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.