“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.”