on capitally with his English. She was enchanted; the novelty and the
excitement of it absorbed her; and every now and then she would stop Paul
with a little imperious wave of her hand, and repeat the substance of a
speech after him with an impetuous _élan_, an energy, a comprehension,
which drew little nods of satisfaction out of him, and sometimes produced
a strong and startling effect upon myself and Mr. Wallace. However, Mr.
Wallace might stare as he liked; the two people concerned were totally
unconscious of the rest of us, until at last, after the great death-scene
in the _Nuit Blanche_, Paul threw down the book almost with a sob, and
she, rising in a burst of feeling, held out her white arms towards an
imaginary lover, and with extraordinary skill and memory repeated the
substance of the heroine's last speeches:--

'"_Achille, beloved! my eyes are dim--the mists of death are gathering. O
Achille! the white cottage by the river--the nest in the reeds--your face
and mine in the water--the blue heaven below us in the stream--O joy,
quick! those hands, those lips! But listen, listen! it is the cruel wind
rising, rising: it chills me to the bone, it chokes, it stifles me! I
cannot see the river, and the cottage is gone, and the sun. O Achille, it
is dark, so dark! Gather me close, beloved!--closer, closer! O death is
kind--tender, like your touch! I have no fears--none!"_

'She sank back into her chair. Anything more pathetic, more noble than
her intonation of those words, could not have been imagined. Desforêts
herself could not have spoken them with a more simple, a more piercing
tenderness. I was so confused by a multitude of conflicting feelings--my
own impressions and yours, the realities of the present position and the
possibilities of her future--that I forgot to applaud her. It was the
first time I had had any glimpse at all of her dramatic power, and, rough
and imperfect as the test was, it seemed to me enough. I have not been so