He opened his watch and showed her in the back of it an exquisite little painting, asking her if she knew what it was.
"It is an Alpine chalet, is it not, Sir?"
He was pleased, and went on, always in French, to tell Ellen that Switzerland was his country; and drawing a little aside from the other talkers, he entered into a long, and to her most delightful conversation. In the pleasantest manner he gave her a vast deal of very entertaining detail about the country, and the manners and habits of the people of the Alps, especially in the Tyrol, where he had often travelled. It would have been hard to tell whether the child had most pleasure in receiving, or the man of deep study and science most pleasure in giving, all manner of information. He saw, he said, that she was very fond of the heroes of freedom, and asked if she had ever heard of Andrew Hofer, the Tyrolese peasant, who had led on his brethren in their noble endeavours to rid themselves of French and Bavarian oppression. Ellen had never heard of him.
"You know William Tell?"
"Oh yes," Ellen said; "she knew him."
"And Bonaparte?"
"Yes, very well."
He went on then to give her, in a very interesting way the history of Hofer; how when Napoleon made over his country to the rule of the king of Bavaria, who oppressed them, they rose in mass, overcame army after army that were sent against them in their mountain fastnesses, and freed themselves from the hated Bavarian government; how, years after, Napoleon was at last too strong for them; Hofer and his companions defeated, hunted like wild beasts, shot down like them; how Hofer was at last betrayed by a friend, taken and executed, being only seen to weep at parting with his family. The beautiful story was well told, and the speaker was animated by the eager, deep attention and sympathy of his auditor, whose changing colour, smiles, and even tears, showed how well she entered into the feelings of the patriots in their struggle, triumph, and downfall; till, as he finished, she was left full of pity for them and hatred for Napoleon. They talked of the Alps again. M. Muller put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a little painting in mosaic to show her, which he said had been given him that day. It was a beautiful piece of pietra-dura work Mont Blanc. He assured her the mountain often looked exactly so. Ellen admired it very much. It was meant to be set for a brooch, or some such thing, he said, and he asked if she would keep it and sometimes wear it, to "remember the Swiss, and to do him a pleasure."
"Moi, Monsieur!" said Ellen, colouring high with surprise and pleasure, "je suis bien obligée; mais, Monsieur, je ne saurais vous remercier?"
He would count himself well paid, he said, with a single touch of her lips.