The night was very dark, and I stood close to Miss ———, who stood as it seemed with her hands somewhere behind her back. I was so grateful to her for having talked to me so nicely, and so fond of her for being English, that the impulse seized me to steal my hand into hers—and her hand met mine with a gentle squeeze which I returned; but soon the pressure of her hand increased, and by the time M. le Curé had got to "au nom du Père" the pressure of her hand had become an agony—a thing to make one shriek!
"Ainsi soit‑il!" said M. le Curé, and the little group broke up, and Miss ——— walked quietly indoors with her arm around Madame Pélisson's waist, and without even wishing me good‑night—and my hand was being squeezed worse than ever.
"Ah ha! Lequel de nous deux est volé, petit coquin?" hissed an angry male voice in my ear—(which of us two is sold, you little rascal?).
And I found my hand in that of Monsieur Pélisson, whose name was something else—and I couldn't make it out, nor why he was so angry. It has dawned upon me since that each of us took the other's hand by mistake for that of the English governess!
All this is beastly and cynical and French, and I apologize for it—but it's true.
October!
It was a black Monday for me when school began again after that ideal vacation. The skies they were ashen and sober, and the leaves they were crisped and sere. But anyhow I was still en quatrième, and Barty was in it too—and we sat next to each other in "L'étude des grands."
There was only one étude now; only half the boys came back, and the pavillon des petits was shut up, study, class‑rooms, dormitories, and all—except that two masters slept there still.
Eight or ten small boys were put in a small