He stopped, and gave me a short, strong answer—an answer which silenced, subdued, yet profoundly satisfied. Ever after that I knew what I was for him; and what I might be for the rest of the world I ceased painfully to care. Was it weak to lay so much stress on an opinion about appearance? I fear it might be, I fear it was; but in that case I must avow no light share of weakness. I must own a great fear of displeasing, a strong wish moderately to please M. Paul.

Whither we rambled I scarce knew. Our walk was long, yet seemed short; the path was pleasant, the day lovely. M. Emanuel talked of his voyage. He thought of staying away three years. On his return from Guadeloupe he looked forward to release from liabilities and a clear course. And what did I purpose doing in the interval of his absence? he asked. I had talked once, he reminded me, of trying to be independent and keeping a little school of my own; had I dropped the idea?

“Indeed I had not. I was doing my best to save what would enable me to put it in practice.”

“He did not like leaving me in the Rue Fossette; he feared I should miss him there too much. I should feel desolate, I should grow sad.”

This was certain; but I promised to do my best to endure.

“Still,” said he, speaking low, “there is another objection to your present residence. I should wish to write to you sometimes. It would not be well to have any uncertainty about the safe transmission of letters; and in the Rue Fossette——In short, our Catholic discipline in certain matters, though justifiable and expedient, might possibly, under peculiar circumstances, become liable to misapplication, perhaps abuse.”

“But if you write,” said I, “I must have your letters, and I will have them. Ten directors, twenty directresses, shall not keep them from me. I am a Protestant; I will not bear that kind of discipline. Monsieur, I will not.”

“Doucement—doucement,” rejoined he; “we will contrive a plan. We have our resources; soyez tranquille.”

So speaking, he paused.

We were now returning from the long walk. We had reached the middle of a clean faubourg, where the houses were small, but looked pleasant. It was before the white door-step of a very neat abode that M. Paul had halted.

“I call here,” said he.

He did not knock, but taking from his pocket a key, he opened and entered at once. Ushering me in, he shut the door behind us. No servant appeared. The vestibule was small, like the house, but freshly and tastefully painted; its vista closed in a French window with vines trained about the panes, tendrils, and green leaves kissing the glass. Silence reigned in this dwelling.

Opening an inner door, M. Paul disclosed a parlour, or salon, very tiny, but, I thought, very pretty. Its delicate walls were tinged like a blush; its floor was waxed; a square of brilliant carpet covered its centre; its small round table shone like the mirror over its hearth; there was a little couch, a little chiffonière, the halfopen crimson silk door of which showed porcelain on the shelves; there was a French clock, a lamp; there were ornaments in biscuit china; the recess of the single ample window was filled with a green stand, bearing three green flower-pots, each filled with a fine plant glowing in bloom; in one corner appeared a guéridon with a marble top, and upon it a work-box, and a glass filled with violets in water. The lattice of this room was open; the outer air breathing through gave freshness, the sweet violets lent fragrance.

“Pretty, pretty place!” said I. M. Paul smiled to see me so pleased.

“Must we sit down here and wait?” I asked in a whisper, half awed by the deep pervading hush.