Poor sister! I owe her the only happy hours of
my infancy. She was called Sister Calliste. I do not know what
has become of her, but often, when my heart fails me, I think of
her, and even now I cannot mention her name without tears."
Mademoiselle Marguerite was indeed weeping--big tears which she
made no attempt to conceal were coursing down her cheeks. It cost
her a great effort to continue: "You have already understood,
monsieur, what I myself did not know for several years. I was in
a foundling asylum, and I was a foundling myself. I cannot say
that we lacked anything; and I should be ungrateful if I did not
say and feel that these good sisters were charity personified.
But, alas! their hearts had only a certain amount of tenderness to
distribute between thirty poor little girls, and so each child's
portion was small; the caresses were the same for all, and I
longed to be loved differently, to have kind words and caresses
for myself alone. We slept in little white beds with snowy
curtains, in a clean, well-ventilated dormitory, in the centre of
which stood a statue of the Virgin, who seemed to smile on us all
alike. In winter we had a fire. Our clothes were warm and neat;
our food was excellent. We were taught to read and write, to sew
and embroider. There was a recreation hour between all the
exercises. Those who were studious and good were rewarded; and
twice a week we were taken into the country for a long walk.
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