In this exercise the afternoon passed: day began to glide into evening; and I, who had eaten nothing since breakfast, grew excessively hungry. Now I thought of the collation, which doubtless they were just then devouring in the garden far below. (I had seen in the vestibule a basketful of small _pâtés à la crême_, than which nothing in the whole range of cookery seemed to me better). A _pâté_, or a square of cake, it seemed to me would come very _àpropos;_ and as my relish for those dainties increased, it began to appear somewhat hard that I should pass my holiday, fasting and in prison. Remote as was the attic from the street-door and vestibule, yet the ever-tinkling bell was faintly audible here; and also the ceaseless roll of wheels, on the tormented pavement. I knew that the house and garden were thronged, and that all was gay and glad below; here it began to grow dusk: the beetles were fading from my sight; I trembled lest they should steal on me a march, mount my throne unseen, and, unsuspected, invade my skirts. Impatient and apprehensive, I recommenced the rehearsal of my part merely to kill time. Just as I was concluding, the long-delayed rattle of the key in the lock came to my ear—no unwelcome sound. M. Paul (I could just see through the dusk that it _was_ M. Paul, for light enough still lingered to show the velvet blackness of his close-shorn head, and the sallow ivory of his brow) looked in. “Brava!” cried he, holding the door open and remaining at the threshold. “J’ai tout entendu. C’est assez bien. Encore!” A moment I hesitated. “Encore!” said he sternly. “Et point de grimaces! A bas la timidité!” Again I went through the part, but not half so well as I had spoken it alone. “Enfin, elle sait,” said he, half dissatisfied, “and one cannot be fastidious or exacting under the circumstances.” Then he added, “You may yet have twenty minutes for preparation: au revoir!” And he was going. “Monsieur,” I called out, taking courage. “Eh bien! Qu’est-ce que c’est, Mademoiselle?” “J’ai bien faim.” “Comment, vous avez faim! Et la collation?” “I know nothing about it. I have not seen it, shut up here.” “Ah! C’est vrai,” cried he. In a moment my throne was abdicated, the attic evacuated; an inverse repetition of the impetus which had brought me up into the attic, instantly took me down—down—down to the very kitchen. I thought I should have gone to the cellar. The cook was imperatively ordered to produce food, and I, as imperatively, was commanded to eat. To my great joy this food was limited to coffee and cake: I had feared wine and sweets, which I did not like. How he guessed that I should like a _petit pâté à la crême_ I cannot tell; but he went out and procured me one from some quarter. With considerable willingness I ate and drank, keeping the _petit pâté_ till the last, as a _bonne bouche_. M. Paul superintended my repast, and almost forced upon me more than I could swallow.