expect. Listen for a coo or a murmur: it is then you will hear a cry of prey or pain. Await a piercing shriek, an angry threat, and welcome an amicable greeting, a low, kind whisper. M. Paul spoke gently.
“Friends,” said he, “do not quarrel for a word. Tell me, was it I or ce grand fat d’Anglais” (so he profanely denominated Dr. Bretton) “who made your eyes so humid, and your cheeks so hot as they are even now?”
“I am not conscious of you, monsieur, or of any other having excited such emotion as you indicate,” was my answer; and in giving it I again surpassed my usual self, and achieved a neat, frosty falsehood.
“But what did I say?” he pursued; “tell me. I was angry. I have forgotten my words. What were they?”
“Such as it is best to forget!” said I, still quite calm and chill.
“Then it was my words which wounded you? Consider them unsaid. Permit my retractation; accord my pardon.”
“I am not angry, monsieur.”
“Then you are worse than angry—grieved. Forgive me, Miss Lucy.”
“M. Emanuel, I do forgive you.”
“Let me hear you say, in the voice natural to you, and not in that alien tone, ‘Mon ami, je vous pardonne.’ ”
He made me smile. Who could help smiling at his wistfulness, his simplicity, his earnestness?
“Bon!” he cried; “voilà que le jour va poindre! Dîtes donc, mon ami.”
“Monsieur Paul, je vous pardonne.”
“I will have no monsieur. Speak the other word, or I shall not believe you sincere. Another effort—mon ami; or else in English—my friend!”
Now, “my friend” had rather another sound and significancy that “mon ami.” It did not breathe the same sense of domestic and intimate affection. “Mon ami” I could not say to M. Paul; “my friend” I could, and did say without difficulty. This distinction existed not for him, however, and he was quite satisfied with the English phrase. He smiled. You should have seen him smile, reader, and you should have marked the difference between his countenance now and that he wore half an hour ago. I cannot affirm that I had ever witnessed the smile of pleasure, or content, or kindness round M. Paul’s lips or in his eyes before. The ironic, the sarcastic, the disdainful, the passionately exultant, I had hundreds of times seen him express by what he called a smile, but any illuminated sign of milder or warmer feelings struck me as wholly new in his visage. It changed it as from a mask to a face. The deep lines left his features, the very complexion seemed clearer and fresher; that swart, sallow, southern darkness which spoke his Spanish blood became displaced by a lighter hue. I know not that I have ever seen in any other human face an equal metamorphosis from a similar cause. He now took me to the carriage. At the same moment M. de Bassompierre came out with his niece.
In a pretty humour was Mistress Fanshawe. She had found the evening a grand failure. Completely upset as to temper, she gave way to the most uncontrolled moroseness as soon as we were seated and the carriage door closed. Her invectives against Dr. Bretton had something venomous in them. Having found herself impotent either to charm or sting him, hatred was her only resource; and this hatred she expressed in terms so unmeasured and proportion so monstrous, that, after listening for a while with assumed stoicism, my outraged sense of justice at last and suddenly caught fire. An explosion ensued, for I could be passionate too, especially with my present fair but faulty associate, who never failed to