What the life at the institution was like can be understood only by someone who has spent time in similar institutions, such as a boarding school, the army, or a gaol.
It was a mixture of a demand for obedience that only encouraged subterfuges and infractions, moments of great passion followed by days of tedium.
The teaching duties for our year were shared between that meek and timid young woman of by Mlle Clery, who taught us mathematics and science, and our stern headmistress, Mlle Renouf, who was in charge of Latin, History, and Geography. More different women could not be found.
The first was minute in stature, very pretty, although she seemed either unconscious of this fact or embarrassed by it, for she always wore frocks that didn't flatter her figure and never arranged her face with any artistry, preferring to look rather pale and unremarkable. She spoke with a small, high-pitched voice, like the chirping of a bird.
She was exceedingly patient with the students. I, for example, was quickly noticed for being quite ignorant of the disciplines she taught, but she never lost her temper with me, and, instead, often aided me by providing little pamphlets, written in a simple style, to explain things that were obvious to all the other students.
Mlle Renouf, on the contrary, was very stern and prone to anger. Her whole being portrayed these personality traits: she was stock, with a face crossed by deep lines that heightened her displeasure with what she saw before her eyes: namely, slovenliness, obtusity, and a general propensity to sin. It was her mission to keep her girls clean, in body and spirit, to enrich our minds, to improve our manners, and to redress our morals.
She always gazed at the students in the classroom with great intensity, and any question or instruction was uttered with such ferocity that I have witnessed more than one student burst into tears when called upon.
Our headmistress would pace back and forth, talking about this or that topic, then, abruptly, she would turn on her heels, and, in a flash, she would be pointing a big finger into somebody's face.
'You,' she would say, enunciating each word distinctly and barely restraining her scolding hatred for the obvious stupidity of the poor girl before her, 'you, what the five proofs of God's existence according to the Aquinas?'
The poor girl would tremble and babble:
'The argument from the first mover…'
'Primus motor,' the headmistress would say, dismissing this obvious beginning, which had cost great pain to the unprepared student. 'What else, eh?'
With each sentence, the headmistress would get closer and closer to the student, her finger at the ready.
Eventually, the terror instigated by our educator would prove too much for the intellect of the pupil who would inevitably get confused and make a mistake.
'Universal compression…' she would say tentatively.
A great scream would follow:
'Aaah! It's universal causation, you swine, you imbecile, you human sewer!'
I was often spared these scoldings because Mr Clement, my old tutor, in his general incompetence had spent most of his time talking about antiquities, and his teachings proved enough to avoid the wrath of Mlle Renouf.
But our headmistress didn't just focus on our education. She also surveyed our behaviour and general hygiene. Often, she would surprise a girl in the corridors and ask to check behind her ears for any trace of dirt, or she might demand whether her undergarments were freshly washed.
A negative reply would cost the unfortunate dearly. Minor infractions were punished with a good scolding, which was always done before the whole school, while more serious crimes required a good caning. This too was done without much privacy.
Our headmistress didn't believe in having any pity for the scoundrels in her care. She was to reform them, turn them into obedient, complying women, if sainthood wasn't possible. And this was achieved only with harsh and swift punishment and public shame.
When Mlle Renouf wasn't around, our existence was made miserable by Juliette. Full of self-importance, the prefect would patrol the corridors and find all sorts of reasons to humiliate some girl, citing some minor infraction.
Juliette was particularly fond of reprimanding the younger girls:
'There's a run in your stocking! – Your hair is too long! – No whistling!'
The poor girls, who certainly missed their families and, especially in the first weeks, found the new environment quite overwhelming, quickly learned to scuttle away when they saw this older student walk the corridors.
Albeit more rarely so, even the older girls, such as I or Odile, would be written up by Juliette. The punishment would range from small chores around the school to financial fines, payable to Juliette herself.
I'm not sure Mlle Renouf knew that this girl extorted money from the other students, but I never saw a sign that the headmistress was in any way displeased with Juliette. In fact, she often mentioned this prefect as a figure of authority we were supposed to obey.
It was not clear what ascendence Juliette had on Mlle Renouf, or how she had acquired such a high role within the school. Maybe it was her father's wealth. Maybe Juliette was indeed a meritorious student. Be as it may, we all had to defer to her whims.
The only respite we had from her assiduous scrutiny was on some evenings when she was required to hand in reports to Mlle Renouf or assist her with the correction of the students' essays, and such activities.
On these evenings, our dormitory was much gayer than usual: we sang songs; some girls read aloud some lewd novelette; someone would even produce a bottle of wine, obtained who knows how. Had Juliette known about any of this, the forbidden books would be confiscated and the wine returned to the kitchen, as our time at the school was supposed to train us to be obedient and pure wives, not only in our public displays, but also in the secrecy of our own minds. We were not supposed to even desire what was forbidden: any future husband could supposedly pick any of the girls who graduated from the institute and implicitly trust their virtue and their modesty and their faithfulness.
It didn't come as a surprise, as I had learnt during the visits that my mother and I paid to many well-known gentlemen, that these men regularly escaped domestic bliss to seek solace into the arms of more vivacious lovers.
I slowly settled into such monotonous routine as it was imparted on all pupils. This proved initially hard, as my existence had so far been a free one, and I was not used to the punctuality that was required at every moment of our day.
While you had to stay on guard during Mlle Renouf's lessons for fear of being called upon to answer some question around the Italian Renaissance or about Cicero's Catilinarian orations, I found some enjoyment Mlle Clery's lessons.
I quickly abandoned any hope of understanding trigonometry or calculus, so I abandoned myself to the contemplation of our teacher. I enjoyed watching her pretty face as she looked about, hoping to elicit some interest. I found her awkwardness rather attractive, and studying her movements quite pleasant.
Her voice was clear and pure, like the ringing of a silver bell. She moved in a timid sort of way, rounding her shoulders within the grey smock, as if she was embarrassed by the space that her little body took on this Earth. Listening to her speak and watching her move lulled me to a peaceful state akin to sleep.
Other times, during her lessons, I would stare outside the window. I would watch the sky turn from blue to grey, day after day, as we moved into autumn. I would observe the leaves on the trees change from orange to red, and then brown. I would watch them fall and pile up in heaps that Marc Antoine would rake in slow, clumsy movements.
This man was a curious oddity in the life of the institute.
Our professors like to use him as an example in their orations: he was the object of the school's charity; he was the noble savage that philosophers wrote about; he was the incarnation of hard work.
'Take our dear Marc Antoine,' Mlle Renouf, our principle, would say. 'A poor unfortunate. A simpleton. And yet, with his hard work, he gets closer to Christ. Closer than any of us, perhaps, so much more fortunate than he can ever aspire to be.'
The big, overgrown child was always potting about. He pushed his wheelbarrow around, sometimes empty, for hours. He dug little trenches to plant new flowers in. Other times, he bundled up dry branches for our fireplaces.
But, apart from these phrases, I knew nothing of him.
He never spoke to anybody: in fact, he seemed terrified of the girls, and would often tremble and walk away, if one spoke to him or asked him a question. He was often contented with staring at the sky for long periods of time.
Many times, I observed through the window of our classroom lost in contemplation. It didn't matter whether it was sunny or if it was raining, whether it was time to come in for his meals or if he had a big job to complete that day.
Maybe it was a cloud that attracted his attention, or a flock of birds moving in the sky. Marc Antoine could follow them in rapt concentration, oblivious of what passed around him; then, he would keep staring at the region of the sky they had once occupied, maybe wondering where they had gone.
Odile found the life at the institute as tedious and unsuitable to her tastes as I did. She often complained about our situation:
'This food is horrible. With what Father pays, we should eat veal and oysters every day. – I don't understand why we're made to learn all this stuff, when all these girls will need to learn how to take a rich man's dick with a smile on their pretty faces to make a living. – These girls are dull indeed: they talk of nothing but dresses and shoes.'
I certainly agreed with that assessment.
'Wouldn't it be wonderful to escape? We could become actresses with a travelling troupe, or we could live in the woods like primitives,' she would say.
I would then remind her we couldn't act or sing, and we certainly didn't know how to hunt or start a fire.
Odile would not be deterred. She would invent stories about our life in the woods; she would tell me how we would take care of each other, and we would learn about all the herbs of the forest, which one cured a simple cold, and which could inebriate the mind.
Eventually, even this game began to tire her. She now became restless: every past-time I would suggest was quickly accepted and as quickly abandoned. Walking through the grounds became a tiring effort; sitting around made her impatient; games of patience, sowing, reading, and painting, which she had previously enjoyed, seemed to bore her; all had been done before.
She spoke more and more often about leaving the school, but she didn't act upon this thought until, one night, Juliette asked the girls of our dormitory to present their exercise books for inspection, for she was to report to the headmistress about our progress.
While it seems possible for a young person to pull wool over an adult's eyes, with excuses and promises alike, it is very difficult for them to fool one of their peers.
Juliette knew us very well, and she knew our weaknesses very well.
She slowly examined the work of each girl, often finding errors. After a while, she asked me to present my homework.
'Eloise, why haven't you completed the trigonometry problems? Why is this solution, which is incorrect, by the way, identical to what's on Odile's notebook? You are ignorant and unwilling to learn. You will be reported for your lack of effort, and you will receive detention,' she said, knowing of my struggles with numbers.
'Now, you,' she said, now addressing Odile, 'where is your Latin homework?'
'This is intolerable! You are intolerable!' my friend retorted.
Juliette smiled. Obviously, she hadn't been waiting for anything else.
'You will be punished. You will translate a good ten pages by the end of the week, and I will want to see it all copied in good, legible handwriting.'
Odile laughed loudly:
'What gives you the right? What makes you so special?'
Juliette ignored this question:
'I have said what I had to say. Now, who's next?'
'I haven't finished with you,' said Odile, giving Juliette a good push.
The prefect turned towards the girl. Her face was initially incredulous, then, realising that this was an opportunity for further punishment, opened her mouth to speak.
Odile didn't give her the opportunity to say anything, for she threw her exercise book at Juliette's head.
The volume missed, but Juliette blanched and took one step back.
'Ah, you're not so sure now,' Odile said, walking towards Juliette with great determination, while the prefect retreated.
The other girls, sensing a fight, were looking on with bloodlust. But their hopes were dashed quickly when Juliette babbled:
'You'll pay for this!'
And she quickly ran out of the room.
The girls cheered my friend. A bottle of wine emerged from a girl's trunk. But Odile quickly took me aside and whispered, not wanting to be heard:
'I'm done with this place. Let's go.'
I smiled at this, but Odile seemed quite determined.
'Where do you want to go?' I asked her.
'I'll show you,' she said. 'I was never a good sleeper, and, while you doze at night, I have found ways to amuse myself.'
So, while the rest of the girls started a song about an onion and were busy fighting over the bottle, Odile quickly opened a dormer and disappeared onto the roof outside.
'Come on!' came her voice from the darkness outside. 'Before someone sees you.'
Not knowing what to do, I decided to do what I knew was the worst possible thing for me to do: I followed my friend and closed the window behind me.