University of Virginia Library

35. CHAPTER XXXV.
M. PANTOUFLE'S LAST LESSON AND WHAT CAME OF IT.

At eleven in the forenoon of the eventful day, on the
morning of which we have seen Max leave his uncle's,
and on the evening of which Nina was to give her hand
away to Mr. Lyttelton, M. Pantoufle Xaupi, or as we
have elected to call him—therein sustained by general
usage—M. Pantoufle simply, called to give the young
girl her last lesson in music.

M. Pantoufle made much capital, so to speak, out of
this event. He was profuse in his bows and congratulations—paid
his pupil many sly compliments on her good
looks—and made more than one courteously-worded, paraphrased
allusion to the happy event.

It might with truth be said that M. Pantoufle, on this
occasion, not for one instant kept an upright position in
the young girl's presence. He had brought with him a
magazine of bows, smiles, shrugs, grimaces, from which
he drew those graceful weapons in profusion, and shot
them at his lovely pupil with prodigal politeness. His
hand never once released the richly-laced eocked hat;
the richly-laced cocked hat but rarely left the owner's
heart; the owner of the heart had apparently but one
desire on earth—to bow to the lady's very feet.

Nina took her seat at the harpsichord, and struck the
keys.

“What divine touch!” cried M. Pantoufle in an
ecstasy.

“Come, M. Pantoufle,” said Nina, “you are in a complimentary
vein this morning. I am not in a laughing
humor. My lesson please.”

“The last—ah, ma'mselle, the last.”

“What do you mean?”

“'Tis the last lesson.”

“Well!”

“Before the happy event.”

“My marriage, you mean?”

“Yes, ma'mselle.”

“Well—come now.”

“I could teach ma'mselle no more.”

“Teach me no more? pshaw!”

“'Tis true, ma'mselle.”

“Why I play very badly.”

“Badly! mon Dieu!”

“You know it.”

“You play divinely, ma'mselle!”

“Pshaw! come let us begin.”

“With pleasure.”

“Which piece?”

“This, ma'mselle.”

And Monsieur Pantoufle took from his port-folio a piece
of music.

“'Tis new,” he said.

“And pretty?”

“Oh, charming!”

“Strike it.”

Monsieur Pantoufle, with polite ease, sat down and ran
his fingers over the instrument.

“Why, it is not pretty,” said Nina.

“That is the prelude—seulement.”

“Well, go on.”

Monsieur Pantoufle commenced the piece with a brilliant
flourish, and then ran through it, the music rattling
like miniature thunder, and glittering, so to speak, like

lightning. Nina did not interrupt him. He finished
and turned round. Nina's eyes were full of tears.

“'Tis pretty, is it not?” said Monsieur Pantoufle, not
observing her emotion.

“Very,” said Nina, turning away, “I have heard Max
humming it a great deal within the last month:—no, before
that;” Nina added, mournfully.

“I teach him,” said Monsieur Pantoufle, with a polite
grimace.

“Have you seen him to-day?”

Monsieur Pantoufle looked mysterious.

“Yes, ma'mselle,” he said.

“Did he look well?”

“Well?”

“I mean in good spirits—bien aise—he was sick last
night.”

“Sick, eh?” said Monsieur Pantoufle, evading the question.

“Malade: was he well, I say, to-day?”

“Why, ma'mselle, I must confess, he look badly.”

“What was he doing?”

“Writing,” said Monsieur Pantoufle, innocently.

“What, pray?”

“Ah, you must ask him, ma'mselle,” replied Monsieur
Pantoufle, laying his hand carefully upon the inside of
his cocked hat, and bowing politely.

“Well, sir—now we will go on, if you please,” said
Nina, listlessly; and she again took her seat at the harpsichord.
Monsieur Pantoufle betook himself to his duty,
with elegant ease.

The lesson lasted half an hour, at the end of which
time the music-master rose to take his departure. This
was not, however, as easy a matter as many persons may
suppose. First he gathered up his music, and placed it
carefully in his port-folio; then he carefully tied the
strings of the port-folio, and placed it under his left arm.

There was still, however, the arduous task of getting out
of the room, and from the young girl's presence, without
turning his back. Then was made apparent Monsieur
Pantoufle's elegance and grace; his masterly attainments
in ball-room science. He ambled, he sidled, he trod
mincingly on his toes, he bowed, grimaced, shrugged his
shoulders, and retreated gradually, accompanying every
step backward with a compliment. At his third polite
speech, he had reached the old clock, at his fifth the bible
stand, at his seventh the threshold of the door. There
with his cocked hat pressed devotedly on his heart, his
head inclined over the right shoulder, his feet artistically
fixed together, he made Nina a most profound bow, and
so took his leave, smiling—serenely happy.

He had not observed the fact that a note elegantly
folded had fallen from his hat upon the floor.