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we were talking about the mercenary nature of the Swiss。”
“We were—and if you proved to me that the Swiss are
mercenary to…morrow （which you cannot do） I should love
Switzerland still。”
“You would be mad； then—mad as a March hare—to indulge in
a passion for millions of shiploads of soil； timber； snow； and ice。”
“Not so mad as you who love nothing。”
“There’s a method in my madness； there’s none in yours。”
“Your method is to squeeze the sap out of creation and make
manure of the refuse； by way of turning it to what you call use。”
“You cannot reason at all；” said Hunsden； “there is no logic in
you。”
“Better to be without logic than without feeling；” retorted
Frances； who was now passing backwards and forwards from her
cupboard to the table； intent； if not on hospitable thoughts； at least
on hospitable deeds； for she was laying the cloth； and putting
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plates； knives and forks thereon。
“Is that a hit at me； mademoiselle？ Do you suppose I am
without feeling ？”
“I suppose you are always interfering with your own feelings；
and those of other people； and dogmatizing about the irrationality
of this； that； and the other sentiment； and then ordering it to be
suppressed because you imagine it to be inconsistent with logic。”
“I do right。”
Frances had stepped out of sight into a sort of little pantry； she
soon reappeared。
“You do right？ Indeed； no！ You are much mistaken if you think
so。 Just be so good as to let me get to the fire； Mr。 Hunsden； I have
something to cook。” （An interval occupied in settling a casserole
on the fire； then； while she stirred its contents：） “Right！ as if it
were right to crush any pleasurable sentiment that God has given
to man； especially any sentiment that； like patriotism； spreads
man’s selfishness in wider circles” （fire stirred； dish put down
before it）。
“Were you born in Switzerland？”
“I should think so； or else why should I call it my country？”
“And where did you get your English features and figure？”
“I am English； too； half the blood in my veins is English； thus I
have a right to a double power of patriotism； possessing an
interest in two noble； free； and fortunate countries。”
“You had an English mother？”
“Yes； yes； and you； I suppose； had a mother from the moon or
from Utopia； since not a nation in Europe has a claim on your
interest？”
“On the contrary； I’m a universal patriot； if you could
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understand me rightly： my country is the world。”
“Sympathies so widely diffused must be very shallow： will you
have the goodness to come to table。 Monsieur” （to me who
appeared to be now absorbed in reading by moonlight）—
“Monsieur； supper is served。”
This was said in quite a different voice to that in which she had
been bandying phrases with Mr。 Hunsden—not so short； graver
and softer。
“Frances； what do you mean by preparing； supper？ we had no
intention of staying。”
“Ah； monsieur； but you have stayed； and supper is prepared；
you have only the alternative of eating it。”
The meal was a foreign one； of course； it consisted in two small
but tasty dishes of meat prepared with skill and served with
nicety； a salad and “fromage francais；” completed it。 The business
of eating interposed a brief truce between the belligerents； but no
sooner was supper disposed of than they were at it again。 The
fresh subject of dispute ran on the spirit of religious intolerance
which Mr。 Hunsden affirmed to exist strongly in Switzerland；
notwithstanding the professed attachment of the Swiss to
freedom。 Here Frances had greatly the worst of it； not only
because she was unskilled to argue； but because her own real
opinions on the point in question happened to coincide pretty
nearly with Mr。 Hunsden’s； and she only contradicted him out of
opposition。 At last she gave in； confessing that she thought as he
thought； but bidding him take notice that she did not consider
herself beaten。
“No more did the French at Waterloo；” said Hunsden。
“There is no comparison between the cases；” rejoined Frances；
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“mine was a sham fight。”
“Sham or real； it’s up with you。”
“No； though I have neither logic nor wealth of words； yet in a
case where my opinion really differed from yours； I would adhere
to it when I had not another word to say in its defence； you should
be baffled by dumb determination。 You speak of Waterloo； your
Wellington ought to have been conquered there； according to
Napoleon； but he persevered in spite of the laws of war； and was
victorious in defiance of military tactics。 I would do as he did。”
“I’ll be bound for it you would； probably you have some of the
same sort of stubborn stuff in you。
“I should be sorry if I had not； he and Tell were brothers； and
I’d scorn the Swiss； man or woman； who had none of the much…
enduring nature of our heroic William in his soul。”
“If Tell was like Wellington； he was an ass。”
“Does not ass mean baudet？” asked Frances； turning to me。
“No； no；” replied I； “it means an esprit…fort； and now；” I
continued； as I saw that fresh occasion of strife was brewing
between these two； “it is high time to go。”
Hunsden rose。 “Good bye；” said he to Frances； “I shall be off for
this glorious England to…morrow； and it may be twelve months or
more before I come to Brussels again； whenever I do come I’ll seek
you out； and you shall see if I don’t find means to make you fiercer
than a dragon。 You’ve done pretty well this evening； but next
interview you shall challenge me outright。 Meantime you’re
doomed to become Mrs。 William Crimsworth； I suppose； poor
young lady？ but you have a spark of spirit； cherish it； and give the
Professor the full benefit thereof。”
“Are you married； Mr。 Hunsden？” asked Frances； suddenly。
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“No。 I should have thought you might have guessed I was a
Benedict by my look。”
“Well； whenever you marry don’t take a wife out of
Switzerland； for if you begin blaspheming Helvetia； and cursing
the cantons—above all； if you mention the word ass in the same
breath with the name Tell （for ass is baudet； I know； though
Monsieur is pleased to translate it esprit…fort） your mountain maid
will some night smother her Breton…bretonnant； even as your own
Shakspeare’s Othello smothered Desdemona。”
“I am warned；” said Hunsden； “and so are you； lad；” （nodding
to me）。 “I hope yet to hear of a travesty of the Moor and his gentle
lady； in which the parts shall be reversed according to the plan
just sketched—you； however； being in my nightcap。 Farewell；
mademoiselle！” He bowed on her hand； absolutely like Sir Charles
Grandison on that of Harriet Byron； adding—“Death from such
fingers would not be without charms。”
“Mon Dieu！” murmured Frances； opening her large eyes and
lifting her distinctly arched brows； “c’est qu’il fait des
compliments！ je ne m’y suis pas attendu。” She smiled； half in ire；
half in mirth； c