chest, are indispensable elements of the French idiom. The
indiscriminate use of the word 'parfaitement' I also noticed

to be essential when at a loss for either language or ideas,
and have made valuable use of it ever since.

Monsieur Vincent, my tutor, was a most good-natured and
patient teacher. I incline, however, to think that I taught

him more English than he taught me French. He certainly
worked hard at his lessons. He read English aloud to me, and

made me correct his pronunciation. The mental agony this
caused me makes me hot to think of still. I had never heard

his kind of Franco-English before. To my ignorance it was
the most comic language in the world. There were some words

which, in spite of my endeavours, he persisted in pronouncing
in his own way. I have since got quite used to the most of

them, and their only effect is to remind me of my own rash
ventures in a foreign tongue. There are one or two words

which recall the pain it gave me to control my emotions. He
would produce his penknife, for instance; and, contemplating

it with a despondent air, would declare it to be the most
difficult word in the English language to pronounce. 'Ow you

say 'im?' 'Penknife,' I explained. He would bid me write it
down; then having spelt it, he would, with much effort, and a

sound like sneezing - oh! the pain I endured! - slowly repeat
'Penkneef.' I gave it up at last; and he was gratified with

his success. As my explosion generally occurred about five
minutes afterwards, Monsieur Vincent failed to connect cause

and effect. When we parted he gave me a neatly bound copy of
La Bruyere as a prize - for his own proficiency, I presume.

Many a pleasant half-hour have I since spent with the witty
classic.

Except the controversial harangues of the zealot Auguste, my
religious teaching was neglected on week days. On Sundays,

if fine, I was taken to a Protestant church in Paris; not
infrequently to the Embassy. I did not enjoy this at all. I

could have done very well without it. I liked the drive,
which took about an hour each way. Occasionally Aglae and I

went in the Bourg-la-Reine coucou. But Mr. Ellice had
arranged that a carriage should be hired for me. Probably he

was not unmindful of the convenience of the old ladies. They
were not. The carriage was always filled. Even Mademoiselle

Henriette managed to go sometimes - aided by a little patent
medicine, and when it was too hot for the chauffrette. If

she was unable, a friend in the neighbourhood was offered a
seat; and I had to sit bodkin, or on Mademoiselle Aglae's

lap. I hated the 'friend'; for, secretly, I felt the
carriage was mine, though of course I never had the bad taste

to say so.
They went to Mass, and I was allowed to go with them, in

addition to my church, as a special favour. I liked the
music, the display of candles, the smell of the incense, and

the dresses of the priests; and wondered whether when
undressed - unrobed, that is - they were funny old gentlemen

like Monsieur le Cure at Larue, and took such a prodigious
quantity of snuff up their noses and under their finger-

nails. The ladies did a good deal of shopping, and we
finished off at the Flower Market by the Madeleine, where I,

through the agency of Mademoiselle Aglae, bought plants for
'Maman.' This gave 'Maman' UN PLAISIR INOUI, and me too; for

the dear old lady always presented me with a stick of barley-
sugar in return. As I never possessed a sou (Miss Aglae kept

account of all my expenses and disbursements) I was strongly
in favour of buying plants for 'Maman.'

I loved the garden. It was such a beautiful garden; so
beautifully kept by Monsieur Benoit, and withered old Mere

Michele, who did the weeding and helped Rose once a week in
the laundry. There were such pretty trellises, covered with

roses and clematis; such masses of bright flowers and sweet
mignonette; such tidy gravel walks and clipped box edges;

such floods of sunshine; so many butterflies and lizards
basking in it; the birds singing with excess of joy. I used

to fancy they sang in gratitude to the dear old Marquise, who
never forgot them in the winter snows.

What a quaint but charming picture she was amidst this
quietude, - she who had lived through the Reign of Terror:

her mob cap, garden apron, and big gloves; a trowel in one
hand, a watering-pot in the other; potting and unpotting; so

busy, seemingly so happy. She loved to have me with her, and
let me do the watering. What a pleasure that was! The

scores of little jets from the perforated rose, the gushing
sound, the freshness and the sparkle, the gratitude of the

plants, to say nothing of one's own wet legs. 'Maman' did
not approve of my watering my own legs. But if the watering-

pot was too big for me how could I help it? By and by a
small one painted red within and green outside was discovered

in Bourg-la-Reine, and I was happy ever afterwards.
Much of my time was spent with the children and nurses of the

family which occupied the chateau. The costume of the head
nurse with her high Normandy cap (would that I had a female

pen for details) invariably suggested to me that she would
make any English showman's fortune, if he could only exhibit

her stuffed. At the cottage they called her 'La Grosse
Normande.' Not knowing her by any other name, I always so

addressed her. She was not very quick-witted, but I think
she a little resented my familiarity, and retaliated by

comparisons between her compatriots and mine, always in a
tone derogatory to the latter. She informed me as a matter

of history, patent to all nurses, that the English race were
notoriously bow-legged; and that this was due to the vicious

practice of allowing children to use their legs before the
gristle had become bone. Being of an inquiring turn of mind,

I listened with awe to this physiological revelation, and
with chastened and depressed spirits made a mental note of

our national calamity. Privately I fancied that the mottled
and spasmodic legs of Achille - whom she carried in her arms

- or at least so much of the infant Pelides' legs as were not
enveloped in a napkin, gave every promise of refuting her

generalisation.
One of my amusements was to set brick traps for small birds.

At Holkham in the winter time, by baiting with a few grains
of corn, I and my brothers used, in this way, to capture

robins, hedge-sparrows, and tits. Not far from the chateau
was a large osier bed, resorted to by flocks of the common

sparrow. Here I set my traps. But it being summer time, and
(as I complained when twitted with want of success) French

birds being too stupid to know what the traps were for, I
never caught a feather. Now this osier bed was a favourite

game covert for the sportsmen of the chateau; and what was my
delight and astonishment when one morning I found a dead hare

with its head under the fallen brick of my trap. How
triumphantly I dragged it home, and showed it to Rose and

Auguste, - who more than the rest had 'mocked themselves' of
my traps, and then carried it in my arms, all bloody as it

was (I could not make out how both its hind legs were broken)
into the salon to show it to the old Marquise. Mademoiselle

Henriette, who was there, gave a little scream (for effect)
at sight of the blood. Everybody was pleased. But when I

overheard Rose's SOTTO VOCE to the Marquise: 'Comme ils sont
gentils!' I indignantly retorted that 'it wasn't kind of the

hare at all: it was entirely due to my skill in setting the
traps. They would catch anything that put its head into

them. Just you try.'