He eyed me closely; he half-smiled, half-coloured. "Where did you pick up all that? Who told you?" he asked.
"Nobody told me. Did I dream it, Monsieur, do you think?"
"Can I enter into your visions? Can I guess a woman's waking thoughts, much less her sleeping fantasies?"
"If I dreamt it, I saw in my dream human beings as well as a house. I saw a priest, old, bent, and grey, and a domestic-old, too, and picturesque; and a lady, splendid but strange; her head would scarce reach to my elbow-her magnificence might ransom a duke. She wore a gown bright as lapis-lazuli-a shawl worth a thousand francs: she was decked with ornaments so brilliant, I never saw any with such a beautiful sparkle; but her figure looked as if it had been broken in two and bent double; she seemed also to have outlived the common years of humanity, and to have attained those which are only labour and sorrow. She was become morose-almost malevolent; yet somebody, it appears, cared for her in her infirmities-somebody forgave her trespasses, hoping to have his trespasses forgiven. They lived together, these three people-the mistress, the chaplain, the servant-all old, all feeble, all sheltered under one kind wing."
He covered with his hand the upper part of his face, but did not conceal his mouth, where I saw hovering an expression I liked.
"I see you have entered into my secrets," said he, "but how was it done?"
So I told him how-the commission on which I had been sent, the storm which had detained me, the abruptness of the lady, the kindness of the priest.
"As I sat waiting for the rain to cease, Pere Silas whiled away the time with a story," I said.
"A story! What story? Pere Silas is no romancist."
"Shall I tell Monsieur the tale?"
"Yes: begin at the beginning. Let me hear some of Miss Lucy's French-her best or her worst-I don't much care which: let us have a good poignee of barbarisms, and a bounteous dose of the insular accent."
"Monsieur is not going to be gratified by a tale of ambitious proportions, and the spectacle of the narrator sticking fast in the midst. But I will tell him the title-the 'Priest's Pupil.'"
"Bah!" said he, the swarthy flush again dyeing his dark cheek. "The good old father could not have chosen a worse subject; it is his weak point. But what of the 'Priest's Pupil?'"
"Oh! many things."
"You may as well define what things. I mean to know."
"There was the pupil's youth, the pupil's manhood;-his avarice, his ingratitude, his implacability, his inconstancy. Such a bad pupil, Monsieur!-so thankless, cold-hearted, unchivalrous, unforgiving!
"Et puis?" said he, taking a cigar.
"Et puis," I pursued, "he underwent calamities which one did not pity-bore them in a spirit one did not admire-endured wrongs for which one felt no sympathy; finally took the unchristian revenge of heaping coals of fire on his adversary's head."
"You have not told me all," said he.
"Nearly all, I think: I have indicated the heads of Pere Silas's chapters."
"You have forgotten one-that which touched on the pupil's lack of affection-on his hard, cold, monkish heart."
"True; I remember now. Pere Silas did say that his vocation was almost that of a priest-that his life was considered consecrated."
"By what bonds or duties?"
"By the ties of the past and the charities of the present."
"You have, then, the whole situation?"
"I have now told Monsieur all that was told me."
Some meditative minutes passed.
"Now, Mademoiselle Lucy, look at me, and with that truth which I believe you never knowingly violate, answer me one question. Raise your eyes; rest them on mine; have no hesitation; fear not to trust me-I am a man to be trusted."
I raised my eyes.
"Knowing me thoroughly now-all my antecedents, all my responsibilities-having long known my faults, can you and I still be friends?"
"If Monsieur wants a friend in me, I shall be glad to have a friend in him."
"But a close friend I mean-intimate and real-kindred in all but blood. Will Miss Lucy be the sister of a very poor, fettered, burdened, encumbered man?"
I could not answer him in words, yet I suppose I did answer him; he took my hand, which found comfort, in the shelter of his. His friendship was not a doubtful, wavering benefit-a cold, distant hope-a sentiment so brittle as not to bear the weight of a finger: I at once felt (or thought I felt) its support like that of some rock.
"When I talk of friendship, I mean true friendship," he repeated emphatically; and I could hardly believe that words so earnest had blessed my ear; I hardly could credit the reality of that kind, anxious look he gave. If he really wished for my confidence and regard, and really would give me his-why, it seemed to me that life could offer nothing more or better. In that case, I was become strong and rich: in a moment I was made substantially happy. To ascertain the fact, to fix and seal it, I asked-
"Is Monsieur quite serious? Does he really think he needs me, and can take an interest in me as a sister?"
"Surely, surely," said he; "a lonely man like me, who has no sister, must be but too glad to find in some woman's heart a sister's pure affection."
"And dare I rely on Monsieur's regard? Dare I speak to him when I am so inclined?"
"My little sister must make her own experiments," said he; "I will give no promises. She must tease and try her wayward brother till she has drilled him into what she wishes. After all, he is no inductile material in some hands."
While he spoke, the tone of his voice, the light of his now affectionate eye, gave me such a pleasure as, certainly, I had never felt. I envied no girl her lover, no bride her bridegroom, no wife her husband; I was content with this my voluntary, self-offering friend. If he would but prove reliable, and he looked reliable, what, beyond his friendship, could I ever covet? But, if all melted like a dream, as once before had happened-?
"Qu'est-ce donc? What is it?" said he, as this thought threw its weight on my heart, its shadow on my countenance. I told him; and after a moment's pause, and a thoughtful smile, he showed me how an equal fear-lest I should weary of him, a man of moods so difficult and fitful-had haunted his mind for more than one day, or one month.
On hearing this, a quiet courage cheered me. I ventured a word of re-assurance. That word was not only tolerated; its repetition was courted. I grew quite happy-strangely happy-in making him secure, content, tranquil. Yesterday, I could not have believed that earth held, or life afforded, moments like the few I was now passing. Countless times it had been my lot to watch apprehended sorrow close darkly in; but to see unhoped-for happiness take form, find place, and grow more real as the seconds sped, was indeed a new experience.
"Lucy," said M. Paul, speaking low, and still holding my hand, "did you see a picture in the boudoir of the old house?"
"I did; a picture painted on a panel."
"The portrait of a nun?"
"Yes."
"You heard her history?"
"Yes."
"You remember what we saw that night in the berceau?"
"I shall never forget it."
"You did not connect the two ideas; that would be folly?"