MR. ROCHESTER did，on a future occasion，explain it. It was one afternoon，when he chanced to meet me and Adele in the grounds: and while she played with pilot and her shuttlecock，he asked me to walk up and down a long beech avenue within sight of her.

He then said that she was the daughter of a French opera-dancer，Celine Varens，towards whom he had once cherished what he called a 'grande passion.' This passion Celine had professed to return with even superior ardour. He thought himself her idol，ugly as he was: he believed，as he said，that she preferred his 'taille d'athlete' to the elegance of the Apollo Belvidere.

'And，Miss Eyre，so much was I flattered by this preference of the Gallic sylph for her British gnome，that I installed her in an hotel; gave her a plete establishment of servants，a carriage，cashmeres，diamonds，dentelles，etc. In short，I began the process of ruining myself in the received style，like any other spoony. I had not，it seems，the originality to chalk out a new road to shame and destruction，but trode the old track with stupid exactness not to deviate an inch from the beaten centre. I had- as I deserved to have- the fate of all other spoonies. Happening to call one evening when Celine did not expect me，I found her out; but it was a warm night，and I was tired with strolling through paris，so I sat down in her boudoir; happy to breathe the air consecrated so lately by her presence. No,- I exaggerate; I never thought there was any consecrating virtue about her: it was rather a sort of pastille perfume she had left; a scent of musk and amber，than an odour of sanctity. I was just beginning to stifle with the fumes of conservatory flowers and sprinkled essences，when I bethought myself to open the window and step out on to the balcony. It was moonlight and gaslight besides，and very still and serene. The balcony was furnished with a chair or two; I sat down，and took out a cigar,- I will take one now，if you will excuse me.'

Here ensued a pause，filled up by the producing and lighting of a cigar; having placed it to his lips and breathed a trail of Havannah incense on the freezing and sunless air，he went on- 'I liked bonbons too in those days，Miss Eyre，and I was croquant- (overlook the barbarism)- croquant chocolate fits，and smoking alternately，watching meantime the equipages that rolled along the fashionable streets towards the neighbouring opera-house，when in an elegant close carriage drawn by a beautiful pair of English horses，and distinctly seen in the brilliant city-night，I recognised the 'voiture' I had given Celine. She was returning: of course my heart thumped with impatience against the iron rails I leant upon. The carriage stopped，as I had expected，at the hotel door; my flame (that is the very word for an opera inamorata) alighted: though muffled in a cloak- an unnecessary encumbrance，by the bye，on so warm a June evening- I knew her instantly by her little foot，seen peeping from the skirt of her dress，as she skipped from the carriage step. Bending over the balcony，I was about to murmur 'Mon ange'- in a tone，of course，which should be audible to the ear of love alone- when a figure jumped from the carriage after her; cloaked also; but that was a spurred heel which had rung on the pavement，and that was a hatted head which now passed under the arched porte cochere of the hotel.