Villette

gentle, kindly mimicry of my voice and foreign accent, not new from his lips, and of which the playful banter never wounded, not even when coupled as it often was, with the assertion, that however I might
write
his language, I
spoke
and always should speak it imperfectly and hesitatingly. »›All these weary days,‹ I have not for one hour forgotten you. Faithful women err in this, that they think themselves the sole faithful of God's creatures. On a very fervent and living truth to myself, I, too, till lately scarce dared count, from any quarter; but –– look at me.«
    I lifted my happy eyes: they
were
happy now, or they would have been no interpreters of my heart.
    »Well,« said he, after some seconds' scrutiny, »there is no denying that signature: Constancy wrote it; her pen is of iron. Was the record painful?«
    »Severely painful,« I said, with truth. »Withdraw her hand, monsieur; I can bear its inscribing force no more.«
    »Elle est toute pâle,« said he, speaking to himself; »cette figure là me fait mal.«
    »Ah! I am not pleasant to look at –?«
    I could not help saying this; the words came unbidden: I never remember the time when I had not a haunting dread of what might be the degree of my outward deficiency; this dread pressed me at the moment with special force.
    A great softness passed upon his countenance; his violet eyes grew suffused and glistening under their deep Spanish lashes: he started up; »Let us walk on.«
    »Do I displease your eyes
much?
« I took courage to urge: the point had its vital import for me.
    He stopped, and gave me a short, strong answer – an answer which silenced, subdued, yet profoundly satisfied. Ever after that, I knew what I was for
him;
and what I might be for the rest of the world, I ceased painfully to care. Was it weak to lay so much stress on an opinion about appearance? I fear it might be – I fear it was; but in that case I must avow no light share of weakness. I must own a great fear of displeasing – a strong wish moderately to please M. Paul.
    Whither we rambled, I scarce know. Our walk was long, yet seemed short; the path was pleasant, the day lovely. M. Emanuel talked of his voyage – he thought of staying away three years. On his return from Guadaloupe, he looked forward to release from liabilities and a clear course; and what did I purpose doing in the interval of his absence? he asked. I had talked once, he reminded me, of trying to be independent and keeping a little school of my own: had I dropped the idea?
    »Indeed, I had not: I was doing my best to save what would enable me to put it in practice.«
    »He did not like leaving me in the Rue Fossette; he feared I should miss him there too much – I should feel desolate – I should grow sad –?«
    This was certain; but I promised to do my best to endure.
    »Still,« said he, speaking low, »there is another objection to your present residence. I should wish to write to you sometimes: it would not be well to have any uncertainty about the safe transmission of letters; and in the Rue Fossette –– in short, our Catholic discipline in certain matters – though justifiable and expedient – might possibly, under peculiar circumstances, become liable to misapplication – perhaps abuse.«
    »But if you write,« said I, »I
must
have your letters; and I
will
have them: ten directors, twenty directresses, shall not keep them from me. I am a Protestant: I will not bear that kind of discipline: monsieur, I
will not.
«
    »Doucement – doucement,« rejoined he; »we will contrive a plan; we have our resources: soyez tranquille.«
    So speaking, he paused.
    We were now returning from the long walk. We had reached the middle of a clean Faubourg, where the houses were small, but looked pleasant. It was before the white door-step of a very neat abode that M. Paul had halted.
    »I call here,« said he.
    He did not knock, but taking from his pocket a key, he opened and entered at once. Ushering me in, he shut the door behind us. No servant appeared. The vestibule was small, like the house, but freshly and tastefully painted; its vista closed in a French window with vines trained about the panes, tendrils, and green leaves kissing the glass. Silence reigned in this dwelling.
    Opening an inner door, M. Paul disclosed a parlour, or salon – very tiny, but I thought, very pretty. Its delicate walls were tinged like a blush; its floor was waxed; a square of brilliant carpet covered its centre; its small