“And, then, you see, Monsieur, my FIGURINES, as you call them, are not in Mademoiselle Prefere’s programme. But I had begun to make a very small Saint-George for Madame de Gabry--a tiny little Saint-George, with a golden cuirass. Is not that right, Monsieur Bonnard--to give Saint-George a gold cuirass?” “Quite right, Jeanne; but what became of it?” “I am going to tell you, I kept it in my pocket because I had no other place to put it, and--and I sat down on it by mistake.” She drew out of her pocket a little wax figure, which had been squeezed out of all resemblance to human form, and of which the dislocated limbs were only attached to the body by their wire framework. At the sight of her hero thus marred, she was seized at once with compassion and gaiety. The latter feeling obtained the mastery, and she burst into a clear laugh, which, however, stopped as suddenly as it had begun. Mademoiselle Prefere stood at the parlour door, smiling. “That dear child!” sighed the schoolmistress in her tenderest tone. “I am afraid she will tire you. And, then, your time is so precious!” I begged Mademoiselle Prefere to dismiss that illusion, and, rising to take my leave, I took from my pocket some chocolate-cakes and sweets which I had brought with me. “That is so nice!” said Jeanne; “there will be enough to go round the whole school.” The lady of the pelerine intervened. “Mademoiselle Alexandre,” she said, “thank Monsieur for his generosity.” Jeanne looked at her for an instant in a sullen way; then, turning to me, said with remarkable firmness, “Monsieur, I thank you for your kindness in coming to see me.” “Jeanne,” I said, pressing both her hands, “remain always a good, truthful, brave girl. Good-bye.” As she left the room with her packages of chocolate and confectionery, she happened to strike the handles of her skipping-rope against the back of a chair. Mademoiselle Prefere, full of indignation, pressed both hands over her heart, under her pelerine; and I almost expected to see her give up her scholastic ghost. When we found ourselves alone, she recovered her composure; and I must say, without considering myself thereby flattered, that she smiled upon me with one whole side of her face. “Mademoiselle,” I said, taking advantage of her good humour, “I noticed that Jeanne Alexandre looks a little pale. You know better than I how much consideration and care a young girl requires at her age. It would only be doing you an injustice by implication to recommend her still more earnestly to your vigilance.” These words seemed to ravish her with delight. She lifted her eyes, as in ecstasy, to the paper spirals of the ceiling, and, clasping her hands exclaimed, “How well these eminent men know the art of considering the most trifling details!” I called her attention to the fact that the health of a young girl was not a trifling detail, and made my farewell bow. But she stopped me on the threshold to say to me, very confidentially,