CHAPTER XXXIII. M. PAUL KEEPS HIS PROMISE.

hconveyancesasarehiredoutpurposelyfortheaccommodationofschool-partieshere,withgoodmanagement,roomwasfoundforall,andinanotherhourM.PaulmadesafeconsignmentofhischargeattheRueFossette.Ithadbeenapleasantday:itwouldhavebeenperfect,butforthebreathingofmelancholywhichhaddimmeditssunshineamoment. Thattarnishwasrenewedthesameevening. Justaboutsunset,IsawM.Emanuelcomeoutofthefront-door,accompaniedbyMadameBeck.Theypacedthecentre-alleyfornearlyanhour,talkingearnestly:he—lookinggrave,yetrestlessshe—wearinganamazed,expostulatory,dissuasiveair. IwonderedwhatwasunderdiscussionandwhenMadameBeckre-enteredthehouseasitdarkened,leavingherkinsmanPaulyetlingeringinthegarden,Isaidtomyself—“Hecalledme‘petitesoeur’thismorning.Ifhewerereallymybrother,howIshouldliketogotohimjustnow,andaskwhatitisthatpressesonhismind.Seehowheleansagainstthattree,withhisarmscrossedandhisbrowbent.Hewantsconsolation,Iknow:Madamedoesnotconsole:sheonlyremonstrates.Whatnow——?” Startingfromquiescencetoaction,M.Paulcamestridingerectandquickdownthegarden.Thecarrédoorswereyetopen:Ithoughthewasprobablygoingtowatertheorange-treesinthetubs,afterhisoccasionalcustomonreachingthecourt,however,hetookanabruptturnandmadefortheberceauandthefirst-classeglassdoor.There,inthatfirstclasseIwas,thenceIhadbeenwatchinghimbutthereIcouldnotfindcouragetoawaithisapproach.Hehadturnedsosuddenly,hestrodesofast,helookedsostrangethecowardwithinmegrewpale,shrankand—notwaitingtolistentoreason,andhearingtheshrubscrushandthegravelcrunchtohisadvance—shewasgoneonthewingsofpanic. NordidIpausetillIhadtakensanctuaryintheoratory,nowempty.Listeningtherewithbeatingpulses,andanunaccountable,undefinedapprehension,Iheardhimpassthroughalltheschoolrooms,clashingthedoorsimpatientlyashewentIheardhiminvadetherefectorywhichthe“lecturepieuse”wasnowholdingunderhallowedconstraintIheardhimpronouncethesewords—“OùestMademoiselleLucie?” Andjustas,summoningmycourage,Iwaspreparingtogodownanddowhat,afterall,Imostwishedtodointheworld—viz.,meethim—thewiryvoiceofSt.Pierrerepliedgliblyandfalsely,“Elleestaulit.”Andhepassed,withthestampofvexation,intothecorridor.ThereMadameBeckmet,captured,chid,convoyedtothestreet-door,andfinallydismissedhim. Asthatstreet-doorclosed,asuddenamazementatmyownperverseproceedingstrucklikeablowuponme.Ifeltfromthefirstitwasmehewanted—mehewasseeking—andhadnotIwantedhimtoo?What,then,hadcarriedmeaway?Whathadraptmebeyondhisreach?Hehadsomethingtotell:hewasgoingtotellmethatsomething:myearstraineditsnervetohearit,andIhadmadetheconfidenceimpossible.Yearningtolistenandconsole,whileIthoughtaudienceandsolacebeyondhope’sreach—nosoonerdidopportunitysuddenlyandfullyarrive,thanIevadeditasIwouldhaveevadedthelevelledshaftofmortality. Well,myinsaneinconsistencyhaditsreward.Insteadofthecomfort,thecertainsatisfaction,Imighthavewon—couldIbuthaveputchokingpanicdown,andstoodfirmtwominutes—herewasdeadblank,darkdoubt,anddrearsuspense. Itookmywagestomypillow,andpassedthenightcountingthem.