I HAD indeed had a very long talk with the crafty little politician, and
on regaining my quarters, I found that dinner was half over. To be late
at meals was against a standing rule of the establishment, and had it
been one of the Flemish ushers who thus entered after the removal of the
soup and the commencement of the first course, M. Pelet would probably
have greeted him with a public rebuke, and would certainly have mulcted
him both of soup and fish; as it was, that polite though partial
gentleman only shook his head, and as I took my place, unrolled my
napkin, and said my heretical grace to myself, he civilly despatched a
servant to the kitchen, to bring me a plate of “puree aux carottes”
(for this was a maigre-day), and before sending away the first course,
reserved for me a portion of the stock-fish of which it consisted.
Dinner being over, the boys rushed out for their evening play; Kint and
Vandam (the two ushers) of course followed them. Poor fellows! if they
had not looked so very heavy, so very soulless, so very indifferent to
all things in heaven above or in the earth beneath, I could have pitied
them greatly for the obligation they were under to trail after those
rough lads everywhere and at all times; even as it was, I felt disposed
to scout myself as a privileged prig when I turned to ascend to my
chamber, sure to find there, if not enjoyment, at least liberty; but
this evening (as had often happened before) I was to be still farther
distinguished.
“Eh bien, mauvais sujet!” said the voice of M. Pelet behind me, as I
set my foot on the first step of the stair, “ou allez-vous? Venez a la
salle-a-manger, que je vous gronde un peu.”
“I beg pardon, monsieur,” said I, as I followed him to his private
sitting-room, “for having returned so late--it was not my fault.”
“That is just what I want to know,” rejoined M. Pelet, as he ushered me
into the comfortable parlour with a good wood-fire--for the stove had
now been removed for the season. Having rung the bell he ordered “Coffee
for two,” and presently he and I were seated, almost in English comfort,
one on each side of the hearth, a little round table between us, with
a coffee-pot, a sugar-basin, and two large white china cups. While
M. Pelet employed himself in choosing a cigar from a box, my thoughts
reverted to the two outcast ushers, whose voices I could hear even now
crying hoarsely for order in the playground.
“C’est une grande responsabilite, que la surveillance,” observed I.
“Plait-il?” dit M. Pelet.
I remarked that I thought Messieurs Vandam and Kint must sometimes be a
little fatigued with their labours.
“Des betes de somme,--des betes de somme,” murmured scornfully the
director. Meantime I offered him his cup of coffee.
“Servez-vous mon garcon,” said he blandly, when I had put a couple of
huge lumps of continental sugar into his cup. “And now tell me why you
stayed so long at Mdlle. Reuter’s. I know that lessons conclude, in her
establishment as in mine, at four o’clock, and when you returned it was
past five.”
“Mdlle. wished to speak with me, monsieur.”
“Indeed! on what subject? if one may ask.”
“Mademoiselle talked about nothing, monsieur.”
“A fertile topic! and did she discourse thereon in the schoolroom,
before the pupils?”
“No; like you, monsieur, she asked me to walk into her parlour.”
“And Madame Reuter--the old duenna--my mother’s gossip, was there, of
course?”
“No, monsieur; I had the honour of being quite alone with mademoiselle.”
“C’est joli--cela,” observed M. Pelet, and he smiled and looked into the
fire.
“Honi soit qui mal y pense,” murmured I, significantly.
“Je connais un peu ma petite voisine--voyez-vous.”
“In that case, monsieur will be able to aid me in finding out what was
mademoiselle’s reason for making me sit before her sofa one mortal hour,
listening to the most copious and fluent dissertation on the merest
frivolities.”
“She was sounding your character.”
“I thought so, monsieur.”
“Did she find out your weak point?”
“What is my weak point?”
“Why, the sentimental. Any woman sinking her shaft deep enough, will
at last reach a fathomless spring of sensibility in thy breast,
Crimsworth.”
I felt the blood stir about my heart and rise warm to my cheek.
“Some women might, monsieur.”
“Is Mdlle. Reuter of the number? Come, speak frankly, mon fils; elle est
encore jeune, plus agee que toi peut-etre, mais juste assey pour unir
la tendresse d’une petite maman a l’amour d’une epouse devouee; n’est-ce
pas que cela t’irait superieurement?”
“No, monsieur; I should like my wife to be my wife, and not half my
mother.”
“She is then a little too old for you?”
“No, monsieur, not a day too old if she suited me in other things.”
“In what does she not suit you, William? She is personally agreeable, is
she not?”
“Very; her hair and complexion are just what I admire; and her turn of
form, though quite Belgian, is full of grace.”
“Bravo! and her face? her features? How do you like them?”
“A little harsh, especially her mouth.”
“Ah, yes! her mouth,” said M. Pelet, and he chuckled inwardly. “There is
character about her mouth--firmness--but she has a very pleasant smile;
don’t you think so?”
“Rather crafty.”
“True, but that expression of craft is owing to her eyebrows; have you
remarked her eyebrows?”
I answered that I had not.
“You have not seen her looking down then?” said he.
“No.”
“It is a treat, notwithstanding. Observe her when she has some knitting,
or some other woman’s work in hand, and sits the image of peace, calmly
intent on her needles and her silk, some discussion meantime going on
around her, in the course of which peculiarities of character are being
developed, or important interests canvassed; she takes no part in it;
her humble, feminine mind is wholly with her knitting; none of her
features move; she neither presumes to smile approval, nor frown
disapprobation; her little hands assiduously ply their unpretending
task; if she can only get this purse finished, or this bonnet-grec
completed, it is enough for her. If gentlemen approach her chair, a
deeper quiescence, a meeker modesty settles on her features, and clothes
her general mien; observe then her eyebrows, et dites-moi s’il n’y a pas
du chat dans l’un et du renard dans l’autre.”
“I will take careful notice the first opportunity,” said I.
“And then,” continued M. Pelet, “the eyelid will flicker, the
light-coloured lashes be lifted a second, and a blue eye, glancing out
from under the screen, will take its brief, sly, searching survey, and
retreat again.”
I smiled, and so did Pelet, and after a few minutes’ silence, I asked:
“Will she ever marry, do you think?”
“Marry! Will birds pair? Of course it is both her intention and
resolution to marry when she finds a suitable match, and no one is
better aware than herself of the sort of impression she is capable
of producing; no one likes better to captivate in a quiet way. I am
mistaken if she will not yet leave the print of her stealing steps on
thy heart, Crimsworth.”
“Of her steps? Confound it, no! My heart is not a plank to be walked
on.”
“But the soft touch of a patte de velours will do it no harm.”
“She offers me no patte de velours; she is all form and reserve with
me.”
“That to begin with; let respect be the foundation, affection the first
floor, love the superstructure; Mdlle. Reuter is a skilful architect.”
“And interest, M. Pelet--interest. Will not mademoiselle consider that
point?”
“Yes, yes, no doubt; it will be the cement between every stone. And now
we have discussed the directress, what of the pupils? N’y a-t-il pas de
belles etudes parmi ces jeunes tetes?”
“Studies of character? Yes; curious ones, at least, I imagine; but one
cannot divine much from a first interview.”
“Ah, you affect discretion; but tell me now, were you not a little
abashed before these blooming young creatures?”
“At first, yes; but I rallied and got through with all due sang-froid.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“It is true, notwithstanding. At first I thought them angels, but they
did not leave me long under that delusion; three of the eldest and
handsomest undertook the task of setting me right, and they managed
so cleverly that in five minutes I knew them, at least, for what they
were--three arrant coquettes.”
“Je les connais!” exclaimed M. Pelet. “Elles sont toujours au premier
rang a l’eglise et a la promenade; une blonde superbe, une jolie
espiegle, une belle brune.”
“Exactly.”
“Lovely creatures all of them--heads for artists; what a group they
would make, taken together! Eulalie (I know their names), with her
smooth braided hair and calm ivory brow. Hortense, with her rich chesnut
locks so luxuriantly knotted, plaited, twisted, as if she did not know
how to dispose of all their abundance, with her vermilion lips, damask
cheek, and roguish laughing eye. And Caroline de Blemont! Ah, there is
beauty! beauty in perfection. What a cloud of sable curls about the face
of a houri! What fascinating lips! What glorious black eyes! Your Byron
would have worshipped her, and you--you cold, frigid islander!--you
played the austere, the insensible in the presence of an Aphrodite so
exquisite?”
I might have laughed at the director’s enthusiasm had I believed
it real, but there was something in his tone which indicated got-up
raptures. I felt he was only affecting fervour in order to put me off my
guard, to induce me to come out in return, so I scarcely even smiled. He
went on:
“Confess, William, do not the mere good looks of Zoraide Reuter appear
dowdyish and commonplace compared with the splendid charms of some of
her pupils?”
The question discomposed me, but I now felt plainly that my principal
was endeavouring (for reasons best known to himself--at that time I
could not fathom them) to excite ideas and wishes in my mind alien to
what was right and honourable. The iniquity of the instigation proved
its antidote, and when he further added:--
“Each of those three beautiful girls will have a handsome fortune; and
with a little address, a gentlemanlike, intelligent young fellow like
you might make himself master of the hand, heart, and purse of any one
of the trio.”
I replied by a look and an interrogative “Monsieur?” which startled him.
He laughed a forced laugh, affirmed that he had only been joking, and
demanded whether I could possibly have thought him in earnest. Just then
the bell rang; the play-hour was over; it was an evening on which M.
Pelet was accustomed to read passages from the drama and the belles
lettres to his pupils. He did not wait for my answer, but rising, left
the room, humming as he went some gay strain of Beranger’s.