one who had given such an instance of her dangerous prowess; it
was absolutely like the "grand Empereur smashing the vase to inspire
dismay." So, at last, crowning himself with his bonnet-grec, and taking
his ruined "lunettes" from my hand with a clasp of kind pardon and
encouragement, he made his bow, and went off to the Athenee in
first-rate humour and spirits.

* * * * *

After all this amiability, the reader will be sorry for my sake to hear
that I was quarrelling with M. Paul again before night; yet so it was,
and I could not help it.

It was his occasional custom--and a very laudable, acceptable custom,
too--to arrive of an evening, always a l'improviste, unannounced, burst
in on the silent hour of study, establish a sudden despotism over us
and our occupations, cause books to be put away, work-bags to be
brought out, and, drawing forth a single thick volume, or a handful of
pamphlets, substitute for the besotted "lecture pieuse," drawled by a
sleepy pupil, some tragedy made grand by grand reading, ardent by fiery
action--some drama, whereof, for my part, I rarely studied the
intrinsic merit; for M. Emanuel made it a vessel for an outpouring, and
filled it with his native verve and passion like a cup with a vital
brewage. Or else he would flash through our conventual darkness a
reflex of a brighter world, show us a glimpse of the current literature
of the day, read us passages from some enchanting tale, or the last
witty feuilleton which had awakened laughter in the saloons of Paris;
taking care always to expunge, with the severest hand, whether from
tragedy, melodrama, tale, or essay, whatever passage, phrase, or word,
could be deemed unsuited to an audience of "jeunes filles." I noticed
more than once, that where retrenchment without substitute would have
left unmeaning vacancy, or introduced weakness, he could, and did,
improvise whole paragraphs, no less vigorous than irreproachable; the
dialogue--the description--he engrafted was often far better than that
he pruned away.

Well, on the evening in question, we were sitting silent as nuns in a
"retreat," the pupils studying, the teachers working. I remember my
work; it was a slight matter of fancy, and it rather interested me; it
had a purpose; I was not doing it merely to kill time; I meant it when
finished as a gift; and the occasion of presentation being near, haste
was requisite, and my fingers were busy.

We heard the s