The diligence had stopped at the foot of the hill.  There were only two men in it besides the driver, the old Pere Jacques, who was dumbfounded when he recognized Madame Waddington.  It seems they couldn’t think what had happened.  As they got to the foot of the hill, they saw a good many people at the gate of the chateau; then suddenly something detached itself from the group and rushed wildly down the hill.  They thought it was an accident, some part of a carriage broken, and before they had time to collect their senses the whole thing collapsed in the ditch.  The poor old man was quite disturbed—­couldn’t think we were not hurt, and begged us to get into the diligence and not trust ourselves again to such a dangerous vehicle.  However we reassured him, and all walked up the hill together, the donkey pulling the sled, which was tied to him with a very primitive arrangement of ropes, the sled constantly swinging round and hitting him on the legs, which he naturally resented and kicked viciously.

We amused ourselves very much as long as the snow lasted, about ten days—­coasted often, and made excursions to the neighbouring villages with the sled and the donkey.  We wanted to skate, but that was not easy to arrange, as the ponds and “tourbieres” near us were very deep, and I was afraid to venture with the children.  I told Hubert, the coachman, who knew the country well, to see what he could find.  He said there was a very good pond in the park of the chateau of La Ferte, and he was sure the proprietor, an old man who lived there by himself, would be quite pleased to let us come there.

The old gentleman was most amiable—­begged we would come as often as we liked—­merely making one condition, that we should have a man on the bank (the pond was only about a foot deep) with a rope in case of accidents....  We went there nearly every afternoon, and made quite a comfortable “installation” on the bank:  a fire, rugs, chairs and a very good little gouter, the grocer’s daughter bringing us hot wine and biscuits from the town.

It was a perfect sight for La Ferte.  The whole town came to look at us, and the carters stopped their teams on the road to look on—­one day particularly when one of our cousins, Maurice de Bunsen,[3] was staying with us.  He skated beautifully, doing all sorts of figures, and his double eights and initials astounded the simple country folk.  For some time after they spoke of “l’Anglais” who did such wonderful things on the ice.

  [3] To-day British Embassador at Madrid.

They were bad days for the poor.  We used to meet all the children coming back from school when we went home.  The poor little things toiled up the steep, slippery hill, with often a cold wind that must have gone through the thin worn-out jackets and shawls they had for all covering, carrying their satchels and remnants of dinner.  Those that came from a distance always brought their dinner with them, generally a