Villette

between Ginevra and him had never run so smooth that his temper did not undergo a certain crisping process whenever he heard her English accent: nothing in their dispositions fitted; they jarred if they came in contact; he held her empty and affected; she deemed him bearish, meddling, repellent.
    At last, when he had changed his place for about the sixth time, finding still the same untoward result to the experiment – he thrust his head forward, settled his eyes on mine, and demanded with impatience –
    »Qu' est ceque c' est? Vous me jouez des tours?«
    The words were hardly out of his mouth, however, ere, with his customary quickness, he seized the root of this proceeding: in vain I shook out the long fringe, and spread forth the broad end of my scarf. »A – h – h! c'est la robe rose!« broke from his lips, affecting me very much like the sudden and irate low of some lord of the meadow.
    »It is only cotton,« I alleged, hurriedly; »and cheaper, and washes better than any other colour.«
    »Et Mademoiselle Lucie est coquette comme dix Parisiennes,« he answered. »A-t-on jamais vu une Anglaise pareille. Regarded plutôt son chapeau, et ses gants, et ses brodequins!« These articles of dress were just like what my companions wore; certainly not one whit smarter – perhaps rather plainer than most – but monsieur had now got hold of his text, and I began to chafe under the expected sermon. It went off, however, as mildly as the menace of a storm sometimes passes on a summer day. I got but one flash of sheet lightning in the shape of a single bantering smile from his eyes; and then he said: – »Courage! – à vrai dire je ne suis pas fâché, peutêtre même suis je content qu'on s'est fait si belle pour ma petite fête.«
    »Mais ma robe n'est pas belle, monsieur – elle n'est que propre.«
    »J'aime la propreté,« said he. In short, he was not to be dissatisfied; the sun of good humour was to triumph on this auspicious morning; it consumed scudding clouds ere they sullied its disk.
    And now we were in the country, amongst what they called »les bois et les petits sentiers.« These woods and lanes a month later, would offer but a dusty and doubtful seclusion: now, however, in their May greenness and morning repose, they looked very pleasant.
    We reached a certain well planted round, in the taste of Labassecour, with an orderly circle of lime-trees: here a halt was called; on the green swell of ground surrounding this well, we were ordered to be seated, monsieur taking his place in our midst, and suffering us to gather in a knot round him. Those who liked him more than they feared, came close, and these were chiefly little ones; those who feared more than they liked, kept somewhat aloof; those in whom much affection had given, even to what remained of fear, a pleasurable zest, observed the greatest distance.
    He began to tell us a story. Well could he narrate: in such a diction as children love, and learned men emulate; a diction simple in its strength, and strong in its simplicity. There were beautiful touches in that little tale; sweet glimpses of feeling and hues of description that, while I listened, sunk into my mind, and since have never faded. He tinted a twilight scene – I hold it in memory still – such a picture I have never looked on from artist's pencil.
    I have said that, for myself, I had no impromptu faculty; and perhaps that very deficiency made me marvel the more at one who possessed it in perfection. M. Emanuel was not a man to write books; but I have heard him lavish, with careless, unconscious prodigality, such mental wealth as books seldom boast; his mind was indeed my library, and whenever it was opened to me, I entered bliss. Intellectually imperfect as I was, I could read little; there were few bound and printed volumes that did not weary me – whose perusal did not fag and blind – but his tomes of thought were collyrium to the spirit's eyes; over their contents, inward sight grew clear and strong. I used to think what a delight it would be for one who loved him better than he loved himself, to gather and store up those handfuls of gold-dust, so recklessly flung to heaven's reckless winds.
    His story done, he approached the little knoll where I and Ginevra sat apart. In his usual mode of demanding an opinion (he had not reticence to wait till it was voluntarily offered) he asked: –
    »Were you interested?«
    According to my wonted undemonstrative fashion, I simply