"Mais ma robe n'est pas belle, monsieur—elle n'est que propre".
"J'aime la propreté", said he. In short, he was not to be dissatisfied; the sun of good humor was to triumph on this auspicious morning; it consumed scudding clouds ere they sullied its disk.
And now we were in the country, amongst what they called "les bois et les petits sentiers". These woods and lanes a month later, would offer but a dusty and doubtful seclusion: now, however, in their May greenness and morning repose, they looked very pleasant.
We reached a certain well, planted round, in the taste of Labassecour, with an orderly circle of lime-trees: here a halt was called: on the green swell of ground surrounding this well, we were ordered to be seated, monsieur taking his place in our midst, and suffering us to gather in a knot round him. Those who liked him more than they feared, came close, and these were chiefly little ones; those who feared more than they liked, kept somewhat aloof; those in whom much affection had given, even to what remained of fear, a pleasurable zest, observed the greatest distance.
He began to tell us a story. Well could he narrate: in such a diction as children love, and learned men emulate; a diction simple in its strength, and strong in its simplicity. There were beautiful touches in that little tale; sweet glimpses of feeling and hues of description that, while I listened, sunk into my mind, and since have never faded. He tinted a twilight scene—I hold it in memory still—such a picture I have never looked on from artist's pencil.
I have said, that, for myself, I had no impromptu faculty; and perhaps that very deficiency made me marvel the more at one who possessed it in perfection. M. Emanuel was not a man to write books; but I have heard him lavish, with careless, unconscious prodigality, such mental wealth as books seldom boast; his mind was indeed my library, and whenever it was opened to me, I entered bliss. Intellectually imperfect as I was, I could read little; there were few bound and printed volumes that did not weary me—whose perusal did not fag and blind—but his tones of thought were collyrium to the spirit's eyes; over their contents, inward sight grew clear and strong. I used to think what a delight it would be for one
