When they came out into the hall again, Louise said, “Well, you’re assigned to room 17, I see. That means you’re going to bloom in Mademoiselle’s rose-garden. I ’most wish I were a freshman or sophomore, so I could be there with you. We seniors have to go up on the top floor.”
“What is Mademoiselle’s rose garden?”
“Come in here and see,” was the answer, as Louise led Jacquette into room 17 and straight to Mademoiselle Dubois’s desk, where a half dozen pupils were standing in line, waiting for the French teacher to assign them seats in her study room.
Just as she was starting for school, Uncle Mac put his arms around her
Mademoiselle, a slight figure dressed in black, was writing busily, but, after a moment, she lifted her head and fixed a pair of searching eyes on Jacquette. Instantly, the girl was conscious of a forceful character, masked by a dimpling face, which revealed nothing.
“Jacquette Willard,” Mademoiselle repeated after Louise, in honeyed tones. “A little French name, is it not? But it is not a little French girl? No? Ah, a cousin of Marquis Granville, did you say? My cunning chicken, I am charmed to meet you! You are going to be my child, for I know your cousin well, and, indeed, I am so fond of that little wretch!”
Jacquette gasped, and, before she could stammer a word in reply, Louise’s laugh had bubbled forth.
“Your old abominable laugh, my sweet pet,” Mademoiselle chided, turning to Louise and speaking in the same mellifluous voice. “You have carried it through high school, and you will carry it into womanhood. It is scandalous, dearie. You shall have that seat next the aisle, my little plum-tree,” she added, addressing Jacquette again. “The one in the second row, honey, and Louise, the dear child, shall help you make out your programme for the quarter. You see that all the classes and all the hours are plainly written on the board, don’t you, dearie? Go now, Louise, and help the little Willard, before the bell rings.”
“There! How do you like Mademoiselle?” Louise whispered, as soon as they were seated. “All the other teachers in high school call you ‘Miss’—but not Mademoiselle! She makes you feel, just at first, as if you’d dropped back into kindergarten, but don’t deceive yourself—you haven’t! There isn’t a more respected, better obeyed teacher in Marston than Mademoiselle Dubois, and, as for French, what she doesn’t know about it isn’t worth learning. Did you notice how she spoke about my laugh? She’s just right. I can’t control it to save my life. But isn’t she great?”