Bathilde was shy and timid; she trembled at the slightest sharp word, and her gentle and affectionate nature was more inclined to melancholy than to gayety.
Ambroisine was of a very different temperament: active, merry, thoughtless, often angry; she said fearlessly whatever came into her head; frankness lay at the foundation of her character; her heart was susceptible, but it did not like to be sad for long. With her the tears came quickly and disappeared no less quickly.
When Bathilde seemed to be unhappy, when her lovely eyes seemed to express some hidden grief, her little friend would say to her:
"Somebody has been cross to you, I am sure. I can see that you have been crying. Tell me who made you cry, and I will go to him and make him come here and beg your pardon."
But Bathilde would simply look down and murmur:
"It was my mother."
"Did you do anything naughty?" Ambroisine would inquire.
"I asked her if I might go to see you soon."
Ambroisine would not dare to say anything more, but she would turn her head aside and furtively wipe away the tears that stood in her eyes; then she would again look at her friend, seize both her hands, and make her dance around the room, crying:
"You mustn't think about that any more!"