My School-Days | Page 5

a real padlock; I have it still, by the way, only now it holds old letters
and a bunch of violets and a few other little worthless things that I do
not often have the courage to look at nowadays. It is battered now and
the paint is worn off; but then it was fresh and shiny and I packed all
the doll's clothes in it with a light heart.
I don't remember anything about our leaving home, or saying good-bye
to the boys; so I fancy that they must have gone back to school some
time before; but I remember the night passage from Newhaven to
Dieppe far too vividly to care to describe it. I was a very worn-out little
girl indeed when we reached Rouen and I lay for the first time in a little
white French bed.
My mind was, I suppose, a little upset by my soul's sorrows at
Stamford and my body's unspeakable discomforts on board the channel
boat, and I was seized with a horror of the words Débit de Tabac
which I had noticed on our way from the station; I associated them with

the gravestone of my father, I don't know why, I can only conjecture
that the last syllable of Débit being the same as that of our name,
may- have had something to do with it. I lay awake in the dark, the
light from the oil lamp in the street came through the Persiennes and
fell in bright bars on the wall. As I grew drowsier I seemed to read
there in letters of fire "Débit de Tabac"
Then I fell asleep, and dreamed that my father's ghost came to me, and
implored me to have the horrible French inscription erased from his
tomb- "for I was an Englishman," he said.
Then I woke, rigid with terror, and finally summoned courage to creep
across the corridor to my mother's room and seek refuge in her arms. I
am particular to mention this dream because it is the first remembrance
I have of any terror of the dead, or of the supernatural. I do not at all
know how it had its rise; perhaps in the chatter of some nurse-maid,
long forgotten. By-and-by I should like to tell you about some of the
things that used to frighten me when I was a child; but just now we are
at Rouen where Joan of Arc was burned and where the church of St.
Ouen is. Even then the beauty of that marvellous Gothic church filled
me with a delight none the less intense for being incomprehensible to
me.
We went too, to St. Catharine du Mont. The ceiling of the church was
blue, with gold stars. I thought it very beautiful. It was very windy on
the mount, I remember, and the sky outside was blue, like the church
ceiling, with white clouds instead of gold stars.
There was a stall a little way clown the hill where a white-coifed
woman sold crucifixes and medals and rosaries and pictures. My
mother bought me a little painting of the church in an alabaster frame.
It was for a long time one of my chief treasures.
We went on to Paris. It was very hot and very dusty. It was the
Exhibition year. I went to the Exhibition which seemed to me large,
empty and very tiring. I saw the Emperor and the pretty Empress
driving in a carriage with their little son. The boy was about my own
age, and wore a velvet suit and an embroidered frilly collar. The crowd

cheered them with wild enthusiasm. Three years later- But this is not a
history-paper.
The pleasantest part of our stay in Paris was the time that my cousin
Fred spent with us. He lived in Paris, and knew that little girls like
sweeties. Also he sang the comic songs of the day, "Kafoozleum" and
"It's really very unpleasant," and taught me their long and dreary words.
He was very kind to me, and I remember him with tenderness though I
have never seen him since. On the whole, though I had a real silver
daisy brooch bought at the Exhibition, and more toys than could
conveniently be carried in my tin trunk, I was glad to get away from
Paris.
As this is not a guide-book I suppose I must not tell you about Tours,
and the Convent of Marmoutier. I expected a convent to be a dark and
terrible place, with perhaps a nun or two being built into the wall, and I
was relieved to find a trim, well-kept garden and a pleasant house,
where kindly-faced women in black gowns and white guimpes walked
about breviary in hand. Nor must I linger at Poitiers, where we saw
gloves made,