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‘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 poignée 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 worst 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?’io 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 Père 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. Père 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,