CHAPTER XXI. REACTION.

detohisestrade.M.Paulwasnotatallagoodlittleman,thoughhehadgoodpoints. DidIreadmyletterthereandthen?DidIconsumethevenisonatonceandwithhaste,asifEsau’sshaftfleweveryday? Iknewbetter.Thecoverwithitsaddress—theseal,withitsthreeclearletters—wasbountyandabundanceforthepresent.Istolefromtheroom,Iprocuredthekeyofthegreatdormitory,whichwaskeptlockedbyday.IwenttomybureauwithasortofhasteandtremblinglestMadameshouldcreepup-stairsandspyme,Iopenedadrawer,unlockedabox,andtookoutacase,and—havingfeastedmyeyeswithonemorelook,andapproachedthesealwithamixtureofaweandshameanddelight,tomylips—Ifoldedtheuntastedtreasure,yetallfairandinviolate,insilverpaper,committedittothecase,shutupboxanddrawer,reclosed,relockedthedormitory,andreturnedtoclass,feelingasiffairytalesweretrue,andfairygiftsnodream.Strange,sweetinsanity!Andthisletter,thesourceofmyjoy,Ihadnotyetread:didnotyetknowthenumberofitslines. WhenIre-enteredtheschoolroom,beholdM.Paulraginglikeapestilence!Somepupilhadnotspokenaudiblyordistinctlyenoughtosuithisearandtaste,andnowsheandotherswereweeping,andhewasravingfromhisestrade,almostlivid.Curioustomention,asIappeared,hefellonme. “WasIthemistressofthesegirls?DidIprofesstoteachthemtheconductbefittingladies?—anddidIpermitand,hedoubtednot,encouragethemtostrangletheirmother-tongueintheirthroats,tominceandmashitbetweentheirteeth,asiftheyhadsomebasecausetobeashamedofthewordstheyuttered?Wasthismodesty?Heknewbetter.Itwasavilepseudosentiment—theoffspringortheforerunnerofevil.Ratherthansubmittothismoppingandmowing,thismincingandgrimacing,this,grindingofanobletongue,thisgeneralaffectationandsickeningstubbornnessofthepupilsofthefirstclass,hewouldthrowthemupforasetofinsupportablepetitesma?tresses,andconfinehimselftoteachingtheABCtothebabiesofthethirddivision.” WhatcouldIsaytoallthis?ReallynothingandIhopedhewouldallowmetobesilent.Thestormrecommenced. “Everyanswertohisquerieswasthenrefused?Itseemedtobeconsideredinthatplace—thatconceitedboudoirofafirstclasse,withitspretentiousbook-cases,itsgreen-baizeddesks,itsrubbishofflower-stands,itstrashofframedpicturesandmaps,anditsforeignsurveillante,forsooth!—itseemedtobethefashiontothinktherethattheProfessorofLiteraturewasnotworthyofareply!Thesewerenewideasimported,hedidnotdoubt,straightfrom‘laGrandeBretagne:’theysavouredofislandinsolenceandarrogance.” Lullthesecond—thegirls,notoneofwhomwaseverknowntoweepatearfortherebukesofanyothermaster,nowallmeltinglikesnow-statuesbeforetheintemperateheatofM.Emanuel:Inotyetmuchshaken,sittingdown,andventuringtoresumemywork. Something—eitherinmycontinuedsilenceorinthemovementofmyhand,stitching—transportedM.Emanuelbeyondthelastboundaryofpatienceheactuallysprangfromhisestrade.Thestovestoodnearmydesk,heattackeditthelittleirondoorwasnearlydashedfromitshinges,thefuelwasmadetofly. “Est-cequevousavezl’intentiondem’insulter?”saidhetome,inalow,furiousvoice,ashethusoutraged,underpretenceofarrangingthefire. Itwastimetosoothehimalittleifpossible. “Mais,Monsieur,”saidI,“Iwouldnotinsultyoufortheworld.Iremembertoowellthatyouoncesaidweshouldbefriends.” Ididnotintendmyvoicetofalter,butitdid:more,Ithink,throughtheagitationoflatedelightthaninanyspasmofpresentfear.StilltherecertainlywassomethinginM.Paul’sanger—akindofpassionofemotion—thatspeciallytendedtodrawtears.Iwasnotunhappy,normuchafraid,yetIwept. “Allons,allons!”saidhepresently,lookingroundandseeingthedelugeuniversal.“DecidedlyIamamonsterandaruffian.Ihaveonlyonepocket-handkerchief,”headded,“butifIhadtwenty,Iwouldofferyoueachone.Yourteachershallbeyourrepresentative.Here,MissLucy.” Andhetookforthandheldouttomeacleansilkhandkerchief.NowapersonwhodidnotknowM.Paul,whowasunusedtohimandhisimpulses,wouldnaturallyhavebungledatthisoffer—declinedacceptingthesame—etcetera.ButItooplainlyfeltthiswouldneverdo:theslightesthesitationwouldhavebeenfataltotheincipienttreatyofpeace.Iroseandmetthehandkerchiefhalf-way,receiveditwithdecorum,wipedtherewithmyeyes,and,resumingmyseat,andretainingtheflagoftruceinmyhandandonmylap,tookespecialcareduringtheremainderofthelessontotouchneitherneedlenorthimble,scissorsnormuslin.ManyajealousglancedidM.Paulcastattheseimplementshehatedthemmortally,consideringsewingasourceofdistractionfromtheattentionduetohimself.Averyeloquentlessonhegave,andverykindandfriendlywashetotheclose.Erehehaddone,thecloudsweredispersedandthesunshiningout—tearswereexchangedforsmiles. Inquittingtheroomhepausedoncemoreatmydesk. “Andyourletter?”saidhe,thistimenotquitefiercely. “Ihavenotyetreadit,Monsieur.” “Ah!itistoogoodtoreadatonceyousaveit,as,whenIwasaboy,Iusedtosaveapeachwhosebloomwasveryripe?” Theguesscamesonearthetruth,Icouldnotpreventasuddenly-risingwarmthinmyfacefromrevealingasmuch. “Youpromiseyourselfapleasantmoment,”saidhe,“inreadingthatletteryouwillopenitwhenalone—n’est-cepas?Ah!asmileanswers.Well,well!oneshouldnotbetooharsh‘lajeunessen’aqu’untemps.’” “Monsieur,Monsieur!”Icried,orratherwhisperedafterhim,asheturnedtogo,“donotleavemeunderamistake.Thisismerelyafriend’sletter.Withoutreadingit,Icanvouchforthat.” “Jecon?ois,jecon?ois:onsaitcequec’estqu’unami.Bonjour,Mademoiselle!” “But,Monsieur,hereisyourhandkerchief.” “Keepit,keepit,tilltheletterisread,thenbringitmeIshallreadthebillet’stenorinyoureyes.” Whenhewasgone,thepupilshavingalreadypouredoutoftheschoolroomintotheberceau,andthenceintothegardenandcourttotaketheircustomaryrecreationbeforethefive-o’clockdinner,Istoodamomentthinking,andabsentlytwistingthehandkerchiefroundmyarm.Forsomereason—gladdened,Ithink,byasuddenreturnofthegoldenglimmerofchildhood,rousedbyanunwontedrenewalofitsbuoyancy,mademerrybythelibertyoftheclosinghour,and,aboveall,solacedatheartbythejoyousconsciousnessofthattreasureinthecase,box,drawerup-stairs,—Ifelltoplayingwiththehandkerchiefasifitwereaball,castingitintotheairandcatchingit—asitfell.Thegamewasstoppedbyanotherhandthanmine—ahandemergingfromapalet?t-sleeveandstretchedovermyshoulderitcaughttheextemporisedplaythingandboreitawaywiththesesullenwords: “Jevoisbienquevousvousmoquezdemoietdemeseffets.” Reallythatlittlemanwasdreadful:amerespriteofcapriceand,ubiquity:oneneverkneweitherhiswhimorhiswhereabout.