University of Virginia Library

LA ROSIERE:
OR, THE TRIUMPH OF GOODNESS.

In France there is an old and very graceful
custom, called the fete of la Rosiere. On
this occasion those in authority publicly present
a garland of roses to the best and most
beautiful girl in the village. This custom
had its origin deep in national feeling and
true morality; but, alas! wheresoever human
passion can creep in, they leave their
slime upon the roses of life—the fete of la
Rosiere, like other triumphs, too often becomes
an affair of jealous rivalry and petty
intrigue.

Angelique Duroy was one of the very
prettiest of her bewitching countrywomen.
Her clear, dark eye was neither flashing nor

languid—it had a quiet, deep expression,
brilliant yet thoughtful; her complexion inclined
to olive; but the perpetual colour that
mantled there, gave her cheek the tempting
ripeness of tropical fruit; while the laughing
dimples on either side came and went, like
whirlpools in a sunny stream. Every thing
in her look and motion argued an exuberance
of life and happiness. Her voice had the
clear, gushing melody of the thrush, her
little nimble graceful feet made one think of
a swallow just ready to take wing; and altogether
she was so small, so airy, so pretty,
so gay, and so musical, that I am sure if
ner soul transmigrates, it will pass into a
yellow-bird, or a Java-sparrow.

The young men all admired Angelique,
because she was so lady-like and unaffected;
the old people loved her because she was
such a good child to her parents, and always
so kind and respectful to the aged—while the
children, when asked, were always ready to
say, “We love Angelique best, because she
is always so good-natured and obliging, and
she knows how to make us so many pretty

things.” Indeed, Angelique was famous for
her ingenuity and industry. After examining
anything, she always found out how to
do it without being taught; and what she
did, she always did well. The prettiest
dresses and bonnets in the village were made
by her; and her artificial flowers were so
natural, that I think the very honey-bees
would have been deceived by them. Some
told her if she went to Paris she would make
a fortune by her ingenuity; but Angelique
blushed, and said she had rather live with
her good mother, than grow rich among
strangers.

It is strange this artless little French girl
should have enemies; for she never had an
uncommonly pretty cap, or garland, that she
was not perfectly willing to make her young
companions one just like it; but great gifts,
if borne ever so meekly, do excite envy—
Angelique had her enemies. The daughter
of the Maire of the village was eight or nine
years older than Angelique; and she never
from her childhood had been either pretty,
or amiable. She was very rich, very idle,

very haughty, and very jealous. It vexed
her that her fairy neighbour, unadorned, save
by her own tasteful industry, should be so
much more admired than she was, with all
her jewelry and Parisian finery. Besides,
she had long been in love with the son of a
wealthy proprietaire; and this young man,
when urged by his father to make suit to so
great an heiress, openly declared that his
affections were engaged to Angelique. This
made the father very angry—he called it a
boyish passion. “Antoinette is the only
child of the Maire, and he has immense
wealth and high character; will you give up
such an union, when father and daughter both
evidently wish for it, merely for the sake of
a pretty plaything, a giddy little butterfly,
like Angelique Duroy?” said he.

The young man insisted that Angelique
was as good as she was pretty; that she was
capable, industrious, modest, and noble-hearted—“As
a proof of it,” contined he,
“every one in the village, except Antoinette,
says the Cure will crown her at the fete of
la Rosiere.”

The proprietaire was a kind-hearted, wise,
old man; his neighbours called him odd,—
but his oddity was always of a benevolent
kind. “Well, Jacques,” said he, “if the
girl has so many good qualities, besides her
pretty looks, I won't be obstinate about being
convinced. I know Angelique has resolutely
refused to receive any attention from you
without the knowledge and approbation of
her mother and myself—this speaks well—
but how do you know that the young lady
will smile upon your suit?”

Jacques looked down, blushed very slightly,
hesitated—then looked up with an arch
look, and said, “If she knew you gave your
approbation, I, at least, might try.”

The old man smiled—“Well, well,” said
he, “I see how it is. The girl, though not
rich, is highly respectable. I will attend the
fete of la Rosiere; you shall dance with the
crowned fair one; and if I think she deserves
this distinction, Angelique shall be to me as
a daughter.”

Jacques knelt down and kissed his father's
hand with overflowing gratitude. He had

not expected to gain his point so easily;
for he knew his father had very much set his
heart upon joining his estates to those of the
Maire. “You are the best father in the
world!” exclaimed he. “You call me so
Jacques—the world will say I am an old fool;
but after all, what do we live for, if not for
happiness?”

Away went the young man, in the fullness
of his joy, to impart the tidings to Angelique;
and she, above all petty coquetry, heard it
with unaffected delight.

The fete of la Rosiere was anxiously awaited.
Every body so often repeated that
Angelique would certainly be crowned, for
she was la plus belle et la plus bonne, that
modest as she was, she could not help expecting
it. The important day came—and
who do you think was crowned? Antoinette,
the ugly, idle daughter of the Maire!
she was crowned the best and most beautiful!
The Maire gave a great ball that night.
Angelique went; for she was above showing
any resentment. She saw Jacques dancing
with la Rosiere—she saw that his father

observed her closely; and though she could
not be gay, she was cheerful and dignified.
Antoinette whispered to her companions,
“See what bold airs she puts on: I should
think she would be mortified, when she and
all her friends have been boasting that she
would be crowned.” The old proprietaire
heard one or two such speeches as this, and
he shook his head expressively. He disappeared
from the room a short time; while he
was gone, his sister, a maiden lady, came up
to Angelique: “My dear child,” said she,
“there is something wrong about this affair
—all the village said you would be crowned.”
“My friends flattered me,” said Angelique,
modestly; “I knew they thought more highly
of me than I deserved.” “But think of
crowning Antoinette!” continued the lady—
“Such an ugly, sluttish thing as she is!”

“Her dress is very becoming,” said Angelique;
“and I think she is the best dancer
in the room:” the tears came to her eyes as
she said this; for Jacques was again dancing
with la Rosiere, and her garland of Provence
roses was very beautiful.

Angelique retired very early that night,—
not without a kind look from Jacques, and an
expression of benevolent approbation from
the old proprietaire and his maiden sister.
As soon as she reached her own little bedroom,
she knelt down, and bursting into tears,
prayed that all envious and repining thoughts
might be subdued within her heart. The
prayer proved to be a strength and a consolation;
and she soon sunk to sleep as sweetly
as an infant.

Jacques came the next day. He was loud
in his complaints. He said the whole village
was indignant about it. Much good might
the crown of roses do Miss Antoinette!—Nobody
thought she deserved it. He knew
one thing, the Maire had given the Cure a
splendid suit of clothes just before the fete;
and he himself had seen Antoinette's diamond
ring on his finger. No wonder the
Cure gave the crown to a rich man's daughter.
“Nay, I do not think the Cure could
do so wrong as to take bribes from anybody,”
replied Angelique; “and I beg you will not
say so.” “All the village think so,” replied

Jacques; “and they always will think so. I
danced with her, because my father said it
would give offence if I did not, on such an
occasion; but I will never dance with her
again.” “I am sure she is one of the best
dancers I ever saw,” answered Angelique.

Nothing soothed by her gentleness, Jacques
went away more indignant than ever, that so
good a girl should be thus wronged.

A week or two after, a great ball was given
by the proprietaire. He himself called
to invite Angelique; and in the intervening
time, hardly a day passed without his spending
an hour or two at her parent's dwelling.
The more he saw of her, the more he was
convinced that she was a good girl, and worthy
of his son. When the evening of the
ball arrived, Angelique and her family were
received at his large mansion with distinguished
kindness. “Before the dancing
begins, I have a whim to be gratified,” said
the kind-hearted, but eccentric old man.
There was a universal hum of assent among
the assembly; for the wealthy old landlord
was very popular; and a proposition of his

could at any time be carried by acclamation
in the village. The old gentleman smiled,
and holding up a wreath of roses and orange-buds,
he said, “There were once two Popes
in the church; why should there not be two
crowned la Rosiere?” As he spoke, he
placed the garland on the head of Angelique.
“I crown her, because I have proved that
she cannot be tempted to speak ill of a rival,”
said he; “the roses are my own gift,—the
orange-buds came from a younger hand.”
Angelique blushed crimson; for orange-buds
form the bridal wreath in France. She
looked up timidly; Jacques was at her side,
the music struck up “C'est l' amour, l' amour,”
and the exulting lover led her to the
dance amid the applauses of the guests.

Angelique afterwards found that the good
maiden lady had been instructed to try her
generosity, and that the father of Jacques
had been a concealed listener to her replies.

Antoinette was not invited to the proprietaire's
ball. He said he had learned instances
of her art and selfishness, which had
destroyed all esteem for her; but that he

would not openly insult her by the triumph
of one she had always tried to injure.

Soon after, Angelique actually wore the
white veil and the orange-buds, to the village
church; and the Maire and his daughter left
a place where they had never been popular,
and now were odious. By the influence of
the proprietaire, a new Cure was appointed
before the next fete of la Rosiere.