Little Saint Elizabeth and Other Stories — 03 - Little Saint Elizabeth Part 3
"He does not care," she said; "he does not know.
And I do no one good--no one."
And she covered her face with her hands and stood sobbing all alone.
When she returned to her room she was so pale that her maid looked at her anxiously, and spoke of it afterwards to the other servants.
They were all fond of Mademoiselle Elizabeth.
She was always kind and gentle to everybody.
Nearly all the day she sat, poor little saint!
by her window looking out at the passers-by in the snowy street.
But she scarcely saw the people at all, her thoughts were far away, in the little village where she had always spent her Christmas before.
Her Aunt Clotilde had allowed her at such times to do so much.
There had not been a house she had not carried some gift to; not a child who had been forgotten.
And the church on Christmas morning had been so beautiful with flowers from the hot-houses of the _château_.
It was for the church, indeed, that the conservatories were chiefly kept up.
Mademoiselle de Rochemont would scarcely have permitted herself such luxuries.
But there would not be flowers this year, the _château_ was closed; there were no longer gardeners at work, the church would be bare and cold, the people would have no gifts, there would be no pleasure in the little peasants' faces.
Little Saint Elizabeth wrung her slight hands together in her lap.
"Oh," she cried, "what can I do?
And then there is the poor here--so many.
And I do nothing.
The Saints will be angry; they will not intercede for me.
I shall be lost!"
It was not alone the poor she had left in her village who were a grief to her.
As she drove through the streets she saw now and then haggard faces;
and when she had questioned a servant who had one day come to her to ask for charity for a poor child at the door, she had found that in parts of this great, bright city which she had not seen, there was said to be cruel want and suffering, as in all great cities.
"And it is so cold now," she thought, "with the snow on the ground."
The lamps in the street were just beginning to be lighted when her Uncle Bertrand returned.
It appeared that he had brought back with him the gentleman with the kind face.
They were to dine together, and Uncle Bertrand desired that Mademoiselle Elizabeth should join them.
Evidently the journey out of town had been delayed for a day at least.
There came also another message: Monsieur de Rochemont wished Mademoiselle to send to him by her maid a certain box of antique ornaments which had been given to her by her Aunt Clotilde.
Elizabeth had known less of the value of these jewels than of their beauty.
She knew they were beautiful, and that they had belonged to her Aunt Clotilde in the gay days of her triumphs as a beauty and a brilliant and adored young woman, but it seemed that they were also very curious, and Monsieur de Rochemont wished his friend to see them.
When Elizabeth went downstairs she found them examining them together.
"They must be put somewhere for safe keeping," Uncle Bertrand was saying.
"It should have been done before.
I will attend to it."
The gentleman with the kind eyes looked at Elizabeth with an interested expression as she came into the room.
Her slender little figure in its black velvet dress, her delicate little face with its large soft sad eyes, the gentle gravity of her manner made her seem quite unlike other children.
He did not seem simply to find her amusing, as her Uncle Bertrand did.
She was always conscious that behind Uncle Bertrand's most serious expression there was lurking a faint smile as he watched her, but this visitor looked at her in a different way.
He was a doctor, she discovered.
Dr. Norris, her uncle called him, and Elizabeth wondered if perhaps his profession had not made him quick of sight and kind.
She felt that it must be so when she heard him talk at dinner.
She found that he did a great deal of work among the very poor---that he had a hospital, where he received little children who were ill--who had perhaps met with accidents, and could not be taken care of in their wretched homes.
He spoke most frequently of terrible quarters, which he called Five Points; the greatest poverty and suffering was there.
And he spoke of it with such eloquent sympathy, that even Uncle Bertrand began to listen with interest.
"Come," he said, "you are a rich, idle fellow; De Rochemont, and we want rich, idle fellows to come and look into all this and do something for us.
You must let me take you with me some day."
"It would disturb me too much, my good Norris," said Uncle Bertrand, with a slight shudder.
"I should not enjoy my dinner after it."
"Then go without your dinner," said Dr. Norris.
"These people do.
You have too many dinners.
Give up one."
Uncle Bertrand shrugged his shoulders and smiled.
"It is Elizabeth who fasts," he said.
"Myself, I prefer to dine.
And yet, some day, I may have the fancy to visit this place with you."
Elizabeth could scarcely have been said to dine this evening.
She could not eat.
She sat with her large, sad eyes fixed upon Dr. Norris' face as he talked.
Every word he uttered sank deep into her heart The want and suffering of which he spoke were more terrible than anything she had ever heard of--it had been nothing like this in the village.
Oh!
no, no. As she thought of it there was such a look in her dark eyes as almost startled Dr. Norris several times when he glanced at her, but as he did not know the particulars of her life with her aunt and the strange training she had had, he could not possibly have guessed what was going on in her mind, and how much effect his stories were having.
The beautiful little face touched him very much, and the pretty French accent with which the child spoke seemed very musical to him, and added a great charm to the gentle, serious answers she made to the remarks he addressed to her.
He could not help seeing that something had made little Mademoiselle Elizabeth a pathetic and singular little creature, and he continually wondered what it was.
"Do you think she is a happy child?"
he asked Monsieur de Rochemont when they were alone together over their cigars and wine.
"Happy?"
said Uncle Bertrand, with his light smile.
"She has been taught, my friend, that to be happy upon earth is a crime.
That was my good sister's creed.
One must devote one's self, not to happiness, but entirely to good works.
I think I have told you that she, this little one, desires to give all her fortune to the poor.
Having heard you this evening, she will wish to bestow it upon your Five Points."
When, having retired from the room with a grave and stately little obeisance to her uncle and his guest, Elizabeth had gone upstairs, it had not been with the intention of going to bed.
She sent her maid away and knelt before her altar for a long time.
"The Saints will tell me what to do," she said.
"The good Saints, who are always gracious, they will vouchsafe to me some thought which will instruct me if I remain long enough at prayer."
She remained in prayer a long time.
When at last she arose from her knees it was long past midnight, and she was tired and weak, but the thought had not been given to her.
But just as she laid her head upon her pillow it came.
The ornaments given to her by her Aunt Clotilde somebody would buy them.
They were her own--it would be right to sell them--to what better use could they be put?
Was it not what Aunt Clotilde would have desired?
Had she not told her stories of the good and charitable who had sold the clothes from their bodies that the miserable might be helped?
Yes, it was right.
These things must be done.
All else was vain and useless and of the world.
But it would require courage--great courage.
To go out alone to find a place where the people would buy the jewels--perhaps there might be some who would not want them.
And then when they were sold to find this poor and unhappy quarter of which her uncle's guest had spoken, and to give to those who needed--all by herself.
Ah!
what courage it would require.
And then Uncle Bertrand, some day he would ask about the ornaments, and discover all, and his anger might be terrible.
No one had ever been angry with her; how could she bear it.
But had not the Saints and Martyrs borne everything?
had they not gone to the stake and the rack with smiles?
She thought of Saint Elizabeth and the cruel Landgrave.
It could not be even so bad as that--but whatever the result was it must be borne.
So at last she slept, and there was upon her gentle little face so sweetly sad a look that when her maid came to waken her in the morning she stood by the bedside for some moments looking down upon her pityingly.
The day seemed very long and sorrowful to the poor child.
It was full of anxious thoughts and plannings.
She was so innocent and inexperienced, so ignorant of all practical things.
She had decided that it would be best to wait until evening before going out, and then to take the jewels and try to sell them to some jeweller.
She did not understand the difficulties that would lie in her way, but she felt very timid.
Her maid had asked permission to go out for the evening and Monsieur de Rochemont was to dine out, so that she found it possible to leave the house without attracting attention.
As soon as the streets were lighted she took the case of ornaments, and going downstairs very quietly, let herself out.
The servants were dining, and she was seen by none of them.
When she found herself in the snowy street she felt strangely bewildered.
She had never been out unattended before, and she knew nothing of the great busy city.
When she turned into the more crowded thoroughfares, she saw several times that the passers-by glanced at her curiously.
Her timid look, her foreign air and richly furred dress, and the fact that she was a child and alone at such an hour, could not fail to attract attention; but though she felt confused and troubled she went bravely on.
It was some time before she found a jeweller's shop, and when she entered it the men behind the counter looked at her in amazement.
But she went to the one nearest to her and laid the case of jewels on the counter before him.
"I wish," she said, in her soft low voice, and with the pretty accent, "I wish that you should buy these."
The man stared at her, and at the ornaments, and then at her again.
"I beg pardon, miss," he said.
Elizabeth repeated her request.
"I will speak to Mr. Moetyler," he said, after a moment of hesitation.
He went to the other end of the shop to an elderly man who sat behind a desk.
After he had spoken a few words, the elderly man looked up as if surprised; then he glanced at Elizabeth; then, after speaking a few more words, he came forward.
"You wish to sell these?"
he said, looking at the case of jewels with a puzzled expression.
"Yes," Elizabeth answered.
He bent over the case and took up one ornament after the other and examined them closely.
After he had done this he looked at the little girl's innocent, trustful face, seeming more puzzled than before.
"Are they your own?"
he inquired.
"Yes, they are mine," she replied, timidly.
"Do you know how much they are worth?"
"I know that they are worth much money," said Elizabeth.
"I have heard it said so."
"Do your friends know that you are going to sell them?"
"No," Elizabeth said, a faint color rising in her delicate face.
"But it is right that I should do it."
The man spent a few moments in examining them again and, having done so, spoke hesitatingly.
"I am afraid we cannot buy them," he said.
"It would be impossible, unless your friends first gave their permission."
"Impossible!"
said Elizabeth, and tears rose in her eyes, making them look softer and more wistful than ever.
"We could not do it," said the jeweller.
"It is out of the question under the circumstances."
"Do you think," faltered the poor little saint, "do you think that nobody will buy them?"
"I am afraid not," was the reply.
"No respectable firm who would pay their real value.
If you take my advice, young lady, you will take them home and consult your friends."
He spoke kindly, but Elizabeth was overwhelmed with disappointment.
She did not know enough of the world to understand that a richly dressed little girl who offered valuable jewels for sale at night must be a strange and unusual sight.
When she found herself on the street again, her long lashes were heavy with tears.
"If no one will buy them," she said, "what shall I do?"
She walked a long way--so long that she was very tired--and offered them at several places, but as she chanced to enter only respectable shops, the same thing happened each time.
She was looked at curiously and questioned, but no one would buy.
