“It is well!” dropped at length from the lips of M. Paul; and having uttered this phrase, the shadow of some great paroxysm⁠—the swell of wrath, scorn, resolve⁠—passed over his brow, rippled his lips, and lined his cheeks. Gulping down all further comment, he launched into his customary discours .

I can’t at all remember what this discours was; I did not listen to it: the gulping-down process, the abrupt dismissal of his mortification or vexation, had given me a sensation which half-counteracted the ludicrous effect of the reiterated “ Est-ce là tout? ”

Towards the close of the speech there came a pleasing diversion; my attention was again amusingly arrested.