And although no angel with a flaming sword--no, nor yet any Belgian architects and masons, who have broken down the walls and uprooted the old trees, and made the old historical garden in the Rue d'Isabelle a place of stones--can drive me out of _my_ garden of memories where still (and more often than before as the day darkens) I walk 'in the cool of the evening' with the spirit of my youth; yet, for English readers, it is not I, but Charlotte Brontë who must describe, what I could never dare nor desire to paint after her, the famous _Allée défendue_ that holds such a romantic place in her novel of Lucy Snowe, and that was also the scene of my second meeting with M. Heger. 'In the garden there _was a large berceau_,' wrote the author of _Villette_, '_above which spread the shade of an acacia; there was a smaller, more sequestered bower, nestled in the vines which ran along a high and grey wall and gathered their tendrils in a knot of beauty; and hung their clusters in loving profusion about the favoured spot, where jasmine and ivy met and married them ... this alley, which ran parallel with the very high wall on that side of the garden, was forbidden to be entered by the pupils; it was called indeed l'Allée défendue._' In my day there was no prohibition of the _Allée défendue_, although the name survived. It was only forbidden to play noisy or disturbing games there; as it was to be reserved for studious pupils, or for the mistresses who wished to read or converse there in quietude. [Illustration: THE "ALLÉE DÉFENDUE"] If I had a lesson to learn, it was to the _Allée défendue_ that I took my book; and in this _allée_ I had already discovered and appropriated a sheltered nook, at the furthest end of the _berceau_, where one was nearly hidden oneself in the vine's curtain, but had a delightful view of the garden. Before reaching this low bench, I had noticed, when entering the _berceau_, that a ladder stood in the centre; and that, out of view in so far as his head went, a man, in his shirt sleeves, was clipping and thinning the vines. I took it for granted he was a gardener, and paid no attention to him; but, in a quite happy frame of mind, sat down to learn some poetry by heart. My impression is that it was Lamartine's _Chûte des Feuilles_. Shutting my eyes, whilst repeating the verses out aloud (a trick I had), I opened them, _to see M. Heger_. He it was who had been thinning the vine; it was a favourite occupation of his (had I read _Villette_ I should have known it).[2] Once again he took me by surprise, and I was full of anxiety as to what might come of it. Since I entered the school I had, indeed, caught distant views of him, hurrying through the class-rooms to or from his lessons in the First and Second divisions. But until my French had improved I was placed in the Third division, where M. Heger only taught occasionally, so that I had not yet received any lesson from him.