“That—­”

“Irregular verbs, that—­irregular verbs, that—­”

“See here, Pupasse; you do not know that lesson any more than a cat does”—­Madame Joubert’s favorite comparison.

“Yes, I do, Madame Joubert!  Yes, I do!”

“Silence!”

“But, Madame Joubert—­”

“Will you be silent!”

“Yes, Madame Joubert; only—­”

“Pupasse, one more word—­and—­” Madame Joubert was forgetting her comedy—­“Listen, Pupasse, and obey!  You go home and learn that lesson.  When you know it, you can reenter your class.  That is the punishment I have thought of to correct your ‘want of attention.’”

That was the way Madame Joubert put it—­“want of attention.”

Pupasse looked at her—­at madame, a silent but potent spectator.  To be sent from home because she did not know the rule of the irregular verbs!  To be sent from home, family, friends!—­for that was the way Pupasse put it.  She had been in that school—­it may only be whispered—­fifteen years.  Madame Joubert knew it; so did madame, although they accounted for only four or five years in each class.  That school was her home; Madame Joubert—­God help her!—­her mother; madame, her divinity; fools’ caps and turned-up skirts, her life.  The old grandmother—­she it was who had done everything for her (a ci-devant rag-picker, they say); she it was who was nothing to her.

Madame must have felt something of it besides the loss of the handsome salary for years from the little old withered woman.  But conventionality is inexorable; and the St. Denis’s great recommendation was its conventionality.  Madame Joubert must have felt something of it,—­she must have felt something of it,—­for why should she volunteer?  Certainly madame could not have imposed that upon her.  It must have been an inspiration of the moment, or a movement, a tressaillement, of the heart.

“Listen, Pupasse, my child.  Go home, study your lesson well.  I shall come every evening myself and hear it; and as soon as you know it, I shall fetch you back myself.  You know I always keep my word.”

Keep her word!  That she did.  Could the inanimate past testify, what a fluttering of fools’ caps in that parlor—­“Daily Bees,” and “Weekly Couriers,” by the year-full!

What could Pupasse say or do?  It settled the question, as Madame Joubert assured madame, when the tall, thin black figure with the bag of books disappeared through the gate.

Madame Joubert was never known to break her word; that is all one knows about her part of the bargain.

One day, not three years ago, ringing a bell to inquire for a servant, a familiar murmuring fell upon the ear, and an old abecedaire’s eyes could not resist the temptation to look through the shutters.  There sat Pupasse; there was her old grammar; there were both fingers stopping her ears—­as all studious girls do, or used to do; and there sounded the old words composing the rule for irregular verbs.