It was after this that she made me her confession of love, and of fear lest her father should be grieved.

“I wish papa knew!  I do wish papa knew!” began now to be her anxious murmur; but it was M. de Bassompierre who first broached the subject of his daughter’s affections, and it was to me that he introduced it.  She came into the room while we talked and Graham followed.

“Take her, John Bretton,” he said, “and may God deal with you as you deal with her!”

VI.—­A Professor’s Love-Story

The pupils from the schools of the city were assembled for the yearly prize distribution—­a ceremony followed by an oration from one of the professors.  I think I was glad when M. Paul appeared behind the crimson desk, fierce and frank, dark and candid, testy and fearless, for then I knew that neither formalism nor flattery would be the doom of the audience.

On Monsieur’s birthday it was the habit of the scholars to present him with flowers, and I had worked a beaded watch-chain, and enclosed it in a sparkling shell-box, with his initials graved on the lid.  He entered that day in a mood that made him as good as a sunbeam, and each pupil presented her bouquet, till he was hidden at his desk behind a pile of flowers.  I waited.  Then he demanded thrice, in tragic tones:  “Is that all?” The effect was ludicrous, and the time for my presentation had passed.  Thereupon he fell, with furious abuse, upon the English, and particularly English women.  But I presented the chain to him later, and that day closed for us both with a wordless content, so full was he of friendliness.

The professor’s care for me took curious forms.  He haunted my desk with unseen gift-bringing—­the newest books, the correction of exercises, the concealment of bonbons, of which he was fond.

One day he asked me whether, if I were his sister, I should always be content to stay with a brother such as he.  I said I believed I should.  He continued:  “If I were to go beyond seas for two or three years, should you welcome me on my return?”

“Monsieur, how could I live in the interval?” was my reply.

The explanation of that question soon came.  He had, it seemed, to sail to Basseterre, in Guadeloupe, to attend to a friend’s business interests.  For what I felt there was no help, and how could I help feeling?

Of late he had spent hours with me, with temper soothed, with eye content, with manner home-like and mild.  The mutual understanding was settling and fixing.  And when the time came for him to say good-bye, we rambled forth into the city.  He talked of his voyage.  What did I propose to do in his absence?  He did not like leaving me at Madame Beck’s—­I should be so desolate.

We were now returning from our walk, when, passing a small but pleasant and neat abode in a clean faubourg, he took a key from his pocket, opened, and entered. “Voici!” he cried, and put a prospectus in my hand.  “Externat de demoiselles.  Numero 7, Faubourg Clotilde.  Directrice, Mademoiselle Lucy Snowe.”