“I know, my dear, but the wool; you’ve got no wool the color of his feathers.”
“Madame Jourdain would send for it.”
“But, Diane, think of the risk; if you shouldn’t succeed, you’d waste the wool, and you do the ducks so well, really, my dear, I think you’d better be satisfied with the ducks and the canaries.”
“Mama, it would be something new, something original. I’m tired of ducks and canaries.”
“Well, my dear, I sha’n’t oppose you, if you think you can succeed, but it’s a great risk to start out with an entirely new model, and you can’t use the wool for the ducks if you should fail; you must think of that, my dear, whether you can afford to lose the wool, if you fail.”
While this conversation was going on between Mam’selle Diane and her mother, Lady Jane’s bright eyes were taking in the contents of the little room. It was very simply furnished, the floor was bare, and the walls were destitute of adornment, save over the small fireplace, where hung a fine portrait of a very handsome man dressed in a rich court dress of the time of Louis XIV. This elegant courtier was Mam’selle Diane’s grandfather, the Count d’Hautreve, and under this really fine work of art, on the small mantelpiece, was some of the handicraft of his impoverished granddaughter, which fascinated Lady Jane to such a degree that she had neither eyes nor ears for anything else.
The center of the small shelf was ornamented with a tree made of a variety of shades of green wool over a wire frame, and apparently hopping about among the foliage, on little sealing-wax legs, with black bead eyes and sealing-wax bills, were a number of little wool birds of every color under the sun, while at each end of the mantel were similar little trees, one loaded with soft yellow canaries, the other with little fluffy white things of a species to puzzle an ornithologist. Lady Jane thought they were adorable, and her fingers almost ached to caress them.
“Oh, how pretty they are!” she sighed, at length, quite overcome with admiration; “how soft and yellow! Why, they are like real live birds, and they’re ever so much prettier than Tony,” she added, glancing ruefully at her homely pet; “but then they can’t hop and fly and come when you call them.”
Madame d’Hautreve and Mam’selle Diane witnessed her delight with much satisfaction. It seemed a tardy, but genuine, recognition of genius.
“There, you see, my dear, that I was right, I’ve always said it,” quavered the old lady. “I’ve always said that your birds were wonderful, and the child sees it; children tell the truth, they are sincere in their praise, and when they discover merit, they acknowledge it simply and truthfully. I’ve always said that all you needed to give you a reputation was recognition,—I’ve always said it, if you remember; but show her the ducks, my dear, show her the ducks. I think, if possible, that they are more natural than the others.”