pudeur, mon enfant, la pudeur, as she covered my dripping neck in the folds of my dressing-*gown. When I clamoured for an explanation, I was told it was not considered decent in France for a young girl to wash her neck. We were worse off than the young gentlemen of Stanislas, whose feet are washed once a week; ours were washed only once a fortnight, and then a cloth was kept over them, lest the sight of our naked feet in the water should lead to the loss of our souls. For the years I was there, nobody, to my knowledge, ever had a bath of any kind. However, this is all changed, I am happy to say. French nuns have had to move with the times and accept the modern institution of baths. I hope they have also grown to accept the institution of men. When I was at school we were strictly forbidden to lift our eyes to a man's face. When the old doctor of eighty passed through the courtyard, if any of us happened to be about there was an instant cry of alarm, Baissez les yeux, mesdemoiselles. Il y a du monde. Du monde always meant the wolf in trousers and coat, and we were invited ever to tremble, blush, and lower our eyes in the dreadful creature's presence. It was a garrison town, and whenever we walked abroad and found officers upon our path nuns would skurry down our black-robed ranks, crying in terrified undertones, Baissez les yeux, mesdemoiselles.
