“That never struck me before,” said Isabella, ingenuously; “I only remembered these things to repeat in conversation.”
Here Mad. de Rosier, pleased to observe that her pupil had caught an idea that was new to her, dropped the conversation, and left Isabella to apply what had passed. Active and ingenious young people should have much left to their own intelligent exertions, and to their own candour.
Matilda, the second daughter, was at first pleased with Mad. de Rosier, because she looked well in mourning; and afterwards she became interested for her, from hearing the history of her misfortunes, of which Mad. de Rosier, one evening, gave her a simple, pathetic account. Matilda was particularly touched by the account of the early death of this lady’s beautiful and accomplished daughter; she dwelt upon every circumstance, and, with anxious curiosity, asked a variety of questions.
“I think I can form a perfect idea of her now,” said Matilda, after she had inquired concerning the colour of her hair, of her eyes, her complexion, her height, her voice, her manners, and her dress—“I think I have a perfect idea of her now!”
“Oh no!” said Mad. de Rosier, with a sigh, “you cannot form a perfect idea of my Rosalie from any of these things; she was handsome and graceful; but it was not her person—it was her mind,” said the mother, with a faltering voice: her voice had, till this instant, been steady and composed.
“I beg your pardon—I will ask you no more questions,” said Matilda.
“My love,” said Mad. de Rosier, “ask me as many as you please—I like to think of her—I may now speak of her without vanity—her character would have pleased you.”
“I am sure it would,” said Matilda: “do you think she would have liked me or Isabella the best?”
“She would have liked each of you for your different good qualities, I think: she would not have made her love an object of competition, or the cause of jealousy between two sisters; she could make herself sufficiently beloved, without stooping to any such mean arts. She had two friends who loved her tenderly; they knew that she was perfectly sincere, and that she would not flatter either of them—you know that is only childish affection which is without esteem. Rosalie was esteemed autant qu’aimée.”
“How I should have liked such a friend! but I am afraid she would have been so much my superior, she would have despised me—Isabella would have had all her conversation, because she knows so much, and I know nothing!”