"The Professor" by Charlotte Brontë | CHAPTER 8, CHAPTER 9 and CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER VIII. And Palais himself! How did I continue to like him? Oh, extremely well. Nothing could be more smooth, gentleman-like, and even friendly, than his demeanour to me. I had to endure from him neither cold neglect, irritating interference, nor pretentious assumption of superiority. I fear, however, two poor hard-worked Belgian ushers in the establishment could not have said as much. To them the director's manner was invariably dry, stern, and cool. I believe he perceived once or twice that I was a little shocked at the difference he made between them and me, and accounted for it by saying, with a quiet, sarcastic, Ce ne sont que des Flemands à l'aise. And then he took his cigar gently from his lips, and spat on the painted floor of the room in which we were sitting. Flemands, certainly they were, and both had the true Flemand physiognomy, where intellectual inferiority is marked in lines none can mistake. Still, they were men, and, in the main, honest men, and I could not see why their being aboriginals of the flat, dull soil should serve as a pretext for treating them with perpetual severity and contempt. This idea of injustice somewhat poisoned the pleasure I might otherwise have derived from Pellet's soft, affable manner to myself. Certainly it was agreeable, when the day's work was over, to find one's employer an intelligent and cheerful companion, and if he was sometimes a little sarcastic, and sometimes a little too insinuating, and if I did discover that his mildness was more a matter of appearance than of reality, if I did occasionally suspect the existence of flint or steel under an external covering of velvet. Still, we are none of us perfect, and, weary as I was of the atmosphere of brutality and insolence in which I had constantly lived previously, I had no inclination now on casting anchor in calmer regions, to institute at once a prying search after defects that were scrupulously withdrawn and carefully veiled from my view. I was willing to take play for what he seemed to believe him benevolent and friendly until some untoward event should prove him otherwise. He was not married, and I soon perceived he had all a Frenchman's, all a Parisian's notions about matrimony and women. I suspected a degree of laxity in his code of morals, there was something so cold and blasé in his tone whenever he alluded to what he called les beaux-sexes, but he was too gentlemanlike to intrude topics I did not invite, and as he was really intelligent and really fond of intellectual subjects of discourse, he and I always found enough to talk about without seeking themes in the mire. I hated his fashion of mentioning love. I abhorred from my soul mere licentiousness. He felt the difference of our notions, and by mutual consent we kept off grounds debatable. Pellé's house was kept and his kitchen managed by his mother, a real old Frenchwoman. She had been handsome, at least she told me so, and I strove to believe her. She was now ugly, as only continental old women can be, perhaps though her style of dress made her look uglier than she really was. Indoors she would go about without cap, her grey hair strangely dishevelled, then, when at home, she seldom wore a gown, only a shabby cotton camisole. Shoes too were strangers to her feet, and in lieu of them she sported roomy slippers drawn down at the heels. On the other hand, whenever it was her pleasure to appear abroad, as on Sundays and fate days, she would put on some very brilliant coloured dress, usually of thin texture, a silk bonnet with a wreath of flowers, and a very fine shawl. She was not, in the main, an ill-natured old woman, but an incessant and most indiscreet talker. She kept chiefly in and about the kitchen, and seemed rather to avoid her son's august presence. Of him, indeed, she evidently stood in awe. When he reproved her, his reproofs were bitter and unsparing, but he seldom gave himself that trouble. Madame Pellé had her own society, her own circle of chosen visitors, whom, however, I seldom saw, as she generally entertained them in what she called her cabinet, a small den of a place adjoining the kitchen, and descending into it by one or two steps. On these steps, by the by, I have not unfrequently seen Madame Pellé seated with a trencher on her knee, engaged in the threefold employment of eating her dinner, gossiping with her favourite servant, the housemaid, and scolding her antagonist, the cook. She never dined, and seldom, indeed, took any meal with her son. And as to showing her face at the boys' table, that was quite out of the question. These details will sound very odd in English ears, but Belgium is not England, and its ways are not our ways. Madame Pellé's habits of life, then, being taken into consideration, I was a good deal surprised when, one Thursday evening—Thursday was always a half-holiday—as I was sitting all alone in my apartment, correcting a huge pile of English and Latin exercises, a servant tapped at the door, and, on its being open, presented Madame Pellé's compliments, and she would be happy to see me to take my goutière—that is, a meal which answers to our English tea—with her in the dining-room. "'Pellé-il,' said I, for I thought I must have misunderstood the message, an invitation was so unusual. The same words were repeated. I accepted, of course, and, as I descended the stairs, I wondered what whim had entered the old lady's brain. Her son was out, gone to pass the evening at the Salle of the Grande Harmonie, or some other club of which he was a member. Just as I laid my hand on the handle of the dining-room door, a queer idea glanced across my mind. "'Surely she's not going to make love to me,' said I. I have heard of old French women doing odd things in that line. And the goutière? They generally begin such affairs with eating and drinking, I believe. There was a fearful dismay in this suggestion of my excited imagination, and if I had allowed myself to dwell upon it, I should no doubt have cut there and then, rushed back to my chamber, and vaulted myself in. But whenever a danger or a horror is veiled with uncertainty, the primary wish of the mind is to ascertain first the naked truth, reserving the expedient of flight for the moment when its dread anticipation shall be realised. I turned the door-handle, and, in an instant, had crossed the fatal threshold, closed the door behind me, and stood in the presence of Madame Pellé. Precious heavens! The first view of her seemed to confirm my worst apprehensions. There she sat, dressed out in a light green muslin gown, on her head a lace cap with flourishing red roses in the frill. Her table was carefully spread. There were fruit, cakes, and coffee, with a bottle of something—I did not know what. Already the cold sweat started on my brow, already I glanced back over my shoulder at the closed door, when, to my unspeakable relief, my eye, wandering mildly in the direction of the stove, rested upon a second figure, seated in a large fantoule beside it. This was a woman, too, and, moreover, an old woman, and as fat and rubicund as Madame Pellé was meagre and yellow. Her attire was likewise very fine, and spring flowers of different hues circled in a bright wreath the crown of her violet-coloured velvet bonnet. I had only time to make these general observations when Madame Pellé, coming forward with what she intended should be a graceful and elastic step, thus accosted me. Monchot is indeed most obliging to quit his books, his studies, at the request of an insignificant person like me. Will Monchot complete his kindness by allowing me to present him to my dear friend, Madame Routier, who resides in the neighbouring house, the young lady's school? Ah! thought I, I knew she was old, and I bowed and took my seat. Madame Routier placed herself at the table opposite to me. —How do you like Belgium, Monchot? asked she, in an accent of the broadest bourgeois. I could now well distinguish the difference between the fine and pure Parisian utterance of Monchot Pellé, for instance, and the guttural enunciation of the Flamands. I answered politely, and then wondered how so coarse and clumsy an old woman as the one before me should be the head of a lady's seminary, which I had always heard spoken of in terms of high commendation. In truth, there was something to wonder at. Madame Routier looked more like a joyous, free-living old Flemish fermier, or even a maitresse d'hommage, than a staid, grave, rigid directrice des pensionnats. In general, the Continental, or at least the Belgian old women, permit themselves a license of manners, speech, and aspect such as our venerable grand-dames would recoil from as absolutely disreputable, and Madame Routier's jolly face bore evidence that she was no exception to the rule of her country. There was a twinkle and leer in her left eye, her right she kept habitually half shut, which I thought very odd indeed. After several vain attempts to comprehend the motives of these two droll old creatures for inviting me to join them at their couture, I at last fairly gave it up, and resigning myself to inevitable mystification, I sat and looked first at one, then at the other, taking care meantime to do justice to the confitures, cakes, and coffee, with which they amply supplied me. They too ate, and that with no delicate appetite, and, having demolished a large portion of the solids, they proposed a petit verre. I declined. Not so, mesdames Pellier and Routier, each mixed herself what I thought rather a stiff tumbler of punch, and placing it on a stand near the stove, they drew up their chairs to that convenience, and invited me to do the same. I obeyed, and being seated fairly between them, I was thus addressed first by madame Pellier, then by madame Routier. "'We will now speak of business,' said madame Pellier, as she went on to make an elaborate speech, which, being interrupted, was to the effect that she had asked for the pleasure of my company that evening in order to give her friend, madame Routier, an opportunity of broaching an important proposal which might turn out greatly to my advantage. "'Pauvre que vous soyez sanger,' said madame Routier, 'et devriez dire vous n'avez bien l'air. Take one drop of the punch, or penché, as she pronounced it. It is an agreeable and wholesome beverage after a full meal.' I bowed, but again declined it. She went on. "'I feel,' said she, after a solemn sip, 'I feel profoundly the importance of the commission with which my dear daughter has entrusted me. You are aware, mon cher, that it is my daughter who directs the establishment in the next house.' "'Ah! I thought it was yourself, madame,' though, indeed, at that moment I recollected that it was called mademoiselle, not madame, Routier's pensionnaire. "'I—oh, no! I manage the house and look after the servants, as my friend madame Pellier does for mon cher, her son. Nothing more.' "'Ah! You thought I gave lessons in class, did you?' And she laughed, long and loud, as though the idea tickled her fancy amazingly. "'Madame is in the wrong,' to laugh I observed. If she does not give lessons, I am sure it is not because she cannot.' And I whipped out a white-pocket handkerchief, and wafted it, with a French grace, past my nose, bowing at the same time. "'Quelle charmante, Jeanne-Homme!' murmured madame Pellier in a low voice. Madame Routier, being less sentimental as she was Flamande and not French, only laughed again. "'You are a dangerous person, I fear,' said she, 'if you can forge compliments at that rate. "'Serradi will positively be afraid of you. But if you are good, I will keep your secret, and not tell her how well you can flatter. Now listen what sort of proposal she makes to you. She has heard that you are an excellent professor, and she wishes to get the very best masters for her school.' "'Qu'a Serradi fait, tout comme un vrai? Qu'est-ce un véritable maître fait? She has commissioned me to step over this afternoon and sound madame Pellier as to the possibility of engaging you. Serradi is a wary general. She never advances without first examining well her ground. I don't think she would be pleased if she knew I had already disclosed her intentions to you. She did not order me to go so far, but I thought there would be no harm in letting you into the secret, and madame Pellier was of the same opinion. Take care, however. You don't betray either of us to Serradi—to my daughter, I mean. She is so discreet and circumspect herself, she cannot understand that one should find a pleasure in gossiping a little.' "'C'est absolument comme mon fille!' cried madame Pellier. "'All the world is so changed since our girlhood,' rejoined the other. Young people have such old heads now. But to return, mon chou, madame Pellier will mention the subject of your giving lessons in my daughter's establishment to her son, and he will speak to you, and then, tomorrow, you will step over to our house and ask to see my daughter, and you will introduce the subject as if the first intimation of it had reached you from mon chou Pellier himself. And be sure you never mention my name, for I would not displease Serradi on any account.' "'Bien, bien,' interrupted I, for all this chatter and circumlocution began to bore me very much. I will consult mon chou Pellier, and the thing shall be settled as you desire. Good evening, mesdames. I am infinitely obliged to you.' "'Comment?' "'Vous vous en allez déjà!' exclaimed madame Pellier. "'Prenez encore quelque chose, mon chou? Une pomme cuite? Deux biscuits? Encore une tasse de café?' "'Merci, merci, madame. Au revoir.' And I backed at last out of the apartment. Having regained my own room, I set myself to turn over in my mind the incident of the evening. It seemed a queer affair altogether, and queerly managed. The two old women had made quite a little intricate mess of it. Still I found that the uppermost feeling in my mind on the subject was one of satisfaction. In the first place, it would be a change to give lessons in another seminary, and then to teach young ladies would be an occupation so interesting, to be admitted at all into a ladies' boarding-school would be an incident so new in my life. Besides, thought I, as I glanced at the boarded window, I shall now at last see the mysterious garden, I shall gaze both on the angels and their Eden. CHAPTER IX. Monsieur Pillay could not, of course, object to the proposal made by Mademoiselle Routier. Permission to accept such additional employment should it offer, having formed an article of the terms on which he had engaged me. It was therefore arranged in the course of next day that I should be at liberty to give lessons in Mademoiselle Routier's establishment four afternoons in every week. When evening came, I prepared to step over in order to seek a conference with Mademoiselle herself on the subject. I had not had time to pay the visit before, having been all day closely occupied in class. I remember very well that before quitting my chamber I held a brief debate with myself as to whether I should change my ordinary attire for something smarter. At last I concluded it would be a waste of labour. Doubtless, thought I, she is some stiff old maid, for though the daughter of Madame Routier, she may well number upwards of forty winters. Besides, if it were otherwise, if she be both young and pretty, I am not handsome, and no dressing can make me so. Therefore, I'll go as I am. And off I started, cursorily glancing sideways as I passed the toilet-table surmounted by a looking-glass. A thin, irregular face I saw, with sunk, dark eyes, under a large, square forehead, complexion, destitute of bloom or attraction, something young, but not youthful, no object to win a lady's love, no but for the shafts of Cupid. I was soon at the entrance of the pensionnat. In a moment I had pulled the bell. In another moment, the door was opened, and within appeared a passage paved alternately with black and white marble. The walls were painted in imitation of marble also, and at the far end opened a glass door, through which I saw shrubs and a grass-plant, looking pleasant in the sunshine of the mild spring evening, for it was now the middle of April. This, then, was my first glimpse of the garden. But I had not time to look long. The portress, after having answered in the affirmative my question as to whether her mistress was at home, opened the folding doors of a room to the left, and having ushered me in, closed them behind me. I found myself in a salon with a very well-painted, highly varnished floor, chairs and sofas covered with white draperies, a green porcelain stove, walls hung with pictures in gilt frames, a gilt pendulum and other ornaments on the mantelpiece, a large luster pendant from the centre of the ceiling, mirrors, consoles, muslin curtains, and a handsome centre-table completed the inventory of furniture. All looked extremely clean and glittering, but the general effect would have been somewhat chilling had not a second large pair of folding doors standing wide open, and disclosing another and smaller salon, more snugly furnished, offered some relief to the eye. This room was carpeted, and therein was a piano, a couch, a chevonniere. Above all, it contained a lofty window with a crimson curtain, which, being undrawn, afforded another glimpse of the garden, through the large clear panes round which some leaves of ivy, some tendrils of vine, were trained. "'Monsieur, crème's full. N'est-ce pas?' said a voice behind me. Starting involuntarily, I turned. I had been so taken up with the contemplation of the pretty little salon, that I had not noticed the entrance of a person into the large room. It was, however, Mademoiselle Rottier who now addressed me, and stood close beside me. And when I had bowed with instantaneously-recovered sang-froid, for I am not easily embarrassed, I commenced the conversation by remarking on the pleasant aspect of her little cabinet, and the advantage she had over Monsieur Poulet in possessing a garden. "'Yes,' she said. She often thought so, and added, "'It is my garden, monsieur, which makes me retain this house. Otherwise, I should probably have removed to larger and more commodious premises long since. But, you see, I could not take my garden with me, and I should scarcely find one so large and pleasant anywhere else in town.' I approved her judgment. "'But you have not seen it yet,' said she, rising. "'Come to the window and take a better view.' I followed her. She opened the sash, and, leaning out, I saw in full the enclosed dimense which had hitherto been to me an unknown region. It was a long, not very broad strip of cultured ground, with an alley bordered by enormous old fruit-trees down the middle. There was a sort of lawn, a portière of rose-trees, some flower-borders, and on the far side a thickly planted copse of lilacs, laburnums, and acacias. It looked pleasant to me, very pleasant, so long a time had elapsed since I had seen a garden of any sort. But it was not only on Mademoiselle Routier's garden that my eyes dwelt. When I had taken a view of her well-trimmed beds and budding shrubberies, I allowed my glance to come back to herself, nor did I hastily withdraw it. I had thought to see a tall, meagre, yellow, conventual image in black, with a close white cap, bandaged under the chin like a nun's headgear. Whereas, there stood by me a little and roundly-formed woman, who might indeed be older than I, but was still young. She could not, I thought, be more than six or seven and twenty. She was as fair as a fairer Englishwoman. She had no cap, her hair was nut-brown, and she wore it in curls. Pretty her features were not, nor very soft, nor very regular, but neither were they in any degree plain, and I already saw cause to deem them expressive. What was their predominant caste? Was it sagacity? Sense? Yes, I thought so, but I could scarcely as yet be sure. I discovered, however, that there was a certain serenity of eye, and freshness of complexion, most pleasing to behold. The colour on her cheek was like the bloom on a good apple, which is as sound at the core as it is red on the rind. Mademoiselle Routier and I entered upon business. She said she was not absolutely certain of the wisdom of the step she was about to take, because I was so young, and parents might possibly object to a professor like me for their daughters. But, it is often well to act on one's own judgment, said she, and to lead parents rather than be led by them. The fitness of a professor is not a matter of age, and from what I have heard, and from what I observed myself, I would much rather trust you than Monchot Ledru, the music-master, who is a married man of near fifty. I remarked that I hoped she would find me worthy of her good opinion, that if I knew myself, I was incapable of betraying any confidence reposed in me. "'Tourez-te,' said she, the surveillance will be strictly adhered to. And then she proceeded to discuss the subject of terms. She was very cautious, quite on her guard, she did not absolutely bargain, but she warily sounded me to find out what my expectations might be, and when she could not get me to name a sum, she reasoned and reasoned with a fluent yet quiet circumlocution of speech, and at last nailed me down to five hundred francs per annum. Not too much, but I agreed. Before the negotiation was completed, it began to grow a little dusk. I did not hasten it, for I liked well enough to sit and hear her talk. I was amused with the sort of business talent she displayed. Edward could not have shown himself more practical, though he might have evinced more coarseness and urgency. And then she had so many reasons, so many explanations, and, after all, she succeeded in proving herself quite disinterested and even liberal. At last she concluded she could say no more, because, as I acquiesced in all things, there was no further ground for the exercise of her parts of speech. I was obliged to rise. I would rather have sat a little longer. What had I to return to but my small empty room? And my eyes had a pleasure in looking at Mlle. Especially now, when the twilight softened her features a little, and, in the doubtful dusk, I could fancy her forehead as open as it was really elevated, her mouth touched with turns of sweetness as well as defined in lines of sense. When I rose to go, I held out my hand on purpose, though I knew it was contrary to the etiquette of foreign habits. She smiled and said, Ah, c'est comme tous les Anglais, but gave me her hand very kindly. It is the privilege of my country, Mademoiselle, said I, and, remember, I shall always claim it. She laughed a little, quite good-naturedly, and with a sort of tranquillity obvious in all she did, a tranquillity which soothed and suited me singularly. At least I thought so that evening. Brussels seemed a very pleasant place to me when I got out again into the street, and appeared as if some cheerful, eventful, upward-tending career were even then opening to me on that selfsame mild, still April night, so impressionable a being as man, or at least such a man as I was in those days. CHAPTER X. Next day the morning hours seemed to pass very slowly at Montchaux-Palais. I wanted the afternoon to come, that I might go again to the neighbouring Pensionnant, and give my first lesson within its pleasant precincts, or pleasant they appeared to me. At noon the hour of recreation arrived. At one o'clock we had lunch. This got on the time, and at last St. Gergil's deep bell, tolling slowly too, marked the moment for which I had been waiting. At the foot of the narrow back stairs that descended from my room, I met Montchaux-Palais. — Comme vous avez l'air réellement, c'est-à-dire, je ne vous ai jamais vous asségué. Qu'est-ce ils donc pensent? — Apparemment qu'il n'y a jamais de changement, replied I. — Ah, je comprends. C'est cela que vous savez seulement. Vous êtes bien gens, trop gens pour l'heure qu'on veut aller jouer. Il faut prendre garde, savez-vous. Mais quel danger qu'y a-t-il? — Je n'en sais rien. Ne vous laissez pas à de vives impressions, voilà tout. I laughed. A sentiment of exquisite pleasure played over my nerves at the thought that vives impressions were likely to be created. It was the deadness, the sameness of life's daily ongoings that had hitherto been my bane. My blouse-clad élèves in the boys' seminary never stirred in me any vives impressions, except it might be occasionally some of anger. I broke from Monchampelet, and as I strode down the passage, he followed me with one of his laughs, a very French, rakish, mocking sound. Again I stood at the neighboring door, and soon was readmitted into the cheerful passage with its clear dove-color imitation marble walls. I followed the portress, and descending a step and making a turn, I found myself in a sort of corridor. A side door opened. Mademoiselle Rottier's little figure, as grateful as it was plump, appeared. I could now see her dress in full daylight. A neat, simple, mouche-linen gown fitted her compact round shape to perfection. Delicate little collar and manchettes of lace, trim Parisian broadgains showed her neck, wrists, and feet to complete advantage. But how grave was her face as she came suddenly upon me! Solicitude and business were in her eye, on her forehead. She looked almost stern. Her Bonjour, Monchot! was quite polite, but so orderly, so commonplace, it spread directly a cool, damp towel over my vive impression. The servant turned back when her mistress appeared, and I walked slowly along the corridor, side by side with Mademoiselle Rottier. Monchot will give a lesson in the first class to-day, said she. Dictation or reading will perhaps be the best thing to begin with, for those are the easiest forms of communicating instruction in a foreign language, and, at the first, a master naturally feels a little unsettled. She was quite right, as I had found from experience. It only remained for me to acquiesce. We proceeded now in silence. The corridor terminated in a hall, large, lofty, and square. A glass door on one side showed within a long, narrow refractory. With tables, an armoire, and two lamps, it was empty. Large, glass doors in front opened on the playground and garden. A broad staircase ascended spirally on the opposite side. The remaining wall showed a pair of great folding doors, now closed, and admitting doubtless to the classes. Mademoiselle Rottier turned her eye laterally on me to ascertain, probably, whether I was collected enough to be ushered into her sanctum sanctorum. I suppose she judged me to be in a tolerable state of self-government, for she opened the door, and I followed her through. A rustling sound of uprising greeted our entrance. Without looking to the right or left, I walked straight up the lane between two sets of benches and desks, and took possession of the empty chair and isolated desk raised on an estrade of one step high, so as to command one division, the other division being under the surveillance of a maîtresse similarly elevated, at the back of the estrade, and attached to a movable partition dividing this schoolroom from another beyond, was a large tableau of wood painted black and varnished. A thick crayon of white chalk lay on my desk for the convenience of elucidating any grammatical or verbal obscurity which might occur in my lessons by running it upon the tableau. A wet sponge appeared beside the chalk to enable me to efface the marks when they had served the purpose intended. I carefully and deliberately made these observations before allowing myself to take one glance at the benches before me. Having handled the crayon, looked back at the tableau, fingered the sponge in order to ascertain that it was in a right state of moisture, I found myself cool enough to admit of looking calmly up, and gazing deliberately round me. And first I observed that Mademoiselle Rottier had already glided away, she was nowhere visible. A maîtresse, or teacher, the one who occupied the corresponding estrade to my own, alone remained to keep guard over me. She was a little in the shade, and with my short sight I could only see that she was of a thin bony figure and rather tallowy complexion, and that her attitude as she sat partaked equally of listlessness and affectation. More obvious, more prominent, shone on by the full light of the large window, were the occupants of the benches just before me, of whom some were girls of fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, some young women from eighteen, as it appeared to me, up to twenty. The most modest attire, the simplest fashion of wearing the hair, were apparent in all, and good features, ruddy, blooming complexions, large and brilliant eyes, forms full even to solidity seemed to abound. I did not bear the first view like a stoic. I was dazzled, my eyes fell, and in a voice somewhat too low I murmured, Près de vos corsières détectez, mademoiselles. Not so had I bid the boys at Palaise taking their reading-books. A rustle followed, and an opening of desks, behind the lifted lids which momentarily screeched, the heads bent down to search for exercise-books. I heard tittering and whispers. Ullele, je suis passé à pas marre derriere, observed one, comme il a rougi en polon. Oui, qu'est-ce qu'on veut de vos blancs-becs? Tais-toi, Hortense, il nous a coté. And now the lids sank, and the heads reappeared. I had marked three, the whisperers, and I did not scruple to take a very steady look at them as they emerged from their temporary eclipse. It is astonishing what ease and courage the little phrases of flippancy had given me. The idea by which I had been awed was that the youthful beings before me, with their dark nun-like robes and softly-braided hair, were a kind of half-angels. The light titter, the giddy whisper, had already in some measure relieved my mind of that fond and oppressive The three I allude to were just in front, within half a yard of my estrade, and were among the most womanly-looking present. Their names I knew afterwards, and may as well mention now. They were Ullele, Hortense, Caroline. Ullele was tall and very finely shaped. She was fair, and her features were those of a low-country Madonna. Many a figure d'avierge have I seen in Dutch portraits exactly resembling hers. There were no angles in her shape or in her face. All was curve and roundness, neither thought, sentiment, nor passion disturbed by line or flush, the equality of her pale, clear skin. Her noble bust heaved within her regular breathing. Her eyes moved a little. By these evidences of life alone could I have distinguished her from some large, handsome figure moulded in wax. Hortense was of middle size and stout. Her form was ungraceful, her face striking, more alive and brilliant than brown, her complexion richly coloured. There were frolic and mischief in her eye. Consistency and good sense she might possess, but none of her features betokened those qualities. Caroline was little, though evidently full-grown. Raven-black hair, very dark eyes, absolutely regular features, with a colourless olive complexion, clear as to the face and sallow about the neck, formed in her that assemblage of points whose union many persons regard as the perfection of beauty. How, with the tintless pallor of her skin, and the classic straightness of her lineaments, she managed to look sensual, I don't know. I think her lips and eyes contrived the affair between them, and the result left no uncertainty on the beholder's mind. She was sensual now, and in ten years' time she would be coarse, promise plain was written in her face of much future folly. If I looked at these girls with little scruple, they looked at me with still less. Eulalie raised her unmoved eye to mine, and seemed to expect, passively but securely, an impromptu tribute to her majestic charms. Hortense regarded me boldly, and giggled at the same time while she said, with an air of impudent freedom,— « Dictez-nous quelque chose de facile pour commencer, monsieur. » Caroline shook her loose ringlets of abundant but somewhat coarse hair over her rolling black eyes. Parting her lips as full as those of a hot-blooded maroon, she showed her well-set teeth sparkling between them, and treated me at the same time to a smile déséfacant. Beautiful as Pauline Borghese, she looked at the moment scarcely purer than Lucretia Borgia. Caroline was of noble family. I heard her lady mother's character afterwards, and then I ceased to wonder at the precocious accomplishments of the daughter. These three I at once saw deemed themselves the queens of the school, and conceived that by their splendour they threw all the rest into the shade. In less than five minutes they had thus revealed to me their characters, and in less than five minutes I had buckled on a breastplate of steely indifference, and let down a visor of impassable austerity. « Take your pens and commence writing, » said I, in as dry and trite a voice as if I had been addressing only Jules van der Kelkhoff and company. The dictee now commenced. My three bells interrupted me perpetually with little silly questions and uncalled-for remarks, to some of which I made no answer, and to others replied very quietly and briefly, « Commentirez-vous ? Vous avez l'air d'un anglais, monsieur ? » « C'est ma colonne, mademoiselle. » « C'est ma colonne ? Ah, comme c'est astreux ! » « J'ai un de ces mauvais plumes impossibles d'écrire. » « Mais, mon chou, je ne sais pas suivre. Vous allez s'éviter. » « Je n'ai rien compris, moi. » Here a general murmur arose, and the teacher, opening her lips for the first time, ejaculated. « Silence, mesmoiselles ! » No silence followed. On the contrary, the three ladies in front began to talk more loudly. « C'est si difficile l'anglais ! Je déteste le dictee ! » « Quelle envie d'écrire quelque chose que l'on ne comprend pas ! » Some of those behind laughed. A degree of confusion began to pervade the class. It was necessary to take prompt measures. « Donnez-moi votre cahier, » said I to Eulalie in an abrupt tone, and bending over, I took it before she had time to give it. « Et vous, mesmoiselles, donnez-moi le vôtre. » continued I, more mildly, addressing a little pale, plain-looking girl who sat in the first row of the other division, and whom I had remarked as being at once the ugliest and the most attentive in the room. She rose up, walked over to me, and delivered her book with a grave, modest curtsy. I glanced over the two dictations. Eulalie's was slurred, blotted, and full of silly mistakes. Sylvie's, such was the name of the ugly little girl, was clearly written. It contained no error against sense, but few faults of orthography. I coolly read aloud both exercises, marking the faults. Then I looked at Eulalie. « C'est son tour ! » said I, and I deliberately tore her dictation in four parts, and presented her with the fragments. I returned Sylvie her book with a smile, saying, « C'est bien, je suis contente de vous. » Sylvie looked calmly pleased. Eulalie swelled like an incensed turkey. But the mutiny was quelled. The conceited coquetry and futile flirtation of the first bench were exchanged for a taciturn solemnness much more convenient to me, and the rest of my lesson passed without interruption. A bell clanging out in the yard announced the moment the cessation of school labours. I heard our own bell at the same time, and that of a certain public college immediately after. Order dissolved instantly. Up started every pupil. I hastened to seize my hat, bowed to the maîtresse, and quit the room before the tide of extanats should pour from the inner class, where I knew near a hundred were prisoned, and whose rising tumult I already heard. I had scarcely crossed the hall and gained the corridor when Mademoiselle Routier came again upon me. « Step in here a moment, » said she, and she held open the door at the side room from whence she had issued on my arrival. It was a salle à manger, as appeared from the bouffin and the armoire vitre filled with glass and china, which formed part of its furniture. Ere she had closed the door on me, and herself, the corridor was already filled with day-pupils tearing down their cloaks, bonnets, and cabas from the wooden pegs on which they were suspended. The shrill voice of a maîtresse was heard at intervals vainly endeavouring to enforce some sort of order. Vainly, I say. Discipline there was none in these rough ranks, and yet this was considered one of the best-conducted schools in Brussels. « Well, you have given your first lesson, » began Mademoiselle Routier, in the most calm, equable voice, as though quite unconscious of the chaos from which we were separated only by a single wall. « Were you satisfied with your pupils, or did any circumstance in their conduct give you pause for complaint? Conceal nothing from me. Repose in me entire confidence. » Happily, I felt in myself complete power to manage my pupils without aid. The enchantment, the golden haze which had dazzled my perspicuity at first, had been a good deal dissipated. I cannot say I was chagrined or downcast by the contrast which the reality of a pensionnate des demoiselles presented to my vague ideal of the same community. I was only enlightened and amused. Consequently, I felt in no disposition to complain to Mademoiselle Routier, and I received her considerate invitation to confidence with a smile. « A thousand thanks, Mademoiselle. All has gone very smoothly. » She looked more than doubtful. « Elle est-toi des demoiselles du premier banque? » said she. « Ah! tout va au moins mieux, » was my answer, and Mademoiselle Routier ceased to question me, but her eye, not large, not brilliant, not melting or kindling, but astute, penetrating, practical, showed she was even with me. It let out a momentary gleam which said plainly, « Be as close as you like. I am not dependent on your candour. » What you would conceal, I already know. By a transition so quiet as to be scarcely perceptible, the directress's manner changed. The anxious business air passed from her face, and she began chatting about the weather and the town, and asked in neighbourly wise after M'sieur and Madame Pellé. I answered all her little questions. She prolonged her talk. I went on, following its many little windings. She sat so long, and said so much, varied so often the topics of discourse, that it was not difficult to perceive she had a particular aim in thus detaining me. Her mere words could have afforded no clue to this aim, but her countenance aided. While her lips uttered only affable commonplaces, her eyes reverted continually to my face. Her glances were not given in full, but out of the corners, so quietly, so stealthily, yet I think I lost not one. I watched her as keenly as she watched me. I perceived soon that she was feeling after my real character, she was searching for salient points and weak points, and eccentric points. She was applying now this test, now that, hoping in the end to find some chink, some niche, where she could put in her little firm foot, and stand upon my neck, mistress of my nature. Do not mistake me, reader, it was no amorous influence she wished to gain. At that time it was only the power of the politician to which she aspired. I was now installed as a professor in her establishment, and she wanted to know where her mind was superior to mine, by what feeling or opinion she could lead me. I enjoyed the game much, and did not hasten its conclusion. Sometimes I gave her hopes, beginning a sentence rather weakly, where her shrewd eye would light up. She thought she had me. Having led her a little way, I delighted to turn round and finish with sound, hard sense, whereat her countenance would fall. At last a servant entered to announce dinner. The conflict being thus necessarily terminated, we parted without having gained any advantage on either side. Mademoiselle Routier had not even given me an opportunity of attacking her with feeling, and I had managed to baffle her little schemes of craft. It was a regular drawn battle. I again held out my hand when I left the room, and she gave me hers. It was a small and white hand, but how cool! I met her eye too in fool, obliging her to give me a straightforward look. This last test went against me. It left her as it found her—moderate, temperate, Me? It disappointed. I am growing wiser, thought I, as I walked back to Monchure-Palais. Look at this little woman. Is she like the woman of novelists and romancers? To read a female character as depicted in poetry and fiction, one would think it was made up of sentiment, either for good or bad. Here is a specimen, and a most sensible and respectable specimen too, whose staple ingredient is abstract reason. No tally-rand was ever more passionless than Zeray de Routier. So I thought then. I found afterwards that blunt susceptibilities are very consistent with strong propensities.