me, the
clashing door and clamorous bell hushed for the evening; when Madame
was safely settled in the salle-a-manger in company with her mother and
some friends; I then glided to the kitchen, begged a bougie for one
half-hour for a particular occasion, found acceptance of my petition at
the hands of my friend Goton, who answered, "Mais certainement,
chou-chou, vous en aurez deux, si vous voulez;" and, light in hand, I
mounted noiseless to the dormitory.

Great was my chagrin to find in that apartment a pupil gone to bed
indisposed,--greater when I recognised, amid the muslin nightcap
borders, the "figure chiffonnee" of Mistress Ginevra Fanshawe; supine
at this moment, it is true--but certain to wake and overwhelm me with
chatter when the interruption would be least acceptable: indeed, as I
watched her, a slight twinkling of the eyelids warned me that the
present appearance of repose might be but a ruse, assumed to cover sly
vigilance over "Timon's" movements; she was not to be trusted. And I
had so wished to be alone, just to read my precious letter in peace.

Well, I must go to the classes. Having sought and found my prize in its
casket, I descended. Ill-luck pursued me. The classes were undergoing
sweeping and purification by candle-light, according to hebdomadal
custom: benches were piled on desks, the air was dim with dust, damp
coffee-grounds (used by Labassecourien housemaids instead of
tea-leaves) darkened the floor; all was hopeless confusion. Baffled,
but not beaten, I withdrew, bent as resolutely as ever on finding
solitude _somewhere_.

Taking a key whereof I knew the repository, I mounted three staircases
in succession, reached a dark, narrow, silent landing, opened a
worm-eaten door, and dived into the deep, black, cold garret. Here none
would follow me--none interrupt--not Madame herself. I shut the
garret-door; I placed my light on a doddered and mouldy chest of
drawers; I put on a shawl, for the air was ice-cold; I took my letter;
trembling with sweet impatience, I broke its seal.

"Will it be long--will it be short?" thought I, passing my hand across
my eyes to dissipate the silvery dimness of a suave, south-wind shower.

It was long.

"Will it be cool?--will it be kind?"

It was kind.

To my checked, bridled, disciplined expectation, it seemed very kind:
to my longing and famished thought it seemed, perhaps, kinder than it
was.

So little had I hoped, so much had I feared; there was a fuln