We reached the Hôtel Crécy. Paulina was ready. Mrs. Bretton was with her; and, under her escort and that of M. de Bassompierre, we were soon conducted to the place of assembly, and seated in good seats, at a convenient distance from the tribune. The youth of the Athénée were marshalled before us, the municipality and their bourgmestre were in places of honour, the young princes, with their tutors, occupied a conspicuous position, and the body of the building was crowded with the aristocracy and first burghers of the town.

Concerning the identity of the professor by whom the discours was to be delivered, I had as yet entertained neither care not question. Some vague expectation I had that a savant would stand up and deliver a formal speech, half dogmatism to the Athenians, half flattery to the princes.

The tribune was yet empty when we entered, but in ten minutes after it was filled; suddenly, in a second of time, a head, chest, and arms grew above the crimson desk. This head I knew. Its colour, shape, port, expression, were familiar both to me and Miss Fanshawe. The blackness and closeness of cranium, the amplitude and paleness of brow, the blueness and fire of glance, were details so domesticated in the memory, and so knit with many a whimsical association, as almost by this their sudden apparition to tickle fancy to a laugh. Indeed, I confess, for my part, I did laugh till I was warm; but then I bent my head, and made my handkerchief and a lowered veil the sole confidants of my mirth.

I think I was glad to see M. Paul. I think it was rather pleasant than otherwise to behold him set up there, fierce and frank, dark and candid, testy and fearless, as when regnant on his estrade in class. His presence was such a surprise. I had not once thought of expecting him, though I knew he filled the chair of belles-lettres in the college. With him in that tribune, I felt sure that neither formalism nor flattery would be our doom; but for what was vouchsafed us, for what was poured suddenly, rapidly, continuously on our heads, I own I was not prepared.

He spoke to the princes, the nobles, the magistrates, and the burghers with just the same ease, with almost the same pointed, choleric earnestness, with which he was wont to harangue the three divisions of the Rue Fossette. The collegians he addressed, not as schoolboys, but as future citizens and embryo patriots. The times which have since come on Europe had not been foretold yet, and M. Emanuel’s spirit seemed new to me. Who would have thought the flat and fat soil of Labassecour could yield political convictions and national feelings such as were now strongly expressed? Of the bearing of his opinions I need here give no special indication; yet it may be permitted me to say that I believed the little man not more earnest than right in what he said. With all his fire he was severe and sensible. He trampled utopian theories under his heel; he rejected wild dreams with scorn; but when he looked in the face of tyranny, oh, then there opened a light in his eye worth seeing; and when he spoke of injustice, his voice gave no uncertain sound, but reminded me rather of the band-trumpet ringing at twilight from the park.

I do not think his audience were generally susceptible of sharing his flame in its purity; but some of the college youth caught fire as he eloquently told them what should be their path and endeavour in their country’s and in Europe’s future. They gave him a long, loud, ringing cheer as he concluded. With all his fierceness, he was their favourite professor.

As our party left the hall, he stood at the entrance. He saw and knew me, and lifted his hat. He offered his hand in passing, and uttered the words “Qu’en dîtes-vous?”—question eminently characteristic, and reminding me, even in this his moment of triumph, of that inquisitive restlessness, that absence of what I considered desirable self-control, which were amongst his faults. He should not have cared just then to ask what I thought, or what anybody thought; but he did care, and he was too natural to conceal, too impulsive to repress his wish. Well, if I blamed his over-eagerness, I liked his naïveté. I would have praised him. I had plenty of praise in my heart, but, alas! no words on my lips. Who has words at the right moment? I stammered some lame expressions, but was truly glad when other people, coming up with profuse congratulations, covered my deficiency by their redundancy.