Be That As It May, Nothing Could Be More Kind Than Her Care
Of Me.
She tucked me up at night, and used to send for me in
the morning before she rose, to partake of her CAFE-AU-LAIT.
In return for her indulgences, I would 'make eyes' such as I
had seen Auguste, the young man-servant, cast at Rose the
cook. I would present her with little scraps which I copied
in roundhand from a volume of French poems. Once I drew, and
coloured with red ink, two hearts pierced with an arrow, a
copious pool of red ink beneath, emblematic of both the
quality and quantity of my passion. This work of art
produced so deep a sigh that I abstained thenceforth from
repeating such sanguinary endearments.
Not the least interesting part of the family was the
servants. I say 'family,' for a French family, unlike an
English one, includes its domestics; wherein our neighbours
have the advantage over us. In the British establishment the
household is but too often thought of and treated as
furniture. I was as fond of Rose the cook and maid-of-all-
work as I was of anyone in the house. She showed me how to
peel potatoes, break eggs, and make POT-AU-FEU. She made me
little delicacies in pastry - swans with split almonds for
wings, comic little pigs with cloves in their eyes - for all
of which my affection and my liver duly acknowledged receipt
in full. She taught me more provincial pronunciation and bad
grammar than ever I could unlearn. She was very intelligent,
and radiant with good humour. One peculiarity especially
took my fancy - the yellow bandana in which she enveloped her
head. I was always wondering whether she was born without
hair - there was none to be seen. This puzzled me so that
one day I consulted Auguste, who was my chief companion. He
was quite indignant, and declared with warmth that Mam'selle
Rose had the most beautiful hair he had ever beheld. He
flushed even with enthusiasm. If it hadn't been for his
manner, I should have asked him how he knew. But somehow I
felt the subject was a delicate one.
How incessantly they worked, Auguste and Rose, and how
cheerfully they worked! One could hear her singing, and him
whistling, at it all day. Yet they seemed to have abundant
leisure to exchange a deal of pleasantry and harmless banter.
Auguste was a Swiss, and a bigoted Protestant, and never lost
an opportunity of holding forth on the superiority of the
reformed religion. If he thought the family were out of
hearing, he would grow very animated and declamatory. But
Rose, who also had hopes, though perhaps faint, for my
salvation, would suddenly rush into the room with the carpet
broom, and drive him out, with threats of Miss Aglae, and the
broomstick.
The gardener, Monsieur Benoit, was also a great favourite of
mine, and I of his, for I was never tired of listening to his
wonderful adventures.
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