My Double Life | Page 5

was of medium height, rather
stout, and her hair turning grey, à la Sévigné. She had beautiful large
eyes, rather like George Sand's, and very white teeth, which showed up
all the more as her complexion was rather tawny. She looked healthy,
spoke kindly; her hands were plump and her fingers long. She took my
hand gently in hers, and half kneeling, so that her face was level with
mine, she said in a musical voice, "You won't be afraid of me, will you,
little girl?" I did not answer, but my face flushed as red as a cockscomb.
She asked me several questions, but I refused to reply. They all
gathered round me.
"Speak, child----Come, Sarah, be a good girl----Oh, the naughty little
child!"
It was all in vain. I remained perfectly mute. The customary round was
then made, to the bed-rooms, the dining-hall, the class-rooms, and the
usual exaggerated compliments were paid. "How beautifully it is all
kept! How spotlessly clean everything is!" and a hundred stupidities of
this kind about the comfort of these prisons for children. My mother
went aside with Madame Fressard, and I clung to her knees so that she
could not walk. "This is the doctor's prescription," she said, and then
followed a long list of things that were to be done for me.
Madame Fressard smiled rather ironically. "You know, Madame," she
said to my mother, "we shall not be able to curl her hair like that."
"And you certainly will not be able to uncurl it," replied my mother,
stroking my head with her gloved hands. "It's a regular wig, and they
must never attempt to comb it until it has been well brushed. They
could not possibly get the knots out otherwise, and it would hurt her too

much. What do you give the children at four o'clock?" she asked,
changing the subject.
"Oh, a slice of bread and just what the parents leave for them."
"There are twelve pots of different kinds of jam," said my mother, "but
she must have jam one day, and chocolate another, as she has not a
good appetite, and requires change of food. I have brought six pounds
of chocolate." Madame Fressard smiled in a good-natured but rather
ironical way. She picked up a packet of the chocolate and looked at the
name of the maker.
"Ah! from Marquis's! What a spoiled little girl it is!" She patted my
cheek with her white fingers, and then as her eyes fell on a large jar she
looked surprised. "That's cold cream," said my mother. "I make it
myself, and I should like my little girl's face and hands to be rubbed
with it every night when she goes to bed."
"But----" began Madame Fressard.
"Oh, I'll pay double laundry expenses for the sheets," interrupted my
mother impatiently. (Ah, my poor mother! I remember quite well that
my sheets were changed once a month, like those of the other pupils.)
The farewell moment came at last, and every one gathered round
mamma, and finally carried her off, after a great deal of kissing and
with all kinds of consoling words. "It will be so good for her--it is just
what she needs--you'll find her quite changed when you see her
again"--&c. &c.
The General, who was very fond of me, picked me up in his arms and
tossed me in the air.
"You little chit," he said; "they are putting you into barracks, and you'll
have to mind your behaviour!"
I pulled his long moustache, and he said, winking, and looking in the
direction of Madame Fressard, who had a slight moustache, "You

mustn't do that to the lady, you know!"
My aunt laughed heartily, and my mother gave a little stifled laugh, and
the whole troop went off in a regular whirlwind of rustling skirts and
farewells, whilst I was taken away to the cage where I was to be
imprisoned.
I spent two years at this pension. I was taught reading, writing, and
reckoning. I also learnt a hundred new games. I learnt to sing rondeaux
and to embroider handkerchiefs for my mother. I was relatively happy
there, as we always went out somewhere on Thursdays and Sundays,
and this gave me the sensation of liberty. The very ground in the street
seemed to me quite different from the ground of the large garden
belonging to the pension. Besides, there were little festivities at
Madame Fressard's which used to send me into raptures. Mlle. Stella
Colas, who had just made her début at the Théâtre Français, came
sometimes on Thursdays and recited poetry to us. I could never sleep a
wink the night before, and in the morning I used to comb my hair
carefully and get ready, my heart beating fast with excitement, in