Little Saint Elizabeth and Other Stories | Page 6

terror under his
displeasure, "it is that I want money--a great deal. I beg your pardon if I
derange you. It is for the poor. Moreover, the _curé_ has written the
people of the village are ill--the vineyards did not yield well. They
must have money. I must send them some."

Uncle Bertrand shrugged his shoulders.
"That is the message of _monsieur le curé_, is it?" he said. "He wants
money! My dear Elizabeth, I must inquire further. You have a fortune,
but I cannot permit you to throw it away. You are a child, and do not
understand--"
[Illustration: "UNCLE BERTRAND," SAID THE CHILD, CLASPING
HER HANDS.]
"But," cried Elizabeth, trembling with agitation, "they are so poor when
one does not help them: their vineyards are so little, and if the year is
bad they must starve. Aunt Clotilde gave to them every year--even in
the good years. She said they must be cared for like children."
"That was your Aunt Clotilde's charity," replied her uncle. "Sometimes
she was not so wise as she was devout. I must know more of this. I
have no time at present, I am going out of town. In a few days I will
reflect upon it. Tell your maid to give that hideous garment away. Go
out to drive--amuse yourself--you are too pale."
Elizabeth looked at his handsome, careless face in utter helplessness.
This was a matter of life and death to her; to him it meant nothing.
"But it is winter," she panted, breathlessly; "there is snow. Soon it will
be Christmas, and they will have nothing--no candles for the church, no
little manger for the holy child, nothing for the poorest ones. And the
children--"
"It shall be thought of later," said Uncle Bertrand. "I am too busy now.
Be reasonable, my child, and run away. You detain me."
He left her with a slight impatient shrug of his shoulders and the slight
amused smile on his lips. She heard him speak to his friend.
"She was brought up by one who had renounced the world," he said,
"and she has already renounced it herself--pauvre petite enfant! At
eleven years she wishes to devote her fortune to the poor and herself to
the Church."
Elizabeth sank back into the shadow of the _portières_. Great burning
tears filled her eyes and slipped down her cheeks, falling upon her
breast.
"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