Marcélite represented another matter of yearly consideration, another question of paramount importance, a suspensive judgment, involving, however, Madame alone. With the assistance of the hairdresser, many years ago (the date is not essential, and women are sensitive about such things), the principal of the Institut St. Denis had engaged in one of those struggles against Time to which pretty unmarried women seem pledged during a certain period, the fighting age, of their lives: It was purely a defensive struggle on her part, and consisted in a protest against that uglifying process by which women are coaxed into resignation to old age and death. So far, she had maintained her own perfectly; and Time, for all the progress he had made in the sweet, delicate face of Eugénie Lareveillère, might just as well have been tied for ten years past to one of the four posts of the bedstead. The musical concert and distribution of prizes and its consequent indispensable new toilette furnished an excellent date for an annual review and consultation, when old measures were discussed, new ones adopted, and the next campaign planned. Madame, however, did not feel this year the same buoyant courage, the same irrepressible audacity as heretofore. In fact, there was a vague suspicion in her breast, hitherto unacknowledged, that in spite of facial evidence she herself, dans son intérieur, was beginning to grow the least, little, tiny bit old. She felt like capitulating with the enemy, and had almost made up her mind to surrender - her hair. “L'incertitude est le pire des maux, jusqu'au moment où la réalité nous fait regretter l'incertitude.” Should the conditions be proven too hard for mortal beauty, she could at least revolt again. Thank heaven! over there in Paris worked devoted emissaries for women, and the last word had not yet been said by the artists of hair-dyes and cosmetics.

“Eh, bien, qu'en dis-tu, Marcélite?”

The artistically arranged head, with its curls and puffs and frisettes clustered like brown silken flowers above the fair skin, was directly in the line of Marcélite's vision. Who would have suspected that these were but transplanted exotics from the hot head of foreign youth? that under their adorning luxuriance lay, fastened by inflexible hairpins, the legitimate but deposed possessors of this crown? But they were old, gray, almost white, and Madame was suggesting for them a temporary and empirical resurrection. That head which daily for years she had moulded according to her comprehension of fashion; that inert little ball for which Marcélite, in her superb physical strength, had almost felt a contempt, - she looked at it now, and, like the flowers in the garden, it was changed to her, was pregnant with subtle, portentous meaning. She was beginning faintly to suspect the truth. All this buzzing, whirling, thought, fear, calculation, retrospection, and prevision, which had come into her great, big, strong head only an hour ago, had been going on in this little, fragile, delicate handful of skull for years, ever since it was born. She saw it now, she knew it, - the difference between Madame's head and hers, between a consciousness limited by eternity and one limited by a nightly sleep, between an intelligence looking into immortality and one looking into the eyes of a confessor.

The room would have been quite dark but for that one useful ray which, after enlightening the path of distributive justice for Madame, fell on and was absorbed by a picture opposite. Out of the obscurity arose one by one the features of the bedchamber, - he supreme model of bedchambers in the opinion of the impressionable loyalists of St. Denis; a bedchamber, the luxury of which could never be surpassed, the mysterious solemnity never equalled; a bedchamber, in fact, created to satisfy the majestic coquettishness of the autocratic superior of an aristocratic school for girls.

Indistinct, undefined, vague fragments of color struggled up through the floor of sombre carpet. The windows, made to exclude the light, were draped with mantles of lace and silk hanging from gigantic, massive, convoluted gilt cornices. The grand four-posted mahogany bedstead, with its rigging of mosquito-netting and cords and tassels, looked like some huge vessel that by accident had lodged in this small harbor. So stupendous, so immeasurable, so gloomily, grandly, majestically imposing, this dark, crimson-housed bedstead looked in the small, dimly-lighted room, that little girls sent on occasional messages to Madame felt a tremor of awe at the sight of it, and understood instinctively, without need of explanation or elucidation, that here, indeed, was one of those lits de justice which caused such dismay in the pages of their French history. The bureau with its laces and ribbons, its cushions, essence-bottles, jewel-cases, vide-poches, and little galleried étagères full of gay reflections for the mirror underneath, was as coquettish, as volatile, as petulant an article of furniture as was ever condemned to bedchamber companionship with a lit de justice.

The prie-dieu in front of the altar granted the occupant an encouraging view into all the visible appliances for stimulating faith in the things not seen. The willing heart, as by an ascending scale, rose insensibly from the humanity to the divinity of sacrifice and suffering: reliquaries, triply consecrated beads, palms, and crucifixes, pictures of sainted martyrs and martyresses who contradicted the fallacious coincidence of homeliness and virtue, statuettes, prayer-books, pendent flasks of holy water, and an ecclesiastical flask of still holier liquid, impregnated with miraculous promises. A taper, in a red globe, burned with subdued effulgence below it all. Ghastly white and black bead wreaths, hanging under faded miniatures, set the bounds of mural consecration, and kept Madame mournfully reminded of her deceased husband and mother.

Marcélite stood, like a threatening idol, in the centre of the room, her eyes glaring through the gloom with fierce doggedness. Her feet were planted firmly apart, her hands doubled up on her high round, massive hips. The cords of her short, thick neck stood out, and her broad, flexible nostrils rose and fell with passion. Her untamed African blood was in rebellion against the religion and civilization whose symbols were all about her in that dim and stately chamber, - a civilization which had tampered pored with her brain, had enervated her will, and had duped her with false assurances of her own capability.

She felt a crushing desire to tear down, split destroy, to surround herself with ruins, to annihilate the miserable little weak devices of intelligence and reassert the proud supremacy of brute force. She longed to humiliate that meek Virgin Mother; and if the form on the crucifix had been alive she would have gloated over his blood and agony. She thirsted to get her thin, taper, steel-like fingers but once more on that pretty, shapely, glossy head.

“Pauvre petite chatte! I shall miss her very much; you know, Marcélite, it seems only a year or two since you brought her here a little baby, and now she is a young lady of seventeen. Thirteen years ago! What a chétive little thing she was! You were as much of a scholar here then as she; you had to stay with her so much. You have been a faithful nurse to her, ma bonne femme. A mother could not have been more devoted, and very few would have done all you have for that child. Ah! that's a thing money can never pay for, - love. I hope Marie will always remember what you have been to her, and repay it with affection. But she will; she is a good girl, - a good, good girl, pauvre petite! It is Monsieur Motte, though, who should give you a handsome present, something really valuable. I would like to know what he would have done for a bonne for his niece without you. You remember that summer when she had the fever? Oh, well, she would have died but for you; I shall never forget her sad little face and her big black eyes. You know, her mother must see all that; I can never believe, Marcélite, that a mother cannot come back, sometimes, to see her children, particularly a little girl -”

Marcélite listened with head averted. Her hands had fallen from her hips, her mouth slowly relaxed, and the lips opened moist and red. As if drawn by strains of music, she came nearer and nearer Madame's chair.

“She was always such a quiet little thing, ma foi!” Madame's reminiscence was an endless chain. “I used to forget her entirely; but now she is going away, I know I shall miss her, yes very much. I hope the world will be kind to her. She will be handsome, too, some day, when she does not have to study so hard, and can enjoy the diversions of society a little. By the time she is twenty you will see she will be une belle femme. Ah, Monsieur Motte, you will be satisfied, allez!”

The little pen commenced scratching away again, and this time registered the deed of prize of French history to l'élève, Marie Modeste Motte.

Marcélite, with wistful eyes, listened for some more of the soft, sweet tones. She made the movement of swallowing two or three times to get the swelling and stiffness out of her throat.

“Mamzelle Marie, too, she will be sorry to leave Madame.” Her voice was thick and unsteady.

“Oh no, girls are always glad to quit school. Very naturally, too. When one is young, one does not like to stay indoors and study, when there is so much outside, - dancing, music, beaux.” A sigh interrupted Madame. “It is all past for me now, but I can recollect how I felt when I was seventeen. Apropos, Marcélite, did you give my invitation to Monsieur Motte?”

“Yes, Madame.”

The answer came after an interval of hesitation. At one moment Marcélite's eyes flashed as if she would brave all results and refuse to respond.

“And what did he say?”

“He - he sent his compliments to Madame.”

Madame looked around to see what the good-natured coiffeuse meant by such sullen tones. “Yes; but did he say he would come to the concert? I wanted particularly to know that.”

“He is so old, Madame.”

“Là, là, the same old excuse! I am so tired of it.”

“But when one is old, Madame.”

“Ah, bah! I do not believe he is too old for his own pleasure. I know men; old age is very convenient excuse at times.”

Marcélite appeared to have no reply at the end of her ready tongue.

“But this time he must come, par exemple! even if he is so old. I think he might subject himself to some little inconvenience and trouble to see his niece graduate. He has not put him self out much about her for twelve or thirteen years.”

“God knows! Madame.”

“God knows? Mais, Marcélite, how silly you talk! Don't you see that Monsieur Motte must come to-morrow night, at least to take Marie home? God does know, and so should he.”

Marcélite spoke as if galvanized by an inspiration. “Perhaps he wants Miss Marie to stay another year, Madame, you see, she is so young, and - and - there is so much to learn, enfin.”

“He wants that, does he? he wants that! Ah, l'égoïste! That is like a man; oh, I know them, like a b c. No, if Marie is not too young to graduate, she is not too young to leave school; and besides, if she had not learned everything, how could she graduate? There is an end to learning, enfin. You tell Monsieur Motte that. But no, tiens, it is better I shall write it.”

She seized some note-paper and put her message in writing with the customary epistolary embellishment of phrase at the expense of sincerity and truth.

“I hope he will be kind to her, and look out for a good parti for her. Of course she will have a dot, - his only relative. Did you not tell me she was his only relative, Marcélite? He has absolutely no one else besides her?”

“No, Madame.”

“Well, then, she will get it all when he dies, unless” - with a shrug - “I do not know; one is never sure about men.”

Madame bethought herself of the time, and looked at her watch just as Marcélite, by a sudden resolution, made a desperate movement towards her.

“Nearly three o'clock! I must go and make my tour. Au revoir, ma bonne. Be sure and give Monsieur Motte my note, and come early to-morrow morning; and do not forget to think about what I told you, you know.” She tapped her head significantly and left the room. On the short passage to the Salle des Classes she put off her natural manner, and assumed the conventional disguise supposed to be more fitting her high position. When the door opened and the little girls started up to drop their courtesies, and their “Je vous salue, Madame,” her stately tread and severe mien could hardly have been distinguished from those of her predecessor, the aristocratic old refugée from the Island of St. Domingo.

After dinner, when the shadow had entirely enveloped the yard, and the fragrance of the oleander and jasmine had fastened itself on the air, the girls were allowed their evening recreation. Relieved from the more or less restraining presence of the day scholars, the boarders promenaded in the cordial intimacy of home life. The laughter of the children in the street, the music of the organs there seemed to be one at each corner, the gay jingle of the ice-cream cart came over talc wall to them. Tomorrow there would be no wall between them and the world, - the great, gay, big world of New Orleans. The thought was too exhilarating for their fresh blood; they danced to the music and laughed to the laughter outside, they kissed their hands to invisible friends, and made réverénces and complimentary speeches to the crescent moon up in the blue sky. The future would soon be here now! only to-morrow evening, - the future, which held for them a début in society, a box at the opera, beautiful toilettes, balls, dancing, music. No more study, routine, examinations, scoldings, punishments, and bread-and-butter lunches. The very idea of it was intoxicating, and each girl felt guilty of a maudlin effusion of sentiment and nonsense to her best friend. A “best friend” is an institution in every girls' school. Every class-book when opened would direct you to a certain page on which was to be found the name of “celle que j'aime,” or “celle que j'adore,” or “mon amie chérie,” or “ma toute devouée.” The only source of scandal that flourished in their secluded circle was the formation or disrupting of these ties through the intermeddling officiousness of “rapporteuses” and “mauvaises langues.” But the approaching dissolution of all ties drew them together, each one to each one's best friend, and, as usual, the vows exchanged became more fervent and passionate just before breaking. Marcélite was outside, leaning against the wall. Close over her head hung the pink oleanders through their green leaves, and on their strong perfume was wafted the merry voices of the boarders. How glad, how happy they were! She could hear her bébé above the others, and, strange to say, her laughter made her sadder even than her tears to-day. She lifted up her black, passionate face. If she could only see them! if she could look over the wall and catch one more glimpse of the girl whom as a baby she had held to her bosom, and whom she had carried in her arms through that gate when. . . “Ah, mon Dieu, ayez pitié de moi, pauvre négresse!”

“Dansez, chantez,”, they were singing and making a ronde. She heard some one at the gate, - Jeanne, probably, coming out. She turned her back quickly and walked away around the corner, making the tour of the square. When she turned the corner coming the other way, she was quite out of breath with walking so fast; as there was no one in the street, she increased her pace to a run, and reached the oleanders panting; but all was now still inside; the boarders had been summoned to supper. She stretched her arms out and leaned her head against the rough bricks. She turned and looked at the sky; her eyes gleamed through her tears like the hot stars through the blue air. She moved away a few steps, hesitated, returned; then went again, only to be drawn back under the oleanders. She sat down close to the wall, threw her apron over her head, and drew her feet up out of the way of the passers-by.

Daylight found her still there. When the early carts began to pass, laden for the neighboring market, she rose stiff and sore and walked in the direction of the river, where the morning breeze was just beginning to ripple the waters and drive away the fog.