We had been reading French together, or, to speak more correctly, I had been reading it to her, one evening of every week, with the ostensible purpose of improving my pronunciation under her tutelage; for she spoke the language beautifully.
One day an old Parisian who lodged in the house with me, and who occasionally made my sitting-room the theatre of a homily on Victor Hugo, Sainte-Beuve, and their confrères, laid upon my table a copy of Renan's "grand succès."
"Read it," he said; "read it in the original; it loses by translation."
I promised to do so. That evening I took it with me to Miss Foster's. As I walked leisurely along, the thought struck me that my "teacher" might probably not admire the "grand succès;" but it only lingered a moment, and troubled me but little. "No harm in bringing it, any how—the style is good," I soliloquized, and rang the bell in a happier frame of mind than I had known for weeks. Fred usually joined us on French evenings, but to-night another engagement claimed him. Helen was sitting alone when I entered the parlor.
"Grandmamma has a headache this evening, and will not be down," she said apologetically.
I sat down, made a few trifling remarks, to which she responded, and then arose to bring the book we had been reading.
"Wait, I have something else to-night," I said, taking the volume from the table where I had placed it.
"What is it?" she asked, resuming her seat.
"Renan's book," I replied confidently. "I thought I would bring it with me. He has an excellent style—unique and polished. He is the last sensation, you know."
"I will not read it," she said in a low tone.