FullReads

“Ten o’clock, and leave out ‘of’ before minutes. How many times must I tell you that?” said Amy, severely, to cover her first mistake.

“Ah, not many times; soon all goes to finish, and I have none person to make this charming English go in my so stupide head.”

“What will you do then?”

“I jeter myself into the lake.”

“Don’t be foolish; I’m dull to-day, and want to be cheered up; suicide isn’t a pleasant subject.”

“Good! See here, then–a little plaisanterie–what you call joke. Can you will to see it?” and he laid a little pink cocked-hat note on her lap, looking like a mischievous boy as he did so.

“‘Mon Casimer Teblinski;’ I see no joke;” and Amy was about to tear it up, when he caught it from destruction, and holding it out of reach, said, laughing wickedly,–

“The ‘mon’ is one abbreviation of ‘monsieur,’ but you put no little–how do you say?–period at the end of him; it goes now in English–My Casimer Teblinski,’ and that is of the most charming address.”

Amy colored, but had her return shot ready.

“Don’t exult; that was only an oversight, not a deliberate deception like that you put upon me. It was very wrong and rude, and I shall not forgive it.”

“Mon Dieu! where have I gone in sinning! I am a polisson, as I say each day, but not a villain, I swear to you. Say to me that which I have made of wrong, and I will do penance.”

“You told me ‘Ma drogha‘ was the Polish for ‘My pupil,’ and let me call you so a long time; I am wiser now,” replied Amy, with great dignity.

“Who has said stupidities to you, that you doubt me?” and Casimer assumed an injured look, though his eyes danced with merriment.

“I heard Hoffman singing a Polish song to little Roserl, the burden of which was, ‘Ma drogha, Ma drogha,’ and when I asked him to translate it, those two words meant, ‘My darling.’ How dare you, ungrateful creature that you are!”

As Amy spoke, half-confusedly, half-angrily, Casimer went down upon his knees, with folded hands and penitent face, exclaiming, in good English,–

“Be merciful to me a sinner. I was tempted, and I could not resist.”

“Get up this instant, and stop laughing. Say your lesson, for this will be your last,” was the stern reply, though Amy’s face dimpled all over with suppressed merriment.

He rose meekly, but made such sad work with the verb “To love,” that his teacher was glad to put an end to it, by proposing to read her French to him. It was “Thaddeus of Warsaw,” a musty little translation which she had found in the house, and begun for her own amusement. Casimer read a little, seemed interested, and suggested that they read it together, so that he might correct her accent. Amy agreed, and they were in the heart of the sentimental romance, finding it more interesting than most modern readers, for the girl had an improved Thaddeus before her, and the Pole a fairer, kinder Mary Beaufort.

Dangerous times for both, but therein lay the charm; for, though Amy said to herself each night, “Sick, Catholic, and a foreigner,–it can never be,” yet each morning she felt, with increasing force, how blank her day would be without him. And Casimer, honorably restraining every word of love, yet looked volumes, and in spite of the glasses, the girl felt the eloquence of the fine eyes they could not entirely conceal.

To-day, as she read, he listened with his head leaning on his hand, and though she never had read worse, he made no correction, but sat so motionless, she fancied at last that he had actually fallen asleep. Thinking to rouse him, she said, in French,–

“Poor Thaddeus! don’t you pity him?–alone, poor, sick, and afraid to own his love.”

“No, I hate him, the absurd imbecile, with his fine boots and plumes, and tragedy airs. He was not to be pitied, for he recovered health, he found a fortune, he won his Marie. His sufferings were nothing; there was no fatal blight on him, and he had time and power to conquer his misfortunes, while I–“