And this feeling grew stronger as the days went on, for Susan found that
Sophia Jane was always in disgrace about something; she was so
constantly having bad marks and losing farthings, that there seemed no
chance at all that she would ever save enough money to buy a new head
for the doll. This was partly her own fault, and partly because the
whole household seemed to take for granted that she would behave badly
and never do right; indeed there were days when, after she had been
scolded and punished very often, a spirit of obstinacy entered her small
frame, and her whole being was bent upon ill-behaviour and mischief.
Susan looked on in dismay, and counted up the farthings as one after the
other they were recklessly forfeited by some fresh piece of naughtiness.
"You've lost two week's money," she whispered in Sophia Jane's ear,
hoping to check her; but its only result was to urge her to wilder acts,
and the next minute she was detected in making a grimace at Margaretta,
whom she specially disliked. Sophia Jane was certainly not a pleasant
child, and it was not surprising that no one loved her.
"Look at Susan," they said to her constantly, "how well Susan behaves!
how upright Susan sits! how perfectly Susan says her lessons! how good
Susan is!"--but Sophia Jane took no heed, it did not improve her a bit,
but if possible made her worse to have this shining example held up for
her to copy. As to Susan, she now heard her own praises so often that
she began to think not only that Sophia Jane was very bad, but that she
herself must be uncommonly good. At home it had always been taken as a
matter of course that she would be quiet, obedient, and useful, and
learn her lessons properly; it had never been considered anything
remarkable. Here, however, she was continually called "clever," and
"good," and "dear little thing," when she did the most common things, so
that she soon began to hold her head higher and to look down upon Sophia
Jane with a very condescending air.
Meanwhile there was one thing she dreaded, and that was Monsieur La
Roche's French lesson in which she was to join; she had now been a week
at Ramsgate, and the day was approaching. Whenever he was mentioned
Margaretta had always some giggling joke to make, and Sophia Jane echoed
them. They imitated the way in which he spoke English, and the way in
which he bowed when he came into the room, and the way in which he
smiled and rubbed his hands; everything he did appeared to be laughable,
and though Susan had not found it so on the steamboat, she now began to
think that they must be right. Even Maria, she remembered, had called
him "a figure of fun." How she hoped that he would not say anything
about that journey! Her cheeks grew quite hot when she thought of how
she had told him her name, and where she lived, and all sorts of
confidential things. They would all laugh at her--it would be dreadful.
Now, to laugh at Monsieur might be pleasant, but to be laughed at
herself was, Susan felt, a very different matter.
So when the day came, and they were all sitting round the table with
their books ready for the class, she bent her head down as the French
master entered the room, in the faint hope that he would not notice her.
But that was of no use. Monsieur had hardly made his bow and taken his
seat before Aunt Hannah looked round from her arm-chair at the fireside.
"You have a new pupil to-day, Monsieur. My little niece, Miss Susan
Ingram."
His attention thus directed, Monsieur leaned forward, and a kindly smile
of recognition brightened his face as he saw Susan.
"Ah! c'est vrai," he said; "it is my leetle friend, Mees Susanne. We
know ourselves already; is it not so?"
The dreaded moment had come, and it was even more uncomfortable than she
had expected. Everyone was looking at her, and waiting for her to
answer, and she saw a mischievous glitter in Sophia Jane's eyes which
were fixed on her like two blue beads.
Aunt Hannah said, "Indeed, how is that?" and Monsieur still leant
towards her, stroking his short beard and wrinkling up his face with a
pleased smile. But Susan said nothing. She hung down her head, her
cheeks crimsoned, and she looked as guilty and ashamed as though she had
done something wrong; a very different little girl to the one who had
chatted with Monsieur on board the steamboat and shared his biscuit.
She was shy, he thought, as the English miss very often was; and, though
he did not understand the complaint, he was far too good-natured to
lengthen her discomfort. "Nevare mind," he said kindly, "we shall talk
together later." Turning to Aunt Hannah he explained as well as he
could in English how he and Susan had met on the journey, his pupils
listening open-mouthed meanwhile and giggling at his broken attempts to
make his meaning clear. Then to Susan's relief the lesson began, and
she was no longer the object of everyone's attention; but she was
surprised to find how very little trouble they took to learn anything.
Instead of this they seemed to try which could remember least and
pronounce the words worst. When Nanna and Margaretta read aloud they
made the same mistakes a dozen times in one page, pitched their voices
in a high sing-song drawl, and stopped now and then to laugh in a
smothered manner at some hidden joke. A little worried frown gathered
on their patient master's brow as this went on, but he never lost his
temper or failed to make his corrections with courtesy. Susan at first,
from force of habit, bent her attention on the page of French dialogue
which she and Sophia Jane had to learn; but too soon the bad example
round her had its effect. She began to return Sophia Jane's nudges, to
listen to her whispers, to look out of the window opposite, and to make
no sort of effort to learn her lesson. True, when the time came to say
it, she was a little ashamed of not knowing a word correctly, and was
sorry when Monsieur returned the book with a sad shake of the head. But
this feeling did not last; none of the others cared to please him, so
why should she? He was only Monsieur La Roche, the French master, the
"poor eggsile," as Sophia Jane had called him. It did not matter.
Encouraged by her companions Susan soon became as rude, as careless, and
as troublesome as they were. If Monsieur had had any hope that she
would prove a better pupil than the rest he was sadly mistaken. "Soyez
sage, Mademoiselle," he said to her pleadingly, but it was of no use.
Susan had forgotten for the time how to behave wisely. And it was the
same on every occasion: the French lesson was always a scene of
impertinence and ill-behaviour. There were moments when Susan, seeing
Monsieur look unusually tired and worn, had twinges of conscience and
almost resolved to be good. But she had been naughty so long now that
it was too late to turn back; they would laugh at her, and it would be
quite impossible to be good all alone. Sophia Jane had only to rub her
hands like Monsieur, and say in broken English: "Ah! it is my leetle
friend, Miss Susanne," to make Susan ashamed and give up all idea of
changing her conduct.
Now a complaint to Aunt Hannah would have altered all this at once; but,
unfortunately, Monsieur was far too good-natured to make one. Indeed,
as she always sat in the room during the French class, he may have
thought that she saw nothing wrong, and that these manners were usual in
England. The fact was, however, that Aunt Hannah knew very little
French, and concluded that as the girls were never troublesome at their
lessons with her it was the same thing with Monsieur. If she chanced to
hear the sound of a titter, it was at once checked when she glanced
round at the offender, and she would have been surprised, indeed, if she
had known of the sufferings the French master endured.
When she inquired about the progress made, his reply was always the
same: "Assez bien," which she considered quite satisfactory.
Time went on. Monsieur had given four lessons, Susan had written four
letters to Mother and had been four times to chapel with Aunt Hannah.
She had, therefore, now been four whole weeks at Ramsgate, and the days
seemed to go by quickly, instead of creeping along as they did at first.
And this was in a great measure owing to the companionship of Sophia
Jane, for, though Aunt Hannah was kind and Nanna and Margaretta
caressing, Susan's life would have been dull without someone to invent
games with her and play in the attic; and, although she thought herself
far superior to Sophia Jane, she knew this very well. When she wrote to
her mother she was able to say that she liked being at the sea-side very
much, but she always added: "We have not been on the sands yet." Now
this was a thing she longed to do, for Sophia Jane had told her of so
many delightful things to do and find there, that it seemed the most
desirable place on earth; besides, she wanted very much to begin a
collection of shells and sea-weed for Freddie. There was a card hanging
in her bed-room, on which pink and green sea-weeds were arranged in a
sort of bouquet, with some verses written underneath, each ending with
the line: "Call us not weeds, we are flowers of the sea." Susan thought
that very beautiful, and determined to try and make one just like it for
Mother. But the right day never seemed to come for the sands; it was
always too cold, or too windy, or Nanna and Margaretta wanted to go
somewhere else. Almost in despair, Susan made her usual request to Aunt
Hannah one morning: "May we go on the sands?" It was a Saturday, a
whole holiday, and the day was sunny and mild.
"On the sands, my dear?" said her Aunt. "I am too busy to go, but I
daresay the girls will take you."
But as usual, Nanna and Margaretta had widely different plans for
spending their Saturday, and neither of them wished to go on the sands.
Nanna had a hat to trim, and Margaretta was to visit some friends. Aunt
Hannah saw Susan's disappointment.
"Well," she said, "we will manage it in this way. I will spare Buskin
to go with you and Sophia Jane as far as the little cove near the pier;
there she shall leave you to play for an hour and then fetch you again.
You must both promise me, however, not to stray further away, not to get
wet, not to lose sight of the pier, and to come back with Buskin
directly you see her. Can I trust you?"
They both promised eagerly, much excited at the thought of such an
expedition, and above all at the idea of being left alone for a whole
hour. During the morning they watched the weather anxiously and made
many plans.
"I shall take Grace," said Susan, "and my little basket. What shall
_you_ take?"
Poor Sophia Jane had not many possessions to choose from.
"I shall take my skipping-rope," she said.
Thus provided, they set forth at three o'clock with the grave Buskin in
attendance. Susan jumped, and laughed, and chattered with pleasure, she
was so glad to think that she was going on the sands at last, and Sophia
Jane, though she never showed high spirits in the same manner, was in a
cheerful and agreeable mood.
Soon they came to the little cove. The sea was as she had expressed it,
very far out indeed, and had left the great black rocks wet and shining,
all ready to be played on. Between them there were deep quiet pools, so
clear that you could see down to the very bottom, and watch all sorts of
cunning live things, which darted, or or lay motionless in them;
shrimps, tiny pale crabs, pink star-fishes, and strange horny shells
clinging so tightly to the rock that no small fingers could stir them.
Some of the rocks were bare, and others covered with masses of dark
sea-weed which made a popping noise when it was trodden on, like the
sound of little pistols. Here and there were spaces of sand, so white
and firm that it made you long to draw pictures on it, or at least to
write your name there. Could there, altogether, be a better playground
than this on a sunny day? Sophia Jane had been quite right; it was a
lovely place!
It offered so many attractions, and was so new to Susan, that she did
not know where to begin first, but stood still uttering exclamations of
delight and wonder. Sophia Jane, however, had made the best of her time
already. As soon as Buskin disappeared, she at once removed her shoes
and stockings, and now stood bare-legged in the middle of a deepish pool
poking out crabs from under a ledge of rock.
"You'd better begin to collect things," she called out to Susan, "or
you'll waste all your time."
Susan felt that this was true, but the difficulty now was what to put
into the basket, and what to leave out; there were so many lovely things
she wanted to keep, and yet it would not hold them all She wandered from
rock to rock finding something fresh and curious every minute, and
calling out to Sophia Jane to ask what it was. Sometimes she knew,
sometimes she did not, but she always gave some sort of name to it which
satisfied her companion. So the time went by, and Susan's little basket
had been full and empty over and over again, but she had at last firmly
determined to keep the treasures that were now in it, and not to be
tempted to change them for anything new; she sat down on a comfortable
flat rock, and spread them all out beside her to examine them. At a
short distance was the witch-like form of Sophia Jane, bent nearly
double in her efforts to peer into the dwelling-place of some
sea-creature amongst the rocky crevices; she was very successful in
these sharp-eyed inquiries, a match even for the little scurrying crabs,
whose only chance of escape was to bury themselves hurriedly deep in the
wet sand. All at once she gave a short shriek of surprise and rapture
which was evidently wrung from her by some startling discovery. Susan
hastened to join her, tumbling over the slippery rocks, and leaving all
her possessions behind. It was indeed a very strange and a very
beautiful thing that Sophia had found sticking on to the ledge of a
rock. Something like a jelly, something like a flower, with crimson
petals which stirred faintly about as if moved by the wind.
"Oh, _what_ is it?" said Susan in great excitement, "is it a sea-weed?"
"Of _course_ not," answered Sophia Jane. "I've found 'em before, often.
It's a `Seen Enemy.'"
"I've heard of a _flower_ with a name something like that," said Susan.
"That's a `Wooden Enemy,'" replied Sophia Jane with scorn; "this isn't a
plant, it's an animal."
"Is it alive, then?" asked Susan.
"I should just think it is! It can eat like anything."
"What does it eat?"
"Little tiny crabs and shrimps. Now, I'm going to drop a pebble into
it, and you'll see it will think it's something to eat, and shut its
mouth. Look!"
Susan thought it rather cruel to deceive the Enemy in this manner, but
she could not help watching curiously to see what it would do, as Sophia
Jane popped a little stone into the midst of its soft waving petals. It
happened just as she had said. The Enemy tucked them all in, and
suddenly became nothing but a mould of smooth red jelly.
The two little girls bent over this new discovery for some time with the
keenest interest, but by and by there arose a dispute, for one wished to
tear it from its resting-place and carry it home, and the other to leave
it where it was. Sophia Jane declared that it was her Enemy because she
had found it, and she should do as she liked, and Susan begged her with
tears not to disturb it. When these were of no use she became angry,
and called Sophia cruel and naughty; but for that Sophia Jane did not
care one whit. She only repeated doggedly, "I shall take it home, and
keep it in a basin of salt water."
"Then it will die," said Susan hotly, "and you're very cruel and
wicked."
Sophia Jane did not answer. She was gazing fixedly over Susan's
shoulder at the spot where the basket and collection had been left.
"Ha! ha!" she suddenly exclaimed triumphantly, pointing to it.
Susan looked quickly round. Alas! while her back was turned the
deceitful sea had crawled quietly up and taken possession of her
treasures. The flat rock was covered by the waves, and the basket was
bobbing lightly up and down on the water.
With a cry of vexation she scrambled over the rocks towards it; at least
she would try and save the basket, though the other things were lost; it
was one Mother had given her, and she was very fond of it. But no, she
could not reach it. Sometimes the waves brought it back almost to her
feet, but before she could seize it, it sailed merrily away further than
ever. After many vain efforts she stood looking hopelessly at it much
cast down and disappointed. Not only had she lost her collection, the
labours of nearly an hour, but now even if she made another she had
nothing to carry it home in. Sophia Jane, who had watched her failures
with chuckles of delight, now came and stood by her with her
skipping-rope in her hand.
"I can get it," she said.
Susan looked round in surprise; this was kind of Sophia Jane after she
had said so many cross things to her.
"If I get it," she went on, tying a sort of noose at the end of the
rope, "will you give it me for my own?"
Susan hesitated. She did not want to lose the basket, and yet it would
be almost the same thing to give it to Sophia Jane. Meanwhile it came
again nearly within reach of her outstretched fingers, just escaped
them, and was borne away by the waves. Sophia Jane stood waiting her
answer.
"You may have it," said Susan, for she could not bear to see the basket
lost for ever.
Then Sophia Jane watched her opportunity, cast the rope over it just at
the right instant, caught it in the noose, and drew it safely on to the
rock.
"Now it's mine!" she cried exultingly, holding up her dripping prize,
"and I shall take the enemy home in it."
What an unpleasant little girl Sophia Jane was! Susan felt at that
moment that she almost hated her; she was selfish, and mean, and cruel
and unkind, and deserved all the scoldings she had from everyone. She
could not bear to be near her just now; she would go as far from her as
she possibly could. Leaving her, therefore, crouched on the rock near
her prey, Susan turned her back upon her and started off by herself in
another direction, and in doing this she also turned her back upon the
pier. She was so injured in her mind, however, and so occupied with
hard thoughts about Sophia Jane, that she could not notice this or
anything else for some time. On she went, jumping from rock to rock
with Grace tucked under one arm, pausing now and then to look at some
strange and beautiful thing which lay in her path; how she wished for
her basket, that she might pick some of them up! But at least she could
take a few in her pocket, though it was inconveniently small. Soon it
was heavy with damp stones, sea-weed, and shells, then she lifted the
skirt of her frock in front and filled that, and all this while she was
going further from Sophia Jane, further from the pier, further from the
little cove, where they had promised to wait for Buskin. She never once
looked back, however, for there were always lovely things still further
in the distance that she must get. When she was close to these lovely
things they sometimes turned out to be quite common and not worth
picking up; but there was sure to be something more tempting just a
little way beyond. So she went on and on, and would have gone much
further but her progress was suddenly checked in a very disagreeable
manner; for, springing too heedlessly on to a slippery rock, and
overbalanced by her burden, she fell straightway into a large shallow
pool of water. It was such a sudden shock that all her treasures were
scattered far and wide, and poor Grace was thrown out of her arms to
some distance where she lay flat on her face. Confused and startled,
Susan's first thought was that she should be drowned, and she cried out
for help; but, having winked the water out of her eyes, she at once saw
that it was quite a shallow pool, scrambled quickly out and stood on the
rock. Then she looked down at herself with dismay; for, though there
was not enough water to drown her, it had wetted her from top to toe,
and she was a forlorn object indeed--her clothes hung to her dripping,
her straw-hat floated in the pool, and she had cut her chin in falling
against a sharp stone. The only thing to be done now was to get back to
Sophia Jane as fast as possible, and she also remembered for the first
time that Buskin must be waiting; so, shivering a good deal and feeling
very wretched, she fished out her hat, picked up Grace who was the only
dry piece of property she now possessed, and prepared to return. But
lo! when she looked round, the whole place seemed to have changed!
There was no Sophia Jane to be seen, no pier, nothing but high white
cliffs, and rocks, and sea. Sophia Jane must be hiding, and Susan felt
too miserable now to stand on her dignity, so she called her as loud as
she could, several times.
No answer. No one to be seen. And where was the pier? How could that
have gone away? Confused, and still giddy with her tumble, Susan hardly
knew what she was doing, but her one idea was that she must find the
pier, and if it was not in this direction it must be in the other. So
she turned again, and went on _the wrong way_. Now, it was only hidden
from her by the projecting cliffs which formed the little bay into which
she had wandered, and at that very minute Buskin and Sophia Jane were
not really far away. But they could not see or hear her, and now she
was going further from them as quickly as she could.
Not very quickly, because it was so difficult to get on, with her wet
clothes clinging so heavily; even her boots were full of water and made
queer gurgling noises at every step, and her hair hung limp and draggled
over her shoulders. Susan had never been so uncomfortable. The cut on
her chin hurt a good deal too, for the salt water got into it and made
it smart; when she drew her handkerchief out of her pocket, it was only
a little damp rag, and no use at all; everything was salt watery except
Grace, who was dry and clean, and had only suffered a dinge on her nose
by her fall. Susan envied her neat appearance; she was a dignified
little girl, and could not bear to look odd or ridiculous, so at first
she hoped she should meet no one before she got to Buskin and Sophia
Jane. The latter would certainly laugh at her; but, after all, the
accident had been her fault, for if she had not been so ill-behaved
about the Enemy and the basket, it would not have happened.
Stumbling on, with these things in her mind, she expected every moment
to see the pier, but there were still only rocks and cliffs and sea.
The waves came rolling in, each one a tiny bit further than the last,
and one splashed suddenly so near her, that it covered her with spray.
She started back to avoid it; but "after all," she thought the next
minute, "it couldn't make me wetter than I am." On, on, on, and now
every step began to be more and more painful, for the sand was so wet
that she had to walk on the rough stony beach close to the foot of the
cliffs. Poor Susan! she felt very tired and desolate; her feet ached,
and her arms ached, and her head ached, she would have been thankful to
meet people now, even though they might laugh at her. Worst of all, the
thought suddenly darted into her mind that she had lost the way; she
stood still and looked vainly round for some familiar object, something
to guide her--there was nothing. As far as she could see, it was all
the same--tall white cliffs, yellow sand, and tossing waves. The only
living creature besides herself was a beautiful grey and white bird with
long wings which flew skimming about over the water, and sometimes
dipped down into it. As Susan watched it, she remembered where she had
seen birds of that kind before, and who had told her that they were
called sea-gulls; the steamboat, and Monsieur La Roche's kind voice came
back to her. How good he had been, and how badly she had repaid him
since; she had indeed been ungrateful and naughty to laugh at him. How
thankful she would be to see him now, and to hear him say, "My leetle
friend, Mees Susanne!" But there was no chance of that; Monsieur had
helped her once in trouble, but he could not come down from the skies to
her assistance, and there was no one in sight on land or sea. Suddenly
she felt too tired and aching and miserable to struggle on any further,
and sinking down on the hard beach like a little damp heap of clothes,
she hugged Grace up to her breast and hid her face against her. She sat
in this way for some minutes, hearing nothing but the breaking of the
waves on the shore and the rattle of the pebbles, when suddenly another
noise caught her ear--the regular tramp, tramp of a footstep crushing
down on the hard loose stones. She looked up; was it a dream? Not
three yards from her was the tall figure of the man she had been
thinking of--the French master! Yes, it really was he! There were his
threadbare greenish coat and his tightly-strapped trousers, there was
his kind face with its high cheek-bones and short-pointed beard. Had he
indeed come down from the skies? There seemed no other way, for Susan
did not know till afterwards that there were some steps cut zigzag down
the cliff just behind her. But wherever he had come from he was
undoubtedly there, real flesh and blood, and she was no longer alone
with the dreadful roaring sea. It was such a joyful relief that it gave
her new strength; she forgot her bedraggled and woebegone state, and
starting up began to try and explain how she had lost herself. Greatly
to her own surprise, however, something suddenly choked in her throat,
and she was obliged to burst into tears in the middle of her story.
Monsieur looked at the little sobbing figure with much compassion in his
face and some dismay, then he touched her frock gently:
"Ciel! how you are wet!" he exclaimed; "and cold too, without doubt, my
poor leetle friend." He fingered the top button of his coat doubtfully,
as though wishing to take it off and wrap her in it; but although it was
a great-coat there was no other underneath it, and he changed his mind
with a little shake of the head.
"Come, then," he said, taking her small cold hand in his, "we will go
home together. You are now quite safe, and soon we shall be there. Do
not then cry any more."
Susan did her best to stop her tears, and limped along the beach by his
side, clinging tightly on to his hand; but she was tired and worn out,
and her wet boots were so stiff and pressed so painfully upon her feet,
that at last she stumbled and nearly fell. Monsieur looked down at her
with concern.
"Ah!" he said, "the road is rough, and the feet are very small. Voyons!
An idea comes to me! Instead of going to Madame your aunt, which is so
far, we will go to the house of my sister; it is scarcely ten minutes
from here. There I leave you, and go to assure Madame of your safety."
If Susan had not been so worn out with fatigue she would have objected
strongly to this plan of Monsieur's, for his sister was a perfect
stranger to her, and she would much rather have gone home to Aunt
Hannah. But, feeling no strength or spirit left to resist anything, she
nodded her head silently and suffered him to lift her gently in his arms
and carry her up the steps cut in the cliff. How odd it all was!
Confused thoughts passed quickly through her mind as she clung fast to
the collar of the greenish coat. How kind Monsieur was! how many steps
there were, and how very steep! how heavy she was for him to carry, and
how he panted as he toiled slowly up! finally, how her dripping clothes
pressed against his neatly-brushed garments and made discoloured patches
on them. Would the steps never end? But at last, to her great relief,
they were at the top, and Monsieur was once more striding along on level
ground, uttering from time to time little sentences in broken English
for her encouragement and comfort. They were now in a part of Ramsgate
that she did not know at all, quite out of the town, and away from all
the tall terraces that faced the sea. The houses were mean and poor,
and the streets narrow; now and then came a dingy shop, and in almost
every window there was a card with "Apartments" on it. At one of these
Monsieur stopped and rang the bell. The door was opened at once, as if
someone had been waiting to do so, and a brown-faced, black-eyed lady
appeared, who talked very fast in French, and held up her hands at the
sight of Monsieur's damp burden. He answered in the same language,
calling the lady Delphine, who, chattering all the time, led them
down-stairs to a room where there was a good fire burning. Susan
wondered to herself why Monsieur and his sister sat in the kitchen, for
she saw pots and pans and dishes, all very bright and clean, at one end
of the room. The floor was covered with oil-cloth; but by the fire, on
which a saucepan hissed and bubbled gently, was spread a bright crimson
rug, which made a little spot of comfort. On it there stood a small
table neatly laid with preparations for a meal, and a pair of
large-sized carpet slippers, carefully tilted so that they might catch
the full warmth of the blaze. Sharing this place of honour a fluffy
grey cat sat gravely blinking, with its tail curled round its toes.
Opposite the table were a rocking-chair and a work-basket, and Susan
noticed that someone had been darning a large brown sock.
While she looked at these things from the arm-chair where Monsieur had
placed her on his entrance, she also watched the eager face of Delphine
who had not ceased to exclaim, to ask questions, to clasp her hands, and
otherwise to express great interest and surprise. But it was all in
French, as were also Monsieur's patient replies and explanations. Susan
could not understand what they said, but she could make out a good deal
by Delphine's signs and gestures. It was easy to see that she wished to
persuade her brother not to go out again, for when he took up his hat
she tried to take it away, and pointed to the bubbling saucepan and warm
slippers. Monsieur, however, cast a gently regretful glance at them,
shook his head, and presently succeeded in freeing himself from her
eager grasp; then, when his steps had ceased to sound upon the stairs,
she shrugged her shoulders and said half aloud:
"Certainly it is my brother Adolphe, who has the temper of an angel, and
the obstinacy of a pig!"