How long was this loneliness, this friendlessness to be my lot?  I was so young yet, that my life seemed endless as it stretched before me.  Poor, desolate, hunted, I shrank from life as an evil thing, and longed impatiently to be rid of it.  Yet how could I escape even from its present phase?

CHAPTER THE TENTH.

A MISFORTUNE WITHOUT PARALLEL.

My escape was nearer than I expected, and was forced upon me in a manner I could never have foreseen.

Toward the middle of February, Mademoiselle Morel appeared often in tears.  Madame Perrier’s coarse face was always overcast, and monsieur seemed gloomy, too gloomy to retain even French politeness of manner toward any of us.  The household was under a cloud, but I could not discover why.  What little discipline and work there had been in the school was quite at an end.  Every one was left to do as she chose.

Early one morning, long before daybreak, I was startled out of my sleep by a hurried knock at my door.  I cried out, “Who is there?” and a voice, indistinct with sobbing, replied, “C’est moi.”

The “moi” proved to be Mademoiselle Morel.  I opened the door for her, and she appeared in her bonnet and walking-dress, carrying a lamp in her hand, which lit up her weary and tear-stained face.  She took a seat at the foot of my bed, and buried her face in her handkerchief.

“Mademoiselle,” she said, “here is a grand misfortune, a misfortune without parallel.  Monsieur and madame are gone.”

“Gone!” I repeated; “where are they gone?”

“I do not know, mademoiselle,” she answered; “I know nothing at all.  They are gone away.  The poor good people were in debt, and their creditors are as hard as stone.  They wished to take every sou, and they talked of throwing monsieur into prison, you understand.  That is intolerable.  They are gone, and I have no means to carry on the establishment.  The school is finished.”

“But I am to stay here twelve months,” I cried, in dismay, “and Minima was to stay four years.  The money has been paid to them for it.  What is to become of us?”

“I cannot say, mademoiselle; I am desolated myself,” she replied, with a fresh burst of tears; “all is finished here.  If you have not money enough to take you back to England, you must write to your friends.  I’m going to return to Bordeaux.  I detest Normandy; it is so cold and triste.”

“But what is to be done with the other pupils?” I inquired, still lost in amazement, and too bewildered to realize my own position.

“The English pupil goes with me to Paris,” she answered; “she has her friends there.  The French demoiselles are not far from their own homes, and they return to-day by the omnibus to Granville.  It is a misfortune without parallel, mademoiselle—­a misfortune quite without parallel.”

By the way she repeated this phrase, it was evidently a great consolation to her—­as phrases seem to be to all classes of the French people.  But both the tone of her voice, and the expression of her face, impressed upon me the conviction that it was not her only consolation.  In answer to my urgent questions, she informed me that, without doubt, the goods left in the two houses would be seized, as soon as the flight of madame and monsieur became known.