Chapter Text

«Tes beautés et ta grâce
Et tes divins propos
Ont échauffé la glace
Qui me gelait les os…»

“Thy beauties and thy grace
Thy words divine and bright
Have warmed the frost apace
That chilled my bones by night…”

— «Belle qui tiens ma vie» (pavane)

I. Les Fées Amantes

I. The Lover Fairies

It is agreed among those who concern themselves with such matters, and there are more of that number than one might suppose, that the fairies are divided into two principal Courts, which, though they share the same air, the same ancient origins, and often the same table, are nevertheless seldom of the same opinion.

The first is called the Cour de Verre, or the Court of Glass; and it is composed, for the most part, of those fairies who are younger in years, though not always in power. They are so named not only for their fondness for all things clear, bright, and finely wrought, but for the delicacy of their judgments, which incline rather to reflection than to severity. These fairies delight in small felicities: a fortunate meeting, a well-timed gift, a transformation that does not astonish so much as it pleases. They hold that mankind, though often foolish, is not therefore irredeemable; and they are persuaded that kindness, if properly encouraged, may yet flourish even in the most neglected soil.

Opposed to them—though not so far as to require swords, for fairies seldom descend to such vulgar arguments—is the Cour d’Épine, or the Court of Briar. These are, in general, of an older standing, and carry themselves with that gravity which long memory is apt to produce. They favour not the transparent, but the enduring; not the gentle correction, but the necessary trial. Where the Court of Glass would reward, the Court of Briar would test; where one would soften, the other would sharpen. They are called by their name because they hold that all things worth the having must first be passed through with difficulty, and that a rose without its thorn is a contradiction in nature.

The disagreement between these two Courts has endured for so long that neither can precisely recall its beginning; yet both agree, with equal firmness, that it arose from a question of the utmost importance—namely, what is to be thought of mankind.

The elder fairies of the Briar will say (and say it often, and with examples ready to hand) that they remember the earliest disobedience: how man, being placed in a garden, could not be content without tasting that which was forbidden him; how he listened, with a readiness most unfortunate, to a voice that did not deserve his trust; and how, having once fallen, he has ever since displayed a most consistent talent for repeating the error under new forms. From this they conclude that mankind is, at its root, unreliable, and that the proper office of a fairy is not to indulge, but to prove; not to comfort, but to correct.

The younger fairies of the Glass, who are no less furnished with their own recollections, reply that they remember another scene no less worthy of notice: a hill, a cross, and a patience that endured what mankind had made of cruelty, and returned it not in kind. From this they infer that if humanity has fallen, it has also been raised; and that where there is capacity for ruin, there is likewise capacity for grace. They will add, with a certain brightness not altogether displeasing, that it is a poor philosophy which observes only the fault and refuses the remedy.

From such beginnings arise conversations which are seldom concluded, though frequently resumed. It must not be imagined, however, that these disputes produce any great disorder. The fairies, having lived longer than most arguments, have learned the convenience of continuing in disagreement without the trouble of ending it. Thus it is no uncommon thing to see a lady of the Briar and a lady of the Glass walking together in perfect civility, each convinced that the other is mistaken, yet neither in any haste to correct her by force. They dine together, they attend the same assemblies, they contradict one another with admirable politeness, and, what is perhaps the most surprising of all, they sometimes fall very sincerely in love.

For all that, each Court is perpetually in search of proofs. The one would demonstrate that mankind is unworthy of favour; the other, that it is deserving of it. And because large questions are most easily argued by small examples, they have long made it their practice to observe, from time to time, the conduct of particular persons, and from thence to draw conclusions of a most general nature.

And among the many examples by which they sought to prove one another wrong, there was none more instructive than the history of a certain widow and her two daughters.

There was, once, a widow, who had been left, not without sufficient means for her condition, but with so great an opinion of her misfortune that she made it serve her in place of every other distinction. Her husband had died some years before, and though he had been, by all accounts, a man of tolerable sense and quiet disposition, she spoke of him less as one she had loved than as one whose absence had most inconveniently deprived her of the comfort of being attended to.

This widow, whose Christian name was in itself neither disagreeable nor difficult, had so entirely abandoned it to her complaints that it fell, little by little, into disuse. For she would speak so often of her widowhood, and with such an emphasis upon every syllable of that condition, that her neighbours, who at first had listened with civility, then with patience, and at last with visible fatigue, began to spare themselves the trouble of recollection, and called her simply Veuve; which is to say, the Widow. In this manner she gained a title that suited her exceedingly well, since it allowed her to be known at once by that circumstance which she herself esteemed the most remarkable thing about her.

It must not be supposed that her lamentations were of that tender sort which proceed from a heart sincerely afflicted. On the contrary, they were of a more durable and less exhausting kind; for she complained not so much of what she had lost, as of what she must now endure. She would recount, with an exactness that admitted of no interruption, the burden of managing a household, the ingratitude of servants, the expense of provisions, and, above all, the melancholy prospect that her daughters, being destined one day to marry, would leave her entirely alone, to grow old in a house that she would, at that point, have no one to complain to.

These reflections she repeated so frequently, and with so little variation, that those who had once been her friends learned, by degrees, to cross the street upon seeing her approach; and those who could not avoid her were soon instructed, by a single encounter, how much might be suffered in the space of a quarter-hour. Mothers, who are in general cautious in such matters, took care to warn their children against engaging her in conversation, for fear they should be detained there longer than was suitable to their years, and instructed in a philosophy of affliction which they had not yet the patience to endure.

Thus the Widow Veuve, for so she must now be called, lived in a manner at once much to be pitied, and not at all to be assisted; since there are certain miseries which, being loudly proclaimed, cease to invite consolation, and serve rather to discourage it. She had made of her complaint a kind of occupation, and pursued it with such diligence that she had little leisure to consider whether it was justified.

For there are persons who suffer, and others who practise suffering; and it is sometimes difficult, at first glance, to distinguish between them. Yet the difference is soon perceived by those who remain within hearing long enough; for true grief grows quiet with time, whereas the other, like an instrument often played upon, acquires only a greater readiness of sound.

This distinction might have been observed, with very little difficulty, in the household of the Widow Veuve, had one but remained there a single afternoon; for she had two daughters, in whom nature, assisted by habit, had drawn two very different conclusions from the same beginning.

The eldest, who was called Laisnée, though her mother, in moments of particular fondness, would name her Fanchon, resembled the Widow so perfectly, both in face and in humour, that those who had the misfortune to encounter them together could scarcely tell which to avoid first. She had the same air of dissatisfaction, the same readiness to take offence, and the same talent for expressing it at a length which discouraged all reply. Her features, which might have been agreeable under a gentler disposition, had contracted, by frequent use, a certain sharpness; and her manner, being always a little too high for the occasion, rendered her less admired than she believed herself to be.

It is true that she was not without accomplishments of a sort; she could speak at great length upon subjects that did not require it, and had formed, under her mother’s instruction, a very exact idea of what was due to her rank, though she had never been at the trouble of rendering it agreeable to others. Thus it came to pass that, though she was often seen, she was seldom sought; and those who knew her best took care to know her no further.

The younger daughter, called Cadette, was of a disposition entirely opposite, and bore so strong a likeness to her father, both in countenance and in temper, that one might have imagined she had been designed as a correction to the rest of the family. She was gentle without affectation, patient without effort, and possessed that quiet manner which recommends itself more by continuance than by display. Her beauty, which was very great, had nothing in it that demanded admiration, and yet obtained it; for it proceeded less from the regularity of her features than from the expression of her goodness, which gave to all she did a certain grace that could not be imitated.

If she was less considered in the house, it was not because she deserved it, but because she did not insist upon it. The Widow Veuve, who could not endure to see in her the image of a husband whose memory she had long since resolved to find inconvenient, took a particular pleasure in employing her in all the meanest offices of the household. She rose early, and lay down late; she scoured the dishes, swept the rooms, and attended to those tasks which are seldom noticed when they are well performed, and never forgiven when they are not. While her sister remained above, consulting her looking-glass or her mother, Cadette might be found near the chimney, or in the kitchen, where the fire, which serves alike for comfort and for labour, was her most constant companion.

Among these duties, there was one which returned with such regularity that it might be said to divide her day in two: she was obliged, morning and evening, to go to a fountain that lay at more than a mile and a half from the house, and to bring back a pitcher of water, full and without complaint. The road was neither the shortest nor the smoothest; yet she traversed it with a steadiness that seemed less the effect of obedience than of habit, and performed the task so often that it became, at last, less a burden than a part of her.

Thus she lived, without murmur and without expectation, in a condition which would have appeared insupportable to another, but which she bore with so much constancy that it lost, by degrees, something of its hardship. For there are certain trials which, when endured with patience, prepare the soul in a manner not immediately visible; and though they seem, at the time, to produce nothing but fatigue, they often lay, without noise, the foundation of a very different fortune.

It happened, then, upon one of those mornings which resemble so many others that they are scarcely distinguished from them, that Cadette set out for the fountain with her pitcher upon her arm. The day was mild, and the air so still that the smallest sounds carried farther than usual; the leaves stirred only when they chose, and the water, which issued clear and constant from the earth, seemed to occupy itself with no greater business than to continue as it had always done. There are places of this sort, where nothing appears to change, and where, for that very reason, everything may.

Cadette, who had already made this journey more times than she could easily have numbered, walked with that quiet attention which habit permits. She neither hastened nor delayed; for when labour is certain, it is of little consequence whether one arrives sooner or later. Having reached the fountain, she set down her pitcher, and, kneeling beside the clearest part of the spring, began to fill it with a care that was less the effect of instruction than of inclination.

She had scarcely done so when she perceived, at a little distance, an old country-woman, whose appearance was such as might have invited either neglect or compassion, according to the disposition of those who beheld her. Her clothes were plain to the point of poverty, yet not without a certain order; and though her step was slow, it was not uncertain. She approached Cadette without ceremony, but not without civility, and said to her, in a voice that was gentle rather than feeble:

“My child, wilt thou be so good as to give me something to drink?”

Cadette, who had never yet found reason to refuse a request that was made without offence, replied with a readiness that admitted of no deliberation. She first emptied the water she had just drawn, lest it should not be sufficiently clear; then, choosing with particular care the place where the spring ran most purely, she filled her pitcher again, and, raising it with both hands, presented it to the poor woman, supporting it all the while, that she might drink with the greater ease.

This action, which cost her little, was performed with so much attention, and accompanied by so natural an air of kindness, that it had in it more of grace than many greater services which are rendered with design. The old woman regarded her closely, and, having drunk, returned the pitcher with a look in which there was more of satisfaction than of surprise.

“Thou art very beautiful,” said she, “and what is better, very good; and since it is not always given to meet with both together, I will make thee a present in return for thy civility.”

It must be understood that this was no ordinary country-woman, but one of the fairies of the Court of Glass, who, having heard much of the disputes maintained by the elder Court, had resolved to inform herself, by her own observation, how far the conduct of mankind justified so severe an opinion. She had chosen this disguise, not out of necessity, but because it afforded her the most certain means of discovering what might otherwise have remained concealed; for there are many who behave well when they are observed, and fewer who do so when they believe themselves unseen.

“I grant thee,” continued she, touching Cadette lightly with a wand which the latter had not at first perceived, “that at every word thou speakest there shall come out of thy mouth either a flower or a jewel.”

The gift was bestowed with so little ceremony that it might almost have been taken for a thing of no consequence; and yet it was not long before its effects made themselves known. Cadette, who was not accustomed to examine too closely what was done for her, thanked the old woman with a simplicity that was no less sincere for being unstudied; and at the same moment there fell from her lips two roses of a freshness not to be found in any garden, together with two pearls and two diamonds, whose brightness was not diminished by their number.

She was, for an instant, a little surprised; but as her surprise did not proceed from vanity, it did not detain her long. She looked upon the flowers and the jewels with a curiosity that was rather innocent than eager, and would perhaps have said something more, had not the fairy, who had already seen enough to satisfy her, taken her leave with as little noise as she had arrived.

“It is as I believed,” she said, half to herself, and with a smile that had more of pleasure than of triumph; “there is still something in them worth the care of preserving.”

And having thus confirmed, to her own contentment, an opinion which she had not been disposed to abandon, she disappeared from the sight of Cadette, who, taking up her pitcher once more, returned home with the same quiet step, though not, as it would soon appear, with the same ordinary fortune.

She had been longer absent than was permitted her; for though goodness may excuse delay, it does not always prevent reproach. The Widow Veuve, who had already counted the minutes with that exactness which attends those who have nothing to do but observe the faults of others, was waiting at the door with an impatience that had lost all resemblance to concern.

“Well, mademoiselle,” cried she, as soon as Cadette appeared, “is the fountain removed farther off since yesterday, or hast thou taken it into thy head to converse with the stones? One might suppose, to see thou returnest at such an hour, that the water must be persuaded to follow thee, rather than thou to fetch it.”

Cadette, who had no habit of defending herself beyond what truth required, set down her pitcher, and, with a modest inclination of her head, replied:

“I beg thy pardon, madam, for having stayed so long—”

She had scarcely uttered these words when there fell from her mouth two roses, as fresh as though they had but that moment opened, together with two pearls and two diamonds, whose lustre caught the light so suddenly that the Widow Veuve, who had prepared herself for contradiction, found instead a spectacle that deprived her, for a moment, of speech.

It is true that astonishment is often the first movement of the mind; but with some persons it is very quickly followed by another, which is more active and less innocent. The Widow Veuve stooped, not without eagerness, to gather up what had fallen, and examined them with an attention which she had never yet bestowed upon anything that did not immediately concern her own comfort.

“What is this I see?” cried she, her tone already altered from reproach to inquiry. “How happens this, child?”

It was the first time she had ever given her that name; but she pronounced it with so particular an emphasis that it seemed less an expression of tenderness than a discovery of utility.

Cadette, who was as little accustomed to disguise as to offence, related, without addition and without reserve, all that had passed at the fountain: the arrival of the poor woman, her request, the water she had given her, and the words that had followed. And as she spoke, there issued continually from her mouth flowers and jewels in such number that they formed, at her feet, a little heap which increased with every sentence, and which would have embarrassed any other narrator, but did not in the least interrupt her.

The Widow Veuve listened with an attention that would have done honour to a better subject; yet it was not the story that fixed her, but the consequence of it. She no longer saw, in her daughter, either resemblance or difference, merit or defect; she saw only a source of advantage, which, being once discovered, must be secured.

“There is here,” said she to herself, though not so low but that it might have been heard by any one who had been disposed to listen, “something that may be of very great use, if it be properly managed.”

And immediately calling for her eldest daughter with a voice that had suddenly recovered all its strength, she cried:

“Fanchon! come hither directly, and see what thy sister has learned to do.”

Laisnée, who was at that moment engaged in an occupation of the utmost importance—which is to say, in considering whether the ribbon she wore might not have been better chosen—came down with an air of reluctance which she did not take the trouble to conceal. She was not accustomed to be summoned, but rather to be consulted; and though curiosity has a way of overcoming even the most established habits, it seldom does so without some appearance of resistance.

“What is the matter now?” said she, as she entered, casting upon Cadette a glance in which there was already more of suspicion than of interest.

“The matter,” replied the Widow Veuve, gathering up, with a care that bordered upon tenderness, the jewels that lay scattered at her younger daughter’s feet, “is that thy sister has found a way to make herself of consequence, and that it would be well for thee to profit by her example.”

Cadette, being desired to speak again, did so with the same simplicity as before; and as the flowers and the diamonds fell once more from her lips, Laisnée could not forbear advancing a step nearer, though she endeavoured, at the same time, to preserve an air of indifference.

“It is very well,” said she; “but I do not see that there is anything in this which might not have been done sooner, had one been properly instructed.”

The Widow Veuve, who had already arranged, in her mind, the use she intended to make of this discovery, lost no time in explaining to her eldest daughter what she was to do. She described, with a precision which she had never before thought necessary in matters of labour, the road to the fountain, the manner in which the water was to be drawn, and, above all, the reception that was to be given to any poor person who might present herself to drink.

“Thou hast only,” added she, “to behave very civilly, and thou wilt have the same gift. Consider what an advantage this will be to us. Go immediately; and take care not to forget a single word of what I have told thee.”

Laisnée, who had listened with impatience to the beginning, and with increasing attention to the end, found herself in a situation to which she was little accustomed: she must either obey, or lose an advantage which she already considered as her own. She therefore consented, though not without murmuring, and declared that since it was required of her, she would go; but that it was very unreasonable to expect that she should perform, for the first time, a task which her sister had been so long accustomed to.

To mark, however, that she did not confound herself with the common instruments of such employments, she took, instead of the usual pitcher, a silver tankard of the finest workmanship in the house, persuading herself that whatever was to be gained at the fountain would be the more readily obtained by one who appeared with some distinction.

Thus equipped, and not without casting a look behind her, as though she expected her resolution to be admired, she set out, complaining at every step of the distance, the heat, and the injustice of a world in which she was so little considered.

She had scarcely reached the fountain, and had not yet determined in what manner she would best contrive to appear obliging without being humble, when she saw, advancing from the wood, a lady whose appearance was such as to leave no doubt of her rank. Her dress was rich without excess, her air composed without coldness, and there was in her whole person that sort of elevation which does not seek to be remarked, and is therefore seldom mistaken.

This was the Fairy of the Court of Briar, who, having been informed, by one who had an interest in persuading her, of the extraordinary goodness of a certain young girl who came twice a day to draw water at this fountain, had resolved to judge of the matter for herself. But as she was not of a temper to disguise either her condition or her opinion, she had chosen rather to present herself as she was, persuaded that true civility ought not to depend upon the appearance of those to whom it is shown.

Approaching Laisnée with a dignity that required no announcement, she said to her:

“Pray, mademoiselle, wilt thou be so good as to give me something to drink?”

The request was made without insistence, yet in such a manner as left no room for evasion. Laisnée, who had already perceived that she was addressed by a person whom it might not be prudent to offend openly, made her a slight inclination, and replied, with a politeness that was rather exact than sincere:

“I am come hither on purpose to draw water for myself, madam; but since thou desirest it, I will not refuse thee.”

At the same time, she held out the silver tankard with a hand which took care not to approach too near, and added, in a tone that was more audible than necessary:

“It is not, however, my custom to serve in this manner.”

The Fairy of Briar regarded her steadily, without the least appearance of displeasure; for those who are most capable of punishing are not always the most inclined to anger.

“Thou art very obliging,” said she, “and thy civility is of a kind which cannot easily be mistaken. Since thou takest so much care to distinguish thyself from those whom thou servest, I will take care, on my part, that thou shalt always be distinguished in thy speech.”

And touching her lightly, as the Fairy of Glass had done before, she added:

“I grant thee that at every word thou speakest there shall come out of thu mouth either a snake or a toad.”

The words were spoken with the same calmness as the gift had been bestowed; and the effect followed them with equal certainty. Laisnée, who had opened her mouth to reply, whether to thank or to complain she had not yet decided, saw, instead of words, two vipers fall at her feet, accompanied by two toads of so disagreeable an aspect that she recoiled in spite of herself.

The Fairy, who had no need to remain to observe what she had already judged, turned away without haste, leaving behind her neither threat nor explanation; for there are sentences which require neither to be justified nor to be repeated.

Thus the second trial was concluded, not with noise or disorder, but with that quiet exactness which leaves no doubt of its intention; and Laisnée, who had gone to the fountain in expectation of advantage, returned from it with a distinction of a very different kind from that which she had proposed to herself.

She came back more quickly than she had gone, though not with greater ease; for she had discovered, upon the road, that every attempt to complain only increased her burden. At the first word she uttered, there fell from her mouth a creature so little suited to discourse that she was forced, thereafter, to maintain a silence which did her no small violence. Yet even this restraint, being contrary to her inclination, was but imperfectly observed; so that by the time she reached the house, she had already left behind her, at intervals, such marks of her passage as might have instructed any observer in the nature of her misfortune.

The Widow Veuve, who had remained in a state of expectation which admitted neither of repose nor of reflection, ran to meet her at the door.

“Well, daughter?” cried she, with an eagerness that betrayed, more than she intended, the importance she attached to the success of the experiment.

“Well, mother—” began Laisnée.

She had scarcely pronounced these two words when there issued from her mouth two vipers and two toads, which fell, with a motion equally sudden and offensive, at the very feet of the Widow Veuve. If the latter had been capable of retreating from what displeased her, she would, without doubt, have done so; but astonishment held her fixed for a moment in a posture which was neither dignified nor safe.

“What is this?” cried she at last, starting back with a vivacity which she had not shown for many years. “What abominable trick is this? Who has done this to thee?”

Laisnée, who had now recovered the use of speech only to regret it, endeavoured to relate what had passed; but as every word she spoke was accompanied by a new production of the same disagreeable kind, her narrative was rendered at once more convincing and less tolerable. The room, which had been sufficiently ordered before her return, was soon so little suited to company that even the Widow Veuve, who was not easily discouraged by inconvenience, found herself obliged to remove to a greater distance.

Fear, which is seldom long in yielding to a more active passion, was quickly succeeded by anger; and anger, having no patience for inquiry, took at once the shortest road to blame.

“It is that girl,” said she, pointing, without naming her, towards Cadette, who had remained where she was, more surprised than alarmed. “It is she who has done this. She has always been the cause of everything that goes amiss in this house; and I will be satisfied with nothing less than that she repair it.”

Cadette, who understood neither the accusation nor the means by which she was expected to answer it, approached with a humility which was not affected, and would have spoken in her defence, had she not perceived that any attempt at explanation would only serve to increase the disorder.

“I have done nothing, madam,” said she softly; and with these words there fell, as before, a small number of pearls and flowers, which, though they might have pleased another at a different moment, served now only to inflame the resentment of the Widow Veuve.

“Nothing!” repeated she. “Thou callest this nothing? Thou comest here with thy fine airs and thy fine presents, and would persuade me that all the mischief which follows is not of thy contrivance? I will teach thee, child, what it is to bring ruin into a house where thou hast no right to be admired.”

So saying, she advanced towards her with a resolution which admitted of no delay; for there are certain persons who, having once determined to be unjust, find in that determination a kind of courage which they never possessed in better causes.

Cadette, who had long been accustomed to suffer without resistance, might perhaps have remained, even then, had she not perceived that patience, in this instance, would serve only to expose her to a violence which could neither be softened nor avoided. She therefore withdrew, not with haste, but with that quiet promptitude which belongs to those who know that there is no advantage in remaining where they are neither heard nor believed.

Passing through the house without seeking to justify herself, and without carrying away anything that might have been called her own, she went out, and took the road towards the wood, where she had often passed in her journeys to the fountain. She did not look back; for though there are places which we leave with regret, there are others which we quit without loss, and sometimes even with a kind of relief that we do not at first acknowledge.

Thus the household, which had been ill governed before, became, in a moment, insupportable; and the same cause which had promised to enrich it had served only to discover how little it was prepared to receive what it desired.

Cadette, having quitted it without noise and without reproach, continued her way towards the wood, which lay at some distance beyond the path she was accustomed to take. She had often seen it from afar, and sometimes passed along its edge; but she had never before entered it with any intention of remaining. There are places which appear very different when one goes through them by chance, and when one arrives there with no certain design of leaving.

The forest, at that hour, was neither dark nor cheerful. The trees stood at such distances as allowed the light to pass between them, yet not so freely as to render the ground entirely visible. Here and there a path presented itself, though none with such assurance as to persuade the traveller that it must be followed; and the air, which had been still in the open country, seemed now to move only when it chose, and without regard to those who might have wished to be guided by it.

It was not a place that inspired terror; for nothing there threatened, and nothing pursued. Yet neither did it offer any particular comfort; for it belonged, as it were, to itself, and admitted those who entered it without taking any concern in their affairs. One might have said that it was indifferent whether one passed through it or remained; and this indifference, which is less alarming than danger, is sometimes more difficult to endure.

Cadette advanced a little way among the trees, and, finding no immediate reason to proceed further, seated herself upon the root of an old oak, whose branches, spreading wide above her, afforded both shade and a kind of quiet which she had not known in the house she had left. Until that moment she had not wept; for there are occasions when the mind is so occupied in leaving what it must quit that it has not yet begun to consider what it has lost. But being now alone, and no longer required either to act or to endure, she felt the weight of her condition more sensibly, and gave way to a grief which was neither loud nor impatient, but such as finds its relief in tears rather than in complaint.

“I have done nothing to deserve this,” said she, in a low voice, as much to herself as to any one who might have heard her; and with these words there fell, upon the leaves at her feet, a small number of pearls and flowers, which, being scattered by chance, had none of that order which might have rendered them agreeable to a less troubled eye.

Yet even in this distress, there appeared nothing in her that was altered except her fortune. She did not accuse, she did not exaggerate, and she did not seek to render her misfortune greater by the manner in which she bore it. Her tears were quiet, her thoughts without bitterness, and if she regretted what she had lost, it was less for herself than from a habit of wishing well to those who had used her ill.

Thus she remained for some time, in a place which neither rejected nor received her, and which seemed to suspend, for a while, the course of those events that had so lately driven her from her home. For there are moments, between what has been and what is to come, in which the world appears to pause; and though nothing is yet determined, everything is already prepared.

It was during one of these intervals, when grief had not yet been succeeded by hope, that the Prince, who was called Filsduroi, passed that way, returning from the chase. He had been long abroad, and had followed his sport with that application which is common to those who have been accustomed to succeed in it; yet he bore the fatigue of the day with so easy an air that one might have thought he had done nothing more than take a diversion.

There was in his manner that composed assurance which belongs to those who have never been obliged to doubt their reception, and who are therefore at liberty to observe others with more attention than they bestow upon themselves. His dress, though suited to the exercise in which he had been engaged, retained something of that distinction which accompanies rank even when it is not displayed; and the small train of attendants who followed him at a distance gave, without interrupting, a just idea of his condition.

As he advanced through the wood, his eye, which had been employed in seeking objects of a very different kind, was arrested by the sight of Cadette, whom he perceived seated beneath the oak, and whose posture, joined to the tears that still remained upon her face, gave to her beauty an expression which is seldom seen without being felt.

He approached her with a civility that was natural to him, and said:

“Mademoiselle, thou appearest to be in some distress. May I take the liberty to ask what has occasioned it, and whether there is anything in which I may serve thee?”

Cadette, who was not accustomed to be addressed with so much consideration, rose, and made him a slight reverence; and though she would willingly have concealed what she suffered, she found herself unable to refuse an account of it, when it was demanded in a manner so obliging.

“Monsieur,” said she, “I have been driven from my home by my mother—”

She had scarcely pronounced these words when there fell from her mouth several pearls, and as many diamonds, which dropped, with a soft sound, upon the ground between them. The Prince, who had expected nothing beyond the ordinary effects of sorrow, was so much surprised at this appearance that he remained, for a moment, without speaking; but his astonishment, being of that kind which excites attention rather than disorder, was soon followed by a curiosity that required to be satisfied.

“What is this I see?” said he. “And by what strange adventure does it happen that thy words are accompanied with so extraordinary a consequence?”

Cadette, who had nothing to conceal, related to him, with the same simplicity she had shown before, all that had passed at the fountain, and the cause of her present misfortune. And as she spoke, the flowers and the jewels continued to fall, not in such abundance as to interrupt her, but sufficiently to confirm what she said, and to render her story at once more credible and more remarkable.

The Prince listened with an attention which increased at every moment; for though he could not but admire a gift so rare, he was yet more struck by the manner in which it was employed. There was nothing in her that sought to take advantage of what she possessed; she spoke without design, and received, without vanity, what might have turned another head. Her beauty, which had first engaged him, was thus supported by a goodness which he found no less engaging; and he perceived, without taking the trouble to reason upon it, that such a union of qualities was not to be met with twice.

“It would be very unjust,” said he at last, “that a person who has received so great a mark of favour should be left without protection. If thou wilt trust thyself to me, I will conduct thee to the King my father, who will know how to do thee justice; and I do not doubt that thy merit will there meet with a reception very different from that which thou hast experienced.”

Cadette, who had never yet had occasion to distrust any one, and who saw in the Prince nothing that could give her reason to begin, accepted his offer with a gratitude which was expressed rather by her manner than by her words; for she was not accustomed to enlarge upon her obligations.

He then ordered that she should be attended with all the care that was due to her condition, and, placing her under the protection of those who accompanied him, conducted her himself to the court, where her arrival produced, for a time, that attention which novelty seldom fails to excite.

But what had begun in surprise did not end there. The King, who was not insensible to merit, received her with kindness; and the Prince, who had already determined within himself what part he was to take, lost no time in declaring the inclination he had conceived. It was not opposed; for there are certain advantages which supply, in an instant, what others require a long examination to establish.

Thus the marriage was concluded with a readiness which might have appeared precipitate, had it not been supported by reasons that were evident to all who were disposed to consider them. And Cadette, who had gone out from her mother’s house with nothing but her patience, found herself, in a very short time, raised to a condition where she had no longer occasion to exercise it, except for the benefit of others.

It did not fare so happily with her sister.

Laisnée, who had returned from the fountain with a distinction of so singular a kind, found that it was not one which recommended her to the favour either of her mother or of the world. At first, the Widow Veuve endeavoured to console herself with the hope that the inconvenience might be remedied, or at least concealed; but as every word her daughter uttered rendered concealment less possible, and remedy more improbable, she began, by degrees, to regard her with an impatience which soon grew into aversion.

For there are certain misfortunes which, when they cannot be turned to advantage, are no longer endured with patience. The same mother who had, but a short time before, been eager to improve her daughter’s fortune, now found herself so much embarrassed by it, that she took every occasion to withdraw from her presence; and at last, being no longer able to support either the sight or the consequence of so inconvenient a gift, she declared, without ceremony, that she would have no more to do with her.

“Go,” said she, “and seek elsewhere that consideration which thou canst not expect here; for I am not in a condition to maintain a daughter who brings nothing into the house but creatures which ought never to have been admitted into it.”

Laisnée, who had never before been obliged to consider where she should go, found herself, upon this occasion, less prepared than she might have wished. She went out, therefore, without forming any plan, and took the road which first presented itself, persuaded that wherever she might arrive, she should be received according to her merit.

But as she soon discovered, merit is not always judged in the same manner by those who are concerned to receive it. The first persons she met avoided her; the second listened only long enough to regret it; and the third did not wait even for that. Wherever she attempted to speak, she was answered by a retreat; and as her misfortune required her to speak often, she found herself, in a very short time, deprived of all society.

Thus she wandered from place to place, sometimes seeking, and sometimes avoiding, those whom she might have wished to meet, but who were always more ready to avoid her than to be found. The country, which had seemed to her of little consequence when she had left it, now appeared too large; and the wood, which she had entered with so much assurance, became at last the only place where she was neither rejected nor pursued.

It was there that she was encountered by one who is not easily discouraged by singularities.

The Devil, who passes through many places where he is neither expected nor desired, and who has, among his other occupations, that of observing those who may be disposed to enter into his service, perceived Laisnée as she went along, and was at first not a little diverted by the peculiarity of her condition. He approached her with an air of curiosity, which, in him, was seldom without design, and addressed her in a tone which had something of civility, though not enough to disguise his intention.

“Mademoiselle,” said he, “thou appearst to be a person of uncommon distinction; and as I have always had a particular regard for those who are not like the rest of the world, I should be glad to know whether thou hast ever considered placing thy talents where they might be better appreciated.”

Laisnée, who had not yet learned to distrust an offer because it was advantageous, began to reply, and would, without doubt, have entered into a negotiation which might have altered her condition, had not the first words she uttered been accompanied by such an effect as put an immediate end to the discourse. The Devil, who had been prepared for much, found himself, for once, unprepared for this; and though he was not easily surprised, he was, on this occasion, very sensibly inconvenienced.

“What is this?” cried he, stepping back with a quickness which showed that he was not insensible to what he avoided. “I have seen many things in my time, but I do not remember to have met with anything of this nature.”

Laisnée, who persisted in speaking, either from habit or from necessity, rendered the situation still less supportable; and the Devil, who had no inclination to engage himself in a commerce so little suited to his taste, interrupted her with a haste which was not usual to him.

“Stay, mademoiselle,” said he, “I perceive that there are here difficulties which I had not foreseen. It is not that I am unacquainted with extraordinary cases; but there must be some proportion between the service expected and the inconvenience received. I wish thee, therefore, very sincerely, a better success elsewhere; for as to myself, I am not at present in a condition to treat with thee.”

Having said this, he withdrew with a promptitude which left no doubt of his resolution; for even those who are most accustomed to disorder have their preferences, and it is not every kind of confusion that is equally agreeable to them.

Thus abandoned by all, and no longer able either to approach or to be approached, Laisnée continued for some time in the wood, where she lived as she could, and where she found, at last, that solitude which she had so little valued when it had been denied her. But as she had brought into it neither patience nor reflection, it afforded her no consolation; and having neither learned to bear her condition nor to amend it, she remained there until she had no longer strength to continue, and died, at last, in a corner of the forest, where she was neither sought nor found.

Such was the end of one who had desired to be distinguished without considering in what manner; and who found, too late, that there are certain advantages which, when they are not supported by goodness, become themselves the greatest of misfortunes.

It might have been supposed that this conclusion would have satisfied all parties; yet among the fairies, who are not easily brought to a final agreement, it served rather to renew a question which had never been entirely resolved.

The Fairy of the Court of Glass, who had bestowed her gift with so much satisfaction, was not a little troubled when she perceived, from afar, the confusion that had followed in the house of the Widow Veuve. For though she had long maintained that kindness, when properly encouraged, would produce effects worthy of regard, she had not intended that the proof should be accompanied by so much disorder. There is a delicacy in doing good, which requires not only that one choose a proper subject, but that one foresee, as far as may be, the consequences of the favour bestowed; and in this respect she began to suspect that she had been, perhaps, a little too hasty in her confidence.

The Fairy of the Court of Briar, who had not been ignorant of what had passed, came to her with that composed air which seldom accompanies either triumph or regret, but may attend both without distinction.

“Well,” said she, “thou hast had thy example.”

“And thou thine,” replied the Fairy of Glass, with a gentleness that had more of reflection than of concession. “But I do not yet see that either of us has proved what she intended.”

“I have seen enough,” returned the other, “to confirm what I have always thought—that civility is not a habit easily acquired, and that those who do not possess it will not learn it for the sake of a reward.”

“Nor,” said the Fairy of Glass, “will those who possess it fail to exercise it, even when they have nothing to gain.”

They remained for a moment in that silence which follows a contradiction that has not been resolved; and which, in their case, served less to interrupt the discourse than to prepare it.

“Thou spokest to me,” continued the Fairy of Briar, “of a young girl who came twice a day to the fountain, and whose conduct was such as to deserve encouragement. I went thither, and I found what I found.”

“And I,” said the Fairy of Glass, “went thither also, and found what I found.”

There was in the manner in which these words were exchanged something that required explanation; and it was not long before it was given.

“Thou didst not see the same person,” said the Fairy of Glass.

“Nor thou,” replied the Fairy of Briar.

From this it was soon understood that the one had judged of mankind by Laisnée, and the other by Cadette; and that each, being persuaded of the sufficiency of her example, had not thought it necessary to seek another.

“This,” said the Fairy of Glass, “is what comes of concluding too soon.”

“And this,” returned the Fairy of Briar, “of expecting too much.”

Yet neither of them, being unwilling to relinquish entirely the opinion she had long maintained, sought to press the advantage further; for it is not always the desire of the fairies to overcome, but rather to continue.

It remained, however, to repair, as far as might be, the consequence of a mistake which had nearly deprived one of them of her proof. The Fairy of Glass, who had not lost sight of Cadette when she fled into the wood, and who had observed with concern the injustice of her treatment, resolved to assist, without appearing to do so, in bringing about that event which might best display the effect of her gift.

It was she who, seeing the Prince engaged too eagerly in the pursuit of a stag which would have led him far from the path he ought to take, caused the animal, by a slight illusion, to turn aside; and it was she who guided, by an impulse not perceived, the steps of the Prince towards that part of the forest where Cadette had seated herself. In this manner she contrived that the meeting, which appeared to be the effect of chance, should be, in truth, the result of design; for there is no art more delicate than that which conceals itself.

“Thou seest,” said she afterwards to the Fairy of Briar, “that it is sometimes permitted to assist what deserves to succeed.”

“And thou seest,” replied the other, “that it is sometimes necessary to prove what deserves to be assisted.”

There was, in this exchange, something that approached to agreement; yet it was of that kind which satisfies without deciding. The one had her example of goodness rewarded; the other, of pride corrected; and both, in their different ways, found reason to continue as they had begun.

Thus it was agreed, for a time, that mankind might yet be endured—provided one chose one’s examples carefully.