geography, mythology, down to dictation, Pupasse could pile up an accumulation of penitences that would have tasked the limits of the current day had not recreation been wisely set as a term which disbarred, by proscription, previous offenses.  But even after recreation, with that day’s lessons safely out, punished and expiated, Pupasse’s doom seemed scarcely lightened; there was still a whole criminal code of conduct to infract.  The only difference was that instead of books, slates, or copy-books, leathern medals, bearing various legends and mottos, were hung around her neck—­a travestied decoration worse than the books for humiliation.

The “abecedaires,” their torment for the day over, thankful for any distraction from the next day’s lessons, and eager for any relief from the intolerable ennui of goodness, were thankful enough now for Pupasse.  They naturally watched her in preference to Madame Joubert, holding their books and slates quite cunningly to hide their faces.  Pupasse had not only the genius, but that which sometimes fails genius, the means for grimacing:  little eyes, long nose, foolish mouth, and pointed tongue.  And she was so amusing, when Madame Joubert’s head was turned, that the little girls, being young and innocent, would forget themselves and all burst out laughing.  It sounded like a flight of singing birds through the hot, close, stupid little room; but not so to Madame Joubert.

“Young ladies!  But what does this mean?”

And, terror-stricken, the innocents would call out with one voice, “It’s Pupasse, madame!  It’s Pupasse who made us laugh!” There was nothing but fools’ caps to be gained by prevaricating, and there was frequently nothing less gained by confession.  And oh, the wails and the sobs as the innocents would be stood up, one by one, in their places!  Even the pigtails at the backs of their little heads were convulsed with grief.  Oh, how they hated Pupasse then!  When their bonnes came for them at three o’clock,—­washing their tear-stained faces at the cistern before daring to take them through the streets,—­how passionately they would cry out, the tears breaking afresh into the wet handkerchiefs: 

“It’s that Pupasse!  It’s that vilaine Pupasse!”

To Pupasse herself would be meted out that “peine forte et dure,” that acme of humiliation and disgrace, so intensely horrible that many a little girl in that room solemnly averred and believed she would kill herself before submitting to it.  Pupasse’s voluminous calico skirt would be gathered up by the hem and tied up over her head!  Oh, the horrible monstrosity on the stool in the corner then!  There were no eyes in that room that had any desire to look upon it.  And the cries and the “Quelle injustice!” that fell on the ears then from the hidden feelings had all the weirdness of the unseen, but heard.  And all the other girls in the room, in fear and trembling, would begin to move their lips in a perfect whirlwind of study, or write violently on their slates, or begin at that very instant to rule off their copy-books for the next day’s verb.