What do you start for? Because I said passion? Well, I say it again. There is such a word, and there is such a thing⁠—though not within these walls, thank heaven! You are no child that one should not speak of what exists; but I only uttered the word⁠—the thing, I assure you, is alien to my whole life and views. It died in the past⁠—in the present it lies buried⁠—its grave is deep-dug, well-heaped, and many winters old: in the future there will be a resurrection, as I believe to my soul’s consolation; but all will then be changed⁠—form and feeling; the mortal will have put on immortality⁠—it will rise, not for earth, but heaven. All I say to you , Miss Lucy Snowe, is⁠—that you ought to treat Professor Paul Emanuel decently.”

I could not, and did not contradict such a sentiment.

“Tell me,” he pursued, “when it is your fête-day, and I will not grudge a few centimes for a small offering.”

“You will be like me, Monsieur; this cost more than a few centimes, and I did not grudge its price.”

And taking from the open desk the little box, I put it into his hand.

“It lay ready in my lap this morning,” I continued; “and if Monsieur had been rather more patient, and Mademoiselle St. Pierre less interfering⁠—perhaps I should say, too, if I had been calmer and wiser⁠—I should have given it then.”

He looked at the box: I saw its clear warm tint and bright azure circlet, pleased his eyes. I told him to open it.

“My initials!” said he, indicating the letters in the lid. “Who told you I was called Carl David?”

“A little bird, Monsieur.”