The only one now left to speak of is Céline, the companion of my
childhood. My memories of her are so many that I do not know which
to choose. We understood each other perfectly, but I was much more
forward and lively, and far less ingenuous. Here is a letter which
will show you, dear Mother, how sweet was Céline, and how naughty
Thérèse. I was then nearly three years old, and Céline six and a
half. "Céline is naturally inclined to be good; as to the little
puss, Thérèse, one cannot tell how she will turn out, she is so
young and heedless. She is a very intelligent child, but has not
nearly so sweet a disposition as her sister, and her stubbornness
is almost unconquerable. When she has said 'No,' nothing will make
her change; one could leave her all day in the cellar without
getting her to say 'Yes.' She would sooner sleep there."

I had another fault also, of which my Mother did not speak in her
letters: it was self-love. Here are two instances: --One day, no
doubt wishing to see how far my pride would go, she smiled and
said to me, "Thérèse, if you will kiss the ground I will give you
a halfpenny." In those days a halfpenny was a fortune, and in
order to gain it I had not far to stoop, for I was so tiny there
was not much distance between me and the ground; but my pride was
up in arms, and holding myself very erect, I said, "No, thank you,
Mamma, I would rather go without it."

Another time we were going into the country to see some friends.
Mamma told Marie to put on my prettiest frock, but not to let me
have bare arms. I did not say a word, and appeared as indifferent
as children of that age should be, but I said to myself, "I should
have looked much prettier with bare arms."