Chapter 15

There is no moment in the life of man, when he is so keenly sensitive on
the subject of the perfection of his mistress, as that in which he
completely admits her power. All his jealousy is actively alive to the
smallest shade of fault, although his feelings so much indispose him to
see any blemish. Betts Shoreham felt an unpleasant pang, even--yes, it
amounted to a pang--for in a few moments he would have offered his
hand--and men cannot receive any drawback with indifference at such
an instant--he felt an unpleasant pang, then, as the idea crossed his mind
that Mademoiselle Hennequin could be so violently affected by a feeling
as unworthy as that of envy. He had passed several years abroad, and
had got the common notion about the selfishness of the French, and
more particularly their women, and his prejudices took the alarm. But
his love was much the strongest, and soon looked down the distrust,
however reasonable, under the circumstances, the latter might have
appeared to a disinterested and cool-headed observer. He had seen so
much meek and pure-spirited self-denial; so much high principle in the
conduct of Mademoiselle Hennequin, during an intimacy which had now
lasted six months, that no passing feeling of doubt, like the one just felt,
could unsettle the confidence created by her virtues. I know it may take
more credit than belongs to most pocket-handkerchiefs, to maintain the
problem of the virtues of a French governess--a class of unfortunate
persons that seem doomed to condemnation by all the sages of our
modern imaginative literature. An English governess, or even an
American governess, if, indeed, there be such a being in nature, may be
every thing that is respectable, and prudent, and wise, and good; but the
French governess has a sort of ex-officio moral taint about her, that
throws her without the pale of literary charities. Nevertheless, one or
two of the most excellent women I have ever known, have been French
governesses, though I do not choose to reveal what this particular
individual of the class turned out to be in the end, until the moment for
the denouement of her character shall regularly arrive.

There was not much time for Betts Shoreham to philosophize, and
speculate on female caprices and motives, John Monson making his
appearance in as high evening dress as well comported with what is
called "republican simplicity." John was a fine looking fellow, six feet
and an inch, with large whiskers, a bushy head of hair, and particularly
white teeth. His friend was two inches shorter, of much less showy
appearance, but of a more intellectual countenance, and of juster
proportions. Most persons, at first sight, would praise John Monson's
person and face, but all would feel the