The “Blues” were usually promoted to the “White” or First Communion Class at ten, but Hélène’s tendency to get into scrapes kept her back a whole year, even after her companion in mischief, Mlle de Choiseul, had been promoted. Probably the nuns thought it better to separate these two choice spirits for a while, even though Hélène knew at her finger tips everything that was to be known of the Blues’ programme.
“I knew my Ancient History, the History of France, and my Mythology very well; I knew by heart the whole poem of ‘La Religion’ and ‘La Fontaine’s Fables,’ two cantos of ‘La Henriade,’ and the whole of the Tragedy of Athalie, in which I had played Joas” (at private theatricals, given by the young Duchess of Mortemart, one carnival). “I danced very well, I could sing at sight, and played the harp and the clavecin a little. But,” she continues plaintively, “the continual scrapes I got into, owing in a good deal to my friendship for Mlle de Choiseul, kept me back. I was so fond of her, that I would rather be in penance with her than see her punished alone; it was the same with her, and whenever she saw me punished, she would go away and do something, so as to get into penance too. The day was not long enough for us to say to each other all we had to say; and at night, as her room opened into mine, she would come to me, or I would steal into her.” And nice pranks they planned in these nocturnal visits! They found out that by putting a little oil on the hinges they could open a door without making any noise. Having opportunely unearthed a bottle of oil, they proceeded to make use of their discovery to make a round of the house in their dressing-gowns, and see what mischief they could do.
“Once we took a bottle of ink and poured it into the holy water font, which is just inside the choir door. The nuns say matins at two o’clock every morning, and as they know them off by heart, there is no light but that of the sanctuary lamp which barely lights the holy water font. They took the holy water, and never noticed what they were doing to themselves. But daylight came before matins were ended, and when they saw each other all daubed with ink, they took a fit of laughing, and the office was interrupted. They suspected that this was a trick of some of the girls, and they set up an inquiry the next day, but it was never discovered who did it.”
The two young ladies were less fortunate on another occasion.
“The ropes of the bells, called the ‘Gondi,’ because they were blessed by the Archbishop of Paris of the name, pass through a tribune behind the Abbess’s Throne. We climbed up one night, and tied our handkerchiefs as tightly as ever we could round the ropes. The novice whose duty it was to ring for matins, began to pull, but the knots on the ropes stopped them, and the bells did not move. She pulled and pulled, but it was all no use. Some of the nuns, noticing that it was after matins time, and hearing no bell, came down to see what was the matter. They saw the novice killing herself pulling away at the ropes. Then they came to the conclusion that there must be something the matter with the bells, and climbing the tribune, they found the handkerchiefs. Unfortunately, our initials were on them, H.M. and J.C.!”
I imagine it did not require these initials for the mistress of schools, Madame de Rochechouart, to know who the culprits were. She was a woman of great wisdom and discernment, full of tact and knowledge of human nature, and exercised the happiest influence on her wild young charges. A look from her was enough for Hélène, who was quite beyond the control of her other mistresses, and she tells a funny story of herself running back to the class-room on occasions, all in tears, “because Madame de Rochechouart looked at me with her big eyes.” “You silly child,” the others would say, “do you want her to make her eyes small on your account?”
The little Princess, who has a very sure hand for “portraits,” has left us one of “Madame de Rochechouart, sister of the late Duke of Mortemart, now twenty-seven years of age. Tall, beautifully made, a pretty foot, a delicate white hand, superb teeth and great dark eyes, grave and rather proud-looking, but with an enchanting smile.” The little girl lost her heart completely to this nun, and her name occurs on every page of these childish mémoires—until the last pathetic page, all stained with tears for the death of Madame de Rochechouart, so wonderfully told on it. “She possesses the love and respect of all the pensionnaires; she is rather severe, but perfectly just; we all adore her, and fear her; she is not demonstrative, but a word from her has an incredible effect; she is taxed with being proud and somewhat caustic towards her equals, but she is full of humanity and kindness for her inferiors. She is very clever and extremely well informed.”
Her method of dealing with her girls proves her qualities. She knew how to appeal to the sentiment strongest in them, “Noblesse Oblige,” and made them fear, above all things, to tarnish the lustre of their name by a low or unworthy action. Two of her girls, whose acquaintance we made in Hélène’s pages, show the effect of this teaching of hers in a remarkable manner. One was little Choiseul, Hélène’s particular friend, who on the occasion of a family scandal, acted with a strength and nobility of character, of which one could hardly believe a girl of fourteen capable. The other was Mlle de Montmorency, Hélène’s “petite maman,” whose death at the age of fifteen is one of the most moving episodes in Hélène’s journal.
Madame de Rochechouart knew how to discriminate between faults that were the effects of girlish giddiness, mere ebullitions of youth, and those that arose from, or were likely to end in permanent defects of character. Thus the episodes of the ink and the bells were not very severely punished by her; and the adventure with the scullery boy from the Conte de Beaumanoir’s kitchen, which Hélène relates with much zest, was touched off in such a way as to make the girls feel the ridicule of it. But when she found out her girls in anything low, or underhand, or dishonourable, she made them feel the full weight of her displeasure.