“‘The child’s name is Evelina—Evelina de Paulausky.—Now go; I will write to you.’
“At that he pushed me out with the child and the bundle. I started back the same day; and since then, and that was three years ago, not a word from the child’s parents. Evelina they called her, but we found that name too long and too hard to pronounce, and so, as the child when she was a year old, loved violets and could pick them as she rolled about on the grass, why we just called her Violette; you can call her so too, if you choose. She answers to that name better than to Evelina!”
That is what the nurse had told the good woman who took Violette to Paris. That charitable person was by no means wealthy, but she had given the child some education. Violette had learned to read, to write, and to do some kinds of sewing, but her protectress died before she was very learned. The child was only eleven when she lost her.
Being left alone and without resources, and having too much pride to beg her bread, she went from door to door, to all the people in the quarter, saying:
“Please give me something to do; I am able to work; I know how to knit and sew; I will do anything you want, but employ me, I beg you, for I would rather starve to death than beg and live on the charity of passers-by.”
These words indicated a certain pride and a lofty spirit; they indicated above all else Violette’s horror of idleness, which is the most dangerous of all faults. They were worth more than a letter of recommendation.
A dealer in fruit said to her:
“I know a lady who is looking for a young maid to take her little ones to walk. I will give you her address, you can go to see her, and perhaps she’ll hire you. But oh, dear! I am afraid that she’ll think you a little too young.—How old are you?”
“Eleven.”
“You must tell her you’re fourteen.”