[From _The Household of Bouverie_ (New York, 1860, v. ii)]
Another queer scene with little Paul, whose quaint ways divert and
mystify me all the time. During Mr. Bouverie's absence of a week, I
have nothing else to amuse me nor to write about. He has called me
familiarly "Camilla" until now; but fearing that Mr. Bouverie might
not like the appellation, or rather that it might make me appear too
childish in his sight, I said to him recently:
"Paul, you are a little fellow, and I am your guardian's wife. Don't
you think it would sound better if you were to add a handle to my
name, as common folks say? Call me 'Cousin Camilla' or 'Aunt Camilla,'
whichever you prefer; which shall it be, Quintil?"
"Neither," he replied, manfully, "for you are neither of those things
to me, and I do not like to tell stories; but I will call you 'madam,'
if you choose, as you are a 'madam;'" and something like a sneer
wreathed his childish lips.
"A foolish little madam, you think, Paul!" I rejoined, half in pique,
half in playfulness.
"Why that is the very name for you," he said, brightening with the
thought. "'Little Madam!' I will call you so; but I will not put in
the foolish," he added, gravely, "for, perhaps, you will change after
a while and grow wiser."
He spoke very seriously, sorrowfully almost, and I was quite provoked
for a moment to be set down in this fashion, by such a mere babe and
suckling. I was glad of the opportunity presented to me of snubbing
him by noticing a streak of molasses on his cheek.
"Go wash your face, Paul," I said, "it is dirty!"
He walked gravely to the glass and surveyed the stain. "Looking
glasses are useful things, after all," he said; "they tell the
truth--see 'Little Madam,' how you are mistaken! my face is not dirty,
only soiled; food is not dirt--if it were, we should all starve."
He turned and smiled at me in his peculiar way, half mocking, half
affectionate.
"Yet, as you bid me," he added, "I will wash it off; but isn't it a
pity to waste what would keep a bee alive a whole day!"
Is this brat a humorist?
He has brought out of his funny little trunk the oddest present for
me! It is a Medusa's head admirably carved in alabaster, and was
broken from the side of a vase by accident, and given to him by a
lady, at whose house he made a visit with Mr. Bouverie.
He considers it a priceless treasure. There is a vague horror to me in
the face that is almost insupportable. The snaky hair, the sightless,
glaring eyes, are so mysteriously dreadful. He says it will answer for
a paper weight. No, Paul, I will lay it away out of sight forever.