A capable journalist named Grégoire, a sickly, prematurely aged,
limping fellow, with alert wits, an Alsatian, who knew Danish and
regularly read Bille's _Daily Paper_, had in many ways taken me up
almost from the first day of my sojourn on French soil. This man
recommended me, on my expressing a wish to meet with a competent
teacher, to take instruction in the language from a young girl, a
friend of his sister, who was an orphan and lived with her aunt. She
was of good family, the daughter of a colonel and the granddaughter of
an admiral, but her own and her aunt's circumstances were narrow, and
she was anxious to give lessons.
When I objected that such lessons could hardly be really instructive, I
was told that she was not only in every way a nice but a very gifted
and painstaking young girl.
The first time I entered the house, as a future pupil, I found the
young lady, dressed in a plain black silk dress, surrounded by a circle
of toddlers of both sexes, for whom she had a sort of school, and whom
on my arrival she sent away. She had a pretty figure, a face that was
attractive without being beautiful, a large mouth with good teeth, and
dark brown hair. Her features were a little indefinite, her face rather
broad than oval, her eyes brown and affectionate. She had at any rate
the beauty that twenty years lends. We arranged for four lessons a
week, to begin with.
The first dragged considerably. My teacher was to correct any mistakes
in pronunciation and grammar that I made in conversation. But we could
not get up any proper conversation. She was evidently bored by the
lessons, which she had only undertaken for the sake of the fees. If I
began to tell her anything, she only half listened, and yawned with all
her might very often and very loudly, although she politely put her
hand in front of her large mouth. There only came a little animation
into her expression when I either pronounced as badly as I had been
taught by my French master at school, or made some particularly
ludicrous mistake, such as _c'est tout égal_ for _bien égal_. At other
times she was distracted, sleepy, her thoughts elsewhere.
After having tried vainly for a few times to interest the young lady by
my communications, I grew tired of the lessons. Moreover, they were of
very little advantage to me, for the simple reason that my youthful
teacher had not the very slightest scientific or even grammatical
knowledge of her own tongue, and consequently could never answer my
questions as to _why_ you had to pronounce in such and such a way, or
by virtue of what _rule_ you expressed yourself in such and such a
manner. I began to neglect my lessons, sometimes made an excuse, but
oftener remained away without offering any explanation.
On my arrival one afternoon, after having repeatedly stayed away, the
young lady met me with some temper, and asked the reason of my failures
to come, plainly enough irritated and alarmed at my indifference, which
after all was only the reflection of her own. I promised politely to be
more regular in future. To insure this, she involuntarily became more
attentive.
She yawned no more. I did not stay away again.
She began to take an interest herself in this eldest pupil of hers, who
at 24 years of age looked 20 and who was acquainted with all sorts of
things about conditions, countries, and people of which she knew
nothing.
She had been so strictly brought up that nearly all secular reading was
forbidden to her, and she had never been to any theatre, not even the
Théâtre Français. She had not read Victor Hugo, Lamartine, or Musset,
had not even dared to read _Paul et Virginie_, only knew expurgated
editions of Corneille, Racine and Molière. She was sincerely clerical,
had early been somewhat influenced by her cousin, later the well-known
Roman Catholic author, Ernest Hello, and in our conversations was
always ready to take the part of the Jesuits against Pascal; what the
latter had attacked were some antiquated and long-abandoned doctrinal
books; even if there were defects in the teaching of certain Catholic
ecclesiastics, their lives at any rate were exemplary, whereas the
contrary was the case with the free-thinking men of science; their
teaching was sometimes unassailable, but the lives they led could not
be taken seriously.
When we two young people got into a dispute, we gradually drew nearer
to one another. Our remarks contradicted each other, but an
understanding came about between our eyes. One day, as I was about to
leave, she called me back from the staircase, and, very timidly,
offered me an orange. The next time she blushed slightly when I came
in. She frequently sent me cards of admission to the Athénée, a
recently started institution, in which lectures were given by good
speakers. She began to look pleased at my coming and to express regret
at the thought of my departure.
On New Year's day, as a duty gift, I had sent her a bouquet of white
flowers, and the next day she had tears in her eyes as she thanked me:
"I ask you to believe that I highly appreciate your attention." From
that time forth she spoke more and more often of how empty it would be
for her when I was gone. I was not in love with her, but was too young
for her feelings, so unreservedly expressed, to leave me unaffected,
and likewise young enough to imagine that she expected me before long
to ask for her hand. So I soon informed her that I did not feel so
warmly towards her as she did towards me, and that I was not thinking
of binding myself for the present.
"Do you think me so poor an observer?" she replied, amazed. "I have
never made any claims upon you, even in my thoughts. But I owe you the
happiest month of my life."