general principles, or disapprove of the manner in which they were
inculcated.

Detached from every other worldly interest, this benevolent nun devoted
all her earthly thoughts to the children of whom she had undertaken the
charge.  She watched over them with unceasing vigilance, whilst
diffidence of her own abilities was happily supported by her high opinion
of Madame de Fleury's judgment.  This lady constantly visited her pupils
every week; not in the hasty, negligent manner in which fine ladies
sometimes visit charitable institutions, imagining that the honour of
their presence is to work miracles, and that everything will go on
rightly when they have said, "_Let it be so_," or, "_I must have it so_."
Madame de Fleury's visits were not of this dictatorial or cursory nature.
Not minutes, but hours, she devoted to these children--she who could
charm by the grace of her manners, and delight by the elegance of her
conversation, the most polished circles and the best-informed societies
of Paris, preferred to the glory of being admired the pleasure of being
useful:--

"Her life, as lovely as her face,
Each duty mark'd with every grace;
Her native sense improved by reading,
Her native sweetness by good breeding."



CHAPTER III


"Ah me! how much I fear lest pride it be;
But if that pride it be which thus inspires,
Beware, ye dames! with nice discernment see
Ye quench not too the sparks of nobler fires."

SHENSTONE.

By repeated observation, and by attending to the minute reports of Sister
Frances, Madame de Fleury soon became acquainted with the habits and
temper of each individual in this little society.  The most intelligent
and the most amiable of these children was Victoire.  Whence her
superiority arose, whether her abilities were naturally more vivacious
than those of her companions, or whether they had been more early
developed by accidental excitation, we cannot pretend to determine, lest
we should involve ourselves in the intricate question respecting natural
genius--a metaphysical point, which we shall not in this place stop to
discuss.  Till the world has an accurate philosophical dictionary (a work
not to be expected in less than half a dozen centuries), this question
will never be decided to general satisfaction.  In the meantime we may
proceed with our story.

Deep was the impression made on Victoire's heart by the kindness that
Madame de Fleury showed her at the time her arm was broken; and her
gratitude was expressed with all the enthusiastic fondness of childhood.
Whenever she spoke or heard of Madame de Fleury her countenance became
interested and animated in a degree that would have astonished a cool
English spectator.  Every morning her first question to Sister Frances
was: "Will _she_ come to-day?"  If Madame de Fleury was expected, the
hours and the minutes were counted, and the sand in the hour-glass that
stood on the schoolroom table was frequently shaken.  The moment she
appeared Victoire ran to her, and was silent; satisfied with standing
close beside her, holding her gown when unperceived, and watching, as she
spoke and moved, every turn of her countenance.  Delighted by these marks
of sensibility, Sister Frances would have praised the child, but was
warned by Madame de Fleury to refrain from injudicious eulogiums, lest
she should teach her affectation.

"If I must not praise, you will permit me at least to love her," said
Sister Frances.

Her affection for Victoire was increased by compassion: during two months
the poor child's arm hung in a sling, so that she could not venture to
play with her companions.  At their hours of recreation she used to sit
on the schoolroom steps, looking down into the garden at the scene of
merriment in which she could not partake.

For those who know how to find it, there is good in everything.  Sister
Frances used to take her seat on the steps, sometimes with her work and
sometimes with a book; and Victoire, tired of being quite idle, listened
with eagerness to the stories which Sister Frances read, or watched with
interest the progress of her work; soon she longed to imitate what she
saw done with so much pleasure, and begged to be taught to work and read.
By degrees she learned her alphabet, and could soon, to the amazement of
her schoolfellows, read the names of all the animals in Sister Frances'
picture-book.  No matter how trifling the thing done, or the knowledge
acquired, a great point is gained by giving the desire for employment.
Children frequently become industrious from impatience of the pains and
penalties of idleness.  Count Rumford showed that he understood childish
nature perfectly well when, in his House of Industry at Munich, he
compelled the young children to sit for some time idle in a gallery round
the hall, where others a little older than themselves were busied at
work.  During Victoire's state of idle convalescence she acquired the
desire to be employed, and she consequently soon became more industrious
than her neighbours.  Succeeding in her first efforts, she was
praised--was pleased, and persevered till she became an example of
activity to her companions.  But Victoire, though now nearly seven years
old, was not quite perfect.  Naturally, or accidentally, she was very
passionate, and not a little self-willed.

One day being mounted, horsemanlike, with whip in hand, upon the banister
of the flight of stairs leading from the schoolroom to the garden, she
called in a tone of triumph to her playfellows, desiring them to stand
out of the way, and see her slide from top to bottom.  At this moment
Sister Frances came to the schoolroom door and forbade the feat; but
Victoire, regardless of all prohibition, slid down instantly, and
moreover was going to repeat the glorious operation, when Sister Frances,
catching hold of her arm, pointed to a heap of sharp stones that lay on
the ground upon the other side of the banisters.

"I am not afraid," said Victoire.

"But if you fall there, you may break your arm again."

"And if I do, I can bear it," said Victoire.  "Let me go, pray let me go:
I must do it."

"No; I forbid you, Victoire, to slide down again.  Babet and all the
little ones would follow your example, and perhaps break their necks."

The nun, as she spoke, attempted to compel Victoire to dismount; but she
was so much of a heroine, that she would do nothing upon compulsion.
Clinging fast to the banisters, she resisted with all her might; she
kicked and screamed, and screamed and kicked, but at last her feet were
taken prisoners; then grasping the railway with one hand, with the other
she brandished high the little whip.

"What!" said the mild nun, "would you strike me with that _arm_?"

The arm dropped instantly--Victoire recollected Madame de Fleury's
kindness the day when the arm was broken; dismounting immediately, she
threw herself upon her knees in the midst of the crowd of young
spectators, and begged pardon of Sister Frances.  For the rest of the day
she was as gentle as a lamb; nay, some assert that the effects of her
contrition were visible during the remainder of the week.

Having thus found the secret of reducing the little rebel to obedience by
touching her on the tender point of gratitude, the nun had recourse to
this expedient in all perilous cases; but one day, when she was boasting
of the infallible operation of her charm, Madame de Fleury advised her to
forbear recurring to it frequently, lest she should wear out the
sensibility she so much loved.  In consequence of this counsel,
Victoire's violence of temper was sometimes reduced by force and
sometimes corrected by reason; but the principle and the feeling of
gratitude were not exhausted or weakened in the struggle.  The hope of
reward operated upon her generous mind more powerfully than the fear of
punishment; and Madame de Fleury devised rewards with as much ability as
some legislators invent punishments.

Victoire's brother Maurice, who was now of an age to earn his own bread,
had a strong desire to be bound apprentice to the smith who worked in the
house where his mother lodged.  This most ardent wish of his soul he had
imparted to his sister; and she consulted her benefactress, whom she
considered as all-powerful in this, as in every other affair.

"Your brother's wish shall be gratified," replied Madame de Fleury, "if
you can keep your temper one month.  If you are never in a passion for a
whole month, I will undertake that your brother shall be bound apprentice
to his friend the smith.  To your companions, to Sister Frances, and
above all to yourself, I trust, to make me a just report this day month."



CHAPTER IV


"You she preferred to all the gay resorts,
Where female vanity might wish to shine,
The pomp of cities, and the pride of courts."

LYTTELTON.

At the end of the time prescribed, the judges, including Victoire
herself, who was the most severe of them all, agreed she had justly
deserved her reward.  Maurice obtained his wish; and Victoire's temper
never relapsed into its former bad habits--so powerful is the effect of a
well-chosen motive!  Perhaps the historian may be blamed for dwelling on
such trivial anecdotes; yet a lady, who was accustomed to the
conversation of deep philosophers and polished courtiers, listened
without disdain to these simple annals.  Nothing appeared to her a trifle
that could tend to form the habits of temper, truth, honesty, order, and
industry: habits which are to be early induced, not by solemn precepts,
but by practical lessons.  A few more examples of these shall be
recorded, notwithstanding the fear of being tiresome.

One day little Babet, who was now five years old, saw, as she was coming
to school, an old woman sitting at a corner of the street beside a large
black brazier full of roasted chestnuts.  Babet thought that the
chestnuts looked and smelled very good; the old woman was talking
earnestly to some people, who were on her other side; Babet filled her
work-bag with chestnuts, and then ran after her mother and sister, who,
having turned the corner of the street, had not seen what passed.  When
Babet came to the schoolroom, she opened her bag with triumph, displayed
her treasure, and offered to divide it with her companions.  "Here,
Victoire," said she, "here is the largest chestnut for you."

But Victoire would not take it; for she staid that Babet had no money,
and that she could not have come honestly by these chestnuts.  She spoke
so forcibly upon this point that even those who had the tempting morsel
actually at their lips forbore to bite; those who had bitten laid down
their half-eaten prize; and those who had their hands full of chestnuts
rolled them back again towards the bag.  Babet cried with vexation.

"I burned my fingers in getting them for you, and now you won't eat
them!--And I must not eat them!" said she: then curbing her passion, she
added, "But at any rate, I won't be a thief.  I am sure I did not think
it was being a thief just to take a few chestnuts from an old woman who
had such heaps and heaps; but Victoire says it is wrong, and I would not
be a thief for all the chestnuts in the world--I'll throw them all into
the fire this minute!"

"No; give them back again to the old woman," said Victoire.

"But, may be, she would scold me for having taken them," said Babet; "or
who knows but she might whip me?"

"And if she did, could you not bear it?" said Victoire.  "I am sure I
would rather bear twenty whippings than be a thief."

"Twenty, whippings! that's a great many," said Babet; "and I am so
little, consider--and that woman has such a monstrous arm!--Now, if it
was Sister Frances, it would be another thing.  But come! if you will go
with me, Victoire, you shall see how I will behave."

"We will all go with you," said Victoire.

"Yes, all!" said the children; "And Sister Frances, I dare say, would go,
if you asked her."

Babet ran and told her, and she readily consented to accompany the little
penitent to make restitution.  The chestnut woman did not whip Babet, nor
even scold her, but said she was sure that since the child was so honest
as to return what she had taken, she would never steal again.  This was
the most glorious day of Babet's life, and the happiest.  When the
circumstance was told to Madame de Fleury, she gave the little girl a bag
of the best chestnuts the old women could select, and Babet with great
delight shared her reward with her companions.

"But, alas! these chestnuts are not roasted.  Oh, if we could but roast
them!" said the children.

Sister Frances placed in the middle of the table on which the chestnuts
were spread a small earthenware furnace--a delightful toy, commonly used
by children in Paris to cook their little feasts.

"This can be bought for sixpence," said she: "and if each of you twelve
earn one halfpenny apiece to-day, you can purchase it to-night, and I
will put a little fire into it, and you will then be able to roast your
chestnuts."

The children ran eagerly to their work--some to wind worsted for a woman
who paid them a _liard_ for each ball, others to shell peas for a
neighbouring _traiteur_--all rejoicing that they were able to earn
something.  The older girls, under the directions and with the assistance
of Sister Frances, completed making, washing, and ironing, half a dozen
little caps, to supply a baby-linen warehouse.  At the end of the day,
when the sum of the produce of their labours was added together, they
were surprised to find that, instead of one, they could purchase two
furnaces.  They received and enjoyed the reward of their united industry.
The success of their first efforts was fixed in their memory: for they
were very happy roasting the chestnuts, and they were all (Sister Frances
inclusive) unanimous in opinion that no chestnuts ever were so good, or
so well roasted.  Sister Frances always partook in their little innocent
amusements; and it was her great delight to be the dispenser of rewards
which at once conferred present pleasure and cherished future virtue.



CHAPTER V


"To virtue wake the pulses of the heart,
And bid the tear of emulation start."

ROGERS.

Victoire, who gave constant exercise to the benevolent feelings of the
amiable nun, became every day more dear to her.  Far from having the
selfishness of a favourite, Victoire loved to bring into public notice
the good actions of her companions.  "Stoop down your ear to me, Sister
Frances," said she, "and I will tell you a secret--I will tell you why my
friend Annette is growing so thin--I found it out this morning--she does
not eat above half her soup every day.  Look, there's her porringer
covered up in the corner--she carries it home to her mother, who is sick,
and who has not bread to eat."

Madame de Fleury came in whilst Sister Frances was yet bending down to
hear this secret; it was repeated to her, and she immediately ordered
that a certain allowance of bread should be given to Annette every day to
carry to her mother during her illness.

"I give it in charge to you, Victoire, to remember this, and I am sure it
will never be forgotten.  Here is an order for you upon my baker: run and
show it to Annette.  This is a pleasure you deserve; I am glad that you
have chosen for your friend a girl who is so good a daughter.  Good
daughters make good friends."

By similar instances of goodness Victoire obtained the love and
confidence of her companions, notwithstanding her manifest superiority.
In their turn, they were eager to proclaim her merits; and, as Sister
Frances and Madame de Fleury administered justice with invariable
impartiality, the hateful passions of envy and jealousy were never
excited in this little society.  No servile sycophant, no malicious
detractor, could rob or defraud their little virtues of their due reward.

"Whom shall I trust to take this to Madame de Fleury?" said Sister
Frances, carrying into the garden where the children were playing a pot
of fine jonquils, which she had brought from her convent.--"These are the
first jonquils I have seen this year, and finer I never beheld!  Whom
shall I trust to take them to Madame de Fleury this evening?--It must be
some one who will not stop to stare about on the way, but who will be
very, very careful--some one in whom I can place perfect dependence."

"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
anybody 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 Madame 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 Madame 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 etat affreux, que faire?
. . . Mon devoir."

Victoire courageously proceeded to Madame de Fleury's, and desired to see
her.

"D'abord c'est impossible--madame is dressing to go to a concert," said
Francois.  "Cannot you leave your message?"

"Oh no," said Victoire; "it is of great consequence--I must see her
myself; and she is so good, and you too, Monsieur Francois, that I am
sure you will not refuse."

"Well, I remember one day you found the seal of my watch, which I dropped
at your schoolroom door--one good turn deserves another.  If it is
possible it shall be done--I will inquire of madame's woman."--"Follow me
upstairs," said he, returning in a few minutes; "madame will see you."

She followed him up the large staircase, and through a suite of
apartments sufficiently grand to intimidate her young imagination.

"Madame est dans son cabinet.  Entrez--mais entrez donc, entrez
toujours."

Madame de Fleury was more richly dressed than usual; and her image was
reflected in the large looking-glass, so that at the first moment
Victoire thought she saw many fine ladies, but not one of them the lady
she wanted.

"Well, Victoire, my child, what is the matter?"

"Oh, it is her voice!--I know you now, madame, and I am not afraid--not
afraid even to tell you how foolish I have been.  Sister Frances trusted
me to carry for you, madame, a beautiful pot of jonquils, and she desired
me not to stop on the way to stare; but I did stop to look at the lamps
on the bridge, and I forgot the jonquils, and somebody brushed by me and
threw them into the river--and I am very sorry I was so foolish."

"And I am very glad that you are so wise as to tell the truth, without
attempting to make any paltry excuses.  Go home to Sister Frances, and
assure her that I am more obliged to her for making you such an honest
girl than I could be for a whole bed of jonquils."

Victoire's heart was so full that she could not speak--she kissed Madame
de Fleury's hand in silence, and then seemed to be lost in contemplation
of her bracelet.

"Are you thinking, Victoire, that you should be much happier if you had
such bracelets as these?  Believe me, you are mistaken if you think so;
many people are unhappy who wear fine bracelets; so, my child, content
yourself."

"Myself!  Oh, madame, I was not thinking of myself--I was not wishing for
bracelets; I was only thinking that--"

"That what?"

"That it is a pity you are so very rich; you have everything in this
world that you want, and I can never be of the least use to _you_--all my
life I shall never be able to do _you_ any good--and what," said
Victoire, turning away to hide her tears, "what signifies the gratitude
of such a poor little creature as I am?"

"Did you never hear the fable of the lion and the mouse, Victoire?"

"No, madame--never!"

"Then I will tell it to you."

Victoire looked up with eyes of eager expectation--Francois opened the
door to announce that the Marquis de M--- and the Comte de S--- were in
the saloon; but Madame de Fleury stayed to tell Victoire her fable--she
would not lose the opportunity of making an impression upon this child's
heart.

It is whilst the mind is warm that the deepest impressions can be made.
Seizing the happy moment sometimes decides the character and the fate of
a child.  In this respect, what advantages have the rich and great in
educating the children of the poor! they have the power which their rank
and all its decorations obtain over the imagination.  Their smiles are
favours; their words are listened to as oracular; they are looked up to
as beings of a superior order.  Their powers of working good are almost
as great, though not quite so wonderful, as those formerly attributed to
beneficent, fairies.



CHAPTER VI


"Knowledge for them unlocks her _useful_ page,
And virtue blossoms for a better age."--BARBAULD.

A few days after Madame de Fleury had told Victoire the fable of the lion
and the mouse, she was informed by Sister Frances that Victoire had put
the fable into verse.  It was wonderfully well done for a child of nine
years old, and Madame de Fleury was tempted to praise the lines; but,
checking the enthusiasm of the moment, she considered whether it would be
advantageous to cultivate her pupil's talent for poetry.  Excellence in
the poetic art cannot be obtained without a degree of application for
which a girl in her situation could not have leisure.  To encourage her
to become a mere rhyming scribbler, without any chance of obtaining
celebrity or securing subsistence, would be folly and cruelty.  Early
prodigies in the lower ranks of life are seldom permanently successful;
they are cried up one day, and cried down the next.  Their productions
rarely have that superiority which secures a fair preference in the great
literary market.  Their performances are, perhaps, said to be _wonderful,
all things considered_, &c.  Charitable allowances are made; the books
are purchased by associations of complaisant friends or opulent patrons;
a kind of forced demand is raised, but this can be only temporary and
delusive.  In spite of bounties and of all the arts of protection,
nothing but what is intrinsically good will long be preferred, when it
must be purchased.  But granting that positive excellence is attained,
there is always danger that for works of fancy the taste of the public
may suddenly vary: there is a fashion in these things; and when the mode
changes, the mere literary manufacturer is thrown out of employment; he
is unable to turn his hand to another trade, or to any but his own
peculiar branch of the business.  The powers of the mind are often
partially cultivated in these self-taught geniuses.  We often see that
one part of their understanding is nourished to the prejudice of the
rest--the imagination, for instance, at the expense of the judgment: so
that whilst they have acquired talents for show they have none for use.
In the affairs of common life they are utterly ignorant and imbecile--or
worse than imbecile.  Early called into public notice, probably before
their moral habits are formed, they are extolled for some play of fancy
or of wit, as Bacon calls it, some juggler's trick of the intellect; they
immediately take an aversion to plodding labour, they feel raised above
their situation; possessed by the notion that genius exempts them not
only from labour, but from vulgar rules of prudence, they soon disgrace
themselves by their conduct, are deserted by their patrons, and sink into
despair or plunge into profligacy.

Convinced of these melancholy truths, Madame de Fleury was determined not
to add to the number of those imprudent or ostentatious patrons, who
sacrifice to their own amusement and vanity the future happiness of their
favourites.  Victoire's verses were not handed about in fashionable
circles, nor was she called upon to recite them before a brilliant
audience, nor was she produced in public as a prodigy; she was educated
in private, and by slow and sure degrees, to be a good, useful, and happy
member of society.  Upon the same principles which decided Madame de
Fleury against encouraging Victoire to be a poetess, she refrained from
giving any of her little pupils accomplishments unsuited to their
situation.  Some had a fine ear for music, others showed powers of
dancing; but they were taught neither dancing nor music--talents which in
their station were more likely to be dangerous than serviceable.  They
were not intended for actresses or opera-girls, but for shop-girls,
mantua-makers, work-women, and servants of different sorts; consequently
they were instructed in things which would be most necessary and useful
to young women in their rank of life.  Before they were ten years old
they could do all kinds of plain needlework, they could read and write
well, and they were mistresses of the common rules of arithmetic.  After
this age they were practised by a writing-master in drawing out bills
neatly, keeping accounts, and applying to every-day use their knowledge
of arithmetic.  Some were taught by a laundress to wash and get up fine
linen and lace; others were instructed by a neighbouring traiteur in
those culinary mysteries with which Sister Frances was unacquainted.  In
sweetmeats and confectioneries she yielded to no one; and she made her
pupils as expert as herself.  Those who were intended for ladies' maids
were taught mantua-making, and had lessons from Madame de Fleury's own
woman in hairdressing.

Amongst her numerous friends and acquaintances, and amongst the
shopkeepers whom she was in the habit of employing, Madame de Fleury had
means of placing and establishing her pupils suitably and advantageously:
of this, both they and their parents were aware, so that there was a
constant and great motive operating continually to induce them to exert
themselves, and to behave well.  This reasonable hope of reaping the
fruits of their education, and of being immediately rewarded for their
good conduct; this perception of the connection between what they are
taught and what they are to become, is necessary to make young people
assiduous; for want of attending to these principles many splendid
establishments have failed to produce pupils answerable to the
expectations which had been formed of them.

During seven years that Madame de Fleury persevered uniformly on the same
plan, only one girl forfeited her protection--a girl of the name of
Manon; she was Victoire's cousin, but totally unlike her in character.

When very young, her beautiful eyes and hair caught the fancy of a rich
lady, who took her into her family as a sort of humble playfellow for her
children.  She was taught to dance and to sing: she soon excelled in
these accomplishments, and was admired, and produced as a prodigy of
talent.  The lady of the house gave herself great credit for having
discerned, and having brought forward, such talents.  Manon's moral
character was in the meantime neglected.  In this house, where there was
a constant scene of hurry and dissipation, the child had frequent
opportunities and temptations to be dishonest.  For some time she was not
detected; her caressing manners pleased her patroness, and servile
compliance with the humours of the children of the family secured their
goodwill.  Encouraged by daily petty successes in the art of deceit, she
became a complete hypocrite.  With culpable negligence, her mistress
trusted implicitly to appearances; and without examining whether she were
really honest, she suffered her to have free access to unlocked drawers
and valuable cabinets.  Several articles of dress were missed from time
to time; but Manon managed so artfully, that she averted from herself all
suspicion.  Emboldened by this fatal impunity, she at last attempted
depredations of more importance.  She purloined a valuable snuff-box--was
detected in disposing of the broken parts of it at a pawnbroker's, and
was immediately discarded in disgrace; but by her tears and vehement
expressions of remorse she so far worked upon the weakness of the lady of
the house as to prevail upon her to conceal the circumstance that
occasioned her dismissal.  Some months afterwards, Manon, pleading that
she was thoroughly reformed, obtained from this lady a recommendation to
Madame de Fleury's school.  It is wonderful that, people, who in other
respects profess and practise integrity, can be so culpably weak as to
give good characters to those who do not deserve them: this is really one
of the worst species of forgery.  Imposed upon by this treacherous
recommendation, Madame de Fleury received into the midst of her innocent
young pupils one who might have corrupted their minds secretly and
irrecoverably.  Fortunately a discovery was made in time of Manon's real
disposition.  A mere trifle led to the detection of her habits of
falsehood.  As she could not do any kind of needlework, she was employed
in winding cotton; she was negligent, and did not in the course of the
week wind the same number of balls as her companions; and to conceal
this, she pretended that she had delivered the proper number to the
woman, who regularly called at the end of the week for the cotton.  The
woman persisted in her account, and the children in theirs; and Manon
would not retract her assertion.  The poor woman gave up the point; but
she declared that she would the next time send her brother to make up the
account, because he was sharper than herself, and would not be imposed
upon so easily.  The ensuing week the brother came, and he proved to be
the very pawnbroker to whom Manon formerly offered the stolen box: he
knew her immediately; it was in vain that she attempted to puzzle him,
and to persuade him that she was not the same person.  The man was clear
and firm.  Sister Frances could scarcely believe what she heard.  Struck
with horror, the children shrank back from Manon, and stood in silence.
Madame de Fleury immediately wrote to the lady who had recommended this
girl, and inquired into the truth of the pawnbroker's assertions.  The
lady, who had given Manon a false character, could not deny the facts,
and could apologise for herself only by saying that "she believed the
girl to be partly reformed, and that she hoped, under Madame de Fleury's
judicious care, she would become an amiable and respectable woman."

Madame de Fleury, however, wisely judged that the hazard of corrupting
all her pupils should not be incurred for the slight chance of correcting
one, whose bad habits wore of such long standing.  Manon was expelled
from this happy little community--even Sister Frances, the most mild of
human beings, could never think of the danger to which they had been
exposed without expressing indignation against the lady who recommended
such a girl as a fit companion for her blameless and beloved pupils.



CHAPTER VII


"Alas! regardless of their doom,
The little victims play:
No sense have they of ills to come,
No care beyond to-day."--GRAY.

Good legislators always attend to the habits, and what is called the
genius, of the people they have to govern.  From youth to age, the taste
for whatever is called _une fete_ pervades the whole French nation.
Madame de Fleury availed herself judiciously of this powerful motive, and
connected it with the feelings of affection more than with the passion
for show.  For instance, when any of her little people had done anything
particularly worthy of reward, she gave them leave to invite their
parents to a _fete_ prepared for them by their children, assisted by the
kindness of Sister Frances.

One day--it was a holiday obtained by Victoire's good conduct--all the
children prepared in their garden a little feast for their parents.
Sister Frances spread the table with a bountiful hand, the happy fathers
and mothers were waited upon by their children, and each in their turn
heard with delight from the benevolent nun some instance of their
daughter's improvement.  Full of hope for the future and of gratitude for
the past, these honest people ate and talked, whilst in imagination they
saw their children all prosperously and usefully settled in the world.
They blessed Madame de Fleury in her absence, and they wished ardently
for her presence.

"The sun is setting, and Madame de Fleury is not yet come," cried
Victoire; "she said she would be here this evening--What can be the
matter?"

"Nothing is the matter, you may be sure," said Babet; "but that she has
forgotten us--she has so many things to think of."

"Yes; but I know she never forgets us," said Victoire; "and she loves so
much to see us all happy together, that I am sure it must be something
very extraordinary that detains her."

Babet laughed at Victoire's fears; but presently even she began to grow
impatient; for they waited long after sunset, expecting every moment that
Madame de Fleury would arrive.  At last she appeared, but with a dejected
countenance, which seemed to justify Victoire's foreboding.  When she saw
this festive company, each child sitting between her parents, and all at
her entrance looking up with affectionate pleasure, a faint smile
enlivened her countenance for a moment; but she did not speak to them
with her usual ease.  Her mind seemed preoccupied by some disagreeable
business of importance.  It appeared that it had some connection with
them; for as she walked round the table with Sister Frances, she said,
with a voice and look of great tenderness, "Poor children! how happy they
are at this moment!--Heaven only knows how soon they may be rendered, or
may render themselves, miserable!"

None of the children could imagine what this meant; but their parents
guessed that it had some allusion to the state of public affairs.  About
this time some of those discontents had broken out which preceded the
terrible days of the Revolution.  As yet, most of the common people, who
were honestly employed in earning their own living, neither understood
what was going on nor foresaw what was to happen.  Many of their
superiors were not in such happy ignorance--they had information of the
intrigues that were forming; and the more penetration they possessed, the
more they feared the consequences of events which they could not control.
At the house of a great man, with whom she had dined this day, Madame de
Fleury had heard alarming news.  Dreadful public disturbances, she saw,
were inevitable; and whilst she trembled for the fate of all who were
dear to her, these poor children had a share in her anxiety.  She foresaw
the temptations, the dangers, to which they must be exposed, whether they
abandoned, or whether they abided by the principles their education had
instilled.  She feared that the labour of years would perhaps be lost in
an instant, or that her innocent pupils would fall victims even to their
virtues.

Many of these young people were now of an age to understand and to govern
themselves by reason; and with these she determined to use those
preventive measures which reason affords.  Without meddling with
politics, in which no amiable or sensible woman can wish to interfere,
the influence of ladies in the higher ranks of life may always be exerted
with perfect propriety, and with essential advantage to the public, in
conciliating the inferior classes of society, explaining to them their
duties and their interests, and impressing upon the minds of the children
of the poor sentiments of just subordination and honest independence.  How
happy would it have been for France if women of fortune and abilities had
always exerted their talents and activity in this manner, instead of
wasting their powers in futile declamations, or in the intrigues of
party!



CHAPTER VIII


"E'en now the devastation is begun,
And half the business of destruction done."

GOLDSMITH.