“I am judged,” said he. “Your opinion of me is just what I thought it was. For you I am neither a man nor a Christian. You see me void of affection and religion, unattached by friend or family, unpiloted by principle or faith. It is well, Mademoiselle; such is our reward in this life.”

“You are a philosopher, Monsieur; a cynic philosopher” (and I looked at his paletôt , of which he straightway brushed the dim sleeve with his hand), “despising the foibles of humanity⁠—above its luxuries⁠—independent of its comforts.”

“ Et vous, Mademoiselle? vous êtes proprette et douillette, et affreusement insensible, par-dessus le marché. ” 224

“But, in short, Monsieur, now I think of it, you must live somewhere? Do tell me where; and what establishment of servants do you keep?”

With a fearful projection of the underlip, implying an impetus of scorn the most decided, he broke out⁠—

“ Je vis dans un trou! I inhabit a den, Miss⁠—a cavern, where you would not put your dainty nose. Once, with base shame of speaking the whole truth, I talked about my ‘study’ in that college: know now that this ‘study’ is my whole abode; my chamber is there and my drawing-room. As for my ‘establishment of servants’ ” (mimicking my voice) “they number ten; les voilà. ”

And he grimly spread, close under my eyes, his ten fingers.

“I black my boots,” pursued he savagely. “I brush my paletôt .”

“No, Monsieur, it is too plain; you never do that,” was my parenthesis.