s ces femmes la!"

She asked my name, my age; she sat and looked at me--not pityingly, not
with interest: never a gleam of sympathy, or a shade of compassion,
crossed her countenance during the interview. I felt she was not one to
be led an inch by her feelings: grave and considerate, she gazed,
consulting her judgment and studying my narrative. A bell rang.

"Voila pour la priere du soir!" said she, and rose. Through her
interpreter, she desired me to depart now, and come back on the morrow;
but this did not suit me: I could not bear to return to the perils of
darkness and the street. With energy, yet with a collected and
controlled manner, I said, addressing herself personally, and not the
maitresse: "Be assured, madame, that by instantly securing my services,
your interests will be served and not injured: you will find me one who
will wish to give, in her labour, a full equivalent for her wages; and
if you hire me, it will be better that I should stay here this night:
having no acquaintance in Villette, and not possessing the language of
the country, how can I secure a lodging?"

"It is true," said she; "but at least you can give a reference?"

"None."

She inquired after my luggage: I told her when it would arrive. She
mused. At that moment a man's step was heard in the vestibule, hastily
proceeding to the outer door. (I shall go on with this part of my tale
as if I had understood all that passed; for though it was then scarce
intelligible to me, I heard it translated afterwards).

"Who goes out now?" demanded Madame Beck, listening to the tread.

"M. Paul," replied the teacher. "He came this evening to give a reading
to the first class."

"The very man I should at this moment most wish to see. Call him."

The teacher ran to the salon door. M. Paul was summoned. He entered: a
small, dark and spare man, in spectacles.

"Mon cousin," began Madame, "I want your opinion. We know your skill in
physiognomy; use it now. Read that countenance."

The little man fixed on me his spectacles: A resolute compression of
the lips, and gathering of the brow, seemed to say that he meant to see
through me, and that a veil would be no veil for him.

"I read it," he pronounced.

"Et qu'en dites vous?"

"Mais--bien des choses," was the oracular answer.

"Bad or good?"

"Of each kind, without doubt," pursued the diviner.

"May one trust her word?"

"Are you negotiating a matter of importance?"

"She wishes me to en