“I am going to school. Oh, the number of foreign schools I have been at in my life! And yet I am quite an ignoramus. I know nothing—nothing in the world—I assure you; except that I play and dance beautifully,—and French and German of course I know, to speak; but I can’t read or write them very well. Do you know they wanted me to translate a page of an easy German book into English the other day, and I couldn’t do it. Papa was so mortified: he says it looks as if M. de Bassompierre—my godpapa, who pays all my school-bills—had thrown away all his money. And then, in matters of information—in history, geography, arithmetic, and so on, I am quite a baby; and I write English so badly—such spelling and grammar, they tell me. Into the bargain I have quite forgotten my religion; they call me a Protestant, you know, but really I am not sure whether I am one or not: I don’t well know the difference between Romanism and Protestantism. However, I don’t in the least care for that. I was a Lutheran once at Bonn—dear Bonn!—charming Bonn!—where there were so many handsome students. Every nice girl in our school had an admirer; they knew our hours for walking out, and almost always passed us on the promenade: ‘Schönes Mädchen,’ we used to hear them say. I was excessively happy at Bonn!” “And where are you now?” I inquired. “Oh! at—_chose_,” said she. Now, Miss Ginevra Fanshawe (such was this young person’s name) only substituted this word “_chose_” in temporary oblivion of the real name. It was a habit she had: “_chose_” came in at every turn in her conversation—the convenient substitute for any missing word in any language she might chance at the time to be speaking. French girls often do the like; from them she had caught the custom. “_Chose_,” however, I found in this instance, stood for Villette—the great capital of the great kingdom of Labassecour. “Do you like Villette?” I asked. “Pretty well. The natives, you know, are intensely stupid and vulgar; but there are some nice English families.” “Are you in a school?” “Yes.” “A good one?” “Oh, no! horrid: but I go out every Sunday, and care nothing about the _maîtresses_ or the _professeurs_, or the _élèves_, and send lessons _au diable_ (one daren’t say that in English, you know, but it sounds quite right in French); and thus I get on charmingly…. You are laughing at me again?” “No—I am only smiling at my own thoughts.” “What are they?” (Without waiting for an answer)—“Now, _do_ tell me where you are going.” “Where Fate may lead me. My business is to earn a living where I can find it.” “To earn!” (in consternation) “are you poor, then?” “As poor as Job.”