d to conversation, has but a narrow range, and may one day be
merged in the superior tongue. The literature of the Spanish, too, is
the richer, though both are poor enough."

"I am glad to hear you say that; for I have already made some little
progress in Spanish. I have read a few books, and moulded my tongue to
the utterance of a long list of conversational phrases. I would now
gladly exchange my French for Spanish or Portuguese. What a pity it
is, that the languages of different countries are not, like their
coins, exchangeable one for another."

"Unfortunately," said L'Isle, laughing, "that exchange is a slow
process; and exact equivalents are seldom found."

"It is too provoking," continued Lady Mabel, "after having been at so
much pains to learn French, not to be at liberty to go to France, to
show the natives how well I can speak their tongue. True, I have
access to their books, which are, perhaps, better than themselves."

"That is not saying much for their books," said L'Isle contemptuously.
"Their literature is much overvalued. Its chief merits are variety and
bulk."

"Do you think so? That is not the opinion I have heard expressed."

"Very true. The world is full of false opinions and bad taste. But a
literature, whose great epic poem is the _Henriade_, may be abundant
but cannot be rich. A language, in which you cannot make verse without
the jingle of rhyme, may be clear and copious, but is wanting in
melody and force. Take away from French literature Gil Blas and the
_memoires_, and were all the rest lost, its place might be easily
filled with something better. With these exceptions, there is little
worth doing into English or any other tongue. And after all, Gil Blas
is only a renegade Spaniard in a French uniform; and, undoubtedly, it
is not genius, but merely their intense vanity and egotism, that
enables them to excel in writing their own memoirs. Besides, unlike
most other people, their books are as immoral as themselves."

"Well," said Lady Mabel, looking at him in some surprise, yet half
convinced of the truth of what he had been saying. "It must certainly
be a great comfort to you to entertain so thorough a contempt and
dislike for the people you have to fight against."

"Perhaps it is," said L'Isle, laughing at her observation and his own
warmth. "It may not be in the spirit of Christianity or of chivalry,
but it is exceedingly true to our nature, to dislike our enemies, and
heartily, too.