One of my friends, Madame Casimir-Perier,[4] who has a beautiful chateau at Pont-sur-Seine (of historic renown—­“La Grande Mademoiselle” danced there—­“A Pont j’ai fait venir les violons”, she says in her memoirs), also disapproved.  She gives away a great deal herself, and looks after all her village, but not in that way.  She said I had much better spend the money it would cost, on good, sensible, warm clothes, blankets, “bons de pain,” etc.; there was no use in giving them ideas of pleasure and refinement they had never had—­and couldn’t appreciate.  Of course it was all perfectly logical and sensible, but I did so want to be unreasonable, and for once give these poor, wretched little children something that would be a delight to them for the whole year—­one poor little ray of sunshine in their gray, dull lives.

  [4] Madame Casimir-Perier, widow of the well-known liberal statesman,
  and mother of the ex-President of the Republic.

We had many discussions in the big drawing-room after dinner, when W. was smoking in the arm-chair and disposed to look at things less sternly than in bright daylight.  However, he finally agreed to leave me a free hand, and I told him we should give a warm garment to every child, and to the very old men and women.  I knew I should get plenty of help, as the Sisters and Pauline promised me dolls and “dragees.”  I am sorry he couldn’t be here; the presence of the Ambassador would give more eclat to the fete, and I think in his heart he was rather curious as to what we could do, but he was obliged to go back to London for Christmas.  His leave was up, and beside, he had various country and shooting engagements where he would certainly enjoy himself and see interesting people.  I shall stay over Christmas and start for London about the 29th, so as to be ready to go to Knowsley[5] by the 30th, where we always spend the New Year’s Day.

  [5] The Earl of Derby’s fine palace near Liverpool.

We started off one morning after breakfast to interview the school-mistress and the Mayor—­a most important personage.  If you had ever seen St. Quentin you would hardly believe it could possess such an exalted functionary.  The village consists of about twelve little, low gray houses, stretching up a steep hill, with a very rough road toward the woods of Borny behind.  There are forty inhabitants, a church, and a school-house; but it is a “commune,” and not the smallest in France (there is another still smaller somewhere in the South, toward the Alpes Maritimes).  I always go and make a visit to the Mayor, who is a very small farmer and keeps the drinking shop[6] of the village.  We shake hands and I sit a few minutes in a wooden chair in the one room (I don’t take a drink, which is so much gained), and we talk about the wants and general behaviour of the population.  The first time I went I was on horseback, so we dismounted and had our little talk.  When we got up to go he hurriedly brought out a bench for me to mount from, and was quite bewildered when he saw W. lift me to the saddle from the ground.