Hardly had Juliette arrived at school than she was summoned to the study of the Mlles. André. There she was questioned as to what her father thought of the situation. “‛Well, Juliette, your father must be highly pleased, he who has always been a republican. Have you seen him?’ “‛Yes, mesdemoiselles, he came yesterday, and he is delighted. He says that at last France will show herself worthy of her history, that she will govern herself, that all the European nations will admire us and perhaps follow our example, that it is the coming of the people, the real people, which is not corrupt like the middle-class, and which ...’ “‛That is enough,’ interrupted the eldest Mlle. André drily. ‛I hope, Juliette, that you will keep your father’s fine notions to yourself. I forbid you to speak of them here.’ “‛In the schoolroom, mademoiselle?’ “‛In the schoolroom and in the playground.’ “I looked Mlle. André in the face,” writes Juliette. I was almost as tall as she; and I replied— “‛That, mademoiselle, I can’t promise you; for there are a great many of us republicans in the school, and no one can prevent our talking about the Republic and loving it.’ “‛But France has not accepted your Republic,’ replied the youngest Mlle. André, Mlle. Sophie. “‛It will accept it, mademoiselle, because this time the people will vote.’” The Mlles. André were perplexed. They hesitated between their desire to shut the mouth of their precocious and self-assertive pupil, and their reluctance to be hard on their friend’s daughter, and also to annoy the republican parents of the other scholars. Finally they decided to bring the interview to a close by the following judicious remark: “When you see your father, Juliette, you may tell him from us that we hope his Republic will bring peace to France and not agitate it further.” On coming forth from the mistresses’ presence, Juliette was, of course, the object of universal interest among the scholars. They were burning to know what had passed in the principals’ sanctum. But they could not satisfy their curiosity until school was over. The lessons that morning were not well known, and the general excuse was the Republic. “Mademoiselle, I have not had time to do my lessons because of the Republic.” “Mademoiselle, I couldn’t work because of the Republic.” “I fail to understand,” was the icy retort, “how the Republic can be any concern of yours.” There was a deep silence, and then a voice—it was Juliette’s—made answer. “But, mademoiselle, it interests us passionately.”