a delight inexpressible in tending M. Paul. I asked him whether his friends, Père Silas and Madame Beck, knew what he had done, whether they had seen my house?
“Mon amie,” said he, “none knows what I have done save you and myself; the pleasure is consecrated to us two, unshared and unprofaned. To speak truth, there has been to me in this matter a refinement of enjoyment I would not make vulgar by communication. Besides” (smiling), “I wanted to prove to Miss Lucy that I could keep a secret. How often has she taunted me with lack of dignified reserve and needful caution! How many times has she saucily insinuated that all my affairs are the secret of Polichinelle!”
This was true enough. I had not spared him on this point, nor perhaps on any other that was assailable. Magnificent-minded, grand-hearted, dear, faulty little man! You deserved candour, and from me always had it.
Continuing my queries, I asked to whom the house belonged, who was my landlord, the amount of my rent. He instantly gave me these particulars in writing; he had foreseen and prepared all things.
The house was not M. Paul’s—that I guessed; he was hardly the man to become a proprietor. I more than suspected in him a lamentable absence of the saving faculty. He could get, but not keep; he needed a treasurer. The tenement, then, belonged to a citizen in the Basse-Ville, a man of substance, M. Paul said. He startled me by adding, “A friend of yours, Miss Lucy—a person who has a most respectful regard for you.” And, to my pleasant surprise, I found the landlord was none other than M. Miret, the short-tempered and kindhearted bookseller, who had so kindly found me a seat that eventful night in the park. It seems M. Miret was in his station rich as well as much respected, and possessed several houses in the faubourg. The rent was moderate—scarce half of what it would have been for a house of equal size nearer the centre of Villette.
“And then,” observed M. Paul, “should Fortune not favour you, though I think she will, I have the satisfaction to think you are in good hands. M. Miret will not be extortionate. The first year’s rent you already have in your savings; afterwards Miss Lucy must trust God and herself. But now, what will you do for pupils?”
“I must distribute my prospectuses.”
“Right! By way of losing no time, I gave one to M. Miret yesterday. Should you object to beginning with three petites bourgeoises, the Demoiselles Miret? They are at your service.”
“Monsieur, you forget nothing; you are wonderful. Object? It would become me indeed to object! I suppose I hardly expect at the outset to number aristocrats in my little day-school; I care not if they never come. I shall be proud to receive M. Miret’s daughters.”
“Besides these,” pursued he, “another pupil offers, who will come daily to take lessons in English; and as she is rich, she will pay handsomely. I mean my god-daughter and ward, Justine Marie Sauveur.”
What is in a name?—what in three words? Till this moment I had listened with living joy, I had answered with gleeful quickness. A name froze me; three words struck me mute. The effect could not be hidden, and indeed I scarce tried to hide it.
“What now?” said M. Paul.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing! Your countenance changes; your colour and your very eyes fade. Nothing! You must be ill; you have some suffering. Tell me what?”
I had nothing to tell.