“Why not, monsieur?”

“I hate the mechanical labour; I hate to stoop and sit still. I could dictate it, though, with pleasure to an amanuensis who suited me. Would Mademoiselle Lucy write for me if I asked her?”

“Monsieur would be too quick. He would urge me, and be angry if my pen did not keep pace with his lips.”

“Try some day. Let us see the monster I can make of myself under the circumstances. But just now there is no question of dictation. I mean to make you useful in another office. Do you see yonder farm- house?”

“Surrounded with trees? Yes.”

“There we are to breakfast; and while the good fermière makes the café au lait in a caldron, you and five others, whom I shall select, will spread with butter half a hundred rolls.”

Having formed his troop into line once more, he marched us straight on the farm, which, on seeing our force, surrendered without capitulation.

Clean knives and plates and fresh butter being provided, half a dozen of us, chosen by our professor, set to work under his directions to prepare for breakfast a huge basket of rolls, with which the baker had been ordered to provision the farm, in anticipation of our coming. Coffee and chocolate were already made hot; cream and new-laid eggs were added to the treat; and M. Emanuel, always generous, would have given a large order for jambon and confitures in addition, but that some of us, who presumed perhaps upon our influence, insisted that it would be a most reckless waste of victual. He railed at us for our pains, terming us “des ménagères avares;” but we let him talk, and managed the economy of the repast our own way.

With what a pleasant countenance he stood on the farm kitchen hearth looking on! He was a man whom it made happy to see others happy. He liked to have movement, animation, abundance, and enjoyment round him. We asked where he would sit. He told us we knew well he was our slave, and we his tyrants, and that he dared not so much as choose a chair without our leave; so we set him the farmer’s great chair at the head of the long table, and put him into it.

Well might we like him, with all his passions and hurricanes, when he could be so benignant and docile at times as he was just now. Indeed, at the worst, it was only his nerves that were irritable, not his temper that was radically bad. Soothe, comprehend, comfort him, and he was a lamb; he would not harm a fly. Only to the very stupid, perverse, or unsympathizing was he in the slightest degree dangerous.

Mindful always of his religion, he made the youngest of the party say a little prayer before we began breakfast, crossing himself as devoutly as a woman. I had never seen him pray before, or make that pious sign. He did it so simply, with such childlike faith, I could not help smiling pleasurably as I watched. His eyes met my smile. He just stretched out his kind hand, saying,—

“Donnez-moi la main! I see we worship the same God, in the same spirit, though by different rites.”

Most of M. Emanuel’s brother professors were emancipated freethinkers, infidels, atheists, and many of them men whose lives would not bear scrutiny. He was more like a knight of old—religious in his way, and of spotless fame. Innocent childhood, beautiful youth, were safe at his side. He had vivid passions, keen feelings, but his pure honour and his artless piety were the strong charm that kept the lions couchant.

That breakfast was a merry meal, and the merriment was not mere vacant clatter. M. Paul originated, led, controlled, and heightened it; his social, lively temper played unfettered and unclouded; surrounded