“Ah! vous trouvez?”

“Mais, sans doute.”

The lesson to which we had that day to submit was such as to make us very glad when it terminated. At its close the released pupils rushed out, half trembling, half exultant. I too was going. A mandate to remain arrested me. I muttered that I wanted some fresh air sadly; the stove was in a glow, the classe overheated. An inexorable voice merely recommended silence; and this salamander, for whom no room ever seemed too hot, sitting down between my desk and the stove—a situation in which he ought to have felt broiled, but did not—proceeded to comfort me with a Greek quotation!

In M. Emanuel’s soul rankled a chronic suspicion that I knew both Greek and Latin. As monkeys are said to have the power of speech if they would but use it, and are reported to conceal this faculty in fear of its being turned to their detriment, so to me was ascribed a fund of knowledge which I was supposed criminally and craftily to conceal. The privileges of a “classical education,” it was insinuated, had been mine; on flowers of Hymettus I had revelled; a golden store, hived in memory, now silently sustained my efforts, and privily nurtured my wits.

A hundred expedients did M. Paul employ to surprise my secret, to wheedle, to threaten, to startle it out of me. Sometimes he placed Greek and Latin books in my way, and then watched me, as Joan of Arc’s jailers tempted her with the warrior’s accoutrements, and lay in wait for the issue. Again he quoted I know not what authors and passages, and while rolling out their sweet and sounding lines (the classic tones fell musically from his lips, for he had a good voice, remarkable for compass, modulation, and matchless expression) he would fix on me a vigilant, piercing, and often malicious eye. It was evident he sometimes expected great demonstrations. They never occurred, however. Not comprehending, of course I could neither be charmed nor annoyed.

Baffled, almost angry, he still clung to his fixed idea. My susceptibilities were pronounced marble, my face a mask. It appeared as if he could not be brought to accept the homely truth, and take me for what I was. Men, and women too, must have delusion of some sort; if not made ready to their hand, they will invent exaggeration for themselves.

At moments I did wish that his suspicions had been better founded. There were times when I would have given my right hand to possess the treasures he ascribed to me. He deserved condign punishment for his testy crotchets. I could have gloried in bringing home to him his worst apprehensions astoundingly realized. I could have exulted to burst on his vision, confront and confound his lunettes, one blaze of acquirements. Oh! why did nobody undertake to make me clever while I was young enough to learn, that I might, by one grand, sudden, inhuman revelation—one cold, cruel, overwhelming triumph—have for ever crushed the mocking spirit out of Paul Carl David Emanuel?

Alas! no such feat was in my power. To-day, as usual, his quotations fell ineffectual. He soon shifted his ground.

“Women of intellect” was his next theme. Here he was at home. A “woman of intellect,” it appeared, was a sort of “lusus naturæ,” a luckless accident, a thing for which there was neither place nor use in creation, wanted neither as wife nor worker. Beauty anticipated her in the first office. He believed in his soul that lovely, placid, and passive feminine mediocrity was the only pillow on which manly thought and sense could find rest for its aching temples; and as to work, male mind alone could work to any good practical result—hein?

This “hein?” was a note of interrogation intended to draw from me contradiction or objection. However, I only said,—

“Cela ne me regarde pas; je ne m’en soucie pas,” and presently added, “May I go, monsieur? They have rung the bell for the second déjeûner” (that is, luncheon).