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<h2> CHAPTER XIV. </h2>
<p>IF I was punctual in quitting Mdlle. Reuter's domicile, I was at least
equally punctual in arriving there; I came the next day at five minutes
before two, and on reaching the schoolroom door, before I opened it, I
heard a rapid, gabbling sound, which warned me that the "priere du midi"
was not yet concluded. I waited the termination thereof; it would have
been impious to intrude my heretical presence during its progress. How the
repeater of the prayer did cackle and splutter! I never before or since
heard language enounced with such steam-engine haste. "Notre Pere qui etes
au ciel" went off like a shot; then followed an address to Marie "vierge
celeste, reine des anges, maison d'or, tour d'ivoire!" and then an
invocation to the saint of the day; and then down they all sat, and the
solemn (?) rite was over; and I entered, flinging the door wide and
striding in fast, as it was my wont to do now; for I had found that in
entering with aplomb, and mounting the estrade with emphasis, consisted
the grand secret of ensuring immediate silence. The folding-doors between
the two classes, opened for the prayer, were instantly closed; a
maitresse, work-box in hand, took her seat at her appropriate desk; the
pupils sat still with their pens and books before them; my three beauties
in the van, now well humbled by a demeanour of consistent coolness, sat
erect with their hands folded quietly on their knees; they had given up
giggling and whispering to each other, and no longer ventured to utter
pert speeches in my presence; they now only talked to me occasionally with
their eyes, by means of which organs they could still, however, say very
audacious and coquettish things. Had affection, goodness, modesty, real
talent, ever employed those bright orbs as interpreters, I do not think I
could have refrained from giving a kind and encouraging, perhaps an ardent
reply now and then; but as it was, I found pleasure in answering the
glance of vanity with the gaze of stoicism. Youthful, fair, brilliant, as
were many of my pupils, I can truly say that in me they never saw any
other bearing than such as an austere, though just guardian, might have
observed towards them. If any doubt the accuracy of this assertion, as
inferring more conscientious self-denial or Scipio-like self-control than
they feel disposed to give me credit for, let them take into consideration
the following circumstances, which, while detracting from my merit,
justify my veracity.</p>
<p>Know, O incredulous reader! that a master stands in a somewhat different
relation towards a pretty, light-headed, probably ignorant girl, to that
occupied by a partner at a ball, or a gallant on the promenade. A
professor does not meet his pupil to see her dressed in satin and muslin,
with hair perfumed and curled, neck scarcely shaded by aerial lace, round
white arms circled with bracelets, feet dressed for the gliding dance. It
is not his business to whirl her through the waltz, to feed her with
compliments, to heighten her beauty by the flush of gratified vanity.
Neither does he encounter her on the smooth-rolled, tree shaded Boulevard,
in the green and sunny park, whither she repairs clad in her becoming
walking dress, her scarf thrown with grace over her shoulders, her little
bonnet scarcely screening her curls, the red rose under its brim adding a
new tint to the softer rose on her cheek; her face and eyes, too,
illumined with smiles, perhaps as transient as the sunshine of the
gala-day, but also quite as brilliant; it is not his office to walk by her
side, to listen to her lively chat, to carry her parasol, scarcely larger
than a broad green leaf, to lead in a ribbon her Blenheim spaniel or
Italian greyhound. No: he finds her in the schoolroom, plainly dressed,
with books before her. Owing to her education or her nature books are to
her a nuisance, and she opens them with aversion, yet her teacher must
instil into her mind the contents of these books; that mind resists the
admission of grave information, it recoils, it grows restive, sullen
tempers are shown, disfiguring frowns spoil the symmetry of the face,
sometimes coarse gestures banish grace from the deportment, while muttered
expressions, redolent of native and ineradicable vulgarity, desecrate the
sweetness of the voice. Where the temperament is serene though the
intellect be sluggish, an unconquerable dullness opposes every effort to
instruct. Where there is cunning but not energy, dissimulation, falsehood,
a thousand schemes and tricks are put in play to evade the necessity of
application; in short, to the tutor, female youth, female charms are like
tapestry hangings, of which the wrong side is continually turned towards
him; and even when he sees the smooth, neat external surface he so well
knows what knots, long stitches, and jagged ends are behind that he has
scarce a temptation to admire too fondly the seemly forms and bright
colours exposed to general view.</p>
<p>Our likings are regulated by our circumstances. The artist prefers a hilly
country because it is picturesque; the engineer a flat one because it is
convenient; the man of pleasure likes what he calls "a fine woman"—she
suits him; the fashionable young gentleman admires the fashionable young
lady—she is of his kind; the toil-worn, fagged, probably irritable
tutor, blind almost to beauty, insensible to airs and graces, glories
chiefly in certain mental qualities: application, love of knowledge,
natural capacity, docility, truthfulness, gratefulness, are the charms
that attract his notice and win his regard. These he seeks, but seldom
meets; these, if by chance he finds, he would fain retain for ever, and
when separation deprives him of them he feels as if some ruthless hand had
snatched from him his only ewe-lamb. Such being the case, and the case it
is, my readers will agree with me that there was nothing either very
meritorious or very marvellous in the integrity and moderation of my
conduct at Mdlle. Reuter's pensionnat de demoiselles.</p>
<p>My first business this afternoon consisted in reading the list of places
for the month, determined by the relative correctness of the compositions
given the preceding day. The list was headed, as usual, by the name of
Sylvie, that plain, quiet little girl I have described before as being at
once the best and ugliest pupil in the establishment; the second place had
fallen to the lot of a certain Leonie Ledru, a diminutive, sharp-featured,
and parchment-skinned creature of quick wits, frail conscience, and
indurated feelings; a lawyer-like thing, of whom I used to say that, had
she been a boy, she would have made a model of an unprincipled, clever
attorney. Then came Eulalie, the proud beauty, the Juno of the school,
whom six long years of drilling in the simple grammar of the English
language had compelled, despite the stiff phlegm of her intellect, to
acquire a mechanical acquaintance with most of its rules. No smile, no
trace of pleasure or satisfaction appeared in Sylvie's nun-like and
passive face as she heard her name read first. I always felt saddened by
the sight of that poor girl's absolute quiescence on all occasions, and it
was my custom to look at her, to address her, as seldom as possible; her
extreme docility, her assiduous perseverance, would have recommended her
warmly to my good opinion; her modesty, her intelligence, would have
induced me to feel most kindly—most affectionately towards her,
notwithstanding the almost ghastly plainness of her features, the
disproportion of her form, the corpse-like lack of animation in her
countenance, had I not been aware that every friendly word, every kindly
action, would be reported by her to her confessor, and by him
misinterpreted and poisoned. Once I laid my hand on her head, in token of
approbation; I thought Sylvie was going to smile, her dim eye almost
kindled; but, presently, she shrank from me; I was a man and a heretic;
she, poor child! a destined nun and devoted Catholic: thus a four-fold
wall of separation divided her mind from mine. A pert smirk, and a hard
glance of triumph, was Leonie's method of testifying her gratification;
Eulalie looked sullen and envious—she had hoped to be first.
Hortense and Caroline exchanged a reckless grimace on hearing their names
read out somewhere near the bottom of the list; the brand of mental
inferiority was considered by them as no disgrace, their hopes for the
future being based solely on their personal attractions.</p>
<p>This affair arranged, the regular lesson followed. During a brief
interval, employed by the pupils in ruling their books, my eye, ranging
carelessly over the benches, observed, for the first time, that the
farthest seat in the farthest row—a seat usually vacant—was
again filled by the new scholar, the Mdlle. Henri so ostentatiously
recommended to me by the directress. To-day I had on my spectacles; her
appearance, therefore, was clear to me at the first glance; I had not to
puzzle over it. She looked young; yet, had I been required to name her
exact age, I should have been somewhat nonplussed; the slightness of her
figure might have suited seventeen; a certain anxious and pre-occupied
expression of face seemed the indication of riper years. She was dressed,
like all the rest, in a dark stuff gown and a white collar; her features
were dissimilar to any there, not so rounded, more defined, yet scarcely
regular. The shape of her head too was different, the superior part more
developed, the base considerably less. I felt assured, at first sight,
that she was not a Belgian; her complexion, her countenance, her
lineaments, her figure, were all distinct from theirs, and, evidently, the
type of another race—of a race less gifted with fullness of flesh
and plenitude of blood; less jocund, material, unthinking. When I first
cast my eyes on her, she sat looking fixedly down, her chin resting on her
hand, and she did not change her attitude till I commenced the lesson.
None of the Belgian girls would have retained one position, and that a
reflective one, for the same length of time. Yet, having intimated that
her appearance was peculiar, as being unlike that of her Flemish
companions, I have little more to say respecting it; I can pronounce no
encomiums on her beauty, for she was not beautiful; nor offer condolence
on her plainness, for neither was she plain; a careworn character of
forehead, and a corresponding moulding of the mouth, struck me with a
sentiment resembling surprise, but these traits would probably have passed
unnoticed by any less crotchety observer.</p>
<p>Now, reader, though I have spent more than a page in describing Mdlle.
Henri, I know well enough that I have left on your mind's eye no distinct
picture of her; I have not painted her complexion, nor her eyes, nor her
hair, nor even drawn the outline of her shape. You cannot tell whether her
nose was aquiline or retrousse, whether her chin was long or short, her
face square or oval; nor could I the first day, and it is not my intention
to communicate to you at once a knowledge I myself gained by little and
little.</p>
<p>I gave a short exercise: which they all wrote down. I saw the new pupil
was puzzled at first with the novelty of the form and language; once or
twice she looked at me with a sort of painful solicitude, as not
comprehending at all what I meant; then she was not ready when the others
were, she could not write her phrases so fast as they did; I would not
help her, I went on relentless. She looked at me; her eye said most
plainly, "I cannot follow you." I disregarded the appeal, and, carelessly
leaning back in my chair, glancing from time to time with a NONCHALANT air
out of the window, I dictated a little faster. On looking towards her
again, I perceived her face clouded with embarrassment, but she was still
writing on most diligently; I paused a few seconds; she employed the
interval in hurriedly re-perusing what she had written, and shame and
discomfiture were apparent in her countenance; she evidently found she had
made great nonsense of it. In ten minutes more the dictation was complete,
and, having allowed a brief space in which to correct it, I took their
books; it was with a reluctant hand Mdlle. Henri gave up hers, but, having
once yielded it to my possession, she composed her anxious face, as if,
for the present she had resolved to dismiss regret, and had made up her
mind to be thought unprecedentedly stupid. Glancing over her exercise, I
found that several lines had been omitted, but what was written contained
very few faults; I instantly inscribed "Bon" at the bottom of the page,
and returned it to her; she smiled, at first incredulously, then as if
reassured, but did not lift her eyes; she could look at me, it seemed,
when perplexed and bewildered, but not when gratified; I thought that
scarcely fair.</p>
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