ient trees. A certain cleanliness indicated the vicinity of the
aristocratic institution; and the oyster-shells, old sardine-boxes, and
empty bottles were carefully swept away from the green door, that was as
solid and distrustful in aspect as if it led to a prison or a convent.

The profound silence that reigned was suddenly broken by a vigorous
assault of the bell by Madame Constant. Jack felt chilled to the heart
by the sound of this bell, and the sparrows on the one tree in the
garden fluttered away in sudden fright.

No one opened the door, but a panel was pushed away, and behind
the heavy grating appeared a black face, with protuberant lips and
astonished eyes.

"Is this the Moronval Academy?" said Madame de Barancy's imposing maid.

The woolly head now gave place to one of a different type,--a Tartar,
possibly,--with eyes like slits, high cheekbones, and narrow, pointed
head. Then a Creole, with a pale yellow skin, was also inspired by
curiosity and peered out. But the door still remained closed, and
Madame Constant was losing her temper, when a sharp voice cried from a
distance,--

"Well do you never mean to open that door, idiots?"

Then they all began to whisper; keys were turned, bolts were pushed
back, oaths were muttered, kicks were administered, and after many
ineffectual struggles the door was finally opened; but Jack saw only the
retreating forms of the schoolboys, who ran off in as much fright as did
the sparrows just before.

In the doorway stood a tall, colored man, whose large white cravat made
his face look still more black. M. Moronval begged Madame Constant to
walk in, offered her his arm, and conducted her through a garden, large
enough, but dismal with the dried leaves and debris of winter storms.

Several scattered buildings occupied the place of former flower-beds.
The academy, it seemed, consisted of several old buildings altered by
Moronval to suit his own needs.

In one of the alleys they met a small negro with a broom and a pail. He
respectfully stood aside as they passed, and when M. Moronval said, in a
low voice, "A fire in the drawing-room," the boy looked as much startled
as if he had been told that the drawing-room itself was burning.

The order was by no means an unnecessary one. Nothing could have been
colder than this great room, whose waxed floor looked like a frozen,
slippery lake. The furniture itself had the same polar aspect, enveloped
in coverings not made for it.