CHAPTER XIII.
a sneeze out of season
I had occasion to smile—nay, to laugh, at madame again, within the space of four and twenty hours after the little scene treated of in the last chapter.
Villette owns a climate as variable, though not so humid, as that of any English town. A night of high wind followed upon that soft sunset, and yet all the next day was one of dry storm—dark, beclouded, yet rainless,—the streets were dim with sand and dust, whirled from the boulevards. I know not that even lovely weather would have tempted me to spend the evening time of study and recreation, where I had spent it yesterday. My alley, and, indeed, all the walks and shrubs in the garden, had acquired a new, but not a pleasant interest: their seclusion was now becoming precarious; their calm—insecure. That casement which rained billets, had vulgarized the one dear nook it overlooked; and elsewhere the eyes of the flowers had gained vision, and the knots in the tree-boles listened like secret ears. Some plants there were, indeed, trodden down by Dr. John in his search, and his hasty and heedless progress, which I wished to prop up, water, and revive; some foot-marks, too, he had left on the beds: but these, in spite of the strong wind, I found a moment’s leisure to efface very early in the morning, ere common eyes had discovered them. With a pensive sort of content, I sat down to my desk and my German, while the pupils settled to their evening lessons and the other teachers took up their needlework.
The scene of the "Etude de soir" was always the refectory, a much smaller apartment than any of the three classes or school-rooms; for here none, save the boarders, were ever admitted, and these numbered only a score. Two lamps hung from the ceiling over the two tables; these were lit at dusk, and their kindling was the signal for school-books being set aside, a grave demeanor assumed, general silence enforced, and then commenced "la lecture pieuse". This said "lecture pieuse" was, I soon found, mainly designed as a whole-
