CHAPTER XXIX.
MONSIEUR'S FETE.
I was up the next morning an hour before daybreak, and finished myguard, kneeling on the dormitory floor beside the centre stand, for thebenefit of such expiring glimmer as the night-lamp afforded in its lastwatch.
All my materials--my whole stock of beads and silk--were used up beforethe chain assumed the length and richness I wished; I had wrought itdouble, as I knew, by the rule of contraries, that to, suit theparticular taste whose gratification was in view, an effectiveappearance was quite indispensable. As a finish to the ornament, alittle gold clasp was needed; fortunately I possessed it in thefastening of my sole necklace; I duly detached and re-attached it, thencoiled compactly the completed guard; and enclosed it in a small box Ihad bought for its brilliancy, made of some tropic shell of the colourcalled ”nacarat,” and decked with a little coronal of sparkling bluestones. Within the lid of the box, I carefully graved with my scissors'point certain initials.
* * * * *
The reader will, perhaps, remember the description of Madame Beck'sfete; nor will he have forgotten that at each anniversary, a handsomepresent was subscribed for and offered by the school. The observance ofthis day was a distinction accorded to none but Madame, and, in amodified form, to her kinsman and counsellor, M. Emanuel. In the lattercase it was an honour spontaneously awarded, not plotted and contrivedbeforehand, and offered an additional proof, amongst many others, ofthe estimation in which--despite his partialities, prejudices, andirritabilities--the professor of literature was held by his pupils. Noarticle of value was offered to him: he distinctly gave it to beunderstood, that he would accept neither plate nor jewellery. Yet heliked a slight tribute; the cost, the money-value, did not touch him: adiamond ring, a gold snuff-box, presented, with pomp, would havepleased him less than a flower, or a drawing, offered simply and withsincere feelings. Such was his nature. He was a man, not wise in hisgeneration, yet could he claim a filial sympathy with ”the dayspring onhigh.”
M. Paul's fete fell on the first of March and a Thursday. It proved afine sunny day; and being likewise the morning on which it wascustomary to attend mass; being also otherwise distinguished by thehalf-holiday which permitted the privilege of walking out, shopping, orpaying visits in the afternoon: these combined considerations induced ageneral smartness and freshness of dress. Clean collars were in vogue;the ordinary dingy woollen classe-dress was exchanged for somethinglighter and clearer. Mademoiselle Zelie St. Pierre, on this particularThursday, even assumed a ”robe de soie,” deemed in economicalLabassecour an article of hazardous splendour and luxury; nay, it wasremarked that she sent for a ”coiffeur” to dress her hair that morning;there were pupils acute enough to discover that she had bedewed herhandkerchief and her hands with a new and fashionable perfume. PoorZelie! It was much her wont to declare about this time, that she wastired to death of a life of seclusion and labour; that she longed tohave the means and leisure for relaxation; to have some one to work forher--a husband who would pay her debts (she was woefully encumberedwith debt), supply her wardrobe, and leave her at liberty, as she said,to ”gouter un peu les plaisirs.” It had long been rumoured, that hereye was upon M. Emanuel. Monsieur Emanuel's eye was certainly oftenupon her. He would sit and watch her perseveringly for minutestogether. I have seen him give her a quarter-of-an-hour's gaze, whilethe class was silently composing, and he sat throned on his estrade,unoccupied. Conscious always of this basilisk attention, she wouldwrithe under it, half-flattered, half-puzzled, and Monsieur wouldfollow her sensations, sometimes looking appallingly acute; for in somecases, he had the terrible unerring penetration of instinct, andpierced in its hiding-place the last lurking thought of the heart, anddiscerned under florid veilings the bare; barren places of the spirit:yes, and its perverted tendencies, and its hidden false curves--allthat men and women would not have known--the twisted spine, themalformed limb that was born with them, and far worse, the stain ordisfigurement they have perhaps brought on themselves. No calamity soaccursed but M. Emanuel could pity and forgive, if it were acknowledgedcandidly; but where his questioning eyes met dishonest denial--wherehis ruthless researches found deceitful concealment--oh, then, he couldbe cruel, and I thought wicked! he would exultantly snatch the screenfrom poor shrinking wretches, passionately hurry them to the summit ofthe mount of exposure, and there show them all naked, all false--poorliving lies--the spawn of that horrid Truth which cannot be looked onunveiled. He thought he did justice; for my part I doubt whether manhas a right to do such justice on man: more than once in these hisvisitations, I have felt compelled to give tears to his victims, andnot spared ire and keen reproach to himself. He deserved it; but it wasdifficult to shake him in his firm conviction that the work wasrighteous and needed.
Breakfast being over and mass attended, the school-bell rang and therooms filled: a very pretty spectacle was presented in classe. Pupilsand teachers sat neatly arrayed, orderly and expectant, each bearing inher hand the bouquet of felicitation--the prettiest spring-flowers allfresh, and filling the air with their fragrance: I only had no bouquet.I like to see flowers growing, but when they are gathered, they ceaseto please. I look on them as things rootless and perishable; theirlikeness to life makes me sad. I never offer flowers to those I love; Inever wish to receive them from hands dear to me. Mademoiselle St.Pierre marked my empty hands--she could not believe I had been soremiss; with avidity her eye roved over and round me: surely I musthave some solitary symbolic flower somewhere: some small knot ofviolets, something to win myself praise for taste, commendation foringenuity. The unimaginative ”Anglaise” proved better than theParisienne's fears: she sat literally unprovided, as bare of bloom orleaf as the winter tree. This ascertained, Zelie smiled, well pleased.
”How wisely you have acted to keep your money, Miss Lucie,” she said:”silly I have gone and thrown away two francs on a bouquet of hot-houseflowers!”
And she showed with pride her splendid nosegay.
But hush! a step: _the_ step. It came prompt, as usual, but with apromptitude, we felt disposed to flatter ourselves, inspired by otherfeelings than mere excitability of nerve and vehemence of intent. Wethought our Professor's ”foot-fall” (to speak romantically) had in it afriendly promise this morning; and so it had.
He entered in a mood which made him as good as a new sunbeam to thealready well-lit first classe. The morning light playing amongst ourplants and laughing on our walls, caught an added lustre from M. Paul'sall-benignant salute. Like a true Frenchman (though I don't know why Ishould say so, for he was of strain neither French nor Labassecourien),he had dressed for the ”situation” and the occasion. Not by the vaguefolds, sinister and conspirator-like, of his soot-dark paletot were theoutlines of his person obscured; on the contrary, his figure (such asit was, I don't boast of it) was well set off by a civilized coat and asilken vest quite pretty to behold. The defiant and pagan bonnet-grechad vanished: bare-headed, he came upon us, carrying a Christian hat inhis gloved hand. The little man looked well, very well; there was aclearness of amity in his blue eye, and a glow of good feeling on hisdark complexion, which passed perfectly in the place of beauty: onereally did not care to observe that his nose, though far from small,was of no particular shape, his cheek thin, his brow marked and square,his mouth no rose-bud: one accepted him as he was, and felt hispresence the reverse of damping or insignificant.
He passed to his desk; he placed on the same his hat and gloves. ”Bonjour, mes amies,” said he, in a tone that somehow made amends to someamongst us for many a sharp snap and savage snarl: not a jocund,good-fellow tone, still less an unctuous priestly, accent, but a voicehe had belonging to himself--a voice used when his heart passed thewords to his lips. That same heart did speak sometimes; though anirritable, it was not an ossified organ: in its core was a place,tender beyond a man's tenderness; a place that humbled him to littlechildren, that bound him to girls and women to whom, rebel as he would,he could not disown his affinity, nor quite deny that, on the whole, hewas better with them than with his own sex.
”We all wish Monsieur a good day, and present to him ourcongratulations on the anniversary of his fete,” said MademoiselleZelie, constituting herself spokeswoman of the assembly; and advancingwith no more twists of affectation than were with her indispensable tothe achievement of motion, she laid her costly bouquet before him. Hebowed over it.
The long train of offerings followed: all the pupils, sweeping pastwith the gliding step foreigners practise, left their tributes as theywent by. Each girl so dexterously adjusted her separate gift, that whenthe last bouquet was laid on the desk, it formed the apex to a bloomingpyramid--a pyramid blooming, spreading, and towering with suchexuberance as, in the end, to eclipse the hero behind it. This ceremonyover, seats were resumed, and we sat in dead silence, expectant of aspeech.
I suppose five minutes might have elapsed, and the hush remainedunbroken; ten--and there was no sound.
Many present began, doubtless, to wonder for what Monsieur waited; aswell they might. Voiceless and viewless, stirless and wordless, he kepthis station behind the pile of flowers.
At last there issued forth a voice, rather deep, as if it spoke out ofa hollow:--
”Est-ce la tout?”
Mademoiselle Zelie looked round.
”You have all presented your bouquets?” inquired she of the pupils.
Yes; they had all given their nosegays, from the eldest to theyoungest, from the tallest to the most diminutive. The senior mistresssignified as much.
”Est-ce la tout?” was reiterated in an intonation which, deep before,had now descended some notes lower.
”Monsieur,” said Mademoiselle St. Pierre, rising, and this timespeaking with her own sweet smile, ”I have the honour to tell you that,with a single exception, every person in classe has offered herbouquet. For Meess Lucie, Monsieur will kindly make allowance; as aforeigner she probably did not know our customs, or did not appreciatetheir significance. Meess Lucie has regarded this ceremony as toofrivolous to be honoured by her observance.”
”Famous!” I muttered between my teeth: ”you are no bad speaker, Zelie,when you begin.”
The answer vouchsafed to Mademoiselle St Pierre from the estrade wasgiven in the gesticulation of a hand from behind the pyramid. Thismanual action seemed to deprecate words, to enjoin silence.
A form, ere long, followed the hand. Monsieur emerged from his eclipse;and producing himself on the front of his estrade, and gazing straightand fixedly before him at a vast ”mappe-monde” covering the wallopposite, he demanded a third time, and now in really tragic tones--
”Est-ce la tout?”
I might yet have made all right, by stepping forwards and slipping intohis hand the ruddy little shell-box I at that moment held tight in myown. It was what I had fully purposed to do; but, first, the comic sideof Monsieur's behaviour had tempted me to delay, and now, MademoiselleSt. Pierre's affected interference provoked contumacity. The reader nothaving hitherto had any cause to ascribe to Miss Snowe's character themost distant pretensions to perfection, will be scarcely surprised tolearn that she felt too perverse to defend herself from any imputationthe Parisienne might choose to insinuate and besides, M. Paul was sotragic, and took my defection so seriously, he deserved to be vexed. Ikept, then, both my box and my countenance, and sat insensate as anystone.
”It is well!” dropped at length from the lips of M. Paul; and havinguttered this phrase, the shadow of some great paroxysm--the swell ofwrath, scorn, resolve--passed over his brow, rippled his lips, andlined his cheeks. Gulping down all further comment, he launched intohis customary ”discours.”
I can't at all remember what this ”discours” was; I did not listen toit: the gulping-down process, the abrupt dismissal of his mortificationor vexation, had given me a sensation which half-counteracted theludicrous effect of the reiterated ”Est-ce la tout?”
Towards the close of the speech there came a pleasing diversion myattention was again amusingly arrested.
Owing to some little accidental movement--I think I dropped my thimbleon the floor, and in stooping to regain it, hit the crown of my headagainst the sharp corner of my desk; which casualties (exasperating tome, by rights, if to anybody) naturally made a slight bustle--M. Paulbecame irritated, and dismissing his forced equanimity, and casting tothe winds that dignity and self-control with which he never cared longto encumber himself, he broke forth into the strain best calculated togive him ease.
I don't know how, in the progress of his ”discours,” he had contrivedto cross the Channel and land on British ground; but there I found himwhen I began to listen.
Casting a quick, cynical glance round the room--a glance which scathed,or was intended to scathe, as it crossed me--he fell with fury upon”les Anglaises.”
Never have I heard English women handled as M. Paul that morninghandled them: he spared nothing--neither their minds, morals, manners,nor personal appearance. I specially remember his abuse of their tallstature, their long necks, their thin arms, their slovenly dress, theirpedantic education, their impious scepticism(!), their insufferablepride, their pretentious virtue: over which he ground his teethmalignantly, and looked as if, had he dared, he would have saidsingular things. Oh! he was spiteful, acrid, savage; and, as a naturalconsequence, detestably ugly.
”Little wicked venomous man!” thought I; ”am I going to harass myselfwith fears of displeasing you, or hurting your feelings? No, indeed;you shall be indifferent to me, as the shabbiest bouquet in yourpyramid.”
I grieve to say I could not quite carry out this resolution. For sometime the abuse of England and the English found and left me stolid: Ibore it some fifteen minutes stoically enough; but this hissingcockatrice was determined to sting, and he said such things atlast--fastening not only upon our women, but upon our greatest namesand best men; sullying, the shield of Britannia, and dabbling the unionjack in mud--that I was stung. With vicious relish he brought up themost spicy current continental historical falsehoods--than whichnothing can be conceived more offensive. Zelie, and the whole class,became one grin of vindictive delight; for it is curious to discoverhow these clowns of Labassecour secretly hate England. At last, Istruck a sharp stroke on my desk, opened my lips, and let loose thiscry:--
”Vive l'Angleterre, l'Histoire et les Heros! A bas la France, laFiction et les Faquins!”
The class was struck of a heap. I suppose they thought me mad. TheProfessor put up his handkerchief, and fiendishly smiled into itsfolds. Little monster of malice! He now thought he had got the victory,since he had made me angry. In a second he became good-humoured. Withgreat blandness he resumed the subject of his flowers; talkedpoetically and symbolically of their sweetness, perfume, purity,etcetera; made Frenchified comparisons between the ”jeunes filles” andthe sweet blossoms before him; paid Mademoiselle St. Pierre a veryfull-blown compliment on the superiority of her bouquet; and ended byannouncing that the first really fine, mild, and balmy morning inspring, he intended to take the whole class out to breakfast in thecountry. ”Such of the class, at least,” he added, with emphasis, ”as hecould count amongst the number of his friends.”
”Donc je n'y serai pas,” declared I, involuntarily.
”Soit!” was his response; and, gathering his flowers in his arms, heflashed out of classe; while I, consigning my work, scissors, thimble,and the neglected little box, to my desk, swept up-stairs. I don't knowwhether _he_ felt hot and angry, but I am free to confess that _I_ did.
Yet with a strange evanescent anger, I had not sat an hour on the edgeof my bed, picturing and repicturing his look, manner, words ere Ismiled at the whole scene. A little pang of regret I underwent that thebox had not been offered. I had meant to gratify him. Fate would nothave it so.
In the course of the afternoon, remembering that desks in classe wereby no means inviolate repositories, and thinking that it was as well tosecure the box, on account of the initials in the lid, P. C. D. E., forPaul Carl (or Carlos) David Emanuel--such was his full name--theseforeigners must always have a string of baptismals--I descended to theschoolroom.
It slept in holiday repose. The day pupils were all gone home, theboarders were out walking, the teachers, except the surveillante of theweek, were in town, visiting or shopping; the suite of divisions wasvacant; so was the grande salle, with its huge solemn globe hanging inthe midst, its pair of many-branched chandeliers, and its horizontalgrand piano closed, silent, enjoying its mid-week Sabbath. I ratherwondered to find the first classe door ajar; this room being usuallylocked when empty, and being then inaccessible to any save Madame Beckand myself, who possessed a duplicate key. I wondered still more, onapproaching, to hear a vague movement as of life--a step, a chairstirred, a sound like the opening of a desk.
”It is only Madame Beck doing inspection duty,” was the conclusionfollowing a moment's reflection. The partially-opened door gaveopportunity for assurance on this point. I looked. Behold! not theinspecting garb of Madame Beck--the shawl and the clean cap--but thecoat, and the close-shorn, dark head of a man. This person occupied mychair; his olive hand held my desk open, his nose was lost to viewamongst my papers. His back was towards me, but there could not be amoment's question about identity. Already was the attire of ceremonydiscarded: the cherished and ink-stained paletot was resumed; theperverse bonnet-grec lay on the floor, as if just dropped from thehand, culpably busy.
Now I knew, and I had long known, that that hand of M. Emanuel's was onthe most intimate terms with my desk; that it raised and lowered thelid, ransacked and arranged the contents, almost as familiarly as myown. The fact was not dubious, nor did he wish it to be so: he leftsigns of each visit palpable and unmistakable; hitherto, however, I hadnever caught him in the act: watch as I would, I could not detect thehours and moments of his coming. I saw the brownie's work in exercisesleft overnight full of faults, and found next morning carefullycorrected: I profited by his capricious good-will in loans full welcomeand refreshing. Between a sallow dictionary and worn-out grammar wouldmagically grow a fresh interesting new work, or a classic, mellow andsweet in its ripe age. Out of my work-basket would laughingly peep aromance, under it would lurk the pamphlet, the magazine, whence lastevening's reading had been extracted. Impossible to doubt the sourcewhence these treasures flowed: had there been no other indication, onecondemning and traitor peculiarity, common to them all, settled thequestion--_they smelt of cigars_. This was very shocking, of course:_I_ thought so at first, and used to open the window with some bustle,to air my desk, and with fastidious finger and thumb, to hold thepeccant brochures forth to the purifying breeze. I was cured of thatformality suddenly. Monsieur caught me at it one day, understood theinference, instantly relieved my hand of its burden, and, in anothermoment, would have thrust the same into the glowing stove. It chancedto be a book, on the perusal of which I was bent; so for once I provedas decided and quicker than himself; recaptured the spoil, and--havingsaved this volume--never hazarded a second. With all this, I had neveryet been able to arrest in his visits the freakish, friendly,cigar-loving phantom.
But now at last I had him: there he was--the very brownie himself; andthere, curling from his lips, was the pale blue breath of his Indiandarling: he was smoking into my desk: it might well betray him.Provoked at this particular, and yet pleased to surprise him--pleased,that is, with the mixed feeling of the housewife who discovers at lasther strange elfin ally busy in the dairy at the untimely churn--Isoftly stole forward, stood behind him, bent with precaution over hisshoulder.
My heart smote me to see that--after this morning's hostility, after myseeming remissness, after the puncture experienced by his feelings, andthe ruffling undergone by his temper--he, all willing to forget andforgive, had brought me a couple of handsome volumes, of which thetitle and authorship were guarantees for interest. Now, as he satbending above the desk, he was stirring up its contents; but withgentle and careful hand; disarranging indeed, but not harming. My heartsmote me: as I bent over him, as he sat unconscious, doing me what goodhe could, and I daresay not feeling towards me unkindly, my morning'sanger quite melted: I did not dislike Professor Emanuel.
I think he heard me breathe. He turned suddenly: his temperament wasnervous, yet he never started, and seldom changed colour: there wassomething hardy about him.
”I thought you were gone into town with the other teachers,” said he,taking a grim gripe of his self-possession, which half-escaped him--”Itis as well you are not. Do you think I care for being caught? Not I. Ioften visit your desk.”
”Monsieur, I know it.”
”You find a brochure or tome now and then; but you don't read them,because they have passed under this?”--touching his cigar.
”They have, and are no better for the process; but I read them.”
”Without pleasure?”
”Monsieur must not be contradicted.”
”Do you like them, or any of them?--are they acceptable?” ”Monsieur hasseen me reading them a hundred times, and knows I have not so manyrecreations as to undervalue those he provides.”
”I mean well; and, if you see that I mean well, and derive some littleamusement from my efforts, why can we not be friends?”
”A fatalist would say--because we cannot.”
”This morning,” he continued, ”I awoke in a bright mood, and came intoclasse happy; you spoiled my day.”
”No, Monsieur, only an hour or two of it, and that unintentionally.”
”Unintentionally! No. It was my fete-day; everybody wished me happinessbut you. The little children of the third division gave each her knotof violets, lisped each her congratulation:--you--nothing. Not a bud,leaf, whisper--not a glance. Was this unintentional?”
”I meant no harm.”
”Then you really did not know our custom? You were unprepared? Youwould willingly have laid out a few centimes on a flower to give mepleasure, had you been aware that it was expected? Say so, and all isforgotten, and the pain soothed.”
”I did know that it was expected: I _was_ prepared; yet I laid out nocentimes on flowers.”
”It is well--you do right to be honest. I should almost have hated youhad you flattered and lied. Better declare at once 'Paul CarlEmanuel--je te deteste, mon garcon!'--than smile an interest, look anaffection, and be false and cold at heart. False and cold I don't thinkyou are; but you have made a great mistake in life, that I believe; Ithink your judgment is warped--that you are indifferent where you oughtto be grateful--and perhaps devoted and infatuated, where you ought tobe cool as your name. Don't suppose that I wish you to have a passionfor me, Mademoiselle; Dieu vous en garde! What do you start for?Because I said passion? Well, I say it again. There is such a word, andthere is such a thing--though not within these walls, thank heaven! Youare no child that one should not speak of what exists; but I onlyuttered the word--the thing, I assure you, is alien to my whole lifeand views. It died in the past--in the present it lies buried--itsgrave is deep-dug, well-heaped, and many winters old: in the futurethere will be a resurrection, as I believe to my souls consolation; butall will then be changed--form and feeling: the mortal will have put onimmortality--it will rise, not for earth, but heaven. All I say to_you_, Miss Lucy Snowe, is--that you ought to treat Professor PaulEmanuel decently.”
I could not, and did not contradict such a sentiment.
”Tell me,” he pursued, ”when it is _your_ fete-day, and I will notgrudge a few centimes for a small offering.”
”You will be like me, Monsieur: this cost more than a few centimes, andI did not grudge its price.”
And taking from the open desk the little box, I put it into his hand.
”It lay ready in my lap this morning,” I continued; ”and if Monsieurhad been rather more patient, and Mademoiselle St. Pierre lessinterfering--perhaps I should say, too, if _I_ had been calmer andwiser--I should have given it then.”
He looked at the box: I saw its clear warm tint and bright azurecirclet, pleased his eyes. I told him to open it.
”My initials!” said he, indicating the letters in the lid. ”Who toldyou I was called Carl David?”
”A little bird, Monsieur.”
”Does it fly from me to you? Then one can tie a message under its wingwhen needful.”
He took out the chain--a trifle indeed as to value, but glossy withsilk and sparkling with beads. He liked that too--admired it artlessly,like a child.
”For me?”
”Yes, for you.”
”This is the thing you were working at last night?”
”The same.”
”You finished it this morning?”
”I did.”
”You commenced it with the intention that it should be mine?”
”Undoubtedly.”
”And offered on my fete-day?”
”Yes.”
”This purpose continued as you wove it?”
Again I assented.
”Then it is not necessary that I should cut out any portion--saying,this part is not mine: it was plaited under the idea and for theadornment of another?”
”By no means. It is neither necessary, nor would it be just.”
”This object is _all_ mine?”
”That object is yours entirely.”
Straightway Monsieur opened his paletot, arranged the guard splendidlyacross his chest, displaying as much and suppressing as little as hecould: for he had no notion of concealing what he admired and thoughtdecorative. As to the box, he pronounced it a superb bonbonniere--hewas fond of bonbons, by the way--and as he always liked to share withothers what pleased himself, he would give his ”dragees” as freely ashe lent his books. Amongst the kind brownie's gifts left in my desk, Iforgot to enumerate many a paper of chocolate comfits. His tastes inthese matters were southern, and what we think infantine. His simplelunch consisted frequently of a ”brioche,” which, as often as not, heshared with some child of the third division.
”A present c'est un fait accompli,” said he, re-adjusting his paletot;and we had no more words on the subject. After looking over the twovolumes he had brought, and cutting away some pages with his penknife(he generally pruned before lending his books, especially if they werenovels, and sometimes I was a little provoked at the severity of hiscensorship, the retrenchments interrupting the narrative), he rose,politely touched his bonnet-grec, and bade me a civil good-day.
”We are friends now,” thought I, ”till the next time we quarrel.”
We _might_ have quarrelled again that very same evening, but, wonderfulto relate, failed, for once, to make the most of our opportunity.
Contrary to all expectation, M. Paul arrived at the study-hour. Havingseen so much of him in the morning, we did not look for his presence atnight. No sooner were we seated at lessons, however, than he appeared.I own I was glad to see him, so glad that I could not help greeting hisarrival with a smile; and when he made his way to the same seat aboutwhich so serious a misunderstanding had formerly arisen, I took goodcare not to make too much room for him; he watched with a jealous,side-long look, to see whether I shrank away, but I did not, though thebench was a little crowded. I was losing the early impulse to recoilfrom M. Paul. Habituated to the paletot and bonnet-grec, theneighbourhood of these garments seemed no longer uncomfortable or veryformidable. I did not now sit restrained, ”asphyxiee” (as he used tosay) at his side; I stirred when I wished to stir, coughed when it wasnecessary, even yawned when I was tired--did, in short, what I pleased,blindly reliant upon his indulgence. Nor did my temerity, this eveningat least, meet the punishment it perhaps merited; he was both indulgentand good-natured; not a cross glance shot from his eyes, not a hastyword left his lips. Till the very close of the evening, he did notindeed address me at all, yet I felt, somehow, that he was full offriendliness. Silence is of different kinds, and breathes differentmeanings; no words could inspire a pleasanter content than did M.Paul's worldless presence. When the tray came in, and the bustle ofsupper commenced, he just said, as he retired, that he wished me a goodnight and sweet dreams; and a good night and sweet dreams I had.