When about twelve or thirteen years of age, I was placed at the fashionable establishment of Madame Lalande, to perfect my French pronunciation. Being a shy child, I drew away from the different cliques of the school, during my play hours, and gave myself up to sad recollections of home and my darling little brothers and sisters. The girls laughed at me, and called me “a mope,” which served only to increase my shyness. The Madame was exceedingly kind to me; but I only saw her in the evening, when we all assembled in the large drawing-rooms to dance, promenade, and converse sociably together under her superintendence. A few evenings after my arrival, while I was studiously endeavoring to make my petite figure still smaller, by hiding behind a harp-case which stood in a corner of the back drawing-room, to my exquisite terror, I saw the Madame approach me, holding by the hand a beautiful child, apparently about my own age.
“Mademoiselle Duval,” she said, “you must join in the dancing. You and my niece, Lolah, are about the same size; you will make good partners for each other. Lola, ma chère, I depend upon you to entertain our new pupil.”
The little girl approached me kindly, and taking my trembling hand, said,
“Will you not dance with me?”
I did not dare to refuse, but accompanied her to a quadrille, (cotillions, we called them in those days,) just forming near us, feeling as awkward and shy as a home-girl might be expected to feel, thrown, for the first time, in a crowd of nearly a hundred girls. The first figures of the quadrille I danced awkwardly enough, giving my little partner good reason to think I did not know my right hand from my left; but I soon forgot my mauvaise honte, in the pleasant chatting of the little Lolah, who told me of all the little enjoyments she had. Her “chère tante,” as she called Madame Lalande, had taken her the night before to an Opera, for the first time in her life; and, of course, her little head was filled with recollections of it. She described, with French volubility, and in a most graphic manner, the story of the Opera, the different scènas, and the dresses. I was so new to all such things, that I suppose she could not have found a more agreeable listener in the whole school; and we were mutually pleased with each other. We danced every quadrille together; and she most patronizingly waltzed with me in a corner of the drawing-room, until I could summon sufficient courage to venture in the large circle in the centre of the rooms. At ten o’clock we bade good night to each other, she promising, as her cherry lips kissed affectionately my mouth and cheeks, that she would persuade chère tante to take me some night with them to the Opera—a promise which she kept.
From that night I no longer felt lonely in the school—Lolah was my companion. Though a year or so my junior, she was quite as far advanced in mind; and we were thrown a great deal together in our studies, and with the easy confidence of childhood, we became bosom friends. Lolah was a great favorite in the school. The elder girls courted her for her influence with the Madame and the governesses, and the younger ones gathered around her because she was always merry, kind, and generous. She was a darling little creature—exceedingly pretty. She had full, large, dark eyes, an oval face, with a rich brunette complexion, and glossy hair, black as night. Her figure was slight, but perfectly formed; and she was the most graceful child I ever saw. The little queen of the Viennoise corps, darling little Fanny Prager, always reminds me of Lolah. She is not so pretty, but her graceful movements, her evident superiority over the rest of the troupe, her commanding little step, her apparent freedom from vanity, and her cleverness in forming the different tableaux and groups, bring Lolah to my mind; and while looking at her, I find myself loving the child as I used to love Lolah Lalande in my school days.
With the dancing-master Lolah was an especial favorite. She early gave evidence of a decided partiality for dancing; and Madame Lalande availed herself of every opportunity that offered to improve the child in her favorite accomplishment. Polkas, Redowas, and Mazurkas, were not known in those days; but the dancing-master, in those times, grew eloquent over Gavottes, Shawl Dances, and the expressive and graceful Spanish Waltzes. With delighted earnestness would Lolah go through her different dances; and Monsieur Neillet would almost expire with ecstacy. The Monsieur had been educated in the Parisian school, a pupil of La Conservatoire, and had even danced in a ballet before the august Emperor and Empress. With eager eloquence he would dilate upon Lolah’s wonderful gift to the Madame, and with great concern and grief, lament that she could not become a professional danseuse. Then he would give most tempting accounts of the immense sums of money made by the great danseuses of Europe.
“I trust, Monsieur,” the Madame would always reply, “I trust that my dear Lolah will never be forced to support herself by such a dangerous and exposed profession. While I live, she will be always sure of a home; and I earnestly pray I may have strength to collect for her before I die, a competency sufficient to place her above want.”
Lolah was called the niece of Madame Lalande, and went by her name. She loved the Madame passionately, who treated her with the greatest indulgence—indulgence that was never abused by Lolah, however, for she was an excellent, obedient child. Soon after my arrival, I noticed mysterious allusions made by some of the elder girls, when speaking of Lolah, which led me to question the relationship which Lolah bore to Madame Lalande. The curiosity excited in me was at last gratified by Lolah herself, who, after I had been some months at the school, told me that Madame Lalande had owned to her that she was not in truth her niece; that she was an orphan, whose parents had come from Ireland, before her birth, to settle in America; they had been in very humble circumstances. The mother of Lolah had been employed by Madame Lalande as a seamstress, and the Madame became very much interested in her. When Lolah was an infant, both parents were seized with an epidemic, and died within a few hours of each other. Madame Lalande promised them on their deathbeds she would adopt the infant Lolah, and take care of her so long as she lived. The Madame intended at first to bring up the child in a plain manner, and when old enough, have her taught some trade, by which she might support herself, and be independent; but Lolah proved so intelligent and beautiful, that she resolved to educate her well, and do her best by her, looking upon her as her own child.
“How can I ever repay ma chère tante for her kindness!” would the warm-hearted girl exclaim over and again, her fine, dark eyes dilating with emotion, and filling with tears, when with girlish frankness she would allude to the story of her birth.