CHAPTER XIII. A SNEEZE OUT OF SEASON.

Ihadoccasiontosmile—nay,tolaugh,atMadameagain,withinthespaceoffourandtwentyhoursafterthelittlescenetreatedofinthelastchapter. Villetteownsaclimateasvariable,thoughnotsohumid,asthatofanyEnglishtown.Anightofhighwindfolloweduponthatsoftsunset,andallthenextdaywasoneofdrystorm—dark,beclouded,yetrainless,—thestreetsweredimwithsandanddust,whirledfromtheboulevards.Iknownotthatevenlovelyweatherwouldhavetemptedmetospendtheevening-timeofstudyandrecreationwhereIhadspentityesterday.Myalley,and,indeed,allthewalksandshrubsinthegarden,hadacquiredanew,butnotapleasantinteresttheirseclusionwasnowbecomeprecarioustheircalm—insecure.Thatcasementwhichrainedbillets,hadvulgarizedtheoncedearnookitoverlookedandelsewhere,theeyesoftheflowershadgainedvision,andtheknotsinthetree-boleslistenedlikesecretears.Someplantstherewere,indeed,troddendownbyDr.Johninhissearch,andhishastyandheedlessprogress,whichIwishedtopropup,water,andrevivesomefootmarks,too,hehadleftonthebeds:butthese,inspiteofthestrongwind,Ifoundamoment’sleisuretoeffaceveryearlyinthemorning,erecommoneyeshaddiscoveredthem.Withapensivesortofcontent,IsatdowntomydeskandmyGerman,whilethepupilssettledtotheireveninglessonsandtheotherteacherstookuptheirneedlework. Thesceneofthe“etudedusoir”wasalwaystherefectory,amuchsmallerapartmentthananyofthethreeclassesorschoolroomsforherenone,savetheboarders,wereeveradmitted,andthesenumberedonlyascore.Twolampshungfromtheceilingoverthetwotablesthesewerelitatdusk,andtheirkindlingwasthesignalforschool-booksbeingsetaside,agravedemeanourassumed,generalsilenceenforced,andthencommenced“lalecturepieuse.”Thissaid“lecturepieuse”was,Isoonfound,mainlydesignedasawholesomemortificationoftheIntellect,ausefulhumiliationoftheReasonandsuchadoseforCommonSenseasshemightdigestatherleisure,andthriveonasshebestcould. Thebookbroughtout(itwasneverchanged,butwhenfinished,recommenced)wasavenerablevolume,oldasthehills—greyastheH?teldeVille. Iwouldhavegiventwofrancsforthechanceofgettingthatbookonceintomyhands,turningoverthesacredyellowleaves,ascertainingthetitle,andperusingwithmyowneyestheenormousfigmentswhich,asanunworthyheretic,itwasonlypermittedmetodrinkinwithmybewilderedears.Thisbookcontainedlegendsofthesaints.GoodGod!(Ispeakthewordsreverently)whatlegendstheywere.Whatgasconadingrascalsthosesaintsmusthavebeen,iftheyfirstboastedtheseexploitsorinventedthesemiracles.Theselegends,however,werenomorethanmonkishextravagances,overwhichonelaughedinwardlytherewere,besides,priestlymatters,andthepriestcraftofthebookwasfarworsethanitsmonkery.TheearsburnedoneachsideofmyheadasIlistened,perforce,totalesofmoralmartyrdominflictedbyRomethedreadboastsofconfessors,whohadwickedlyabusedtheiroffice,tramplingtodeepdegradationhigh-bornladies,makingofcountessesandprincessesthemosttormentedslavesunderthesun.StorieslikethatofConradandElizabethofHungary,recurredagainandagain,withallitsdreadfulviciousness,sickeningtyrannyandblackimpiety:talesthatwerenightmaresofoppression,privation,andagony. Isatoutthis“lecturepieuse”forsomenightsaswellasIcould,andasquietlytooonlyoncebreakingoffthepointsofmyscissorsbyinvoluntarilystickingthemsomewhatdeepintheworm-eatenboardofthetablebeforeme.But,atlast,itmademesoburninghot,andmytemples,andmyheart,andmywristthrobbedsofast,andmysleepafterwardswassobrokenwithexcitement,thatIcouldsitnolonger.Prudencerecommendedhenceforwardaswiftclearanceofmypersonfromtheplace,themomentthatguiltyoldbookwasbroughtout.NoMauseHeadriggeverfeltastrongercalltotakeuphertestimonyagainstSergeantBothwell,thanI—tospeakmymindinthismatterofthepopish“lecturepieuse.”However,Ididmanagesomehowtocurbandreininandthoughalways,assoonasRosinecametolightthelamps,Ishotfromtheroomquickly,yetalsoIdiditquietlyseizingthatvantagemomentgivenbythelittlebustlebeforethedeadsilence,andvanishingwhilstthe