"To be sure; what have we come for?" was her reply. "We will only ask permission to see the garden, and as the portress will doubtless speak nothing but French, some one of you, fresh from school, must act as mouthpiece." They stared at Axelle, at each other, and at the steps leading into the upper town, as though they meditated flight. "I cannot," and "_I_ cannot," said each one of the shrinking group. Axelle laid her hand upon the bell, and gave one long, strong pull. "Now," she said, quietly, "some one of you must speak. You are ladies: you will not run away." And they accepted the situation. We were shown into a small _salon_, where presently there entered to us a brisk, sharp-featured little French woman,--a teacher in the establishment,--who smiled a courteous welcome from out her black eyes as we apologized for the intrusion, and made known our wishes. "We are a party of American girls," we said, "who, having learned to know and love Charlotte Brontë through her books, desire to see the garden of which she wrote in _Villette_." "O, certainly, certainly," was the gracious response. "Americans often come to visit the school and the garden." "Then this _is_ the school where she was for so long a time?" we burst out simultaneously, forgetting our little prepared speeches. "Yes, _mesdemoiselles_; I also was a pupil at that time," was the reply. We viewed the dark little woman with sudden awe. "But tell us," we said, crowding around her, "was she like--like--" We could think of no comparison that would do justice to the subject. The reply was a shrug of the shoulders, and, "She was just a quiet little thing, in no way remarkable. I am sure," she added, "we did not think her a genius; and indeed, though I have read her books, I can see nothing in them to admire or praise so highly!" "But they are _so_ wonderful!" ventured one of our number, gushingly. "They are very untrue," she replied, while something like a spark shot from the dark eyes. O, shades of departed story-tellers, is it thus ye are to be judged? "Madame Héger," she went on, "who still has charge of the school, is a most excellent lady, and not at all the person described as 'Madame Beck.'" "And M. Paul Emmanuel,--Lucy Snow's teacher-lover,"--we ventured to suggest with some timidity. "Is Madame Héger's husband, and was at that time," she replied, with a little angry toss of the head. After this terrible revelation there was nothing more to be said. She led the way through a narrow passage, and opening a door at the end, we stepped into the garden. We had passed the class-rooms on our right--where, "on the last row, in the quietest corner," Charlotte and Emily used to sit. We could almost see the pale faces, the shy figures bending over the desk in the gathering dusk.