‘—Mon cœur? Dit Henri en déboutonnant son habit et en ouvrant sa chemise. Mais comment faire? il me faudrait un couteau.’ At which Stephen would giggle. One day she had added a comment of her own in the margin: ‘Little beast, he was only shamming!’ and Mademoiselle, coming on this unawares, had been caught in the act of laughing by her pupil. After which there was naturally less discipline than ever in the schoolroom, but considerably more friendship. However, Anna seemed quite contented, since Stephen was becoming so proficient in French; and observing that his wife looked less anxious these days, Sir Philip said nothing, biding his time. This frank, jaunty slacking on the part of his daughter should be checked later on, he decided. Meanwhile, Stephen grew fond of the mild-faced Frenchwoman, who in her turn adored the unusual child. She would often confide her troubles to Stephen, those family troubles in which governesses abound—her Maman was old and delicate and needy; her sister had a wicked and spendthrift husband, and now her sister must make little bags for the grand shops in Paris that paid very badly, her sister was gradually losing her eyesight through making those little bead bags for the shops that cared nothing, and paid very badly. Mademoiselle sent Maman a part of her earnings, and sometimes, of course, she must help her sister. Her Maman must have her chicken on Sundays: ‘Bon Dieu, il faut vivre—il faut manger, au moins—’ And afterwards that chicken came in very nicely for Petite Marmite, which was made from his carcass and a few leaves of cabbage—Maman loved Petite Marmite, the warmth of it eased her old gums. Stephen would listen to these long dissertations with patience and with apparent understanding. She would nod her head wisely: ‘Mais c’est dur,’ she would comment, ‘c’est terriblement dur, la vie!’ But she never confided her own special troubles, and Mademoiselle Duphot sometimes wondered about her: ‘Est-elle heureuse, cet étrange petit être?’ she would wonder. ‘Sera-t-elle heureuse plus tard? Qui sait!’ 2 Idleness and peace had reigned in the schoolroom for more than two years, when ex-Sergeant Smylie sailed over the horizon and proceeded to announce that he taught gymnastics and fencing. From that moment peace ceased to reign in the schoolroom, or indeed anywhere in the house for that matter. In vain did Mademoiselle Duphot protest that gymnastics and fencing thickened the ankles, in vain did Anna express disapproval, Stephen merely ignored them and consulted her father. ‘I want to go in for Sandowing,’ she informed him, as though they were discussing a career. He laughed: ‘Sandowing? Well, and how will you start it?’ Then Stephen explained about ex-Sergeant Smylie. ‘I see,’ nodded Sir Philip, ‘you want to learn fencing.’ ‘And how to lift weights with my stomach,’ she said quickly.