I lifted my happy eyes: they were happy now, or they would have been no interpreters of my heart.

“Well,” said he, after some seconds’ scrutiny, “there is no denying that signature: Constancy wrote it: her pen is of iron. Was the record painful?”

“Severely painful,” I said, with truth. “Withdraw her hand, Monsieur; I can bear its inscribing force no more.”

“ Elle est toute pâle ,” said he, speaking to himself; “ cette figure-là me fait mal. ”

“Ah! I am not pleasant to look at⁠—?”