MY SCHOOL-FRIENDS IN FRANCE.

(Concluded from page 155.)

Time passed on; the winter evenings' dancing and gathering round the stove were exchanged for the out-of-door games and romps of the little ones, and for the gatherings under the walnut tree, and sauntering up and down the broad gravel walks, of the elder girls, while they discussed the approaching holidays and their amusements, and the grand fête of the year, when the prizes were given away. In French schools, the holidays at Christmas consist only of two or three days. The midsummer ones are the only time when the pupils go home; and immediately before, there is a grand examination in presence of the parents of the pupils, the clergyman, the maire, and all the dignitaries of the town; everything of the sort in France being conducted with a degree of publicity and éclat unknown to our more reserved tempers and habits.

I think I have omitted to mention that Zelie's greatest talent was for music; she sang better than any girl in the school, except Melanie; and in her instrumental performance, she far surpassed them all. I never heard a clearer or more brilliant touch than hers, nor certainly any one play with greater pathos and feeling. For music enabled her to express the feelings which her shy temper and isolated situation forbade her showing in any other way. She was particularly anxious

to obtain the first prize on this occasion, as Madame had promised, if she made sufficient progress by that time, to take her as musicmistress to the younger classes, and as general assistant in the school, and to consider her services as equivalent to the instruction and board of Suzanne; the three years having elapsed for which the premium had been paid for the sister's instruction; and had also promised to allow her certain hours in the week to attend pupils in the town, if she could obtain any.

Thus it was an object of great importance to Zelie to produce the most favourable impression she could on this occasion, and the hours of the summer evenings that we spent in the pleasant garden were passed by Zelie in diligent practice, to Melanie's great annoyance, as she was exceedingly anxious to outshine her, yet was too indolent to take the necessary pains to do so. The music-master had selected an easy but brilliant sounding piece for her, and this she rattled off with a great deal of spirit and execution; still she could not be insensible to the superiority of Zelie's playing, and her annoyance vented itself in sharp remarks and ill-humoured speeches. One evening, coming in from a stroll in the garden, we went into the music-room where Zelie was practising as usual.

"You ought to know that piece pretty perfectly, and make some sensation with it,"

observed Melanie; " you practise it enoughno one else has a chance of getting near the piano."

Zelie glanced round at the two others standing in the room, but said, good-humouredly, "If you prefer this one, Mademoiselle, I will go to the one in the refectoire-I do not mind which I play on."

"Oh, I should not practise at this time of the evening," said Melanie, throwing herself into a chair; "I always think if people have not genius enough to do things well at once, it is no good working so hard-they never do anything worth hearing. What say you, Sempronie?"

"If a person is of good family, I see no occasion for tormenting oneself to acquire frivolous accomplishments at all: that is quite sufficient to distinguish. But for Zelie, who has to get her bread, it is all well enough."

The eventful day at length arrived. The school-room was decorated with wreaths of flowers; seats were arranged at one end for the visitors, in a semicircle, having for the centre, Madame's throne, to the steps of which the candidates for prizes came to receive them; our seats were ranged down both sides of the room, and at the other end was a kind of raised platform, on which the piano was placed, and from whence the different recitations were to be delivered. In the centre of the room was a table

covered with drawings, pieces of fancy work, &c., &c. At the end was a pile of showily bound books, surmounted by a beautiful wreath of white roses, the first prize of merit. A handsome supper was laid out in the refectory, and we were to dance afterwards in a room we

called the salle de musique, where the drawing and dancing lessons were also given.

The room was well lighted up, and looked very pretty, with the wreaths of flowers, the crimson-covered throne and table, and the groups of girls with their eager flushed faces and sparkling eyes, and all dressed alike in thin white dresses. Madame Arnaud was there, with a young man, whom I speedily recognized as Victor Fromont. They came late, and at a time when Zelie was occupied at the other end of the apartment; so she did not see them. There were two rows of seats for the pupils down each side of the room; I sat on the last, and there was a passage behind them all around the apartment. I knew Zelie did not expect to see her friends; and when she came at length, and sat by me, and I felt how cold and damp her hand was, and how she trembled, I hardly knew whether to tell her would act as a cordial or increase her nervousness.

"It will soon be my turn," she whispered, at length. "Oh, Bessie, I am so frightened-I feel so alone-nobody seems to wish me welleveryone is hoping Melanie will gain the prize, and I am sure she will."

"She does not play a quarter so well as you," I said, indignantly, "and I hope, with all my heart, you will get it, for you deserve it; but Zelie, you are wrong if you think nobody

takes an interest in you: Madame Arnaud and Victor are here."

The colour flashed up in her pale cheek, her eye brightened, and she obeyed the summons to sing a duet, with so much more self-possession and courage than she had before seemed capable of showing, that I sat rejoicing at the result of my experiment.

After the duet there was a slight pause in the proceedings of the evening, and I heard M. Perrault, who was standing behind me, begin a conversation with some one whose voice was familiar to me, but I could not see the speaker without turning completely round. Presently, in one of the quick movements which always accompanied M. Perrault's conversation, he threw down some books which were lying on a desk placed in a recess behind him, and I heard him dilating on the negligence of the young lady, who had left her books and music in great disorder. His harangue was interrupted by Zelie's beginning to play-rather nervously it is true, at first, but still artistically and well. I was listening with the most breathless eagerness, feeling, I believe, fully as agitated as herself, when a hand was laid on my shoulder, and a voice whispered in my ear, "Is this leaf from the piece Mademoiselle St. Aubyn is playing?

I turned quickly, and beheld, with consternation, that it was, indeed, the two entire leaves of her piece. I knew it to be hers, as no other girl in the school had a copy. "Oh, what is to be done?" I said. "She cannot play from memory well, at any time; and now she is so nervous, she will certainly break down." round, pass on the platform behind the piano, "Can you," said Victor (for he it was), "go and put the leaves in their place when she turns over? cite so much observation. You could easily so I would gladly do it if it would not exdo it, and save poor Zelie such a terrible embarrassment. Pray do, Miss Bessie!"

ing my place, but her wrath weighed light I knew Madame would be angry at my leavagainst my poor friend's distress, and I let him help me over the form. Sempronie was in front of me, and caught hold of my frock as he did so, saying, "Sit still, child:" Madame will be furious: you must not move." But I got away, and hastened along the space left behind the seats, on to the platform, and crossing behind the piano, came to Zelie's side just as she turned over to the place where the missing page ought to be, and saw that in its stead had been inserted a large sheet of paper, with the "Song of the Shirt" inscribed on it in large imitated print characters, at least an inch and a-half long. Hood's famous poem of that name had not then been written; but never did it excite more indignation in the breast of the largest dealer in the labours of overworked needlewomen than these words did in mine against Melanie, whose love of mischief had, I felt sure, prompted her to the ill-natured jest. I slipped it as quickly as I could from the desk, and substituted the music I held in my hand, but not before poor

Zelie's eyes had caught the taunting words. She trembled, and grew so nervous as hardly to be able to strike a note. The audience, however, who were much prepossessed in her favour, had the good nature and tact to applaud her at this juncture; and after a little she recovered her composure, and ended beautifully; while the room rung again with the bursts of applause her performance elicited.

In the meanwhile I had torn the obnoxious paper, which contained verses on the other side, into a thousand fragments, and placed them in a crevice behind the stove as I returned to my place. Zelie soon after joined me, and was received with a most animated look of pleasure and affection from Victor. "What was it, dear child," she whispered, "they put into my music? I only caught one word. Was it about that unlucky-shirt ?”

In spite of my sympathy, I burst out laughing at the tragical tone in which Zelie pronounced the unromantic word; so, to make some amends for my want of courtesy, I told her that it was Victor had found her music, and sent me with it."

At this moment my attention was drawn to the awful interest of the next proceedings. Madame was standing on the upper step of the throne, with the books and magnificent wreath on a little table by her, preparing to read aloud the list of names to whom prizes were to be awarded. The younger ones received theirs first; and I may, perhaps, be pardoned a little egotism, if I stop to relate the thrill of pleasure I felt when Miss Bessie Scott was declared to have won three prizes, though it was a little chilled by the solemn and embarrassing ceremony of having to walk up to the throne, curtsey gracefully to Madame, receive the books in a becoming manner, curtsey again, and walk back with as much ease and grace as could be summoned, up on so trying an occasion. All had been given but the last (the grand one), the wreath of white roses. This was usually the prize of general good conduct, diligence, and progress in all the branches of study. But on this occasion Madame had decided upon awarding it to the most accomplished musician. One or two of the elder and more influential part of the audience here came forward, and spoke to Madame: there had been a good deal of discussion already among them, and even M. Chèly, who hardly ever interfered in any of the school affairs, joined them in urging something, to which Madame seemed to oppose an inflexible determination; nor was it to be shaken by this last appeal; for, after a hurried reply, she turned round again towards us, and announced, with a clear and audible voice, that Mademoiselle Sempronie Alexandrine, Baronne de Viefville, was to receive the prize destined for the most proficient in music! We all stood aghast; for both Zelie's and Melanie's playing was so infinitely superior to hers, that we had never dreamed of her as a competitor for the first prize.

"The piece Mademoiselle la Baronne played," continued Mauame, "was infinitely more diffi

cult than the one performed by Mademoiselle le Gand, and was executed without any of the hesitation and interruption which disfigured the performance of Mademoiselle St. Aubyn."

And at her signal Sempronie, colouring deeply, came forward, and the beautiful wreath of white roses was placed on her head, but no applause; and in profound silence she returned to her seat.

The comments that took place that evening amongst ourselves may be imagined. Melanie whispered a few bitter words in Sempronie's ear, who looked sullen, sneered, and turned away. All crowded round the former to condole with her; and the prosperous rival was totally neglected: but Zelie, whom I regarded as much the most injured, as having undoubtedly the best claim to the prize, received no commiseration. One advantage, however, she gained-that Sempronie, finding popular opinion decidedly against her, did not dare to torment her about the paper found in her music; and Melanie, I concluded, was silent for her own sake.

Happily, Zelie's failure in gaining the prize did her no permanent injury, as all had been delighted with her performance, and grieved at the injustice shown her; and before the holidays-which we three, Zelie, Suzanne, and I, passed at the school together-were over, three families in the town had engaged her services as musical instructress in her spare hours. The last weeks of the vacation came, and with them strange news. First, that Melanie's father had died a bankrupt; that his family were totally ruined, and that our gay, light-hearted companion was not to return among us; next, that she was to come back, but in the same sort of position that Zelie had hitherto occupied, teaching the younger ones in return for further instruction bestowed on her, till she should be able to pass her examen, and obtain her own livelihood as a teacher. She had no relations left but her stepmother-a selfish, worldly woman, whose own jointure secured her a provision sufficient to maintain herself alone in tolerable ease and comfort; and she heartlessly abandoned her husband's daughter to struggle on through the world as best she might, lauding herself in the mean time as the most generous of women, in allowing her a wretched pittance of a few francs a year, scarcely sufficient to supply her wardrobe in the scantiest manner-a sad contrast to her former liberal allowance and luxurious habits.

It was curious to observe the different manners of her companions towards her, when she reappeared among us in her altered position. She did not come till nearly a fortnight after the time the school had assembled; so all had plenty of time to discuss the story. The prevailing feeling towards her was kindly: she had been generous, good-natured, though a little arrogant in her prosperity; and her misfortunes were pitied by all but Sempronie. This most unamiable girl rejoiced, almost openly, at the fall of the purse-proud parvenue, as she called her; and commented with much bitterness on her in

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