Maternal love

Chapter I. Little Made Lon

HE day was just beginning to dawn

A when the stage-coach from Strasburg came dashing into Paris. The inside passengers, roused from sleep, with the curiosity of strangers began to look out of the windows at the long rows of houses, as they passed rapidly through the streets.

" So we are really in Paris,” said one of the passengers. “ Well, I am glad we can escape from this narrow box, for I am really stiff and exhausted by this long ride.”

“ Ah, this is Paris 1” cheerfully exclaimed a

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delicate voice that sounded like a silver bell — “this is Paris! Oh how glad I am! I shall soon be at my uncle’s !”

The passengers who had entered the coach during the night, looking round for the speaker, beheld, crowded into a corner of the stage, a charming little girl with bright and laughing eyes. There was something interesting about the child; so young, with its round face and ruddy cheeks, and its flaxen curls, which, though a little disheveled by the night travel, hung gracefully about its sunny face.

“ Most charming little one ! A real angel !” said the passengers as they patted its rosy cheeks. “So young, and yet on a journey in the stage-coach! Are you alone, dear child?”

“Yes, alone,” replied the girl, with quiet simplicity. “Mother brought me to the post-house in Strasburg, and the conductor

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1 1 promised to take care of me and see me safely to Paris, and he has kept his word. Here I am, and I shall soon find my uncle !”

The passengers entertained themselves in a pleasant and friendly manner with the little one until the coach entered the yard of the post-house. Here every one, concerned about his own business, ceased to notice the little girl. The conductor lifted her out of the coach, put her down on one side, where she would be safe from the throng of wagons passing in and out, and told her to wait until he had time to advise and help her further, for at that moment his hands were full of work. The little one promised to wait patiently, and she remained quietly at her post, where there was everything to afford her entertainment. The spacious post-house yard was continually thronged with people passing to and fro ; passengers came and went, and the crowd and activity of the place increased

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as the day advanced. However, the little wanderer at last became impatient, and looked about anxiously for the conductor who on her journey had taken such an interest in her. At last he came hastening back with hurried steps.

“ Quick, dear child !” he said; “ where have you your letter ? I have received orders to proceed this very moment to Lyons, and I have scarcely five minutes to spend with you. The letter ! the letter, dear little one ! I cannot take you myself to your uncle, but I will procure some responsible person to accompany you.”

The little one put her hand into the pocket of her cloak, but withdrew it again with an anxious look. “ Oh, the letter ! Yesterday,” she said, “ it was still in this pocket, but now it is gone !”

“ For heaven’s sake, little one, you surely have not been so unfortunate as to lose it !”

exclaimed the conductor. “ Search your other pocket quickly !”

The girl searched here, there, everywhere, but the letter did not make its appearance. “ It must have slipped from me,” she said, finally. “ Perhaps we may find it in the stage-coach.”

“ Why the coach has long since returned to Strasburg !” exclaimed the conductor. “ Unfortunate child, what is now to be done ? Do you not know, at least, your uncle’s name ?”

“I knew it,” replied the little one, thinking; “ but I do not recollect it now !”

“ Well, this is a pretty affair !” exclaimed the conductor. “ Poor child, what are we to do in this case ? My time is up ! I must go, or I shall lose my situation and with it my living ; and here comes the coach ! Dear child, God help you ; I can stay no longer ! Think; and if you should recollect your uncle’s

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name, apply to the first kind person, and let him conduct you to your uncle. Willing as I am to assist you, I cannot do it. Here is the coach. God preserve you, little one! Try to recollect the name, and all may yet be well !”

“ Oh, don’t leave me, conductor !” said the child, folding her little hands imploringly.

“I must, my dear!” replied the conductor. “ Do you hear? the postilion is already sounding the horn and I must go. May God take you under his protecting care ! I can stay no longer!” He departed with hasty steps. “Poor child, poor child!” he muttered to himself. “ But I cannot help her. How careless to lose that letter!” With one leap he mounted the coach that was to convey him to Lyons. The postilion lashed the horses with his whip, and the coach started off at a rapid rate. The little girl, consternated at losing so suddenly her only friend, looked after him with a sad and wistful countenance.

There stood the poor child, alone and helpless in the great city of Paris, surrounded by strangers who scarce gave her a passing notice. She did not know what to do. She sat down upon a stone bench, wrung her little hands, burst into tears, and sobbed as though her heart would break. Suddenly a bright idea seemed to strike the little girl. “ I will do that,” she said, wiping away her tears. “ I will return to Strasburg to my mother. So many coaches depart from here, and surely some one will take me along.” With a more cheerful face she looked about her, and sprang toward a post-house officer, whom she recognized by his uniform.

“Dear sir,” she pleaded, “I should like very much to return to Strasburg; pray make the necessary arrangements for me.”

“You want to go to Strasburg?” replied the man, surprised. “You must be foolish, little one.”

“ Oh no, I must go to Strasburg to mother ! Oh, please help me !”

“ Then come,” said the man ; “ I will take you to the office, where you can have yourself registered. You have money, have you not?”

“Yes, I have still two francs!” exclaimed the little one, joyfully, as she now began to hope. “ Two francs ! I do not need more for eating and drinking !”

“ But, you foolish little thing, how do you intend to pay your fare to Strasburg?” exclaimed the man, in astonishment. “ Have you really nothing more than these two francs ?”

“No, nothing more! But, sir, I am so small the stage-coach will surely take me free of charge. I will crowd into one corner, or crawl under the seat, in order that I may again return to my mother. Pray, dear sir, let me ride with you !”

“You are a little fool,” replied the man, roughly, and left her. The child was overcome with a feeling of desertion and loneliness, and again wept bitterly.

“Why are you crying so?” said a harsh voice to the unfortunate, forsaken child.

“ Oh dear ! I must go to Strasburg, and the stage-coach will not take me because I have no money!” sobbed the little one. “What am I to do ? I know no person in Paris, not even my uncle, whom I cannot find !”

“Nonsense!” said the man. “You want to beg, that’s all. Away with you out of the post-house yard, or I will have you turned out !” As the poor little one made no effort to leave, the rude fellow took her by the arm, hurried her through the yard, and, unmoved by her tears and entreaties, unfeelingly cast

her out upon the street. “Now don’t let 2* B i8

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yourself be seen here again !” he cried out, with a threatening gesture. “ If you come here again, you will be whipped !”

Poor child! There she stood upon the street, not knowing where to look for a friend to pity or help her in this time of need. Far away from her mother, in the strange, great, cold, unfriendly city, where the unfortunate little one was so roughly treated, without money, without a friend, it was not surprising that her tears flowed faster and more bitterly than before, and that in utter sorrow she sank down in one corner, and, sobbing, hid her little face in her hands. And yet the poor child was unable to understand the extent of her hopeless condition. She only felt the desolation of being forsaken by the whole world, but what result might flow from it the poor girl knew not. She was really too young seriously to look into the future. The trouble of the present had overpowered her.

And yet what sufferings were still in store for her, if no kind heart should take pity on her and shield her from the greater calamities that were impending !

What could the poor little thing do to appease her hunger ? Where was she to find lodgings during the night? The autumn was far advanced and the nights rough and cold. Inexorable death was everywhere on the watch for the child, and her tender youth and inexperience were wholly unable to avert the impending perils. Perhaps in a few days she would be found dead in some hiding-place, or under the portals of a church, and then be laid in the stranger’s grave, and forgotten.

There she sat crouched into a corner of the street, and hundreds, yea, thousands, of people passing by, with nothing more for her than a cold and hasty glance. What concern was the strange child to them ? Every one had to care for himself, and there was little time

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to look after the welfare of others. No helping hand was extended to the forsaken little one ; not even a word of sympathy or an inquiry about her lonely sorrow. In the midst of a great city, amongst over a million of people, the child was left alone and forsaken in her misery, and, as it seemed, exposed to certain death. There was no help and no hope of deliverance except from God. But God does help where all human helpers fail, and his angels were near to deliver sooner even than she hoped.

It was about the hour of noon when a comely, handsome lad of about fifteen or sixteen years came passing up the street. His clothing was miserable — wooden shoes upon his feet ; his old, worn-out jacket, like his wide linen pantaloons, had been patched in many places; an old worn-out cap covered his black curly hair, and his shirt collar, which was turned back over the collar of his jacket,

LITTLE MADELON.

was not the finest linen ; but notwithstanding all this, the lad presented a goodly appearance, and his fine, manly face made one overlook his homely dress. He was pulling a small wagon behind him, to which was also harnessed a large dog. The wagon was loaded with coal, and whilst the lad cried out, with a clear voice: “Coal, coal — buy coal! Low price — excellent coal — the best and cheapest coal !” his dark, sparkling eyes glanced on every side, so as not to pass unnoticed a buyer who perchance might need his coal. Thus he came where the little girl sat crouched in the corner, weeping and lamenting in tones that might have touched a heart of stone, but, as it seems, had not thus far arrested the step of a single one of the hurrying crowd. But the young coal merchant, as he was passing, paused by the little girl and viewed her with looks of pity.

“Poor little thing!” he muttered; “what

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can be the matter with her? Halloa, little one ! why are you crying ?”

“Ah!” sighed the little girl, looking up, “ I am a stranger here, and would like to go to Strasburg to my mother, since I cannot find my uncle.”

“You cannot find your uncle?” asked the lad. “ Now what is his name ? Tell me ; I will help you to find him.”

“Yes, if I only knew it myself!” exclaimed the little one, and began to cry again. “ I forget the name, and mother’s letter has dropped out of my pocket.”

“Ah, indeed! this is truly very unfortunate,” said the young coal dealer, advancing a step nearer to the little girl. “ Tell me, then, who you are. What is your name ?”

“My name is Madelon, and my mother lives in Strasburg,” replied the child. “ Oh, if I only had not come to Paris, I would now be sitting with my dear mother !”

LITTLE MADELON.

“Now come, little Madelon — that is a pretty name ; I like it. Now you see what is past cannot be changed, and I suppose your mother has sent you to Paris to pay your uncle a visit?”

“Yes, indeed, you have guessed it!” answered Madelon. “It is just so. Mother wept and said she could no longer care for me, but uncle in Paris would surely take pity on me ; and then she wrote a long letter to uncle and gave it to me, weeping all the time ; then she sold a gold ring and went with me to the post-house and paid my fare, telling me to be sure and keep the letter carefully ; and then she kissed me — oh, so often and with so many tears ! — and I kissed mother also and wept until the stage-coach started. When I came, early this morning, to Paris, the letter was gone, and I know not what has become of it. Oh, I wish I had never let it go out of my hand !” The little Madelon again burst into tears and hid her prettylittle face in her hands.

As the lad viewed her with looks of tenderness and pity, his eyes also filled with tears. He sat down beside Madelon, took her upon his knee, and kindly stroked her cheeks.

“Poor child!” he said, with a soft voice. “ So small and delicate, and yet compelled to leave your mother. But be quiet, darling; we will find your uncle, even if the letter has been lost. We will write to Strasburg to your mother, and she will write back to us and send us a new letter for your uncle ; so be comforted. Meanwhile, you shall stay with me and my mother, and we will love you so dearly that you shall hardly miss your mother. How is it ? Will you go with me ?”

“Ah, yes, a thousand times!” exclaimed the little Madelon, with a cheerful countenance, and wound her white and tender lit-

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tie arm around the boy’s neck. “You are really as kind and friendly as if I were your sister.”

“You shall indeed be my sister and look upon me as a brother,” replied the young coal merchant. “ Call me Pierre. That is my name, and my mother’s name is Mme. Thierry. And even if we are poor, and have to live sparingly, you shall at least have enough to eat and a bed where you can sleep at night. Poor little one! Motherless and lonely in Paris ! Dear me ! what might have become of you if I had hot found you? Come, my little darling ! Have you any baggage at the post-house ?”

“Ah, no!” replied Madelon. “I have nothing at all except what I have on me. My dear mother is really so poor that she could not give me more, and in order to make me a little cloak, that I might not freeze on

my journey, she cut up her last silk dress.

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Oh, my mother is so good ! but she is very unhappy. Often have I seen her weep. Even at night, when I happen sometimes to wake, I have heard her mourn and pray to the dear Lord, that he might take me into his holy care and keeping. And you see, dear Pierre, how the prayer of my good mother has already been answered. For the dear Lord has surely sent you to me, and if you had not come, I would likely have had to suffer still more. Oh how glad my mother will be when she learns how kind you have been to me !”

“ It is no more than Christian duty,” replied Pierre ; “ and since I know that your mother is not rich, but poor like ourselves, I take you the more readily with me to our family. Do you see, Madelon, the poor must always assist each other, because the rich do not do it, or only seldom, since they do not know the bitterness of poverty ? And how should

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they ? They live always in plenty and pleasure, and cannot know from experience how painful it is when one has scarcely a piece of bread in the house, and often knows not where to get food for the coming day. Yes, they do not know it, and therefore we should not blame them. But come, little Madelon ; dinner will probably be ready at home, and I suppose you have not tasted any food to-day.”

“ No, ah no !” replied the little one. “ I have been weeping the whole morning, and never thought of eating. But now I am really hungry.”

“ So I thought,” answered Pierre. “ Only have patience a little while. My mother, I know, has made a soup, and I have no doubt it will be sufficient to satisfy all three of us and my Boncceur, the good animal, also. Come, Madelon ! Come, little sister !”

Madelon jumped up, and Pierre took off

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his jacket and spread it over the coal upon his wagon.

“ Why do you do this ?” asked the little one.

“That you may ride without soiling your pretty little cloak,” replied Pierre, laughing. “ We have yet a long way to our home, and the walking would set very hard on you ; so up with you and gently placing her upon his coal wagon, he seized the tongue, urged on his Boncceur, and. forward they went through the streets of Paris. Madelon laughed joyously upon her seat, and cast many a sweet glance upon her new friend Pierre, who oftener than usual turned his dark but handsome face toward the wagon. It was not, however, the coal that caused him to look back, but the little Madelon, whose sweet temper and confiding affection had won his heart.

Chapter II. Maternal Love

' I ''HE tempest roared; heavy showers of rain poured from the heavens, and the highway was changed into deep and almost impassable mud. Men and beasts shunned the storm and kept themselves quiet in the house and the yard. Even the birds nestled under the shrubs and hedges, where the last brown leaves of autumn offered them some little protection from the storm. And the highroad which leads from Nancy through Chalons to Paris, usually full of life and bustle, was now deserted and lonely.

A solitary woman was seen passing wearily along this road. Young and delicate, and

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poorly clad, she seemed ill fitted to brave the beating rain of the autumnal storm. Her lovely face, so pale with sorrow, and the utter exhaustion that was manifested in every movement, awakened fear that she would soon sink under the hardships to be encountered at every step. Already evening was at hand, and the sun, whose light had been obscured by the storm-cloud, would soon go down, and the next village where she could find shelter was still more than an hour’s journey distant.

This lonely traveler was hardly dealt with by the driving winds and drenching rains and miry roads, so that often she would stand still and pant for breath. After a short respite, she again went on her way with a will and a purpose of endurance that are rarely exhibited in the hardiest and most vigorous men. There was something about this lady — something in her delicate and graceful form, in her expression and bearing, that told at once, notwithstanding her poor apparel, that she was a woman of noble birth. But how came she to this condition of beggarly dress and abandonment? What misfortune has urged her to such exposure of her delicate frame to the merciless storm ? Surely such a destiny was never dreamed of at her infant cradle as it rocked in some old castle.

The lady traveled on, pausing and panting ; then starting afresh, compelling her reluctant limbs again and again to encounter the rigors of the storm, until she finally sank to her knees upon the ground, and could proceed no farther.

Despairingly she wrung her hands, and as tears rolled down her pallid cheeks, “O God!” she sighed; “I submit; I die! My child ! my dear child ! shall I never more see you again? Merciful God, have pity upon me ! Grant me power ; give me strength ! I

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must see my sweet child once more, to press her, though it be for the last time, to a mother’s heart ! O my God, have mercy upon me !”

For a short time she remained kneeling upon the highway, her tears mingling with the falling rain and her hair floating in the storm. The poor, unhappy woman, trembling with weakness and cold, with great difficulty rose up again and walked, or rather staggered, on until she reached a solitary tree, when her almost breaking heart found relief in prayer.

“ O my God and Saviour, let me see my child again ! let me press her once more to my bosom ! Oh forgive me for letting the dear little one depart from me ! Thou canst look into my heart ! Thou knowest how it bled when parting from her, my last and only treasure! that I desire only her happiness, and not mine own ! Thou knowest I thought only of her, not of myself! that it was night around and in me when I no longer

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beheld the light of her eyes ! Oh then help me, thou holy One, full of grace and pity! that I may see her once more before I die !”

Thus prayed the desolate mother with pale and trembling lips, and then, exhausted, she leaned her head against the tree, her eyes closed, her arms feeble and helpless at her side, and a passing observer would scarcely have known whether it was the sleep of life or of death. The last sign of life she gave were these soft and whispered words : “ My child ! My child ! God protect thee !” Then all was still save the wind, that seemed to sigh through the branches, her slumbering song — perhaps, indeed, her requiem. The poor lady who slumbered here was the mother of the little Madelon in whom Pierre, the young coal merchant of Paris, had taken such a kindly interest. This mother had experienced sore trials, and, though young, had

tasted the cup of affliction even to the bitter

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dregs. Ah, little did she who sang her cradle hymns dream of such a fate for the child ! that some future day she should die upon the public highway, in the pitiless storm, forsaken and hopeless; that there ever would come a time when, in her utter desolation, the only comfort left would be the consciousness that by no willful act of hers had this calamity fallen upon her. Her childhood was happy. No cloud obscured the morning of her life. Count Saint Foix, her father, loved her with a tenderness that belongs to an only child. The mother spread both hands protectingl'y over Marion, the darling, and her early years were environed with all the elegance and pleasure that riches could procure. Then came the reign of terror of the French Revolution, and with it the days of sorrow and suffering for the hitherto happy child. Her parents were dragged to the guillotine — the doom of rank and title — and beheaded, and she, but for her tender years, would have shared a similar fate.

Poor Marion, at the age of four left alone in the world, without the gentle care of parental love, would have begun at once her after-life of suffering but for the kindly interference of a house-servant. As soon as the good Jeanette, the former nurse of the child, heard of the calamity, she hastened to the palace of her parents. She arrived just in time to take the child under her special care. The palace was already full of bustling sergeants of the court, who were confiscating the property by authority of the rulers of the government, when Jeanette entered it pale and breathless. She called to her the child they were about to cast into the street with heartless unconcern of her tender youth or helplessness. The little Marion flew into the arms of her loving nurse, and, weeping, leaned her head on that faithful heart. Jeanette pressed her tenderly to her bosom and besought the sergeants to entrust the child to her care. Not only was this granted, but at the suggestion of a noble young officer, she was allowed to take with her the most valuable articles of clothing for the little one. A happy idea flashed through the mind of the good nurse. She knew, from observation in former days, where Count Saint Foix and his wife kept their most valuable jewels. If she could secure these, the little Marion would still be rich, for the jewels were of great value. Taking the child in her arms, she hastened through the many apartments of the palace until she came to the remotest chamber, which the robbers had not yet reached. Here was the chest that contained the jewels. She found it locked, but this did not discourage her. With the help of an axe, which she speedily procured, she forced open the well-secured lid of the chest. Her affectionate fondness for the little child seemed to inspire her with the needful strength. Here stood the casket of jewels, and beside it a little box containing important papers. She seized both, hid them in her garments, snatched up a parcel of Marion’s clothes, and left the palace without interruption. The child was rescued, and with her at least a part of her rightful possessions. The good Jeanette already deemed her treasures in perfect safety, when, upon her return to her residence, which was in one of the suburbs of Paris, at some distance from the palace, she happened to get into a very large throng of people that had been collected by one of the daily-occurring executions. Before she could turn aside, she beheld herself surrounded by a crowd of ragged, wild-looking men and women. Marion’s clothes, which Jeanette carried in her arms, attracted the greedy rabble. They sought

to snatch them from her, but Jeanette offered 4 resistance. Suddenly several frantic fellows seized hold of her and knocked her down ; others thronged about her, and her clothes were literally torn into fragments. When she recovered from the swoon into which she had been thrown by the rabble, she looked in vain for little Marion, who it seems had been jostled from her side and lost in the general tumult. Her despairing call for the child died away unanswered. Jeanette, however, felt some comfort in her sorrow when she found that the little box of jewels and the important papers had not been discovered by the ruffians. With grief and tears she carried them to her house, locked them up carefully, and resolved to preserve them for Marion, whom she confidently expected to see again. After the lapse of years with no tidings of the child, she still cherished the hope of her return, and accordingly the little boxes, with their treasures, were sacredly kept in their old places. Jeanette did not touch them ; she did not take the smallest of the sparkling jewels, though she had, in the course of time, not unfrequently to contend with poverty and dire necessity. To her the treasures were as if they were not. They belonged to the little Marion, the child of her former master and mistress, and as soon as Marion returned, she should receive her property safe and undiminished from the hands of her faithful nurse. This was her resolution, which no consideration could change.

But what had meanwhile become of little Marion, when the tumult arose around her nurse ? Who protected the child against the violence of the crowd ? Again it was a faithful house-servant, who, in the past, had received many favors from the noble Count Saint Foix, and now saw an opportunity of requiting the benefits received by rescuing

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the helpless child. He took the child, straying through the streets, to the country, where he had lately rented a small place and married a worthy woman. In a few words he told her how he had found the child, and the good-hearted Ninette readily took her into the house. It is true, the little Marion was deprived here of many things which she had enjoyed in her parental home, but she found at least true hearts who wished her well and did not allow the orphan to feel 'that she was a stranger in the family of Antoine. She grew fast, to the great delight of her foster-parents, who appeared gradually to forget that Marion was not their own child, until a circumstance occurred which suddenly called the past to their remembrance. A squadron of hussars, who were upon the march to Spain, were to have a day of rest at the village where Antoine resided, and the commanding officer was quartered with him. The pretty little Marion, who showed no rusticity either in her outward appearance or in her deportment, attracted the officer’s attention. He asked whether Marion was their own child, and Antoine told him the facts concerning the little girl. The officer — a young and prepossessing man — manifested deep emotion during the recital, but controlled himself until Antoine had ended. Then rising quickly, he embraced the honest man and said : “ Antoine, how can I thank you ?