I was no bright lady’s shadow⁠—not Miss de Bassompierre’s. Overcast enough it was my nature often to be; of a subdued habit I was: but the dimness and depression must both be voluntary⁠—such as kept me docile at my desk, in the midst of my now well-accustomed pupils in Madame Beck’s first classe ; or alone, at my own bedside, in her dormitory, or in the alley and seat which were called mine, in her garden: my qualifications were not convertible, nor adaptable; they could not be made the foil of any gem, the adjunct of any beauty, the appendage of any greatness in Christendom. Madame Beck and I, without assimilating, understood each other well. I was not her

companion, nor her children’s governess; she left me free: she tied me to nothing⁠—not to herself⁠—not even to her interests: once, when she had for a fortnight been called from home by a near relation’s illness, and on her return, all anxious and full of care about her establishment, lest something in her absence should have gone wrong⁠—finding that matters had proceeded much as usual, and that there was no evidence of glaring neglect⁠—she made each of the teachers a present, in acknowledgment of steadiness. To my bedside she came at twelve o’clock at night, and told me she had no present for me. “I must make fidelity advantageous to the St. Pierre,” said she; “if I attempt to make it advantageous to you, there will arise misunderstanding between us⁠—perhaps separation. One thing, however, I can do to please you⁠—leave you alone with your liberty: c’est-ce que je ferai .” 139