An edifying consequence ensued.

Something--an unseen, an indefinite, a nameless--something stole between myself and these my best pupils: the bouquets continued to be offered, but conversation thenceforth became impracticable.

As I paced the alleys or sat in the berceau, a girl never came to my right hand but a teacher, as if by magic, appeared at my left.

Also, wonderful to relate, Madame's shoes of silence brought her continually to my back, as quick, as noiseless and unexpected, as some wandering zephyr.
The opinion of my Catholic acquaintance concerning my spiritual prospects was somewhat naively expressed to me on one occasion.

A pensionnaire, to whom I had rendered some little service, exclaimed one day as she sat beside me: "Mademoiselle, what a pity you are a Protestant!" "Why, Isabelle ?" "Parceque, quand vous serez morte--vous brulerez tout de suite dans l'Enfer." "Croyez-vous ?" "Certainement que j'y crois: tout le monde le sait; et d'ailleurs le pretre me l'a dit." Isabelle was an odd, blunt little creature.