Villette

only desiring he should feel that such a transport as he had that day given way to, could not be indulged with perfect impunity, I was not sorry to see him, soon after, gardening in the berceau. He approached the glass door; I drew near also. We spoke of some flowers growing round it. By-and-by Monsieur laid down his spade; by-and-by he recommenced conversation, passed to other subjects, and at last touched a point of interest.
    Conscious that his proceeding of that day was specially open to a charge of extravagance, M. Paul half apologized; he half regretted too the fitfulness of his moods at all times, yet he hinted that some allowance ought to be made for him. »But,« said he, »I can hardly expect it at your hands, Miss Lucy; you know neither me, nor my position, nor my history.«
    His history. I took up the word at once; I pursued the idea.
    »No, monsieur,« I rejoined. »Of course, as you say, I know neither your history, nor your position, nor your sacrifices, nor any of your sorrows, or trials, or affections, or fidelities. Oh, no! I know nothing about you; you are for me altogether a stranger.«
    »Hein?« he murmured, arching his brows in surprise.
    »You know, monsieur, I only see you in classe – stern, dogmatic, hasty, imperious. I only hear of you in town as active and wilful, quick to originate, hasty to lead, but slow to persuade, and hard to bend. A man like you, without ties, can have no attachments; without dependents, no duties. All we, with whom you come in contact, are machines, which you thrust here and here, inconsiderate of their feelings. You seek your recreations in public, by the light of the evening chandelier: this school and yonder college are your workshops, where you fabricate the ware called pupils. I don't so much as know where you live; it is natural to take it for granted that you have no home, and need none.«
    »I am judged,« said he. »Your opinion of me is just what I thought it was. For you – I am neither a man nor a Christian. You see me void of affection and religion, unattached by friend or family, unpiloted by principle or faith. It is well, mademoiselle, such is our reward in this life.«
    »You are a philosopher, monsieur; a cynic philosopher« (and I looked at his paletot, of which he straightway brushed the dim sleeve with his hand), »despising the foibles of humanity – above its luxuries – independent of its comforts.«
    »Et vous, mademoiselle; vous êtes proprette et douillette, et affreusement insensible, par-dessus le marché.«
    »But, in short, monsieur, now I think of it, you
must
live somewhere? Do tell me where; and what establishment of servants do you keep?«
    With a fearful projection of the under lip, implying an impetus of scorn the most decided, he broke out –
    »Je vis dans un trou! I inhabit a den, miss – a cavern, where you would not put your dainty nose. Once, with base shame of speaking the whole truth, I talked about my ›study‹ in that college: know now that this ›study‹ is my whole abode; my chamber is there and my drawing-room. As for my ›establishment of servants‹« (mimicking my voice) »they number ten: les voilà!«
    And he grimly spread, close under my eyes, his ten fingers.
    »I black my boots,« pursued he, savagely. »I brush my paletot.«
    »No, monsieur, it is too plain; you never do that,« was my parenthesis.
    »Je fais mon lit et mon ménage; I seek my dinner in a restaurant; my supper takes care of itself; I pass days laborious and loveless; nights long and lonely; I am ferocious, and bearded, and monkish; and nothing now living in this world loves me, except some old hearts worn like my own, and some few beings, impoverished, suffering, poor in purse and in spirit, whom the kingdoms of this world own not, but to whom a will and testament not to be disputed, has bequeathed the kingdom of heaven.«
    »Ah, monsieur; but I know!«
    »What do you know? many things, I verily believe; yet not me, Lucy!«
    »I know that you have a pleasant old house in a pleasant old square of the Basse-Ville – why don't you go and live there?«
    »Hein?« muttered he again.
    »I liked it much, monsieur; with the steps ascending to the door, the gray flags in front, the nodding trees behind – real trees, not shrubs – trees dark, high, and of old growth. And the boudoir-oratoire – you should make that room your study; it is so quiet and solemn.«
    He eyed me closely; he half-smiled, half-coloured. »Where did you pick up