“I have done or said something to offend you, dear Mrs. Somers.
    If you knew how much pain I have felt from your displeasure, I am
    sure you would explain to me what it can be. Is it possible that
    my differing in opinion from you about the heroine of the novel
    can have offended you?—Perhaps the author of the book is a friend
    of yours, or under your protection. Be assured, that if this be
    the case, I did not in the least suspect it at the time I made the
    criticism. Perhaps it was this to which you alluded when you said
    that the King of Prussia was not the only person who would not
    hesitate to sacrifice a friend for a bon-mot. What injustice you
    do me by such an idea! I will not here say one word about my
    gratitude or my affection, lest you should again reproach me with
    hypocrisy—any thing else I am able to bear. Pray write, if you
    will not speak to me.

    “EMILIE.”

When Emilie was just falling asleep, Masham came into her room with a note in her hand.

“Mademoiselle, I am sorry to waken you; but my mistress thought you would not sleep, unless you read this note to-night.”

Emilie started up in her bed, and read the following note of four pages.

    “Yes I will write, because I am ashamed to speak to you, my dear
    Emilie. I beg your pardon for pulling the bell-cord so violently
    from your hand last night—you must have thought me quite
    ill-bred; and still more, I reproach myself for what I said about
    hypocracy—You have certainly the sweetest and gentlest temper
    imaginable—would to Heaven I had! But the strength of my feelings
    absolutely runs away with me. It is the doom of persons of great
    sensibility to be both unreasonable and unhappy; and often, alas!
    to involve in their misery those for whom they have the most
    enthusiastic affection. You see, my dear Emilie, the price you
    must pay for being my friend; but you have strength of mind
    joined to a feeling heart, and you will bear with my defects.
    Dissimulation is not one of them. In spite of all my efforts, I
    find it is impossible ever to conceal from you any of even my most
    unreasonable fancies—your note, which is so characteristically
    frank and artless, has opened my eyes to my own folly. I must show
    you that, when I am in my senses, I do you justice. You deserve to
    be treated with perfect openness; therefore, however humiliating
    the explanation, I will confess to you the real cause of my
    displeasure. When you spoke of the heroine of this foolish novel,
    what you said was so applicable to some part of my own history
    and character, that I could not help suspecting you had heard the
    facts from a person with whom you spent some hours lately; and I
    was much hurt by your alluding to them in such a severe and public
    manner. You will ask me, how I could conceive you to be capable of
    such unprovoked malevolence: and my answer is, ‘I cannot tell;’ I
    can only say, such is the effect of the unfortunate susceptibility
    of my heart, or, to speak more candidly, of my temper. I confess
    I cannot, in these particulars, alter my nature. Blame me as much
    as I blame myself; be as angry as you please, or as you can, my
    gentle friend: but at last you must pity and forgive me.

    “Now that all this affair is off my mind, I can sleep in peace:
    and so, I hope, will you, my dear Emilie—Good night! If
    friends never quarrelled, they would never taste the joys of
    reconciliation. Believe me,

    “Your ever sincere and affectionate

    “A. SOMERS.”

No one tasted the joys of reconciliation more than Emilie; but, after reiterated experience, she was inclined to believe that they cannot balance the evils of quarrelling. Mrs. Somers was one of those, who “confess their faults, but never mend;” and who expect, for this gratuitous candour, more applause than others would claim for the real merit of reformation. So far did this lady carry her admiration of her own candour, that she was actually upon the point of quarrelling with Emilie again, the next morning, because she did not seem sufficiently sensible of the magnanimity with which she had confessed herself to be ill-tempered. These few specimens are sufficient to give an idea of this lady’s powers of tormenting; but, to form an adequate notion of their effect upon Emilie’s spirits, we must conceive the same sort of provocations to be repeated every day, for several months. Petty torments, incessantly repeated, exhaust the most determined patience.

All this time, Mad. de Coulanges went on very smoothly with Mrs. Somers; for she had not Emilie’s sensibility; and, notwithstanding her great quickness, a hundred things might pass, and did pass, before her eyes, without her seeing them. She examined no farther than the surface; and, provided that there was not any deficiency of those little attentions to which she had been accustomed, it never occurred to her that a friend could be more or less pleased: she did not understand or study physiognomy; a smile of the lips was, to her, always a sufficient token of approbation; and, whether it were merely conventional, or whether it came from the heart, she never troubled herself to inquire. Provided that she saw at dinner the usual couverts, and that she had a sufficient number of people to converse with, or rather to talk to, she was satisfied that every thing was right. All the variations in Mrs. Somers’ temper were unmarked by her, or went under the general head, vapeurs noirs. This species of ignorance, or confidence, produced the best effects; for as Mrs. Somers could not, without passing the obvious bounds of politeness, make Mad. de Coulanges sensible of her displeasure, and as she had the utmost respect for the countess’s opinion of her good breeding, she was, to a certain degree, compelled to command her temper. Mad. de Coulanges often, without knowing it, tried it terribly, by differing from her in taste and judgment, and by supporting her own side of the question with all the enthusiastic volubility of the French language. Sometimes the English and French music were compared—sometimes the English and French painters; and every time the theatre was mentioned, Mad. de Coulanges pronounced an eulogium on her favourite French actors, and triumphed over the comparison between the elegance of the French, and the grossièreté of the English taste for comedy.

“Good Heaven!” said she, “your fashionable comedies would be too absurd to make the lowest of our audiences at the Boulevards laugh; you have excluded sentiment and wit, and what have you in their place? Characters out of drawing and out of nature; grotesque figures, such as you see in a child’s magic lantern. Then you talk of English humour—I wish I could understand it; but I cannot be diverted with seeing a tailor turned gentleman pricking his father with a needle, or a man making grimaces over a jug of sour beer.”

Mrs. Somers, piqued perhaps by the justice of some of these observations, would dryly answer, that it was impossible for a foreigner to comprehend English humour—that she believed the French, in particular, were destitute of taste for humour.

Mad. de Coulanges insisted upon it, that the French have humour; and Molière furnished her with many admirable illustrations.

Emilie, in support of her mother, read a passage from that elegant writer, M. Suard18, who has lately attacked, with much ability, the pretensions of the English to the exclusive possession of humour.

Mrs. Somers then changed her ground, and inveighed against French tragedy, and the unnatural tones and attitudes of the French tragic actors.

“Your heroes on the French stage,” said she, “always look over their right shoulders, to express magnanimous disdain; and a lover, whether he be Grecian or Roman, Turk, Israelite, or American, must regularly show his passion by the pompous emphasis with which he pronounces the word MADAME!—a word which must certainly have, for a French audience, some magical charm, incomprehensible to other nations.”

What was yet more incomprehensible to Mad. de Coulanges, was the enthusiasm of the English for that bloody-minded barbarian Shakspeare, who is never satisfied till he has strewn the stage with dead bodies; who treats his audience like children, that are to be frightened out of their wits by ghosts of all sorts and sizes in their winding sheets; or by a set of old beggarmen, dressed in women’s clothes, armed with broomsticks, and dancing and howling out their nonsensical song round a black kettle.

Mrs. Somers, smiling as in scorn, would only reply, “Madame la comtesse, yours is Voltaire’s Shakspeare, not ours.—Have you read Mrs. Montagu’s essay upon Shakspeare?”

“No.”

“Then positively you must read it before we say one word more upon the subject.”

Mad. de Coulanges, though unwilling to give up the pleasure of talking, took the book, which Mrs. Somers pressed upon her, with a promise to read it through some morning; but, unluckily, she chanced to open it towards the end, and happened to see some animadversions upon Racine, by which she was so astonished and disgusted that she could read no more. She threw down the book, defying any good critic to point out a single bad line in Racine. “This is a defiance I have heard made by men of letters of the highest reputation in Paris,” added la comtesse: “have not you, Mons. l’Abbé?”

The abbé, who was madame’s common voucher, acceded, with this slight emendation—that he had heard numbers defy any critic of good taste to point out a flat line in Phædre.

Mrs. Somers would, perhaps, have acknowledged the beauties of Phædre, if she had not been piqued by this defiance; but exaggeration on one side produced injustice on the other: and these disputes about Racine and Shakspeare were continually renewed, and never ended to the satisfaction of either party. Those who will not make allowances for national prejudice, and who do not consider how much all our tastes are influenced by early education, example, and the accidental association of ideas, may dispute for ever without coming to any conclusion; especially, if they avoid stating any distinct proposition; if each of the combatants sets up a standard of his own, as the universal standard of taste; and if, instead of arguments, both parties have recourse to wit and ridicule. In these skirmishes, however, Mad. de Coulanges, though apparently the most eager for victory, never seriously lost her temper—her eagerness was more of manner than of mind; after pleading the cause of Racine, as if it were a matter of life and death, as if the fate of Europe or the universe depended upon it, she would turn to discuss the merits of a riband with equal vehemence, or coolly observe that she was hoarse, and that she would quit Racine for a better thing—de l’eau sucré. Mrs. Somers, on the contrary, took the cause of Shakspeare, or any other cause that she defended, seriously to heart. The wit or raillery of her adversary, if she affected not to be hurt by it at the moment, left a sting in her mind which rankled long and sorely. Though she often failed to refute the arguments brought against her, yet she always rose from the debate precisely of her first opinion; and even her silence, which Mad. de Coulanges sometimes mistook for assent or conviction, was only the symptom of contemptuous pity—the proof that she deemed the understanding of her opponent beneath all fair competition with her own. The understanding of Mad. de Coulanges had, indeed, in the space of a few months, sunk far below the point of mediocrity, in Mrs. Somers’ estimation—she had begun by overvaluing, and she ended by underrating it. She at first had taken it for granted that Mad. de Coulanges possessed a “very superior understanding and great strength of mind;” then she discovered that la comtesse was “uncommonly superficial, even for a Frenchwoman;” and at last she decided, that “really Mad. de Coulanges was a very silly woman.”

Mrs. Somers now began to be seriously angry with Emilie for always being of her mother’s opinion: “It is really, Mlle. de Coulanges, carrying your filial affection too far. We cold-hearted English can scarcely conceive this sort of fervid passion, which French children express about every thing, the merest trifle, that relates to mamma!—Well! it is an amiable national prejudice; and one cannot help wishing that it may never, like other amiable enthusiasms, fail in the moment of serious trial.”

Emilie, touched to the quick upon a subject nearest her heart, replied with a degree of dignity and spirit which surprised Mrs. Somers, who had never seen in her any thing but the most submissive gentleness. “The affection, whether enthusiastic or not, which we French children profess for our parents, has been of late years put to some strong trials, and has not been found to fail. In many instances it has proved superior to all earthly terrors—to imprisonment—to torture—to death—to Robespierre. Daughters have sacrificed themselves for their parents.—Oh! if my life could have saved my father’s!”

Emilie clasped her hands, and looked up to heaven with the unaffected expression of filial piety in her countenance. Every body was silent. Mrs. Somers was struck with regret—with remorse—for the taunting manner in which she had spoken.

“My dearest Emilie, forgive me!” cried she; “I am shocked at what I said.”

Emilie took Mrs. Somers’ hand between hers, and endeavoured to smile. Mrs. Somers resolved that she would keep, henceforward, the strictest guard upon her own temper; and that she would never more be so ungenerous, so barbarous, as to insult one who was so gentle, so grateful, so much in her power, and so deserving of her affection. These good resolutions, formed in the moment of contrition, were, however, soon forgotten: strong emotions of the heart are transient in their power; habits of the temper permanent in their influence.—Like a child who promises to be always good, and forgets its promise in an hour, Mrs. Somers soon grew tired of keeping her temper in subjection. It did not, indeed, break out immediately towards Emilie; but, in her conversations with Mad. de Coulanges, the same feelings of irritation and contempt recurred; and Emilie, who was a clear-sighted bystander, suffered continual uneasiness upon these occasions—uneasiness, which appeared to Mad. de Coulanges perfectly causeless, and at which she frequently expressed her astonishment. Emilie’s prescient kindness often, indeed, “felt the coming storm;” while her mother’s careless eye saw not, even when the dark cloud was just ready to burst over her head. With all the innocent address of which she was mistress, Emilie tried to turn the course of the conversation whenever it tended towards dangerous subjects of discussion; but her mother, far from shunning, would often dare and provoke the war; and she would combat long after both parties were in the dark, even till her adversary quitted the field of battle, exclaiming, “Let us have peace on any terms, my dear countess!—I give up the point to you, Mad. de Coulanges.”

This last phrase Emilie particularly dreaded, as the precursor of ill-humour for some succeeding hours. Mrs. Somers at length became so conscious of her own inability to conceal her contempt or to command her temper, that she was almost as desirous as Emilie could be to avoid these arguments; and, the moment the countess prepared for the attack, she would recede, with, “Excuse me, Mad. de Coulanges: we had better not talk upon these subjects—it is of no use—really of no manner of use: let us converse upon other topics—there are subjects enough, I hope, upon which we shall always agree.”

Emilie was at first rejoiced at this arrangement, but the constraint was insupportable to her mother: indeed, the circle of proper subjects for conversation contracted daily; for not only the declared offensive topics were to be avoided, but innumerable others, bordering on or allied to them, were to be shunned with equal care—a degree of caution of which the volatile countess was utterly incapable. One day, at dinner, she asked the gentleman opposite to her, “How long this intolerable rule—of talking only upon subjects where people are of the same opinion—had been the fashion, and what time it would probably last in England?—If it continue much longer, I must fly the country,” said she. “I would almost as soon, at this rate, be a prisoner in Paris, as in your land of freedom. You value, above all things, your liberty of the press—now, to me, liberty of the tongue, which is evidently a part, if not the best part, of personal liberty, is infinitely more dear. Bon Dieu!—even in l’Abbaye one might talk of Racine!”

Mad. de Coulanges spoke this half in jest, half in earnest; but Mrs. Somers took it wholly in earnest, and was most seriously offended. Her feelings upon the occasion were strongly expressed in a letter to a friend, to whom she had, from her infancy, been in the habit of confiding all her joys and sorrows—all the histories of her loves and hates—of her quarrels and reconciliations. This friend was an elderly lady, who, besides possessing superior mental endowments which inspired admiration, and a character which commanded high respect, was blessed with an uncommonly placid, benevolent temper. This enabled her to do what no other human being had ever accomplished—to continue in peace and amity, for upwards of thirty years, with Mrs. Somers. The following is one of many hundreds of epistolary complaints or invectives, which, during the course of that time, this “much enduring lady” was doomed to read and answer.

    “TO LADY LITTLETON.

    “For once, my dear friend, I am secure of your sympathizing in my
    indignation—my long suppressed, just, virtuous indignation—yes,
    virtuous; for I do hold indignation to be a part of virtue: it
    is the natural, proper expression of a warm heart and a strong
    character against the cold-blooded vices of meanness and
    ingratitude. Would that those to whom I allude could feel it
    as a punishment!—but no, this is not the sort of punishment
    they are formed to feel. Nothing but what comes home to their
    interests—their paltry interests!—their pleasures—their
    selfish pleasures!—their amusements—their frivolous amusements!
    can touch souls of such a sort. To this half-formed race of
    worldlings, who are scarce endued with a moral sense, the
    generous expression of indignation always appears something
    incomprehensible—ridiculous; or, in their language, outré!
    inouï! With such beings, therefore, I always am—as much as my
    nature will allow me to be—upon my guard; I keep within what
    they call the bounds of politeness—their dear politeness! What a
    system of simagrée it is, after all! and how can honest human
    nature bear to be penned up all its days by the Chinese paling of
    ceremony, or that French filigree work, politesse? English human
    nature cannot endure this, as yet; and I am glad of it—heartily
    glad of it—Now to the point.

    “You guess that I am going to speak of the Coulanges. Yes, my
    dear friend, you were quite right in advising me, when I first
    became acquainted with them, not to give way blindly to my
    enthusiasm—not to be too generous, or to expect too much
    gratitude. Gratitude! why should I ever expect to meet with
    any?—Where I have most deserved, most hoped for it, I have
    been always most disappointed. My life has been a life of
    sacrifices!—thankless and fruitless sacrifices! There is not any
    possible species of sacrifice of interest, pleasure, happiness,
    which I have not been willing to make—which I have not made—for
    my friends—for my enemies. Early in life, I gave up a lover I
    adored to a friend, who afterwards deserted me. I married a man I
    detested to oblige a mother, who at last refused to see me on her
    death-bed. What exertions I made for years to win the affection of
    the husband to whom I was only bound in duty! My generosity was
    thrown away upon him—he died—I became ambitious—I had means
    of gratifying my ambition—a splendid alliance was in my power.
    Ambition is a strong passion as well as love—but I sacrificed
    it without hesitation to my children—I devoted myself to the
    education of my two sons, one of whom has never, in any instance,
    since he became his own master, shown his mother tenderness or
    affection; and who, on some occasions, has scarcely behaved
    towards her with the common forms of respect and duty. Despairing,
    utterly despairing of gratitude from my own family and natural
    friends, I looked abroad, and endeavoured to form friendships with
    strangers, in hopes of finding more congenial tempers. I spared
    nothing to earn attachment—my time, my health, my money. I
    lavished money so, as even, notwithstanding my large income, to
    reduce myself frequently to the most straitened and embarrassing
    circumstances. And by all I have done, by all I have suffered,
    what have I gained?—not a single friend—except yourself. You, on
    whom I have never conferred the slightest favour, you are at this
    instant the only friend upon earth by whom I am really beloved. To
    you, who know my whole history, I may speak of myself as I have
    done, Heaven knows! not with vanity, but with deep humiliation and
    bitterness of heart. The experience of my whole life leaves me
    only the deplorable conviction that it is impossible to do good,
    that it is vain to hope even for friendship from those whom we
    oblige.

    “My last disappointment has been cruel, in proportion to the fond
    hopes I had formed. I cannot cure myself of this credulous folly.
    I did form high expectations of happiness from the society and
    gratitude of this Mad. and Mlle. de Coulanges; but the mother
    turns out to be a mere frivolous French comtesse, ignorant,
    vain, and positive—as all ignorant people are; full of national
    prejudices, which she supports in the most absurd and petulant
    manner. Possessed with the insanity, common to all Parisians, of
    thinking that Paris is the whole world, and that nothing can be
    good taste, or good sense, or good manners, but what is à-la-mode
    de Paris; through all her boasted politeness, you see, even by
    her mode of praising, that she has a most illiberal contempt for
    all who are not Parisians—she considers the rest of the world
    as barbarians. I could give you a thousand instances; but her
    conversation is really so frivolous, that it is not worth
    reciting. I bore with it day after day for several months with a
    patience for which, I am sure, you would have given me credit;
    and I let her go on eternally with absurd observations upon
    Shakspeare, and extravagant nonsense about Racine. To avoid
    disputing with her, I gave up every point—I acquiesced in all she
    said—and only begged to have peace. Still she was not satisfied.
    You know there are tempers which never can be contented, do what
    you will to please them. Mad. de Coulanges actually quarrelled
    with me for begging that we might have peace; and that we might
    talk upon subjects where we should not be likely to disagree.
    This will seem to you incredible; but it is the nature of French
    caprice: and for this I ought to have been prepared. But, indeed,
    I never could have prepared myself for the strange manner in which
    this lady thought proper to manifest her anger this day at dinner,
    before a large company. She spoke absolutely, notwithstanding all
    her good-breeding, in the most brutally ungrateful manner; and,
    after all I have done for her, she represented me as being as
    great a tyrant as Robespierre, and spoke of my house as a more
    intolerable prison than any in Paris!!! I only state the fact to
    you, without making any comments—I never yet saw so thoroughly
    selfish and unfeeling a human being.

    “The daughter has as far too much as the mother has too little
    sensibility. Emilie plagues me to death with her fine feelings
    and her sentimentality, and all her French parade of affection,
    and superfluity of endearing expressions, which mean nothing,
    and disgust English ears. She is always fancying that I am angry
    or displeased with her or with her mother; and then I am to have
    tears, and explanations, and apologies: she has not a mind large
    enough to understand my character: and if I were to explain to
    eternity, she would be as much in the dark as ever. Yet, after
    all, there is something so ingenuous and affectionate about this
    girl that I cannot help loving her, and that is what provokes me;
    for she does not, and never can, feel for me the affection that I
    have for her. My little hastiness of temper she has not strength
    of mind sufficient to bear—I see she is dreadfully afraid of
    me, and more constrained in my company than in that of any other
    person. Not a visitor comes, however insignificant, but Mlle. de
    Coulanges seems more at her ease, and converses more with them
    than with me—she talks to me only of gratitude, and such stuff.
    She is one of those feeble persons who, wanting confidence in
    themselves, are continually afraid that they shall not be grateful
    enough; and so they reproach and torment themselves, and refine
    and sentimentalize, till gratitude becomes burdensome (as it
    always does to weak minds), and the very idea of a benefactor
    odious. Mlle. de Coulanges was originally unwilling to accept of
    any obligation from me: she knew her own character better than I
    did. I do not deny that she has a heart; but she has no soul: I
    hope you understand and feel the difference. I rejoice, my dear
    Lady Littleton, that you are coming to town immediately. I am
    harassed almost to death between want of feeling and fine feeling.
    I really long to see you and to talk over all these things. Nobody
    but you, my dear friend, ever understood me.—Farewell!

    “Yours affectionately,

    “A. SOMERS.”

To this long letter, Lady Littleton replied by the following short note.

    “I hope to see you the day after to-morrow, my dear friend; in the
    mean time, do not decide, irrevocably, that Mlle. de Coulanges has
    no soul.

    “Yours affectionately,

    “L. LITTLETON.”

Mrs. Somers was rather disappointed by the calmness of this note; and she was most impatient to see Lady Littleton, that she might work up her mind to the proper pitch of indignation. She stationed a servant at her ladyship’s house to give her notice the moment of her arrival in town. The instant that she was informed of it she ordered her carriage; and the whole of her conversation during this visit was an invective against Emilie and Mad. de Coulanges. The next day, Emilie, who had heard the most enthusiastic eulogiums upon Lady Littleton, expressed much satisfaction on finding that she was come to town; and requested Mrs. Somers’ permission to accompany her on her next visit. The request was rather embarrassing; but Mrs. Somers granted it with a sort of constrained civility. It was fortunate for Emilie that she was so unsuspicious; for her manner was consequently frank, natural, and affectionate; and she appeared to the greatest advantage to Lady Littleton. Mrs. Somers threw herself back in the chair and sat silent, whilst Emilie, in hopes of pleasing her, conversed with the utmost freedom with her friend. The conversation, at last, was interrupted by an exclamation from Mrs. Somers, “Good Heavens! my dear Lady Littleton, how can you endure this smell of paint? It has made my head ache terribly—where does it come from?”

“From my bedchamber,” said Lady Littleton. “They have, unluckily, misunderstood my orders; and they have freshly painted every one in my house.”

“Then it is impossible that you should sleep here—I will not allow you—it will poison you—it will give you the palsy immediately—it is destruction—it is death. You must come home with me directly—I insist upon it—But, no,” said she, checking herself, with a look of sudden disappointment, “no, my dearest friend! I cannot invite you; for I have not a bed to offer you.”

“Yes, mine—you forget mine—dear Mrs. Somers,” cried Emilie; “you know I can sleep with mamma.”

“By no means, Mlle. de Coulanges; you cannot possibly imagine—”

“I only imagine the truth,” said Emilie, “that this arrangement would be infinitely more convenient to mamma; I know she likes to have me in the room with her. Pray, dear Mrs. Somers, let it be so.”

Mrs. Somers made many ceremonious speeches: but Lady Littleton seemed so well inclined to accept Emilie’s offered room, that she was obliged to yield. She was vexed to perceive that Emilie’s manners pleased Lady Littleton; and, after they returned home, the activity with which Emilie moved her books, her drawing-box, work, &c., furnished Mrs. Somers with fresh matter for displeasure. At night, when Lady Littleton went to take possession of her apartment, and when she observed how active and obliging Mlle. de Coulanges had been, Mrs. Somers shook her head, and replied, “All this is just a proof to me of what I asserted, Lady Littleton—and what I must irrevocably assert—that Mlle. de Coulanges has no soul. You are a new acquaintance, and I am an old friend. She exerts herself to please you; she does not care what I think or what I feel about the matter. Now this is just what I call having no soul.”

“My dear Mrs. Somers,” said Lady Littleton, “be reasonable; and you must perceive that Emilie’s eagerness to please me arises from her regard and gratitude to you: she has, I make no doubt, heard that I am your intimate friend, and your praises have disposed her to like me.—Is this a proof that she has no soul?”

“My dear Lady Littleton, we will not dispute about it—I see you are fascinated, as I was at first. Manner is a prodigious advantage—but I own I prefer solid English sincerity. Stay a little: as soon as Mlle. de Coulanges thinks herself secure of you, she will completely abandon me. I make no doubt that she will complain to you of my bad temper and ill usage; and I dare say that she will succeed in prejudicing you against me.”

“She will succeed only in prejudicing me against herself, if she attempt to injure you,” said Lady Littleton; “but, till I have some plain proof of it, I cannot believe that any person has such a base and ungrateful disposition.”

Mrs. Somers spent an hour and a quarter in explaining her causes of complaint against both mother and daughter; and she at last retired much dissatisfied, because her friend was not as angry as she was, but persisted in the resolution to see more before she decided. After passing a few days in the house with Mlle. de Coulanges, Lady Littleton frankly declared to Mrs. Somers that she thought her complaints of Emilie’s temper quite unreasonable, and that she was a most amiable and affectionate girl. Respect for Lady Littleton restrained Mrs. Somers from showing the full extent of her vexation; she contented herself with repeating, “Mlle. de Coulanges is certainly a very amiable young woman—I would by no means prejudice you against her—but when you know her as well as I do, you will find that she has no soul.”

Mrs. Somers, in the course of four-and-twenty hours, found a multitude of proofs in support of her opinion; but they were none of them absolutely satisfactory to Lady Littleton’s judgment. Whilst they were debating about her character, Emilie came into the room to show Mrs. Somers a French translation, which she had been making, of a pretty little English poem, called “The Emigrant’s Grave.” It was impossible to be displeased with the translation, or with the motive from which it was attempted; for it was done at the particular request of Mrs. Somers. This lady’s ingenuity, however, did not fail to discover some cause for dissatisfaction. Mlle. de Coulanges had adapted the words to a French, and not to an English air.

“This is a favourite air of mamma’s,” said Emilie, “and I thought that she would be pleased by my choosing it.”

“Yes,” replied Mrs. Somers, in her constrained voice, “I remember that the Countess de Coulanges and her friend—or your friend—M. de Brisac, were charmed with this air, when you sang it the other night. I found fault with it, I believe—but then you had a majority against me; and with some people that is sufficient. Few ask themselves what constitutes a majority—numbers or sense. Judgments and tastes may differ in value; but one vote is always as good as another, in the opinion of those who are decided merely by numbers.”

“I hope that I shall never be one of those,” said Emilie. “Upon the present occasion I assure you, my dear Mrs. Somers, that I was influenced by—”

“Oh! my dear Mlle. de Coulanges,” interrupted Mrs. Somers, “you need not give yourself the trouble to explain about such a trifle—the thing is perfectly clear. And nothing is more natural than that you should despise the taste of a friend when put in competition with that of a lover.”

“Of a lover!”

“Yes, of a lover. Why should Mlle. de Coulanges think it necessary to look astonished? But young ladies imagine this sort of dissimulation is becoming; and can I hope to meet with an exception, or to find one superior to the finesse of her sex?—I beg your pardon, Mlle. de Coulanges, I really forgot that Lady Littleton was present when this terrible word lover escaped—but I can assure you that frankness is not incompatible with her ideas of delicacy.”

“You are mistaken, dear Mrs. Somers; indeed you are mistaken,” said Emilie; “but you are displeased with me now, and I will take a more favourable moment to set you right. In the mean time, I will go and water the hydrangia, which I forgot, and which I reproached myself for forgetting yesterday.”

Emilie left the room.

“Are you convinced now, my dear Lady Littleton,” cried Mrs. Somers, “that this girl has no soul—and very little heart?”

“I am convinced only that she has an excellent temper,” said Lady Littleton. “I hope you do not think a good temper is incompatible with a heart or a soul.”

“I will tell you what I think, and what I am sure of,” cried Mrs. Somers, raising her voice; “that Mlle. de Coulanges will be a constant cause of dispute and uneasiness between you and me, Lady Littleton—I foresee the end of this. As a return for all I have done for her and her mother, she will rob me of the affections of one whom I love and esteem, respect and admire—as she well knows—above all other human beings. She will rob me of the affections of one who has been my friend, my best, my only constant friend, for twenty years!—Oh! why am I doomed eternally to be the victim of ingratitude?”

In spite of Lady Littleton’s efforts to stop and calm her, Mrs. Somers burst out of the room in an agony of passion. She ran up a back staircase which led to her dressing-room, but suddenly stopped when she came to the landing-place, for she found Emilie watering her plants.

“Look, dear Mrs. Somers, this hydrangia is just going to blow; though I was so careless as to forget to water it yesterday.”

“I beg, Mlle. de Coulanges, that you will not trouble yourself,” said Mrs. Somers, haughtily. “Surely there are servants enough in this house whose business it is to remember these things.”

“Yes,” said Emilie, “it is their business, but it is my pleasure. You must not, indeed you must not, take my watering-pot from me!”

“Pardon me, I must, mademoiselle—you are very condescending and polite, and I am very blunt and rude, or whatever you please to think me. But the fact is, that I am not to be flattered by what the French call des petites attentions: they are suited to little minds, but not to me. You will never know my character, Mlle. de Coulanges—I am not to be pleased by such means.”

“Teach me then better means, my dear friend, and do not bid me despair of ever pleasing you,” said Emilie, throwing her arms round Mrs. Somers to detain her.

“Excuse me—I am an Englishwoman, and do not love embrassades, which mean nothing,” said Mrs. Somers, struggling to disengage herself; and she rushed suddenly forward, without perceiving that Emilie’s foot was entangled in her train. Emilie was thrown from the top of the stairs to the bottom. Mrs. Somers screamed—Lady Littleton came out of her room.

“She is dead!—I have killed her!”—cried Mrs. Somers. Lady Littleton raised Emilie from the ground—she was quite stunned by the violence of the fall.

“Oh! speak to me! dearest Emilie, speak once more!” said Mrs. Somers.

As soon as Emilie could speak, she assured Mrs. Somers that she should be quite well in a few minutes. When she attempted, however, to walk, she found she was unable to move, for her ankle was violently sprained: she was carried into Lady Littleton’s room, and placed upon a sofa. She exerted herself to bear the pain she felt, that she might not alarm or seem to reproach Mrs. Somers; and she repeatedly blamed herself for the awkwardness with which she had occasioned her own fall. Mrs. Somers, in the greatest bustle and confusion, called every servant in the house about her, sent them different ways for all the remedies she had ever heard of for a sprain; then was sure Emilie’s skull was fractured—asked fifty times in five minutes whether she did not feel a certain sickness in her stomach, which was the infallible sign of “something wrong”—insisted upon her smelling at salts, vinegar, and various essences; and made her swallow, or at least taste, every variety of drops and cordials. By this time Mad. de Coulanges, who was at her toilet, had heard of the accident, and came running in half dressed; the hurry of Mrs. Somers’ manner, the crowd of assistants, the quantity of remedies, the sight of Emilie stretched upon a sofa, and the sound of the word fracture, which caught her ear, had such an effect upon the countess, that she was instantly seized with one of her nervous attacks; and Mrs. Somers was astonished to see Emilie spring from the sofa to assist her mother. When Mad. de Coulanges recovered, Emilie used all her powers of persuasion to calm her spirits, laughed at the idea of her skull being fractured, and said, that she had only twisted her ankle, which would merely prevent her from dancing for a few days. The countess pitied herself for having such terribly weak nerves—congratulated herself upon her daughter’s safety—declared that it was a miracle how she could have escaped, in falling down such a narrow staircase—observed, that, though the stairs in London were cleaner and better carpeted, the staircases of Paris were at least four times as broad, and, consequently, a hundred times as safe. She then reminded Emilie of an anecdote mentioned by Mad. de Genlis about a princess of France, who, when she retired to a convent, complained bitterly of the narrowness of the staircase, which, she said, she found a real misfortune to be obliged to descend. “Tell me, Emilie, what was the name of the princess?”

“The Princess Louisa of France, I believe, mamma,” replied Emilie.

Mad. de Coulanges repeated, “Ay, the Princess Louisa of France;” and then, well satisfied, returned to finish her toilette.

“You have an excellent memory, Mlle. de Coulanges,” said Mrs. Somers, looking with an air of pique at Emilie. “I really am rejoiced to see you so much yourself again—I thought you were seriously hurt.”

“I told you that I was not,” said Emilie, forcing a smile.

“Yes, but I was such a fool as to be terrified out of my senses by seeing you lie down on the sofa. I might have saved myself and you a great deal of trouble. I must have appeared ridiculously officious. I saw indeed that I was troublesome; and I seem to be too much for you now. I will leave you with Lady Littleton, to explain to her how the accident happened. Pray tell the thing just as it was—do not spare me, I beg. I do not desire that Lady Littleton, or any friend I have upon earth, should think better of me than I deserve. Remember, you have my free leave, Mlle. de Coulanges, to speak of me as you think—so don’t spare me!” cried Mrs. Somers, shutting the door with violence as she left the room.

“Lean upon me, my dear,” said Lady Littleton, who saw that Emilie turned exceedingly pale, and looked towards a chair, as if she wished to reach it, but could not.

“I thought,” said she, in a faint voice, “that this pain would go off, but it is grown more violent.” Emilie could say no more; she had borne intense pain as long as she was able: and now, quite overcome, she leaned back, and fainted. Lady Littleton threw open the window, sprinkled water upon Emilie’s face, and gave her assistance in the kindest manner, without calling any of the servants; she knew that the return of Mrs. Somers would do more harm than good. Emilie soon recovered her recollection; and, whilst Lady Littleton was rubbing the sprained ankle with ether, in hopes of lessening the pain, she asked how the accident had happened.—Emilie replied simply, that she had entangled her foot in Mrs. Somers’ gown. “I understand, from what Mrs. Somers hinted when she left the room,” said Lady Littleton, “that she was somehow in fault in this affair, and that you could blame her if you would; but I see that you will not; and I love you the better for justifying the good opinion that I had formed of you, Emilie.—But I will not talk sentiment to you now—you are in too much pain to relish it.”

“Not at all,” said Emilie: “I feel more pleasure than pain at this moment; indeed my ankle does not hurt me now that I am quite still—the pleasant cold of the ether has relieved the pain. How kind you are to me, Lady Littleton, and how much I am obliged to you for judging so favourably of my character!”

“You are not obliged to me, my dear, for I do you only justice.”

“Justice is sometimes felt as the greatest possible obligation, especially by those who have experienced the reverse.—But,” said Emilie, checking herself, “let me not blame Mrs. Somers, or incline you to blame her. I should do very wrong, indeed, if I were, in return for all she has done for us, to cause any jealousies or quarrels between her and her best friend. Oh! that is what I most dread! To prevent it, I would—it is not polite to say so—but I would, my dear Lady Littleton, even withdraw myself from your society. This very day you return to your own house. You were so good as to ask me to go often to see you: forgive me if I do not avail myself of this kind permission. You will know my reasons; and I hope they are such as you will approve of.”

A servant came in, to say that her ladyship’s carriage was at the door.

“One word more before you go, my dear Lady Littleton,” said Emilie, with a supplicating voice and countenance. “Tell me, I beseech you—for you have been her friend from her childhood, and must know better than any one living—tell me how I can please Mrs. Somers. I begin to be afraid that I shall at last be weary of my fruitless efforts, and I dread—above all things I dread—that my affection for her should be worn out. How painful it would be to sustain the continual weight of obligation without being able to feel the pleasure of gratitude!”

Lady Littleton was going to reply, but she was prevented by the sudden entrance of Mrs. Somers with her face of wrath.

“So, Lady Littleton, you are actually going, I find!—And I have not had one moment of your conversation. May I be allowed—if Mlle. de Coulanges has finished her mysteries—to say a few words to you?”

“You will give me leave, I am sure, Emilie,” said Lady Littleton, “to repeat to Mrs. Somers every word that you have said to me?”

“Yes, every word,” said Emilie, blushing, yet speaking with firmness. “I have no mysteries—I do not wish to conceal from Mrs. Somers any thing that I say or think.”

Mrs. Somers seized Lady Littleton’s arm, and left the room; but when she had entire possession of her friend’s ear, she had nothing to say, or nothing that she would say, except half sentences, reproaching her for not staying longer, and insinuating that Emilie would be the cause of their separating for ever.—“Now, as you have her permission, will you favour me with a repetition of her last conversation?”

“Not in your present humour, my dear,” said Lady Littleton: “this is not the happy moment to speak reason to you. Adieu! I give you four-and-twenty hours’ grace before I declare you a bankrupt in temper. You shall hear from me to-morrow; for, on some subjects, I have always found it better to write than to speak to you.”

Mrs. Somers continued during the remainder of the day in a desperate state of ill-humour, which was increased by finding that Mlle. de Coulanges could neither stand nor walk. Mrs. Somers was persuaded that Emilie, if she would have exerted herself, could have done both, but that she preferred exciting the pity of the whole house; and this, all circumstances considered, was a proof of total want of generosity and gratitude. The next morning, however, she was alarmed by hearing from Mrs. Masham, whom she had sent to attend upon Mlle. de Coulanges, that her ankle was violently swelled and inflamed.—Just when the full tide of her affections was beginning to flow in Emilie’s favour, Mrs. Somers received the following letter from Lady Littleton:—