her command of insular speech when she said “You ayre Engliss,” and she now proceeded to work away volubly in her own tongue. I answered in mine. She partly understood me; but as I did not at all understand her—though we made together an awful clamour (anything like madame’s gift of utterance I had not hitherto heard or imagined)—we achieved little progress. She rang ere long for aid, which arrived in the shape of a maîtresse, who had been partly educated in an Irish convent, and was esteemed a perfect adept in the English language. A bluff little personage this maîtresse was—Labassecourienne from top to toe; and how she did slaughter the speech of Albion! However, I told her a plain tale, which she translated. I told her how I had left my own country, intent on extending my knowledge and gaining my bread; how I was ready to turn my hand to any useful thing, provided it was not wrong or degrading; how I would be a child’s-nurse, or a lady’s-maid, and would not refuse even housework adapted to my strength. Madame heard this; and, questioning her countenance, I almost thought the tale won her ear.

“Il n’y a que les Anglaises pour ces sortes d’entreprises,” said she; “sont-elles donc intrépides ces femmes là!”

She asked my name, my age; she sat and looked at me—not pityingly, not with interest. Never a gleam of sympathy or a shade of compassion crossed her countenance during the interview. I felt she was not one to be led an inch by her feelings. Grave and considerate, she gazed, consulting her judgment and studying my narrative. A bell rang.

“Voilà pour la prière du soir!” said she, and rose. Through her interpreter, she desired me to depart now and come back on the morrow; but this did not suit me. I could not bear to return to the perils of darkness and the street. With energy, yet with a collected and controlled manner, I said, addressing herself personally, and not the maîtresse,—

“Be assured, madame, that by instantly securing my services, your interests will be served and not injured. You will find me one who will wish to give, in her labour, a full equivalent for her wages; and if you hire me, it will be better that I should stay here this night. Having no acquaintance in Villette, and not possessing the language of the country, how can I secure a lodging?”

“It is true,” said she; “but at least you can give a reference?”

“None.”

She inquired after my luggage. I told her when it would arrive. She mused. At that moment a man’s step was heard in the vestibule, hastily proceeding to the outer door. (I shall go on with this part of my tale as if I had understood all that passed, for though it was then scarce intelligible to me, I heard it translated afterwards.)

“Who goes out now?” demanded Madame Beck, listening to the tread.

“M. Paul,” replied the teacher. “He came this evening to give a reading to the first class.”

“The very man I should at this moment most wish to see. Call him.”

The teacher ran to the salon door. M. Paul was summoned. He entered, a small, dark, and spare man, in spectacles.

“Mon cousin,” began madame, “I want your opinion. We know your skill in physiognomy; use it now. Read that countenance.”

The little man fixed on me his spectacles. A resolute compression of the lips and gathering of the brow seemed to say that he meant to see through me, and that a veil would be no veil for him.

“I read it,” he pronounced.