“Mimi,” repeated Lisette; “why, she is at least a head shorter than Felicie Durand; for, if she goes instead of you, Caliste, she must walk with Felicie.” “No,” Caliste, “I will not have Mimi,” she added, “and I will appeal to my father to command you to go.”
“In your selfish triumph, Lisette,” exclaimed Caliste, with bitterness, “you seem wholly to forget the feelings of your relatives! I tell you again that my head is in that state, it will half kill me to go to the fête.”
She said no more, but walked out of the room, and up stairs, where Victorine found her some time afterwards, extended on a bed in a restless and feverish state, between sleeping and
waking. But as Caliste left the room, Victorine with much gentleness proposed that they should seek some other young girl to fill the place of Caliste in the procession. “Indeed, indeed, Lisette,” she said, “our sister is far from well, and I fear the excitement of the day will make her worse.”
“It is only a jealous fit,” replied the Rosiere; “only a jealous fit, sister Victorine, and nothing shall induce me to give up her attendance.”
“But if it is what you say it is,” exclaimed Victorine, “dearest Lisette, are you not irritating, instead of soothing your patient! My sister, vex her no more; you have obtained the crown from her; is not that sufficient? must you triumph over her also?”
“Pshaw,” replied Lisette, sullenly, “I like to punish jealous people, it does them good.”
“But can you be happy?” said Victorine; “can you be at peace, when another is suffering, I grieve to own, severely?”
“And why not?” she answered. “If Caliste could, she would have been Rosiere, and would not then have cared for my feelings. I have no necessity, then, to spare hers. You are sufficiently unkind, Victorine, to remain at home,
pray content yourself with doing so, without keeping my other sister with you also.”