Tell
me everything.'

'I know nothing of papa's will. You don't know, Madame, how you hurt me.
Let us speak of something else.'

'You do know, and you must tell, petite dure-tete, or I will break a your
little finger.'

With which words she seized that joint, and laughing spitefully, she
twisted it suddenly back. I screamed while she continued to laugh.

'Will you tell?'

'Yes, yes! let me go,' I shrieked.

She did not release it immediately however, but continued her torture and
discordant laughter. At last she finally released my finger.

'So she is going to be good cheaile, and tell everything to her
affectionate gouvernante. What do you cry for, little fool?'

'You've hurt me very much--you have broken my finger,' I sobbed.

'Rub it and blow it and give it a kiss, little fool! What cross girl! I
will never play with you again--never. Let us go home.'

Madame was silent and morose all the way home. She would not answer my
questions, and affected to be very lofty and offended.

This did not last very long, however, and she soon resumed her wonted ways.
And she returned to the question of the will, but not so directly, and with
more art.

Why should this dreadful woman's thoughts be running so continually upon my
father's will? How could it concern her?

CHAPTER VII

_CHURCH SCARSDALE_

I think all the females of our household, except Mrs. Rusk, who was at open
feud with her and had only room for the fiercer emotions, were more or less
afraid of this inauspicious foreigner.

Mrs. Rusk would say in her confidences in my room--

'Where does she come from?--is she a French or a Swiss one, or is she a
Canada woman? I remember one of _them_ when I was a girl, and a nice limb
_she_ was, too! And who did she live with? Where was her last family? Not
one of us knows nothing about her, no more than a child; except, of course,
the Master--I do suppose he made enquiry. She's always at hugger-mugger
with Anne Wixted. I'll pack that _one_ about her business, if she doesn't
mind. Tattling and whispering eternally. It's not about her own business
she's a-talking. Madame de la Rougepot, I call her. She _does_ know how to
paint up to the ninety-nines--she does, the old cat. I beg your pardon,
Miss, but _that_ she is--a devil, and no mistake. I found her out first by
her thieving the Master's gin, that the doctor ordered him, and filling the
decanter up with water--the old villain; but she'll be found out ye