She inquired after my luggage: I told her when it would arrive. She mused. At that moment a man’s step was heard in the vestibule, hastily proceeding to the outer door. (I shall go on with this part of my tale as if I had understood all that passed; for though it was then scarce intelligible to me, I heard it translated afterwards). “Who goes out now?” demanded Madame Beck, listening to the tread. “M. Paul,” replied the teacher. “He came this evening to give a reading to the first class.” “The very man I should at this moment most wish to see. Call him.” The teacher ran to the salon door. M. Paul was summoned. He entered: a small, dark and spare man, in spectacles. “Mon cousin,” began Madame, “I want your opinion. We know your skill in physiognomy; use it now. Read that countenance.” The little man fixed on me his spectacles: A resolute compression of the lips, and gathering of the brow, seemed to say that he meant to see through me, and that a veil would be no veil for him. “I read it,” he pronounced. “Et qu’en dites vous?” “Mais—bien des choses,” was the oracular answer. “Bad or good?” “Of each kind, without doubt,” pursued the diviner. “May one trust her word?” “Are you negotiating a matter of importance?” “She wishes me to engage her as bonne or gouvernante; tells a tale full of integrity, but gives no reference.” “She is a stranger?” “An Englishwoman, as one may see.” “She speaks French?” “Not a word.” “She understands it?” “No.” “One may then speak plainly in her presence?” “Doubtless.” He gazed steadily. “Do you need her services?” “I could do with them. You know I am disgusted with Madame Svini.” Still he scrutinized. The judgment, when it at last came, was as indefinite as what had gone before it. “Engage her. If good predominates in that nature, the action will bring its own reward; if evil—eh bien! ma cousine, ce sera toujours une bonne œuvre.” And with a bow and a “bon soir,” this vague arbiter of my destiny vanished. And Madame did engage me that very night—by God’s blessing I was spared the necessity of passing forth again into the lonesome, dreary, hostile street. CHAPTER VIII. MADAME BECK.