prehensive and distrustful spirit; nothing soothed him like confidence tempered with gentleness. To evince these sentiments, however, required a thorough comprehension of his nature, and his nature was of an order rarely comprehended.
"How did you get on with Marie Broc?" he asked after some minutes' silence.
"Monsieur, I did my best; but it was terrible to be alone with her!"
"You have, then, a weak heart! You lack courage; and, perhaps, charity. Yours are not the qualities which might constitute a Sister of Mercy".
[He was a religious little man, in his way:—the self-denying and self-sacrificing part of the Catholic religion commanded the homage of his soul].
"I don't know, indeed; I took as good care of her as I could; but when her aunt came to fetch her away, it was a great relief".
"Ah! you are an egotist. There are women who have nursed hospitals-full of similar unfortunates. You could not do that?"
"Could monsieur do it himself?"
"Women who are worthy the name ought infinitely to surpass our coarse, fallible, self-indulgent sex, in the power to perform such duties".
"I washed her, I kept her clean, I fed her, I tried to amuse her; but she made mouths at me instead of speaking".
"You think you did great things?"
"No; but as great as I could do".
"Then limited are your powers, for in tending one idiot, you fell sick".
"Not with that, monsieur; I had a nervous fever; my mind was ill".
"Vraiment! Vous valez peu de chose. You are not cast in an heroic mould; your courage will not avail to sustain you in solitude: it merely gives you the temerity to gaze with sang-froid at pictures of Cleopatra".
It would have been easy to show anger at the teasing, hostile tone of the little man. I had never been angry with him yet, however, and had no present disposition to begin.
"Cleopatra!" I repeated, quietly. "Monsieur, too, has been looking at Cleopatra: what does he think of her?"
