THE SNUFF BOX. CALAIS.
The good old monk was within six paces of us, as the idea of him
crossed my mind; and was advancing towards us a little out of the
line, as if uncertain whether he should break in upon us or no.--He
stopp'd, however, as soon as he came up to us, with a world of
frankness: and having a horn snuff box in his hand, he presented
it open to me.--You shall taste mine--said I, pulling out my box
(which was a small tortoise one) and putting it into his hand.--
'Tis most excellent, said the monk. Then do me the favour, I
replied, to accept of the box and all, and when you take a pinch
out of it, sometimes recollect it was the peace offering of a man
who once used you unkindly, but not from his heart.
The poor monk blush'd as red as scarlet. Mon Dieu! said he,
pressing his hands together--you never used me unkindly.--I should
think, said the lady, he is not likely. I blush'd in my turn; but
from what movements, I leave to the few who feel, to analyze.--
Excuse me, Madame, replied I,--I treated him most unkindly; and
from no provocations.--'Tis impossible, said the lady.--My God!
cried the monk, with a warmth of asseveration which seem'd not to
belong to him--the fault was in me, and in the indiscretion of my
zeal.
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