And Pelet himself？ How did I continue to like him？ Oh， extremely well！ Nothing could be more smooth， gentlemanlike， and even friendly， than his demeanour tome.I had to endure from him neither cold neglect， irritatinginterference， nor pretentious assumption of superiority.I fear， however， two poor， hard-worked Belgian ushers in the establishment could not have said as much； to them the director’s manner was invariably dry， stern， and cool.I believe he perceived once or twice that I was a little shocked at the difference he made between them and me， and accounted for it by saying， with a quiet sarcastic smile—“Ce ne sont que des Flamands—allez！”
And then he took his cigar gently from his lips and spat on the painted floor of the room in which we were sitting.Flamands certainly they were， and both had the true Flamand physiognomy， where intellectual inferiority is marked in lines none can mistake； still they were men， and， in the main， honest men； and I could not see why their being aboriginals of the flat， dull soil should serve as a pretext for treating them with perpetual severity and contempt.This idea， of injustice somewhat poisoned the pleasure I might otherwise have derived from Pelet’s soft affable manner to myself.Certainly it was agreeable， when the day’s work was over， to find one’s employer an intelligent and cheerful companion； and if he was sometimes a little sarcastic and sometimes a little too insinuating， and if I did discover that his mildness was more a matter of appearance than of reality—if I did occasionally suspectthe existence of flint or steel under an external covering of velvet—still we are none of us perfect； and weary as I was of the atmosphere of brutality and insolence in which I had constantly lived at X—， I had no inclination now， on casting anchor in calmer regions， to institute at once a prying search after defects that were scrupulously withdrawn and carefully veiled from my view.I was willing to take Pelet for what he seemed—to believe him benevolent and friendly until some untoward event should prove him otherwise.He was not married， and I soon perceived he had all a Frenchman’s， all a Parisian’s notions about matrimony and women.I suspected a degree of laxity in his code of morals， there was something so cold and blasé in his tone whenever he alluded to what he called “le beau ***e；” but he was too gentlemanlike to intrude topics I did not invite， and as he was really intelligent and really fond of intellectual subjects of discourse， he and I always found enough to talk about， without seeking themes in the mire.I hated his fashion of mentioning love； I abhorred， from my soul， mere licentiousness.He felt the difference of our notions， and， by mutual consent， we kept off ground debatable.
Pelet’s house was kept and his kitchen managed by his mother， a real old Frenchwoman； she had been handsome—at least she told me so， and I strove to believe her； she was now ugly， as only continental old women can be； perhaps， though， her style of dress made her look uglier than she really was.Indoors she would go about without cap， her grey hair strangely dishevelled； then， when at home， she seldom wore a gown—only a shabby cotton camisole； shoes， too， were strangers to her feet， and in lieu of them she sported roomy slippers， trodden down at the heels.On the other hand， whenever it was her pleasure to appear abroad， as onSundays and fête-days， she would put on some very brilliant- coloured dress， usually of thin texture， a silk bonnet with a wreath of flowers， and a very fine shawl.She was not， in the main， an ill- natured old woman， but an incessant and most indiscreet talker； she kept chiefly in and about the kitchen， and seemed rather to avoid her son’s august presence； of him， indeed， she evidently stood in awe.When he reproved her， his reproofs were bitter and unsparing； but he seldom gave himself that trouble.
Madame Pelet had her own society， her own circle of chosen visitors， whom， however， I seldom saw， as she generally entertained them in what she called her “cabinet，” a small den of a place adjoining the kitchen， and descending into it by one or two steps.On these steps， by-the-by， I have not unfrequently seen Madame Pelet seated with a trencher on her knee， engaged in the threefold employment of eating her dinner， gossiping with her favourite servant， the housemaid， and scolding her antagonist， the cook； she never dined， and seldom indeed took any meal with her son； and as to showing her face at the boys’ table， that was quite out of the question.These details will sound very odd in English ears， but Belgium is not England， and its ways are not our ways.
Madame Pelet’s habits of life， then， being taken into consideration， I was a good deal surprised when， one Thursday evening (Thursday was always a half-holiday)， as I was sitting all alone in my apartment， correcting a huge pile of English and Latin exercises， a servant tapped at the door， and， on its being opened， presented Madame Pelet’s compliments， and she would be happy to see me to take my “go？ter” (a meal which answers to our English “tea”) with her in the dining-room.
“Pla？t-il？” said I， for I thought I must have misunderstood， themessage and invitation were so unusual； the same words were repeated.I accepted， of course， and as I descended the stairs， I wondered what whim had entered the old lady’s brain； her son was out—gone to pass the evening at the Salle of the Grande Harmonie or some other club of which he was a member.Just as I laid my hand on the handle of the dining-room door， a queer idea glanced across my mind.
“Surely she’s not going to make love to me，” said I.“I’ve heard of old Frenchwomen doing odd things in that line； and the go？ter？ They generally begin such affairs with eating and drinking， I believe.”
