“I knew my Ancient History, the History of France, and my Mythology very well; I knew by heart the whole poem of ‘La Religion’ and ‘La Fontaine’s Fables,’ two cantos of ‘La Henriade,’ and the whole of the Tragedy of Athalie, in which I had played Joas” (at private theatricals, given by the young Duchess of Mortemart, one carnival). “I danced very well, I could sing at sight, and played the harp and the clavecin a little. But,” she continues plaintively, “the continual scrapes I got into, owing in a good deal to my friendship for Mlle de Choiseul, kept me back. I was so fond of her, that I would rather be in penance with her than see her punished alone; it was the same with her, and whenever she saw me punished, she would go away and do something, so as to get into penance too. The day was not long enough for us to say to each other all we had to say; and at night, as her room opened into mine, she would come to me, or I would steal into her.” And nice pranks they planned in these nocturnal visits! They found out that by putting a little oil on the hinges they could open a door without making any noise. Having opportunely unearthed a bottle of oil, they proceeded to make use of their discovery to make a round of the house in their dressing-gowns, and see what mischief they could do. “Once we took a bottle of ink and poured it into the holy water font, which is just inside the choir door. The nuns say matins at two o’clock every morning, and as they know them off by heart, there is no light but that of the sanctuary lamp which barely lights the holy water font. They took the holy water, and never noticed what they were doing to themselves. But daylight came before matins were ended, and when they saw each other all daubed with ink, they took a fit of laughing, and the office was interrupted. They suspected that this was a trick of some of the girls, and they set up an inquiry the next day, but it was never discovered who did it.” The two young ladies were less fortunate on another occasion. “The ropes of the bells, called the ‘Gondi,’ because they were blessed by the Archbishop of Paris of the name, pass through a tribune behind the Abbess’s Throne. We climbed up one night, and tied our handkerchiefs as tightly as ever we could round the ropes. The novice whose duty it was to ring for matins, began to pull, but the knots on the ropes stopped them, and the bells did not move. She pulled and pulled, but it was all no use. Some of the nuns, noticing that it was after matins time, and hearing no bell, came down to see what was the matter. They saw the novice killing herself pulling away at the ropes. Then they came to the conclusion that there must be something the matter with the bells, and climbing the tribune, they found the handkerchiefs. Unfortunately, our initials were on them, H.M. and J.C.!”