CHAPTER XIV.

THE FÊTE.

As soon as Georgette was well, Madame sent her away into the country. I was sorry; I loved the child, and her loss made me poorer than before. But I must not complain. I lived in a house full of robust¹ life; I might have had companions, and I chose solitude². Each of the teachers in turn made me overtures³ of special intimacy⁴; I tried them all. One I found to be an honest woman, but a narrow thinker, a coarse feeler, and an egotist. The second was a Parisienne, externally refined—at heart, corrupt—without a creed⁶, without a principle, without an affection: having penetrated⁸ the outward crust of decorum in this character, you found a slough⁹ beneath. She had a wonderful passion for presents; and, in this point, the third teacher—a person otherwise characterless and insignificant—closely resembled her. This last-named had also one other distinctive¹⁰ property—that of avarice¹². In her reigned¹³ the love of money for its own sake. The sight of a piece of gold would bring into her eyes a green glisten¹⁴, singular to witness. She once, as a mark of high favour, took me up-stairs, and, opening a secret door, showed me a hoard¹⁵—a mass of coarse, large coin—about fifteen guineas, in five-franc pieces. She loved this hoard as a bird loves its eggs. These were her savings¹⁶. She would come and talk to me about them with an infatuated and persevering¹⁷ dotage¹⁸, strange to behold¹⁹ in a person not yet twenty-five.

The Parisienne, on the other hand, was prodigal²⁰ and profligate²¹ (in disposition²², that is: as to action, I do not know). That latter quality showed its snake-head to me but once, peeping out very cautiously. A curious kind of reptile²³ it seemed, judging from the glimpse I got; its novelty whetted²⁴ my curiosity: if it would have come out boldly, perhaps I might philosophically²⁵ have stood my ground, and coolly surveyed the long thing from forked tongue to scaly²⁶ tail-tip; but it merely rustled²⁸ in the leaves of a bad novel; and, on encountering a hasty and ill-advised demonstration²⁹ of wrath³⁰, recoiled³¹ and vanished, hissing³³. She hated me from that day.

This Parisienne was always in debt; her salary being anticipated, not only in dress, but in perfumes, cosmetics³⁴, confectionery, and condiments³⁶. What a cold, callous³⁷ epicure³⁸ she was in all things! I see her now. Thin in face and figure, sallow in complexion³⁹, regular in features, with perfect teeth, lips like a thread, a large, prominent chin, a well-opened, but frozen eye, of light at once craving⁴⁰ and ingrate⁴¹. She mortally hated work, and loved what she called pleasure; being an insipid⁴², heartless, brainless dissipation of time.

Madame Beck knew this woman’s character perfectly⁴³ well. She once talked to me about her, with an odd mixture of discrimination, indifference⁴⁴, and antipathy⁴⁵. I asked why she kept her in the establishment. She answered plainly, “because it suited her interest to do so;” and pointed⁴⁶ out a fact I had already noticed, namely, that Mademoiselle St. Pierre possessed⁴⁷, in an almost unique degree, the power of keeping order amongst her undisciplined ranks of scholars. A certain petrifying⁴⁸ influence accompanied and surrounded her: without passion, noise, or violence, she held them in check as a breezeless frost-air might still a brawling⁴⁹ stream. She was of little use as far as communication of knowledge went, but for strict surveillance and maintenance of rules she was invaluable⁵⁰. “Je sais bien qu’elle n’a pas de principes, ni, peut-être, de moeurs,” admitted Madame frankly⁵¹; but added with philosophy, “son maintien en classe est toujours convenable⁵² et rempli même d’une certaine dignité: c’est tout⁵³ ce qu’il faut. Ni les élèves ni les parents ne regardent plus loin; ni, par⁵ conséquent, moi non plus.”

A strange, frolicsome⁵⁴, noisy little world was this school: great pains were taken to hide chains with flowers: a subtle essence of Romanism pervaded⁵⁵ every arrangement: large sensual indulgence (so to speak) was permitted by way of counterpoise to jealous spiritual restraint. Each mind was being reared in slavery; but, to prevent reflection from dwelling⁵⁷ on this fact, every pretext⁵⁸ for physical recreation was seized and made the most of. There, as elsewhere, the CHURCH strove to bring up her children robust in body, feeble in soul, fat, ruddy, hale, joyous⁵⁹, ignorant, unthinking, unquestioning. “Eat, drink, and live!” she says. “Look after your bodies; leave your souls to me. I hold their cure—guide their course: I guarantee their final fate.” A bargain, in which every true Catholic deems himself a gainer. Lucifer just offers the same terms: “All this power will I give thee, and the glory of it; for that is delivered unto me, and to whomsoever I will I give it. If thou, therefore, wilt⁶¹ worship me, all shall be thine!”

About this time—in the ripest glow of summer—Madame Beck’s house became as merry a place as a school could well be. All day long the broad folding-doors and the two-leaved casements⁶² stood wide open: settled sunshine seemed naturalized in the atmosphere; clouds were far off, sailing away beyond sea, resting, no doubt, round islands such as England—that dear land of mists—but withdrawn⁶³ wholly from the drier continent. We lived far more in the garden than under a roof: classes were held, and meals partaken of, in the “grand berceau.” Moreover, there was a note of holiday preparation, which almost turned freedom into licence. The autumnal long vacation was but two months distant; but before that, a great day—an important ceremony—none other than the fête of Madame—awaited celebration.

The conduct of this fête devolved chiefly on Mademoiselle St. Pierre: Madame herself being supposed to stand aloof⁶⁵, disinterestedly⁶⁶ unconscious of what might be going forward in her honour. Especially, she never knew, never in the least suspected, that a subscription⁶⁷ was annually⁶⁸ levied⁶⁹ on the whole school for the purchase of a handsome present. The polite tact⁷⁰ of the reader will please to leave out of the account a brief, secret consultation⁷¹ on this point in Madame’s own chamber⁷².

“What will you have this year?” was asked by her Parisian lieutenant⁷³.

“Oh, no matter! Let it alone. Let the poor children keep their francs,” And Madame looked benign⁷⁴ and modest.

The St. Pierre would here protrude⁷⁵ her chin; she knew Madame by heart; she always called her airs of “bonté”—“des grimaces⁷⁶.” She never even professed⁷⁷ to respect them one instant.

“Vite!” she would say coldly. “Name the article. Shall it be jewellery or porcelain⁷⁹, haberdashery or silver?”

“Eh bien! Deux ou trois cuillers, et autant de fourchettes en argent.”

And the result was a handsome case, containing 300 francs worth of plate.

The programme of the fête-day’s proceedings⁸⁰ comprised: Presentation of plate, collation⁸¹ in the garden, dramatic performance (with pupils and teachers for actors), a dance and supper. Very gorgeous seemed the effect of the whole to me, as I well remember. Zélie St. Pierre understood these things and managed them ably.

The play was the main point; a month’s previous drilling being there required. The choice, too, of the actors required knowledge and care; then came lessons in elocution, in attitude, and then the fatigue⁸² of countless⁸³ rehearsals⁸⁴. For all this, as may well be supposed, St. Pierre did not suffice: other management, other accomplishments⁸⁶ than hers were requisite⁸⁷ here. They were supplied in the person of a master—M. Paul Emanuel, professor of literature. It was never my lot to be present at the histrionic lessons of M. Paul, but I often saw him as he crossed the carré (a square hall between the dwelling-house and school-house). I heard him, too, in the warm evenings, lecturing with open doors, and his name, with anecdotes⁸⁸ of him, resounded⁸⁹ in ones ears from all sides. Especially our former acquaintance, Miss Ginevra Fanshawe,—who had been selected to take a prominent part in the play—used, in bestowing⁹⁰ upon me a large portion of her leisure, to lard her discourse⁹¹ with frequent allusions⁹² to his sayings and doings. She esteemed⁹³ him hideously⁹⁴ plain, and used to profess⁷⁸ herself frightened almost into hysterics at the sound of his step or voice. A dark little man he certainly was; pungent⁹⁵ and austere⁹⁶. Even to me he seemed a harsh apparition⁹⁷, with his close-shorn, black head, his broad, sallow brow, his thin cheek, his wide and quivering nostril⁹⁸, his thorough glance, and hurried bearing. Irritable⁹⁹ he was; one heard that, as he apostrophized with vehemence¹⁰⁰ the awkward squad¹⁰¹ under his orders. Sometimes he would break out on these raw amateur actresses with a passion of impatience¹⁰² at their falseness of conception, their coldness of emotion, their feebleness of delivery. “Ecoutez!” he would cry; and then his voice rang through the premises¹⁰³ like a trumpet¹⁰⁴; and when, mimicking¹⁰⁵ it, came the small pipe of a Ginevra, a Mathilde, or a Blanche, one understood why a hollow groan¹⁰⁶ of scorn, or a fierce hiss³² of rage, rewarded the tame echo.

“Vous n’êtes donc que des poupées,” I heard him thunder. “Vous n’avez pas de passions—vous autres. Vous ne sentez donc rien? Votre chair est de neige, votre sang de glace! Moi, je veux que tout cela s’allume, qu’il ait une vie, une âme!”

Vain resolve! And when he at last found it was vain, he suddenly broke the whole business down. Hitherto he had been teaching them a grand tragedy; he tore the tragedy in morsels¹⁰⁷, and came next day with a compact little comic trifle. To this they took more kindly¹⁰⁸; he presently knocked it all into their smooth round pates¹⁰⁹.

Mademoiselle St. Pierre always presided at M. Emanuel’s lessons, and I was told that the polish of her manner, her seeming attention, her tact and grace, impressed that gentleman very favourably¹¹⁰. She had, indeed, the art of pleasing, for a given time, whom she would; but the feeling would not last: in an hour it was dried like dew, vanished like gossamer¹¹¹.

The day preceding Madame’s fête was as much a holiday as the fête itself. It was devoted¹¹² to clearing out, cleaning, arranging and decorating the three schoolrooms. All within-doors was the gayest bustle¹¹³; neither up-stairs nor down could a quiet, isolated¹¹⁴ person find rest for the sole of her foot; accordingly, for my part, I took refuge in the garden. The whole day did I wander or sit there alone, finding warmth in the sun, shelter among the trees, and a sort of companionship in my own thoughts. I well remember that I exchanged but two sentences that day with any living being: not that I felt solitary¹¹⁵; I was glad to be quiet. For a looker-on, it sufficed to pass through the rooms once or twice, observe what changes were being wrought¹¹⁶, how a green-room and a dressing-room were being contrived¹¹⁷, a little stage with scenery erected¹¹⁸, how M. Paul Emanuel, in conjunction with Mademoiselle St. Pierre, was directing all, and how an eager band of pupils, amongst them Ginevra Fanshawe, were working gaily¹¹⁹ under his control.

The great day arrived. The sun rose hot and unclouded, and hot and unclouded it burned on till evening. All the doors and all the windows were set open, which gave a pleasant sense of summer freedom—and freedom the most complete seemed indeed the order of the day. Teachers and pupils descended¹²⁰ to breakfast in dressing-gowns and curl-papers: anticipating “avec délices” the toilette of the evening, they seemed to take a pleasure in indulging that forenoon in a luxury of slovenliness¹²¹; like aldermen fasting in preparation for a feast. About nine o’clock A.M., an important functionary¹²², the “coiffeur,” arrived. Sacrilegious to state, he fixed¹²³ his head-quarters in the oratory¹²⁴, and there, in presence of bénitier, candle, and crucifix, solemnised the mysteries of his art. Each girl was summoned in turn to pass through his hands; emerging from them with head as smooth as a shell, intersected by faultless white lines, and wreathed about with Grecian plaits that shone as if lacquered. I took my turn with the rest, and could hardly believe what the glass said when I applied¹²⁵ to it for information afterwards; the lavished¹²⁶ garlandry of woven brown hair amazed me—I feared it was not all my own, and it required several convincing pulls to give assurance to the contrary. I then acknowledged in the coiffeur a first-rate artist—one who certainly made the most of indifferent materials.

The oratory closed, the dormitory became the scene of ablutions, arrayings and bedizenings curiously¹²⁷ elaborate. To me it was, and ever must be an enigma¹²⁸, how they contrived to spend so much time in doing so little. The operation seemed close, intricate, prolonged: the result simple. A clear white muslin dress, a blue sash (the Virgin’s colours), a pair of white, or straw-colour kid gloves—such was the gala uniform, to the assumption whereof that houseful of teachers and pupils devoted three mortal hours. But though simple, it must be allowed the array was perfect—perfect in fashion, fit, and freshness; every head being also dressed with exquisite¹²⁹ nicety, and a certain compact taste—suiting the full, firm comeliness¹³⁰ of Labassecourien contours, though too stiff for any more flowing and flexible style of beauty—the general effect was, on the whole, commendable¹³¹.

In beholding¹³² this diaphanous¹³³ and snowy mass, I well remember feeling myself to be a mere²⁷ shadowy spot on a field of light; the courage was not in me to put on a transparent¹³⁴ white dress: something thin I must wear—the weather and rooms being too hot to give substantial fabrics¹³⁵ sufferance, so I had sought through a dozen shops till I lit upon a crape-like material of purple-gray—the colour, in short, of dun mist, lying on a moor¹³⁶ in bloom. My tailleuse had kindly made it as well as she could: because, as she judiciously¹³⁷ observed, it was “si triste—si pen voyant,” care in the fashion was the more imperative¹³⁸: it was well she took this view of the matter, for I, had no flower, no jewel to relieve it: and, what was more, I had no natural rose of complexion.

We become oblivious¹³⁹ of these deficiencies in the uniform routine of daily drudgery¹⁴⁰, but they will force upon us their unwelcome blank on those bright occasions when beauty should shine.

However, in this same gown of shadow, I felt at home and at ease; an advantage I should not have enjoyed in anything more brilliant or striking. Madame Beck, too, kept me in countenance¹⁴¹; her dress was almost as quiet as mine, except that she wore a bracelet¹⁴³, and a large brooch bright with gold and fine stones. We chanced to meet on the stairs, and she gave me a nod and smile of approbation¹⁴⁴. Not that she thought I was looking well—a point unlikely to engage her interest—but she considered me dressed “convenablement,” “décemment,” and la Convenance et la Décence were the two calm deities¹⁴⁵ of Madame’s worship. She even paused, laid on my shoulder her gloved hand, holding an embroidered¹⁴⁶ and perfumed handkerchief, and confided¹⁴⁸ to my ear a sarcasm¹⁴⁹ on the other teachers (whom she had just been complimenting to their faces). “Nothing so absurd,” she said, “as for des femmes mûres ‘to dress themselves like girls of fifteen’—quant à la St. Pierre, elle a l’air d’une vieille coquette qui fait l’ingénue.”

Being dressed at least a couple of hours before anybody else, I felt a pleasure in betaking myself—not to the garden, where servants were busy propping¹⁵⁰ up long tables, placing seats, and spreading cloths in readiness for the collation but to the schoolrooms, now empty, quiet, cool, and clean; their walls fresh stained, their planked floors fresh scoured¹⁵¹ and scarce dry; flowers fresh gathered adorning¹⁵² the recesses¹⁵³ in pots, and draperies, fresh hung, beautifying the great windows.

Withdrawing to the first classe, a smaller and neater room than the others, and taking from the glazed¹⁵⁴ bookcase, of which I kept the key, a volume whose title promised some interest, I sat down to read. The glass-door of this “classe,” or schoolroom, opened into the large berceau; acacia-boughs caressed¹⁵⁵ its panes¹⁵⁶, as they stretched across to meet a rose-bush blooming by the opposite lintel: in this rose-bush bees murmured busy and happy. I commenced reading. Just as the stilly hum, the embowering shade, the warm, lonely calm of my retreat were beginning to steal meaning from the page, vision from my eyes, and to lure¹⁵⁷ me along the track of reverie, down into some deep dell of dreamland—just then, the sharpest ring of the street-door bell to which that much-tried instrument had ever thrilled, snatched me back to consciousness.

Now the bell had been ringing all the morning, as workmen, or servants, or coiffeurs, or tailleuses, went and came on their several errands. Moreover, there was good reason to expect it would ring all the afternoon, since about one hundred externes were yet to arrive in carriages or fiacres: nor could it be expected to rest during the evening, when parents and friends would gather thronging¹⁵⁹ to the play. Under these circumstances, a ring—even a sharp ring—was a matter of course: yet this particular peal¹⁶⁰ had an accent of its own, which chased my dream, and startled my book from my knee.

I was stooping to pick up this last, when—firm, fast, straight—right on through vestibule—along corridor, across carré, through first division, second division, grand salle—strode a step, quick, regular, intent. The closed door of the first classe—my sanctuary—offered no obstacle; it burst open, and a paletôt and a bonnet¹⁶¹ grec filled the void; also two eyes first vaguely¹⁶² struck upon, and then hungrily dived into me.

“C’est cela!” said a voice. “Je la connais: c’est l’Anglaise. Tant pis. Toute Anglaise, et, par conséquent, toute bégueule qu’elle soit—elle fera mon affaire, ou je saurai pourquoi.”

Then, with a certain stern politeness (I suppose he thought I had not caught the drift of his previous uncivil mutterings), and in a jargon¹⁶³ the most execrable that ever was heard, “Meess——, play you must: I am planted there.”

“What can I do for you, M. Paul Emanuel?” I inquired: for M. Paul Emanuel it was, and in a state of no little excitement.

“Play you must. I will not have you shrink, or frown, or make the prude. I read your skull¹⁶⁴ that night you came; I see your moyens: play you can; play you must.”

“But how, M. Paul? What do you mean?”

“There is no time to be lost,” he went on, now speaking in French; “and let us thrust to the wall all reluctance¹⁶⁵, all excuses, all minauderies. You must take a part.”

“In the vaudeville¹⁶⁶?”

“In the vaudeville. You have said it.”

I gasped¹⁶⁷, horror-struck. What did the little man mean?

“Listen!” he said. “The case shall be stated, and you shall then answer me Yes, or No; and according to your answer shall I ever after estimate you.”

The scarce-suppressed impetus¹⁶⁸ of a most irritable nature glowed in his cheek, fed with sharp shafts¹⁶⁹ his glances, a nature—the injudicious, the mawkish¹⁷⁰, the hesitating, the sullen¹⁷¹, the affected¹⁷², above all, the unyielding, might quickly render violent and implacable. Silence and attention was the best balm to apply: I listened.

“The whole matter is going to fail,” he began. “Louise Vanderkelkov has fallen ill—at least so her ridiculous mother asserts; for my part, I feel sure she might play if she would: it is only good-will that lacks. She was charged with a rôle, as you know, or do not know—it is equal: without that rôle the play is stopped. There are now but a few hours in which to learn it: not a girl in this school would hear reason, and accept the task. Forsooth, it is not an interesting, not an amiable¹⁷³, part; their vile¹⁷⁴ amour-propre—that base quality of which women have so much—would revolt from it. Englishwomen are either the best or the worst of their sex. Dieu sait que je les déteste comme la peste, ordinairement” (this between his recreant¹⁷⁵ teeth). “I apply to an Englishwoman to rescue me. What is her answer—Yes, or No?”

A thousand objections rushed into my mind. The foreign language, the limited time, the public display… Inclination¹⁷⁶ recoiled, Ability faltered¹⁷⁷, Self-respect (that “vile quality”) trembled. “Non, non, non!” said all these; but looking up at M. Paul, and seeing in his vexed¹⁷⁸, fiery¹⁷⁹, and searching eye, a sort of appeal behind all its menace, my lips dropped the word “oui”. For a moment his rigid¹⁸⁰ countenance relaxed with a quiver of content: quickly bent¹⁸¹ up again, however, he went on,—

“Vite à l’ouvrage! Here is the book; here is your rôle: read.” And I read. He did not commend; at some passages he scowled¹⁸³ and stamped. He gave me a lesson: I diligently¹⁸⁴ imitated. It was a disagreeable part—a man’s—an empty-headed fop’s. One could put into it neither heart nor soul: I hated it. The play—a mere trifle—ran chiefly on the efforts of a brace¹⁴² of rivals to gain the hand of a fair coquette. One lover was called the “Ours,” a good and gallant¹⁸⁵ but unpolished man, a sort of diamond in the rough; the other was a butterfly, a talker, and a traitor¹⁸⁶: and I was to be the butterfly, talker, and traitor.

I did my best—which was bad, I know: it provoked M. Paul; he fumed¹⁴⁷. Putting both hands to the work, I endeavoured to do better than my best; I presume he gave me credit for good intentions; he professed to be partially¹⁸⁷ content. “Ca ira!” he cried; and as voices began sounding from the garden, and white dresses fluttering among the trees, he added: “You must withdraw: you must be alone to learn this. Come with me.”

Without being allowed time or power to deliberate, I found myself in the same breath convoyed along as in a species of whirlwind, up-stairs, up two pair of stairs, nay¹⁸⁸, actually up three (for this fiery little man seemed as by instinct to know his way everywhere); to the solitary and lofty attic¹⁸⁹ was I borne, put in and locked in, the key being, in the door, and that key he took with him and vanished.

The attic was no pleasant place: I believe he did not know how unpleasant it was, or he never would have locked me in with so little ceremony. In this summer weather, it was hot as Africa; as in winter, it was always cold as Greenland. Boxes and lumber¹⁹⁰ filled it; old dresses draped its unstained wall—cobwebs its unswept ceiling. Well was it known to be tenanted by rats, by black beetles¹⁹¹, and by cockroaches¹⁹²—nay, rumour¹⁹³ affirmed that the ghostly Nun¹⁹⁴ of the garden had once been seen here. A partial darkness obscured one end, across which, as for deeper mystery, an old russet curtain was drawn⁶⁴, by way of screen to a sombre band of winter cloaks, pendent each from its pin, like a malefactor¹⁹⁵ from his gibbet. From amongst these cloaks, and behind that curtain, the Nun was said to issue. I did not believe this, nor was I troubled by apprehension¹⁹⁶ thereof; but I saw a very dark and large rat, with a long tail, come gliding¹⁹⁷ out from that squalid alcove¹⁹⁸; and, moreover, my eye fell on many a black-beetle, dotting the floor. These objects discomposed me more, perhaps, than it would be wise to say, as also did the dust, lumber, and stifling¹⁹⁹ heat of the place. The last inconvenience would soon have become intolerable, had I not found means to open and prop¹¹ up the skylight, thus admitting some freshness. Underneath²⁰⁰ this aperture²⁰¹ I pushed a large empty chest, and having mounted upon it a smaller box, and wiped from both the dust, I gathered my dress (my best, the reader must remember, and therefore a legitimate²⁰² object of care) fastidiously around me, ascended²⁰³ this species of extempore throne, and being seated, commenced the acquisition of my task; while I learned, not forgetting to keep a sharp look-out on the black-beetles and cockroaches, of which, more even, I believe, than of the rats, I sat in mortal dread²⁰⁴.

My impression at first was that I had undertaken what it really was impossible to perform, and I simply resolved to do my best and be resigned to fail. I soon found, however, that one part in so short a piece was not more than memory could master at a few hours’ notice. I learned and learned on, first in a whisper, and then aloud. Perfectly secure from human audience, I acted my part before the garret-vermin. Entering into its emptiness, frivolity²⁰⁵, and falsehood, with a spirit inspired by scorn and impatience, I took my revenge on this “fat,” by making him as fatuitous as I possibly could.

In this exercise the afternoon passed: day began to glide²⁰⁶ into evening; and I, who had eaten nothing since breakfast, grew excessively hungry. Now I thought of the collation, which doubtless they were just then devouring²⁰⁷ in the garden far below. (I had seen in the vestibule a basketful of small pâté²⁰⁸s à la crême, than which nothing in the whole range of cookery seemed to me better). A pâté, or a square of cake, it seemed to me would come very àpropos; and as my relish²¹⁰ for those dainties increased, it began to appear somewhat hard that I should pass my holiday, fasting and in prison. Remote as was the attic from the street-door and vestibule, yet the ever-tinkling bell was faintly audible here; and also the ceaseless roll of wheels, on the tormented²¹¹ pavement. I knew that the house and garden were thronged²¹², and that all was gay and glad below; here it began to grow dusk: the beetles were fading from my sight; I trembled lest they should steal on me a march, mount my throne unseen, and, unsuspected, invade my skirts. Impatient and apprehensive²¹³, I recommenced the rehearsal⁸⁵ of my part merely to kill time. Just as I was concluding, the long-delayed rattle²¹⁴ of the key in the lock came to my ear—no unwelcome sound. M. Paul (I could just see through the dusk that it was M. Paul, for light enough still lingered to show the velvet²¹⁵ blackness of his close-shorn head, and the sallow ivory of his brow) looked in.

“Brava!” cried he, holding the door open and remaining at the threshold. “J’ai tout entendu. C’est assez bien. Encore!”

A moment I hesitated.

“Encore!” said he sternly. “Et point de grimaces! A bas la timidité!”

Again I went through the part, but not half so well as I had spoken it alone.

“Enfin, elle sait,” said he, half dissatisfied, “and one cannot be fastidious or exacting²¹⁷ under the circumstances.” Then he added, “You may yet have twenty minutes for preparation: au revoir!” And he was going.

“Monsieur,” I called out, taking courage.

“Eh bien! Qu’est-ce que c’est, Mademoiselle?”

“J’ai bien faim.”

“Comment, vous avez faim! Et la collation?”

“I know nothing about it. I have not seen it, shut up here.”

“Ah! C’est vrai,” cried he.

In a moment my throne was abdicated²¹⁹, the attic evacuated²²⁰; an inverse²²¹ repetition of the impetus which had brought me up into the attic, instantly took me down—down—down to the very kitchen. I thought I should have gone to the cellar. The cook was imperatively²²² ordered to produce food, and I, as imperatively, was commanded to eat. To my great joy this food was limited to coffee and cake: I had feared wine and sweets, which I did not like. How he guessed that I should like a petit pâté à la crême I cannot tell; but he went out and procured²²³ me one from some quarter. With considerable willingness I ate and drank, keeping the petit pâté till the last, as a bonne bouche. M. Paul superintended my repast, and almost forced upon me more than I could swallow.

“A la bonne heure,” he cried, when I signified that I really could take no more, and, with uplifted hands, implored²²⁴ to be spared the additional roll on which he had just spread butter. “You will set me down as a species of tyrant²²⁵ and Bluebeard, starving women in a garret; whereas, after all, I am no such thing. Now, Mademoiselle, do you feel courage and strength to appear?”

I said, I thought I did; though, in truth, I was perfectly confused, and could hardly tell how I felt: but this little man was of the order of beings who must not be opposed, unless you possessed an all-dominant force sufficient to crush him at once.

“Come then,” said he, offering his hand.

I gave him mine, and he set off with a rapid walk, which obliged me to run at his side in order to keep pace. In the carré he stopped a moment: it was lit with large lamps; the wide doors of the classes were open, and so were the equally wide garden-doors; orange-trees in tubs, and tall flowers in pots, ornamented²²⁶ these portals on each side; groups of ladies and gentlemen in evening-dress stood and walked amongst the flowers. Within, the long vista²²⁷ of the school-rooms presented a thronging, undulating, murmuring, waving, streaming multitude, all rose, and blue, and half translucent²²⁸ white. There were lustres burning overhead; far off there was a stage, a solemn green curtain, a row of footlights.

“N’est-ce pas que c’est beau?” demanded my companion.

I should have said it was, but my heart got up into my throat. M. Paul discovered this, and gave me a side-scowl¹⁸² and a little shake for my pains.

“I will do my best, but I wish it was over,” said I; then I asked: “Are we to walk through that crowd?”

“By no means: I manage matters better: we pass through the garden—here.”

In an instant we were out of doors: the cool, calm night revived me somewhat. It was moonless, but the reflex from the many glowing windows lit the court brightly, and even the alleys—dimly. Heaven was cloudless, and grand with the quiver of its living fires. How soft are the nights of the Continent! How bland²³⁰, balmy, safe! No sea-fog; no chilling damp: mistless as noon, and fresh as morning.

Having crossed court and garden, we reached the glass door of the first classe. It stood open, like all other doors that night; we passed, and then I was ushered²³¹ into a small cabinet, dividing the first classe from the grand salle. This cabinet dazzled me, it was so full of light: it deafened²³² me, it was clamorous²³³ with voices: it stifled²³⁴ me, it was so hot, choking, thronged.

“De l’ordre! Du silence!” cried M. Paul. “Is this chaos²³⁵?”, he demanded; and there was a hush²³⁶. With a dozen words, and as many gestures, he turned out half the persons present, and obliged the remnant to fall into rank. Those left were all in costume: they were the performers, and this was the green-room. M. Paul introduced me. All stared and some tittered. It was a surprise: they had not expected the Englishwoman would play in a vaudeville. Ginevra Fanshawe, beautifully dressed for her part, and looking fascinatingly pretty, turned on me a pair of eyes as round as beads²³⁷. In the highest spirit, unperturbed by fear or bashfulness, delighted indeed at the thought of shining off before hundreds—my entrance seemed to transfix her with amazement²³⁸ in the midst of her joy. She would have exclaimed, but M. Paul held her and all the rest in check.

Having surveyed and criticized the whole troop, he turned to me.

“You, too, must be dressed for your part.”

“Dressed—dressed like a man!” exclaimed Zélie St. Pierre, darting²⁴⁰ forwards; adding with officiousness, “I will dress her myself.”

To be dressed like a man did not please, and would not suit me. I had consented to take a