Forget-me-not by Marjorie Bowen — Read

The Hotel du Boccage was closed, the family and the servants had gone to Javiaux du Boccage, only the concierge remained in charge.

Lucille Debelleyme walked in front of the high gates, above which waved the pleasant summer trees, gates which were now locked and closed to her, as it seemed, for ever. But she still resisted the demand of her enemies, she would not, however bribed by pensions or recommendations, go to England. By diligence, by tenacity, by accepting a miserable weekly sum she had secured a position in a small school for girls, which was situated in the same Rue du Harlay where she had found refuge with Madame Flamme. This pretentious but meagre enterprise, run for the benefit of the better class tradespeople who wished to ape gentility, was run by a Madame Trou, a Swiss woman who, it seemed, had passed by the scandals of Paris which had so brushed the bloom off the fair fame of Lucille Debelleyme. At least she appeared satisfied by the governess' excellent English testimonials and by the last letter written by Madame du Boccage. She accepted her brilliant services in return for a small remuneration and a miserable room looking out at the back of the house on to a small enclosed courtyard.