"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.
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