On hearing this, a quiet courage cheered me. I ventured a word of re-assurance. That word was not only tolerated; its repetition was courted. I grew quite happy--strangely happy--in making him secure, content, tranquil. Yesterday, I could not have believed that earth held, or life afforded, moments like the few I was now passing. Countless times it had been my lot to watch apprehended sorrow close darkly in; but to see unhoped-for happiness take form, find place, and grow more real as the seconds sped, was indeed a new experience.
"Lucy," said M. Paul, speaking low, and still holding my hand, "did you see a picture in the boudoir of the old house?"
"I did; a picture painted on a panel."
"The portrait of a nun?"
"Yes."
"You heard her history?"
"Yes."
"You remember what we saw that night in the berceau?"
"I shall never forget it."
"You did not connect the two ideas; that would be folly?"
"I thought of the apparition when I saw the portrait," said I; which was true enough.
"You did not, nor will you fancy," pursued he, "that a saint in heaven perturbs herself with rivalries of earth? Protestants are rarely superstitious; these morbid fancies will not beset you?"
"I know not what to think of this matter; but I believe a perfectly natural solution of this seeming mystery will one day be arrived at."
"Doubtless, doubtless. Besides, no good-living woman--much less a pure, happy spirit-would trouble amity like ours n'est-il pas vrai?"
Ere I could answer, Fifine Beck burst in, rosy and abrupt, calling out that I was wanted. Her mother was going into town to call on some English family, who had applied for a prospectus: my services were needed as interpreter. The interruption was not unseasonable: sufficient for the day is always the evil; for this hour, its good sufficed. Yet I should have liked to ask M. Paul whether the "morbid fancies," against which he warned me, wrought in his own brain.