“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 Mad. 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 êtat affreux, que faire? Mon devoir.” Victoire courageously proceeded to Mad. de Fleury’s, and desired to see her. “D’abord c’est impossible--madame is dressing to go to a concert;” said François. “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 François, 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 school-room door--one good turn deserves another. If it is possible, it shall be done--I will inquire of madame’s woman.”--“Follow me up stairs,” 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 done, entrez toujours.” Mad. 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.”