Contrary to all expectation, M. Paul arrived at the
study-hour. Having seen so much of him in the
morning, we did not look for his presence at night.
No sooner were we seated at lessons, however, than
he appeared. I own I was glad to see him, so
glad that I could not help greeting his arrival with
a smile; and when he made his way to the same seat
about which so serious a misunderstanding had formerly
arisen, I took good care not to make too much room
for him; he watched with a jealous, side-long look,
to see whether I shrank away, but I did not, though
the bench was a little crowded. I was losing the
early impulse to recoil from M. Paul. Habituated
to the paletot and bonnet-grec, the neighbourhood
of these garments seemed no longer uncomfortable or
very formidable. I did not now sit restrained,
“asphyxiee” (as he used to say) at his
side; I stirred when I wished to stir, coughed when
it was necessary, even yawned when I was tired—
did, in short, what I pleased, blindly reliant upon
his indulgence. Nor did my temerity, this evening
at least, meet the punishment it perhaps merited;
he was both indulgent and good-natured; not a cross
glance shot from his eyes, not a hasty word left his
lips. Till the very close of the evening, he
did not indeed address me at all, yet I felt, somehow,
that he was full of friendliness. Silence is of
different kinds, and breathes different meanings; no
words could inspire a pleasanter content than did
M. Paul’s worldless presence. When the
tray came in, and the bustle of supper commenced, he
just said, as he retired, that he wished me a good
night and sweet dreams; and a good night and sweet
dreams I had.
CHAPTER XXX.
M. PAUL.
Yet the reader is advised not to be in any hurry with
his kindly conclusions, or to suppose, with an over-hasty
charity, that from that day M. Paul became a changed
character—easy to live with, and no longer
apt to flash danger and discomfort round him.
No; he was naturally a little man of unreasonable
moods. When over-wrought, which he often was,
he became acutely irritable; and, besides, his veins
were dark with a livid belladonna tincture, the essence
of jealousy. I do not mean merely the tender jealousy
of the heart, but that sterner, narrower sentiment
whose seat is in the head.
I used to think, as I Sat looking at M. Paul, while
he was knitting his brow or protruding his lip over
some exercise of mine, which had not as many faults
as he wished (for he liked me to commit faults:
a knot of blunders was sweet to him as a cluster of
nuts), that he had points of resemblance to Napoleon
Bonaparte. I think so still.
In a shameless disregard of magnanimity, he resembled
the great Emperor. M. Paul would have quarrelled
with twenty learned women, would have unblushingly
carried on a system of petty bickering and recrimination
with a whole capital of coteries, never troubling
himself about loss or lack of dignity. He would
have exiled fifty Madame de Staels, if, they had annoyed,
offended, outrivalled, or opposed him.
