Little Saint Elizabeth and Other Stories | Page 5

it is right to mortify the spirit. The martyrs went to the stake. The holy Saint Elizabeth was ready to endure anything that she might do her duty and help the poor."
Because she had been called Elizabeth she had thought and read a great deal of the saint whose namesake she was--the saintly Elizabeth whose husband was so wicked and cruel, and who wished to prevent her from doing good deeds. And oftenest of all she had read the legend which told that one day as Elizabeth went out with a basket of food to give to the poor and hungry, she had met her savage husband, who had demanded that she should tell him what she was carrying, and when she replied "Roses," and he tore the cover from the basket to see if she spoke the truth, a miracle had been performed, and the basket was filled with roses, so that she had been saved from her husband's cruelty, and also from telling an untruth. To little Elizabeth this legend had been beautiful and quite real--it proved that if one were doing good, the saints would take care of one. Since she had been in her new home, she had, half consciously, compared her Uncle Bertrand with the wicked Landgrave, though she was too gentle and just to think he was really cruel, as Saint Elizabeth's husband had been, only he did not care for the poor, and loved only the world--and surely that was wicked. She had been taught that to care for the world at all was a fatal sin.
She did not eat any breakfast. She thought she would fast until she had done what she intended to do. It had been her Aunt Clotilde's habit to fast very often.
She waited anxiously to hear that her Uncle Bertrand had left his room. He always rose late, and this morning he was later than usual as he had had a long gay dinner party the night before.
It was nearly twelve before she heard his door open. Then she went quickly to the staircase. Her heart was beating so fast that she put her little hand to her side and waited a moment to regain her breath. She felt quite cold.
"Perhaps I must wait until he has eaten his breakfast," she said. "Perhaps I must not disturb him yet. It would, make him displeased. I will wait--yes, for a little while."
She did not return to her room, but waited upon the stairs. It seemed to be a long time. It appeared that a friend breakfasted with him. She heard a gentleman come in and recognized his voice, which she had heard before. She did not know what the gentleman's name was, but she had met him going in and out with her uncle once or twice, and had thought he had a kind face and kind eyes. He had looked at her in an interested way when he spoke to her--even as if he were a little curious, and she had wondered why he did so.
When the door of the breakfast room opened and shut as the servants went in, she could hear the two laughing and talking. They seemed to be enjoying themselves very much. Once she heard an order given for the mail phaeton. They were evidently going out as soon as the meal was over.
At last the door opened and they were coming out. Elizabeth ran down the stairs and stood in a small reception room. Her heart began to beat faster than ever.
"The blessed martyrs were not afraid," she whispered to herself.
"Uncle Bertrand!" she said, as he approached, and she scarcely knew her own faint voice. "Uncle Bertrand--"
He turned, and seeing her, started, and exclaimed, rather impatiently--evidently he was at once amazed and displeased to see her. He was in a hurry to get out, and the sight of her odd little figure, standing in its straight black robe between the _porti��res_, the slender hands clasped on the breast, the small pale face and great dark eyes uplifted, was certainly a surprise to him.
"Elizabeth!" he said, "what do you wish? Why do you come downstairs? And that impossible dress! Why do you wear it again? It is not suitable."
"Uncle Bertrand," said the child, clasping her hands still more tightly, her eyes growing larger in her excitement and 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 _cur��_ 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 cur��_, is it?" he said. "He wants money! My dear Elizabeth, I must inquire further. You