“Vous savez bien que non. C’est vous qui avez créé ce vide immense. Moi je n’y ai pas mis la main.”

And with this assertion he commenced the reading.

For his misfortune he had chosen a French translation of what he called “un drame de Williams Shackspire; le faux dieu,” he further announced, “de ces sots païens, les Anglais.” How far otherwise he would have characterized him had his temper not been upset, I scarcely need intimate.

Of course the translation, being French, was very inefficient; nor did I make any particular effort to conceal the contempt which some of its forlorn lapses were calculated to excite. Not that it behoved or beseemed me to say anything; but one can occasionally look the opinion it is forbidden to embody in words. Monsieur’s lunettes being on the alert, he gleaned up every stray look; I don’t think he lost one. The consequence was, his eyes soon discarded a screen, that their blaze might sparkle free, and he waxed hotter at the north pole, to which he had voluntarily exiled himself, than, considering the general temperature of the room, it would have been reasonable to become under the vertical ray of Cancer itself.

The reading over, it appeared problematic whether he would depart with his anger unexpressed, or whether he would give it vent. Suppression was not much in his habits; but still, what had been done to him definite enough to afford matter for overt reproof? I had not uttered a sound, and could not justly be deemed amenable to reprimand or penalty for having permitted a slightly freer action than usual to the muscles about my eyes and mouth.

The supper, consisting of bread, and milk diluted with tepid water, was brought in. In respectful consideration of the professor’s presence, the rolls and glasses were allowed to stand instead of being immediately handed round.

“Take your supper, ladies,” said he, seeming to be occupied in making marginal notes to his “Williams Shackspire.” They took it. I also accepted a roll and glass, but being now more than ever interested in my work, I kept my seat of punishment, and wrought while I munched my bread and sipped my beverage, the whole with easy sang froid—with a certain snugness of composure, indeed, scarcely in my habits, and pleasantly novel to my feelings. It seemed as if the presence of a nature so restless, chafing, thorny as that of M. Paul absorbed all feverish and unsettling influences like a magnet, and left me none but such as were placid and harmonious.

He rose. “Will he go away without saying another word?” Yes; he turned to the door.

No; he re-turned on his steps; but only, perhaps, to take his pencil-case, which had been left on the table.

He took it, shut the pencil in and out, broke its point against the wood, re-cut and pocketed it, and walked promptly up to me.

The girls and teachers, gathered round the other table, were talking pretty freely. They always talked at meals; and, from the constant habit of speaking fast and loud at such times, did not now subdue their voices much.

M. Paul came and stood behind me. He asked at what I was working, and I said I was making a watchguard.

He asked, “For whom?” And I answered, “For a gentleman—one of my friends.”

M. Paul stooped down and proceeded—as novel-writers say, and, as was literally true in his case—to “hiss” into my ear some poignant words.

He said that, of all the women he knew, I was the one who could make herself the most consummately unpleasant. I was she with whom it was least possible to live on friendly terms. I had a “caractère intraitable,” and perverse to a miracle. How I managed it, or what possessed me, he, for his part, did not know; but with whatever pacific and amicable intentions a person accosted me—crac! I turned concord to discord,