The public reading of one of her devoirs achieved the revelationof her talents to all and sundry； I remember the subject—it was an emigrant’s letter to his friends at home.It opened with simplicity； some natural and graphic touches disclosed to the reader the scene of virgin forest and great， New-World river—barren of sail and flag—amidst which the epistle was supposed to be indited.The difficulties and dangers that attend a settler’s life， were hinted at； and in the few words said on that subject， Mdlle Henri failed not to render audible the voice of resolve， patience， endeavour.The disasters which had driven him from his native country were alluded to； stainless honour， inflexible independence， indestructible self-respect there took the word.Past days were spoken of； the grief of parting， the regrets of absence， were touched upon； feeling， forcible and fine， breathed eloquent inevery period.At the close， consolation was suggested； religious faith became there the speaker， and she spoke well.
The devoir was powerfully written in language at once chaste and choice， in a style nerved with vigour and graced with harmony.
Mdlle Reuter was quite sufficiently acquainted with English to understand it when read or spoken in her presence， though she could neither speak nor write it herself.During the perusal of this devoir， she sat placidly busy， her eyes and fingers occupied with the formation of a “rivière” or open-work hem round a cambric handkerchief； she said nothing， and her face and forehead， clothed with a mask of purely negative expression， were as blank of comment as her lips.As neither surprise， pleasure， approbation， nor interest were evinced in her countenance， so no more were disdain， envy， annoyance， weariness； if that inscrutable mien said anything， it was simply this—“The matter is too trite to excite an emotion， or call forth an opinion.”
As soon as I had done， a hum rose； several of the pupils，pressing round Mdlle Henri， began to beset her with compliments； the composed voice of the directress was now heard：—“Young ladies， such of you as have cloaks and umbrellas willhasten to return home before the shower becomes heavier” (it was raining a little)， “the remainder will wait till their respective servants arrive to fetch them.” And the school dispersed， for it was four o’clock.
“Monsieur， a word，” said Mdlle Reuter， stepping on to the estrade， and signifying， by a movement of the hand， that she wished me to relinquish， for an instant， the castor I had clutched.
“Mademoiselle， I am at your service.”
“Monsieur， it is of course an excellent plan to encourage effort in young people by making conspicuous the progress of any particularly industrious pupil； but do you not think that in the present instance， Mdlle Henri can hardly be considered as a concurrent with the other pupils？ She is older than most of them， and has had advantages of an exclusive nature for acquiring a knowledge of English； on the other hand， her sphere of life is somewhat beneath theirs； under these circumstances， a public distinction， conferred upon Mdlle Henri， may be the means of suggesting comparisons， and exciting feelings such as would be far from advantageous to the individual forming their object.The interest I take in Mdlle Henri’s real welfare makes me desirous of screening her from annoyances of this sort； besides， monsieur， as I have before hinted to you， the sentiment of amour-propre has a somewhat marked preponderance in her character； celebrity has a tendency to foster this sentiment， and in her it should be rather repressed—she rather needs keeping down than bringing forward； and then I think， monsieur—it appears to me that ambition， literary ambition especially， is not a feeling to be cherished in the mind of a woman： would not Mdlle Henri be much safer and happier if taught to believe that in the quiet discharge of social duties consists her real vocation， than if stimulated to aspire after applause and publicity？ She may never marry； scanty as are her resources， obscure as are her connections， uncertain as is her health (for I think her consumptive， her mother died of that complaint)， it is more than probable she never will.I do not see how she can rise to a position， whence such a step would be possible； but even in celibacy it would be better for her to retainthe character and habits of a respectable decorous female.” “Indisputably， mademoiselle，” was my answer.“Your opinionadmits of no doubt；” and， fearful of the harangue being renewed， I retreated under cover of that cordial sentence of assent.
At the date of a fortnight after the little incident noted above， I find it recorded in my diary that a hiatus occurred in Mdlle Henri’s usually regular attendance in class.The first day or two I wondered at her absence， but did not like to ask an explanation of it； I thought indeed some chance word might be dropped which would afford me the information I wished to obtain， without my running the risk of exciting silly smiles and gossiping whispers by demanding it.But when a week passed and the seat at the desk near the door still remained vacant， and when no allusion was made to the circumstance by any individual of the class—when， on the contrary， I found that all observed a marked silence on the point—I determined， co？te qui co？te， to break the ice of this silly reserve.I selected Sylvie as my informant， because from her I knew that I should at least get a sensible answer， unaccompanied by wriggle， titter， or other flourish of folly.
“Où donc est Mdlle Henri？” I said one day as I returned an exercise-book I had been examining.
“Elle est partie， monsieur.”
“Partie？ et pour combien de temps？ Quand reviendra-t-elle？” “Elle est partie pour toujours， monsieur； elle ne reviendraplus.”
“Ah！” was my involuntary exclamation； then after a pause：— “En êtes-vous bien sure， Sylvie？”
“Oui， oui， monsieur， mademoiselle la directrice nous l’a dit elle-même il y a deux ou trois jours.”
