Axelle laid her hand upon the bell, and gave one long, strong pull. "Now," she said, quietly, "some one of you must speak. You are ladies: you will not run away."
And they accepted the situation.
We were shown into a small salon, where presently there entered to us a brisk, sharp-featured little French woman,—a teacher in the establishment,—who smiled a courteous welcome from out her black eyes as we apologized for the intrusion, and made known our wishes.
"We are a party of American girls," we said, "who, having learned to know and love Charlotte Brontë through her books, desire to see the garden of which she wrote in Villette."
"O, certainly, certainly," was the gracious response. "Americans often come to visit the school and the garden."
"Then this is the school where she was for so long a time?" we burst out simultaneously, forgetting our little prepared speeches.
"Yes, mesdemoiselles; I also was a pupil at that time," was the reply. We viewed the dark little woman with sudden awe.
"But tell us," we said, crowding around her, "was she like—like—" We could think of no comparison that would do justice to the subject.
The reply was a shrug of the shoulders, and, "She was just a quiet little thing, in no way remarkable. I am sure," she added, "we did not think her a genius; and indeed, though I have read her books, I can see nothing in them to admire or praise so highly!"
"But they are so wonderful!" ventured one of our number, gushingly.