Villette

ADAME BECK.

Being delivered into the charge of the maîtresse, I was led through a
long narrow passage into a foreign kitchen, very clean but very
strange. It seemed to contain no means of cooking—neither fireplace nor
oven; I did not understand that the great black furnace which filled
one corner, was an efficient substitute for these. Surely pride was not
already beginning its whispers in my heart; yet I felt a sense of
relief when, instead of being left in the kitchen, as I half
anticipated, I was led forward to a small inner room termed a
“cabinet.” A cook in a jacket, a short petticoat and sabots, brought my
supper: to wit—some meat, nature unknown, served in an odd and acid,
but pleasant sauce; some chopped potatoes, made savoury with, I know
not what: vinegar and sugar, I think: a tartine, or slice of bread and
butter, and a baked pear. Being hungry, I ate and was grateful.

After the “prière du soir,” Madame herself came to have another look at
me. She desired me to follow her up-stairs. Through a series of the
queerest little dormitories—which, I heard afterwards, had once been
nuns’ cells: for the premises were in part of ancient date—and through
the oratory—a long, low, gloomy room, where a crucifix hung, pale,
against the wall, and two tapers kept dim vigils—she conducted me to an
apartment where three children were asleep in three tiny beds. A heated
stove made the air of this room oppressive; and, to mend matters, it
was scented with an odour rather strong than delicate: a perfume,
indeed, altogether surprising and unexpected under the circumstances,
being like the combination of smoke with some spirituous essence—a
smell, in short, of whisky.

Beside a table, on which flared the remnant of a candle guttering to
waste in the socket, a coarse woman, heterogeneously clad in a broad
striped showy silk dress, and a stuff apron, sat in a chair fast
asleep. To complete the picture, and leave no doubt as to the state of
matters, a bottle and an empty glass stood at the sleeping beauty’s
elbow.

Madame contemplated this remarkable tableau with great calm; she
neither smiled nor scowled; no impress of anger, disgust, or surprise,
ruffled the equality of her grave aspect; she did not even wake the
woman! Serenely pointing to a fourth bed, she intimated that it was to
be mine; then, having extinguished the candle and substituted for it a
night-lamp, she glided through an inner door, which she left ajar—the
entrance to her own chamber, a large, well-furnished apartment; as was
discernible through the aperture.

My devotions that night were all thanksgiving. Strangely had I been led
since morning—unexpectedly had I been provided for. Scarcely could I
believe that not forty-eight hours had elapsed since I left London,
under no other guardianship than that which protects the
passenger-bird—with no prospect but the dubious cloud-tracery of hope.

I was a light sleeper; in the dead of night I suddenly awoke. All was
hushed, but a white figure stood in the room—Madame in her night-dress.
Moving without perceptible sound, she visited the three children in the
three beds; she approached me: I feigned sleep, and she studied me
long. A small pantomime ensued, curious enough. I daresay she sat a
quarter of an hour on the edge of my bed, gazing at my face. She then
drew nearer, bent close over me; slightly raised my cap, and turned
back the border so as to expose my hair; she looked at my hand lying on
the bedclothes. This done, she turned to the chair where my clothes
lay: it was at the foot of the bed. Hearing her touch and lift them, I
opened my eyes with precaution, for I own I felt curious to see how far
her taste for research would lead her. It led her a good way: every
article did she inspect. I divined her motive for this proceeding, viz.
the wish to form from the garments a judgment respecting the wearer,
her station, means, neatness, &c. The end was not bad, but the means
were hardly fair or justifiable. In my dress was a pocket; she fairly
turned it inside out: she counted the money in my purse; she opened a
little memorandum-book, coolly perused its contents, and took from
between the leaves a small plaited lock of Miss Marchmont’s grey hair.
To a bunch of three keys, being those of my trunk, desk, and work-box,
she accorded special attention: with these, indeed, she withdrew a
moment to her own room. I softly rose in my bed and followed her with
my eye: these keys, reader, were not brought back till they had left on
the toilet of the adjoining room the impress of their wards in wax. All
being thus done decently and in order, my property was returned to its
place, my clothes were carefully refolded. Of what nature were the
conclusions deduced from this scrutiny? Were they favourable or
otherwise? Vain question. Madame’s face of stone (for of stone in its
present night aspect it looked: it had been human, and, as I said
before, motherly, in the salon) betrayed no response.

Her duty done—I felt that in her eyes this business was a duty—she
rose, noiseless as a shadow: she moved towards her own chamber; at the
door, she turned, fixing her eye on the heroine of the bottle, who
still slept and loudly snored. Mrs. Svini (I presume this was Mrs.
Svini, Anglicé or Hibernicé, Sweeny)—Mrs. Sweeny’s doom was in Madame
Beck’s eye—an immutable purpose that eye spoke: Madame’s visitations
for shortcomings might be slow, but they were sure. All this was very
un-English: truly I was in a foreign land.

The morrow made me further acquainted with Mrs. Sweeny. It seems she
had introduced herself to her present employer as an English lady in
reduced circumstances: a native, indeed, of Middlesex, professing to
speak the English tongue with the purest metropolitan accent.
Madame—reliant on her own infallible expedients for finding out the
truth in time—had a singular intrepidity in hiring service off-hand (as
indeed seemed abundantly proved in my own case). She received Mrs.
Sweeny as nursery-governess to her three children. I need hardly
explain to the reader that this lady was in effect a native of Ireland;
her station I do not pretend to fix: she boldly declared that she had
“had the bringing-up of the son and daughter of a marquis.” I think
myself, she might possibly have been a hanger-on, nurse, fosterer, or
washerwoman, in some Irish family: she spoke a smothered tongue,
curiously overlaid with mincing cockney inflections. By some means or
other she had acquired, and now held in possession, a wardrobe of
rather suspicious splendour—gowns of stiff and costly silk, fitting her
indifferently, and apparently made for other proportions than those
they now adorned; caps with real lace borders, and—the chief item in
the inventory, the spell by which she struck a certain awe through the
household, quelling the otherwise scornfully disposed teachers and
servants, and, so long as her broad shoulders wore the folds of that
majestic drapery, even influencing Madame herself—a real Indian
shawl—“un véritable cachemire,” as Madame Beck said, with unmixed
reverence and amaze. I feel quite sure that without this “cachemire”
she would not have kept her footing in the pensionnat for two days: by
virtue of it, and it only, she maintained the same a month.

But when Mrs. Sweeny knew that I was come to fill her shoes, then it
was that she declared herself—then did she rise on Madame Beck in her
full power—then come down on me with her concentrated weight. Madame
bore this revelation and visitation so well, so stoically, that I for
very shame could not support it otherwise than with composure. For one
little moment Madame Beck absented herself from the room; ten minutes
after, an agent of the police stood in the midst of us. Mrs. Sweeny and
her effects were removed. Madame’s brow had not been ruffled during the
scene—her lips had not dropped one sharply-accented word.

This brisk little affair of the dismissal was all settled before
breakfast: order to march given, policeman called, mutineer expelled;
“chambre d’enfans” fumigated and cleansed, windows thrown open, and
every trace of the accomplished Mrs. Sweeny—even to the fine essence
and spiritual fragrance which gave token so subtle and so fatal of the
head and front of her offending—was annihilated from the Rue Fossette:
all this, I say, was done between the moment of Madame Beck’s issuing
like Aurora from her chamber, and that in which she coolly sat down to
pour out her first cup of coffee.

About noon, I was summoned to dress Madame. (It appeared my place was
to be a hybrid between gouvernante and lady’s-maid.) Till noon, she
haunted the house in her wrapping-gown, shawl, and soundless slippers.
How would the lady-chief of an English school approve this custom?

The dressing of her hair puzzled me; she had plenty of it: auburn,
unmixed with grey: though she was forty years old. Seeing my
embarrassment, she said, “You have not been a femme-de-chambre in your
own country?” And taking the brush from my hand, and setting me aside,
not ungently or disrespectfully, she arranged it herself. In performing
other offices of the toilet, she half-directed, half-aided me, without
the least display of temper or impatience. N.B.—That was the first and
last time I was required to dress her. Henceforth, on Rosine, the
portress, devolved that duty.

When attired, Madame Beck appeared a personage of a figure rather short
and stout, yet still graceful in its own peculiar way; that is, with
the grace resulting from proportion of parts. Her complexion was fresh
and sanguine, not too rubicund; her eye, blue and serene; her dark silk
dress fitted her as a French sempstress alone can make a dress fit; she
looked well, though a little bourgeoise; as bourgeoise, indeed, she
was. I know not what of harmony pervaded her whole person; and yet her
face offered contrast, too: its features were by no means such as are
usually seen in conjunction with a complexion of such blended freshness
and repose: their outline was stern: her forehead was high but narrow;
it expressed capacity and some benevolence, but no expanse; nor did her
peaceful yet watchful eye ever know the fire which is kindled in the
heart or the softness which flows thence. Her mouth was hard: it could
be a little grim; her lips were thin. For sensibility and genius, with
all their tenderness and temerity, I felt somehow that Madame would be
the right sort of Minos in petticoats.

In the long run, I found she was something else in petticoats too. Her
name was Modeste Maria Beck, née Kint: it ought to have been Ignacia.
She was a charitable woman, and did a great deal of good. There never
was a mistress whose rule was milder. I was told that she never once
remonstrated with the intolerable Mrs. Sweeny, despite her tipsiness,
disorder, and general neglect; yet Mrs. Sweeny had to go the moment her
departure became convenient. I was told, too, that neither masters nor
teachers were found fault with in that establishment; yet both masters
and teachers were often changed: they vanished and others filled their
places, none could well explain how.

The establishment was both a pensionnat and an externat: the externes
or day-pupils exceeded one hundred in number; the boarders were about a
score. Madame must have possessed high administrative powers: she ruled
all these, together with four teachers, eight masters, six servants,
and three children, managing at the same time to perfection the pupils’
parents and friends; and that without apparent effort; without bustle,
fatigue, fever, or any symptom of undue excitement: occupied she
always was—busy, rarely. It is true that Madame had her own system for
managing and regulating this mass of machinery; and a very pretty
system it was: the reader has seen a specimen of it, in that small
affair of turning my pocket inside out, and reading my private
memoranda. “Surveillance,” “espionage,”—these were her watchwords.

Still, Madame knew what honesty was, and liked it—that is, when it did
not obtrude its clumsy scruples in the way of her will and interest.
She had a respect for “Angleterre;” and as to “les Anglaises,” she
would have the women of no other country about her own children, if she
could help it.

Often in the evening, after she had been plotting and counter-plotting,
spying and receiving the reports of spies all day, she would come up to
my room—a trace of real weariness on her brow—and she would sit down
and listen while the children said their little prayers to me in
English: the Lord’s Prayer, and the hymn beginning “Gentle Jesus,”
these little Catholics were permitted to repeat at my knee; and, when I
had put them to bed, she would talk to me (I soon gained enough French
to be able to understand, and even answer her) about England and
Englishwomen, and the reasons for what she was pleased to term their
superior intelligence, and more real and reliable probity. Very good
sense she often showed; very sound opinions she often broached: she
seemed to know that keeping girls in distrustful restraint, in blind
ignorance, and under a surveillance that left them no moment and no
corner for retirement, was not the best way to make them grow up honest
and modest women; but she averred that ruinous consequences would ensue
if any other method were tried with continental children: they were so
accustomed to restraint, that relaxation, however guarded, would be
misunderstood and fatally presumed on. She was sick, she would declare,
of the means she had to use, but use them she must; and after
discoursing, often with dignity and delicacy, to me, she would move
away on her “souliers de silence,” and glide ghost-like through the
house, watching and spying everywhere, peering through every keyhole,
listening behind every door.

After all, Madame’s system was not bad—let me do her justice. Nothing
could be better than all her arrangements for the physical well-being
of her scholars. No minds were overtasked: the lessons were well
distributed and made incomparably easy to the learner; there was a
liberty of amusement, and a provision for exercise which kept the girls
healthy; the food was abundant and good: neither pale nor puny faces
were anywhere to be seen in the Rue Fossette. She never grudged a
holiday; she allowed plenty of time for sleeping, dressing, washing,
eating; her method in all these matters was easy, liberal, salutary,
and rational: many an austere English school-mistress would do vastly
well to imitate her—and I believe many would be glad to do so, if
exacting English parents would let them.

As Madame Beck ruled by espionage, she of course had her staff of
spies: she perfectly knew the quality of the tools she used, and while
she would not scruple to handle the dirtiest for a dirty
occasion—flinging this sort from her like refuse rind, after the orange
has been duly squeezed—I have known her fastidious in seeking pure
metal for clean uses; and when once a bloodless and rustless instrument
was found, she was careful of the prize, keeping it in silk and
cotton-wool. Yet, woe be to that man or woman who relied on her one
inch beyond the point where it was her interest to be trustworthy:
interest was the master-key of Madame’s nature—the mainspring of her
motives—the alpha and omega of her life. I have seen her feelings
appealed to, and I have smiled in half-pity, half-scorn at the
appellants. None ever gained her ear through that channel, or swayed
her purpose by that means. On the contrary, to attempt to touch her
heart was the surest way to rouse her antipathy, and to make of her a
secret foe. It proved to her that she had no heart to be touched: it
reminded her where she was impotent and dead. Never was the distinction
between charity and mercy better exemplified than in her. While devoid
of sympathy, she had a sufficiency of rational benevolence: she would
give in the readiest manner to people she had never seen—rather,
however, to classes than to individuals. “Pour les pauvres,” she opened
her purse freely—against the poor man, as a rule, she kept it closed.
In philanthropic schemes for the benefit of society at large she took a
cheerful part; no private sorrow touched her: no force or mass of
suffering concentrated in one heart had power to pierce hers. Not the
agony in Gethsemane, not the death on Calvary, could have wrung from
her eyes one tear.

I say again, Madame was a very great and a very capable woman. That
school offered her for her powers too limited a sphere; she ought to
have swayed a nation: she should have been the leader of a turbulent
legislative assembly. Nobody could have browbeaten her, none irritated
her nerves, exhausted her patience, or over-reached her astuteness. In
her own single person, she could have comprised the duties of a first
minister and a superintendent of police. Wise, firm, faithless; secret,
crafty, passionless; watchful and inscrutable; acute and
insensate—withal perfectly decorous—what more could be desired?

The sensible reader will not suppose that I gained all the knowledge
here condensed for his benefit in one month, or in one half-year. No!
what I saw at first was the thriving outside of a large and flourishing
educational establishment. Here was a great house, full of healthy,
lively girls, all well-dressed and many of them handsome, gaining
knowledge by a marvellously easy method, without painful exertion or
useless waste of spirits; not, perhaps, making very rapid progress in
anything; taking it easy, but still always employed, and never
oppressed. Here was a corps of teachers and masters, more stringently
tasked, as all the real head-labour was to be done by them, in order to
save the pupils, yet having their duties so arranged that they relieved
each other in quick succession whenever the work was severe: here, in
short, was a foreign school; of which the life, movement, and variety
made it a complete and most charming contrast to many English
institutions of the same kind.

Behind the house was a large garden, and, in summer, the pupils almost
lived out of doors amongst the rose-bushes and the fruit-trees. Under
the vast and vine-draped berceau, Madame would take her seat on summer
afternoons, and send for the classes, in turns, to sit round her and
sew and read. Meantime, masters came and went, delivering short and
lively lectures, rather than lessons, and the pupils made notes of
their instructions, or did not make them—just as inclination
prompted; secure that, in case of neglect, they could copy the notes of
their companions. Besides the regular monthly jours de sortie, the
Catholic fête-days brought a succession of holidays all the year round;
and sometimes on a bright summer morning, or soft summer evening; the
boarders were taken out for a long walk into the country, regaled with
gaufres and vin blanc, or new milk and pain bis, or pistolets au
beurre (rolls) and coffee. All this seemed very pleasant, and Madame
appeared goodness itself; and the teachers not so bad but they might be
worse; and the pupils, perhaps, a little noisy and rough, but types of
health and glee.

Thus did the view appear, seen through the enchantment of distance; but
there came a time when distance was to melt for me—when I was to be
called down from my watch-tower of the nursery, whence I had hitherto
made my observations, and was to be compelled into closer intercourse
with this little world of the Rue Fossette.

I was one day sitting up-stairs, as usual, hearing the children their
English lessons, and at the same time turning a silk dress for Madame,
when she came sauntering into the room with that absorbed air and brow
of hard thought she sometimes wore, and which made her look so little
genial. Dropping into a seat opposite mine, she remained some minutes
silent. Désirée, the eldest girl, was reading to me some little essay
of Mrs. Barbauld’s, and I was making her translate currently from
English to French as she proceeded, by way of ascertaining that she
comprehended what she read: Madame listened.

Presently, without preface or prelude, she said, almost in the tone of
one making an accusation, “Meess, in England you were a governess?”

“No, Madame,” said I smiling, “you are mistaken.”

“Is this your first essay at teaching—this attempt with my children?”

I assured her it was. Again she became silent; but looking up, as I
took a pin from the cushion, I found myself an object of study: she
held me under her eye; she seemed turning me round in her
thoughts—measuring my fitness for a purpose, weighing my value in a
plan. Madame had, ere this, scrutinized all I had, and I believe she
esteemed herself cognizant of much that I was; but from that day, for
the space of about a fortnight, she tried me by new tests. She listened
at the nursery door when I was shut in with the children; she followed
me at a cautious distance when I walked out with them, stealing within
ear-shot whenever the trees of park or boulevard afforded a sufficient
screen: a strict preliminary process having thus been observed, she
made a move forward.

One morning, coming on me abruptly, and with the semblance of hurry,
she said she found herself placed in a little dilemma. Mr. Wilson, the
English master, had failed to come at his hour, she feared he was ill;
the pupils were waiting in classe; there was no one to give a lesson;
should I, for once, object to giving a short dictation exercise, just
that the pupils might not have it to say they had missed their English
lesson?

“In classe, Madame?” I asked.

“Yes, in classe: in the second division.”

“Where there are sixty pupils,” said I; for I knew the number, and with
my usual base habit of cowardice, I shrank into my sloth like a snail
into its shell, and alleged incapacity and impracticability as a
pretext to escape action. If left to myself, I should infallibly have
let this chance slip. Inadventurous, unstirred by impulses of practical
ambition, I was capable of sitting twenty years teaching infants the
hornbook, turning silk dresses and making children’s frocks. Not that
true contentment dignified this infatuated resignation: my work had
neither charm for my taste, nor hold on my interest; but it seemed to
me a great thing to be without heavy anxiety, and relieved from
intimate trial: the negation of severe suffering was the nearest
approach to happiness I expected to know. Besides, I seemed to hold two
lives—the life of thought, and that of reality; and, provided the
former was nourished with a sufficiency of the strange necromantic joys
of fancy, the privileges of the latter might remain limited to daily
bread, hourly work, and a roof of shelter.

“Come,” said Madame, as I stooped more busily than ever over the
cutting-out of a child’s pinafore, “leave that work.”

“But Fifine wants it, Madame.”

“Fifine must want it, then, for I want you.”

And as Madame Beck did really want and was resolved to have me—as she
had long been dissatisfied with the English master, with his
shortcomings in punctuality, and his careless method of tuition—as,
too, she did not lack resolution and practical activity, whether I
lacked them or not—she, without more ado, made me relinquish thimble
and needle; my hand was taken into hers, and I was conducted
down-stairs. When we reached the carré, a large square hall between the
dwelling-house and the pensionnat, she paused, dropped my hand, faced,
and scrutinized me. I was flushed, and tremulous from head to foot:
tell it not in Gath, I believe I was crying. In fact, the difficulties
before me were far from being wholly imaginary; some of them were real
enough; and not the least substantial lay in my want of mastery over
the medium through which I should be obliged to teach. I had, indeed,
studied French closely since my arrival in Villette; learning its
practice by day, and its theory in every leisure moment at night, to as
late an hour as the rule of the house would allow candle-light; but I
was far from yet being able to trust my powers of correct oral
expression.

“Dîtes donc,” said Madame sternly, “vous sentez vous réellement trop
faible?”

I might have said “Yes,” and gone back to nursery obscurity, and there,
perhaps, mouldered for the rest of my life; but looking up at Madame, I
saw in her countenance a something that made me think twice ere I
decided. At that instant she did not wear a woman’s aspect, but rather
a man’s. Power of a particular kind strongly limned itself in all her
traits, and that power was not my kind of power: neither sympathy, nor
congeniality, nor submission, were the emotions it awakened. I
stood—not soothed, nor won, nor overwhelmed. It seemed as if a
challenge of strength between opposing gifts was given, and I suddenly
felt all the dishonour of my diffidence—all the pusillanimity of my
slackness to aspire.

“Will you,” she said, “go backward or forward?” indicating with her
hand, first, the small door of communication with the dwelling-house,
and then the great double portals of the classes or schoolrooms.

“En avant,” I said.

“But,” pursued she, cooling as I warmed, and continuing the hard look,
from very antipathy to which I drew strength and determination, “can
you face the classes, or are you over-excited?”

She sneered slightly in saying this: nervous excitability was not much
to Madame’s taste.

“I am no more excited than this stone,” I said, tapping the flag with
my toe: “or than you,” I added, returning her look.

“Bon! But let me tell you these are not quiet, decorous, English girls
you are going to encounter. Ce sont des Labassecouriennes, rondes,
franches, brusques, et tant soit peu rebelles.”

I said: “I know; and I know, too, that though I have studied French
hard since I came here, yet I still speak it with far too much
hesitation—too little accuracy to be able to command their respect I
shall make blunders that will lay me open to the scorn of the most
ignorant. Still I mean to give the lesson.”

“They always throw over timid teachers,” said she.

“I know that too, Madame; I have heard how they rebelled against and
persecuted Miss Turner”—a poor friendless English teacher, whom Madame
had employed, and lightly discarded; and to whose piteous history I was
no stranger.

“C’est vrai,” said she, coolly. “Miss Turner had no more command over
them than a servant from the kitchen would have had. She was weak and
wavering; she had neither tact nor intelligence, decision nor dignity.
Miss Turner would not do for these girls at all.”

I made no reply, but advanced to the closed schoolroom door.

“You will not expect aid from me, or from any one,” said Madame. “That
would at once set you down as incompetent for your office.”

I opened the door, let her pass with courtesy, and followed her. There
were three schoolrooms, all large. That dedicated to the second
division, where I was to figure, was considerably the largest, and
accommodated an assemblage more numerous, more turbulent, and
infinitely more unmanageable than the other two. In after days, when I
knew the ground better, I used to think sometimes (if such a comparison
may be permitted), that the quiet, polished, tame first division was to
the robust, riotous, demonstrative second division, what the English
House of Lords is to the House of Commons.

The first glance informed me that many of the pupils were more than
girls—quite young women; I knew that some of them were of noble family
(as nobility goes in Labassecour), and I was well convinced that not
one amongst them was ignorant of my position in Madame’s household. As
I mounted the estràde (a low platform, raised a step above the
flooring), where stood the teacher’s chair and desk, I beheld opposite
to me a row of eyes and brows that threatened stormy weather—eyes full
of an insolent light, and brows hard and unblushing as marble. The
continental “female” is quite a different being to the insular “female”
of the same age and class: I never saw such eyes and brows in England.
Madame Beck introduced me in one cool phrase, sailed from the room, and
left me alone in my glory.

I shall never forget that first lesson, nor all the under-current of
life and character it opened up to me. Then first did I begin rightly
to see the wide difference that lies between the novelist’s and poet’s
ideal “jeune fille” and the said “jeune fille” as she really is.

It seems that three titled belles in the first row had sat down
predetermined that a bonne d’enfants should not give them lessons in
English. They knew they had succeeded in expelling obnoxious teachers
before now; they knew that Madame would at any time throw overboard a
professeur or maitresse who became unpopular with the school—that she
never assisted a weak official to retain his place—that if he had not
strength to fight, or tact to win his way, down he went: looking at
“Miss Snowe,” they promised themselves an easy victory.

Mesdemoiselles Blanche, Virginie, and Angélique opened the campaign by
a series of titterings and whisperings; these soon swelled into murmurs
and short laughs, which the remoter benches caught up and echoed more
loudly. This growing revolt of sixty against one, soon became
oppressive enough; my command of French being so limited, and exercised
under such cruel constraint.

Could I but have spoken in my own tongue, I felt as if I might have
gained a hearing; for, in the first place, though I knew I looked a
poor creature, and in many respects actually was so, yet nature had
given me a voice that could make itself heard, if lifted in excitement
or deepened by emotion. In the second place, while I had no flow, only
a hesitating trickle of language, in ordinary circumstances, yet—under
stimulus such as was now rife through the mutinous mass—I could, in
English, have rolled out readily phrases stigmatizing their proceedings
as such proceedings deserved to be stigmatized; and then with some
sarcasm, flavoured with contemptuous bitterness for the ringleaders,
and relieved with easy banter for the weaker but less knavish
followers, it seemed to me that one might possibly get command over
this wild herd, and bring them into training, at least. All I could now
do was to walk up to Blanche—Mademoiselle de Melcy, a young baronne—the
eldest, tallest, handsomest, and most vicious—stand before her desk,
take from under her hand her exercise-book, remount the estrade,
deliberately read the composition, which I found very stupid, and, as
deliberately, and in the face of the whole school, tear the blotted
page in two.

This action availed to draw attention and check noise. One girl alone,
quite in the background, persevered in the riot with undiminished
energy. I looked at her attentively. She had a pale face, hair like
night, broad strong eyebrows, decided features, and a dark, mutinous,
sinister eye: I noted that she sat close by a little door, which door,
I was well aware, opened into a small closet where books were kept. She
was standing up for the purpose of conducting her clamour with freer
energies. I measured her stature and calculated her strength. She
seemed both tall and wiry; but, so the conflict were brief and the
attack unexpected, I thought I might manage her.

Advancing up the room, looking as cool and careless as I possibly
could, in short, ayant l’air de rien, I slightly pushed the door and
found it was ajar. In an instant, and with sharpness, I had turned on
her. In another instant she occupied the closet, the door was shut, and
the key in my pocket.

It so happened that this girl, Dolores by name, and a Catalonian by
race, was the sort of character at once dreaded and hated by all her
associates; the act of summary justice above noted proved popular:
there was not one present but, in her heart, liked to see it done. They
were stilled for a moment; then a smile—not a laugh—passed from desk to
desk: then—when I had gravely and tranquilly returned to the estrade,
courteously requested silence, and commenced a dictation as if nothing
at all had happened—the pens travelled peacefully over the pages, and
the remainder of the lesson passed in order and industry.

“C’est bien,” said Madame Beck, when I came out of class, hot and a
little exhausted. “Ca ira.”

She had been listening and peeping through a spy-hole the whole time.

From that day I ceased to be nursery governess, and became English
teacher. Madame raised my salary; but she got thrice the work out of me
she had extracted from Mr. Wilson, at half the expense.