CHAPTER XXXIII. M. PAUL KEEPS HIS PROMISE.

certaincrispingprocesswheneverheheardherEnglishaccent:nothingintheirdispositionsfittedtheyjarrediftheycameincontactheheldheremptyandaffectedshedeemedhimbearish,meddling,repellent. Atlast,whenhehadchangedhisplaceforaboutthesixthtime,findingstillthesameuntowardresulttotheexperiment—hethrusthisheadforward,settledhiseyesonmine,anddemandedwithimpatience,“Qu’est-cequec’est?Vousmejouezdestours?” Thewordswerehardlyoutofhismouth,however,ere,withhiscustomaryquickness,heseizedtherootofthisproceeding:invainIshookoutthelongfringe,andspreadforththebroadendofmyscarf.“A-h-h!c’estlaroberose!”brokefromhislips,affectingmeverymuchlikethesuddenandiratelowofsomelordofthemeadow. “Itisonlycotton,”Ialleged,hurriedly“andcheaper,andwashesbetterthananyothercolour.” “EtMademoiselleLucyestcoquettecommedixParisiennes,”heanswered.“A-t-onjamaisvuuneAnglaisepareille.Regardezplut?tsonchapeau,etsesgants,etsesbrodequins!”Thesearticlesofdresswerejustlikewhatmycompanionsworecertainlynotonewhitsmarter—perhapsratherplainerthanmost—butMonsieurhadnowgotholdofhistext,andIbegantochafeundertheexpectedsermon.Itwentoff,however,asmildlyasthemenaceofastormsometimespassesonasummerday.Igotbutoneflashofsheetlightningintheshapeofasinglebanteringsmilefromhiseyesandthenhesaid,“Courage!—àvraidirejenesuispasfaché,peut-êtremêmesuisjecontentqu’ons’estfaitsibellepourmapetitefête.” “Maismaroben’estpasbelle,Monsieur—ellen’estquepropre.” “J’aimelapropreté,”saidhe.Inshort,hewasnottobedissatisfiedthesunofgoodhumourwastotriumphonthisauspiciousmorningitconsumedscuddingcloudseretheysullieditsdisk. Andnowwewereinthecountry,amongstwhattheycalled“lesboisetlespetitssentiers.”Thesewoodsandlanesamonthlaterwouldofferbutadustyanddoubtfulseclusion:now,however,intheirMaygreennessandmorningrepose,theylookedverypleasant. Wereachedacertainwell,plantedround,inthetasteofLabassecour,withanorderlycircleoflime-trees:hereahaltwascalledonthegreenswellofgroundsurroundingthiswell,wewereorderedtobeseated,Monsieurtakinghisplaceinourmidst,andsufferingustogatherinaknotroundhim.Thosewholikedhimmorethantheyfeared,cameclose,andthesewerechieflylittleonesthosewhofearedmorethantheyliked,keptsomewhataloofthoseinwhommuchaffectionhadgiven,eventowhatremainedoffear,apleasurablezest,observedthegreatestdistance. Hebegantotellusastory.Wellcouldhenarrate:insuchadictionaschildrenlove,andlearnedmenemulateadictionsimpleinitsstrength,andstronginitssimplicity.Therewerebeautifultouchesinthatlittletalesweetglimpsesoffeelingandhuesofdescriptionthat,whileIlistened,sunkintomymind,andsincehaveneverfaded.Hetintedatwilightscene—Iholditinmemorystill—suchapictureIhaveneverlookedonfromartist’spencil. Ihavesaid,that,formyself,Ihadnoimpromptufacultyandperhapsthatverydeficiencymadememarvelthemoreatonewhopossesseditinperfection.M.EmanuelwasnotamantowritebooksbutIhaveheardhimlavish,withcareless,unconsciousprodigality,suchmentalwealthasbooksseldomboasthismindwasindeedmylibrary,andwheneveritwasopenedtome,I