VILLETTE by Charlotte Brontë - FULL Audiobook dramatic reading (Chapter 27)

CHAPTER XXVII. THE HOTEL CRÉCIT The morrow turned out a more lively and busy day than we—or than I, at least—had anticipated. It seems it was the birthday of one of the young princes of Le Bassacourt—the eldest, I think—the Duc de Dondonde, and a general holiday was given in his honour at the schools, and especially at the Principal Athénée, or college. The youth of that institution had also concocted, and were to present, a loyal address, for which purpose they were to be assembled in the public building where the yearly examinations were conducted, and the prizes distributed. After the ceremony of presentation, an oration, or discours, was to follow from one of the professors. Several of M. de Bassompierre's friends, the savants, being more or less connected with their Athénie, they were expected to attend on this occasion. Together with the worshipful municipality of Villette, M. Le Chevalier Estat, the burgomaster, and the parents and kinsfolk of the Athenians in general, M. de Bassompierre was engaged by his friends to accompany them. His fair daughter would, of course, be of the party, and she wrote a little note to Genevra and myself, bidding us come early that we might join her. As Miss Farnshaw and I were dressing in the dormitory of the Rue Farset, she, Miss F., suddenly burst into a laugh. "'What now?' I asked, for she had suspended the operation of arranging her attire, and was gazing at me. "'It seems so odd,' she replied, with her usual half-honest, half-insolent unreserve, "'that you and I should now be so much on a level—visiting in the same sphere—having the same connections.' "'Why, yes,' said I. I had not much respect for the connections you chiefly frequented a while ago. Mrs. Chamley and co. would never have suited me at all. "'Who are you, Miss Snow?' she inquired, in a tone of such undisguised and unsophisticated curiosity, as made me laugh in my turn. "'You used to call yourself a nursery governess. When you first came here you really had the care of the children in this house. I have seen you carry little Georgette in your arms like a bonne. Few governesses would have condescended so far. And now Madame Beck treats you with more courtesy than she treats the Parisienne St. Pierre, and that proud shit my cousin makes you her bosom friend.' "'Wonderful!' I agreed, much amused at her mystification. "'Who am I, indeed? Perhaps a personage in disguise. Pity I don't look the character.' "'I wonder you are not more flattered by all this,' she went on. "'You take it with strange composure. If you really are the nobody I once thought you, you must be a cool hand.' "'The nobody you once thought me!' I repeated, and my face grew a little hot, but I would not be angry. Of what importance was a schoolgirl's crude use of the terms nobody and somebody? I confined myself, therefore, to the remark that I had merely met with civility, and asked what she saw in civility to throw the recipient into a fever of confusion. "'One can't help wondering at some things,' she persisted. "'Wondering at marvels of your own manufacture. Are you ready at last?' "'Yes. Let me take your arm.' "'I would rather not. We will walk side by side. When she took my arm, she always leaned upon me her whole weight, and as I was not a gentleman or her lover, I did not like it.' "'There again!' she cried. "'I thought, by offering to take your arm, to intimate approbation of your dress and general appearance. I meant it as a compliment.' "'You did. You mean, in short, to express that you are not ashamed to be seen in the street with me? That if Mrs. Cholmondey should be fondling her lap-dog at some window, or Colonel de Hamas picking his teeth in a balcony, and should catch a glimpse of us, you would not quite blush for your companion?' "'Yes,' said she, with that directness which was her best point, which gave an honest plainness to her very fibs when she told them, which was, in short, the salt, the sole preservative ingredient of a character otherwise not formed to keep. I delegated the trouble of commenting on this yes to my countenance, or rather my under-lip voluntarily anticipated my tongue of course. Reverence and solemnity were not the feelings expressed in the look I gave her.' "'What a scornful, sneering creature!' she went on, as we crossed a great square, and entered the quiet, pleasant park, our nearest way to the Rue Cressy. "'Nobody in this world was ever such a Turk to me as you are. You bring it on yourself. Let me alone. Have the sense to be quiet. I will let you alone.' "'As if one could let you alone, when you are so peculiar and so mysterious?' "'The mystery and peculiarity being entirely the conception of your own brain. Maggots, neither more nor less, be so good as to keep them out of my sight.' "'But are you anybody?' persevered she, pushing her hand in spite of me under my arm, and that arm pressed itself with inhospitable closeness against my side, by way of keeping out the intruder. "'Yes,' I said, I'm a rising character. Once an old lady's companion, then a nursery governess, now a school-teacher. "'Do, do tell me who you are. I'll not repeat it,' she urged, adhering with ludicrous tenacity to the wise notion of an incognito she had got hold of, and she squeezed the arm of which she had now obtained full possession, and coaxed and conjured till I was obliged to pause in the park to laugh. Throughout our walk she rang the most fanciful changes on this theme, proving, by her obstinate credulity or incredulity, her incapacity to conceive how any person not bolstered up by birth or wealth, not supported by some consciousness of name or connection, could maintain an attitude of reasonable integrity. As for me, it quite sufficed to my mental tranquillity that I was known where it imported that known I should be. The rest sat on me easily. Pedigree, social position, and recondite intellectual acquisition occupied about the same space and place in my interests and thoughts. They were my third-class lodgers, to whom could be assigned only the small sitting-room, and the little back-bedroom. Even if the dining and drawing-room stood empty, I never confessed it to them, as thinking minor accommodations better suited to their circumstances. The world, I soon learned, held a different estimate, and I make no doubt the world is very right in its view, yet believe also that I am not quite wrong in mine. There are people whom a lowered position degrades morally, to whom loss of connection costs loss of self-respect. Are not these justified in placing their highest value on that station and association which is their safeguard from debasement? If a man feels that he would become contemptible in his own eyes were it generally known that his ancestry were simple and not gentle, poor and not rich, workers and not capitalists, would it be right severely to blame him for keeping these fatal facts out of sight, for starting trembling, quailing at the chance which threatens exposure? The longer we live, the more out-experience widens. Less prone are we to judge our neighbour's conduct, to question the world's wisdom. Wherever an accumulation of small defences is found, whether surrounding the prude's virtue or the man of the world's respectability, there, be sure, it is needed. We reached the Hôtel Grécy. Polina was ready. Mrs. Breton was with her, and under her escort and that of M. de Bassompierre, we were soon conducted to the place of assembly, and seated in good seats at a convenient distance from the tribune. The youth of the Athénée were marshalled before us, the municipality and their burge-meister were in places of honour, the young princes with their tutors occupied a conspicuous position, and the body of the building was crowded with the aristocracy and the first burghers of the town. Concerning the identity of the professor by whom the discours was to be delivered, I had as yet entertained neither care nor question. Some vague expectation I had that a savant would stand up and deliver a formal speech, half dogmatism to the Athenians, half flattery to the princes. The tribune was yet empty when we entered, but in ten minutes after it was filled. Suddenly, in a second of time, a head, chest, and arms grew above the crimson desk. This head I knew. Its colour, shape, port, expression, were familiar both to me and Miss Farnshaw. The blackness and closeness of cranium, the amplitude and paleness of brow, the blueness and fire of glance, were details so domesticated in the memory, and so knit with many a whimsical association, as almost by this their sudden apparition, to tickle fancy to a laugh. Indeed, I confess, for my part, I did laugh till I was warm, but then I bent my head, and made my handkerchief in a lowered veil the sole confidant of my mirth. I think I was glad to see Monsieur Paul. I think it was rather pleasant than otherwise to behold him set up there, fierce and frank, dark and candid, testy and fearless, as when regnant on his estrade in class. His presence was such a surprise. I had not once thought of expecting him, though I knew he filled the chair of bellette in the college. With him in that tribune, I felt sure that neither formalism nor flattery would be our doom. But for what was vouchsafed us, for what was poured suddenly, rapidly, continuously on our heads, I own I was not prepared. He spoke to the princes, the nobles, the magistrates, and the burghers, with just the same ease, with almost the same pointed, choleric earnestness, with which he was wont to harangue the three divisions of the rue Faucette, the collegians he addressed, not as schoolboys, but as future citizens and embryo patriots. The times which have since come on Europe had not been foretold yet, and Monsieur Emmanuel's spirit seemed new to me. Who would have thought the flat and fat soil of Le Bassecoe could yield political convictions and national feelings such as were now strongly expressed? Of the bearing of his opinions, I need here give no special indication. Yet it may be permitted me to say that I believed the little man not more earnest than right in what he said. With all his fire he was severe and sensible. He trampled utopian theories under his heel, he rejected wild dreams with scorn, but when he looked in the face of tyranny, oh! then there opened a light in his eye worth seeing, and when he spoke of injustice, his voice gave no uncertain sound, but reminded me rather of the band trumpet ringing at twilight from the park. I do not think his audience were generally susceptible of sharing his flame and its purity, but some of the college youth caught fire as he eloquently told them what should be their path and endeavour in their countries and in Europe's future. They gave him a long, loud, ringing cheer as he concluded. With all his fierceness, he was their favourite professor. As our party left the hall, he stood at the entrance. He saw, and knew me, and lifted his hat. He offered his hand in passing, and uttered the words, "'Quand dites-vous?' question eminently characteristic, and reminding me, even in this, his moment of triumph, of that inquisitive restlessness, that absence of what I considered desirable self-control, which were amongst his faults. He should not have cared just then to ask what I thought, or what anybody thought. But he did care, and he was too natural to conceal, too impulsive to repress his wish. Well, if I blamed his over-eagerness, I liked his naiveté. I would have praised him. I had plenty of praise in my heart, but, alas! no words on my lips. Who has words at the right moment?' I stammered some lame expressions, but was truly glad when other people, coming up with profuse congratulations, covered my deficiency with their redundancy. A gentleman introduced him to M. de Bassompierre, and the Count, who had likewise been highly gratified, asked him to join his friends, for the most part M. Emmanuel's likewise, and to dine with them at the Haute Classique. He declined dinner, for he was a man always somewhat shy at meeting the advances of the wealthy. There was a strength of sturdy independence in the stringing of his sinews, not obtrusive, but pleasant enough to discover, as one advanced in knowledge of his character. He promised, however, to step in with his friend, M. A., a French academician, in the course of the evening. At dinner that day, Ginevra and Paulina each looked, in her own way, very beautiful. The former, perhaps, boasted the advantage in material charms, but the latter shone pre-eminent for attractions more subtle and spiritual—for light and eloquence of eye, for grace of mien, for winning variety of expression. Ginevra's dress of deep crimson relieved well her light curls, and harmonised with her rose-like bloom. Paulina's attire, in fashion close, though faultlessly neat, but in texture clear and white, made the eye graceful for the delicate life of her complexion, for the soft animation of her countenance, for the tender depth of her eyes, for the brown shadow and bounteous flow of her hair, darker than that of her Saxon cousin, as were also her eyebrows, her eyelashes, her full eye-rids, and large mobile pupils. Nature, having traced all these details slightly, and with a careless hand, in Miss Farnshaw's case, and in Miss de Bas-en-Pierre's, wrought them to a high and delicate finish. Paulina was awed by this advance, but not quite to mutism. She conversed modestly, diffidently, not without effort, but with so true a sweetness, so fine in penetrating a sense, that her father more than once suspended his own discourse to listen, and fixed on her an eye of proud delight. It was a polite Frenchman, Monsieur Zed, a very learned, but quite a courtly man, who had drawn her into discourse. I was charmed with her French. It was faultless, the structure correct, the idioms true, the accent pure. Genevra, who had lived half her life on the continent, could do nothing like it, not that words ever failed Miss Farnshaw, but real accuracy and purity she neither possessed, nor in any number of years would acquire. Here, too, Monsieur de Bas-en-Pierre was gratified, for, on the point of language, he was critical. Another listener and observer there was, one who, detained by some exigency of his profession, had come in late to dinner. Both ladies were quietly scanned by Dr. Breton, at the moment of taking his seat at the table, and that guarded survey was more than once renewed. His arrival roused Miss Farnshaw, who had hitherto appeared listless. She now became smiling and complacent, talked, though what she said was rarely to the purpose, or rather was of a purpose somewhat mortifyingly below the standard of the occasion. Her light, disconnected prattle might have gratified Graham once. Perhaps it pleased him still. Perhaps it was only fancy which suggested the thought, that, while his eye was filled and his ear fed, his taste, his keen zest, his lively intelligence, were not equally consulted and regaled. It is certain that, restless in exacting as seemed the demand on his attention, he yielded courteously to all that was required. His manner showed neither pique nor coolness. Genevra was his neighbour, and to her, during dinner, he almost exclusively confined his notice. She appeared satisfied, and passed to the drawing-room in very good spirits. Yet, no sooner had we reached that place of refuge, than she again became flat and listless. Throwing herself on a couch, she denounced both the discours and the dinner as "'stupid affairs,' and inquired of her cousin how she could hear such a set of "'prosaic grobonet,' as her father gathered about him. The moment the gentlemen were heard to move, her railings ceased. She started up, flew to the piano, and dashed at it with spirit. Dr. Breton entering, one of the first, took up his station beside her. I thought he would not long maintain that post. There was a position near the hearth to which I expected to see him attracted. This position he only scanned with his eye. While he looked, others drew in. The grace and mind of Polina charmed these thoughtful Frenchmen. The fineness of her beauty, the soft courtesy of her manner, her immature but real and inbred tact, pleased their national taste. They clustered about her, not indeed to talk science, which would have rendered her dumb, but to touch on many subject in letters, in arts, in actual life, on which it soon appeared that she had both read and reflected. I listened. I am sure that though Graham stood aloof, he listened too. His hearing, as well as his vision, was very fine, quick, discriminating. I knew he gathered the conversation. I felt that the mode in which it was sustained suited him exquisitely—pleased him almost to pain. In Polina there was more force, both of feeling and character, than most people thought—than Graham himself imagined—than she would ever show to those who did not wish to see it. To speak truth, reader, there is no excellent beauty, no accomplished grace, no reliable refinement, without strength, as excellent, as complete, as trustworthy. As well might you look for good fruit and blossom on a rootless and sapless tree, as for charms that will endure in a feeble and relaxed nature. For a little while the blooming semblance of beauty may flourish round weakness, but it cannot bear a blast. It soon fades, even in serenest sunshine. Graham would have started, had any suggestive spirit whispered of the sinew and the stamina sustaining that delicate nature. But I, who had known her as a child, knew or guessed by what a good and strong root her graces held to the firm soil of reality. While Dr. Breton listened, and waited an opening in the magic circle, his glance restlessly sweeping the rumoured intervals, lighted by chance on me, where I sat in a quiet nook not far from my godmother and Monsieur de Bassonpierre, who, as usual, were engaged in what Mr. Holme called a two-handed crack—what the Count would have interpreted as a tate-a-tate. Graham smiled recognition, crossed the room, asked me how I was, told me I looked pale. I also had my own smile at my own thought. It was now about three months since Dr. John had spoken to me, a lapse of which he was not even conscious. He sat down, and became silent. His wish was rather to look than converse. Genevra and Paulina were now opposite to him. He could gaze his fill. He surveyed both forms, studied both faces. Several new guests, ladies as well as gentlemen, had entered the room since dinner, dropping in for the evening conversation, and amongst the gentlemen, I may incidentally observe, I had already noticed by glimpses a severe, dark, professional outline hovering aloof in an inner saloon, seen only in vista. Monsieur Emmanuel knew many of the gentlemen present, but I think was a stranger to most of the ladies, excepting myself. In looking towards the hearth he could not but see me, and naturally made a movement to approach. Seeing, however, Dr. Breton also, he changed his mind, and held back. If that had been all, there would have been no cause for quarrel. But not satisfied with holding back, he puckered up his eyebrows, protruded his lip, and looked so ugly, that I averted my eyes from the displeasing spectacle. Monsieur Joseph Emmanuel had arrived, as well as his austere brother, and at this very moment was relieving Genevra at the piano. What a master touch succeeded her school-girl jingle! In what grand, graceful tones the instrument acknowledged the hand of the true artist! Lucy began Dr. Breton, breaking silence and smiling, as Genevra glided before him, casting a glance as she passed by. Miss Fanshawe is certainly a fine girl. Of course, I assented. Is there, he pursued, another in the room as lovely? I think there is not another as handsome. I agree with you, Lucy. You and I do often agree in opinion, in taste, I think, or at least in judgment. Do we? I said, somewhat doubtfully. I believe if you had been a boy, Lucy, instead of a girl, my mother's godson instead of her goddaughter, we would have been good friends, our opinions would have melted into each other. He had assumed a bantering air. A light, half caressing, half ironic, shone a slant in his eye. Ah, Graham, I have given more than one solitary moment to thoughts and calculations of your estimate of Lucy Snow. Was it always kind or just? Had Lucy been intrinsically the same, but possessing the additional advantages of wealth and station? Would your manner to her, your value for her, have been quite what they actually were? And yet, by these questions, I would not seriously infer blame. No, you might sadden and trouble me sometimes, but then mine was a soon-depressed and easily deranged temperament. It fell if a cloud crossed the sun. Perhaps before the eye of severe equity, I should stand more at fault than you. Trying, then, to keep down the unreasonable pain which thrilled my heart, and thus being made to feel that while Graham could devote to others the most grave and earnest, the manliest interest, he had no more than light raliery for Lucy, the friend of Lang Syne. I inquired calmly, on what points are we so closely in accordance? We each have an observant faculty. You, perhaps, don't give me credit for the possession, yet I have it. But you were speaking of tastes. We may see the same objects, yet estimate them differently. Let us bring it to the test. Of course, you cannot but render homage to the merits of Miss Fanshawe. Now, what do you think of others in the room? My mother, for instance, or the lions yonder? Messieurs A and Z. Or, let us say, that pale little lady, Mr Bassanpierre. You know what I think of your mother. I have not thought of Messieurs A and Z. And the other? I think she is, as you say, a pale little lady. Pale, certainly, just now, when she is fatigued with overexcitement. You don't remember her as a child. I wonder sometimes whether you do. I had forgotten her, but it is noticeable that circumstances, persons, even words and looks that had slipped your memory may, under certain conditions, certain aspects of your own or another's mind revive. That is possible enough. Yet, he continued, the revival is imperfect, needs confirmation, partakes so much of the dim character of a dream, or of the airy one of a fancy, that the testimony of a witness becomes necessary for corroboration. Were you not the guest at Breton ten years ago, when Mr Hung brought his little girl, whom we then called Little Polly, to stay with mamma? I was there the night she came, and also the morning she went away. Was there a peculiar child, was she not? I wonder how I treated her. Was I fond of children in those days? Was there anything gracious or kindly about me? Great, reckless, schoolboy as I was? But you don't recollect me, of course. You have seen your own picture, Latourasse. It is like you, personally. In manner, you were almost the same yesterday as today. But Lucy, how is that? Such an oracle really wets my curiosity. What am I today? What was I the yesterday of ten years back? Gracious to whatever pleased you, unkindly or cruel to nothing. There you are wrong. I think I was almost a brute to you, for instance. A brute! No, Graham, I should never have patiently endured brutality. This, however, I do remember. Quiet Lucy Snow tasted nothing of my grace. As little of your cruelty. Why, had I been Nero himself, I could not have tormented a being inoffensive as a shadow. I smiled. But I also hushed a groan. Oh, I just wished he would let me alone. Cease allusion to me. These epithets, these attributes, I put from me. His quiet Lucy Snow, his inoffensive shadow, I gave him back, not with scorn, but with extreme weariness. Theirs was the coldness and the pressure of lead. Let him whelm me with no such weight. Happily, he was soon on another theme. On what terms were Little Polly and I? Unless my recollections deceive me, we were not foes. You speak very vaguely. Do you think Little Polly's memory not more definite? Oh, we don't talk of Little Polly now. Pray say Miss de Bassampierre. And, of course, such a stately personage remembers nothing of Breton. Look at her large eyes, Lucy. Can they read a word in the page of memory? Are they the same which I used to direct to a hornbook? She does not know that I partly taught her to read. In the Bible on Sunday nights? She has a calm, delicate, rather fine profile now. Once what a little restless, anxious countenance was hers. What a thing is a child's preference! What a bubble! Would you believe it that lady was fond of me? I think she was in some measure fond of you, said I, moderately. You don't remember, then? I had forgotten, but I remember now. She liked me the best of whatever there was at Breton. You thought so? I quite well recall it. I wish I could tell her all I recall, or, rather, I wish someone, you, for instance, would go behind and whisper it all in her ear, and I could have the delight here as I sit of watching her look under the intelligence. Could you manage that, think you, Lucy, and make me ever grateful? Could I manage to make you ever grateful? said I. No, I could not, and I felt my fingers work and my hands interlock. I felt, too, an inward courage, warm and resistant. In this matter I was not disposed to gratify Dr. John—not at all. With now welcome force I realised his entire misapprehension of my character and nature. He wanted always to give me a role, not mine. Nature and I posed him. He did not at all guess what I felt. He did not read my eyes, or face, or gestures, though I doubt not all spoke. Leaning towards me coaxingly, he said, softly, "'Do content me, Lucy,' and I would have contented, or at least I would clearly have enlightened him, and taught him well never again to expect of me the part of officious sobrette in a love-drama, when, following his soft, eager murmur, meeting his almost pleading, mellow, "'Do content me, Lucy,' a sharp hiss pierced my ear on the other side. "'Petite chatte doucerette coquette,' sibilated the sudden boa constrictor, "'vous avez l'air bien triste, soumis, rêveur, mais vous ne l'êtes pas. C'est moi qui vous le dis. Souvent, j'ai la flamme à l'âme, l'éclaire aux yeux.'" "'Oui, j'ai la flamme à l'âme, et je dois l'avoir,' retorted I, turning in just wrath. But Professor Manuel had hissed his insult, and was gone. The worst of the matter was that Dr. Breton, whose ears, as I have said, were quick and fine, caught every word of this apostrophe. He put his handkerchief to his face and laughed till he shook." "'Well done, Lucy,' cried he. Capital! Petite chatte! Petite coquette! Oh, I must tell my mother. Is it true, Lucy, or half true? I believe it is. You read unto the colour of Miss Fanshawe's gown, and really, by my word, now I examine him, that is the same little man who was so savage with you at the concert, the very same, and in his soul he is frantic at this moment, because he sees me laughing. Oh, I must tease him." And Graham, yielding to his bent for mischief, laughed, gestured, and whispered on, till I could bear no more, and my eyes filled. Suddenly he was sobered. A vacant space appeared near Miss de Bassompierre. The circle surrounding her seemed about to dissolve. This movement was instantly caught by Graham's eye, ever vigilant even while laughing. He rose, took his courage in both hands, crossed the room, and made the advantage his own. Dr. John throughout his whole life was a man of luck, a man of success. And why? Because he had the eye to see his opportunity, the heart to prompt to well-timed action, the nerve to consummate a perfect work. And no tyrant passion dragged him back, no enthusiasms, no foibles encumbered his way. How well he looked at this very moment! When Polina looked up as he reached her side, her glance mingled at once with an encountering glance, animated yet modest. His colour, as he spoke to her, became half a blush, half a glow. He stood in her presence brave and bashful, subdued and unobtrusive, yet decided in his purpose and devoted in his ardour. I gathered all this by one view. I did not prolong my observation. Time failed me, had inclination served. The night wore late. Genevra and I ought already to have been in the rue Faucette. I rose and bade good-night to my godmother and M. de Bassompierre. I know not whether Professor Emmanuel had noticed my reluctant acceptance of Dr. Britton's homage, or whether he perceived that I was pained, and that, on the whole, the evening had not been one flow of exultant enjoyment for the volatile, pleasure-loving Mlle. Lucie. But as I was leaving the room, he stepped up, and inquired whether I had any one to attend me to the rue Faucette. The Professor now spoke politely, and even deferentially, and he looked apologetic and repentant. But I could not recognise his civility at a word, nor meet his contrition with crude, premature oblivion. Never hitherto had I felt seriously disposed to resent his brosqueries, or freeze before his fierceness. What he had said to-night, however, I considered unwarranted. My extreme disapprobation of the proceeding must be marked, however slightly. I merely said, "'I am provided with attendance.' Which was true, as Genevra and I were to be sent home in the carriage, and I passed him with the sliding obeisance with which he was wont to be saluted in class, by pupils crossing his estrade. Having sought my shawl, I returned to the vestibule. M. Emmanuel stood there, as if waiting. He observed that the night was fine. "'Is it?' I said, with a tone and manner whose consummate charriness and frostiness I could not but applaud. It was so seldom I could properly act out my own resolution to be reserved and cool where I had been grieved or hurt, that I felt almost proud of this one successful effort. That "'Is it?' sounded just like the manner of other people. I had heard hundreds of such little minced, docked, dry phrases, from the pursed-up coral lips of a score of self-possessed, self-sufficing missus and mademoiselle, that M. Paul would not stand any prolonged experience of this sort of dialogue, I knew. But he certainly merited a sample of the curt and arid. I believe he thought so himself, for he took the dose quietly. He looked at my shawl, and objected to its lightness. I decidedly told him it was as heavy as I wished. Receding aloof and standing apart, I leaned on the banister of the stairs, folded my shawl about me, and fixed my eyes on a dreary religious painting darkening the wall. Genevra was long in coming. Tedious seemed her loitering. Monsieur Paul was still there. My ear expected from his lips an angry tone. He came nearer. Now for another hiss, thought I. Had not the action been too uncivil, I could have stopped my ears with my fingers in terror of the thrill. Nothing happens as we expect. Listen for a coo or a murmur. It is then you will hear a cry of prey or pain. Await a piercing shriek an angry threat, and welcome an amicable greeting—a low, kind whisper. Monsieur Paul spoke gently. Friends, said he, do not quarrel for a word. Tell me, was it I, or the grand fat d'Anglais? So he profanely denominated Dr. Breton. Who made your eyes so humid, and your cheeks so hot, as they are even now? I am not conscious of you, monsieur, or of any other having excited such emotion as you indicate, was my answer, and in giving it I again surpassed my usual self, and achieved a neat frosty falsehood. But what did I say? he pursued. Tell me. I was angry. I have forgotten my words. What were they? Such as it is best to forget, said I, still quite calm and chill. Then it was my words which wounded you. Consider them and said, permit my retraction, accord my pardon. I am not angry, monsieur. Then you are worse than angry—grieved. Forgive me, Miss Lucy. Monsieur Emmanuel, I do forgive you. Let me hear you say, in the voice natural to you, and not in that aligned tone, mon ami, je vous pardonne. He made me smile. Who could help smiling at his wistfulness, his simplicity, his earnestness? Bon! he cried. Voilà que le jour va poindre. Dis donc, mon ami. Monsieur Paul, je vous pardonne. I will have no monsieur. Speak the other word, or I shall not believe your sincère. Another effort, mon ami, or else, in English, my friend. Now my friend had rather another sound and significance than mon ami. It did not breathe the same sense of domestic and intimate affection. Mon ami, I could not say to monsieur Paul. My friend I could and did say without difficulty. This distinction existed not for him, however, and he was quite satisfied with the English phrase. He smiled. You should have seen him smile, reader, and you should have marked the difference between his countenance now and that he wore half an hour ago. I cannot affirm that I had ever witnessed the smile of pleasure, or content, or kindness, round monsieur Paul's lips, or in his eyes before. The ironic, the sarcastic, the disdainful, the passionately exultant, I had hundreds of times seen him express by what he called a smile, but any illuminated sign of milder or warmer feelings struck me as wholly new in his visage. It changed it as from a mask to a face. The deep lines left his features. The very complexion seemed clearer and fresher. That swat, sallow, southern darkness which spoke his Spanish blood became displaced by a lighter hue. I know not that I have ever seen, in any other human face, an equal metamorphosis from a similar cause. He now took me to the carriage. At the same moment monsieur de Barsonpierre came out with his niece. In a pretty humour was mistress Farnshaw. She had found the evening a grand failure. Completely upset as to temper, she gave way to the most uncontrolled moroseness as soon as we were seated, and the carriage door closed. Her invectives against Dr. Breton had something venomous in them. Having found herself impotent either to charm or sting him, hatred was her only resource, and this hatred she expressed in terms so unmeasured, and proportioned so monstrous, that after listening for a while with assumed stoicism, my outraged sense of justice at last and suddenly caught fire. An explosion ensued, for I could be passionate too, especially with my present fair but faulty associate, who never failed to stir the worst dregs of me. It was well that the carriage wheels made a tremulous rattle over the flinty Shusville pavement, for I can assure the reader there was neither dead silence nor calm discussion within the vehicle. Half in earnest, half in seeming, I made it my business to storm down Genevra. She had set out rampant from the Rue Cressy. It was necessary to tame her before we reached the Rue Faucette. To this end it was indispensable to show up her sterling value in high desserts, and this must be done in language of which the fidelity in homeliness might challenge comparison with the compliments of a John Knox to a Mary Stuart. This was the right discipline for Genevra. It suited her. I am quite sure she went to bed that night all the better and more settled in mind and mood, and slept all the more sweetly for having undergone a sound moral drubbing.