After that visit to the Rue des Mages , I did want to see him again. I felt as if⁠—knowing what I now knew⁠—his countenance would offer a page more lucid, more interesting than ever; I felt a longing to trace in it the imprint of that primitive devotedness, the signs of that half-knightly, half-saintly chivalry which the priest’s narrative imputed to his nature. He had become my Christian hero: under that character I wanted to view him.

Nor was opportunity slow to favour; my new impressions underwent her test the next day. Yes; I was granted an interview with my “Christian hero”⁠—an interview not very heroic, or sentimental, or biblical, but lively enough in its way.

About three o’clock of the afternoon, the peace of the first classe ⁠—safely established, as it seemed, under the serene sway of Madame Beck, who, in propria persona , was giving one of her orderly and useful lessons⁠—this peace, I say, suffered a sudden fracture by the wild inburst of a paletôt .