out bustle, fatigue, fever, or any symptom of undue excitement: occupied she always was—busy, rarely. It is true that madame had her own system for managing and regulating this mass of machinery; and a very pretty system it was: the reader has seen a specimen of it, in that small affair of turning my pockets inside out, and reading my private memoranda. "Surveillance", "espionage"—these were her watchwords.
Still, madame knew what honesty was, and liked it—that is, when it did not intrude its clumsy scruples in the way of her will and interest. She had a respect for "Angleterre"; and to "les Anglaises", she would have the women of no other country about her own children, if she could help it.
Often in the evening, after she had been plotting and counter-plotting, spying and receiving the reports of spies all day, she would come up to my room—a trace of real weariness on her brow—and she would sit down and listen while the children said their little prayers to me in English: the Lord's Prayer, and the hymn beginning "Gentle Jesus", these little Catholics were permitted to repeat at my knee; and, when I had put them to bed, she would talk to me (I soon gained enough French to be able to understand, and even answer her) about England and Englishwomen, and the reasons for what she was pleased to term their superior intelligence, and more real and reliable probity. Very good sense she often showed; very sound opinions she often broached: she seemed to know that keeping girls in distrustful restraint, in blind ignorance, and under a surveillance that left no moment and no corner for retirement, was not the best way to make them grow up honest and modest women; but she averred that ruinous consequences would ensue if any other method were tried with continental children—they were so accustomed to restraint, that relaxation, however guarded, would be misunderstood and fatally presumed on: she was sick, she would declare, of the means she had to use, but use them she must; and after discoursing, often with dignity and delicacy, to me, she would move away on her "souliers de silence", and glide ghost-like through the house, watching and spying everywhere, peering through every key-hole, listening behind every door.
After all, madame's system was not bad—let me do her justice. Nothing could be better than all her arrangements
