed by Madeleine, M. De- trimont, M. Bignon, and his friend M. Morel. Mad- eleine especially seemed indefatigable ; no vigil was too long for her, no task too repulsive or loathsome ; she appeared, indeed, above mortality in her power of endurance and unwearied zeal. When the villagei*s thought of the strong spirit enshrined in that fragile form, they could not help fancying her, in their gen- tle sujoerstition, some angel in disguise come to bless Mont-Saint-Jean with its presence. As long as the fever lasted, that is to say, for upwards of three weeks, Madeleine never once rested, even for an hour. It was in vain that M. Detrimont emonstrated with her, and assured her repeatedly that she was killing herself. Madeleine persisted in her labor of love. " If I do not watch by the sick and attend upon them, who will do it?" she simply asked; and the doctor knew well enough that, though every one ad' mired Madeleine, few would care to imitate her self* MADELEINE. 153 sacrifice. When about one-eighth of the population had been carried off, the fever gradually ceased ; it was then that the fearful ravages it had made became more fully apparent. Few families had escaped with- out the loss of one or more of their members, and two individuals had been attacked in Madeleine's house- hold : these were Joseph, the surly old man, who had now been with her upwards of a year, and Annette the idiot girl. Both Madeleine and Marie Michon were unremitting in their attentions on the two pa- tients, who seemed in a fair way of recovering ; but, though M. Detrimont had pronounced her out of dan- ger, Annette, who indeed appeared much better, sud- denly became worse, and expired on the sixth day of her illness. Old Joseph, on the contrary, rallied, and was soon quite well again, though he still remained bedridden. Every one, save Madeleine, murmured at this dispensation of Providence, for Joseph was only a burden upon her, while the poor idiot girl's in- dustry had proved of incalculable advantage to her during the winter. But, though Madeleine deeply regretted the loss of Annette, she did not, on that account, neglect paying every necessary attention to Joseph. If the old man felt any gratitude for her kindness, he gave no proof of the feeling, and showed himself as surly, disagree- able, and morose as he had ever been. Marie, who could not understand Madeleine's unwearied patience and gentleness, assured her she was acting injudicious- ly, and hinted that Joseph would be all the better for a little occasional roughness and severity. "Nay," gravely observed Madeleine, "is it be- cause he does wrong that we must do wrong also ?" 154 MADELEINE. Marie felt reproved and said no more. Amono-st the deaths which were iiniversallv la- mented, none caused such deep feelings of regret as that of M. Morel. Like Madeleine, he had shown himself indefatigable in attending on the sick, for he well knew that the efforts of M. Bignon's zeal would prove inefficient if left unaided. lie ministered, moreover, to both bodv and soul, and was alwavs in the scene of the greatest danger. He and Madeleine constantly met by the bedside of the sufierers, and, if the young girl's strong faith and charity had needed any encouragement or support, she would have found both in the brief though fervent exhortations to ]3ersevere in her holy duty which were addressed to her by M. Morel. The monotonous routine of duties in which his life had been spent had not been able to subdue the native energy of the cure of Puysaye's character. His first intention in embracing the priesthood had been to devote himself to missionary labors ; but, though he had subsequently changed this resolve in order to embrace the humble life of a parisli priest, the thirst for wider exertions and more arduous duties which had first actuated him was not extinguished in his soul ; and, whilst devoting himself to the task of ministering to the spiritual and bodily wants of the sick, he looked forward with a solemn joy to the probable martyrdom that awaited him. One evening, when he was administering the last sacraments to a dying woman, M. Morel felt a sud- den sickness coming over him. He immediately knew the nature of his case, and instinctively fore- saw that it would end fatally. By a strong eftbrt of wil], he suppressed, however, every outward sign of MADELEINE. 155 emotion or illness, and calmly continued his office. When the sick woman had received extreme unction, and was evidently near her departure, he knelt by the side of the bed, and prayed aloud for the soul that v/as going to pass away. Madeleine was j)res- ent. She had often heard M. Morel praying before on similar occasions, but never had she been im- pressed so much as now with the fervor of his tone, and the inspired language which fell from his lips. When he spoke of the glorious immortality which awaited the dying Christian, of that world where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest, she saw his pale and thin cheek grow flushed, and marked the kindling of his sunken eyes ; he bore no outward sj-mptoms of disease, yet it seemed to Madeleine, though she knew not why, that his abode on earth would be brief. When the last breath had left the body of the dying woman, M. Morel, vdio had been uj)held till then by the mere force of his will, passed his hand across his brow, staggered, and would have fallen back, had not Madeleine ran to his support. He was immediately conveyed to his bed. M. Bignon, almost distracted with gi'ief, insisted on attending on his friend, and, unless when called away by his duty, refused to leave him. On the evening of the third day of M. Morel's ill- ness, M. Detrimont, who had declared from the lirst that there was no hope of his recovery, now said that the patient could not live the night. M. Morel heard him with a calmness which amounted almost to joy, and requested to speak to Madeleine. There existed between the curt of Puysaye and the peasant gh-i of Mont-Saint-Jean a strong feeling of sympathy, whicii, 156 MADELEINE. thong] I uot niauifested by words, had long beeu felt by both. They were kindred spirits in this sense, that on entering life they had both set before them a great end, to accomplish which they labored with mi- wearied perseverance, S23eaking of it, however, more by deeds than by words. When Madeleine drew near his bedside, M. Morel took her hand, and said, earnestly, " Madeleine, I wanted to bid you farewell ; I am dying, and shall never see your hospital ; and yet I know, for the sj)irit of God is indeed with you, that it will rise one day on Mont-Saint-Jean. I told you once that you would find many thorns in your path, and I tell you so again ; yet be of good cheer, and be true to your task; for what is there in heaven or earth that love and strong faith may not overcome? Farewell. Do not forget to pray for me. Farewell." "Alas, sir," sorrowfully exclaimed Madeleine, " who will advise me when you are gone ?" " God will be with you, Madeleine. Once more, be of good cheer. Farewell." Madeleine, however, would not leave the room ; she remained until all was over. In a few hours M. Morel expired, comforting those around him, espe- cially his sorrowing friend, and behaving with calm fortitude. For about half an hour before his dissolu- tion he became slightly delirious, and uttered the name of Madeleine several times with the greatest earnestness. When this circumstance was rei^orted, many individuals said that he had had a vision con- cerning her ; but M. P)ignon and the doctor, who both knew how much the young girl had lately been in his thoughts, attributed this fact to perfectly natural MADELEINE. 157 causes. The good peoj^le of Mont-Saint-Jean, how- ever, persisted in their belief, which contributed to invest Madeleine with a supernatural character. The death of the priest of Pujsaye was long and deeply lamented. His devotedness to the sick had endeared him as much to the inhabitants of Mont- Saint-Jean as to his own parishioners, who, now that he was no more, began to perceive his numerous virtues in their true light. They lamented him still more when his successor, a good man, with good in- tentions, but wanting his enlightened zeal, came to replace him. By no one, however, was his loss so deeply felt as by the poor cure of Mont-Saint- Jean. M. Bignou now literally seemed like a body without a soul ; he had so long been accustomed to rely on his friend's judgment for every thing he said or did, that he scarcely knew how to act. Though he pro- fessed himself resigned to the decrees of heaven, his disconsolate aspect, as he wandered up and down, seeking he knew not what, protested eloquently against his words. His only comfort consisted in speaking of his deceased friend to Madeleine ; she had loiown him, and he instinctively felt that she could appreciate the real beauty and worth of M. Morel's character. She was, moreover, dear to him, not only for her own sake, but also for that of the friend who had uttered her name so often on his death-bed. M. Bignon remembered likewise the higli opinion which the cure of Puysaye had entertained of Madeleine ; and this, joined to his own natural hu- mility, soon made him look on the young girl with an affectionate feeling, strongly mingled with respect. Two years had now elapsed since Madeleine had 158 MADELEINE. first conceived the project of lier hospital; a~nd, though little advanced in other respects, she thoiighl she had won a great point by causing the feasibility and necessity of her plan to be generally acknowl- edged. She was, indeed, no longer considered as a visionary girl, ready to take her own impracticable fancies for what was right ; every one, M. Dubois included, granted that a hospital would be one oi the most useful institutions the village could possess ; and many individuals, who seemed to think that nothing was beyond Madeleine's power to perform, anxiously asked her when it would be erected and established. Her reply, that she knew not, was re- ceived with evident doubt and disappointment. Nothing, however, could exceed the love and rev- erence now universally felt for Madeleine. Young as she was, she received more respect than was paid to the elders of the village ; and so completely was her character understood that, whenever some infirm being was left helpless and destitute, the villagers significantly remarked to one another, " Dej)end upon it ^[adeleiue will take in that one also." And few indeed were the claims she could possibly admit which Madeleine ever rejected. Though her re- sources had been considerably straitened by the death of Annette, her charity still seemed inexhaustible. Not satisfied with lodging and feeding the poor in her own house, she relieved, as much as her means allowed, those whom she could not receive. Xone who sought her aid were repulsed ; when she had nothing else to bestow, she gave a piece of bread, and often parted with her own garments to clothe some destitute woman or child. Even unknown MADELEINE. 159 wanderers were never turned away ; they had only to plead hunger and fatigue in order to be admitted, and obtain a meal and a night's lodging. The vil- lagers soon learned to compare her hospitable dwell- ing to that of Abraham the Patriarch ; and many de- clared, that, instead of being impoverished by giving away, jMadeleine only became richer, through a s]3e- cies of miracle, which they did not however pretend to explain. "When she heard them speaking thus, Madeleine smiled, and told them that the only mir- acle performed in her favor lay in the goodness of Providence. All these charitable tasks could not, however, di- vert Madeleine's mind from the great thought of her life, the hospital of Mont-Saint- Jean. One day, when she was, as usual, meditating on the subject, and sitting at her door in the pleasant sunshine of an au- tumn evening, smiling on little Lise, who played near her, a woman who was passing by entered into con- versation with her, and after a few desultory remarks observed, that she had doubtless heard the news. " What news ?" inquired Madeleine. " Why, do you not know that the rich gentleman who bought all the land on Mont-Saint- Jean is dead? for it seems that the spring which he had taken for such a fine one was worth nothing, after all his ex- pense and trouble ; and they say that he actually died from vexation ; however that may be, his heirs arc going to sell the whole concern." "Are you sure of this?" earnestly asked Madeleine. " Oh ! yes, quite sure," said the woman, naming the individuals from whom she had received the in- formation. 160 MADELEINE. The same evening Madeleine ascertained the truth of the report, and several additional 23articulars of importance. After consulting with M. Bignon, who approved of her intention, she resolved to go and speak to the mayor, which she accordingly did, the next morning. CHAPTER XIV. When Madeleine entered the mairie she found M, Dubois seated at his desk, with Jean Kenaud near him. Although he partly guessed the nature of her business, the mayor received Madeleine very gra- ciously. " Sir," she simply said, when on his invita- tion she had taken a seat, " I am come about the hosi^ital." " Well, what of it, Madeleine ?" asked the mayor. " Do not you think, sir, that we want one very much ?" " Well, I will not deny it, we do ; but where are the means of procuring one ?" "That is just what I wanted to speak to you for, sir," replied Madeleine. " I suppose you know the new house on the hill is to be sold ?" " Yes, I do know it. What of that ?" " Why, sir, there is a hospital ready built for us." " Well," impatiently observed the mayor, '' but it is necessary to buy it first." "Yes, sir, that is exactly what I mean," quietly said Madeleine. "Is the girl dreaming ?" exclaimed M. Dubois MADELEINE. 161 " Eeally, Madeleine, you make me utter things I have no mind to say. Do you know the price of tliat property you speak of buying ?" " Yes, sir," answered Madeleine ; " I believe it is to be sold for about ten thousand francs." ""Well," observed M. Dubois, astonished at her composure, " where do you expect to find ten thou- sand francs ?" " God is good, sir," calmly said Madeleine. " All I wanted to learn from you was, how much the vil- lage of Mont-Saint- Jean could afford to give me ; or whether its inhabitants were willing to give me any thing towards the buying of the property." " Give you any thing !" exclaimed M. Dubois, in utter amazement. " For my part, Madeleine, I would not give you one sou for that purpose." " ISTay," indignantly, said Madeleine, rising from her chair as she spoke ; " all cannot have a spirit so poor and mean. Since it is so, however, I shall no longer appeal to you, but, if it is needful, to all Mont- Saint-Jean." To see Madeleine angry was so unusual a sight that M. Dubois was pacified in an instant, " Come, Madeleine," said he, good-naturedly, " wo shall not part so. To show you that it is not through avarice I spoke thus, I now promise you a hundred francs provided you can only procure the remainder of the money. But just think, Maddeine, is that possible or likely ? I am one of the richest men in Mont-Saint-Jean, and I will venture to say, none of the rest will give you so large a sum as that I have just promised ; then what will you do?" " Sir," answered Madeleine, " let the inhabitants of 162 MADELEINE. Mont-Saint-Jean give me what they can, and, with the help of God, I will find the rest in time." " Yes,-' said the mayor, " when the property will have been bought and sold again." " In that case I shall return the money, unless those who gave it choose to see it aj^plied for the erection of another hosi^ital. But I do not think the house on the hill will be sold so very soon. Who would buy it ? It is not a country house for a rich man, and it is too dear for a poor one. Since the spring is worthless, no one who wishes to make money would think of purchasing it ; and for what is the place so well suited as for a hospital ?" " Well, I believe you are right," said M. Dubois, struck with the practical clearness of Madeleine's arguments, "as to this j)oint at least. The question is, how are you to get the ten thousand francs ? I will do for you all I can ; but I cannot give you great hopes. I shall call together this evening the most wealthy men of Mont-Saint-Jean, and, if you are here at seven to explain to them your views yourself, you will be able to judge of your chance of success." "Thank you, sir," calmly answered Madeleine; " I shall come." At seven in the evening, Madeleine accordingly made her appearance at the mairie. M. Dubois had kept his word, and summoned together those indi- viduals whom he thought most likely to aid her in her plan. He had also told them his object in taking this step, and they had all declared that, though they might individually be willing to aid Madeleine, yet, as a body, they did not think it right to tender their assistance, the mere idea of buying the property on MADELEINE. 163 the hill being in itself absurd, when the price was taken into consideration. Though ten thousand francs was a very small sum indeed, considering the object in view, the capitalists of Mont-Saint-Jean looked upon it as an extravagant demand. . Why, if this was to be given away for a hospital for the poor, what ought to be done for the rich ? With a penetration more natural than acquired, Madeleine saw at a glance how matters stood, and that, though she was received by the whole body with the greatest respect and kindness, they were each and collectively determined to give her nothing. Of this, however, she did not choose to appear con- sciojis, and simply began stating, as a fiict beyond dispute, that there was nothing of which Mont-Saint- Jean stood, so much in need as a hospital. There was, at first, some inclination to contest this point ; but Madeleine, appealing to the memory of all present for instances in the late calamity, soon succeeded in silencing her opponents. " Well," said M. Dubois, who acted as speaker, " we asree to that. Mont-Saint-Jean wants a hos- pital ; but how are we to get it ?" " You know what I said this morning, sir," an- swered Madeleine. " The house on the hill is to be sold ; I have looked over it to-day, and I find that it will answer admirably for the purpose. The price, I believe, all know ; it is ten thousand francs." These last words seemed to chill the whole as- sembly. " How much of that money have you got V' asked M. Dubois, after a pause. " Nothing," composedly answered Madeleine. 164 MADELEINE. " Well," said the mayor, " I j^romised you a liun dred francs this morning. I will keep to my word.' M. Dubois looked round as he spoke. He had hoped that this indirect appeal would jDroduce some- thing from those present ; but they all remained cold and silent. Madeleine looked round in her turn. " Is there no one here," said she, in her low gentle voice, " who is willing to give something for the hospital of Mont- Saint-Jean ?" There was a slight stir in the assembly. " Madeleine," observed an old farmer, " you are a good girl, and we all love you, you must know that. Do not, therefore, think us hard if we give you no- thing now ; but ten thousand francs is too much for our means." " I do not ask you for ten thousand francs," calmly answered Madeleine ; " but for whatever you are able and willing to give." The old man was disconcerted by this reply, but one of his companions quickly rejoined, " "We know that, Madeleine ; but, as we cannot give you the whole sum — " "You prefer giving me nothing," quietly said Madeleine. The silence which followed these words was equiv- alent to an assent. Madeleine waited for a while to see if any one was willing to speak, but, as all re- mained silent, she turned towards M. Dubois and observed, " You promised me a hundred francs, sir." " Well," said the mayor. " When the time comes I shall bid you remember your word." MADELEINE. 165 " So you persist in your plan of buying the house on the hill for a hospital!" exclaimed M. Dubois, with evident surprise. " As to that particular house, sir," answered Mad- eleine, " I cannot tell ; but, as for the hospital, there shall assuredly, with God's help, be one in Mont- Saint-Jean some day." "But what can you do with a hundred francs?" urged the mayor. •' If I had a hundred times as much it would be enough," replied Madeleine. All those present looked at one another with sur- prise : nothing was evidently farther from Madeleine's thoughts than to give up her plan. " What can you do with a hundred francs, never- theless ?" said M. Dubois once more. " I can say to myself every day that I have that much less to obtain than if I had nothing." One of the individuals present, annoyed by this extraordinary persistency, here observed, " But how will you obtain the rest of the money?" " How did God send me the hundred francs which I have just been promised by M. Dubois ?" " Then, I suppose," sharply remarked another indi- vidual, "you will say the people of Mont-Saint-Jean were too poor to pay for their own hospital ?" " Should I not rather say they were unwilling ?" replied Madeleine, looking at him fixedly. " Come," said the old farmer, who had been listen- ing admiringly to Madeleine's replies for the last few minutes, " I see there is some truth in the proverb which says, that what a woman will do must bo done ; it was my firm intention to give you nothing, Made- 166 MADELEINE. leine, but since you are so determined I shall stand for fifty francs." " Thank you, Mathurin," answered the young girl, " with M. Dubois' hundred, that will make a hundred and fifty francs." " I will give thirty," said another. " That makes a hundred and eighty," said Made leine. " And I give thirty more," exclaimed a voice. " Then that will make two hundred and. ten." In short, every one promised to give something, until the whole amounted to five hundred francs. " You see," said Madeleine, turning with a smile towards the individual who had asked her how she meant to obtain the rest of the money, " that, though I had only the one-hundredth of the sum a while back, God has already sent me five times as much." " But, Madeleine," said M. Dubois, " you do not seem to me to be much more advanced than you were then ; how can you get the nine thousand and five hundred francs which are still wanted ?" " I know not," replied Madeleine ; " but did I know a short time ago how I should get the five hun- dred I have now ?" " Then you still persist in your plan ?" " Assuredly. A quarter of an hour ago I had not more than the one-hundredth portion of the sum, and now I have exactly the one-twentieth of it ! Tliis is not the time to give it up." " You are a strange girl," said M. Dubois, shaking his head ; but Madeleine only smiled. Although she seemed satisfied with what she had received, the donors themselves felt that, considering MADELEINE. 167 the object to which it was to be applied, the sum was a miserably poor one. The old former looked at his companions, and read their meaning in their looks. " Come," said he, " this will not do. We must loosen the strings of onr purses a little more, were it only for the honor of Mont-Saint-Jean." A universal assent followed this proposition. Madeleine, seeing that a consultation was going to take place, and not wishing to impose any restraint upon it, silently withdrew into an inner room. In about a quarter of an hour her presence was request- ed by the assembly. When she had taken her seat, the old farmer addressed her thus : — " Madeleine, if any one had told us when we came here this evening, what we should do before we left the mairie, we should one and all have laughed at that person, for indeed our intention was to give you nothing ; somehow or other, however, we agreed to let you have different sums, which, put together, amoimted to five hundred francs. With this you seemed satisfied, and did not ask for more ; but we all knew nevertheless that it was very little, and that we might as well have given you nothing. When you left the room, therefore, we consulted our means, and, recollecting that we were the richest men of Mont-Saint-Jean, and by this bound to do that which is out of the reach of poorer folks, we determined to bestow upon you such a sum that no one might ac- cuse us of stinginess, even though it remained still far short of the ten thousand francs ; each, therefore, according to his means, promised to give a certain sum, which Jean Renaud wrote down on a slip of 168 MADELEINE. paper, and the wliole added together amounts to three thousand francs." " I can only thank you," said Madeleine, looking round ; " but the blessings of the poor will reward you one day." " Madeleine," observed Mathurin, " you must not misunderstand our meaning : this money is given to you for the poor ; let them thank you. "We do not in the least conceive ourselves bound to give a hos- pital to Mont-Saint-Jean, though we should feel will- ing to lend our aid for such a purpose : we therefore give the money to you to di3j)0se of according to your own wish, well knowing that whichever way it is spent it will benefit the poor. To you, Madeleine, we owe many obligations ; for the last two years you have acted as few women ever acted in Mont-Saint- Jean before. You have fed and clothed the poor, you have waited on the aged and infirm like a duti- ful daughter ; when the hand of God was heavy upon us you were seen by every bed of sickness, and you have been a speaking example of good to our wives and daughters ; it is, therefore, with a willing spirit that we give you those three thousand francs in order to aid you in a purpose which we all know lies near your heart. But, though we are not poor men, this is, you must feel, a large sum, and fully as much as we can afford to bestow ; we therefore think it only ' right to warn you beforehand, that, no matter what happens, a Hard more w^e cannot and will not give." " I am satisfied with what I have received," replied Madeleine, " and once more I thank 3^ou." "It is not all," continued Mathurin, "for Dubois has been thinking that the thousand francs which MADELEINE. 169 were collected by the commune to improve the dancing-place, and plant a row of trees near it, would be still better applied if given to you for the hospital ; if the general consent be granted to this arrangement you will have four thousand francs at your disposal ; but how can you obtain the remaining six thousand ?" " God will give me tlie means." " Well, but have you any plan of your own ?" " I have one," said Madeleine with a smile ; " but since you have trusted me thus far, allow me to act according to my own way without questioning me." " As you wish, Madeleine ; whatever you do will ■Turely be well done." As the meeting now gave signs of breaking up, Madeleine, renewing her thanks, and bidding them all farewell, left the office. Until then she had laid her feelings under control, but now she could do so no longer. When she found herself alone she raised her tearful eyes to the starry sky above her, fervently clasped her hands together, and exclaimed from the fulness of a heart overflowing with happiness, " The first step is won ; my God, I thank thee !" CHAPTER XV. On retm-ning home Madeleine found M. Bignon, and Marie Michon, Avith little Lise sleeping upon her knee, waiting to learn the result of her application. She answered their eager and questioning glances by a smile of happiness which could not be misunder- stood. 8 170 MADELEINE. " May God l)o praised for this !" exclaimed M Bignon. "I told you, sii', how it would be," observed Marie Michon, with a quiet smile of triumph, " What is there that Madeleine undertakes which she does not bring to a happy ending ? But now, dear Madeleine, tell us every thing about it ; and, first of all, how much have you got?" "Three, nay, perhajDS, four thousand francs," re- 2)lied Madeleine, who immediately related to them all that had passed at the mairie. " Well, I am happy to hear this, very happy, Madeleine," observed M. Bignon with a melancholy sigh; "and do you not think," he added with a wistful look, " that he would have been happy to hear it too ?" " Indeed I do, sir," replied Madeleine, in a sorrow- ful tone. "I am sure that this news would have gladdened M. Morel's kind heart. "Ay, he had a kind heart!" eagerly cried M. Bignon, his eyes glistening as he spoke ; " else how could he have borne with me so long? Many thought him stern ; but he M^as gentle, very gentle, Madeleine, was he not?" " He was, sir." " And good to the poor, and zealous in the dis- charge of his duties, as a priest of God should be," continued the cure, in a low, humble tone, as though he deprecated his own unworthiness. " His was a great loss, was it not, Madeleine ?" " A heavy loss, sir ; but the will of God be done." "Amen; for, indeed, I am quite resigned. Made- MADELEINE. 171 leine, truly resigned, to the will of heaven ; it were a great sin not to be ; he always said so. Ah, me ! I shall never hear him say so again on earth ! I shall never meet his kindly smile, nor hear him call me brother, for we had been brought up together, Made- leine, in the same village, and in the same seminary. We were ordained on the same day, and since then no week ever passed Avithout our meeting. We loved one another dearly ! But you need not look at me so, Madeleine, I am resigned, I am, indeed," added M. Bignon, in a tremulous tone, and with a melan- choly look, that gave a direct contradiction to his assertion. Madeleine's eyes filled with tears; but she thought less of M. Morel, deeply as she had re- gretted him, than of the gentle cure of Mont-Saint- Jean, who seemed unconscious how much his grief for the loss of his friend displayed the truth and holy simplicity of his own character. " Ay, ay," he re- marked, misconstruing the cause of her emotion, " 1 know you loved him, and he loved you too, for your name was the last on his lips ; and we all have a right to weep and grieve for him — that is to say," observed M. Bignon, checking himself, and ingenu- ously looking at Madeleine, "we must not grieve too much, that would be flying in the fiice of heaven. I hope you do not grieve too much, Madeleine : re- member that he always preached resignation. Think how it would have pained him to see you committiuf'- such a sin ! Promise me that you will try and sub- due your grief." " Indeed I will try, sir." M. Bignon seemed very much relieved by Made- leine's reply ; but the feeling was only momentary, 172 MADELEINE. and he was relaj)sing into his nsiial melancholy when Dame Ursula entered. "Well, sir," she somewhat acrimoniously observed, "supper has been ready this half hour." " I am coming, Ursula ; but Antoinette had told me we should not sup till nine." For since the deatli of the cure of Puysaye, his housekeeper had been lesiding under M. Bignon's roof, to the infinite annoy- ance of Dame Ursula. "Oh!" she bitterly rejoined, "I was not aware that Mademoiselle Antoinette had fixed a new hour for sujDper, otherwise I should not have pre- sumed — " "Ursula," gently interrupted her master, "let there be no strife between you, for his sake ; she was a faithfid servant to him, and he loved her." Ursula could not withstand the appealing look which accompanied this speech. " I am sure, sir," she observed in a mollified tone, " that Mademoiselle Antoinette has no reason to complain of me." "Then let this continue," replied M. Bignon. " Farewell, Madeleine ; remember that it is our duty to be resigned ; you will not forget it, will you ?" he wistfully added. " Indeed, sir, I shall not." " I am glad of it," said the priest with a sigh, as he followed his housekeeper out of the room. " How strange !" observed Marie Michon when he was gone. " M. Bignon seems to think that we all grieve for the death of M. Morel as he does ; he asked me several times before you came in if I had got over my sorrow yet, and, though I told him I had, ho scarcely seemed to believe me." MADELEINE. 1T3 "He loved him iniichj very much," earnestly answered Madeleine. " Marie says you love me very much," here inter- posed Lise, who had wakened up ; '' do you indeed ?" "I love thee dearly," replied Madeleine, embracing her tenderly, " and, God help thee, poor child ! if I did not love thee, who would ?" But little Lise only smiled childishly in her face, and soon fell asleep again upon her lap. The good j^eople of Mont-Saint-Jean were greatly astonished to learn on the following day, that those very individuals who had gone to the mairie with the firm intention of refusing Madeleine's request had ended by giving her three thousand francs ; and yet, according to their own account of the transaction, she had employed no arts of oratory to make them alter their purpose, she had used neither flattery nor en- treaty, the most approved methods of softening obdu- rate hearts ; her sole support had been the pure and holy cause she advocated, a strong and unbending- will, and a character which even the most rej)robate pronounced admirable. — "With these she had con- quered. In the course of the week M. Dubois placed in Madeleine's hands the three thousand francs which had been promised to her, as well as the thousand which, instead of being applied to improve the vil- lage dancing-place, were now, with the general con- sent, given to her hosj^ital. Great curiosity was felt in the mean time to know how she would procure the six thousand francs still wanting to make up the necessary sum. Some elucidation of the mystery was obtained on the following Sunday, when Mado 174 MADELEINE, leine was seen after each mass standing at the church door with a plate in her hand, and saying to those who came out, " Eemember the hospital of Mont- Saint-Jean, if you please." The plan proved very successful ; every one felt anxious to contribute to the village hospital, and those who could give nothing at the time called in the evening with their humble offering. Madeleine thus collected about fifty francs ; but she received several hints that the experiment would not bear repetition, and many people wondered aloud how she would get the five thousand nine hundred and fifty francs she still wanted. Though Madeleine gave them no satisfaction on this point, she seemed to be sufiiciently confident in her own resources, for on the following day she went to the town of C , where the notary who had been commissioned to sell the pro]3erty resided. From him Madeleine learned that the j)i"ice of the house was not ten thousand francs, as she had supposed, but twelve thousand. At the same time M. Lacroix, the notary, informed her that the present possessors of the property might be in- duced to give it for a lesser sum in case they failed to sell it now ; so that if Madeleine was willing to wait three months, she might perhaps then obtain the house for the ten thousand francs. "Do you think, sir, the j^roperty will be sold before the three months are over ?" hesitatingly asked Madeleine. " It is indeed very likely, for several persons have been inquiring about it lately ; still you have a chance. Let me see, to-day is the lYth of Sej)tem- ber; well, then, call upon me after Christmas, and MADELEINE. 175 if the house is still unsokl I will give you a final answer." Madeleine had no alternative but to submit ; for the difference of two thousand francs was to her an enormous one, and with a sigh she declared her will- ingness to wait until the ap^^ointed time should have elapsed. When Marie condoled with her on the subject of her disappointment, Madeleine -calmly replied — " If it is not the will of God that I should have that particular house, it is doubtless better for me not to have it." On the following Sunday Madeleine, to the general surprise, did not appear at mass ; many persons asked Marie Michon if her friend were ill, but she replied that she enjoyed good health, and was merely gone to Puysaye. On her return Madeleine made, however, no mystery of her errand ; she had been to solicit the charity of the neighboring village in favor of her hospital. " How much did you get ?" asked one individual. " Seven francs." The sum was thought very insignificant ; but such was not Madeleine's opinion, " for," as she observed, " yesterday I had only four thousand and fifty francs, and to-day I have four thousand and fifty -seven ; am I not therefore richer than I was ?" Though there was no contesting this, the remark still was, " What is seven francs ?" But to Made- leine every sum, however trifling, that brought her nearer to her great end, seemed of inestimable value. She visited another villao-e on the followinc; Sundav, and this time her errand proved somewhat more pro- 37G MADELEINE. ductive ; she brought home ten francs. Every Sun^ day she went to a different parish, and never came home empty handed. When she had explored all the villages within a few leagues of Mont-Saint-Jean, she resolved to extend her peregrinations, and accord* iDgly borrowed the cure's mare every time that the distance was too considerable for her to walk. As Sunday was the most favorfible day for such excur- sions, and the only one of which she could dispose freely, it was that which she always chose. In order to reach the place of her destination, sorrietimes ten or fifteen leagues distant, she was obliged to set out on her journey long before daylight. Her way gen- erally lay through a wild and desolate-looking coun- try, and often over rugged hills and mountain-passes, where she might travel for hours without meeting a human being ; but Madeleine was accustomed to solitude, and the wild beauty of the surrounding scenery had a charm for her which the native of a more fertile and favored region would vainly have sought to perceive. She always carried with her sufficient provisions for the day ; her food was indeed of the simplest kind, but it satisfied the wants of nature, and she asked no more. When the day was fine, Madeleine sometimes took her repast on the margin of any clear stream that chanced to cross her j)ath, A piece of bread, some fruit, and a drink of the water that rippled at her feet, formed her meal. The silence and loneliness of those journeys, which might have i:>roved irksome to any other mind, were, on the contrary, congenial to that of Madeleine. She generally found her own thoughts sufficient com- pany ; but when these became dull she either took MADELEINK. 177 out her roscaiy or her prayer-book, or, oftener still, chanted one of her favorite ballads as she slowly went along. Whilst the weather remained favorable, these ex- cursions, though fatiguing, were not attended with any unpleasant circumstances ; but the severe cold which prevailed towards the beginning of winter ren- dered them very trying for Madeleine, Neither the fatigue she experienced nor the state of the weather could prevent her, however, from setting out every Sunday morning. Snov/, wind, or rain, seemed equally indifferent to her. It was in vain Marie earnestly besought her to stay at home, and that M. Bignon and Doctor Detrimont remonstrated with her ; Madeleine persisted in her resolve, and to all they could urge merely replied, " I cannot help it ; Mont- Saint- Jean must have a hospital." Her journeys were, however, more likely to prove prejudicial to her health in the end, than dangerous for the present. She now possessed a very accurate knowledge of the surrounding country, and always showed great prudence and coolness in difhculties. Notwithstanding her fragile form, she could bear a degree of exertion and fatigue from which even robust men might have shrunk, and through which she was supported by her energetic and ever-active mind. Both Madeleine's person, and the object of her journeys, soon became well known by report within many leagues of ]\Iont-Samt-Jean, owing to her i)er- severance in what she termed a holy and imperative duty. It was now a common sight to see her, even in the most boisterous and snowy winter days, riding along some stee]) and narrow path, which, thougu S* 178 MADELEINE. dangerous in appearance, was perfectly safe with tiie sui-e-footecl Grise. Whenever some passing peasant happened to meet her quiet figure in this lonely re- gion, the coarse cloth mantle which she wore made him immediately recognize her, if lie did not Icnow her previously, as " The Gray Cloak of the Hills," fur such was the name which Madeleine had acquired m her peregrinations. Few of those who saw her thus proceeding on her eiTand of love, failed to gaze with mingled sui-prise and admhation on tha simple and thoughtful-looking girl, and all threw involuntary rev- erence into their usual greeting of " May the blessing of the Lord be on your path !" "May it also rest upon yours," was Madeleine's rej^ly as she rode on. The beginning of the month of December was marked by a heavy fall of snow, soon followed by a thaw, which rendered some of the paths along the hills j)^i'ticularly imsafe. Seeing the state of the weather, Marie Michon hoped that Madeleine might be induced to relinquish a journey to a distant village which she had projected for the following Sunda}''. But, in spite of the dark and threatening aspect ot the sky, Madeleine persisted in her purpose. Though Marie now understood her character too well to teaze her with useless remonstrances, it was with a heavy heart that she saw her depart upon her journey at break of day. Madeleine averred that there was no danger, and promised to be back by the evening ; but this did not dispel Marie's fears. Dur- ing the whole of the day she could think of nothmg save Madeleine, and the probable hour of her retm-n. That hour passed, and her friend came not. Marie's MADELEINE. 179 heart sank within her. A thousand dismal imairin- ings crowded to her mind. What could have hap- pened to Madeleine ? And she thought ^vith inward misgivings of the ravmes treacherously covered with snow, and the swollen mountain-torrents which lay across the path of her friend. Night liad long set in, and yet Madeleine did not make her appearance. Marie communicated her fears to M. Bignon ; but the good cure could only share her distress of mind, with- out alleviating it. The evening ^Jassed away without Lringhig any ti- dings of Madeleine. Many of the villagers who felt anxious about her called several times to learn whether she had returned ; but Marie had no favorable news to impart, and only shook her head sadly when peo- ple wondered what could delay Madeleine so long. "Why does she not come back?" repeatedly asked little Lise. "Alas ! I Imow not ; I wish I did !" anxiously re- plied Marie ; " I wish she would come back !" Every one in the family naturally felt great anxiety on the subject ; but old Joseph, perhaps on account of his infiimity, which kept him upstau'S and ]3revented him from hearing all that passed below, showed him- self most uneasy, and whenever Marie or any other person came near the room where he lay, eagerly asked if Madeleine were not yet retm*ned. Towards nine o'clock it began to rain, and Marie's anxiety was increased by thinkmg how wet Madeleine would be. She sat up all night, in the hope that her friend would make her appearance, but though she often strained her ear to catch the distant clatter of La Grise's hoofs^ ao sounds broke upon the silence of her watch ^'" 180 MADELEINE, save tliose of the mingled wind and rain as tliey beat against tlie casement. Unable to bear this suspense, Marie put on her cloak and went out into the silent street of the village ; but the night was so dark that she could scarcely see before her, and she was soon obliged to retrace her steps. Mommg came at last ; the rain still fell down in torrents ; the day was dark and di'eary. M. Bignon called at an early hour to know whether Madeleine had returned, and learned with evident pain that she had not. He was speaking on the subject with Marie when the door of the room opened, and Madeleme quietly entered. She seemed pale and fatigued, and her garments were dripping with the rain; but her look was so calm and composed that, though Marie at first started up with glad surprise, she merely ob- served, relinquishing her seat by the fireside, " Oh ! Madeleine, how wet you are ! sit down here." " You look pale," anxiously said her friend as she took the seat, " have you been uneasy, Marie ?" " Indeed, I have been very uneasy, and so has M Bignon ; we have all been uneasy." " I am sorry for that," gravely rephed MadeleinC; " bat indeed there was no danger, though the bad weather delayed me." " I sujDpose you spent the night in the village where you were," remarked M. Bignon. " Oh, no ! I left it as soon as mass was over." " Then where did you sleep ?" uneasily asked Marie. " In a shed on the hills," composedly answered Mad- eleine. " Oh, Madeleine ! how you must have suffered from the cold !" MADELEINE. 181 " Yeiy little, I assure you, Marie ; the night was BO dark, that I feared to proceed, and truly thankful did I feel when I perceived tins shed at hand ; I dis- mounted, led in La Grise, and remained there until dawn of day, when I resumed my journey." "Madeleine, Madeleine, you will kill yourself!" '•eproach fully exclaimed Marie. " Indeed, my clear child," observed the cure^ in a moved tone, " to spend a night like that, and in December too, in a wretched shed ! You have acted very wi'ong. M. Morel, I am sure, would have highly disapproved of your conduct : think oi that." " Why, Madeleine," here interposed Marie, " I declare your clothes are all wet through ; for the love of the blessed Virgin, go and change them in- stantly." Madeleine complied with this injunction, and left the room. As she passed by the door of the place where old Joseph was, he called her in. She entered. " So you are come back," he observed, in his usual tone. "Do you want me?" asked Madeleine. " Ko, I want nothing," he briefly replied. Madeleine was too much accustomed to Josei:»h"'s peculiarities to heed them ; she accordingly showed no surprise, but proceeded to her own room. In about a quarter of an hour she came down again. Marie Michon was preparing her breakfast, and Beemed quite ready to question her on every detail of her journey. ^Vlien her curiosity was fully satisfied^ Marie, as though suddenly recollecting something she had forgotten, exclaimed, 182 MADELEINE. " But, Madeleine, you have not told us all this time how much money you got." " Here it is," calmly said Madeleine, producing her pocket handkerchief, in which the little hoard was tied up. Marie undid the knot ; a few sous rolled on the table. Marie looked up at her friend, and her eyes filled with tears. Had Madeleine undertaken a weary journey through wind and rain, and passed a cold December night in a lonely shed on the hills, merely for this ? "It is not much," remarked Madeleine, with a quiet smile ; " but we must be thankful for whatever God sends us ;" and, taking up the cojjper coins, she went to place them in the box where she kept the money destined for the hospital. CHAPTER XVI. TuE three months apj^ointed by the notary were now drawing to a close, and the house on the hill still remained unsold. Though she preserved her usually calm demeanor, Madeleine had experienced considerable anxiety on this subject ; she never saw a well-dressed man in Mont-Saint- Jean without dread- ing in him some unknown i)urchaser of the sj^ot which she longed to possess. Once her fears seemed on the point of being realized ; a gentleman of prop- erty, pleased with the picturesque aspect of the place, took a fancy to it, and proceeded to C with the avowed intention of treating with the notary. Mad- MADELEINE. 183 eleine happened to be present whilst he looked over the house, for whenever she passed near it, she could not resist the temptation of examining it again, to see how well adapted it was for her cherished pur- pose ; but, on this occasion, she heard the stranger's expressions of admiration with a heavy heart. He praised the picturesque view afforded by the wretched cottages of Mont-Saint- Jean as they rose on the hill, whilst she thought of all the misery they concealed ; and, when he admired the manner in which the sur- rounding grounds were laid out, she sadly reflected that the produce of that land, now covered with shrubs and flowers, might almost suffice, if properly cultivated, to sui3port her intended hospital. A week passed away, and, to Madeleine's surprise, the prop- erty remained unsold ; at the end of that time she learned, with a strong feeling of relief, that, notwith- standing his great admiration of the place, the gen- tleman had never made his appearance in the etude of M. Lacroix. One evening, about a week before Christmas, Mad- eleine was spinning by the fireside, with Lise seated at her feet, and her children around her as usual, when Marie Michon, who had been out on some trifling errand, entered. She sat down near the fire in silence, then rose to look for her work, and sat down again without having found it. She seemed anxious to attract her friend's attention, but Made- leine was more than usually engrossed by her own thoughts ; she had been counting over her hoard in her room, and was at the very moment wondering what sort of an agreement she ought to make with the notary. Seeing that Madeleine did not notice 184 MADELEINE. her, Marie at length observed, with as much cahnnesa as she could assume, "That she supj)osed she had heard the news ?" " What news ?" inquired Madeleine, suddenly awak- ening from her revery, and fastening an anxious look on Marie. Her friend evidently did not like to reply. Made- leine repeated her question. " "Why," hesitatingly observed Marie, " the place is sold ; I suppose you know what I mean." Madeleine knew well enough, for her cheek grew pale, and her voice quivered, as, after a brief pause, she said, " The will of God be done." Several persons came in dm-ing the course of the evening; they confirmed Marie's intelligence, and named the rich and titled lady who had purchased the j)roperty on the hill. Every one wondered at the com- posure with which Madeleine bore her disappoint- ment ; but, to say the trath, she was not so resigned as she appeared to be, and when, on retiring for the night, she at length found herself alone, the repining thoughts she had endeavored to suppress till then could now scarcely be controlled. Her first act was to open the box which contained the funds destined for the hospital of Mont-Saint-Jean. Besides the gold and notes which Madeleine had received from the villagers, all the silver, and even the sous, which she had collected since then with so much toil and trouble, were here gathered together — four thousand four hun- dred and fifty-five francs in all. She had counted the sum over a few hours before, her heart beating with silent joy as she added to it a few francs from her own earnings ; but she gazed upon it now with deep sad- MADELEINE. 185 ness ; for Madeleine did not deceive herself, she knew that to erect a hospital of the most simple descrip- tion would still cost a verj large sum, and that if she could have purchased the property on the hill for ten thousand francs, it would have been an immense saving of time, money, and labor. But though, as she turned away from her melancholy contemplation, her heart was full of sadness, it was at the same time as much resigned to the will of heaven as human frailty would allow it to be. Several weeks elapsed, and, as though nothing had occurred, Madeleine continued her Sunday excur- sions and her unwearied labor during the week ; she had experienced a severe disappointment, but her faith was still unshaken. The hospital of Mont-Saint- Jean might not exist perhaps as soon as she had anti- cipated, but that it would exist one day she could not doubt. Every one wondered at this trait in lier char- acter, and many expressed their surprise that, though so simple and unassuming, Madeleine should still have such deep faith in herself. One morning Marie Michon, who had gone out to see her brother's family, returned in a few minutes with a countenance so pregnant of news that Made- leine could not helj) asking her what was the matter. " Oh ! Madeleine !" exclaimed Marie, " if you did but know what I have to tell you !" " What is it ?" calmly inquired Madeleine. " Oh ! such news ! But j^romise me you will neither be agitated nor — in short, any thing !" Madeleine looked up. Marie well knew the sub- ject which lay nearest to her heart ; could she bo alluding to it now ? 186 MADELEINE, " What is it ?" she again asked, but this time with a slight tremor in her voice, and keeping her anxious gaze fastened on Marie as she spoke. " Tlien you must know — nay, Madeleine, I will not say another word if you look at me so ; you must promise to be calm." " I am quite calm, Marie, you may speak." " What I have to say is about the house on the hill. You know that it was sold about a month ago to a rich lady of Paris." " Then it is sold after all !" exclaimed Madeleine, who had begun to Iwpe that such might not have been the case. " Oh ! yes, of course, but what do you think has happened? Why, M. Dupin's heirs and the lady have disagreed ; she declares she has been taken in ; and is so annoyed on the subject that she has com- missioned M. Lacroix, the notary, to sell the whole property for ten thousand francs." " Are you sure of this, Marie ?" gravely asked Madeleine, unable at the same time to suppress her emotion. " Of course I am sure of it ; I met Pierre, who is just come from C , where he saw the notary, who told him that if you still wished for it you might have the house now. But, how is this, Madeleine, your eyes are filled with tears : I thought you would be glad." " Dost thou not see that I am happy, very happy ?" replied Madeleine, with a smile suflicient to show tlie truth of her words. The good tidings were immediately communicated to M. Bignon and the mayor, who both agreed that MADELEINIJ. 187 Madeleine ought now to see the notary with as little delay as possible, and expressed their readiness to accompany her to C , which was accordingly effected on the following day. After a good deal of debating, in which M. Dubois showed himself very zealous for Madeleine's interest, the notary, who had received great latitude from his client, agreed to sell the proj^erty for nine thousand and five hundred francs. As Madeleine could not pay the whole of this sum at once, he consented to receive it in three different j^ayments ; the first, of four thousand five hundred francs, to take place on the present day, the twenty-seventh of Januar_y, of the year 18 — ; the second, of two thousand five hun- dred francs, was fixed for Midsummer Day ; and the third, also of two thousand five hundred francs, for Saint Martin's Day, which falls on the eleventh of Is^ovember. M. Lacroix, however, stipulated that Madeleine should not enter into possession of the property until the entire sum was in his hands ; and that, moreover, if it was not paid within the appointed time, half of the money then ii; his possession should be forfeited. Madeleine raised no objection to the first clause, but the last evidently startled her. "You know, sir," she said, anxiously looking at the notary, " that the money is not mine ; that it be- longs to the poor." The notary, however, protested against any such knowledge ; the name set down in the agreement was that of Madeleine Guerin, the poor were not men- tioned once ; it was with Madeleine Guerin L e was dealing, and if she could not pay the money she owed, it was Madeleine Guerin who must sufler. 188 MADELEINE. As, notwithstauding the politeness of his manner, he was quite inflexible on this point, Madeleine did not nrge it farther, but, turning towards the cure and the major, asked for their advice. " Ah !" said M, Bignon, with a sigh, " what ad vice can I give you, Madeleine ? There was one, indeed, who, w'ere he living — but he is gone : may the holy will of God be done !" " But what ought I to do, sir ?" urged Madeleine. M. Bignon took a pinch of snuff, remained silent for a while, and, looking up, at length observed, with perfect sincerity and good faith, " Madeleine, the best advice I can give you, is to try and think how he would have told you to act on this occasion. You knew him well, Madeleine," he added, in a softened tone ; " I dare say you will be able to imagine all he would have said, ay, and the very look with which he would have said it too." When he had given Madeleine this piece of ad vice, M. Bignon shook his head, sighed, and fell into a fit of melancholy musing, as he always did when- ever the conversation turned on his late friend. Madeleine's look lingered a while with gentle pity on the cure's abstracted countenance, and then turned inquiringly towards M. Dubois. This worthy per- sonage had heard, with something very like a sneer of contempt, M. Bignon's advice, and on being now con- sulted by Madeleine in his turn, he drew himself up, assumed a consequential air, and, whilst the notary impatiently mended his pen, slowly began, " My deai Madeleine, the question is, whether 3'ou are to agree to this condition or not. I believe that is the ques- tion," added M. Dubois, with a look of very great MADELEINE. 189 depth ; " well then, let us examine it. If you do agree to this condition, Madeleine, you must reflect that it will be necessary to be able to pay the money within the appointed time, else you lose half of it ; bear that in mind ; do not forget it. If you do not agree to this condition, I believe M. Lacroix there will insist on your paying down all the money at once ; mind that. Now, Madeleine, what are you to do ? Are you to run the risk and perhaps lose half of the money, or will you act better by giving up the bargain altogether ? It is a nice question ; I have stated both sides fairly ; weigh it well. You have my advice ; act upon it if you choose." After having delivered this oration, M. Dubois sat down, wiped his forehead, and looked aroimd him with a self-satisfied air. Madeleine had listened to both her advisers with great gravity, for she had naturally little turn for the ludicrous, and the circum- stance which formed the subject of the present debate was to her far too serious to allow even a smile at the expense of her kind-hearted, though not very clear- minded, friends. When M. Dubois had done speak- ing, she remained for a few minutes like one lost in thought, then rose, and, without uttering a word, walked to the table, took up a pen, and wrote her name at the bottom of the deed drawn up by the notary, and which only wanted her signature to ren- der it valid. When this decisive act was concluded, and the four thousand five hundred francs had been deposited in the hands of M. Lacroix, Madeleine left his study with her two friends. " Well, Madeleine," said M. Dubois, as they pro 190 MADELEINE. ceeded homewards, " you have paid a large sum to- day, but how will you pay the five thousand francs still remaining ?" " God, who sent me the fom- thousand five hundred francs, will, perhaps, also send me the other five thousand," answered Madeleine. The mayor shook his head skeptically ; he was by no means inclined to believe in the frequent interpo- sition of Providence, and on this occasion he could not help thinking that if Madeleine had not received four thousand francs from Mont-Saint-Jean, she could not have paid that sum to the notary a few minutes before. Had he s]3oken aloud, Madeleine would have told him that in her belief whatever came through human means was still the gift of God ; that she hoped for no miracle, but confined herself to the limits of what was possible, never leaving to Provi- dence what she could possibly afiect by earthly means, but at the same time keej)ing her faith un- shaken and unchanged through every trial, for, though an open miracle might have confirmed it, it could not have rendered it more firm or more deeply rooted. " Well," observed M. Dnbois, after a short pause, " whatever may happen, Madeleine, remember that I gave you good advice." The worthy mayor did not say in what this advice consisted, and wisely ab stained from determining whether Madeleine had fol- lowed it or not, for, by leaving the matter in a kind of doubt, his credit as a prndent adviser would remain unshaken, however events might turn out. The word advice roused M. Bignon from his revery. " Yes, Madeleine," said he, interpreting it his own MADELEINE. 101 way, " if you have acted as he would Lave advised, you need not fear, for, depend upon it, it was right. And yet, child, I wish I knew how you will get the money." " "VVe must leave that to God , He will take his own time, sir." " Eight again, Madeleine ; he always said that we should leave every thing to the will of heaven." ^Notwithstanding the evident uneasiness manifested by her two friends, Madeleine was perfectly calm. She was quite aware, however, of the risk she ran, but she also saw that it was unavoidable, that she could not have secured the property without incur- ring this risk, and that now the step was taken it would be useless and even wrong to allow her mind to be disturbed by vain doubts and fears. " And why should she fear ?" urged that strong faith which dwelt within her ; " a few months before she did not own a single franc for her hospital, and not an hour before she had parted with a large sum, destined to purchase the building. True, she might not obtain the money she still wanted by the same means, but could not God, after sending it in one way, now send it in another ?" Thus reasoned Madeleine in her simple philoso- phy, as she returned with a light and happy heart to Mont-Saint-Jean. 192 MADELEINE. CHAPTER XVII. Madeleine's life had hitlierto been considered one of severe toil, but it was now generally pronounced actual slavery. She felt indeed that whilst appealing to the chanty of others her own endeavors ought not to be relaxed, but rather increased. To whom ought tlie cause of the hospital of Mont-Saint- Jean to be so dear as to her ? and urged by this thought Madeleine worked incessantly. Many pitied her, but she de- clared with truth that she had never been so happy as now, Notwithstanding the severity of the weather, Mad- eleine persevered in her Sunday journeys during the whole of the winter. Once she was nearly lost in the snow, and another time narrowly escaped drowning as she crossed a mountain-torrent. But her deliverance from these dangers, the thought of which filled Marie with alarm, only confirmed Made- leine's faith and courage. When spring returned, her excursions became both more pleasant and prof- itable, for, this being the time when the rich leave Paris for their country residences, many of the ladies who attended the village churches made Madeleine very handsome donations, which in less than three months amounted to about five hundred francs. But Midsummer Day was approaching, and Madeleine had still two thousand francs to procure. M. Bignon now came to her aid ; he not only gave her fifty francs of his own money, but also on her suggestion MADELEINE. 193 wrote to several parish priests of the villages which were too far for her to visit, requesting them to soli- cit the aid of their parishioners in favor of the hosj)i- tal of Mont-Saiut-Jeau. About six hundred francs were thus obtained. Matters were going on thus smoothly, when to- wards the beginning of May an event occurred which proved most unwelcome to Madeleine and M. Bi- gnon ; this was the death of La Grise, his faithful and serviceable mare. The good cure was chiefly grieved for Madeleine, for though, as he averred. La Grise had been the most intelligent and sure-footed of her species, he seldom put her powers to the test, " and now," he added with a sigh, " that he no longer rode to Puysaye he had little need of her services him- self." Marie Michon now knew Madeleine too well to think that this loss could induce her to discontinue her weekly journeys, yet she dreaded to question her on the subject ; when she saw her, however, on a Friday evening making those preparations which she usually kept for the Saturday, she asked her the cause of this. "Thou knowest," answered Madeleine, "that the loss of La Grise compels me now to manage as well as I can. It takes so much more time to walk tban to ride, that instead of leaving here on the Sunday I must go on Saturday. Farmer Nicolas's wife is going to market to-morrow morning, and she has offered to take me on her horse as far as C , which, though it leads me somewhat out of my way, spares me at least a walk of seven leagues. The distance from C to Cherson. where I am going, is about ten 9 194 MADELEINE, leagues ; five I can walk to-morrow afternoon, and five on Sunday morning." " And where will you sleep ?" anxiously asked Marie. " I know not," comi30sedly answered Madeleine, " but I shall probably find some place of shelter on my way." " But Madeleine," observed Marie, after a brief pause, " does it not strike you that you shall lose at least two days by this, and do you think that what you can get at Cherson will be worth the trouble you take ?" " There are rich people living there, I hear ; be- sides, now that we have so little work to do, Marie, I do not risk much by going." Marie did not urge the point, nor did she remon- strate with Madeleine on the fatigue to which she was going to expose herself, for she knew that this consideration would produce little eifect on her friend, though it rendered her uneasy and thoughtful for the whole of the evening. The next morning Madeleine sat out at an early hour with farmer Nicolas's wife, and arrived at C towards noon. Here she rested for about one or two hours, and then proceeded on her journey. The day was lovely, though very warm ; but her road fortunately lay through a cool and sequestered valley of considerable extent. When evening came on, Madeleine stopped at the door of a large farm, and asked to be allowed to pass the night in the cow-house. Her request was granted, and her quiet, modest manners so worked upon the heart, and also perhaps on the curiosity of the fermiere, that she MADELEINE. 195 spontaneously invited her to join the family at snjv per. Here, of course, Madeleine was narrowly ques- tioned as to her history, errand, &c. ISTothing could exceed the surprise of the farmer and his wife when they learned that Madeleine was going to Cherson merely to make a collection in lavor of a hospital, which w^ould only be a bm-den to her even when she had accomplished her object. Her brief and simple answers, however, produced a favorable impression on her hostess, who declared that as she had a bed to spare there was no necessity for Madeleine to sleep in the cow-house, as had first been proposed. Madeleine rose at dawn of day and left the farm, not, however, without thanking the kind farmer, who assured her that whenever she came that way she should always be a welcome guest. Madeleine ar- rived at Cherson a few minutes before mass began ; she mingled with the congregation, and when the service was over, took her stand at the door of the church, holding a small wooden plate in her hand, and uttering her usual petition, " Eemember the hospital of Mont-Saint- Jean." Most of the individu- als who granted her request only dropped one or two sous each into the plate ; and some who evidently ranked as the great ones of Cherson ostentatiously placed a silver half-franc piece amongst the plebeian coppers ; a richly-dressed lady who came out amongst the last, gave a two-franc -piecQ She gazed earnestly at Madeleine as she did so, and seemed on the point of addressing her, but a group which suddenly came between her and the object of her attention prevented her from doinor so As soon as her collection was over, Madeleine, who -9G MADELEINE, felt completely exhausted through hunger and fatigue, hastened to leave Cherson and to repair to a quiet and secluded spot which she had noticed in the morning. It v/as merely a little cluster of trees growing near a running brook, but affording a thick and grateful shade. Here she sat down, laved her hands, face, and wearied feet in the cool water, and when her ablutions were over took her frugal repast. She did not, however, resume her journey immediately, but waited until the heat of the day was piirtly passed. Having then learned from a peasant the direction she should take — for as she did not intend to return through C her road was necessarily altered — she resumed her journey. The heat of the day was still very great, and Made- leine felt it the more that she was already much fa- tigued, and that her road lay across fields, where she M'^as fully exposed to the burning rays of the sun. After walking for about an hour she reached a small but shady wood, where, tempted by the delightful coolness of the atmosphere, she sat down for a few minutes. She had not been there long when the sound of many voices attracted her attention. Look- ing through the trees, she perceived a large party of ladies and gentlemen coming towards her. She rose and stepped on one side, but a lady who was con- isiderably in advance of the rest perceived her, and, after looking at her for a few minutes, beckoned her to draw near. Madeleine complied, and recognized the donor of the two-franc piece. " Did you not stand at the door of the church ol Cherson this morning ?" asked the lady. " I did, madame." MADELEINE. 197 " You were asking contributions for some hospital or other, were you not V' " For that of Mont-Saint-Jean, madame." " Where is Mont-Saint- Jean ?" Madeleine looked uj) with some surprise, but re- plied that it was a village in the hills, about seven- teen leagues distant. "And have you come all that way to make a col- lection in Cherson ?" inquired the lady, with a won- dering glance. " Oh, yes ! I am going back there now." " How much did you get this morning ?" " Eight francs and five sous.*' " That was very little." " Oh, no, madame ! I sometimes get much less." " Sometimes ! Then you are in the habit of trav- elling ?" " I do so every Sunday." " How do you travel ?" " M. Bignon used to lend mc his mare, but she died last week, so I shall now be obliged to walk." "But is it to collect money for the hospital that you take these journeys?" " Of course, madame," answered Madeleine, with a wondering smile ; " for what else should I travel ?" The lady gazed with surprise on the slender and simple-looking jjeasant girl, "What is your name?" she asked, after a briel pause, " Madeleine Guerin, madame." "Well, tlien, Madeleine, why do you take such an interest in the hospital of Mont-Saint-Jean ?" " Because it is 1 who am to purchase the house 198 MADELEINE, which is to be the hospital," simply replied Made- leine. " Then it does not exist yet ?" " Oh, no ! bnt I have already paid four thousand five hundred francs to M. Lacroix, and I owe him five thousand more." "But you must be rich, Madeleine, to be able to found a hospital ?" " I^ay, madame, I have only what the goodness of God, my own labor, and the charity of the world can give me." "Then, since you are not rich, how came you to think of so great an undertaking ?" " Because the poor wanted a hospital, madame ; for no other reason." " But how will you pay the five thousand francs which you say you still owe ?" " I shall collect part of the money as I did to-day ; Marie Michon and I will try to earn the rest." " My poor child," compassionately said the lady, " you will be very long before you have five thousand francs." " I have already got upwards of eleven hundred and fifty francs, and the rest must be paid by next Saint Martin's day." "Are you not afraid not to have the money in time ?" " God is good, madame." The rest of the party now came up and looked with some curiosity upon Madeleine. The lady turned towards her friends, and briefly telling them who she was, made the young girl rej)eat her little history. This she did simply, but with a mixture of originality MADELEINE. 199 and naivete wliich amused wliile it interested tlic listeners. "And now," said the lady, Vv'lien she bad con- cluded, "what shall we do for this poor girl who came a distance of seventeen leagues to get eight francs five sous for the hospital of Mont-Saint- Jean ?" Without waiting for a reply she opened her richly embroidered reticule, and, going round, smilingly bade every one remember the hospital of Mont-Saint- Jean. The appeal was very successful. All those present were rich, and the least each gave wa^ five francs. Several dropped much larger sums into the bag ; and Madeleine, who watched the proceedings with a beat- ing heart, saw one gentleman give a jN^apoleon. When the lady had gone romid, and contributed her own offering, she turned to Madeleine, and, bidding her sit down, poured the contents of the bag into her lap. " Let us count how much you have got," she said, with a smile. The whole sum amounted to a hun- dred and fifty francs. " A hundred and fifty francs !" exclaimed Made- leine. " Oh, madame, are you sure it is indeed so much?" And she looked at the glittering heap with glistening eyes and clasped hands. "Yes, Madeleine, it is indeed a hundred and fifty francs; and I shall get you more money for your hospital, if you will only tell me where to send it." " To M. Bignon, madame, if you will be so kind." "Who is M. Bignon, and where does he live?" asked the lady, with a smile. " He is our cure^ madame, and lives at Mont-Saint- Jean." 200 MADELEINE. "Well, Madeleine, you must be fatigued. "Will you stop witli me for this day and rest yourself?" "You are very kind, madame; but I promised Marie to return as soon as I could. She knows I shall have to walk home, and would think something happened to me if I delayed.*' " Who is she ? your sister ?" " She is my friend, and lives with me." " Well, I will not keep you if it is so, Madeleine. Farewell ; you shall hear from me again," Madeleine, however, did not leave the spot — she wanted to make some acknowledgment to the lady and her friends who had so kindly assisted her ; but she did not know how to do this. " Madame," said she at length, " w^ill you be kind enough to tell me your name ?" " Madame de Boissy. But why do you ask, Mad- eleine ?" " Because," replied Madeleine, " when the hospital is open I shall tell all the poor people in it to pray for Madame de Boissy and her friends. And per- haps you would like to know when it is open," she added after a moment's reflection, " as well as Mes- sieurs et Mesdames," she continued, hesitatingly glancing round on the company. All protested nothing could give them greater pleasure than such an event. Madeleine's coun- tenance brightened up, for she had no difficulty in believing this. Her own interest in the hospital of Mont-Saint-Jean was so deep that it seemed natural every one should share in it. And who would not, she thought, be happy to hear of a home being open- ed to the sick and the poor ? With much simplicity MADELEINE. 201 and good faith she therefore assured those present that she would not fail to let them know when the hospital was opened. This she repeated several times, as though desirous of impressing them with her sincerity ; after which she bade the company farewell, and departed, wondering at the same time why they smiled and looked at one another. Madeleine walked durins; the whole of the dav, and spent the night at a quiet little inn on her way. She resumed her journey the following morning, and reached Mont-Saint-Jean towards dusk. Lisc, who saw her coming, ran joyously to meet her, and informed her that Marie was sitting at the door waiting for her. " Oh, Madeleine !" reproachfully exclaimed Marie, when she drew near the house, " how tired you look ! I am sure you have walked all the way home ; and for what ? for a few sous, perhaps." l!s^ow was the time for Madeleine's quiet triumph ; ^vithout making any reply she displayed her little treasure to Marie's bewildered glance. " And have you really brought back all this ?'' at length observed Marie. "Holy Yirgin, here is a piece of gold ! A hundred and fifty-eight francs in all ! Ah, Madeleine, there is a charm al)0ut you, and that is why people give you so much !" "jS'ay," returned Madeleine, with a smile, "it is to the poor they give. AVho would not be glad to give to the poor V Marie shook her head skeptically. " I tell you, Madeleine," she insisted. " that it is to you the money is given ; but I suj)pose you will never acknowledge chat; so just tell me how you got so large a sum." 9* 202 MADELEINE Madeleine told her, and related the few incidents of her journey. As she thought of Madeleine's suc- cess, and then of the fatigue she had endured, Marie was glad and sad by turns ; but it was the latter feel- ing which predominated, in spite of the hundred and fifty-eight francs, " She will kill herself," she sadly repeated, in a low tone, as she marked Madeleine's evident weariness ; " she will kill herself with all this toil and fatigue." CHAPTER XVIII. Madame de Boissy kept her word, and about throe weeks after her meeting with Madeleine she forwarded to M. Bignon a sum of three hundred and fifty francs which she had collected for the hospital of Mont- Saint-Jean. This proved a very welcome addition to Madeleine's hoard, for Midsummer day was approach- ing, and, in spite of her efforts, she feared she should not have the sum of two thousand five hundred francs 1)y that time. Her fears were realized ; all she could put together was two thousand francs, and she had to impose upon herself numerous privations in order to effect so much. When she went to C with this sura, the notary was extremely dissatisfied, and declared that he ex- ceeded his instructions in not insisting on the pay- ment of the whole amount. " But remember," he added, whilst giving the receipt for the money, " I must have three thousand francs for Saint Martin's day." MADELEINE. 203 " And if I have not got the money then ?'* anxiously asked Madeleine. " "Well," rej)lied M. Lacroix, seemingly astonished at the question, "you know the agreement between us ; half of the money is to be forfeited." Madeleine's heart sank within her. That money of which the notary spoke so lightly, but which it had cost her so much toil and trouble to put together, seemed to her like some holy treasure which it would be sacrilege to touch ; but she remembered that the agreement did indeed give the notary the right to which he alluded, and she merely said, , " The will of God be done." All the way home, however, Madeleine asked her- self: " How shall I get three thousand francs by next November ?" Madeleine now began to think that she had acted rashly in taking upon herself a task above her strength. Every thing seemed calculated to make her yield to discouragement ; her pensioners became more helpless every day ; the garden only yielded a scanty supply of vegetables, and little or no fruit, so that whatever she and Marie Michon could earn was barely sufficient to support the family. I*fotwith- standing the great labor and fotigue with which her Sunday excursions were attended, they ceased to be as productive as they had once been, for, as the fine weather passed away, the rich left the country, and the poor were getting rather tired of hearing about the hospital of Mont-Saint-Jean. All that Madeleine had collected at the end of three months was three himdred and fifty francs, and in about six weeks more she would be called upon to pay three thousand ! 204 MADELEINE. After spending many sleepless and anxious nights in thinking on this subject, Madeleine resolved to ai:)peal to the mayor of the village — no longer M. Dubois, for the office is elective — and request him to convene a general meeting of the inhabitants, who might, she thought, be willing to assist her in her present difficult position. It was not without strong reluctance that Madeleine determined on taking this step, but she sacrificed her feelings of pride to what she considered a holy duty. "When she imparted her resolution to M. Bignon, and lamented the im- prudence which had led her to incur such a risk as that which she now ran, he consoled her as well as he could, and failed not to assure her that if she had only acted as M. Morel would have advised her all would 3^et be right, M. Dubois, on the contrary, asserted that Madeleine's misfortunes proceeded merely from her disregard of the excellent counsel he gave her when the agreement was made. As to her proposed plan of ap]3ealing to the commune, he l^redicted that it would prove a complete failure. Had he been mayor indeed ! — but what could she expect from a poor ignorant man like farmer Mathurin, who no^^• held the office, and whom the ungrateful Jean Eenaud looked upon with as high reverence as that he had paid to his former superior. There was a good deal more in the same strain, for, as the ex- mayor had only recently been dispossessed of his high dignity, the subject still proved a sore one ; but the end of it was that he would be j^resent at the meeting and promote Madeleine's cause as much as his present humbled state allowed. Farmer Mathurin heard Madeleine's statement and MADELEINE. 205 request very favorably, but without holding out to her great hopes of success ? Madeleine herself had none. But, as she observed to Marie before setting out for the meeting, it would have been a sin indeed to withhold from making this trial through pride. When Madeleine entered the raairie she found that, besides the individuals who had presented her with the three thousand francs a year before, there were several other persons present. They all received her with a formality which boded no good. Seeing that they were in no hurry to learn the purpose which had brought her thither, she was the first to broach the subject. " I am come," she quietly observed, " to speak about the hospital of Mont-Saint-Jean," These words were received in a chilling silence. "It is now about a year," continued Madeleine, " since I received from you three thousand francs for the hospital ; M. Dubois gave me a thousand more from the commune, which, with the five hundred 1 added myself, made four thousand five hundred francs. This sum I paid to the notary of G as part of the price of the house on the hill : the agi*ee- ment drawn up between us was, that one-half of the sum remaining due should be paid at Midsummer, and the other half on Saint Martin's Day. In case of non-payment, half of the money in his hands was to be forfeited. Though many kind individuals have assisted me, all I could give M. Lacroix at Midsum- mer was two thousand francs. Of the three thou sand francs which I am to pay on Saint Martin's Day, that is to say, in about six weeks, I have succeeded in collecting only three hundred. I therefore still 206 MADELEINE. want two thousand seven hundred francs. There ia no hope of mj' being able to collect so large a sum in so short a time, and this is why I am here this evening to apply to you. I do not ask, however, for a gift, for you have given me much already, but for a loan. It trust that, with the help of God, I shall be able to repay you if you will only grant me suffi- cient time." Madeleine's address was heard in a dead silence : no one seemed willing to answer her appeal. Farm- er Mathurin at length observed, " Madeleine, we do not mean to hurt your feelings, nor do we intend re- proaching you for the money we gave you, since it was given freely ; but what have we to do with the hospital of Mont-Saint-Jean ? "When we gave you the three thousand francs we warned you that we did not give them for the hospital, but to you, to apply as you thought fit ; we also told you that, let what would happen, we would not give a liard more." " I do not ask you to* give me the money," said Madeleine, " but to lend it to me." The old farmer shook his head. " If we were to lend it to you, when could you repay it ? 'Not for several years, perhaps. K we had much ready money, that might do ; but our wealth is all in our land, and we would sooner give a small sum than lend a large one," "Then," mournfully observed Madeleine, "you will neither lend nor give me any thing for the hos- pital of Mont-Saint-Jean ?" The silence which followed this question was a sufficient reply. " However," said Madeleine, after a pause, " you MADELEINE. 2(l7 will not perhaps refuse to give me advice on the course of conduct I should adopt, situated as I am now ?" One individual here observed, " that as they had not been consulted about 'the agreement into which Madeleine had entered with the notary, they could give her no advice on the subject." Madeleine looked round to see if she could not meet with one sympathizing countenance, but every eye was averted from hers ; some of those present took snuff, others coughed, and many spoke to their nearest neighbor, as thongh indifferent to what was going on. " God help me !■' exclaimed Madeleine, with a sliG-ht desfree of bitterness in her tone : " I came to you for assistance. I asked you not to give, but to lend me, the money I wanted. And why did I want that money ? For a hospital ; where, for all you know, your own children may one day find a home, rich as you are now. But you will neither give nor lend, amd when I ask you for advice, you refuse even that, "Well may I say, God help me and the poor sufferers of Mont-Saint- Jean ! for man will do noth- ing for us." " Of what do you complain, Madeleine ?" here said one of the peasants. " Have we not already given you money, and has not everybody helped yon f " I complain," replied Madeleine, looking at him fixedly, " not that you give me nothing, but that you all say, both in your hearts and aloud, — What have we to do with the hospital of Mont-Saint-Jean ?" " "Well, and what have we to do with it ?" asked the peasant. 208 MADELEINE. " Wliat !" indignantly eclioed Madeleine ; " is tlie fate of the poor, of the jDOor of your own village, nothing to you ? Think," she added, in a sorrowful tone, " of all they have to endure, — a life of toil and misery, wretched and starving children, and after the long, wasting disease, a lonely death-bed ; such is their fate ! And yet you say that you have nothing to do with theii' hospital ! Oh, though you neither give nor lend, say not at least that your hearts are so hardened against the poor !" Madeleine ceased speaking, and looked round her. The same chilling silence prevailed ; no one answered her appeal. She waited for a few minutes, hoping that some one might speak ; but not a word was ut- tered. She looked once more at the cold faces near her, and her last hoj^e vanished. "Be it so," she sadly said; "I sec the poor ol Mont-Saint- Jean have nothing to hope from you. Their trust must henceforth be in God alone." Madeleine rose and turned towards the door as she spoke thus. Though she would have wished to say something more before leaving the mairie, in or- der that those present might not imagine she parted from them with a feeling of ill-will, her heart was too full and sad for this, and she left the office with- out uttering another word. When she reached her house she foimd Marie, who was anxiously waiting for her return, on the threshold of the door. Made- leine shook her head in answer to the inquiring look of her friend. " They will neither give nor lend me the money," she sadly said. " God help the poor of Mont-Saint- Jcan!" MADELEINE. 20D She sat down to her work as she spoke, and evi- dently strove in vain to be composed. Marie watch- ed her from a remote corner of the room, and, as she saw her pale and anxious countenance by the light of the lamp, she wondered that she had not been struck before with the change produced in her friend's appearance during the last year. The toil and anxiety she had undergone had indeed greatly altered Made- leine, and made her look thin and careworn ; the sleepless nights during which she had sat up to work had rendered her eyes sunken and dim, and changed the clear, healthy color of her cheek into a pale, sal- low hue. The expression of her features had, how- ever, always remained calm and cheerful, but even that was altered now. Marie could see that her cour- age sank beneath the trials she had to undergo, and she sadly watched the tears that slowly trickled down her cheeks. " What is the matter with you, dear Madeleine ?" said she, drawing near her. Madeleine raised up her head, and endeavored to smile ; but she failed in the effort, and sadly replied, " My heart is sad and troubled, Marie." "And why is it so?" asked her friend. "Have you not done every thing you could do ? Even if you fail, no blame can rest upon you." " I have done too much," answered Madeleme ; "I have been too confident. Think not that if I grieve now it is merely because I have failed in ob- taining this sum. Ko, Marie ; it is because, owing to my imprudence, half of the money of the poor will perhaps be forfeited in a few weeks. Indeed I have been much to blame." 210 MADELEINE. Marie, grieved to see that Madeleine took tliis vie\V of tlie question, vainly strove to comfort her. " "What !" she at length exclaimed, " is it you, Madeleine — you who have always spoken so cheer- fully when every hope seemed gone — is it you who are now going to despair ?" " 1^0, I do not despair," said Madeleine, looking up ; " God forbid I should do so ! for, even though half the money should be lost, yet half would still remain. But, Marie, if I did not feel any grief on the subject, it would scarcely be human." "But will you try and be resigned?" lu-ged Marie. " Yes, indeed I will," earnestly replied Madeleine. "I know," she added, with one of those smiles which gave so striking a character to her features, by suddenly changing their expression, " I know that the cause of the poor will triumph one day, and if I grieve it is because that day is now on the eve of being de- layed through my rashness." " Hist !" said Marie, " was not that a knock at the door?" They both listened, and the knock was repeated. Marie went to oj)en it ; a boy of about ten years of age came m. "What is the matter, Henri," exclaimed Made- leine, " is y^our father worse ?" for she knew the child's father, who was ill. "]^o, Madeleine, thank you," he replied ; "but as I was passing by the mairie M. Dubois, who was standing at the door, called to me, and bade me go directly to your house, to tell you that you were wanted immediately." " Do you hear, Madeleine ?" joyfully exclaimed MADELEINE. 211 Marie, " they want you. "Well, what is the matter with you BOW? I declare you are quite pale and trembling." •' It is nothing," said Madeleine ; " see, it is alreadj* passed. I am going directly, Henri." In a few minutes Madeleine was at the door of the mairie, near which M. Dubois still stood. " Come in," said he, hurriedly, and without giving her any explanation. Madeleine entered, and saw with some surprise that there were only three individuals present besides the mayor and M. Dubois ; the rest had retired. After requesting her to be seated, and giving a pre- liminary cough, the mayor observed, "In order to explain to you, Madeleine, why we have asked you to come back, it is necessary to refer to the statement you made a while ago. You then said, that you should pay three thousand francs to the notary of C , on the eleventh of next November, and that all you had of this sum was three hundred francs ; the rest you asked us to lend to you. Am I correct?" " You are," replied Madeleine. " Well, then," continued the mayor, " to lend you so larjxe a sum as two thousand seven hundred francs is out of our power ; but, as we are willing to help you as much as we can, and feel that you, who labor for the general good, are entitled to such aid, I, and the other persons whom you see here, five in all, have ao-reed to lend you the sum of a thousand francs ; you will thus owe us two hundred francs each. But let not this debt make you feel uneasy, for if you do not pay us for ten years to come we shall not com- plain. We know that a thousand francs is not even 212 MADELEINE. half the sum you want ; j^et we cannot but think that the notary, seeing how anxious you are to satisfy hini, and knowing to what purpose you wish to apply the property, will give you sufficient time to pay him. l^everthelcss, now is the time for you to say whether 3'ou will accept our offer or not." " I do accei3t it," earnestly said Madeleine, rising as she spoke ; " and I verily believe that God, whose hand is so visible in all this, will not allow the poor of Mont-Saint-Jean to suffer the punishment of my rashness and imprudence." " ISTay, Madeleine," observed the mayor, " let what will happen, we all know that you have acted for the best." With this the meeting broke wp, and Madeleine, after thanking separately the five individuals who had thus unexpectedly come to her aid, left the mairie with a light heart ; for, though she had not gained her point in every respect, she now no longer felt either doubt or dismay. CHAPTER XIX. Madeleine had now one thousand and three hun- dred francs in her possession ; but she still wanted a thousand and seven hundred more, and she was to procure this sum in less than six weeks. " How will you get it ?" frequently asked Marie Michon, in a doubtful tone ; and Madeleine, without answering the question, would fall into a deep fit of musing, which often lasted for hours. MADELEINE. 213 Her weekly journeys were becoming less and less productive, though they had never been attended with so many hardships as now. Madeleine seldom walked the whole of the way, for every one in Mont- Saint-Jean was willing to assist her as much as pos- sible ; but a ride of a few leagues could not relieve her from the fatigue of a long journey, nor free her from exposure to the broiling sun of noon, or the chilling breath of the night air. Marie saw %vith deep grief that the health of her friend was gradually sinking under the excess of fatigue she had to en- dure ; but Madeleine's only thought was of the means she should adopt in order to meet the notary's demand. She at lengtli resolved on making what was to her a most painful sacrifice ; this was to sell her little cottage near the churchyard. She had often thought of doing so before, but had always delayed carrying her purpose into effect, still hoping to be able to keep the old place ; for, though she no longer dwelt in it, Madeleine's heart clung to the home of her dreamy youth ; that home wdiere, in the surrounding solitude, she had first conceived the great thought of her life. But she now felt it her duty to listen no longer to these feelings, and she inwardly chid herself for having put off the sacrifice so long. AVhen M. Dubois heard of her intention, he imme- diately proposed to become the purchaser of her little property ; for, as he knew that Madeleine wanted the raonev, he concluded that he had now an excel- lent opportunity of making a good bargain, iu tlie sense usually attacihed to that word. This by no means prevented the ex-mayor from having a regard 214 MADELEINE. for Madeleine, according to his own way, since he had lent her two hundred francs a few davs before ; but the temptation of securing the cottage and garden for a sum below their real value was perfectly irre- sistible. He therefore offered Madeleine seven hun- dred francs for her property, though he knew very well it was worth much more. " Seven hundred francs !" sorrowfully said Made- leine ; " and I shall still want a thousand ! Ah, M. Dubois, that is very little !" "I cannot help it, Madeleine," replied the ex- mayor. " You know how hard the summer has been for us all ; indeed, since I have ceased to be mayor, matters have gone on from bad to worse. Farmer Mathurin is a good, honest man, to be sure ; but it requires something besides honesty to manage the affairs of a commune like Mont-Saint-Jean. There are fools, of course, ready to say that it was the wea- ther made all the difference between this year and the last ; but I ask you, Madeleine, what the weather has to do with government ?" "Perhaps you will be elected next year, sir," soothingly remarked Madeleine. " I^ay," replied M. Dubois, " I am not ambitious ; I care little for honors or dignities. All I wish," he magnanimously added, " is, that the natives of Mont- Saint-Jean may not suffer the consequences which generally attend neglect of merit. As for that sneak- ing fellow, Jean Renaud !" he continued in a wrath- ful tone — " but it always stirs my bile to think of him, so we will just talk once more of this little affair of yours, Madeleine. I cannot afford to give more than seven hundred francs ; for you see the house MADELEINE, 215 is old, and will have to be pulled down next Spring." " Must it indeed be pulled down ?" asked Made- leine, in a tremulous tone. " Oil ! yes ; besides, tlie garden will require great alterations ; the apple-trees in it are only fit to make firewood." " Must they too be cut down ?" said Madeleine. " Of course they must ; so you see I shall have a great deal to spend on the place altogether. To tell you the truth, I buy it chiefly to oblige you." Madeleine's cheek grew pale and her lips quivered as she heard of the proposed changes in the home of her youth ; but she knew that the ex-mayor was per- haps the only individual who could purchase her lit- tle property at the present time, and, striving to think of nothing save the poor of Mont-Saint-Jean, she concluded the bargain, M. Dubois agreeing to give a her hundred francs more. " Indeed," as he again observed, " he was actu- ated in all this by the desire of serving Madeleine, who, if not assisted by her friends, had little chance of success under the present weak and imbecile government which disgraced Mont-Saint- Jean ; and, after repeating this several times, he ended by be- lieving in it himself, and took great pride in his plii- lanthropy. It was not without an inward pang that Madeleine delivered up the place, which had so long been her own, to its new proprietor. Whilst he explained to her all the alterations and improvements he meant to eflect, she gazed with eyes which her tears made dim on every old familiar nook ; and when bIio 216 MADELEINE, turned away after one last lingering glance, she ex- claimed, in a low and broken tone, " I liad thonglit to die here, but the will of God be done !" M. Dubois, who was not verj remarkable for pene- tration, saw nothing of Madeleine's emotion ; few persons, indeed, susj)ected how painful the sacrifice had been, and Marie Michon alone noticed the cloud of sadness which lingered for several days over the features of her friend. I^otwithstanding the sum which the sale of her house had brought her in, Madeleine still wanted nine hundred francs to complete the two thousand seven hundred she had to pay. As she was totally unable to procure this sum, she called upon the notary of C a week before Saint Martin's Day, and, explaining to him the nature of her position, asked for a delay. The man of law shook his head : " It was impossible ! he had already outstrij^ped his instructions once, and all he could now do for Made- leine, whose case certainly interested him, would be to give her until the end of ISTovember to pay the money." Madeleine replied that, as she had no means of finding nine hundred francs in a few weeks, this delay would be of no use to her. " Then what can I do for you ?" asked M. Lacroix. Madeleine remained silent for a few minutes, and at length observed : " K you will give me the ad- dress of the lady from whom I am purchasing the property, I will write to her myself, telling her how matters are ; and surely, when she knows that the house is to be for the sick and the poor, she will grant me sufficient time to pay her." MADELEINE. 217 To this request, which somewhat astonished him, the notary gave a peremptory refusal. " His client," he said, " had expressly desired to hear nothing more of the house, which had already been the source of much annoyance to her ; he could not therefore think of complying with Madeleine's Vish." "I am sorry to hear you say so, sir," calmly said the young girl, rising from her seat, "for I fear I shall have some trouble in finding out where this lady lives." " So you still tliink of wanting to her !" exclaimed M. Lacroix, with evident surprise. " Undoubtedly !" answered Madeleine, who seemed astonished in her turn that he should have thought her capable of giving up her plan. "How will you do this?" he asked, after a brief pause. " Oh ! it will be more tedious that difiicult," re- plied Madeleine, smiling, " M. Bignon knows where M. Dupin's son resides ; I shall write to him, for, as he sold the house to the lady, he must know where she lives ; I trust that he will be kind enough to answer me." There was no defiance in Madeleine's tone, and, as the notary gazed on her serene and ingenuous coun- tenance, he j^erceived that she was merely bent on attaining a certain object for which she had asked his aid, w^hich he refused to grant. Seeing this, she resolved to adopt another method, which she ex- plained to him with a candor that showed she did not think there was any thing in her pertinacity by which he ought to feel mortified or astonished. He saw that her plan would probably prove successful ; 10 218 MADELEINE, and, reflecting that Lis client would feel more an- noyed to Lave lier place of residence revealed tc Madeleine by a person witL wLom slie was at vari- ance tLan by Limself, Le ended by complying witL tLe young girl's request. But as Le Landed her tLe slip of paper on wLicL he had written down the lady's direction, he could not help observing to Madeleine, " You are a strange girl !" Madeleine thanked him and smiled, but as she went home she wondered, in the simplicity of her heart, why it was that every one, from the cure to the notary, thought her so very strange. The same day she began her letter to the lady on whose decision so much now depended. It was fin- ished by the next morning, and she then showed it to M. Bignon, who declared that, with the exception of a few grammatical errors, there was nothing in the whole composition which he could alter, and that it only wanted therefore to be copied out. As this let- ter was the first and last which Madeleine wrote during the whole course of her life, we will now lay it before the reader. " To Madame de Meurice, 50, Rue de Varennes, Faubourg Saint-Germain, Paris. " Madame, — This is to inform you that I am Made- leine Guerin, of Mont-Saint-Jean, who, as you may know already, agreed a year ago to buy your Louse on the hill of our village for the sum of nine thousand five hundred francs, of which I then paid four thou- sand fine hundred to M. Lacroix, the ITotary of C in presence of M. Dubois and M. Bignon. Accord- ing to the agreement T was to pay two thousand five MADELEINE. 219 hundred francs at Midsummer, and as much more on Saint Martin's Day, which is still to come. At Mid summer time, however, I could give only two thou sand francs to M. Lacroix, but I promised that the remaining three thousand should be paid this month. As I am still nine hundred francs short of the sum, and as I have no means of procuring it, I now apply to you for further delay ; and I trust, Madame, that when you know for whom the house is intended, you will be so good as to grant my request. " It is not for myself, for I am single and do not mean to marry, and at all events should never want so large a house, but it is for the poor, the sick, the old, and the weary of Mont-Saint-Jean ; and indeed, Madame, if you have ever been in our village, you must know that we are poor — very poor. If such, therefore, were the will of God, I should wish it to become a hospital — a home for the poor. But, alas ! how can I do this, if I have not time to pay you what I owe, for I have little or no money myself, and the six thousand live himdred francs M-hich I paid to the notary of C had been almost all given to me by charitable persons, I know, Madame, that I have been very imprudent, and that I ought not to have agreed to purchase yom* house without feeling quite sure of being able to pay you within the appointed time ; but, alas ! Madame, you do not know liow my heart was set upon that house, because it was the best and cheapest that could be had in the whole village ; besides, I really thought I should be able to pay the nine thousand five hundred francs within ' the year. "Although I now ask you for a delay, I know, 220 MADELEINE Madame, that you have the right of refusing me this, and that, moreover, you are entitled to keep,, accord ing to the terms of our agreement, half of the six thousand five hundred francs now in the hands of M. Lacroix. But, indeed, I do not think you will do it, for is it not the money of the poor ? and what need a rich lady like you care for such a sum ? Yon must be kind enough to forgive me if I speak too plainly ; but I am only an ignorant peasant girl, and all I know is, that the poor of Mont-Saint-Jean greatly want their hospital. Oh ! your heart would be touched with pity and sorrow if you only saw half their misery ! Then pray, Madame, since they want their hospital so much, be kind enough not to exact the nine himdred francs on Saint Martin's Day, but to give me till the spring, when I trust I shall be able to pay you. Indeed I believe, Madame, that though you are a great lady, you will take pity on the poor, for, alas ! who shall pity or relieve them if the rich do not ? And if you do, Madame, grant this request, you will make us all very happy. I am sure M. Dubois, the ex-mayor, will make a speech about it to the whole commune ; and that M. Bignon, the cure^ will say a mass for your welfare in this world and the next. As for myself and Marie Michon, I may safely say that we shall be almost too happy, for our anxiety on this subject has indeed been very great. But I am very foolish to speak thus to you ; for surely, if you grant this re- quest, it will not be for all the speeches M. Dubois can make, nor for all our poor villagers can say to your praise, but for the pure and holy love of God and of his children the poor. MADELEINE. 221 " I have the honor, Madame, to remain yonr hum- ble servant, " ITadeleixe Gui;KEsr. "Nov. IS—." When this letter had been posted at C , Made- leine's mind was at first much relieved ; but as the day on which she expected an answer drew near her anxiety naturally returned. The day passed, how- ever, and no letter came : another day went by, and still there was no news. Madeleine began to fear that the lady had not received her letter, or, as this seemed scarcely likely, that she did not mean to re- turn a favorable reply. Her anxiety became so strong at the end of a week that she went to C , in order to learn from the notary whether he had re- ceived any instructions on the subject ; but M. La- croix had not heard from his client ; and Madeleine returned to the village with the same load of doubt and anxiety on her mind. Two days after this, as she was sitting down to sujDper with all her family, a peasant came in and handed her a letter, which M. Lacroix had received for her the same mornino;, Madeleine took the letter with a trembling hand, for she divined that it con- tained the tidings which were to decide M'hether Mont-Saint-Jean was to have a hospital or not. Her feelings seemed shared by every one present. Marie was pale and agitated, and the old people all paused in tlicir meal in order to gaze upon Made- leine, who otill held the letter unopened, as though Fhe feared to become acquainted with its contents. " I cannot read it yet," she exclaimed, in a broken 222 MADELEINE. tone ; " I must pray for strength to bear the worst : 1 cannot read it yet !" and laying down the letter on the table, she clasped her hands fervently, and gazed on the small wooden crucifix suspended from the wall before her, whilst her lips moved in silent though heart-felt prayer. Madeleine's orisons were soon over; she took up the letter once more, and, though Marie thought that she grew slightly pale, she broke the seal open with- out seeming hesitation. Every eye was now eagerly fixed on Madeleine, to read on her features the de- cision of the Parisian lady. She did not keep them long in suspense. Her countenance was at first sad and troubled ; but the smile which soon broke ujoon it told of such deep and holy rapture, that, though her eyes filled with tears, which she shook away to read on, there was not one present but knew that the request was granted. Madeleine, indeed, did not wait to read to the end in order to tell them so. " Children," said she, with her usual simplicity, " rejoice, and thank God for his goodness, for the rich lady, although I only asked her till sj^ring, gives me until the summer to pay her the money." These good tidings were received with great joy by every one, and the feeling was increased when Made- leine, having come to the end of her letter, informed them that the kind Parisian lady had remitted a hundred francs of the nine hundred still owing to her. The news soon spread over the village, and caused a great sensation. Every one was pleased that Made- leine should have succeeded in her object, though most people agreed with Marie Michon, " that it was not very astonishing after all; for what was there MADELEINE. 223 that Madeleine undertook which she did not succeed in acconiphehing ?" Madeleine herself, though she attributed the merit solely to the holiness of her cause, could not help remarking, as she communicated her good fortune to the cure^ " Indeed, sir, the hand of God is in all this !" CHAPTER XX. A HEAVY load of anxiety was now removed from Madeleine's mind ; the doubt had passed away from her spirit, and, though she did not relax in her labors, they were carried on more cheerfully now that she saw the great end which they were destined to serve might perhaps be attained. Madeleine at first thought of writing to thank Madame de Meurice, but, before she had done so, she met the lady at the house of the notary of C , and was thus enabled to tender her aclmowledgments in person. Madame de Meurice gazed with mingled interest and curiosity on the slender figure and thoughtful countenance of the simple peasant girl. She cjues- tioned her, and was surprised at the propriety of her answers. When she expressed to her the warm ad- miration which she felt for her noble and disinterest- ed conduct, Madeleine heard her with quiet surprise, and calmly replied : " You know, madamc, that God sends us all on earth to do something for the good of our fellow- creatures ; and I have heard M. Bignon, the ciiH^ 224 MADELEINE. say, that the woman who marries and rears np hei children in the love of God does more good than any other creature. But I was to be neither wife nor mother ; then what could I do less than to try and have a hospital for Mont-Saint-Jean, which has needed one so long ?" Madame de Meurice looked at the earnest speaker with increased astonishment : but, though this utili- tarian doctrine was novel to the rich and noble lady, and even grated harshly on her ear, she renewed the assurances she had already made to Madeleine, that she need be in no hurry to pay her the eight hundred francs still due, and that she even requested her to apply to her for assistance in any of her difficulties Madeleine thanked her warmly for her kindness, and, as she had now deposited in the hands of the notary the two thousand and one hundred francs in her possession, she departed ; but as she was leaving the notary's study, she could hear Madame de Meu- rice exclaim, " This is the most singular girl I ever met with !" l^otwithstanding Madame de Meurice's assurances that she could take her own time to pay her, Made- leine worked so assiduously during the winter that her debt was nearly discharged by the following spring. "When Marie urged her to take some rest, Madeleine replied that, as long as her task remained unfinished, she could not enjoy rej^ose. " Besides," she added, in a thoughtful tone, "there will still bo much to do when Madame de Meurice is paid, and life is short." "But you are young, Madeleine," uneasily re- marked Marie, " very young still." MADELEINE. 225 Madeleine smiled and made no reply. But, though Marie dropped the subject, the words of Madeleine dwelt in her mind, and involuntarily recurred to her whenever she gazed on the slight and fragile form of her friend. Towards the end of the month of May, Madeleine paid the last sum owing to Madame de Meurice, for she had regularly placed whatever money she col- lected in the hands of the notary. The day on which she discharo-ed her debt was a solemn one for Made- leine. As she returned to Mont-Saint-Jean with her heart full of a deep and holy joy, she felt that the end of her being was almost fulfilled, and, though the thouo-ht was not unmixed with sadness, she welcomed it as the weary traveller welcomes the goal of a long and trying jom*ney. " Yes, I am, indeed, happy," she said, in reply to a question of Marie ; " the task for which I have been toiling three years is drawing to its close ; the poor of Mont-Saint- Jean will soon have their home. May the holy name of God be praised !" " Then, since you have done so much, may you not take some rest now, dear Madeleine ?" " Eepose ! Nay, God forbid, Marie, that I should pause in my task. Oh! there is still much, very much to do," she added, in a thoughtful tone. Madeleine entered into possession of her new prop- erty, or, as she called it, of the hospital, on the same day. With the forethought and prudence which characterized her, she had obtained from Madame de Meurice during the winter the permission of culti- vating the land, which already gave promise of a rich and abundant harvest. Though this arrange- 10- 226 MADELEINE. ment had been both expensive and inconvenient at the time, the wisdom which had dictated it was al- ready apparent. The honse on the hill was not, how- ever, yet in a state to be inhabited; the inside was still in an nnfinished condition, and the roofing had iTot so much damao-ed durinor the winter as to stand in need of great repairs. Madeleine was preparing to beffin her new task, with her nsual activitv, when Doctor Detrimont interfered, and declared that she stood in absolute want of repose ; he assured her that her health had for some time been in a declining state, and that it M'as absolutely necessary he should examine into her case, and prescribe for her. Madeleine submitted, and accordingly remained alone with him for about half an hour. AVhen he left her room the doctor was eagerly accosted by Marie Michon, who anxiously asked him what was the matter with Madeleine. " Take care of her, and do not let her fatigue her- self," was his only rej)ly. As he came out of the house several persons who knew the object of his errand, and were waiting for him outside, imme- diately gathered round him, and made the same in- quir^^, but M. Detrimont rei^lied to, and perhaps evaded, their questioning by a display of his usual hrusquerie^ and rode off hastily without having given a direct answer. But every one thought that, notwith- standing his roughness, there was a sad and troubled exj^ression on the doctor's features. " Ay, ay, depend upon it there is something the matter with Madeleine," was the general remark. But Madeleine's replies soon dispelled the appre- hensions which had been conceived ; for, when ques- MADELEINE. 227 tioned on the subject, she declared " that, save here," and she laid her hand upon her heart, she felt no pain, and that, though occasionally exhausted, the thought of the hospital soon gave her new strength. " Rest only wearies me," she added, even whilst sub- mitting to Doctor Detrimont's injunctions. In compliance with his orders, Madeleine now ab- stained from any active exertions, and gave up her Sunday journeys; but, as the doctor had recom- mended gentle exercise, she took daily walks, accom- panied by Lise, who was now eight yeai-s old, and seldom left her adopted mother. Though the hos- pital was the place they usually visited, they wan- dered down one evening to the little lake described in our first chapter. Here Madeleine, who felt wea- ried, sat down on the same spot where four years before she had told Maurice that they should part. She remembered well every detail of what had passed between them that evening, but, though the remem- brance might render her thoughtful, it could not fill her heart with sadness or repining. She knew that he was happy, and in her own lot she saw nothing to cause regret ; far from it, she felt that to be the in- strument of the holy task she had almost accom- plished ought tc be in itself a source of deep and holy joy, even though, like so many other laborei-s in the good cause, she should be called away when that holy task was done. So absorbed was Madeleine in these thoughts that as she rose, and abstractedly followed Lise, she did not notice that the child was taking the path whicli led to the churchyard and to her former dwellmg, until they had almost reached the end of it ; she tlien 228 MADELEINE, looked lip and suddenly stoj^ped short, with evident emotion. " What is the matter, Madeleine ?" asked Lise, lookino; at her friend with a w^onderinir a'lance. Madeleine made no reply ; she was thinking of the house — now no longer her own — where she had spent so many happy years. Was it still standing ? She knew not, for she had never questioned M, Dubois on the subject. It had probably been rebuilt, or, as the new owner styled it, improved. Madeleine's heart sank within her, but she felt this was an unworthy weakness, which should be overcome ; she therefore calmly said to Lise, " Let us go on." A few steps brought them to tlie end of the path, and, by turning the churchyard wall, they stood within sight of the house. Madeleine's heart beat with involuntary joy : it was still standing, and un- changed. A woman was hushing her child to sleep on the door-step, where Madeleine had so often sat at her wheel ; the w^ind sighed among the pines of the narrow churchyard, and the mountain torrent leapt down from the rocks : every thing looked as of yore. Madeleine approached the w' oman, and, after exchang- ing with her the customary greeting of the country, expressed her surprise that the house should still be in the same state. " Why you see," replied the woman, " M. Dubois thought it would scarcely be worth his while to have it rebuilt; the house is well enough as it is." " Then you like to live here ?" said Madeleine, in a tremulous tone. " 'Nay, I cannot say I do ; it is too lonely." Madeleine made no reply ; but bidding the Avomao MADELEINE. 22G farewell, she gave another look over every familiar spot, and turned away with Lise. " AYouldst thou like to live there ?" she asked of the child, after they had been walking for some time. "]^o, Madeleine, I should not, it looks such a silent, solitary place." " How strange," thoughtfully observed Madeleine, " every one finds it so, and yet to me Mont-Saint-Jean seems far more lonel}'." "How is that, Madeleine? there are people in Mont-Saint-Jean ; but no one lives here save those who dwell in the cottage." " Ay, child ; but to be alone with God and oui own thoughts is not solitude." But little Lise neither heeded nor understood the purport of this reply, and Madeleine returned to Mont-Saint-Jean without renewing the subject. Although she scrupulously obeyed the doctor's in- junctions, Madeleine did not seem to grow better; on the contrary, after a month of inactivity, she looked so pale and feeble that M. Detrimont, in order to try the eifect of change, set her at liberty to act as she pleased ; she accordingly resumed her usual occupa- tions, and a decided improvement in her health and appearance was the consequence of this step. Mario Michon, seeing how well she looked, asked the doctor if he did not think Madeleine cured, but he shook his head m token of doubt or dissent. Although he saw that, as long as her mind was bent on her great aim it would be useless to recommend repose, since, as she truly said, it only wearied her, M. Detriment insisted that the weekly iourneys should be entirely given up. Madeleine submitted to this injunction, which the 230 MADELEINE, ewe supported with all his authority, by assuring hef that M. Morel would have greatly disapproved of her undergoing such excessive fatigue. It was not until after the harvest that Madeleine bad any funds at her disposal ; she was then mistress of five hundred francs, part of which proceeded from her own earnings during the summer. She imme- diately went to C , and there secured the services of a contractor, who engaged to finish the house on the hill, as well as to make all the necessary altera- tions. When he spoke of terms, Madeleine j)]aced her five hundred francs in his hands, and told him to pay himself and his men out of this sum as long as it would last, and bade him apply to her for more money when it was exhausted. I will not ask you," she added, " to deal justly by me, for it is not for me you are working, but for the poor." "When the nature of this agreement was known in Mont-Saint-Jean, almost every one declared that Mad- eleine had acted with great imprudence, and would certainly be deceived by the contractor. But Made- leine, who had faith not merely in Providence, but also in human nature, could not be made to believe this. " Surely," she observed, " no man would com- mit such a sin as to rob the poor!" The event showed that her confidence had not been misplaced, for, though the contractor did not bear the reputation of being very scrupulous in ordinary mat- ters, he made it in this case a point of honor to charge DO more than what was justly due to him, to the great astonishment of the village prophets. It w^as not long, however, before he declared to Madeleine that the five hundred francs were spent ; she gave him a MADELEINE. 231 little sum which she had saved up in the mean while, but that only lasted a few days, and the house was still unfinished. One morning, when she went as usual to see how the work progressed, the contractor took her aside, and reminded her that he had no more money. " Alas !" sadly replied Madeleine, " it grieves me to hear you say so. Master Jerome, for I have none to give you." Jerome expressed his concern, " but what could he do ? he was not rich, and, happen what would, his men would be paid." " I suppose I must give the order to stop the works," sorrowfully said Madeleine ; " and, as winter is coming on, the hospital must wait until next year to be finished." But when she had once more gone over the whole place, and when she saw how little, comparatively speaking, there was to do to it, she could not resign herself to the delay which seemed inevitable. The workmen were then engaged in taking their lunch ; Madeleine suddenly resolved to appeal to them for aid, and, stepping Avithin the circle which they formed, she addressed them thus : " Children, I want to speak to you." Seeing that these words had created a general silence, she con- tinued: "You have now been several months engaged in finishing this, the hospital of Mont-Saint-Jean ; you have been paid for your labor ; yet it was holy work, since whatever is done for the poor is also done for God. Now, I recollect hearing M. Bignon say, that many hundred years ago, when there were not so many churches in the land as there are now, it 232 MADELEINE. was a common thing, whenever a large cathedral was built, for the masons and other working-men to give some of their time for the love of God. I grieve to say that, though I have been able to pay you until now, my money is all spent, and that, unless you help me, the hospital must remain unfinished until next year. I know that you are poor men, and that you have to provide the bread of your children from your earnings, yet take it not ill that I ask you to do something for those who have neither strength nor health to work — the sick and the aged." Madeleine concluded her little sj)eech in a low and tremulous tone, which rendered it more impressive. The workmen looked at one another, then consulted in whispers ; one of them, acting as speaker, at length observed : " Mademoiselle Madeleine," for they all gave her this mark of respect, contrary to the simple cus- toms of the country, " we are indeed but poor work- ing-men, yet such as we are we wish to help you, and, though we may do little, it shall be done with a cheerful heart, for, if men formerly labored for no- thing to build the house of God, we can at least help to finish the house of the poor. This, therefore, we can promise you, namely, that every man amongst us will give you one day's work for nothing, and credit for another." "May heaven reward you all !" fervently exclaimed Madeleine, " and may the blessings of tlie jioor rest on you till your dying day." " I^ay, but I will have nothing to do with this working for nothing and giving credit," surlily ob- served one of the men, whom Madeleine's eye irame- MADELEINE. 233 diately singled out from the rest as a disagreeable and discontented man, disliked by his companions, who called him "gloomy Pierre." " You are free," she gently said ; " but though you will not, or perhaps cannot, work for nothing, like your comrades, yet I trust that you will stay and re- ceive your wages as usual." Pierre eyed Madeleine fixedly, then turned away his look, and muttered something about having seven starving children at home, and every one looking to himself and to his own. Master Jerome had witnessed with great astonish- ment the effect which Madeleine had produced upon his men, of whose disinterestedness he had no very exalted opinion. But there are nobler springs of action in the human heart than many wot of, and of which men like the contractor live and die in igno- rance. After once more expressing her thanks to the kind- hearted workmen, Madeleine turned away to dej^art. In a retired spot, seated on the fallen trunk of a tree, at a distance from his comrades, whose indignant glances had testified their contempt of his selfish spirit, she j^erceived gloomy Pierre finishing his meal. A lean and half-starved looking dog, attracted by the smell of food, loitered near him. The man kicked him brutally, and the cur fled yelping away. An in- dignant exclamation rose to the lips of Madeleine, who had a tender and compassionate feeling for every living creature ; but she knew that an angry reproof, uttered for the gratification of personal feel- ings, seldom has the improvement of the offender foi its object, and she gently said, 234 MADELEINE, "Why did you hurt the poor dog?" The man turned round and eyed her askance: " "Why did he want my food ?" " Perhaps he was hungry." " Then let him work like a Christian, since Chris- tians now tare like dogs," was the bitter reply. " To work for our daily bread is God's own law," gravely observed Madeleine ; " all must work." "Ay, but all do not work," sarcastically said Pierre, " look at the rich !" and he laughed a bitter laugh, which reminded Madeleine of the dying widow of the eastern hill. " You hate the rich ; do you not ?" he continued, after a brief pause. " Hate them ! God forbid !" " I do not believe you ; I hate them, and so do all the poor, in their hearts." " God is all love," earnestly said Madeleine, " it is therefore a deadly sin to hate." " I love nothing," harshly rejjlied Pierre. " What, not even your own children ?" " ]S"o, why should I love them ? I kill myself with work to give them bread, and yet they always seem to be starving. There are two or three of them now lying ill with the measles ; my wife says it will be a blessing if they go to heaven ; if she says so, who loves them, I may say so too, since I do not." And Pierre whistled a tune with reckless gayety. Madeleine shrank from him with horror, but a look at the convulsive workings of his face showed her that this was only a mask put on to hide, and perhaps to check, deeper feelings, and she drew near again. Nor was the wish he had expressed new to her, for often, with a sickening heart, she had heard parents MADELEINK. 235 hail as a blessing the death of some innocent and even beloved child ; not from the devout hope that it had been removed from a world of sin and snfFer- ing to everlasting bliss, but because its removal would lessen the heavy burden of supporting their surviving oifspring. " Alas !" she sorrowfully exclaimed, gazing on Pierre's features, where reckless mirth and harrow- ing anxiety were strangely blended, " may God help the poor, for sad indeed is their lot upon earth !" Pierre raised his eyes ; he saw Madeleine standing by his side, and looking down upon him with that glance of gentle and infinite pity which Catholic painters delight in giving to the Virgin Mother of God, and, though the simple peasant girl had none of the unearthly beauty of a Madonna, a vague sense ef the likeness perhaps came to his soul, and im- pressed him with the reverence due to holy things, or he might have been moved by the boundless com- passion of that mild look ; whatever was the cause, he rose and hurriedly turned away, but Madeleine could see that his heart was softened within him. The workmen, who all felt anxious to impress Madeleine with the sincerity of their wish to serve her, used such extraordinary diligence in their task that it was completely finished at the end of four days. On the evening of the last day Madeleine paid them for two days of tlieir labor, one day remaining due, according to the agreement Pierre alone received his full salary. As they were all to go off at an early hour the next morning, Madeleine bade them farewell whilst acquitting her debt, and renewing, as she did 60, her thanks for the aid they had afforded her: 236 MADELEINE. " "Without yon," she added, pointing to the hospital. now completely finished, "this home for the poor must have remained useless for many months ; but now it is ready for them, and the blessing of God will surely be with you for this." "Mademoiselle Madeleine," observed one of the men, " we all know that you are a good and noble being, and shall always be proud to think that we assisted you, though it was very little, in finishing the hospital of Mont-Saint-Jean. May you live in it many years." " I thank you one and all for the wish," replied Madeleine, with a smile which though sweet was not without a tinge of sadness. She bade them once more farewell, and left the spot ; she had not gone far before she perceived gloomy Pierre sitting in the same place and attitude in wliicli she had found him a few days before. Not- withstanding all her eftbrts since then to induce him to cast off his misanthropy, he had preserved his churlishness of manner. This did not prevent Made- leine from approaching him now, and asking him it he had heard from his children. " The youngest is dead," he answered, in a husky tone, and he turned his head away. Madeleine sat down near him, and; without en- deavoring to administer j^remature consolation, spoke to him gently and soothingly. For some time lie resisted her efibrts to make him disburden himself of his grief, but he secretly longed to yield, and at length, M^ithout solicitation, related his whole history; one of toil, pain, and misery, which forcibly reminded the listener of the widow Jeanne's narrative. MADELEINE. 237 Madeleine possessed little skill in the art of offering consolation, for her chief arguments were : " It is the wiR of God ; let us bear it patiently, and hope ; for," added she, with one of her own smiles, " does it not show the infinite goodness of God to man that he should have made a virtue of hope ?" But the faith and earnestness of her simple exhortations gave them a power in which more elaborate and logical reason- ino- might have been deficient. " Mademoiselle Madeleine," said Pierre, in reply to her gentle attempts at consolation, " I know not how it is, but, though I think I have heard all you tell me before now, it makes my heart lighter to hear it again from your lips. Perhaps you will not take it amiss if I call upon you whenever I come round this way ?" " Assuredly not," answered Madeleine, " you shall always be welcome in the hospital which you have helped to erect." " I have been paid for my labor," replied Pierre, "and, since we come to speak of this, I wish you would take back half of the money. I know that you must have despised me, like the rest, but indeed poverty hardens the heart." But Madeleine Avould not hear of this; she told him it would be a great sin to deprive him of the money which was to give bread to his children, and Pierre at length yielded to her representations. As the dews of evening were now beginning to fell, she rose from the seat she had taken near him and bade him farewell. " Be more sociable, and mingle more with your companions, Pierre," she urged, as they were sepa- rating. But Pierre shook his head, as though this 238 MADELEINE. were an effort to which he did not yet feel equal, and, bidding her an abrupt farewell, he turned away. The sight of wretchedness, under whatever form it offered itself, always grieved Madeleine. As she slowly walked home she thought of Pierre's fate, and it filled her heart with sadness. It was that of thou- sands, she knew ; and then came the thought of how trifling an amount of misery would be relieved by the hospital of Mont-Saint- Jean. " Yet, if a few beings are less unhappy, shall I have toiled in vain ?" asked Madeleine of herself, and the reply of the inward voice told her, " Ko labor of love and charity can be in vain." "Well, Madeleine," said Marie to her friend, as she entered the house, "your hospital is finished; are you happy now ?" " Yes, I am happy," said Madeleine, looking up, " very happy, for my task is almost done." She uttered these words in a tone of such deep and solemn joy that it affected Marie, and rendered her sad and thoughtful during the whole evening. CHAPTER XXr. The hospital of Mont-Saint-Jean was now finished, and every one hailed the event, and congratulated Madeleine with the most unfeigned joy. M. Dubois, who had been re-elected mayor, and was once more in possession of all his honors, took great pride in her success, which, as he often hinted, might not have MADELEINE. 239 been so complete under a different government. M. Bignon was glad that Madeleine should have brought her long task so near its close ; but his gladness was not unmingled with regret. " He would have been glad to see it, would he not, Madeleine ?" he asked, looking at her earnestly. " Yes, sir, I believe he would," answered Made- leine, in a moved tone ; " M. Morel took great inter- est in the hospital." " Ah, he did," said M. Bignon, with a deep sigh ; " but we must be resigned, Madeleine. I hope you are resigned. I know it is difficult ; yet you see how I bear it — and yet I loved him like a brother," he added, in a low and tremulous voice. Here Madeleine, noticing his emotion, of which he was himself unconscious, changed the subject of conversation. Though the hospital was finished, it still required to be furnished; but Madeleine declared that she could not think of seeing to this whilst the workmen remained unpaid, and both she and Marie Michon labored almost day and night until this desirable ob- ject had been effected. When it was known, how- ever, that the men had received the money due to them, every one in the village was anxious to learn from Madeleine when and how the hospital would be furnished. " I know not," was her reply ; and though it was such as might have been expected, it created a gen- eral feeling of disappointment. The people of Mont- Saint-Jean wished to believe that Madeleine could do what she liked, and possessed resources peculiar to herself. 240 MADELEINE Madeleine knew, however, that to fit np the hospital properly would take a great deal of money, and that it would consequently be unwise to fix an epoch still unknown to her. But, though she said nothing on the subject, Marie Michon could see that it was one which was seldom absent from her thoughts. Towards the beginning of the winter old Joseph became very ill, and M. Detrimont soon declared that no hope of his recovery could be entertained. The old man showed no fear of death, for which he prepared with great calmness, receiving M. Bi- gnon's exhortation, if not with fervent piety, at least with a becoming spirit. Madeleine attended on him, as she always did whenever any of her pensioners were ill, with the greatest care and tenderness. To her surprise, far from receiving her attentions with the moroseness which he had always displayed, Joseph now seemed sincerely grateful for whatever she did. He could even scarcely bear her to be out of his sight, and never appeared happy or at ease unless when she remained in the room. Yet, when she complied with his wish, he seldom addressed her — her presence seemed enough for him. Perhaps he guessed that this sudden change of behavior was likely to create some wonder in Madeleine, for once or twice during the course of his illness she met his glance fixed uj^on her with a singular expression, whilst he muttered to himself — " She has thought me harsh and ungrateful, but she shall see — slic shall see." When Joseph felt at length, from his increasing weakness, that he had only a few hours more to live, he requested to see his children, who, on Madeleine's MADELEINE. 241 urgent message, immediatelv made their appearance, and, gathering round the bed of their father, inquired, " How he felt now ?" But, to Madeleine's surprise, the old man took no other notice of them than to bid them harshly not to come so near him ; after which he earnestly asked that M. Dubois and the priest might be sent for. When this request had been comj^lied with, he looked around him, as though to feel sure that every one he wanted was present, after which, gathering his failing etrength, he observed, in a firm voice, — " M. Dubois, will you be kind enough to lift up my pillow, and take away what you will find under- neath it?" The mayor obeyed, and drew forth a large leathern purse, tolerably well filled. Every one looked with surprise on his neighbor, and Madeleine was not the least astonished of any. " Open it, and count the silver in the larger end of the two," continued Joseph, without seeming to notice cither the general surprise or that of his children, who had long thought him penniless. The mayor counted the money, which amounted to a hundred and ten francs, in five-franc pieces. " That is cor- rect," said the old man ; " now count the gold at the other end." M. Dubois obeyed, and found twenty gold pieces, or four hundred francs, — in all five hundred and ten francs, which Joseph said was the exact amount con- tained in the purse. " I suppose," observed M. Dubois, " you wish to bequeath this money to some one ; perhaps to your eldest son, Mathieu ?" 11 242 MADELEINE. "Xo," almost fiercely replied the old mau, "not to him ! but I call you all to witness that of this money I bequeath two gold pieces to Marie Michon, for her kindness to me during several years." " And the rest, I 8uj)pose, goes to Madeleine ?" ex- claimed Mathieu, with a malignant scowl. "To Madeleine," replied his fother, eyeing him sternly, " I leave — nothing." There was a general feeling of surprise, but Made- leine alone remained calm and unmoved. "Then to whom do you leave it, father dear?" ex- claimed one of his daufrhters, eagerly drawinc; near him, "to whom do you leave it?" " To the hospital of Mont-Saiut-Jean," answered Joseph, without looking on his daughter, who drew away, biting her lip. " I call you all to witness," continued the sick man, looking round him and speaking in a firm tone, " that I leave this money to the hos]Dital of Mont-Saint- Jean, and that I do not intrust it to the care of Madeleine, but to that of M. Bignon, the cure. M. Dubois, hand liim over tlie purse, if you please." " Kay," interjjosed the priest, " be not too liasty, ray friend ; think of your children." " I do think of them, sir," replied the old man, with a stern smile, " and of the day when they sent their old father to trust to the mercy of the stranger. Little did they think then that they sent his gold and his silver away with him too ; to them I leave — nothing." Mathieu, exasperated by this speech, could not re- strain himself, but, in an under tone, muttered some- tliing about having the money when the old fool was MADELEINE. 243 dead. His father heard him, and giving him a look from which the man shrank, said, in a solemn tone, " Ye have heard him ! Plear me now : if he or any other of those who call themselves my children dare so mnch as claim a five-franc piece of this money when I am gone, may my cnrse rest upon them." " This is no Christian spirit," gravely remarked M. Bignon. " Nay," replied the old man, " I will do with my own as I list ; and I repeat it again, two gold pieces I give to Marie Michon, and the rest to the hospital of Mont-Saint-Jean." " But surely you will bless your children ?" urged the priest. " They have both my blessing and my forgiveness," said Joseph, with a bitter smile, which showed how well he knew the value they were likely to set on gifts so unsubstantial, " but of my money not one Hard ! I have said it. ISTow let M. Dubois give the purse to M. Bignon, and let every one, save him and Madeleine, leave me, that I may die in peace." The request was complied with : old Joseph's chil- dren departed with a bitter mortification, which they vainly strove to conceal, whilst their fatlier v.^as left alone with Madeleine and M. Big-non. " Madeleine," said the old man, looking kindly on her, and speaking in a gentle tone, " you are not an- gry with me, are you ?" " Why should I be angry with you, Joseph ?" " I did not leave you the money," he continued, following his own train of thought, " because I know them and their malice too well ; they would have al- lowed you no rest ; but I left it to the hospital of 244 MADELEINE Mont-Saint-Jean, which is dearer to you than any thing else on earth. I would not, however, let the money be in your hands, for with that too they would have found fault ; but if the cure has the man- aging of it, I know they dare not murmur ; and though they may not care for my curse," he added, in a sorrowful tone, " yet very shame will not allow them to complain too loud after what has passed. Now, Madeleine, that I have explained every thing to you, leave me a while alone with M. Bignon." Madeleine left the room, but soon returned, for the old man felt himself dying. In compliance with his request, she sat down by his bedside, and gave him her hand. He muttered in a low tone, " Tell them, Madeleine, that I forgave them," then placed her hand uj^on his eyes, which were soon closed in their eternal slumber. CHAPTER XXII. The money left by old Joseph proved of the great- est service to Madeleine, for M. Bignon, who consid- ered his trust to be merely nominal, immediately placed it at her disposal, and Mary Michon positively refused to accept of the little sum left her by the de- ceased. Madeleine thus found herself in possession of five hundred and ten francs, which was sjjeedily applied to the purchase of bedsteads, linen, and bed- ding. Whatever she could spare from her earnings was indeed devoted to the purpose of furnishing the hospital of Mont-Saint- Jean, as well as a hundred and MADELEINE. 245 fifty francs which she received from Madame de Meurice. Owing to her active exertions, the hos- pital was prepared to receive its inmates towards the beginning of sirring, and Madeleine now thought il time to remove to it. Her family then consisted of eight persons, besides herself, Lise, and Marie Michon ; the hospital could contain about sixty individuals, but there were only beds for twenty at the present time. l!s^ot withstand- ing the prudent remonstrances which assailed her from every quai"ter, Madeleine selected ten persons from amongst the most destitute and infirm in the village, and iiivited them to take up their abode in the village hospital as soon as it should be opened. The important day which had been fixed by Mad- eleine for the removal of her family to their new abode at length arrived. At an eai'ly hour in the morning, M. Dubois, with his tri-color scarf, the em- blem of his dignity, tied around his portly person, and followed by Jean Eenaud, whom he treated with mortifying haughtiness, made his appearance at Mad- eleine's house, and with the most bustling and im- portant look inquired if every thing were read3\ M. Blgnon almost immediately followed him, and looked extremely as-itated and nervous. Consider- ing that a removal was going on, they found the house tolerably quiet; Marie seemed rather flurried, and Lise, who ran from one room to another, felt evidently in a state of great excitement ; but Made- leine, who was at breakfast, wore her usual look of composure. "When the meal was over — the last she was to take in that house — she rose, and, with Marie's assistance, had soon caused the remaining 246 MADELEINE. furniture — for as much as could be spared had been conveyed to the hospital on the preceding day — to be placed in a cart, which was waiting at the door. When this had been effected, nothing remained to do but to depart. M. Dubois, who was present in his official capacity, in order to do Madeleine more hon- or, now felt extremely anxious to know what was to be the order of the procession. "For you see, Madeleine," he observed, "every eye will be upon us to-day ; I verily believe that all the inhabitants of Mont-Saint-Jean will be present ; and as I entered here I saw some fellows from Puy- saye, who had come to see the sight, I suppose. We must show them what we can do, Madeleine." " jSTay, sir, what can be done, and what will they see ?" replied Madeleine, with a smile, " a cart of furniture, and a few old people, removing from one house to another." "Ay, to be sure," said Jean Renaud, who had lately shown signs of insubordination, " what will they see ?" " Hold your tongue, Mr. Adjoint," wrathfully ob- served M. Dubois, who felt rather offended that Mad- eleine should not have considered him likely to excite attention and interest. " Madeleine," he continued, in a lofty tone, " I must beg to differ from you on this point ; however unimportant the procession may be in itself, yet, when it is invested with an official character, it becomes the object of serious considera- tion, especially when the whole world is as it were looking on. I believe M. Bignon is of my opinion," he added, with a ceremonious bow in the direction of the cure J who, thus roused from a deep revery, into MADELEINE. 247 whicli tlie recollection of his departed friend had thrown him, replied, with a startled look, " Oh ! yes, of course." Madeleine, in the mean while, was arranging the order of the procession according to her own fashion ; to M. Dubois's indignant astonishment the cart went first, then came the little body of the future inmates of the hospital ; those Avho were too sick or infirm to walk being carried on rude litters ; Madeleine walked at their head, with M. Bignon on her right hand and the mayor and his adjoint on her left ; Marie Michon and Lise brought up the rear. As soon as they left the house and appeared in the street, a low murmur ran through the crowd, which had gathered around the house, though not so near as to impede the prog- ress of the little caravan. " Ay, thez'e she goes ! that is Madeleine, with tlic gray cloak I*' was the exclamation to which several persons gave utterance, for, as M. Dubois had truly observed, there were manv individuals of the neigh- boring villages present. Madeleine was at first startled by the appearance of so large a crowd, but the looks of affection and heartfelt respect which she met on every side soon made her resume her usual serenity. On a sign from her the man who was to lead the cart urged his horse forward, and the whole procession, as M. Dubois styled it, began to move, followed by the crowd. The mayor, who, whether by accident or design, always preceded his compan- ions, natm-ally considered his majestic person and tri-color scarf as the chief points of attraction ; was be not indeed the representative of government on this solemn occasion? lie would have been some 248 MADELEINE. what mortified had he known that Madeleine was the only individual who excited real interest. Though this was a solemn day in her life, she bore it, as she did every thing, whether of weal or woe, with calmness. She was grave and thoughtful, how- ever, for memory carried her back to all that had occurred during the four years which had elapsed since she had first conceived her bold project. Seeing her abstracted and silent, M. Bignon did not speak ; M. Dubois was too much wrapped up in the consid- eration of his own importance to do any thing, save when he occasionally thought fit to administer a sharp reproof to his adjoint. The behavior of the crowd seemed modelled on that of Madeleine ; every one looked grave and composed, and walked quietly along. In about a quarter of an hour they reached the foot of the hill, on which now arose that hospital which had so lonsr been treated as the dream of an enthusiastic girl. The morning was lovely, and the brilliant sunshine and cloudless azure sky enhanced the romantic beauty of the surrounding scenery; but no one thought of admiring any thing save the hos- pital of Mont-Saint-Jean, with its white walls, green shutters, and slate-covered roof. It was, however, a low, unpretending, and unpicturesque looking build- ing, standing in the middle of a large tract of ground, laid out in a manner which showed that advantage had been more consulted than taste or beauty. Still there was an air of comfort about the whole place that made it look like the abode of some wealthy farmer ; but, though it was by no means calcidated to give the idea of a hospital, every one pronounced it perfect in its way, and declared that it was vastly MADELEINE. 249 saij^erior to the building whicli adorned tlie chef-lieu of the department. The only token of a public char- acter which the edifice displayed, was the tri-color flag, which had been hoisted up by M. Dubois's di- rections, and now waved proudly from the summit ol the highest chimney. When they were within about twenty yards of the house, Madeleine stepped forward, and, taking the lead, advanced to open the door, for she had so ar ranged matters that all the members of her family might find accommodation for the present without being disturbed by the removal of the furniture. AVhen she stood on the threshold of her new abode, Madeleine paused, with deep emotion, and, as she raised her glance to heaven, and clasped her hands fervently, she repeated in a low tone the words of Simeon : " InTow mayst thou dismiss thy servant, O Lord, according to thy word, in peace ; because mine eyes have seen thy salvation, which thou hast prepared before the face of all people." Marie, who stood near Madeleine, alone heard these words, and marked the look and smile of rapturous joy which dwelt on the features of the speaker, in- vesting them for a while with almost unearthly beauty. But while she was still wondering uneasily what Madeleine's exclamation could signify, her friend turned round, and addressing her family, which now crowded around her, gently said : " Children, this is your home." The words could not have been more simple, yet many wept on hearing them, for, as they gazed on Madeleine's fragile furm and pale features, all re 11* 250 MADELEINE. membered the toil and anxietj which it had coet her to win that home for the poor. The door now being thrown open, eTeiy one want- ed to obtain a sight of Idie interior of the hospital of Mont-Saint-Jean. X. Dubois, however, interfered, aad made a long speech on the necessity of preserving order, and on tiie C5 wonld inflict on anv dis- tnrbers of thej '" e. He did not appear to produce mnc^ : : ' ^'"■^:^:-"~ -ijquested, in a tew wer 5-. :': _ d given to the remoT^ii : : she premised t?:r:t c^rrvr: : -. --ttal. In a very :-? "With which rfc was _ . proper ; ' - - - .: .". -^ - ^ . - ■ .. -irted to look over me e; : .. r : 1 _ ieit the place bv ;. " ' . ; : . hj others; thns. ■ -. I'.. '.. . .■- ;- _ . y.!-, even L-^v Lv^ _ : r_ :. ■ - _- . . _ ..it every one's v.;„-.;.: - - ■ -:;. ,1, 'Pte-rewas, _- .. ...'..'■..- -.. "■'-''ace; _-.v wv^Qi^ com:.... ' _ .. _.-...; : the stii-. . ... _ -lOls, r.".. . . was t«> have been the salon of the visi: . - : . . - . j. was now . into :..- ::..: .Ksined twelve hfckks,,,:- _ . : ....... -7 as forty; a col- - -lii'cS, VT - ...■.-.'. the pre?e:il . .^ ' iji(>i!ise '-.-.. ~ :. «S:c^ weie sucii as :':ier. The iiiaU MADEI-ZISS. 251 farm, fbr, tboa^ 31 7 ^ teaciof land, sh«r jai- stitiites a,h3z^ Sever '. _ - . - - - -.-resy : - - the . ^ii- - doWi: - - :- down, as :- .'- "-- eser- - -- «> J- - ■ - - -Ye?. 252 MADELEINE "The hospital," she said, " ah-eady possessed ahirgo tract of ground in a productive state ; she had sold a few months before the land belonging to her, and, with the money she had received for it, had purchased a few fields adjoining her present abode. The j)rod- uce of this land in corn and vegetables sufficed to maintain the establishment. Then all we require for the present," she added, "is a little .aioney to buy meat occasionally, and provide us with clothing ; but neither Marie nor myself mean to remain idle; then, surely, it is not presumptuous to hope that our earn- ings will supply whatever deficiencies may occur." "Well, I will grant this," answered the mayor, " but you have only twenty patients now ; how will you manage, when, according to your intention, you will have sixty?" "Providence will see to that," answered Made- leine, with a smile. And M. Dubois, being hopeless of bringing her round to his way of thinking, rose and departed, but not w-ithout once more congratu- lating Madeleine on her success, and hinting at the share he had in it. M. Detrimont took his leave soom afterwards, for he had only called on his w^ay to an- other village ; his last words to Madeleine contained a recommendation about not over-exerting herself, and taking care of her health. "When they were both gone, M. Bignon also rose to depart. He had spoken little the whole morning, but as he now addressed Madeleine, his voice was deeply moved. " Madeleine," said he, as he stood on the threshold of her new home, " I will not call down the blessing of heaven either on you or on this place before I go, for I know that it is with both already. I remember MADELEINE. 253 that on a morning like this, four years ago, you called upon me to tell me that a hospital should one day rise on this very spot, yet I did not believe you ; it stands before me now to reprove my want of iiiith. But there was onew'ho always believed in you, Made- leine ; he loved you, and understood you well, for ho had a soul to conceive all that was good and great ; but I did not mean to speak of him," added the worthy priest, checking himself, w^ith a sigh ; " what I wanted to say, Madeleine, was, that though in spir- itual matters it were fitter for me to crave your assist- ance than for you to seek mine, yet there may be earthly concerns in which I can help you : if so, speak, for I know you have much to do and settle." " I thank you, sir," replied Madeleine ; " and, since such is the case, I will make one request." " AVhat is it, Madeleine ?" asked M. Bignon, with much alacrity. " Merely, sir, that you will be so kind as to M'rite to Madame de Boissy, the lady whom I met in the wood last year, and who collected the money for me, to tell her that the hospital of Mont-Saint- Jean is now^ opened. I promised to let her know when this should happen, and you will tell her all much better than I could." " Kay, Madeleine, I do not grant this ; but I know you are very busy now, and so I will write the letter. Do you wish for nothing else?" " For nothing, sir, thank you." " Then farewell, Madeleine ; God bless you !" Madeleine returned his farewell, and the priest departed. The remainder of the day produced no remarkable event, and was merely spent in all the bustle usually attending on a removal. 254 MADELEINE CHAPTER XXIII. Aftee the lapse of a few days Madeleine and her ftimily were comfortably settled in their new abode, or, as it was now generally called, the Hosj^ital. M. Dubois, who felt, as he said, that he had acted an important part in the whole affair, was extremely anxious that the edifice — so he termed it — should either possess a more dignified appellation, or be at least adorned with an inscription. Though Made- leine thought that "• The Hosj)ital" was as good a name as any, she was prevailed upon to have her house christened anew, and a consultation at which she assisted was accordingly held on this important subject in the mairie. M. Dubois opened the pro- ceedings, by proposing to call the hosj^ital "The Asylum of the Unhappy." " Nay," said Madeleine, " that would not be cor- rect ; for I assure you, M. Dubois, that we are all very happy at home." Several other suggestions were made, all equally inappropriate ; M. Bignon at length proj)Osed " The House of the Poor." But to this Madeleine also objected. " If we call it ' The House of the Poor,' " she re- marked, "no one will like to go into it ; let us rather give it a name which will make it no shame to dwell in it, and call it 'The House of God.' " M. Bignon greatly approved of this idea, though he informed Madeleine that it was not an original one, as Maison-Dieu and Hotel-Dieu were common MADELEINE. 255 names for such cliaritable establishments clm*ing the middle ages. But M. Dubois, who felt secretly piqued at the indifference with which his sentimental name of " Asylum for the Unhajipy" had been treated, declared, that unless it were couched in Latin or some other learned language, Madeleine's suggestion was of too common-place a character to be adopted. As M. Bignon seconded this remark, Domus Domini was agreed upon as the name under which the hos- pital should be known in future. " Let it be as you like," quietly remarked Made- leine ; " but what is the use of a name which no one save M. Bignon can understand ?" " Ay," echoed Jean Eenaud, " what is the use of it?" " Hold your tongue, sir," sternly said the mayor ; " you do not understand Latin, I believe." " '^a more does Madeleine," replied the adjoint, who, if he had dared, would have added that M. Dubois was equally ignorant of the learned language. The mayor was determined, however, that a Latin inscription should adorn the hospital of Mont-Saint- Jean, and, as Madeleine felt rather indiiferent on this important subject, he easily carried his point. In less than a week a blue tablet with golden letters was fixed over the unpretending door of the establishment, setting forth that it had been built and opened whilst Jacques Dubois was mayor of Mont-Saint- Jean ; but as this piece of information was, like the name of tlie hospital, couched in the Latin tongue, it was wholly lost on the many, which somewhat lessened the gratifi- cation of the mayor. The Latin name proved, more- over, quite a failure ; every one persisted in calling 256 MADELEINE, Madeleine's house the hospital of Mont-Saint-Jean; and as the blue tablet, with the inscription in gold letters, fell to pieces before it had been up six months, M. Dubois, at whose expense it had been put in its place, saw all hie hopes of future glory vanish with it, but had sufficient wisdom not to have it replaced by another. The summer passed away without producing any remarkable events. The fame of the hospital spread, however, over the country, and it was now considered one of the curiosities of Auvergne. Numerous visit- ors came to visit the establishment, and, though they found much to criticise, telling Madeleine that her hospital ought to have been built on a very different plan, and provided with many conveniences in which it was deficient, they generally ended by compliment- ino- her on the order she had established, and left some substantial tokens of their approbation. The donations which she thus received soon enabled Ma- deleine to repay the thousand francs which she owed M. Dubois and the other individuals who had lent her that sum. It was not until this debt had been paid that she thought herself at liberty to admit into the hospital as many individuals as it could contain ; she did not effect this abruptly, but the house seemed to fill imperceptibly. ISTow it was an old woman who begged to be received, pleading her poverty and great ase, and how could Madeleine refuse to admit her ? then some poor crippled child, a burden or an object of dislike to its parents, was taken in. The claim of the sick was of course never disregarded ; and, as there were neither guardians nor overseers to impose a check on the apijlicants, who were always heard by MADELEINE. 257 Madeleine lierself, it so happened that a year after it had been opened the hospital contained no less than fifty persons. How Madeleine provided for them all was the never-ceasing wonder of the whole village. But Madeleine seemed ahle to explain any thing. In the first place, the hospital was, as she asserted, partly self-supporting. The donations which she had received since repaying the thousand francs had been judiciously applied by her to the purchase of land ; so that in what seemed, and in what really was, a very short space of time, the hospital stood in the centre of its own grounds, which soon became noted for their fertility and extent. As Madeleine was obliged to hire laborers to cultivate her land, the in- come she derived from it was much less than it might have been otherwise ; but she contrived to make np for this deficiency by rendering every able member of her family useful in one way or another. Some of the old men attended to the vegetable garden, and kept it in proper order ; the old dames who had be- come Madeleine's guests cleaned the rooms or mended the linen of the family ; the children performed the errands ; but the task of attending on the sick was ciiiefly allotted to Madeleine and Marie Michon. 'Not- withstandingher economy and excellent management, Madeleine occasionally found herself in difliculties, for which even she could suggest no relief save in the help of the charitable. Whenever this was the case, she had recourse to a simple plan, which generally proved successful. This was to go about the village carrying a large basket destined to contain the volun- tary contributions of the villagers, who never waited to be asked in order to place in it whatever they felt 258 MADELEINE. willing to give. The most wealthy contributed a loal of bread, or perhaps even a piece of meat ; the poor gave whatever they could spare, though it might be only a handful of chestnuts — they knew that Made- leine despised not the least offering. But, though her appeal in lavor of the hospital had never yet been made in vain, it was very seldom that Made- leine recurred to this method of lightening the bur- den which rested upon her. When the hospital had been opened about six months, M. Detrimont, who always called in when- ever he had occasion to pass through Mont-Saint-Jean, declared that the fatigue Madeleine experienced was too great for her in her delicate state of health, and that Marie Michon's assistance was not sufficient. As soon as this was known in the village, three women offered her their services. They were all equally fitted for the task, and, when she was called upon to choose one of them, Madeleine said so, ob- serving at the same time that she only needed one assistant. After a little hesitation she selected a mid- dle-aged and childless widow, " and who was there- fore best suited," said Madeleine, "to become the mother of the poor." As "Widow Marguerite was much esteemed in Mont-Saint- Jean, this decision gave universal satis- liiction, and lier aid certainly proved very valuable to Madeleine. But, thougli matters seemed once more to go on smoothly, Marie Michon did not feel satisfied, for it seemed to lier that, instead of improving, Madeleine's health was perceptibly declining. She only com- plained occasionally of a sliarp pain in the region of MADELEINE. 259 the heart, but the hectic flushes which frequently overspread her features, and the languor of her gen- eral appearance, gave her friend serious uneasiness. Though M. Detrimont watched over her with the greatest care, and though Madeleine followed his ad- vice vrith implicit docility, no change for the better seemed to take place in her health. Marie's uneasiness Vv-as greatly increased by the peculiar state of her friend's mind. She was as gen- tle, and spoke as kindly, as ever ; but, though far from relaxing in the zealous discharge of her duties, she seemed on the contrary insensible to fatigue whenever they were concerned. Marie watched with anxiety and surprise the mental excitement which now seemed to accompany every effort. ""Why, Madeleine," said she to her one day, when, in spite of her evident exhaustion, Madeleine seemed bent on finishing some piece of needlework on which she was engaged, '' what ails you ? One might think, to see you toiling so, that you were some poor work- ing-girl anxious to get rid of her task, and have her day's labor over." Madeleine looked up, and gravely replied, " You speak more truly than you think, Marie." " How so ?" falteringly asked her friend. " Yes," continued Madeleine, passing her hand across her feverish brow, " I do feel sometimes like those who have toiled through the heat of the day, and who, when evening comes on, long for repose. And, is it not strange, Marie ? it is since my task is almost over, since we came here, that my strength seems to leave me, slowly though sureh', every day. Think of how much there is yet to do here, and won- 2G0 MADELEINE. der not, therefore, if 1 seem to hurrv now, though the end of all my toil is near," " Oh, Madeleine !" earnestly exclaimed Marie, " take some rest, for the love of heaven ! Is there not time enonarh for what remains to be done ?" But Madeleine shook her head, and gently said, " Thou dost not understand me, child : that is not the repose I speak of, and for which I long." " Of what rest do you then speak ?" asked Marie, with evident astonishment. " I cannot explain it well, though I feel it deeply," thoughtfully answered Madeleine ; " but it is indeed a rest beyond all troubling — something like what we feel when, after a day's weary toil, we lay down to sleep with our hearts still full of prayer," Marie turned her head away to hide her tears ; but after a while she threw her arms around the neck of Madeleine, and in a broken tone exclaimed, " Oh, Madeleine ! dear Madeleine ! do not leave me yet — do not ! and> for the love you bear me, speak no more of that strange rest." " ]!:^ay," said Madeleine, with a smile, " think lightly of it ; what was it but a wayward fancy ? Since it troubles thee so much, I shall mention it no more." Marie dried her tears, and strove to look cheerful ; but it saddened her to feel that, though Madeleine might not mention it again, the thought of that strange, untroubled repose would still dwell in her mind. Marie had feared the effects of the winter for her friend, but to her great joy Madeleine did not seem to suffer from the cold, and, on the contrary, appeared MADELEINE. 261 rather better by the return of spring. Her labor was not lessened, however, for during the severe winter months many new inmates had been admitted into the hospital ; but Providence seemed indeed to watch over Madeleine, and, though her large family still went on increasing, none of its members ever wanted their daily bread. " So you see, sir," she could not help observing with a smile to M. Dubois, " that when God fills a house he also provides for it," " Yes, Madeleine," replied the mayor, " but you have made heavy sacrifices : you have sold the little land you possessed, without speaking of your house. By-the-by, do you know that it has proved a sad bar- gain for me ; no tenants will remain in it, it is so lonely. I wish you would take it back again." " No, I cannot do that," replied Madeleine, " but I can rent it from you for a year or two." "You ! rent it I" exclaimed M. Dubois, much sur- prised. " Yes," quietly answered Madeleine, " though others may find it lonely, it is there I should like to live." " Then you intend leaving the hospital ?" " ITay, not entirely ; but my health is not good, and I often long for repose and solitude." " And so you want to go back there ? Well, Mad- eleine, as you like ; but it is a strange fancy." " I know what you think, M. Dubois, that it is extravagant in me to pay liouse-rent when I can bo lodged here for nothing. But it is not high, and the produce of the garden, with what I can earn by spin- ning, will cover it ; besides, I shall only take it 262 MADELEINE, at midsummer, and I feel tliat I shall not keep it long." "E'ay, Madeleine, I was not thinking of that, for surelj if it is your fancy you have a right to indulge yourself in it. But indeed it is a strange wish." " AYe all love some spot more than any other," re- plied Madeleine, " and my heart clings to this. There was a time when I should have wished it to be mine own, but now I am satisfied to live in it, even though it is another's property; for vrould it not become such in a few years, perhaps even less, though it were mine now !" she added, with a mournful smile, which M. Dubois vainly strove to understand. When a few days afterwards he repeated the sub- stance of this conversation to Marie Michon, with the agreement by which it had been followed, the poor girl wept bitterly ; but when he pressed her to ex- plain the meaning of her tears, and of Madeleine's discourse, she only shook her head with deep melan- choly. " How very strange !" thought M. Dubois ; " can unv thino- be the matter with Madeleine ? She looks rather paler than formerly ; but surely if she were really unwell she would not go to live in that lonely place. I suppose Marie is only grieved at the thought of losins: her." CHAPTER XXIV. The hospital of Mont-Saint-Jean was now in a thri- ving condition : " My task is done," often said Mad- eleine to Marie, who never heard her say so without MADELEINE. 26 Q heaving a sigh, for it seemed as if the consciousness that her services were no lono-er needed — that she had fulfilled her appointed duty to the end — lessened Madeleine's remaining strength, and rendered her weaker every day. It was indeed impossible to be- hold her now without feeling how much she was al- tered ; her features were still mild and serene, but their hue had become pale and sickly ; her step had lost its former elasticity, and the general languor and debility of her appearance told of the disease which was preying within. Though Madeleine did not complain, it was evi- dent to all that her health was very much impaired. The general impression was that she had injured herself by over-exertions in the cause of the hospital of Mont-Saint-Jean ; indeed. Doctor Detrimont said so, and the evident anxiety with which he watched over her in her declining state caused many to fear for her life. These apprehensions created deep sor- row, for Madeleine was universally beloved ; but of this, as well as of her precarious condition, she seemed unconscious. Though her increasing Aveak- ness produced in her a natural distaste for the active life she had led hitherto, and made her seek quiet- ness and repose, her cheerfulness was greater than it had ever been. When she was asked the cause oi this, she answered, with a smile, that the hospital being now established, and in a prosperous state, she could banish care from her mind : " So you see," she would add, " that I have now nothing to do save to be happy and quiet for the rest of my life." But when she spoke thus, people became sad, and, exchanging significant looks, shook their heads, as 264 MADELEINE much as to imply that Madeleine had not, perhaps, so long to live as she might think. One morning, towards the end of spring, when M. Detrimont called n]3on Madeleine, in passing through the village, he was somewhat surprised to hear her asking him, with unusual gravity, to grant her a private interview ; he assented, and she led the way to a little back room overlooking the garden where they were in no fear of being disturbed. When they were seated, Madeleine turned towards M. De- trimont, and calmly said : " I want to ask you one question, sir: how long do you think I have still to live ?" " Madeleine !" exclaimed the doctor. She read his meaning in his look, Ijut sadly shook her head. " Tell me not," she said, " that I have still many years to live ; I feel that my days are numbered : all I want to know is, the time I have yet to spend upon earth ?" M. Detrimont looked at Madeleine long and fixedly ; she was as calm and serene as thouo;h her own fate were not the object of her questioning. " Madeleine," said he at length, " why do you ask me this ? " " Because I wish to be prepared for death when it docs come," she gravely replied. " Do not deceive ine, for I know you cannot tell me my illness is not fatal. I have felt it here too long," and she laid her hand upon her heart, " not to be aware that there is no cure." M. Detrimont could not indeed contradict this, he therefore remained silent ; she repeated her question. MADELEINE. 265 " Madeleine," said the doctor, after another long pause, " I know that I am not speaking to an ordi- nary woman, and that you will neither faint nor go into fits if I tell you the truth ; I will therefore ac- knowledge that your disease is one of the heart in its last stage ; I have long watched over you, but there is no cure." Madeleine was not above humanity, and as she heard the doctor's sentence, her cheek grew pale and her lips quivered slightly, but these signs of emotion soon passed away from her features, and left them as calm as before. M. Detrimont, who watched her narrowly, read every one of her feelings on her in- genuous countenance : he saw that the natural dread of death, implanted in every human being, had first prevailed, but had soon been conquered by that pure and holy faith which characterized her ; and he se- cretly admired her more for this transient weakness, and the subsequent victory, than he could have done for the most stoical fortitude. " But how long do you think I may live ?" again asked Madeleine, after remaining silent for a few minutes. " I think that with care your life might be pro- longed for more than a year." " What ! so long as that ?" said Madeleine, with a melancholy smile. " Yes, Madeleine, but mind that I said — with care," urged the doctor, desirous of impressing this condi- tion on her mind. " Yes, sir, I understand," replied Madeleine, " I shall take every necessary precaution ; for, God for- bid that the sin of my own death should rest on my 12 266 MADELEINE. soul ! but may not an accident occur by wliicli I may be deprived of life before that time ?" " Assm-edly," said the doctor, " it is possible, but I cannot foretell this." " Sir," resumed Madeleine, " I should like, with God's will, to know the hour of my own death, for, though I have no grievous sin on my soul, still I think it is well to be prepared for such an awful change. Though you cannot foretell when it will occur, you can perhaps describe to me the symptoms by which it will be preceded, and this I should wish you, if you have leisure, to do now." This was certainly a strange request, yet Madeleine made it with perfect simplicity and truth. M. Detri- mont understood her character thoroughly ; he knew that she had never undertaken a task to which she was not equal, and that if she now asked him to speak to her openly on this subject it was because she could bear to hear the truth, however painful it might have proved to an ordinary mind. lie there- fore complied with her request, and proceeded to explain to her the nature of the disease with which she was afflicted, as well as the symptoms by which a crisis was likely to manifest itself. Though M. De- trimont loved Madeleine, he w^as a medical man, and rather apt to view his patients as objects of scientific demonstration; on this occasion he soon forgot to whom he was speaking, and entered with anatomical precision into all the details concerning the functions of the heart, the manner in which ossification took place, the remedies which he had employed in her case, and their inefficacy. Madeleine listened to him with deep attention, occasionally asked him to explain MADELEINE, 2G7 Bome j)oint which she could not understand, and dwelt especially on those signs which, according to his explanation, announced the approach of death, thoucch he warned her at the same time that she should not trust too much to them, as they were apt to be exceedingly uncertain. " Ah ! Madeleine !" said he, when he had con- cluded, and his mind ouce more reverted to her, " How often did I tell you that you were killing your- self ! you see it now." Madeleine seemed so much distressed, on hearing this, that the kind-hearted doctor immediately re- pented having uttered the words. " Sir," said she, " what you tell me gives me much pain, for I think it a great sin to shorten our own life. But, what could I do ? You know how much Mont-Saint-Jean wanted a hospital, and how many poor creatures died every year because there was not one. I did all that I could not to over-exert myself, but, when you remonstrated with me on the subject, I asked myself whether it was not better that one life should be risked for the good of all, than that I should spare my health, and thus delay the erection of the hospital for many years. But are you sure, sir, that even were it not for this I should have lived long ?" " I believe, Madeleine, that the seeds of this dis- ease have been in you for several years, but I know that your life could have been prolonged for a great space of time in comparison with that allotted to it now. This is all I can say for your comfort." Madeleine sighed, and seemed disturbed. " Tlie will of God be done !" she at length observed : " what 268 MADELEINE. is passed cannot be recalled. I acted for the best, for indeed I did not wish to die, and, if it were the will of heaven, I would willingly live. But it would be both useless and sinful to repine now. And why should I repine ? How often have I asked of heaven to live only to see the hospital of Mont-Saint- Jean, and then die in peace ! My prayer has been granted, and I am indeed happy !" There was so much truthful fervor in her tone as she spoke thus, that the doctor felt the words had been uttered from her heart. He gazed upon her, with a look in which sorrow and admiration were equally blended, and sighed, as he observed, " You are a noble being, Madeleine ; it is a pity such should die." A flush came over Madeleine's pale features, and she smiled for a moment, but, without making any reply to M. Detrimont's remark, she calmly said : " I have yet another request to make: it is, that you will not repeat to any one the subject of our present discourse, nor even reveal how soon my end may be. You know, sir," she continued, with a melancholy smile, " that there are many people who love me in Mont-Saint- Jean ; if they thought I had only a short time to live they would take such care of me that my life would certainly be shortened. I wish to die my own way. Mine has been a troubled life for the last few years ; whilst I had my end in view I did not mind this, but now that my task is done my heart yearns for rest and solitude. I am, besides, growing weaker every day, and therefore less fitted for my duties here ; I feel that I must return to my old home by the churchyard." MADELEINE. 269 " Madeleine !" exclaimed the doctor, in a tone of disapprobation. But, though Madeleine understood his meaning, she shook her head. "ISTay, sir, I must do as I have said, for my heart is bent upon this plan. I am aware, however, that I shall meet with oj)position, and if it is known how ill I am, it will be still worse ; this is why I want you not to say to others what you have said to me to-day ; that, since nothing can restore me to life, I may at least be allowed to die in peace : so pray promise mo this." For a long time M. Detrimont refused, but Made- leine was earnest in her entreaties ; she told him that she could take better care of herself than even her best friends, now that she imderstood her own illness ; that she did not mean to be constantly alone, but to have Lise with her occasionally, and to pay frequent visits to the hospital. The doctor saw that, as she had said, her mind was indeed bent Tipon this plan ; and reflecting that to thwart her could only give her pain, without inducing her to change her re- solve, he at last gave the required promise, reserving to himself the right of infringing it whenever he should think fit. "When Madeleine had succeeded in obtaining this from him they parted, for she feared that too long a conference might excite the suspicions of Marie. She looked as composed as nsual in bidding the doc- tor farewell, but as he left her there was a shade of sadness on her brow. "When Madeleine was alone, she looked out thought- fully from the open window near w^iich she happened to be standing. It was a lovely summer morning ; 270 MADELEINE. deep, cool-looking shadows still lingered in the dis- tant valleys, whilst the hills lay bathed in a flood oi glorious sunshine ; the sky had that deep azure blue which belongs to summer alone ; the earth looked green and lovely ; the atmosphere was so clear and still that the faintest of those low sounds, which may be called the voice of nature, rose distinctly on the ear of Madeleine : she looked again ; her eyes grew dim with tears, and her heart was full of sadness. How long had she still to live ? The doctor had said a year : then she began to count how many days she had to dwell upon earth, how often yet she might gaze on the fair scene before her ! Summer would come round again, she knew ; but when it came, where should she be ? Faith answered, at peace and in happiness, but the flesh said that earth was beau- tiful, and that she was young, very young to die. Why was her life to be so brief? Those hills, those trees and streams would still endure for many years after she was gone ; they lived — but she — the nobler being — must die. And again she inwardly exclaim- ed, " Why must my days be so few ?" She bowed her head and clasped her hands : there was a deep conflict at her heart ; could she have hoped, she would have said, " Oh ! Father, take this cup from me !" but her fate was fixed, and she knew it. She looked once more : how her heart now clung to every thing that was beautiful in nature, and how fondly her glance lingered over the loveliness to which she inwardly bade farewell ! But this struggle could not last. ISfotwithstanding her passing regret of life, Madeleine had long been resigned to her approach- ing end ; her sorrow gradually grew less : she re- MADELEINE. 2TJ inerabered that earth, though lovely, was, like herself, perishable ; and then she thought of the brevity of every human life. Since the end of all was death, what mattered it whether she lived a few years more or less ? and, in her altered mood, Madeleine now almost smiled at the vanity of her unavailing- regrets. During the whole of the week that followed her interview with the doctor, Madeleine's behavior underwent no perceptible change ; still a vague sense of uneasiness was on Marie Michon's mind ; she noticed that her friend was more than usually scru- pulous in superintending the arrangements of the household, that she looked over all the linen, and took an inventory of it ; the different medicines were likewise arranged by her in the medicine chest, and she saw that the infirmary was supplied with what- ever it wanted ; in short, she seemed so anxious for every thing to be in its proper state, that Marie, aftei uneasily watching her proceedings for several days, could not at length help observing : "Why, Madeleine, what is the matter with you? One might think that you were going to take some long and weary journey." The smile which crossed Madeleine's features on hearing this was so sad, and yet so sweet, that Mario did not dare to ask her for any explanation, but fell into a deep fit of musing. The next morning, which happened to be a Sunday, Madeleine, after breakfasting as usual with those members of her family who were either convalescent or in their usual state of health, addressed them thus : "Children, we have now been together for seveial 272 MADELEINE. years. Since the hospital of Mont-Saint-Jean has been in existence, I have, according to your wish, administered it; I hope, and I believe, that I have done my duty. If it were, God's will I would gladly remain with you, but my health is, as you know, very much impaired ; and, though I have long delayed this moment, I feel that the time is now come when we must part." A general exclamation of sorrow and remonstrance followed these words. But Madeleine gently said, "Believe me, I have not done this without thinking maturely on the subject. You may give me pain by pressing me to remain with you, but it is impossible ; I must go." "But why must yon go?" urged Marie, who was weeping bitterly. "I am not going yet," said Madeleine, without giving her a direct answer; "but listen to me, for I have more to say. As I am no longer able to act for you as I have done hitherto, some other person must take my place. I do not think any one so well fitted for the task as Marie Michon, w^ho knows you all, and has long been accustomed with me to see to your wants. If you think so too, say so, and the matter can be settled now." But, contrary to Madeleine's expectation, no one replied. "Do you then object to Marie?" she asked, with evident surprise. " ISTo, Madeleine, we do not," answered one of the old women present, " but we want you to stay with us." " Alas," sadly said Madeleine, " why do you ask MADELEINE. 273 this of me? You only grieve me; but indeed it cannot be." " ISTaj," said Marie earnestly, " do not refuse us, Madeleine ; if you are we^^v and ill we will take care of you ; you need only tell me what I must do, and it shall be done without any trouble to you." "I cannot and will not consent to this," firmly said Madeleine ; " urge me no more, Marie." She resisted with equal firmness all the entreaties of those present, though they were renewed with importunate earnestness for nearly a quarter of an hour. Marie, who saw that, though she was resolved not to yield, the scene was becoming painful to Made- leine's feelings, now interfered, by observing, in a tone of reproach : " Nay, leaze her no more, she is bent on making us miserable, and any one knows that what Made- leine Guerin has determined to do must be done." Without taking any heed of the apparent unkind- ness contained in this remark, Madeleine calmly said, "Since this point is settled, I ask you once more whether you think Marie Michon is the person best suited to supply my place ?" This time Madeleine's question was answered by a general assent, for, next to her, Marie was greatly beloved. "Then," said she, looking kindly on her friend, " let it be so ; we will consult M. Dubois and M. Bisrnon to-morrow, and determine on the matter. And now," she continued, after a brief pause, "since I am going to resign the care I had of you into other hands, I think it right to bid you all farewell : do not misunderstand me," she quickly added, " I am not 12-^ 2 74 MADELEINE. leaving Mont-Saint- Jean, and I trust that we shall often meet again, yet, as we are going to part, I feel the want of asking you to forgive me whatever I may have unwittingly done to^iurt or injure you. Tell me not I have done nothing; perhaps it was not much — some hasty word or look which you soon forgot — but during several years there must have been something for you to forgive." It was in vain for those present to remonstrate. Madeleine insisted, and as usual won her point ; even Marie was forced to forgive her like the rest. When they had all complied, Madeleine looked kindly on her children, and in a low and gentle tone observed, "As you have forgiven me, so do I forgive you what- ever you may have done to grieve me, though I now remember nothing ; I shall, moreover, pray for you as long as I live, and, whenever it pleases God to re- move me from this world, remember how I loved you all, and pray for the peace and repose of my soul. Farewell !" Madeleine's last words were rendered almost inau- dil)le by the tears and lamentations of those j)resent, for, as she spoke of death, and asked them to pray for her, her voice had imconsciously taken a solemn tone, as though her end were at hand. "Why do you weep?" she asked, with a look of surprise, " though I spoke of death, I do not think 1 am going to die very soon. But, if I were, is not death the fate of every thing mortal ? and surely you never thought I should be spared. "Weep not, there- fore, but rejoice, for, after what has passed, after feel- ing that I have done my duty to the end, and fulfilled my a2:)pointed task, I am happier than I have ever MADELEINE. 275 yet been, excepting, perhaps, on the day when we all entered the hospital of Mont-Saint-Jean for the lirst time. Weep not, therefore, I say again, but, if you love me, rejoice ; for indeed there is peace in my soul." Many, however, still wept silently, for they saw by Madeleine's manner that she knew of her approach- ing end, and they began to fear it was nearer still than they had thought. In a calm and cheerful tone, Mad- eleine endeavored to comfort them, and, reminding them that it was time to go to mass, was the first to give them the example of preparing. On returning to the room shortly afterwards, she was surprised to see Lise sitting in it alone and weeping. " What ails thee, Lise ?" she hastily asked, draw- ing near her. "Oh! Madeleine," passionatel}'' exclaimed the child, sobbing bitterly, as she clasped her arms around her neck, " you arc going away, and I shall never see you again." Madeleine sat down near her, and embraced her tenderly : " Weep not, child," she gently said, " thou shalt come with me wherever I go, if such is thy wish." Lise dried her tears, and smiled, as she looked up into the face of her adopted mother. " Then you will never leave me or go away from mc ?" she asked, with a searching glance. Madeleine was smoothing the child's dark liair, and looking on her with a fond smile, but when she heard her question, she turned her face away that Lise might not see the tears which rose to her eyes. If there was a being on earth whom she loved it was her ; she loved Marie, too, but with a different affec- 276 MADELEINE. tion ; Lise, whom she had rescued from the grave, was as her own child, and her heart yearned towards her like that of a mother. How bitter now seemed the prospect of parting from her forever ! But Mad- eleine soon checked the repining thought, and, turn- ing towards her, calmly said, "I will not leave thee, child, as long as I live." This promise was enough for Lise, who soon re- gained all her spirits. Madeleine's behavior during the remainder of the day was so cheerful and serene, that, if the inhabit- ants of the hospital could have forgotten her farewell in the morning, they might have fancied she had still many years to live. Never had the tones of her voice been more kind and gentle, and never had the calm, spiritual light in her eyes revealed so plainly the love and holy peace of the soul within. CHAPTER XXV. Aftek a brief consultation with M. Bignon and the mayor on the following day, the choice which Made- leine had made of Marie to succeed her in the admin- istration of the hospital was fully confirmed, and she immediately entered on the duties of her oflfice. Nothing was changed in the establishment by this, for Marie scrupulously observed all the regulations instituted by her friend, whose prudence and wisdom were, in her opinion, unimpeachable. For a few days Madeleine did not speak of leaving, but at the end of a week she informed Marie that she was going to return to the house by the churchyard, where she MADELEINE. 277 accordingly caused a few articles of furniture to be transferred. Marie wept on hearing this, and remonstrated ; but Madeleine persisted in her purpose. She agreed, however, to return occasionally to the hospital, and consented that her room in it should be kept for her. " Why are you sad, Marie ?" she said to her friend, " you know that I can be happy thongh alone, and that I love the old place ; let me, therefore, go in peace ; the repose and solitude will do my heart good." " Since you have so resolved, Madeleine, let it be,'^ sadly replied Marie. As Madeleine did not wish to give any particular solemnity to her departure, she went away quietly the same day with Lise, and without bidding any one farewell. "When it was known in the hospital that she was actually gone, sorrow and consternation filled every mind ; all felt, they said, as though she were lost to them forever ; and this melancholy im- pression seemed shared by the inhabitants of Mont- Saint-Jean. In a few days, however, Madeleine re- turned, looking as calm and cheerful as though no separation had taken place. Her frame of mind ap- peared to be communicative ; the sense of grief which had followed her departure gradually became less ; her children saw that, though her home might be changed, Madeleine's heart was still with them. After spending a week in the hospital, she went back to her house by the churchyard, and left Lise behind her ; for, fearing that the solitude of her new abode might be prejudicial to the child's health, she induced her to stay in the village for a while. On the follow- ing Sunday Madeleine assisted at mass and vespers ; 278 MADELEINE. and as she then seemed in her nsual state of health, the apprehensions ^yhich had been conceived at first were now partly allayed. Madeleine's mode of life thns gradually became as quiet and retired, and in every respect almost the same, as when it was described in the opening of this work. Kothing was altered in the cottage and its environs ; the garden, the quiet churchyard, the mountain stream, all looked as of yore ; and, when Madeleine was once more seen sitting at her door and spinning in the sunshine, it seemed so natural for her to be there again, that every one soon grew accustomed to the sight, and many pronounced her little altered; but though her smile was as sweet, and her greeting as kindly as ever, her low song was no longer heard, and when she spoke, she seemed to experience a sense of fatigue, which, with the waxen and sickly hue of her features, told another tale. The mind soon resumes its old habits, and Madeleine fell so readily into the routine of her former existence, that it might have been thought it w^as only the other day, and not five years before, that she had left her cottage for the house of farmer Nicolas. She spent her days almost constantly in the open air during the fine weather, but she did not labor quite so assidu- ously as formerly ; and, whenever she felt weary of her work, she took uj) her prayer-book and read for a w^hile. She also devoted more time to prayer ; and many of those, who now entered her cottage towards evening, found her kneeling near the ojDen window, gazing on the starry sky, and so deeply absorbed in her devotions, that she neither seemed to notice their approach, nor to hear the tones of their voice. This MADELEINE. 279 want of consciousness of the external world proceeded partly from the debilitated state of her health, but those who witnessed its effects declared that Made- leine had celestial visions and ecstasies ; a report which was confirmed by the growing languor and abstractedness of her manner. Summer and autumn thus passed away. During all this time Madeleine had not lived in complete solitude ; Lise was often with her, M. Detrimont and the cure called frequently, and whenever Marie could spare a moment she spent it with her friend, who like- wise received occasional visits from gloomy Pierre, as lie continued to be called, though much of his misan- thropy had left him. But when winter came on, Marie insisted that Madeleine should remove to the hospital ; and, as the doctor also declared this was necessary, she complied with the request. It was then all could j^erceive the progress which disease had made in her frame. Though her countenance was little altered, she had grown so thin and emacia- ted, and seemed so weak, that many foretold she would not outlive the winter. Contrary, however, to ail expectation, she rallied gradually, and, when spring returned, was so much improved that she once more went to reside in her cottage by the churchj'ard. She was here visited on a tine morning by the doctor, who inquired after the state of her health, observing, that she looked better. But Madeleine shook her head, and said : " It is now upwards of nine months since you told me that I had not more than a year to spend in this world. More than the one-half of that time is past; but I know that I sliall never see the other." 280 MADELEINE. " How can you know that, Madeleine ? I do not feel BO confident on this subject, and yet I am a medical man." "I feel it here," replied Madeleine, laying her ])and upon her heart; and the hectic flush which crossed her features as she spoke, made M. Detri- niont fear that she had spoken too truly. "Madeleine," he gravely observed, "beware of imao-inina: that you can tell or foresee the hour of ^ ••11 your own death, for the mere imagination might be enough to kill you." " I do not seek to fix a day known only to God," calmly replied Madeleine ; " but when I feel my strength failing me more every day, and my step getting more slow, and my hand less steady, I also feel that the time draws near." " Then why stay here, Madeleine ? why not return to the hospital, where every care would be taken of you ?" "Nay, sir, I am happier here," replied Madeleine, " and here I wish to remain as long as I can. When the time comes I shall leave." Madeleine, indeed, clung to her old home with a strange and lingering afiection, which only grew stronger as her life drew to its close. The recollec- tions of love, faith, and happiness connected with this dwelling of her youth had made it very dear to her ; but this was not her only reason for residing in it now. As long as it had been necessary, she had willingly sacrificed her love of a quiet life to the great thought of her soul, but, now that her task was done, she longed once more for the silence and repose she had relinquished for a time. Madeleine's MADELEINE. 281 disposition was not unsociable, but the secluded manner in which her youth had been spent, and the natural bent of her mind, prevented her from taking- pleasure in the chit-chat gossip of which conversation chiefly consisted in Mont-Saint-Jean. It is true that she loved those whom she had for several years called her children, and to whom she still gave that name, but she loved them as human beings, as creatures of God more than as individuals. Her affection for Marie Michon and Lise was more deep, but it was because she felt it to be so that she wished to wean berself from it now, to turn her heart to heaven without one earthly alloy. It was owing to these reasons that Madeleine now chiefly sought the companionship of youth, and preferred it to the society of persons of maturer age. Even in the de- cline of her life she still felt the lons-iug of usefulness which had drawn her forth from her solitude, and she was seldom seen in the village without having around her a group of children, to whom she taught some simple lesson, or whom she amused with a childish story or legend. But even this indulgence, for it was one to her, had to be relinquished by Madeleine in consequence ol her weakened state. Although she never complained, her slow decay daily became more apparent. She still sat in the sunshine on the step of her door, but her wheel was wholly neglected, and her prayer-book seemed her constant companion. Lise was now almost alwavs with her, vet, whenever she left her in order to return to Mont-Saint-Jean, the child no- ticed that Madeleine's farewell blessing had some- thing strange and solemn in it, which made her feel 282 MADELEINE. uneasy, slie knew not "why. Madeleine now also took a particular pleasure in wandering about the old churchyard near her dwelling ; sometimes she prayed near her father's grave, and, when she felt tired, rested on the step of the stone cross which rose in the centre of the place. Marie Michon, calling upon her one morning, was surprised to find her sitting there and reading. " Why do you come here to read, Madeleine ?" she uneasily inquired. "It is a pleasant sj)ot," calmly said Madeleine, " more warm and sunny than the door-step." Still Marie felt troubled, and would have preferred to see her in any other place. About this time there happened an event which it was feared would have a fatal effect on the health and spirits of Madeleine in her present weak condition ; this was the death of Maurice, whom she had never seen since their separation. She heard the tidings, however, with seeming calmness, and merely said, " The will of God be done !" A few days afterwards she inquired into the details of his death, and seemed deeply moved on hearing of Rosette's grief. She even expressed the wish of going to see her, but, as her enfeebled state prevented this, she relinquished the idea. Madeleine now became so weak that Marie insisted that she should remove to the hospital, but it seemed as though the thought of being obliged to leave her homo gave her new strength, for she sud- denly grew better, and persisted in remaining, to which Marie reluctantly agreed. Lise was now about eleven years of age, and an old relation of hers, who lived in one of the neigh MADELEINE. 28 o boring villages, and had not seen her for a long time, requested that she might spend a few days with her. Madeleine immediately acceded to her request, but when the time came to part from her adopted daugh- ter she vainly endeavored to assume a cheerful bear- ing. The sadness and solemnity of her farewell, the numerous recommendations which she addressed to her on her future conduct, all contributed to make Lise believe that their separation was to be of a much lono;er duration than she had been told. "Oh, Madeleine," she exclaimed, bursting into tears, " I see what it is ; I am to stay at my aunt's, and to see you no more !" " Nay, heaven forbid !" earnestly ejaculated Made- leine. " That is to say," she added, correcting her- self, " that if such were the will of God I should wish to see thee again ; but thou mayest believe me, thou art not to stay more than a week at thy aunt's." "Then I shall see you again, dear Madeleine?" said the child. " Why dost thou ask this ?" "Because a while ago you spoke as though we should never meet again ; but we shall, shall we not ?" Madeleine made no reply, she hung down her head and clasped her hands, and merely said, " The will of God be done !" "What, Madeleine! shall I see you no more?" imeasily asked Lise. Still Madeleine answered not, but shook her head ; the child earnestly repeated her question. " I did not say that, child," at length said Made- leine, "but thou hast tarried too long — farewell !" Madeleine stooped to embrace her, and Lise looked 284 - MADELEINE. anxiously into her face, as thongh to read her mean ing in her very soul ; but Madeleine's countenance, though sad, was calm and serene, and, beyond her usual affection, she saw nothing there. Still Lise went hesitatingly away, and, as she followed the path which led to Mont-Saint-Jean, she often looked be- jiind her. Madeleine was standing on the threshold, gazing after her with a sad and thoughtful glance, for she remembered how, on a day like this, and along the same path, Maurice had gone away forever. When Marie heard that Madeleine was alone, she wanted her to come to the hospital, but, not being able to induce her to do this, she declared that she would come to see her every day. As Madeleine knew that her presence was not then very much needed at the hospital, she raised no .objection to this plan, and even promised Marie that she would soon live with her entirely. " Then why not come at once ?" asked her friend. " The summer days are so pleasant here," replied Madeleine ; " I will go when autumn comes on." Marie sighed, but did not urge her further. On the evening of the fifth day of Lise's absence, as Marie was on the point of returning to the village, Madeleine, who seemed much better, declared that she wanted to see M. Bignon, and would accompany her. Marie was astonished, and remonstrated on the fatigue she would thus undergo, but Madeleine as- serted that she was equal to the task ; and, though the way was rather long and steep, she never once complained of weariness, and even said, when she reached the house of M. Bignon, that the walk had done her good. MADELEINE. 28' Dame Ursula informed her that her master was with, one of the vilhigers, then at the point of deatli. Madeleine declared her intention of waiting for him, and sat down in the honey-suckle arbor, near the porch. In. about half an hour, M. Bignon appeared ; he looked pale and sad. "Is Antoine dead ?" asked Ursula. The priest made an affirmative sign, and entered his study, where he sank down on a seat. Madeleine followed him, but remained silent until the house- keeper had given her master a drink and retired. She then said : " .Sir, I am come to you for confession." Ursula could hear distinctly, from the next room, the exclamation of surprise which burst from M. Bignon's lips. " You do not mean to-night, child, do you ? It ih too late." " Yes," thoughtfully replied Madeleine, " it is late, yet it must be to-night. That is," she meekly added, "if 3'Ou will, as I trust, hear my sins." " Your sins !" echoed the priest, with a sigh, " ah ! child, will nothing then cure you of speaking about them ? What are they, I should like to know, when compared to those of certain sinners I wot of?" Madeleine was accustomed to hear similar re- marks from M. Bignon ; she therefore made no direct reply, but merely said, " Can you hear me, sir ? the way before me is long, and I must spend the night in vigil and prayer." " Why, Madeleine !" impatiently exclaimed M. Bignon, "what grievous fault is it that weighs so heavily on your soul ? I trust," he added with 286 MADELEINE assumed severity, " you are not in a state of morta' sin." " I trust not, sir." " Then what do you want nie to do tor you ?" "To hear my confession," answered Madeleine's calm voice. The priest groaned. " Madeleine, my good girl !" said he, " take my advice ; go to the hospital and sleep instead of watching." " I came from the valley for this, sir," observed Madeleine. " Then you did a foolish thing," almost angrily remarked M. Bignon, " and it will be more foolish still to go back again to the valley to-night, weak as you are." " Sir," solemnly said Madeleine, " it was no idle fancy that led me hither ; in the name of heaven, I conjure you to hear me !" This appeal was not to be resisted ; and Ursula, who had listened to this brief conversation in silent wonder, now heard her master rise and close the door, as though to comply with Madeleine's request. In about a quarter of an hour the door opened again, and M. Bignon and Madeleine came forth ; neither of them appeared to notice Ursula, who was sitting in the recess of the window. The cure, accompanied her as far as the garden-gate, and Ursula saw that she took the path leading to the valley. She could not lielp being struck with the slightness of her figure as it slowly vanished in the gathering gloom, and she watched it until it was concealed from her view by a sudden turning of the path. On looking MADELEINE. 287 up she perceived that M. Bigrion, wlio was still standing near the gate, had been similarly engaged. After remaining a while in the same attitude, he slowly walked back towards the house. " How like a spirit Madeleine looked to-night," observed the housekeeper to her master as he en- tered the room ; " and yet she seemed better." " She is a saint," gravely said the priest, " and I verily believe that her place is now ready in heaven." 'No more was said on the subject. CHAPTER XXVI. Maeie Michon felt great anxiety on learning that Madeleine had returned to the valley, for she had considered it as an understood matter, that she should sleep at the hospital. She called uj^on her early the following morning, and found her sitting by the door-step and reading. She seemed well, and in good spirits. Her friend felt unwilling to disturb this happy frame of mind ; she therefore made no remark on her imprudence of the preceding evening, but merely asked her when she would settle at the hospital. "When Lise comes back," answered Madeleine. " And when is she to return ?" " After to-morrow." Madeleine continued to exhibit the same quiet cheerfulness during the whole of the day, and Marie, who had business at the hospital, left her somewhat 288 MADELEINE. earlier than usual. She had not been long gone when M. Dubois made his apjiearance. It showed the winning power of Madeleine's nature, that it had warmed this selfish and narrow-minded man into something like a genial glow whenever she was concerned. This feeling displayed itself especially during her illness, when the mayor frequently called upon her, to bring her large nosegays of choice flowers from his own garden, as well as every little delicacy within his reach, and which he thought likely to tempt her palate in her languishing state. Madeleine was the more grateful for those attentions that she perfectly understood the character of the individual from whom they proceeded ; their inter- course was therefore marked by mutual cordiality and good-will. Like most ignorant persons, M. Dubois was con- vinced that, as long as a patient can eat and drink, the complaint is not fatal. His first questions, there- fore, whenever he saw Madeleine, related to her ap- petite ; and, as he generally received sufiiciently sat- isfactory replies, he concluded, that, though certainly very M'eak and languishing, she was not so ill as the doctor and most people thought. On this evening he found her looking better than usual. She was sittino; on a chair near the door of her cottage, with her gray cloak wrapped around her person to protect her from the cool evening breeze. She did not seem to notice his approach, for her glance was fixed on the horizon, where the sun was setting with unusual sj^lendor. The whole scene, with the lonely cottage and the quiet churchyard embosomed in the surrounding hills, and touched by the mellow light of departing MADELEINE. 289 day, was one of that deep and tranquil loveliness so seldom found. But its beauty was lost on M. Du- bois's unpoetic eye. He only noticed Madeleine's thoughtful figure, and the glow which the sunset radiance that lingered around her imparted to her pale and wasted countenance. " Well, Madeleine," said he, in a rough tone, for he was of opinion that invalids generally require to be roused up a little, " how do you feel this even- ing?" Madeleine turned round quietly — nothing seemed to startle her now — and answered, that she felt pretty well. "How is yom* appetite?" continued the mayor. " I ate some of the chicken which you sent me to- day." " Yery well. I have brought something else in this basket, and these flowers too. Where shall I put them ?" " In the room, if you please, sir," answered Made- leine, thanking him for his kindness with a smile. " I should do it myself, but I feel so comfortable here that I do not like to go in yet." "Indeed you must not stir. So," continued M. Dubois, when he had placed the basket and the flowers on a table in the first room of tlie cottage, and returned near Madeleine, " so you feel comfortable, do you ?" " Indeed I do, sir." " Madeleine, I will tell you what !" knowingly ob- served the mayor, " you are getting better." Madeleine smiled, but made no reply. " Why, I was given up twice by the doctors, and 13 290 MADELEINE. yet I am alive and well, you see. You feel comfort- able, that is one good sign. But what kind of a com- fort is it?" " It is more than comfort, it is happiness," said Madeleine, in a low tone, as her glance still dwelt on the gorgeous hues of the western sky. " Happiness !" echoed M. Dubois. " Yes, deej) and solemn happiness — happiness which no words can tell," she fervently replied. The mayor was satisfied, and did not seek to lead Madeleine into further conversation, as he knew that talking was injurious to her. He merely inquired when she expected Lise home, and whether she meant to return to the hospital. " Lise is to come home after to-morrow," answer- ed Madeleine, " and I shall go to the hospital very soon." After a few insignificant remarks, M. Dubois left her, recommending her not to stay too long exposed to the night air, which advice Madeleine promised to follow. As the mayor turned round the path leading to the village, he paused to look once more at Madeleine. The glow of the setting sun no longer lingered like a halo around her, and the cool gray hues of evening now shrouded the whole landscape ; but she still sat in the same thoughtful attitude, motionless as a sculptured figure, with her glance fixed on the dim horizon, as though seeking, far beyond it, the un- known regions revealed to the spiritual eye alone. Marie Michon was very much annoyed the next mornins: to i-eceive a messa2;e from the relative with whom Lise was staying, and by which she requested MADELEINE. 291 to keep her niece a few days longer. On lier way to Madeleine's cottage Marie reflected on the best man- ner of breaking this intelligence to her, for she had noticed that her friend looked forward to the day of Lise's return with mingled anxiety and expectation. She felt the more vexed by this because, one of her patients being then dangerously ill, she should be obliged to return to the hospital in the course of the day. She resolved to do her utmost in order to in- duce Madeleine to accompany her, and she found so many plausible arguments in favor of this ar- rangement that she had little doubt of its success. It was still early when she reached the cottage, and Madeleine was not up. Marie raised the latch softly and entered the first room on tiptoe, for Madeleine's slumbers had lately been light and troubled, and she feared to waken her. She listened for a few minutes at the door of her room, but Madeleine's sleep was, she knew, as peaceful as that of a child, and she could hear no sound. " She sleeps ; I must not dis- turb her," was Marie's inward ejaculation, as she sat down on a wooden stool to rest after her walk, as well as to reflect how she was to break the intellis-ence she had received concerning Lise to her friend, when she should awake. But it seemed as if Madeleine would never wake, for though Marie began preparing the brealdiist, and necessarily made some noise, no sound proceeded from the inner room. She at leno;th resolved to enter it and awaken her friend ; she opened the dooi, and saw with surprise that Madeleine was lying already dressed on the bed, which looked as though it had not been undone. Had she spent the night also iu 292 MADELEINE. vigil and prayer ? The mere idea made Marie an gry. "Are you awake, Madeleine V- she asked, in a low tone. She received no reply. The shutters w^ere closed. Marie's first act was to go to the window and open them ; a stream of rich sunlight fell on the bed, and on the reclining form of the sleeping Made- leine. She was dressed as on the preceding evening, wdth her gray cloak partly wrapped around her. Her feet were crossed, her hands lay meekly, folded on her breast, as if her last thought ere she fell asleep had been one of prayer ; her head slightly reclined on her right shoulder, her eyes were closed as though in a pure and holy slumber, and a serene smile lin- gered on her lips. "How softly she must be breathing!" thought Marie. She drew^ near the bed on tiptoe, but still she heard nothing. How strange! She bent over the form of her friend, hushing her own breath to listen ; yet all w^as silent. She pressed the slumber- er's cheek wdth her own, but started back pale and trembling : that cheek was as cold as marble. "Madeleine!" she exclaimed, in a low, husky voice, "speak to me; I am Marie: speak to me, Madeleine !" But though the same smile was on the pale lips no voice answered her. " She is asleep, fast asleep !" said Marie, taking up one of her hands betw^een her own. The hand was colder than the cold cheek, and, when she let it go, it fell back listlessly. With desperate calmness she laid her hand upon Madeleine's heart ; there also all was still. Then Marie knew that every thing was over, and, clasping passionately the frail form which bad MADELEINE. 293 lately been tenanted by a spirit so noble and so pure, she moaned and wept aloud in the bitterness of her anguish. How long she remained thus Marie neither knew nor heeded, but her absence caused some alarm at the hospital, where she had promised to return at an early hour. Tlie general impression was that Made- leine was worse, and towards noon several persons, with the parish priest at their head, determined to proceed to the valley. When they reached the cot- tage, the broken sounds of grief and wailing which proceeded from it partly revealed the truth to them. On entering the inner room, they found Marie kneel- ing by the bedside of her friend, one of whose hands lay clasped within her own. Her eyes never moved once from the countenance of Madeleine, and seemed to behold nothing else. She gave no reply to the questions addressed to her, but continued to rock her- self to and fro, with a low, plaintive moaning, which told of a grief too deep for utterance. M. Bignon was the first to see how matters stood, and, turning towards those who had accompanied him thither, he said, in a broken tone, " My friends, our Madeleine is gone away." The words were but too well understood, as the loud exclamations of grief which immediately filled the room testified. The tidings soon reached the vil- lage, and, though few felt surprise — for the declining state of Madeleine's health had lonj? been known — every one repeated, in a tone of deep sorrow, " Our Madeleine is gone away." It was strange, yet touch •ng, that none spoke of her as being dead, but rather as they might have done of a stranger from somo 294: MADELEINE. distant country, who had dwelt among them for a few brief years, shedding blessings with her gentle pres- ence, but who, when her task of love was done, had returned once more to her own home. Though this feeling gave a peculiar nature to the sorrow of the inhabitants of Mont-Saint-Jean, it could neither banish it, nor the wish which all felt of gaz- ing once more upon Madeleine. " We must see her again !" was the general exclamation, and for two days the cottage was thronged by sad and reverent visitors. The body, near which Marie still sat, watch- ing it with unwearied love, had been left lying on the bed exactly as she had found it, with the gray cloak wrapped around it, the feet crossed, and the hands meekly folded. The pallid countenance still wore that smile, which had not deserted it even in death. The whole attitude was so fraught with modest grace and purity, the features looked so calm and serene in their eternal slumber, that many scrupled not to aver that Madeleine had been ministered unto by angels in her last hour, like the saints of the old legends. Some even declared, with the poetical fancies of their imaginative race, that several travellers, who passed by the churchyard on the night during which her pure spirit had fled, had heard strains of ravish- ing and unearthly melody floating from her abode. It was in vain for M. Bignon to protest, in the name of Madeleine herself, against this belief; it was too well suited to the character of the people not to be universally adopted, and it soon became one of the most popular and cherished traditions of that part of Auvergne. The mystery which attended Madeleine's last hours MADELEINE. 295 was never cleared up. M. Detrimont declared that death had taken place without a struggle, and proba- bly during sleep. The state of the bed, the fact of her being dressed, and the withered flowers w^hich were found wdiere M. Dubois had placed them, all tended to confirm the general surmise, that, shortly after the mayor had left her, Madeleine had entered her cottage, and, feeling drowsy, had lain down on her bed to take a short slumber, from which she had never awakened. Amongst those wdio came to see Madeleine ere her remains were consigned to their mother earth, was M. Dubois. lie had heard of her death with a kind of incredulous stupor, and when he saw her looking so like what she had been, and yet felt that he stood in the presence of death, he turned his head away and wept like a child. The funeral took place on the third day. Tlie body was placed in a coffin covered with a white pall, and a white bridal wreath at the head, to show that the tenant had lived in the maiden state ; it was borne to the village church by eight young girls, likewise clad in white ; a ninth walked behind, carry- ing the banner of a religious fraternity to which Mad- eleine had belonged, according to the general custom of the country. The little church was filled to over- flowing, for the news of the death of the " gray cloak of the hills" had spread far beyond Mont-Saint-Jean, and collected a large concourse of individuals. M. Bignon preached no funeral sermon; he ascended the pulpit, however, with the intention of making a brief discourse, but when he had uttered his text, ■' This loonian loas full of good worJcs and alma- 296 MADELEINE. deeds^ luliich slie did'''' (Acts, ix. 36), he could pro- ceed no furtlier, and sank back on the seat, a prey to uncontrollable emotion. I^or was any sermon needed, for the tears of those whom Madeleine had relieved during her lifetime showed that the text had been well understood. When the service was over the vouno- ^rls once more resumed their burden, and earned the coffin along the path leading to the churchyard, preceded b}^ M. Bignon and several clergymen of the neigh- boring parishes, attired in their sacerdotal garments and chanting in a low and solemn tone according to the ritual of the Catholic Church. Behind the girl who carried the banner came Marie Michon, leading Lise by the hand ; the child wept bitterly, but, though Marie's whole frame quivered in the intensity of her emotion, she did not shed a tear : she was followed by all the inhabitants of the hospital whom infirmity or ill-health did not keep at home. M. Dubois, with his tri-color scarf, came next, but his woe-begone countenance contrasted so much with his general ap- pearance on such occasions, that nothing could have revealed more truly the depth and the sincerity of his grief. Doctor Detrimont walked near him, looking grave and sad ; but he had foreseen Madeleine's death too long to be so painfully affected as those on whom the blow had fallen more unexpectedly. Behind them followed slowly and silently a large crowd of mourn- ers, consisting of almost all the inhabitants of Mont- Saint-Jean, with many persons from the neighboring villages. The men were all bare-headed, and carried their cloth caps in their hands. It was about two hours before the procession, which MADELEINE. 297 moved at a slow pace, reached the churchyard. On tlie preceding day Marie, whose grief and devoted aiFection gave her a sort of claim on her deceased friend, had been asked where she would have her laid, and she had sadly answered, " Let it be T)y tne Btone cross where she loved to sit." But as it was known that Madeleine had often ex- pressed a wish of being buried near her father, the old man's grave was opened, and the coffin containing his remains placed beforehand near the spot destined to receive his daughter. As the churchyard could not contain all the individuals present, a large num- ber stationed themselves in Madeleine's garden, whence they could behold all that passed. ISTotwith- Btanding the large numbers who were thus assembled together, the greatest order prevailed, and even the ap- pearance of confusion was carefully avoided. Though sincere sorrow was felt by every one, there were at first no outbursts of violent grief. Madeleine had been universally beloved ; but it was more with the love and reverence felt for some holy beino; than with the affection lavished on frail and earthly creatures. But when the coffin had been lowered into the grave, and the first shovelful of earth fell uj)on it with a hol- low sound, Marie sank down on her knees with a strong convulsive sob. This seemed the signal foi the display of whatever signs of emotion had been suppressed till then. For a few minutes the church- yard was filled with the voice of lamentation, and the proceedings were interrupted. By a strong effort M. Bignon at length regained his composure, and resumed his painful duties. His example served to check whatever ebullitions of grief might otherwise have 13* 298 MADELEINE, been displayed, and the ceremony was concluded in the sorrowful silence of the surrounding crowd. When every thing was over, the mourners slowly de- parted, and the little churchyard was left once more to its silence and solitude. A few days aft;er the funeral. Gloomy Pierre came to Mont-Saint-Jean, in order to see Madeleine, as was his custom whenever he visited the neighborhood. He heard of her death with more sorrow than surprise. "Ay," he sadly exclaimed, " any one who marked her look and smile could have known tliat she was not to be long of this world !" He paid a brief visit to her grave, and never failed to go to the churchyard for that purpose, when his labor called him within a few leagues of the place. About a month after the death of Madeleine, the people of Mont-Saint-Jean began to. think that they would not be showing a proper respect for her mem- ory unless they erected a monument over her grave. But this plan, though advocated by M. Dubois, was strenuously opposed by M. Bignon. " Madeleine's noblest monument," he said, " was the hospital she had founded; and he moreover felt convinced that nothing would have given her more offence than such a project, could she have known of it." This latter argument prevailed, and a simple mar- ble slab was placed at the head of her grave. But M. Dubois now felt anxious to have all Madeleine's vir- tues recorded by a suitable epitaph. This was again opposed by M. Bignon. " What could an epitaph tell us ?" he observed : " that Madeleine was good, pious, and devoted to the poor ? But if we cause this to be inscribed on her MADELEINE. 299 grave, will it not be thought wc required to be told the virtues she possessed ? Trust me, let HXahcicinc be engraved on the tombstone which marks the spot where she lies, and we shall all know what that means." This advice was followed literally, and the simple name she had borne during her mortal life was the peasant girl's sole epitaph. Years have passed away since Madeleine lived and died amongst the hills of Auvergne, and, though un- known beyond them, there she has not been forgot- ten. "The gray cloak of the hills," is still remem- bered in many of the mountain legends. Her quiet figure, low, gentle voice, and peculiarities of attire have been faithfully preserved by tradition. The spot where she lived is still shown, though the cottage has fallen into ruins ; but the garden belonging to it, and vhich is now possessed by one of the heirs of M. Dubois, is kept in proper order, for the sake of the fruit and vegetables it produces. No weeds have been allowed to grow near her grave, and, though the marble slab is partly broken, her name is still legible upon it, the envious moss, which has often attempted to efface the letters, being always carefully removed by the village sexton. With the events which followed the death of Made- leine this history has nothing to do, nor were they in any manner remarkable. In the course of a few yeai-s good M. Bignon, who to his last hour retained an affectionate and reverential remembrance of Mad- eleme, whom he always associated with the memory of M. Morel, slept in the little churchyard with his 300 MADELEINE. predecessors, the humble pastors of Mont-Saint- Jean. M. Dubois died about the same time; but Marie Michon survived her friend no less than twenty-five years. According to her dying request, she was laid in deatli at the feet of her whom she had loved through life, with an affection so devoted and so pure. As Lise died young, none of those w^hom Made- leine loved are now living. But the good which we do passes not away with us, and the hospital of Mont- Saint-Jean still exists in a thriving condition^ to attest the heroic devotedness of a simple peasant girl in the cause of the poor. Though the donations of wealthy and benevolent individuals have greatly improved this asylum of the sick and the aged in size and accommodation, those who dwell w^ithin its walls have not forgotten her to whom they owe the blessings they enjoy ; and, according to her request, the name ol Madeleine is still remembered in their daily orisons. Marie Michon always declared she could not believe her friend's pure spirit needed those prayers, even whilst she complied with her wish ; and the custom has been continued since her time by the inmates ol the hospital, simply as a mode of commemorating their benefactress. The number of those w^ho knew Madeleine person- ally decreases every year, but her memory is still preserved with deep reverence and affection in her native place ; and those who were children when she died, love to speak of the gentle girl, once the Provi- dence of their wild hills, and who founded the hospital of Mont-Saint- Jean. THE END. LEATHER-STOCKING NOVELS. "The enduring monuments of Fenimore Cooper are his works. While THE love of country CONTINUES TO PREVAIL, HIS MEMORY WILL EXIST IN T»IB hearts of THE PEOPLE. So TRULY PATRIOTIC AND AMERICAN THROUGHOUT, THEi SHOULD FIND A PLACE IN EVERY AMERICAN'S LIBRARY." — Daniel l^edstcr. 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