“We will first peep into one or two other nooks of this nutshell,” he replied.

“Dare you take the freedom of going all over the house?” I inquired.

“Yes, I dare,” said he quietly.

He led the way. I was shown a little kitchen with a little stove and oven, with few but bright brasses, two chairs and a table. A small cupboard held a diminutive but commodious set of earthenware.

“There is a coffee service of china in the salon,” said M. Paul, as I looked at the six green and white dinner-plates, the four dishes, the cups and jugs to match.

Conducted up the narrow but clean staircase, I was permitted a glimpse of two pretty cabinets of sleeping- rooms. Finally I was once more led below, and we halted with a certain ceremony before a larger door than had yet been opened.

Producing a second key, M. Emanuel adjusted it to the lock of this door. He opened, put me in before him.

“Voici!” he cried.

I found myself in a good-sized apartment, scrupulously clean, though bare compared with those I had hitherto seen. The well-scoured boards were carpetless. It contained two rows of green benches and desks, with an alley down the centre, terminating in an estrade, a teacher’s chair and table, behind them a tableau. On the walls hung two maps; in the windows flowered a few hardy plants—in short, here was a miniature classe, complete, neat, pleasant.

“It is a school, then?” said I. “Who keeps it? I never heard of an establishment in this faubourg.”

“Will you have the goodness to accept of a few prospectuses for distribution in behalf of a friend of mine?” asked he, taking from his surtout pocket some quires of these documents, and putting them into my hand. I looked. I read, printed in fair characters,—

“Externat de demoiselles. Numéro 7, Faubourg Clotilde. Directrice, Mademoiselle Lucy Snowe.”

And what did I say to M. Paul Emanuel?

Certain junctures of our lives must always be difficult of recall to memory. Certain points, crises, certain feelings, joys, griefs, and amazements, when reviewed, must strike us as things wildered and whirling, dim as a wheel fast spun.

I can no more remember the thoughts or the words of the ten minutes succeeding this disclosure than I can retrace the experience of my earliest year of life; and yet the first thing distinct to me is the consciousness that I was speaking very fast, repeating over and over again,—

“Did you do this, M. Paul? Is this your house? Did you furnish it? Did you get these papers printed? Do you mean me? Am I the directress? Is there another Lucy Snowe? Tell me. Say something.”

But he would not speak. His pleased silence, his laughing down-look, his attitude, are visible to me now.

“How is it? I must know all—all,” I cried.

The packet of papers fell on the floor. He had extended his hand, and I had fastened thereon, oblivious of all else.