“Then it is not necessary that I should cut out any portion, saying, This part is not mine; it was plaited under the idea and for the adornment of another?”

“By no means. It is neither necessary, nor would it be just.”

“This object is all mine?”

“That object is yours entirely.”

Straightway monsieur opened his paletôt, arranged the guard splendidly across his chest, displaying as much and suppressing as little as he could; for he had no notion of concealing what he admired and thought decorative. As to the box, he pronounced it a superb “bonbonnière.”—he was fond of “bonbons,” by the way—and as he always liked to share with others what pleased himself, he would give his “dragées” as freely as he lent his books. Amongst the kind brownie’s gifts left in my desk, I forgot to enumerate many a paper of chocolate comfits. His tastes in these matters were southern and what we think infantine. His simple lunch consisted frequently of a brioche, which, as often as not, he shared with some child of the third division.

“A présent c’est un fait accompli,” said he, read-justing his paletôt, and we had no more words on the subject. After looking over the two volumes he had brought, and cutting away some pages with his pen- knife (he generally pruned before lending his books, especially if they were novels, and sometimes I was a little provoked at the severity of his censorship, the retrenchments interrupting the narrative), he rose, politely touched his bonnet-grec, and bade me a civil good-day.

“We are friends now,” thought I, “till the next time we quarrel.”

We might have quarrelled again that very same evening, but, wonderful to relate, failed, for once, to make the most of our opportunity.

Contrary to all expectation, M. Paul arrived at the study hour. Having seen so much of him in the morning, we did not look for his presence at night. No sooner were we seated at lessons, however, than he appeared. I own I was glad to see him—so glad that I could not help greeting his arrival with a smile; and, when he made his way to the same seat about which so serious a misunderstanding had formerly arisen, I took good care not to make too much room for him. He watched with a jealous, sidelong look, to see whether I shrank away; but I did not, though the bench was a little crowded. I was losing the early impulse to recoil from M. Paul. Habituated to the paletôt and bonnet-grec, the neighbourhood of these garments seemed no longer uncomfortable or very formidable. I did not now sit restrained, “asphyxée” (as he used to say) at his side. I stirred when I wished to stir, coughed when it was necessary, even yawned when I was tired—did, in short, what I pleased, blindly reliant upon his indulgence. Nor did my temerity, this evening at least, meet the punishment it perhaps merited. He was both indulgent and good-natured; not a cross glance shot from his eyes, not a hasty word left his lips. Till the very close of the evening, he did not indeed address me at all; yet I felt, somehow, that he was full of friendliness. Silence is of different kinds, and breathes different meanings: no words could inspire a pleasanter content than did M. Paul’s wordless presence. When the tray came in, and the bustle of supper commenced, he just said, as he retired, that he wished me a good-night and sweet dreams; and a good night and sweet dreams I had.