Volume 5 — Chapter XIII.

Some days after this interview, Robert, the count, and Julia were travelling toward l'Auvergne. If the dead could feel in their cold graves, certainly Robert's mother would have felt a deep and holy joy in seeing her son and her husband kneeling on her tomb. But their eyes were not on the grave, but raised toward heaven, and Robert saw the same vision which had appeared to him in his youth, and he cried out: "I see it! O my father, I see it! She blesses us."

The name of Dormeuil was effaced from the modest stone, and that of Countess de Verceuil substituted, to the great astonishment of the people of the surrounding country. Then the count visited the little house which had fallen in ruins, and here Robert called up a thousand tender memories, and thanked God for the manifestation of his love in permitting him to find his father. But it was not for the rank he would have in the world, nor for the titles society would look upon with jealous eyes, nor for this wonderful elevation of his talent, which dazzled and made him happy. It was the power which God had put into his hands, to enable him to do good to others, and the knowledge of the future of repose and comfort he could ensure to the two objects of his early affection, good Madame Gaudin and the old soldier of the guard. It was of them that he thought when he said. "I am rich." How he longed to see Paris, and to be folded again to the hearts of his friends, from whom he had so long been separated. His father, seeing his impatience, smiled at the projects he formed for them, but was none the less anxious to know them and thank them for the cares they had bestowed on his son. At last they arrived, and when they reached the house a cruel thought crossed Robert's mind, that they might be "no more." His heart beat, and he scarcely dared to knock, but listened a moment, and—oh! what happiness—two well-known voices fell upon his ear. One said: "Six months have passed since his last letter, and no news of our dear child. What can have happened him?" "You must have patience, good woman," said the other voice, "he can't always find opportunities to write. I believe the reason he does not write is, that be intends to come some day soon." "Ah! I know he is not sick, and it is the faith of Cyprien says it. The Lord is too just to make so good a boy ill."

Completely reassured, Robert knocked and entered immediately. Two cries came at the same time from two hearts that joy suffocated. Robert raised Madame Gaudin in his arms; her too sudden surprise had overwhelmed her with emotion, and Cyprien cried, "It is you, it is you!" wiping away a tear. "I am happy, now, Mister Robert. I knew you would come back, but I have had a time consoling this poor woman, who saw everything in blackness and despair."

Robert pressed the faithful soldier to his heart, then covered Madame Gaudin with caresses, enquired for her health, and wished to know if either of them had suffered in any way since he left them. When the confusion of this sudden meeting had subsided a little, both Cyprien and dame Gaudin perceived that Robert had no luggage. "Where are your effects, my child?" said the good woman. Robert smiled, and said he had left them at home, "How at home? And do you not intend to remain with us, my dear Robert?" "Yes, of course, but we will live in another house, and I will take you to your new home." She opened her astonished eyes, and followed Robert, who descended the steps, and, calling a carriage, made his friends get in, and directed the coachman to drive them all to No. 110, rue Grenelle, Saint Germain.

On the way Madame Gaudin tried to draw from him his secret, but all attempts were useless, for he took delight now in teasing her. Stopping in front of the hotel where his father was, he took the arm of his worthy benefactress and conducted her to the saloon where the Count de Verceuil waited. "Father," said he, as he entered, "here is the excellent woman who has taken the place of a mother to me, and who for my sake generously sacrificed all she had." "Madam," said the count with amiable courtesy, "excuse me that I did not come for you myself, as it was my duty to do, but I wished to allow Robert the pleasure of surprising you. You are at home here, madam, in the house of my son, and I hope you will always be his friend." "Your son?" she said, half stupefied. "Who, then, is your son? Ah! I know," she cried with lively anguish, a secret sentiment of jealousy coming into her heart; "it is Robert. God is just, and has given him this recompense. What I have done for your son, monsieur, anyone else would have done in my place, for no one could have helped loving so good and generous a child. But I do not merit so much kindness at your hands. I am only a poor creature, without either education or manners, so how can I live with you?" "These things are of little value in my eyes, my dear madam. What I honor in you, and what all honest and virtuous people would consider above everything else, is the nobleness of your soul and the virtues of which you have given so bright an example. You will give me great pain if you refuse an offer that comes from the heart, and that I make you in my name and the name of my son. We will live and enjoy together the favors God has been pleased to bestow upon us. And you will be ours, my brave Cyprien" said the count, taking the hand of the old soldier. "I know you love my son, and this entitles you to my friendship. Will you accept it?" "Oh! yes; with all my heart," replied Cyprien, looking affectionately at Robert, who was watching silently the interview between his father and his friends.

His father was kind and good, and often he blessed the day they met. Nothing can be dearer to a man's heart than a father he is proud of. Robert had experienced this feeling for his mother, whom he venerated almost as much as God. She was to him the type of every virtue. His misfortunes and affliction had entirely changed his father, and to the vain pleasures of the world had succeeded the practices of religion and the duties of the Christian. All the virtues he admired in his mother he found in the paternal heart, tried in the crucible of adversity. In a word, the father was worthy of the son as the son was worthy of the father, and a sweet harmony reigned in this family, bound to each other by the tenderest ties. All rank was effaced, and the noble count, the heir of a great name and an immense fortune, and the old woman and the old soldier lived with no other desire than to make each other happy. Robert did not give up his profession, and his name is now illustrious in the world of art! He married his cousin Julia de Moranges, and crowned with joy and happiness the last days of his father, who now sleeps the sleep of the just. Thus ends our story. We have tried to trace the struggling life of Robert, and its glorious recompense. We have tried faithfully to reproduce his touching virtues and the noble and beautiful sentiments that adorned his soul, and also to inspire our young readers with a desire to imitate him. We have tried to show the efficacious and all-powerful help of religion in nourishing the teachings of a Christian mother, and that a good and persevering child can overcome all obstacles. Have we, then, succeeded and obtained your approbation? If there are among you, my dear readers, some poor little orphans like Robert, call down the blessings of your mother upon your heads, and, though she lives in heaven, she will watch over you with tender solicitude, and the God of the motherless will be your sure refuge and your final Saviour. Think not that you can live without constant prayer to God, the author of your beings and the giver of every good and perfect gift. Put your whole trust and confidence in him and his mercy, and whether obscurity or fame be yours, always remember that he knows best, and places you in whatever position best suits you. Should he give you the transcendent gift of genius, you must struggle hard to obtain its rewards, and, whatsoever you do, remember to do it for the honor and glory of God and the good of mankind; and then, when you are called to leave this life for that better world where all cares cease, you can welcome death, which will open for you the gate of life, and exchange with joy the changing scenes of earth for the unfading bliss of heaven!