“What！ out already？” said she。 “I see you are an early riser。” I went up to her； and was received with an affable kiss and shake of the hand。
“How do you like Thornfield？” she asked。 I told her I liked it very much。
“Yes；” she said； “it is a pretty place； but I fear it will be getting out of order； unless Mr。 Rochester should take it into his head to e and reside here permanently； or； at least； visit it rather oftener： great houses and fine grounds require the presence of the proprietor。”
“Mr。 Rochester！” I exclaimed。 “Who is he？”
“The owner of Thornfield；” she responded quietly。 “Did you not know he was called Rochester？”
Of course I did not—I had never heard of him before； but the old lady seemed to regard his existence as a universally understood fact； with which everybody must be acquainted by instinct。
“I thought；” I continued； “Thornfield belonged to you。”
“To me？ Bless you； child； what an idea！ To me！ I am only the housekeeper—the manager。 To be sure I am distantly related to the Rochesters by the mother’s side； or at least my husband was； he was a clergyman； incumbent of Hay—that little village yonder on the hill—and that church near the gates was his。 The present Mr。 Rochester’s mother was a Fairfax； and second cousin to my husband： but I never presume on the connection—in fact； it is nothing to me； I consider myself quite in the light of an ordinary housekeeper： my employer is always civil； and I expect nothing more。”
“And the little girl—my pupil！”
“She is Mr。 Rochester’s ward； he missioned me to find a governess for her。 He intended to have her brought up in—shire； I believe。 Here she es； with her ‘bonne；’ as she calls her nurse。” The enigma then was explained： this affable and kind little widow was no great dame； but a dependant like myself。 I did not like her the worse for that； on the contrary； I felt better pleased than ever。 The equality between her and me was real； not the mere result of condescension on her part： so much the better—my position was all the freer。
As I was meditating on this discovery； a little girl； followed by her attendant； came running up the lawn。 I looked at my pupil； who did not at first appear to notice me： she was quite a child； perhaps seven or eight years old； slightly built； with a pale； small…featured face； and a redundancy of hair falling in curls to her waist。
“Good morning； Miss Adela；” said Mrs。 Fairfax。 “e and speak to the lady who is to teach you； and to make you a clever woman some day。” She approached。
“C’est le ma gouverante！” said she； pointing to me； and addressing her nurse； who answered—
“Mais oui； certainement。”
“Are they foreigners？” I inquired； amazed at hearing the French language。
“The nurse is a foreigner； and Adela was born on the Continent； and； I believe； never left it till within six months ago。 When she first came here she could speak no English； now she can make shift to talk it a little： I don’t understand her； she mixes it so with French； but you will make out her meaning very well； I dare say。”
Fortunately I had had the advantage of being taught French by a French lady； and as I had always made a point of conversing with Madame Pierrot as often as I could； and had besides； during the last seven years； learnt a portion of French by heart daily—applying myself to take pains with my accent； and imitating as closely as possible the pronunciation of my teacher； I had acquired a certain degree of readiness and correctness in the language； and was not likely to be much at a loss with Mademoiselle Adela。 She came and shook hand with me when she heard that I was her governess； and as I led her in to breakfast； I addressed some phrases to her in her own tongue： she replied briefly at first； but after we were seated at the table； and she had examined me some ten minutes with her large hazel eyes； she suddenly menced chattering fluently。
“Ah！” cried she； in French； “you speak my language as well as Mr。 Rochester does： I can talk to you as I can to him； and so can Sophie。 She will be glad： nobody here understands her： Madame Fairfax is all English。 Sophie is my nurse； she came with me over the sea in a great ship with a chimney that smoked—how it did smoke！—and I was sick； and so was Sophie； and so was Mr。 Rochester。 Mr。 Rochester lay down on a sofa in a pretty room called the salon； and Sophie and I had little beds in another place。 I nearly fell out of mine； it was like a shelf。 And Mademoiselle—what is your name？”
“Eyre—Jane Eyre。”
“Aire？ Bah！ I cannot say it。 Well； our ship stopped in the morning； before it was quite daylight； at a great city—a huge city； with very dark houses and all smoky； not at all like the pretty clean town I came from； and Mr。 Rochester carried me in his arms over a plank to the land； and Sophie came after； and we all got into a coach； which took us to a beautiful large house； larger than this and finer； called an hotel。 We stayed there nearly a week： I and Sophie used to walk every day in a great green place full of trees； called the Park； and there were many children there besides me； and a pond with beautiful birds in it； that I fed with crumbs。”
“Can you understand her when she runs on so fast？” asked Mrs。 Fairfax。
I understood her very well； for I had been accustomed to the fluent tongue of Madame Pierrot。
“I wish；” continued the good lady； “you would ask her a question or two about her parents： I wonder if she remembers them？”
“Adèle；” I inquired； “with whom did you live when you were in that pretty clean town you spoke of？”
“I lived long ago with mama； but she is gone to the Holy Virgin。 Mama used to teach me to dance and sing； and to say verses。 A great many gentlemen and ladies came to see mama； and I used to dance before them； or to sit on their knees and sing to them： I liked it。 Shall I let you hear me sing now？”
She had finished her breakfast； so I permitted her to give a specimen of her acplishments。 Descending from her chair； she came and placed herself on my knee； then； folding her little hands demurely before her； shaking back her curls and lifting her eyes to the ceiling； she menced singing a song from some opera。 It was the strain of a forsaken lady； who； after bewailing the perfidy of her lover； calls pride to her aid； desires her attendant to deck her in her brightest jewels and richest robes； and resolves to meet the false one that night at a ball； and prove to him； by the gaiety of her demeanour； how little his desertion has affected her。
The subject seemed strangely chosen for an infant singer； but I suppose the point of the exhibition lay in hearing the notes of love and jealousy warbled with the lisp of childhood； and in very bad taste that point was： at least I thought so。
Adèle sang the canzote tunefully enough； and with the na？veté of her age。 This achieved； she jumped from my knee and said； “Now； Mademoiselle； I will repeat you some poetry。”
Assuming an attitude； she began； “La Ligue des Rats： fable de La Fontaine。” She then declaimed the little piece with an attention to punctuation and emphasis； a flexibility of voice and an appropriateness of gesture； very unusual indeed at her age； and which pro