“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 any body 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 Mad. 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 Mad. 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 êtat affreux, que faire?
Mon devoir.”
Victoire courageously proceeded to Mad. de Fleury’s, and desired to see her.
“D’abord c’est impossible—madame is dressing to go to a concert;” said François. “Cannot you leave your message?”