from by the young gentlemen, who called
him old "Pig-in-the-Wind," the origin for
which extraordinary sobriquet I never
discovered, nor, indeed, thought of asking.
"Guarantee, indeed," said Tom, contemptuously,
"yes, guarantee that's all the tea
we get out of her!—and fine swash it is!"
The young gentlemen wore a uniform here,
gilt buttons and puce-coloured cuffs and
collars.

Our house, as I have said, was charming
to look at, with its green jalousies and vines
creeping all over, and its cool porch. The
upper story took the shape of a pediment or
triangle, with a circular window, or hole
in the middle, an apartment which I always
fondly ambitioned, not for the elevation or
for the view, which was fine, but for the
mechanical pleasures associated with that
window; for the intricacies and peculiarities
were more than are usually attached to a
French window. It was otherwise allotted.
It commanded a full view, too, of the
charming common, where all the sports
went on, and where the boys of the district,
pursuing their various pastimes with much
cheerful noise and spirits, inflamed me—
but too often detained within, as punishment
for idleness—to the verge of frenzy.
Then I would see—taking a furtive glance
askance from the Roman history—that
the gentlemanly Darbyshire boys— "young
princes," Miss Simpson held them up to
us, for their genteel deportment— were
playing "prisoners' base," or, more seductive
still, flying the kite.

The advantages which residence in France
was supposed to offer for educational
purposes were not lost sight of. All masters
available were duly "laid on," as it were,
to supplement Miss Simpson, whose very
universal range of accomplishments, of
course, precluded her from having a very
profound acquaintance with any special
branch. I think, however, she secretly
rather resented this introduction, though
there was an indemnity in the visits of the
professors. Their variety lent a piquancy
to the day's routine.

When the young ladies received their
lessons she always assisted, in right of her
office. The French master's name was M.
Bernard, quite a picture, semi-ecclesiastical;
with a white neckcloth, to which starch
was unknown, swathed about his neck on
the hottest days, and secured firmly by a
hair brooch set round with imitation
diamonds. I am thus particular because I
had often studied him minutely. He had
a long blue coat; his head was bald; he
had that amiable soft way of talking, and
chirping air of general assent to everything
that we see in old gentlemen on the French
boards. He arrived every second day,
having a few pupils on the Côte, showing
the usual signs of intense heat. To say
that his knowledge of English was merely
imperfect would be too indulgent a
compliment, it being very much akin to the
language in which the British sailor
converses with the Chinese. But, with the
innate gallantry of a Frenchman, he was
always recognising " Mees Seemsong's"
presence—was she not a sister, too, in his
profession?—by politely taking her, as it
were, into the lesson. And a favourite
formula of his was, after a pinch of snuff,
which he carefully brushed off the starchless
neckcloth with the back of his little
finger, "Mais pour ces choses là, mon enfant,
Mademoiselle Seemsong, vous dira tout
après." Miss Simpson always knew the
meaning of this phrase, much as the native
Sepoys pick up British words of command,
and would smile and nod and murmur,
"Wee. Je ferry! Now, Mary, attend to what
Moosier Bernard says." With the "petites
dames," it must be said, he got on
excellently. There was that laudable emulation,
which seems more found among girls, to
have their " themes" ready—" dictées" he
called them—besides a pride which, I think,
was unaccountably wanting in myself and
other contemporaries of my acquaintance.
We only gave grudging measure, and any
device was greedily seized to shirk work.
He would at times lose temper, and make me
a long, impassioned, chaleureuse discourse,
as if he were in a pulpit. He used gestures
and a variety of tones, telling me that I had
a "léthargie incroyable," and also really
seemed to hint that the certain and ultimate
doom in store for me was an ignominious
end—I suppose the French guillotine, if my
disgraceful career terminated in his country.
All this I gathered from his manner more
than from his words, though I was picking
up French in an astonishing way, from
clandestine association with what were
called the " low boys" of the place. Every
month M. Bernard's modest stipend was
paid him, with a little solemnity and
circumstance which gratified him not a little, he
coming in uniform, as it were—his Sunday
coat, a genuinely starched tie, and no hair
brooch—the absence of that ornament being,
strange to say, his grandest tenue. Then
he was received in the drawing-room,
announced by the too- familiar John as
"Meshew Bernard," and after the