"To virtue wake the pulses of the heart,
And bid the tear of emulation start."
ROGERS.
Victoire, who gave constant exercise to the benevolent feelings of the
amiable nun, became every day more dear to her. Far from having the
selfishness of a favourite, Victoire loved to bring into public notice
the good actions of her companions. "Stoop down your ear to me, Sister
Frances," said she, "and I will tell you a secret--I will tell you why my
friend Annette is growing so thin--I found it out this morning--she does
not eat above half her soup every day. Look, there's her porringer
covered up in the corner--she carries it home to her mother, who is sick,
and who has not bread to eat."
Madame de Fleury came in whilst Sister Frances was yet bending down to
hear this secret; it was repeated to her, and she immediately ordered
that a certain allowance of bread should be given to Annette every day to
carry to her mother during her illness.
"I give it in charge to you, Victoire, to remember this, and I am sure it
will never be forgotten. Here is an order for you upon my baker: run and
show it to Annette. This is a pleasure you deserve; I am glad that you
have chosen for your friend a girl who is so good a daughter. Good
daughters make good friends."
By similar instances of goodness Victoire obtained the love and
confidence of her companions, notwithstanding her manifest superiority.
In their turn, they were eager to proclaim her merits; and, as Sister
Frances and Madame de Fleury administered justice with invariable
impartiality, the hateful passions of envy and jealousy were never
excited in this little society. No servile sycophant, no malicious
detractor, could rob or defraud their little virtues of their due reward.
"Whom shall I trust to take this to Madame de Fleury?" said Sister
Frances, carrying into the garden where the children were playing a pot
of fine jonquils, which she had brought from her convent.--"These are the
first jonquils I have seen this year, and finer I never beheld! Whom
shall I trust to take them to Madame de Fleury this evening?--It must be
some one who will not stop to stare about on the way, but who will be
very, very careful--some one in whom I can place perfect dependence."
"It must be Victoire, then," cried every voice.
"Yes, she deserves it to-day particularly," said Annette eagerly;
"because she was not angry with Babet when she did what was enough to put
anybody in a passion. Sister Frances, you know this cherry-tree which
you grafted for Victoire last year, and that was yesterday so full of
blossoms--now you see, there is not a blossom left!--Babet plucked them
all this morning to make a nosegay."
"But she did not know," said Victoire, "that pulling off the blossoms
would prevent my having any cherries."
"Oh, I am very sorry I was so foolish," said Babet; "Victoire did not
even say a cross word to me."
"Though she was excessively anxious about the cherries," pursued Annette,
"because she intended to have given the first she had to Madame de
Fleury."
"Victoire, take the jonquils--it is but just," said Sister Frances. "How
I do love to hear them all praise her!--I knew what she would be from the
first."
With a joyful heart Victoire took the jonquils, promised to carry them
with the utmost care, and not to stop to stare on the way. She set out
to Madame de Fleury's hotel, which was in _La Place de Louis Quinze_. It
was late in the evening, the lamps were lighting, and as Victoire crossed
the Pont de Louis Seize, she stopped to look at the reflection of the
lamps in the water, which appeared in succession, as they were lighted,
spreading as if by magic along the river. While Victoire leaned over the
battlements of the bridge, watching the rising of these stars of fire, a
sudden push from the elbow of some rude passenger precipitated her pot of
jonquils into the Seine. The sound it made in the water was thunder to
the ear of Victoire; she stood for an instant vainly hoping it would rise
again, but the waters had closed over it for ever.
"Dans cet etat affreux, que faire?
. . . Mon devoir."
Victoire courageously proceeded to Madame de Fleury's, and desired to see
her.
"D'abord c'est impossible--madame is dressing to go to a concert," said
Francois. "Cannot you leave your message?"
"Oh no," said Victoire; "it is of great consequence--I must see her
myself; and she is so good, and you too, Monsieur Francois, that I am
sure you will not refuse."
"Well, I remember one day you found the seal of my watch, which I dropped
at your schoolroom door--one good turn deserves another. If it is
possible it shall be done--I will inquire of madame's woman."--"Follow me
upstairs," said he, returning in a few minutes; "madame will see you."
She followed him up the large staircase, and through a suite of
apartments sufficiently grand to intimidate her young imagination.
"Madame est dans son cabinet. Entrez--mais entrez donc, entrez
toujours."
Madame de Fleury was more richly dressed than usual; and her image was
reflected in the large looking-glass, so that at the first moment
Victoire thought she saw many fine ladies, but not one of them the lady
she wanted.
"Well, Victoire, my child, what is the matter?"
"Oh, it is her voice!--I know you now, madame, and I am not afraid--not
afraid even to tell you how foolish I have been. Sister Frances trusted
me to carry for you, madame, a beautiful pot of jonquils, and she desired
me not to stop on the way to stare; but I did stop to look at the lamps
on the bridge, and I forgot the jonquils, and somebody brushed by me and
threw them into the river--and I am very sorry I was so foolish."
"And I am very glad that you are so wise as to tell the truth, without
attempting to make any paltry excuses. Go home to Sister Frances, and
assure her that I am more obliged to her for making you such an honest
girl than I could be for a whole bed of jonquils."
Victoire's heart was so full that she could not speak--she kissed Madame
de Fleury's hand in silence, and then seemed to be lost in contemplation
of her bracelet.
"Are you thinking, Victoire, that you should be much happier if you had
such bracelets as these? Believe me, you are mistaken if you think so;
many people are unhappy who wear fine bracelets; so, my child, content
yourself."
"Myself! Oh, madame, I was not thinking of myself--I was not wishing for
bracelets; I was only thinking that--"
"That what?"
"That it is a pity you are so very rich; you have everything in this
world that you want, and I can never be of the least use to _you_--all my
life I shall never be able to do _you_ any good--and what," said
Victoire, turning away to hide her tears, "what signifies the gratitude
of such a poor little creature as I am?"
"Did you never hear the fable of the lion and the mouse, Victoire?"
"No, madame--never!"
"Then I will tell it to you."
Victoire looked up with eyes of eager expectation--Francois opened the
door to announce that the Marquis de M--- and the Comte de S--- were in
the saloon; but Madame de Fleury stayed to tell Victoire her fable--she
would not lose the opportunity of making an impression upon this child's
heart.
It is whilst the mind is warm that the deepest impressions can be made.
Seizing the happy moment sometimes decides the character and the fate of
a child. In this respect, what advantages have the rich and great in
educating the children of the poor! they have the power which their rank
and all its decorations obtain over the imagination. Their smiles are
favours; their words are listened to as oracular; they are looked up to
as beings of a superior order. Their powers of working good are almost
as great, though not quite so wonderful, as those formerly attributed to
beneficent fairies.