“Yes, as happy,” said Hilda, “but not as gay.”
After some explanations, Fleurange conformed to her cousins’ wishes. But when, before dinner, the beautiful Hilda, clothed in white, brought a garland like that she wore herself and wished to place it on her head, she objected: “As to this garland, Hilda, you must excuse me from wearing it.”
“Why so?”
“Because I have never worn any ornament of the kind: because, after all, I cannot and do not wish to forget I am a poor orphan, who should not dream of adorning herself, or mingling in the world.”
“But, Gabrielle, you must know we only adorn ourselves to celebrate
at home the great annual festivals, and we never mingle in the world.”
“Never? But then, why wear flowers without any reason?”
“It is not without a reason. My father likes us to wear the flowers of the season at every feast. This poor wreath you have refused, Gabrielle, look at it: it is, like mine, of holly, reflecting the brightness of Christmas, with its shining leaves and berries red as coral. There, see if it is not becoming in your raven hair?” As she spoke, Hilda held the wreath over her cousin’s head: at that instant Clara appeared, and hesitation was no longer possible. She instantly took her sister’s place: the bright leaves and red berries were placed like a crown on Fleurange’s brow, who laughed and only made a feeble resistance, while the mirror reflected the forms of the three young girls—as graceful a picture as ever haunted an artist’s dreams.
“There,” cried Clara, “you are both beautiful—one fair as the day and the other brilliant as night. And I,” continued she, arranging her long curls, among which holly leaves were also twined—“let me see what I resemble myself.”
“A flower, a star, dear Clara: everything that is best worth gazing at by day or night,” said Fleurange affectionately.