I spent many days there one spring, as C. was there for some weeks for a slight operation.  She had a charming room and dressing-room, with windows giving on a garden or rather farmyard, for the soeurs had their cows and chickens.  Sometimes in the evening we would see one of the sisters, her black skirt tucked up and a blue apron over it, bringing the cows back to their stables.  No man could have a room in the house.  F. wanted very much to be with his wife at night, as he was a busy man and away all day, and I tried to get a room for him, but the mother superior, a delightful old lady, wouldn’t hear of it.  However, the night before-and the night after the operation, he was allowed to remain with her,—­no extra bed was put in the room—­he slept on the sofa.

Often when C. was sleeping or tired, I would take my book and establish myself in the garden.  Paris might have been miles away, though only a few yards off there was a busy, crowded boulevard, but no noise seemed to penetrate the thick walls.  Occasionally at the end of a quiet path I would see a black figure pacing backward and forward, with eyes fixed on a breviary.  Once or twice a soeur jardiniere with a big, flat straw hat over her coiffe and veil tending the flowers (there were not many) or weeding the lawn, sometimes convalescents or old ladies seated in armchairs under the trees, but there was never any sound of voices or of life.  It was very reposeful (when one felt one could get away for a little while), but I think the absolute calm and monotony would pall upon one, and the “Call of the World”—­the struggling, living, joyous world outside the walls—­would be an irresistible temptation.

I walked about a good deal in my quarter in the morning, and made acquaintance with many funny little old squares and shops, merceries, flower and toy shops which had not yet been swallowed up by the enormous establishments like the Louvre, the Bon Marche, and the big bazaars.  I don’t know how they existed; there was never any one in the shops, and of course their choice was limited, but they were so grateful, their things were so much cheaper, and they were so anxious to get anything one wanted, that it was a pleasure to deal with them.  Everything was much cheaper on that side—­flowers, cakes, writing-paper, rents, servants’ wages, stable equipment, horses’ food.  We bought some toys one year for one of our Christmas trees in the country from a poor old lame woman who had a tiny shop in one of the small streets running out of the rue du Bac.  Her grandson, a boy of about twelve or fourteen, helped her in the shop, and they were so pleased and excited at having such a large order that they were quite bewildered.  We did get what we wanted, but it took time and patience,—­their stock was small and not varied.  We had to choose piece by piece—­horses, dolls, drums, etc.—­and the writing down of the items and making up the additions was long and trying.  I meant to go back after we left the Quai d’Orsay, but I never did, and I am afraid the poor old woman with her petit commerce shared the fate of all the others and could not hold out against the big shops.