It was about three when she arrived. The housemaid had gone on about an hour before, and I had watched with delight my little trunk and my toys being packed into the carriage. The maid climbed up and took the seat by the driver, in spite of my mother protesting at first against this. When my aunt’s magnificent equipage arrived, mamma was the first to get in, slowly and calmly. I got in slowly, too, giving myself airs, because the _concierge_ and some of the shopkeepers were watching. My aunt then sprang in lightly, but by no means calmly, after giving her orders in English to the stiff, ridiculous-looking coachman, and handing him a paper on which the address was written. Another carriage followed ours, in which three men were seated: Régie L——, a friend of my father’s, General de P—— and an artist named Fleury, I think, whose pictures of horses and sporting subjects were very much in vogue just then. I heard on the way that these gentlemen were going to arrange about a little dinner near Auteuil, to console mamma for her great trouble in being separated from me. Some other guests were to be there to meet them. I did not pay very much attention to what my mother and my aunt said to each other. Sometimes when they spoke of me they talked either English or German, and smiled at me affectionately. The long drive was greatly appreciated by me, for with my face pressed against the window, and my eyes wide open, I gazed out eagerly at the gray, muddy road, with its ugly houses on each side, and its bare trees. I thought it was all very beautiful, because it kept changing. The carriage stopped at 18, Rue Boileau, Auteuil. On the iron gate was a long, dark signboard, with gold letters. I looked up at it, and mamma said: “You will be able to read that soon, I hope.” My aunt whispered to me, “Boarding School, Madame Fressard,” and, very promptly, I said to mamma: “It says ‘Boarding School, Madame Fressard.’” Mamma, my aunt, and the three gentlemen laughed heartily at my assurance, and we entered the house. Mme. Fressard came forward to meet us, and I liked her at once. She was of medium height, rather stout, with a small waist, and her hair turning gray, _en Sévigné_. She had beautiful, large eyes, rather like George Sand’s, very white teeth which showed up all the more as her complexion was rather tawny. She looked healthy, spoke kindly, her hands were plump and her fingers long. She took my hand gently in hers and half-kneeling so that her face was level with mine, she said in a musical voice: “You won’t be afraid of me, will you, little girl?” I did not answer, but my face flushed as red as a coxcomb. She asked me several questions, but I refused to reply. They all gathered round me—“Speak, child—come, Sarah, be a good girl—oh, the naughty little child!”