"VILLETTE.\n\nBY\n\nCHARLOTTE BRONTË.\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\nCHAPTER\n\n       I.  BRETTON\n      II.  PAULINA\n     III.  THE PLAYMATES\n      IV.  MISS MARCHMONT\n       V.  TURNING A NEW LEAF\n      VI.  LONDON\n     VII.  VILLETTE\n    VIII.  MADAME BECK\n      IX.  ISIDORE\n       X.  DR. JOHN\n      XI.  THE PORTRESS'S CABINET\n     XII.  THE CASKET\n    XIII.  A SNEEZE OUT OF SEASON\n     XIV.  THE FÊTE\n      XV.  THE LONG VACATION\n     XVI.  AULD LANG SYNE\n    XVII.  LA TERRASSE\n   XVIII.  WE QUARREL\n     XIX.  THE CLEOPATRA\n      XX.  THE CONCERT\n     XXI.  REACTION\n    XXII.  THE LETTER\n   XXIII.  VASHTI\n    XXIV.  M. DE BASSOMPIERRE\n     XXV.  THE LITTLE COUNTESS\n    XXVI.  A BURIAL\n   XXVII.  THE HÔTEL CRÉCY\n  XXVIII.  THE WATCHGUARD\n    XXIX.  MONSIEUR'S FÊTE\n     XXX.  M. PAUL\n    XXXI.  THE DRYAD\n   XXXII.  THE FIRST LETTER\n  XXXIII.  M. PAUL KEEPS HIS PROMISE\n   XXXIV.  MALEVOLA\n    XXXV.  FRATERNITY\n   XXXVI.  THE APPLE OF DISCORD\n  XXXVII.  SUNSHINE\n XXXVIII.  CLOUD\n   XXXIX.  OLD AND NEW ACQUAINTANCE\n      XL.  THE HAPPY PAIR\n     XLI.  FAUBOURG CLOTILDE\n    XLII.  FINIS\n\n\n\n\nVILLETTE.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I.\n\nBRETTON.\n\n\nMy godmother lived in a handsome house in the clean and ancient town of\nBretton. Her husband's family had been residents there for generations,\nand bore, indeed, the name of their birthplace--Bretton of Bretton:\nwhether by coincidence, or because some remote ancestor had been a\npersonage of sufficient importance to leave his name to his\nneighbourhood, I know not.\n\nWhen I was a girl I went to Bretton about twice a year, and well I\nliked the visit. The house and its inmates specially suited me. The\nlarge peaceful rooms, the well-arranged furniture, the clear wide\nwindows, the balcony outside, looking down on a fine antique street,\nwhere Sundays and holidays seemed always to abide--so quiet was its\natmosphere, so clean its pavement--these things pleased me well.\n\nOne child in a household of grown people is usually made very much of,\nand in a quiet way I was a good deal taken notice of by Mrs. Bretton,\nwho had been left a widow, with one son, before I knew her; her\nhusband, a physician, having died while she was yet a young and\nhandsome woman.\n\nShe was not young, as I remember her, but she was still handsome, tall,\nwell-made, and though dark for an Englishwoman, yet wearing always the\nclearness of health in her brunette cheek, and its vivacity in a pair\nof fine, cheerful black eyes. People esteemed it a grievous pity that\nshe had not conferred her complexion on her son, whose eyes were\nblue--though, even in boyhood, very piercing--and the colour of his\nlong hair such as friends did not venture to specify, except as the sun\nshone on it, when they called it golden. He inherited the lines of his\nmother's features, however; also her good teeth, her stature (or the\npromise of her stature, for he was not yet full-grown), and, what was\nbetter, her health without flaw, and her spirits of that tone and\nequality which are better than a fortune to the possessor.\n\nIn the autumn of the year ---- I was staying at Bretton; my godmother\nhaving come in person to claim me of the kinsfolk with whom was at that\ntime fixed my permanent residence. I believe she then plainly saw\nevents coming, whose very shadow I scarce guessed; yet of which the\nfaint suspicion sufficed to impart unsettled sadness, and made me glad\nto change scene and society.\n\nTime always flowed smoothly for me at my godmother's side; not with\ntumultuous swiftness, but blandly, like the gliding of a full river\nthrough a plain. My visits to her resembled the sojourn of Christian\nand Hopeful beside a certain pleasant stream, with \"green trees on each\nbank, and meadows beautified with lilies all the year round.\" The charm\nof variety there was not, nor the excitement of incident; but I liked\npeace so well, and sought stimulus so little, that when the latter came\nI almost felt it a disturbance, and wished rather it had still held\naloof.\n\nOne day a letter was received of which the contents evidently caused\nMrs. Bretton surprise and some concern. I thought at first it was from\nhome, and trembled, expecting I know not what disastrous communication:\nto me, however, no reference was made, and the cloud seemed to pass.\n\nThe next day, on my return from a long walk, I found, as I entered my\nbedroom, an unexpected change. In, addition to my own French bed in its\nshady recess, appeared in a corner a small crib, draped with white; and\nin addition to my mahogany chest of drawers, I saw a tiny rosewood\nchest. I stood still, gazed, and considered.\n\n\"Of what are these things the signs and tokens?\" I asked. The answer\nwas obvious. \"A second guest is coming: Mrs. Bretton expects other\nvisitors.\"\n\nOn descending to dinner, explanations ensued. A little girl, I was\ntold, would shortly be my companion: the daughter of a friend and\ndistant relation of the late Dr. Bretton's. This little girl, it was\nadded, had recently lost her mother; though, indeed, Mrs. Bretton ere\nlong subjoined, the loss was not so great as might at first appear.\nMrs. Home (Home it seems was the name) had been a very pretty, but a\ngiddy, careless woman, who had neglected her child, and disappointed\nand disheartened her husband. So far from congenial had the union\nproved, that separation at last ensued--separation by mutual consent,\nnot after any legal process. Soon after this event, the lady having\nover-exerted herself at a ball, caught cold, took a fever, and died\nafter a very brief illness. Her husband, naturally a man of very\nsensitive feelings, and shocked inexpressibly by too sudden\ncommunication of the news, could hardly, it seems, now be persuaded but\nthat some over-severity on his part--some deficiency in patience and\nindulgence--had contributed to hasten her end. He had brooded over this\nidea till his spirits were seriously affected; the medical men insisted\non travelling being tried as a remedy, and meanwhile Mrs. Bretton had\noffered to take charge of his little girl. \"And I hope,\" added my\ngodmother in conclusion, \"the child will not be like her mamma; as\nsilly and frivolous a little flirt as ever sensible man was weak enough\nto marry. For,\" said she, \"Mr. Home _is_ a sensible man in his way,\nthough not very practical: he is fond of science, and lives half his\nlife in a laboratory trying experiments--a thing his butterfly wife\ncould neither comprehend nor endure; and indeed\" confessed my\ngodmother, \"I should not have liked it myself.\"\n\nIn answer to a question of mine, she further informed me that her late\nhusband used to say, Mr. Home had derived this scientific turn from a\nmaternal uncle, a French savant; for he came, it seems; of mixed French\nand Scottish origin, and had connections now living in France, of whom\nmore than one wrote _de_ before his name, and called himself noble.\n\nThat same evening at nine o'clock, a servant was despatched to meet the\ncoach by which our little visitor was expected. Mrs. Bretton and I sat\nalone in the drawing-room waiting her coming; John Graham Bretton being\nabsent on a visit to one of his schoolfellows who lived in the country.\nMy godmother read the evening paper while she waited; I sewed. It was a\nwet night; the rain lashed the panes, and the wind sounded angry and\nrestless.\n\n\"Poor child!\" said Mrs. Bretton from time to time. \"What weather for\nher journey! I wish she were safe here.\"\n\nA little before ten the door-bell announced Warren's return. No sooner\nwas the door opened than I ran down into the hall; there lay a trunk\nand some band-boxes, beside them stood a person like a nurse-girl, and\nat the foot of the staircase was Warren with a shawled bundle in his\narms.\n\n\"Is that the child?\" I asked.\n\n\"Yes, miss.\"\n\nI would have opened the shawl, and tried to get a peep at the face, but\nit was hastily turned from me to Warren's shoulder.\n\n\"Put me down, please,\" said a small voice when Warren opened the\ndrawing-room door, \"and take off this shawl,\" continued the speaker,\nextracting with its minute hand the pin, and with a sort of fastidious\nhaste doffing the clumsy wrapping. The creature which now appeared made\na deft attempt to fold the shawl; but the drapery was much too heavy\nand large to be sustained or wielded by those hands and arms. \"Give it\nto Harriet, please,\" was then the direction, \"and she can put it away.\"\nThis said, it turned and fixed its eyes on Mrs. Bretton.\n\n\"Come here, little dear,\" said that lady. \"Come and let me see if you\nare cold and damp: come and let me warm you at the fire.\"\n\nThe child advanced promptly. Relieved of her wrapping, she appeared\nexceedingly tiny; but was a neat, completely-fashioned little figure,\nlight, slight, and straight. Seated on my godmother's ample lap, she\nlooked a mere doll; her neck, delicate as wax, her head of silky curls,\nincreased, I thought, the resemblance.\n\nMrs. Bretton talked in little fond phrases as she chafed the child's\nhands, arms, and feet; first she was considered with a wistful gaze,\nbut soon a smile answered her. Mrs. Bretton was not generally a\ncaressing woman: even with her deeply-cherished son, her manner was\nrarely sentimental, often the reverse; but when the small stranger\nsmiled at her, she kissed it, asking, \"What is my little one's name?\"\n\n\"Missy.\"\n\n\"But besides Missy?\"\n\n\"Polly, papa calls her.\"\n\n\"Will Polly be content to live with me?\"\n\n\"Not _always_; but till papa comes home. Papa is gone away.\" She shook\nher head expressively.\n\n\"He will return to Polly, or send for her.\"\n\n\"Will he, ma'am? Do you know he will?\"\n\n\"I think so.\"\n\n\"But Harriet thinks not: at least not for a long while. He is ill.\"\n\nHer eyes filled. She drew her hand from Mrs. Bretton's and made a\nmovement to leave her lap; it was at first resisted, but she\nsaid--\"Please, I wish to go: I can sit on a stool.\"\n\nShe was allowed to slip down from the knee, and taking a footstool, she\ncarried it to a corner where the shade was deep, and there seated\nherself. Mrs. Bretton, though a commanding, and in grave matters even a\nperemptory woman, was often passive in trifles: she allowed the child\nher way. She said to me, \"Take no notice at present.\" But I did take\nnotice: I watched Polly rest her small elbow on her small knee, her\nhead on her hand; I observed her draw a square inch or two of\npocket-handkerchief from the doll-pocket of her doll-skirt, and then I\nheard her weep. Other children in grief or pain cry aloud, without\nshame or restraint; but this being wept: the tiniest occasional sniff\ntestified to her emotion. Mrs. Bretton did not hear it: which was quite\nas well. Ere long, a voice, issuing from the corner, demanded--\"May the\nbell be rung for Harriet!\"\n\nI rang; the nurse was summoned and came.\n\n\"Harriet, I must be put to bed,\" said her little mistress. \"You must\nask where my bed is.\"\n\nHarriet signified that she had already made that inquiry.\n\n\"Ask if you sleep with me, Harriet.\"\n\n\"No, Missy,\" said the nurse: \"you are to share this young lady's room,\"\ndesignating me.\n\nMissy did not leave her seat, but I saw her eyes seek me. After some\nminutes' silent scrutiny, she emerged from her corner.\n\n\"I wish you, ma'am, good night,\" said she to Mrs. Bretton; but she\npassed me mute.\n\n\"Good-night, Polly,\" I said.\n\n\"No need to say good-night, since we sleep in the same chamber,\" was\nthe reply, with which she vanished from the drawing-room. We heard\nHarriet propose to carry her up-stairs. \"No need,\" was again her\nanswer--\"no need, no need:\" and her small step toiled wearily up the\nstaircase.\n\nOn going to bed an hour afterwards, I found her still wide awake. She\nhad arranged her pillows so as to support her little person in a\nsitting posture: her hands, placed one within the other, rested quietly\non the sheet, with an old-fashioned calm most unchildlike. I abstained\nfrom speaking to her for some time, but just before extinguishing the\nlight, I recommended her to lie down.\n\n\"By and by,\" was the answer.\n\n\"But you will take cold, Missy.\"\n\nShe took some tiny article of raiment from the chair at her crib side,\nand with it covered her shoulders. I suffered her to do as she pleased.\nListening awhile in the darkness, I was aware that she still\nwept,--wept under restraint, quietly and cautiously.\n\nOn awaking with daylight, a trickling of water caught my ear. Behold!\nthere she was risen and mounted on a stool near the washstand, with\npains and difficulty inclining the ewer (which she could not lift) so\nas to pour its contents into the basin. It was curious to watch her as\nshe washed and dressed, so small, busy, and noiseless. Evidently she\nwas little accustomed to perform her own toilet; and the buttons,\nstrings, hooks and eyes, offered difficulties which she encountered\nwith a perseverance good to witness. She folded her night-dress, she\nsmoothed the drapery of her couch quite neatly; withdrawing into a\ncorner, where the sweep of the white curtain concealed her, she became\nstill. I half rose, and advanced my, head to see how she was occupied.\nOn her knees, with her forehead bent on her hands, I perceived that she\nwas praying.\n\nHer nurse tapped at the door. She started up.\n\n\"I am dressed, Harriet,\" said she; \"I have dressed myself, but I do not\nfeel neat. Make me neat!\"\n\n\"Why did you dress yourself, Missy?\"\n\n\"Hush! speak low, Harriet, for fear of waking _the girl_\" (meaning me,\nwho now lay with my eyes shut). \"I dressed myself to learn, against the\ntime you leave me.\"\n\n\"Do you want me to go?\"\n\n\"When you are cross, I have many a time wanted you to go, but not now.\nTie my sash straight; make my hair smooth, please.\"\n\n\"Your sash is straight enough. What a particular little body you are!\"\n\n\"It must be tied again. Please to tie it.\"\n\n\"There, then. When I am gone you must get that young lady to dress you.\"\n\n\"On no account.\"\n\n\"Why? She is a very nice young lady. I hope you mean to behave prettily\nto her, Missy, and not show your airs.\"\n\n\"She shall dress me on no account.\"\n\n\"Comical little thing!\"\n\n\"You are not passing the comb straight through my hair, Harriet; the\nline will be crooked.\"\n\n\"Ay, you are ill to please. Does that suit?\"\n\n\"Pretty well. Where should I go now that I am dressed?\"\n\n\"I will take you into the breakfast-room.\"\n\n\"Come, then.\"\n\nThey proceeded to the door. She stopped.\n\n\"Oh! Harriet, I wish this was papa's house! I don't know these people.\"\n\n\"Be a good child, Missy.\"\n\n\"I am good, but I ache here;\" putting her hand to her heart, and\nmoaning while she reiterated, \"Papa! papa!\"\n\nI roused myself and started up, to check this scene while it was yet\nwithin bounds.\n\n\"Say good-morning to the young lady,\" dictated Harriet. She said,\n\"Good-morning,\" and then followed her nurse from the room. Harriet\ntemporarily left that same day, to go to her own friends, who lived in\nthe neighbourhood.\n\nOn descending, I found Paulina (the child called herself Polly, but her\nfull name was Paulina Mary) seated at the breakfast-table, by Mrs.\nBretton's side; a mug of milk stood before her, a morsel of bread\nfilled her hand, which lay passive on the table-cloth: she was not\neating.\n\n\"How we shall conciliate this little creature,\" said Mrs. Bretton to\nme, \"I don't know: she tastes nothing, and by her looks, she has not\nslept.\"\n\nI expressed my confidence in the effects of time and kindness.\n\n\"If she were to take a fancy to anybody in the house, she would soon\nsettle; but not till then,\" replied Mrs. Bretton.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\nPAULINA.\n\n\nSome days elapsed, and it appeared she was not likely to take much of a\nfancy to anybody in the house. She was not exactly naughty or wilful:\nshe was far from disobedient; but an object less conducive to\ncomfort--to tranquillity even--than she presented, it was scarcely\npossible to have before one's eyes. She moped: no grown person could\nhave performed that uncheering business better; no furrowed face of\nadult exile, longing for Europe at Europe's antipodes, ever bore more\nlegibly the signs of home sickness than did her infant visage. She\nseemed growing old and unearthly. I, Lucy Snowe, plead guiltless of\nthat curse, an overheated and discursive imagination; but whenever,\nopening a room-door, I found her seated in a corner alone, her head in\nher pigmy hand, that room seemed to me not inhabited, but haunted.\n\nAnd again, when of moonlight nights, on waking, I beheld her figure,\nwhite and conspicuous in its night-dress, kneeling upright in bed, and\npraying like some Catholic or Methodist enthusiast--some precocious\nfanatic or untimely saint--I scarcely know what thoughts I had; but\nthey ran risk of being hardly more rational and healthy than that\nchild's mind must have been.\n\nI seldom caught a word of her prayers, for they were whispered low:\nsometimes, indeed, they were not whispered at all, but put up\nunuttered; such rare sentences as reached my ear still bore the burden,\n\"Papa; my dear papa!\" This, I perceived, was a one-idea'd nature;\nbetraying that monomaniac tendency I have ever thought the most\nunfortunate with which man or woman can be cursed.\n\nWhat might have been the end of this fretting, had it continued\nunchecked, can only be conjectured: it received, however, a sudden turn.\n\nOne afternoon, Mrs. Bretton, coaxing her from her usual station in a\ncorner, had lifted her into the window-seat, and, by way of occupying\nher attention, told her to watch the passengers and count how many\nladies should go down the street in a given time. She had sat\nlistlessly, hardly looking, and not counting, when--my eye being fixed\non hers--I witnessed in its iris and pupil a startling transfiguration.\nThese sudden, dangerous natures--_sensitive_ as they are called--offer\nmany a curious spectacle to those whom a cooler temperament has secured\nfrom participation in their angular vagaries. The fixed and heavy gaze\nswum, trembled, then glittered in fire; the small, overcast brow\ncleared; the trivial and dejected features lit up; the sad countenance\nvanished, and in its place appeared a sudden eagerness, an intense\nexpectancy. \"It _is_!\" were her words.\n\nLike a bird or a shaft, or any other swift thing, she was gone from the\nroom, How she got the house-door open I cannot tell; probably it might\nbe ajar; perhaps Warren was in the way and obeyed her behest, which\nwould be impetuous enough. I--watching calmly from the window--saw her,\nin her black frock and tiny braided apron (to pinafores she had an\nantipathy), dart half the length of the street; and, as I was on the\npoint of turning, and quietly announcing to Mrs. Bretton that the child\nwas run out mad, and ought instantly to be pursued, I saw her caught\nup, and rapt at once from my cool observation, and from the wondering\nstare of the passengers. A gentleman had done this good turn, and now,\ncovering her with his cloak, advanced to restore her to the house\nwhence he had seen her issue.\n\nI concluded he would leave her in a servant's charge and withdraw; but\nhe entered: having tarried a little while below, he came up-stairs.\n\nHis reception immediately explained that he was known to Mrs. Bretton.\nShe recognised him; she greeted him, and yet she was fluttered,\nsurprised, taken unawares. Her look and manner were even expostulatory;\nand in reply to these, rather than her words, he said,--\"I could not\nhelp it, madam: I found it impossible to leave the country without\nseeing with my own eyes how she settled.\"\n\n\"But you will unsettle her.\"\n\n\"I hope not. And how is papa's little Polly?\"\n\nThis question he addressed to Paulina, as he sat down and placed her\ngently on the ground before him.\n\n\"How is Polly's papa?\" was the reply, as she leaned on his knee, and\ngazed up into his face.\n\nIt was not a noisy, not a wordy scene: for that I was thankful; but it\nwas a scene of feeling too brimful, and which, because the cup did not\nfoam up high or furiously overflow, only oppressed one the more. On all\noccasions of vehement, unrestrained expansion, a sense of disdain or\nridicule comes to the weary spectator's relief; whereas I have ever\nfelt most burdensome that sort of sensibility which bends of its own\nwill, a giant slave under the sway of good sense.\n\nMr. Home was a stern-featured--perhaps I should rather say, a\nhard-featured man: his forehead was knotty, and his cheekbones were\nmarked and prominent. The character of his face was quite Scotch; but\nthere was feeling in his eye, and emotion in his now agitated\ncountenance. His northern accent in speaking harmonised with his\nphysiognomy. He was at once proud-looking and homely-looking. He laid\nhis hand on the child's uplifted head. She said--\"Kiss Polly.\"\n\nHe kissed her. I wished she would utter some hysterical cry, so that I\nmight get relief and be at ease. She made wonderfully little noise: she\nseemed to have got what she wanted--_all_ she wanted, and to be in a\ntrance of content. Neither in mien nor in features was this creature\nlike her sire, and yet she was of his strain: her mind had been filled\nfrom his, as the cup from the flagon.\n\nIndisputably, Mr. Home owned manly self-control, however he might\nsecretly feel on some matters. \"Polly,\" he said, looking down on his\nlittle girl, \"go into the hall; you will see papa's great-coat lying on\na chair; put your hand into the pockets, you will find a\npocket-handkerchief there; bring it to me.\"\n\nShe obeyed; went and returned deftly and nimbly. He was talking to Mrs.\nBretton when she came back, and she waited with the handkerchief in her\nhand. It was a picture, in its way, to see her, with her tiny stature,\nand trim, neat shape, standing at his knee. Seeing that he continued to\ntalk, apparently unconscious of her return, she took his hand, opened\nthe unresisting fingers, insinuated into them the handkerchief, and\nclosed them upon it one by one. He still seemed not to see or to feel\nher; but by-and-by, he lifted her to his knee; she nestled against him,\nand though neither looked at nor spoke to the other for an hour\nfollowing, I suppose both were satisfied.\n\nDuring tea, the minute thing's movements and behaviour gave, as usual,\nfull occupation to the eye. First she directed Warren, as he placed the\nchairs.\n\n\"Put papa's chair here, and mine near it, between papa and Mrs.\nBretton: _I_ must hand his tea.\"\n\nShe took her own seat, and beckoned with her hand to her father.\n\n\"Be near me, as if we were at home, papa.\"\n\nAnd again, as she intercepted his cup in passing, and would stir the\nsugar, and put in the cream herself, \"I always did it for you at home;\npapa: nobody could do it as well, not even your own self.\"\n\nThroughout the meal she continued her attentions: rather absurd they\nwere. The sugar-tongs were too wide for one of her hands, and she had\nto use both in wielding them; the weight of the silver cream-ewer, the\nbread-and-butter plates, the very cup and saucer, tasked her\ninsufficient strength and dexterity; but she would lift this, hand\nthat, and luckily contrived through it all to break nothing. Candidly\nspeaking, I thought her a little busy-body; but her father, blind like\nother parents, seemed perfectly content to let her wait on him, and\neven wonderfully soothed by her offices.\n\n\"She is my comfort!\" he could not help saying to Mrs. Bretton. That\nlady had her own \"comfort\" and nonpareil on a much larger scale, and,\nfor the moment, absent; so she sympathised with his foible.\n\nThis second \"comfort\" came on the stage in the course of the evening. I\nknew this day had been fixed for his return, and was aware that Mrs.\nBretton had been expecting him through all its hours. We were seated\nround the fire, after tea, when Graham joined our circle: I should\nrather say, broke it up--for, of course, his arrival made a bustle; and\nthen, as Mr. Graham was fasting, there was refreshment to be provided.\nHe and Mr. Home met as old acquaintance; of the little girl he took no\nnotice for a time.\n\nHis meal over, and numerous questions from his mother answered, he\nturned from the table to the hearth. Opposite where he had placed\nhimself was seated Mr. Home, and at his elbow, the child. When I say\n_child_ I use an inappropriate and undescriptive term--a term\nsuggesting any picture rather than that of the demure little person in\na mourning frock and white chemisette, that might just have fitted a\ngood-sized doll--perched now on a high chair beside a stand, whereon\nwas her toy work-box of white varnished wood, and holding in her hands\na shred of a handkerchief, which she was professing to hem, and at\nwhich she bored perseveringly with a needle, that in her fingers seemed\nalmost a skewer, pricking herself ever and anon, marking the cambric\nwith a track of minute red dots; occasionally starting when the\nperverse weapon--swerving from her control--inflicted a deeper stab\nthan usual; but still silent, diligent, absorbed, womanly.\n\nGraham was at that time a handsome, faithless-looking youth of sixteen.\nI say faithless-looking, not because he was really of a very perfidious\ndisposition, but because the epithet strikes me as proper to describe\nthe fair, Celtic (not Saxon) character of his good looks; his waved\nlight auburn hair, his supple symmetry, his smile frequent, and\ndestitute neither of fascination nor of subtlety (in no bad sense). A\nspoiled, whimsical boy he was in those days.\n\n\"Mother,\" he said, after eyeing the little figure before him in silence\nfor some time, and when the temporary absence of Mr. Home from the room\nrelieved him from the half-laughing bashfulness, which was all he knew\nof timidity---\"Mother, I see a young lady in the present society to\nwhom I have not been introduced.\"\n\n\"Mr. Home's little girl, I suppose you mean,\" said his mother.\n\n\"Indeed, ma'am,\" replied her son, \"I consider your expression of the\nleast ceremonious: Miss Home _I_ should certainly have said, in\nventuring to speak of the gentlewoman to whom I allude.\"\n\n\"Now, Graham, I will not have that child teased. Don't flatter yourself\nthat I shall suffer you to make her your butt.\"\n\n\"Miss Home,\" pursued Graham, undeterred by his mother's remonstrance,\n\"might I have the honour to introduce myself, since no one else seems\nwilling to render you and me that service? Your slave, John Graham\nBretton.\"\n\nShe looked at him; he rose and bowed quite gravely. She deliberately\nput down thimble, scissors, work; descended with precaution from her\nperch, and curtsying with unspeakable seriousness, said, \"How do you\ndo?\"\n\n\"I have the honour to be in fair health, only in some measure fatigued\nwith a hurried journey. I hope, ma'am, I see you well?\"\n\n\"Tor-rer-ably well,\" was the ambitious reply of the little woman and\nshe now essayed to regain her former elevation, but finding this could\nnot be done without some climbing and straining--a sacrifice of decorum\nnot to be thought of--and being utterly disdainful of aid in the\npresence of a strange young gentleman, she relinquished the high chair\nfor a low stool: towards that low stool Graham drew in his chair.\n\n\"I hope, ma'am, the present residence, my mother's house, appears to\nyou a convenient place of abode?\"\n\n\"Not par-tic-er-er-ly; I want to go home.\"\n\n\"A natural and laudable desire, ma'am; but one which, notwithstanding,\nI shall do my best to oppose. I reckon on being able to get out of you\na little of that precious commodity called amusement, which mamma and\nMistress Snowe there fail to yield me.\"\n\n\"I shall have to go with papa soon: I shall not stay long at your\nmother's.\"\n\n\"Yes, yes; you will stay with me, I am sure. I have a pony on which you\nshall ride, and no end of books with pictures to show you.\"\n\n\"Are _you_ going to live here now?\"\n\n\"I am. Does that please you? Do you like me?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"I think you queer.\"\n\n\"My face, ma'am?\"\n\n\"Your face and all about you: You have long red hair.\"\n\n\"Auburn hair, if you please: mamma, calls it auburn, or golden, and so\ndo all her friends. But even with my 'long red hair'\" (and he waved his\nmane with a sort of triumph--tawny he himself well knew that it was,\nand he was proud of the leonine hue), \"I cannot possibly be queerer\nthan is your ladyship.\"\n\n\"You call me queer?\"\n\n\"Certainly.\"\n\n(After a pause), \"I think I shall go to bed.\"\n\n\"A little thing like you ought to have been in bed many hours since;\nbut you probably sat up in the expectation of seeing me?\"\n\n\"No, indeed.\"\n\n\"You certainly wished to enjoy the pleasure of my society. You knew I\nwas coming home, and would wait to have a look at me.\"\n\n\"I sat up for papa, and not for you.\"\n\n\"Very good, Miss Home. I am going to be a favourite: preferred before\npapa soon, I daresay.\"\n\nShe wished Mrs. Bretton and myself good-night; she seemed hesitating\nwhether Graham's deserts entitled him to the same attention, when he\ncaught her up with one hand, and with that one hand held her poised\naloft above his head. She saw herself thus lifted up on high, in the\nglass over the fireplace. The suddenness, the freedom, the disrespect\nof the action were too much.\n\n\"For shame, Mr. Graham!\" was her indignant cry, \"put me down!\"--and\nwhen again on her feet, \"I wonder what you would think of me if I were\nto treat you in that way, lifting you with my hand\" (raising that\nmighty member) \"as Warren lifts the little cat.\"\n\nSo saying, she departed.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\nTHE PLAYMATES.\n\n\nMr. Home stayed two days. During his visit he could not be prevailed on\nto go out: he sat all day long by the fireside, sometimes silent,\nsometimes receiving and answering Mrs. Bretton's chat, which was just\nof the proper sort for a man in his morbid mood--not over-sympathetic,\nyet not too uncongenial, sensible; and even with a touch of the\nmotherly--she was sufficiently his senior to be permitted this touch.\n\nAs to Paulina, the child was at once happy and mute, busy and watchful.\nHer father frequently lifted her to his knee; she would sit there till\nshe felt or fancied he grew restless; then it was--\"Papa, put me down;\nI shall tire you with my weight.\"\n\nAnd the mighty burden slid to the rug, and establishing itself on\ncarpet or stool just at \"papa's\" feet, the white work-box and the\nscarlet-speckled handkerchief came into play. This handkerchief, it\nseems, was intended as a keepsake for \"papa,\" and must be finished\nbefore his departure; consequently the demand on the sempstress's\nindustry (she accomplished about a score of stitches in half-an-hour)\nwas stringent.\n\nThe evening, by restoring Graham to the maternal roof (his days were\npassed at school), brought us an accession of animation--a quality not\ndiminished by the nature of the scenes pretty sure to be enacted\nbetween him and Miss Paulina.\n\nA distant and haughty demeanour had been the result of the indignity\nput upon her the first evening of his arrival: her usual answer, when\nhe addressed her, was--\"I can't attend to you; I have other things to\nthink about.\" Being implored to state _what_ things:\n\n\"Business.\"\n\nGraham would endeavour to seduce her attention by opening his desk and\ndisplaying its multifarious contents: seals, bright sticks of wax,\npen-knives, with a miscellany of engravings--some of them gaily\ncoloured--which he had amassed from time to time. Nor was this powerful\ntemptation wholly unavailing: her eyes, furtively raised from her work,\ncast many a peep towards the writing-table, rich in scattered pictures.\nAn etching of a child playing with a Blenheim spaniel happened to\nflutter to the floor.\n\n\"Pretty little dog!\" said she, delighted.\n\nGraham prudently took no notice. Ere long, stealing from her corner,\nshe approached to examine the treasure more closely. The dog's great\neyes and long ears, and the child's hat and feathers, were irresistible.\n\n\"Nice picture!\" was her favourable criticism.\n\n\"Well--you may have it,\" said Graham.\n\nShe seemed to hesitate. The wish to possess was strong, but to accept\nwould be a compromise of dignity. No. She put it down and turned away.\n\n\"You won't have it, then, Polly?\"\n\n\"I would rather not, thank you.\"\n\n\"Shall I tell you what I will do with the picture if you refuse it?\"\n\nShe half turned to listen.\n\n\"Cut it into strips for lighting the taper.\"\n\n\"No!\"\n\n\"But I shall.\"\n\n\"Please--don't.\"\n\nGraham waxed inexorable on hearing the pleading tone; he took the\nscissors from his mother's work-basket.\n\n\"Here goes!\" said he, making a menacing flourish. \"Right through Fido's\nhead, and splitting little Harry's nose.\"\n\n\"No! _No!_ NO!\"\n\n\"Then come to me. Come quickly, or it is done.\"\n\nShe hesitated, lingered, but complied.\n\n\"Now, will you have it?\" he asked, as she stood before him.\n\n\"Please.\"\n\n\"But I shall want payment.\"\n\n\"How much?\"\n\n\"A kiss.\"\n\n\"Give the picture first into my hand.\"\n\nPolly, as she said this, looked rather faithless in her turn. Graham\ngave it. She absconded a debtor, darted to her father, and took refuge\non his knee. Graham rose in mimic wrath and followed. She buried her\nface in Mr. Home's waistcoat.\n\n\"Papa--papa--send him away!\"\n\n\"I'll not be sent away,\" said Graham.\n\nWith face still averted, she held out her hand to keep him off\n\n\"Then, I shall kiss the hand,\" said he; but that moment it became a\nminiature fist, and dealt him payment in a small coin that was not\nkisses.\n\nGraham--not failing in his way to be as wily as his little\nplaymate--retreated apparently quite discomfited; he flung himself on a\nsofa, and resting his head against the cushion, lay like one in pain.\nPolly, finding him silent, presently peeped at him. His eyes and face\nwere covered with his hands. She turned on her father's knee, and gazed\nat her foe anxiously and long. Graham groaned.\n\n\"Papa, what is the matter?\" she whispered.\n\n\"You had better ask him, Polly.\"\n\n\"Is he hurt?\" (groan second.)\n\n\"He makes a noise as if he were,\" said Mr. Home.\n\n\"Mother,\" suggested Graham, feebly, \"I think you had better send for\nthe doctor. Oh my eye!\" (renewed silence, broken only by sighs from\nGraham.)\n\n\"If I were to become blind----?\" suggested this last.\n\nHis chastiser could not bear the suggestion. She was beside him\ndirectly.\n\n\"Let me see your eye: I did not mean to touch it, only your mouth; and\nI did not think I hit so _very_ hard.\"\n\nSilence answered her. Her features worked,--\"I am sorry; I am sorry!\"\n\nThen succeeded emotion, faltering; weeping.\n\n\"Have done trying that child, Graham,\" said Mrs. Bretton.\n\n\"It is all nonsense, my pet,\" cried Mr. Home.\n\nAnd Graham once more snatched her aloft, and she again punished him;\nand while she pulled his lion's locks, termed him--\"The naughtiest,\nrudest, worst, untruest person that ever was.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nOn the morning of Mr. Home's departure, he and his daughter had some\nconversation in a window-recess by themselves; I heard part of it.\n\n\"Couldn't I pack my box and go with you, papa?\" she whispered earnestly.\n\nHe shook his head.\n\n\"Should I be a trouble to you?\"\n\n\"Yes, Polly.\"\n\n\"Because I am little?\"\n\n\"Because you are little and tender. It is only great, strong people\nthat should travel. But don't look sad, my little girl; it breaks my\nheart. Papa, will soon come back to his Polly.\"\n\n\"Indeed, indeed, I am not sad, scarcely at all.\"\n\n\"Polly would be sorry to give papa pain; would she not?\"\n\n\"Sorrier than sorry.\"\n\n\"Then Polly must be cheerful: not cry at parting; not fret afterwards.\nShe must look forward to meeting again, and try to be happy meanwhile.\nCan she do this?\"\n\n\"She will try.\"\n\n\"I see she will. Farewell, then. It is time to go.\"\n\n\"_Now_?--just _now_?\n\n\"Just now.\"\n\nShe held up quivering lips. Her father sobbed, but she, I remarked, did\nnot. Having put her down, he shook hands with the rest present, and\ndeparted.\n\nWhen the street-door closed, she dropped on her knees at a chair with a\ncry--\"Papa!\"\n\nIt was low and long; a sort of \"Why hast thou forsaken me?\" During an\nensuing space of some minutes, I perceived she endured agony. She went\nthrough, in that brief interval of her infant life, emotions such as\nsome never feel; it was in her constitution: she would have more of\nsuch instants if she lived. Nobody spoke. Mrs. Bretton, being a mother,\nshed a tear or two. Graham, who was writing, lifted up his eyes and\ngazed at her. I, Lucy Snowe, was calm.\n\nThe little creature, thus left unharassed, did for herself what none\nother could do--contended with an intolerable feeling; and, ere long,\nin some degree, repressed it. That day she would accept solace from\nnone; nor the next day: she grew more passive afterwards.\n\nOn the third evening, as she sat on the floor, worn and quiet, Graham,\ncoming in, took her up gently, without a word. She did not resist: she\nrather nestled in his arms, as if weary. When he sat down, she laid her\nhead against him; in a few minutes she slept; he carried her upstairs\nto bed. I was not surprised that, the next morning, the first thing she\ndemanded was, \"Where is Mr. Graham?\"\n\nIt happened that Graham was not coming to the breakfast-table; he had\nsome exercises to write for that morning's class, and had requested his\nmother to send a cup of tea into the study. Polly volunteered to carry\nit: she must be busy about something, look after somebody. The cup was\nentrusted to her; for, if restless, she was also careful. As the study\nwas opposite the breakfast-room, the doors facing across the passage,\nmy eye followed her.\n\n\"What are you doing?\" she asked, pausing on the threshold.\n\n\"Writing,\" said Graham.\n\n\"Why don't you come to take breakfast with your mamma?\"\n\n\"Too busy.\"\n\n\"Do you want any breakfast?\"\n\n\"Of course.\"\n\n\"There, then.\"\n\nAnd she deposited the cup on the carpet, like a jailor putting a\nprisoner's pitcher of water through his cell-door, and retreated.\nPresently she returned.\n\n\"What will you have besides tea--what to eat?\"\n\n\"Anything good. Bring me something particularly nice; that's a kind\nlittle woman.\"\n\nShe came back to Mrs. Bretton.\n\n\"Please, ma'am, send your boy something good.\"\n\n\"You shall choose for him, Polly; what shall my boy have?\"\n\nShe selected a portion of whatever was best on the table; and, ere\nlong, came back with a whispered request for some marmalade, which was\nnot there. Having got it, however, (for Mrs. Bretton refused the pair\nnothing), Graham was shortly after heard lauding her to the skies;\npromising that, when he had a house of his own, she should be his\nhousekeeper, and perhaps--if she showed any culinary genius--his cook;\nand, as she did not return, and I went to look after her, I found\nGraham and her breakfasting _tête-à-tête_--she standing at his elbow,\nand sharing his fare: excepting the marmalade, which she delicately\nrefused to touch, lest, I suppose, it should appear that she had\nprocured it as much on her own account as his. She constantly evinced\nthese nice perceptions and delicate instincts.\n\nThe league of acquaintanceship thus struck up was not hastily\ndissolved; on the contrary, it appeared that time and circumstances\nserved rather to cement than loosen it. Ill-assimilated as the two were\nin age, sex, pursuits, &c., they somehow found a great deal to say to\neach other. As to Paulina, I observed that her little character never\nproperly came out, except with young Bretton. As she got settled, and\naccustomed to the house, she proved tractable enough with Mrs. Bretton;\nbut she would sit on a stool at that lady's feet all day long, learning\nher task, or sewing, or drawing figures with a pencil on a slate, and\nnever kindling once to originality, or showing a single gleam of the\npeculiarities of her nature. I ceased to watch her under such\ncircumstances: she was not interesting. But the moment Graham's knock\nsounded of an evening, a change occurred; she was instantly at the head\nof the staircase. Usually her welcome was a reprimand or a threat.\n\n\"You have not wiped your shoes properly on the mat. I shall tell your\nmamma.\"\n\n\"Little busybody! Are you there?\"\n\n\"Yes--and you can't reach me: I am higher up than you\" (peeping between\nthe rails of the banister; she could not look over them).\n\n\"Polly!\"\n\n\"My dear boy!\" (such was one of her terms for him, adopted in imitation\nof his mother.)\n\n\"I am fit to faint with fatigue,\" declared Graham, leaning against the\npassage-wall in seeming exhaustion. \"Dr. Digby\" (the headmaster) \"has\nquite knocked me up with overwork. Just come down and help me to carry\nup my books.\"\n\n\"Ah! you're cunning!\"\n\n\"Not at all, Polly--it is positive fact. I'm as weak as a rush. Come\ndown.\"\n\n\"Your eyes are quiet like the cat's, but you'll spring.\"\n\n\"Spring? Nothing of the kind: it isn't in me. Come down.\"\n\n\"Perhaps I may--if you'll promise not to touch--not to snatch me up,\nand not to whirl me round.\"\n\n\"I? I couldn't do it!\" (sinking into a chair.)\n\n\"Then put the books down on the first step, and go three yards off\"\n\nThis being done, she descended warily, and not taking her eyes from the\nfeeble Graham. Of course her approach always galvanized him to new and\nspasmodic life: the game of romps was sure to be exacted. Sometimes she\nwould be angry; sometimes the matter was allowed to pass smoothly, and\nwe could hear her say as she led him up-stairs: \"Now, my dear boy, come\nand take your tea--I am sure you must want something.\"\n\nIt was sufficiently comical to observe her as she sat beside Graham,\nwhile he took that meal. In his absence she was a still personage, but\nwith him the most officious, fidgety little body possible. I often\nwished she would mind herself and be tranquil; but no--herself was\nforgotten in him: he could not be sufficiently well waited on, nor\ncarefully enough looked after; he was more than the Grand Turk in her\nestimation. She would gradually assemble the various plates before him,\nand, when one would suppose all he could possibly desire was within his\nreach, she would find out something else: \"Ma'am,\" she would whisper to\nMrs. Bretton,--\"perhaps your son would like a little cake--sweet cake,\nyou know--there is some in there\" (pointing to the sideboard cupboard).\nMrs. Bretton, as a rule, disapproved of sweet cake at tea, but still\nthe request was urged,--\"One little piece--only for him--as he goes to\nschool: girls--such as me and Miss Snowe--don't need treats, but _he_\nwould like it.\"\n\nGraham did like it very well, and almost always got it. To do him\njustice, he would have shared his prize with her to whom he owed it;\nbut that was never allowed: to insist, was to ruffle her for the\nevening. To stand by his knee, and monopolize his talk and notice, was\nthe reward she wanted--not a share of the cake.\n\nWith curious readiness did she adapt herself to such themes as\ninterested him. One would have thought the child had no mind or life of\nher own, but must necessarily live, move, and have her being in\nanother: now that her father was taken from her, she nestled to Graham,\nand seemed to feel by his feelings: to exist in his existence. She\nlearned the names of all his schoolfellows in a trice: she got by heart\ntheir characters as given from his lips: a single description of an\nindividual seemed to suffice. She never forgot, or confused identities:\nshe would talk with him the whole evening about people she had never\nseen, and appear completely to realise their aspect, manners, and\ndispositions. Some she learned to mimic: an under-master, who was an\naversion of young Bretton's, had, it seems, some peculiarities, which\nshe caught up in a moment from Graham's representation, and rehearsed\nfor his amusement; this, however, Mrs. Bretton disapproved and forbade.\n\nThe pair seldom quarrelled; yet once a rupture occurred, in which her\nfeelings received a severe shock.\n\nOne day Graham, on the occasion of his birthday, had some friends--lads\nof his own age--to dine with him. Paulina took much interest in the\ncoming of these friends; she had frequently heard of them; they were\namongst those of whom Graham oftenest spoke. After dinner, the young\ngentlemen were left by themselves in the dining-room, where they soon\nbecame very merry and made a good deal of noise. Chancing to pass\nthrough the hall, I found Paulina sitting alone on the lowest step of\nthe staircase, her eyes fixed on the glossy panels of the dining-room\ndoor, where the reflection of the hall-lamp was shining; her little\nbrow knit in anxious, meditation.\n\n\"What are you thinking about, Polly?\"\n\n\"Nothing particular; only I wish that door was clear glass--that I\nmight see through it. The boys seem very cheerful, and I want to go to\nthem: I want to be with Graham, and watch his friends.\"\n\n\"What hinders you from going?\"\n\n\"I feel afraid: but may I try, do you think? May I knock at the door,\nand ask to be let in?\"\n\nI thought perhaps they might not object to have her as a playmate, and\ntherefore encouraged the attempt.\n\nShe knocked--too faintly at first to be heard, but on a second essay\nthe door unclosed; Graham's head appeared; he looked in high spirits,\nbut impatient.\n\n\"What do you want, you little monkey?\"\n\n\"To come to you.\"\n\n\"Do you indeed? As if I would be troubled with you! Away to mamma and\nMistress Snowe, and tell them to put you to bed.\" The auburn head and\nbright flushed face vanished,--the door shut peremptorily. She was\nstunned.\n\n\"Why does he speak so? He never spoke so before,\" she said in\nconsternation. \"What have I done?\"\n\n\"Nothing, Polly; but Graham is busy with his school-friends.\"\n\n\"And he likes them better than me! He turns me away now they are here!\"\n\nI had some thoughts of consoling her, and of improving the occasion by\ninculcating some of those maxims of philosophy whereof I had ever a\ntolerable stock ready for application. She stopped me, however, by\nputting her fingers in her ears at the first words I uttered, and then\nlying down on the mat with her face against the flags; nor could either\nWarren or the cook root her from that position: she was allowed to lie,\ntherefore, till she chose to rise of her own accord.\n\nGraham forgot his impatience the same evening, and would have accosted\nher as usual when his friends were gone, but she wrenched herself from\nhis hand; her eye quite flashed; she would not bid him good-night; she\nwould not look in his face. The next day he treated her with\nindifference, and she grew like a bit of marble. The day after, he\nteased her to know what was the matter; her lips would not unclose. Of\ncourse he could not feel real anger on his side: the match was too\nunequal in every way; he tried soothing and coaxing. \"Why was she so\nangry? What had he done?\" By-and-by tears answered him; he petted her,\nand they were friends. But she was one on whom such incidents were not\nlost: I remarked that never after this rebuff did she seek him, or\nfollow him, or in any way solicit his notice. I told her once to carry\na book or some other article to Graham when he was shut up in his study.\n\n\"I shall wait till he comes out,\" said she, proudly; \"I don't choose to\ngive him the trouble of rising to open the door.\"\n\nYoung Bretton had a favourite pony on which he often rode out; from the\nwindow she always watched his departure and return. It was her ambition\nto be permitted to have a ride round the courtyard on this pony; but\nfar be it from her to ask such a favour. One day she descended to the\nyard to watch him dismount; as she leaned against the gate, the longing\nwish for the indulgence of a ride glittered in her eye.\n\n\"Come, Polly, will you have a canter?\" asked Graham, half carelessly.\n\nI suppose she thought he was _too_ careless.\n\n\"No, thank you,\" said she, turning away with the utmost coolness.\n\n\"You'd better,\" pursued he. \"You will like it, I am sure.\"\n\n\"Don't think I should care a fig about it,\" was the response.\n\n\"That is not true. You told Lucy Snowe you longed to have a ride.\"\n\n\"Lucy Snowe is a _tatter_-box,\" I heard her say (her imperfect\narticulation was the least precocious thing she had about her); and\nwith this; she walked into the house.\n\nGraham, coming in soon after, observed to his mother,--\"Mamma, I\nbelieve that creature is a changeling: she is a perfect cabinet of\noddities; but I should be dull without her: she amuses me a great deal\nmore than you or Lucy Snowe.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\"Miss Snowe,\" said Paulina to me (she had now got into the habit of\noccasionally chatting with me when we were alone in our room at night),\n\"do you know on what day in the week I like Graham best?\"\n\n\"How can I possibly know anything so strange? Is there one day out of\nthe seven when he is otherwise than on the other six?\"\n\n\"To be sure! Can't you see? Don't you know? I find him the most\nexcellent on a Sunday; then we have him the whole day, and he is quiet,\nand, in the evening, _so_ kind.\"\n\nThis observation was not altogether groundless: going to church, &c.,\nkept Graham quiet on the Sunday, and the evening he generally dedicated\nto a serene, though rather indolent sort of enjoyment by the parlour\nfireside. He would take possession of the couch, and then he would call\nPolly.\n\nGraham was a boy not quite as other boys are; all his delight did not\nlie in action: he was capable of some intervals of contemplation; he\ncould take a pleasure too in reading, nor was his selection of books\nwholly indiscriminate: there were glimmerings of characteristic\npreference, and even of instinctive taste in the choice. He rarely, it\nis true, remarked on what he read, but I have seen him sit and think of\nit.\n\nPolly, being near him, kneeling on a little cushion or the carpet, a\nconversation would begin in murmurs, not inaudible, though subdued. I\ncaught a snatch of their tenor now and then; and, in truth, some\ninfluence better and finer than that of every day, seemed to soothe\nGraham at such times into no ungentle mood.\n\n\"Have you learned any hymns this week, Polly?\"\n\n\"I have learned a very pretty one, four verses long. Shall I say it?\"\n\n\"Speak nicely, then: don't be in a hurry.\"\n\nThe hymn being rehearsed, or rather half-chanted, in a little singing\nvoice, Graham would take exceptions at the manner, and proceed to give\na lesson in recitation. She was quick in learning, apt in imitating;\nand, besides, her pleasure was to please Graham: she proved a ready\nscholar. To the hymn would succeed some reading--perhaps a chapter in\nthe Bible; correction was seldom required here, for the child could\nread any simple narrative chapter very well; and, when the subject was\nsuch as she could understand and take an interest in, her expression\nand emphasis were something remarkable. Joseph cast into the pit; the\ncalling of Samuel; Daniel in the lions' den;--these were favourite\npassages: of the first especially she seemed perfectly to feel the\npathos.\n\n\"Poor Jacob!\" she would sometimes say, with quivering lips. \"How he\nloved his son Joseph! As much,\" she once added--\"as much, Graham, as I\nlove you: if you were to die\" (and she re-opened the book, sought the\nverse, and read), \"I should refuse to be comforted, and go down into\nthe grave to you mourning.\"\n\nWith these words she gathered Graham in her little arms, drawing his\nlong-tressed head towards her. The action, I remember, struck me as\nstrangely rash; exciting the feeling one might experience on seeing an\nanimal dangerous by nature, and but half-tamed by art, too heedlessly\nfondled. Not that I feared Graham would hurt, or very roughly check\nher; but I thought she ran risk of incurring such a careless, impatient\nrepulse, as would be worse almost to her than a blow. On: the whole,\nhowever, these demonstrations were borne passively: sometimes even a\nsort of complacent wonder at her earnest partiality would smile not\nunkindly in his eyes. Once he said:--\"You like me almost as well as if\nyou were my little sister, Polly.\"\n\n\"Oh! I _do_ like you,\" said she; \"I _do_ like you very much.\"\n\nI was not long allowed the amusement of this study of character. She\nhad scarcely been at Bretton two months, when a letter came from Mr.\nHome, signifying that he was now settled amongst his maternal kinsfolk\non the Continent; that, as England was become wholly distasteful to\nhim, he had no thoughts of returning hither, perhaps, for years; and\nthat he wished his little girl to join him immediately.\n\n\"I wonder how she will take this news?\" said Mrs. Bretton, when she had\nread the letter. _I_ wondered, too, and I took upon myself to\ncommunicate it.\n\nRepairing to the drawing-room--in which calm and decorated apartment\nshe was fond of being alone, and where she could be implicitly trusted,\nfor she fingered nothing, or rather soiled nothing she fingered--I\nfound her seated, like a little Odalisque, on a couch, half shaded by\nthe drooping draperies of the window near. She seemed happy; all her\nappliances for occupation were about her; the white wood workbox, a\nshred or two of muslin, an end or two of ribbon collected for\nconversion into doll-millinery. The doll, duly night-capped and\nnight-gowned, lay in its cradle; she was rocking it to sleep, with an\nair of the most perfect faith in its possession of sentient and\nsomnolent faculties; her eyes, at the same time, being engaged with a\npicture-book, which lay open on her lap.\n\n\"Miss Snowe,\" said she in a whisper, \"this is a wonderful book.\nCandace\" (the doll, christened by Graham; for, indeed, its begrimed\ncomplexion gave it much of an Ethiopian aspect)--\"Candace is asleep\nnow, and I may tell you about it; only we must both speak low, lest she\nshould waken. This book was given me by Graham; it tells about distant\ncountries, a long, long way from England, which no traveller can reach\nwithout sailing thousands of miles over the sea. Wild men live in these\ncountries, Miss Snowe, who wear clothes different from ours: indeed,\nsome of them wear scarcely any clothes, for the sake of being cool, you\nknow; for they have very hot weather. Here is a picture of thousands\ngathered in a desolate place--a plain, spread with sand--round a man in\nblack,--a good, _good_ Englishman--a missionary, who is preaching to\nthem under a palm-tree.\" (She showed a little coloured cut to that\neffect.) \"And here are pictures\" (she went on) \"more stranger\" (grammar\nwas occasionally forgotten) \"than that. There is the wonderful Great\nWall of China; here is a Chinese lady, with a foot littler than mine.\nThere is a wild horse of Tartary; and here, most strange of all--is a\nland of ice and snow, without green fields, woods, or gardens. In this\nland, they found some mammoth bones: there are no mammoths now. You\ndon't know what it was; but I can tell you, because Graham told me. A\nmighty, goblin creature, as high as this room, and as long as the hall;\nbut not a fierce, flesh-eating thing, Graham thinks. He believes, if I\nmet one in a forest, it would not kill me, unless I came quite in its\nway; when it would trample me down amongst the bushes, as I might tread\non a grasshopper in a hayfield without knowing it.\"\n\nThus she rambled on.\n\n\"Polly,\" I interrupted, \"should you like to travel?\"\n\n\"Not just yet,\" was the prudent answer; \"but perhaps in twenty years,\nwhen I am grown a woman, as tall as Mrs. Bretton, I may travel with\nGraham. We intend going to Switzerland, and climbing Mount Blanck; and\nsome day we shall sail over to South America, and walk to the top of\nKim-kim-borazo.\"\n\n\"But how would you like to travel now, if your papa was with you?\"\n\nHer reply--not given till after a pause--evinced one of those\nunexpected turns of temper peculiar to her.\n\n\"Where is the good of talking in that silly way?\" said she. \"Why do you\nmention papa? What is papa to you? I was just beginning to be happy,\nand not think about him so much; and there it will be all to do over\nagain!\"\n\nHer lip trembled. I hastened to disclose the fact of a letter having\nbeen received, and to mention the directions given that she and Harriet\nshould immediately rejoin this dear papa. \"Now, Polly, are you not\nglad?\" I added.\n\nShe made no answer. She dropped her book and ceased to rock her doll;\nshe gazed at me with gravity and earnestness.\n\n\"Shall not you like to go to papa?\"\n\n\"Of course,\" she said at last in that trenchant manner she usually\nemployed in speaking to me; and which was quite different from that she\nused with Mrs. Bretton, and different again from the one dedicated to\nGraham. I wished to ascertain more of what she thought but no: she\nwould converse no more. Hastening to Mrs. Bretton, she questioned her,\nand received the confirmation of my news. The weight and importance of\nthese tidings kept her perfectly serious the whole day. In the evening,\nat the moment Graham's entrance was heard below, I found her at my\nside. She began to arrange a locket-ribbon about my neck, she displaced\nand replaced the comb in my hair; while thus busied, Graham entered.\n\n\"Tell him by-and-by,\" she whispered; \"tell him I am going.\"\n\nIn the course of tea-time I made the desired communication. Graham, it\nchanced, was at that time greatly preoccupied about some school-prize,\nfor which he was competing. The news had to be told twice before it\ntook proper hold of his attention, and even then he dwelt on it but\nmomently.\n\n\"Polly going? What a pity! Dear little Mousie, I shall be sorry to lose\nher: she must come to us again, mamma.\"\n\nAnd hastily swallowing his tea, he took a candle and a small table to\nhimself and his books, and was soon buried in study.\n\n\"Little Mousie\" crept to his side, and lay down on the carpet at his\nfeet, her face to the floor; mute and motionless she kept that post and\nposition till bed-time. Once I saw Graham--wholly unconscious of her\nproximity--push her with his restless foot. She receded an inch or two.\nA minute after one little hand stole out from beneath her face, to\nwhich it had been pressed, and softly caressed the heedless foot. When\nsummoned by her nurse she rose and departed very obediently, having bid\nus all a subdued good-night.\n\nI will not say that I dreaded going to bed, an hour later; yet I\ncertainly went with an unquiet anticipation that I should find that\nchild in no peaceful sleep. The forewarning of my instinct was but\nfulfilled, when I discovered her, all cold and vigilant, perched like a\nwhite bird on the outside of the bed. I scarcely knew how to accost\nher; she was not to be managed like another child. She, however,\naccosted me. As I closed the door, and put the light on the\ndressing-table, she turned tome with these words:--\"I cannot--_cannot_\nsleep; and in this way I cannot--_cannot_ live!\"\n\nI asked what ailed her.\n\n\"Dedful miz-er-y!\" said she, with her piteous lisp.\n\n\"Shall I call Mrs. Bretton?\"\n\n\"That is downright silly,\" was her impatient reply; and, indeed, I well\nknew that if she had heard Mrs. Bretton's foot approach, she would have\nnestled quiet as a mouse under the bedclothes. Whilst lavishing her\neccentricities regardlessly before me--for whom she professed scarcely\nthe semblance of affection--she never showed my godmother one glimpse\nof her inner self: for her, she was nothing but a docile, somewhat\nquaint little maiden. I examined her; her cheek was crimson; her\ndilated eye was both troubled and glowing, and painfully restless: in\nthis state it was obvious she must not be left till morning. I guessed\nhow the case stood.\n\n\"Would you like to bid Graham good-night again?\" I asked. \"He is not\ngone to his room yet.\"\n\nShe at once stretched out her little arms to be lifted. Folding a shawl\nround her, I carried her back to the drawing-room. Graham was just\ncoming out.\n\n\"She cannot sleep without seeing and speaking to you once more,\" I\nsaid. \"She does not like the thought of leaving you.\"\n\n\"I've spoilt her,\" said he, taking her from me with good humour, and\nkissing her little hot face and burning lips. \"Polly, you care for me\nmore than for papa, now--\"\n\n\"I _do_ care for you, but you care nothing for me,\" was her whisper.\n\nShe was assured to the contrary, again kissed, restored to me, and I\ncarried her away; but, alas! not soothed.\n\nWhen I thought she could listen to me, I said--\"Paulina, you should not\ngrieve that Graham does not care for you so much as you care for him.\nIt must be so.\"\n\nHer lifted and questioning eyes asked why.\n\n\"Because he is a boy and you are a girl; he is sixteen and you are only\nsix; his nature is strong and gay, and yours is otherwise.\"\n\n\"But I love him so much; he _should_ love me a little.\"\n\n\"He does. He is fond of you. You are his favourite.\"\n\n\"Am I Graham's favourite?\"\n\n\"Yes, more than any little child I know.\"\n\nThe assurance soothed her; she smiled in her anguish.\n\n\"But,\" I continued, \"don't fret, and don't expect too much of him, or\nelse he will feel you to be troublesome, and then it is all over.\"\n\n\"All over!\" she echoed softly; \"then I'll be good. I'll try to be good,\nLucy Snowe.\"\n\nI put her to bed.\n\n\"Will he forgive me this one time?\" she asked, as I undressed myself. I\nassured her that he would; that as yet he was by no means alienated;\nthat she had only to be careful for the future.\n\n\"There is no future,\" said she: \"I am going. Shall I ever--ever--see\nhim again, after I leave England?\"\n\nI returned an encouraging response. The candle being extinguished, a\nstill half-hour elapsed. I thought her asleep, when the little white\nshape once more lifted itself in the crib, and the small voice\nasked--\"Do you like Graham, Miss Snowe?\"\n\n\"Like him! Yes, a little.\"\n\n\"Only a little! Do you like him as I do?\"\n\n\"I think not. No: not as you do.\"\n\n\"Do you like him much?\"\n\n\"I told you I liked him a little. Where is the use of caring for him so\nvery much: he is full of faults.\"\n\n\"Is he?\"\n\n\"All boys are.\"\n\n\"More than girls?\"\n\n\"Very likely. Wise people say it is folly to think anybody perfect; and\nas to likes and dislikes, we should be friendly to all, and worship\nnone.\"\n\n\"Are you a wise person?\"\n\n\"I mean to try to be so. Go to sleep.\"\n\n\"I _cannot_ go to sleep. Have you no pain just here\" (laying her elfish\nhand on her elfish breast,) \"when you think _you_ shall have to leave\nGraham; for _your_ home is not here?\"\n\n\"Surely, Polly,\" said I, \"you should not feel so much pain when you are\nvery soon going to rejoin your father. Have you forgotten him? Do you\nno longer wish to be his little companion?\"\n\nDead silence succeeded this question.\n\n\"Child, lie down and sleep,\" I urged.\n\n\"My bed is cold,\" said she. \"I can't warm it.\"\n\nI saw the little thing shiver. \"Come to me,\" I said, wishing, yet\nscarcely hoping, that she would comply: for she was a most strange,\ncapricious, little creature, and especially whimsical with me. She\ncame, however, instantly, like a small ghost gliding over the carpet. I\ntook her in. She was chill: I warmed her in my arms. She trembled\nnervously; I soothed her. Thus tranquillized and cherished she at last\nslumbered.\n\n\"A very unique child,\" thought I, as I viewed her sleeping countenance\nby the fitful moonlight, and cautiously and softly wiped her glittering\neyelids and her wet cheeks with my handkerchief. \"How will she get\nthrough this world, or battle with this life? How will she bear the\nshocks and repulses, the humiliations and desolations, which books, and\nmy own reason, tell me are prepared for all flesh?\"\n\nShe departed the next day; trembling like a leaf when she took leave,\nbut exercising self-command.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\n\nMISS MARCHMONT.\n\n\nOn quitting Bretton, which I did a few weeks after Paulina's\ndeparture--little thinking then I was never again to visit it; never\nmore to tread its calm old streets--I betook myself home, having been\nabsent six months. It will be conjectured that I was of course glad to\nreturn to the bosom of my kindred. Well! the amiable conjecture does no\nharm, and may therefore be safely left uncontradicted. Far from saying\nnay, indeed, I will permit the reader to picture me, for the next eight\nyears, as a bark slumbering through halcyon weather, in a harbour still\nas glass--the steersman stretched on the little deck, his face up to\nheaven, his eyes closed: buried, if you will, in a long prayer. A great\nmany women and girls are supposed to pass their lives something in that\nfashion; why not I with the rest?\n\nPicture me then idle, basking, plump, and happy, stretched on a\ncushioned deck, warmed with constant sunshine, rocked by breezes\nindolently soft. However, it cannot be concealed that, in that case, I\nmust somehow have fallen overboard, or that there must have been wreck\nat last. I too well remember a time--a long time--of cold, of danger,\nof contention. To this hour, when I have the nightmare, it repeats the\nrush and saltness of briny waves in my throat, and their icy pressure\non my lungs. I even know there was a storm, and that not of one hour\nnor one day. For many days and nights neither sun nor stars appeared;\nwe cast with our own hands the tackling out of the ship; a heavy\ntempest lay on us; all hope that we should be saved was taken away. In\nfine, the ship was lost, the crew perished.\n\nAs far as I recollect, I complained to no one about these troubles.\nIndeed, to whom could I complain? Of Mrs. Bretton I had long lost\nsight. Impediments, raised by others, had, years ago, come in the way\nof our intercourse, and cut it off. Besides, time had brought changes\nfor her, too: the handsome property of which she was left guardian for\nher son, and which had been chiefly invested in some joint-stock\nundertaking, had melted, it was said, to a fraction of its original\namount. Graham, I learned from incidental rumours, had adopted a\nprofession; both he and his mother were gone from Bretton, and were\nunderstood to be now in London. Thus, there remained no possibility of\ndependence on others; to myself alone could I look. I know not that I\nwas of a self-reliant or active nature; but self-reliance and exertion\nwere forced upon me by circumstances, as they are upon thousands\nbesides; and when Miss Marchmont, a maiden lady of our neighbourhood,\nsent for me, I obeyed her behest, in the hope that she might assign me\nsome task I could undertake.\n\nMiss Marchmont was a woman of fortune, and lived in a handsome\nresidence; but she was a rheumatic cripple, impotent, foot and hand,\nand had been so for twenty years. She always sat upstairs: her\ndrawing-room adjoined her bed-room. I had often heard of Miss\nMarchmont, and of her peculiarities (she had the character of being\nvery eccentric), but till now had never seen her. I found her a\nfurrowed, grey-haired woman, grave with solitude, stern with long\naffliction, irritable also, and perhaps exacting. It seemed that a\nmaid, or rather companion, who had waited on her for some years, was\nabout to be married; and she, hearing of my bereaved lot, had sent for\nme, with the idea that I might supply this person's place. She made the\nproposal to me after tea, as she and I sat alone by her fireside.\n\n\"It will not be an easy life;\" said she candidly, \"for I require a good\ndeal of attention, and you will be much confined; yet, perhaps,\ncontrasted with the existence you have lately led, it may appear\ntolerable.\"\n\nI reflected. Of course it ought to appear tolerable, I argued inwardly;\nbut somehow, by some strange fatality, it would not. To live here, in\nthis close room, the watcher of suffering--sometimes, perhaps, the butt\nof temper--through all that was to come of my youth; while all that was\ngone had passed, to say the least, not blissfully! My heart sunk one\nmoment, then it revived; for though I forced myself to _realise_ evils,\nI think I was too prosaic to _idealise_, and consequently to exaggerate\nthem.\n\n\"My doubt is whether I should have strength for the undertaking,\" I\nobserved.\n\n\"That is my own scruple,\" said she; \"for you look a worn-out creature.\"\n\nSo I did. I saw myself in the glass, in my mourning-dress, a faded,\nhollow-eyed vision. Yet I thought little of the wan spectacle. The\nblight, I believed, was chiefly external: I still felt life at life's\nsources.\n\n\"What else have you in view--anything?\"\n\n\"Nothing clear as yet: but I may find something.\"\n\n\"So you imagine: perhaps you are right. Try your own method, then; and\nif it does not succeed, test mine. The chance I have offered shall be\nleft open to you for three months.\"\n\nThis was kind. I told her so, and expressed my gratitude. While I was\nspeaking, a paroxysm of pain came on. I ministered to her; made the\nnecessary applications, according to her directions, and, by the time\nshe was relieved, a sort of intimacy was already formed between us. I,\nfor my part, had learned from the manner in which she bore this attack,\nthat she was a firm, patient woman (patient under physical pain, though\nsometimes perhaps excitable under long mental canker); and she, from\nthe good-will with which I succoured her, discovered that she could\ninfluence my sympathies (such as they were). She sent for me the next\nday; for five or six successive days she claimed my company. Closer\nacquaintance, while it developed both faults and eccentricities,\nopened, at the same time, a view of a character I could respect. Stern\nand even morose as she sometimes was, I could wait on her and sit\nbeside her with that calm which always blesses us when we are sensible\nthat our manners, presence, contact, please and soothe the persons we\nserve. Even when she scolded me--which she did, now and then, very\ntartly--it was in such a way as did not humiliate, and left no sting;\nit was rather like an irascible mother rating her daughter, than a\nharsh mistress lecturing a dependant: lecture, indeed, she could not,\nthough she could occasionally storm. Moreover, a vein of reason ever\nran through her passion: she was logical even when fierce. Ere long a\ngrowing sense of attachment began to present the thought of staying\nwith her as companion in quite a new light; in another week I had\nagreed to remain.\n\nTwo hot, close rooms thus became my world; and a crippled old woman, my\nmistress, my friend, my all. Her service was my duty--her pain, my\nsuffering--her relief, my hope--her anger, my punishment--her regard,\nmy reward. I forgot that there were fields, woods, rivers, seas, an\never-changing sky outside the steam-dimmed lattice of this sick\nchamber; I was almost content to forget it. All within me became\nnarrowed to my lot. Tame and still by habit, disciplined by destiny, I\ndemanded no walks in the fresh air; my appetite needed no more than the\ntiny messes served for the invalid. In addition, she gave me the\noriginality of her character to study: the steadiness of her virtues, I\nwill add, the power of her passions, to admire; the truth of her\nfeelings to trust. All these things she had, and for these things I\nclung to her.\n\nFor these things I would have crawled on with her for twenty years, if\nfor twenty years longer her life of endurance had been protracted. But\nanother decree was written. It seemed I must be stimulated into action.\nI must be goaded, driven, stung, forced to energy. My little morsel of\nhuman affection, which I prized as if it were a solid pearl, must melt\nin my fingers and slip thence like a dissolving hailstone. My small\nadopted duty must be snatched from my easily contented conscience. I\nhad wanted to compromise with Fate: to escape occasional great agonies\nby submitting to a whole life of privation and small pains. Fate would\nnot so be pacified; nor would Providence sanction this shrinking sloth\nand cowardly indolence.\n\nOne February night--I remember it well--there came a voice near Miss\nMarchmont's house, heard by every inmate, but translated, perhaps, only\nby one. After a calm winter, storms were ushering in the spring. I had\nput Miss Marchmont to bed; I sat at the fireside sewing. The wind was\nwailing at the windows; it had wailed all day; but, as night deepened,\nit took a new tone--an accent keen, piercing, almost articulate to the\near; a plaint, piteous and disconsolate to the nerves, trilled in every\ngust.\n\n\"Oh, hush! hush!\" I said in my disturbed mind, dropping my work, and\nmaking a vain effort to stop my ears against that subtle, searching\ncry. I had heard that very voice ere this, and compulsory observation\nhad forced on me a theory as to what it boded. Three times in the\ncourse of my life, events had taught me that these strange accents in\nthe storm--this restless, hopeless cry--denote a coming state of the\natmosphere unpropitious to life. Epidemic diseases, I believed, were\noften heralded by a gasping, sobbing, tormented, long-lamenting east\nwind. Hence, I inferred, arose the legend of the Banshee. I fancied,\ntoo, I had noticed--but was not philosopher enough to know whether\nthere was any connection between the circumstances--that we often at\nthe same time hear of disturbed volcanic action in distant parts of the\nworld; of rivers suddenly rushing above their banks; and of strange\nhigh tides flowing furiously in on low sea-coasts. \"Our globe,\" I had\nsaid to myself, \"seems at such periods torn and disordered; the feeble\namongst us wither in her distempered breath, rushing hot from steaming\nvolcanoes.\"\n\nI listened and trembled; Miss Marchmont slept.\n\nAbout midnight, the storm in one half-hour fell to a dead calm. The\nfire, which had been burning dead, glowed up vividly. I felt the air\nchange, and become keen. Raising blind and curtain, I looked out, and\nsaw in the stars the keen sparkle of a sharp frost.\n\nTurning away, the object that met my eyes was Miss Marchmont awake,\nlifting her head from the pillow, and regarding me with unusual\nearnestness.\n\n\"Is it a fine night?\" she asked.\n\nI replied in the affirmative.\n\n\"I thought so,\" she said; \"for I feel so strong, so well. Raise me. I\nfeel young to-night,\" she continued: \"young, light-hearted, and happy.\nWhat if my complaint be about to take a turn, and I am yet destined to\nenjoy health? It would be a miracle!\"\n\n\"And these are not the days of miracles,\" I thought to myself, and\nwondered to hear her talk so. She went on directing her conversation to\nthe past, and seeming to recall its incidents, scenes, and personages,\nwith singular vividness.\n\n\"I love Memory to-night,\" she said: \"I prize her as my best friend. She\nis just now giving me a deep delight: she is bringing back to my heart,\nin warm and beautiful life, realities--not mere empty ideas, but what\nwere once realities, and that I long have thought decayed, dissolved,\nmixed in with grave-mould. I possess just now the hours, the thoughts,\nthe hopes of my youth. I renew the love of my life--its only\nlove--almost its only affection; for I am not a particularly good\nwoman: I am not amiable. Yet I have had my feelings, strong and\nconcentrated; and these feelings had their object; which, in its single\nself, was dear to me, as to the majority of men and women, are all the\nunnumbered points on which they dissipate their regard. While I loved,\nand while I was loved, what an existence I enjoyed! What a glorious\nyear I can recall--how bright it comes back to me! What a living\nspring--what a warm, glad summer--what soft moonlight, silvering the\nautumn evenings--what strength of hope under the ice-bound waters and\nfrost-hoar fields of that year's winter! Through that year my heart\nlived with Frank's heart. O my noble Frank--my faithful Frank--my\n_good_ Frank! so much better than myself--his standard in all things so\nmuch higher! This I can now see and say: if few women have suffered as\nI did in his loss, few have enjoyed what I did in his love. It was a\nfar better kind of love than common; I had no doubts about it or him:\nit was such a love as honoured, protected, and elevated, no less than\nit gladdened her to whom it was given. Let me now ask, just at this\nmoment, when my mind is so strangely clear,--let me reflect why it was\ntaken from me? For what crime was I condemned, after twelve months of\nbliss, to undergo thirty years of sorrow?\n\n\"I do not know,\" she continued after a pause: \"I cannot--_cannot_ see\nthe reason; yet at this hour I can say with sincerity, what I never\ntried to say before, Inscrutable God, Thy will be done! And at this\nmoment I can believe that death will restore me to Frank. I never\nbelieved it till now.\"\n\n\"He is dead, then?\" I inquired in a low voice.\n\n\"My dear girl,\" she said, \"one happy Christmas Eve I dressed and\ndecorated myself, expecting my lover, very soon to be my husband, would\ncome that night to visit me. I sat down to wait. Once more I see that\nmoment--I see the snow twilight stealing through the window over which\nthe curtain was not dropped, for I designed to watch him ride up the\nwhite walk; I see and feel the soft firelight warming me, playing on my\nsilk dress, and fitfully showing me my own young figure in a glass. I\nsee the moon of a calm winter night, float full, clear, and cold, over\nthe inky mass of shrubbery, and the silvered turf of my grounds. I\nwait, with some impatience in my pulse, but no doubt in my breast. The\nflames had died in the fire, but it was a bright mass yet; the moon was\nmounting high, but she was still visible from the lattice; the clock\nneared ten; he rarely tarried later than this, but once or twice he had\nbeen delayed so long.\n\n\"Would he for once fail me? No--not even for once; and now he was\ncoming--and coming fast-to atone for lost time. 'Frank! you furious\nrider,' I said inwardly, listening gladly, yet anxiously, to his\napproaching gallop, 'you shall be rebuked for this: I will tell you it\nis _my_ neck you are putting in peril; for whatever is yours is, in a\ndearer and tenderer sense, mine.' There he was: I saw him; but I think\ntears were in my eyes, my sight was so confused. I saw the horse; I\nheard it stamp--I saw at least a mass; I heard a clamour. _Was_ it a\nhorse? or what heavy, dragging thing was it, crossing, strangely dark,\nthe lawn. How could I name that thing in the moonlight before me? or\nhow could I utter the feeling which rose in my soul?\n\n\"I could only run out. A great animal--truly, Frank's black\nhorse--stood trembling, panting, snorting before the door; a man held\nit Frank, as I thought.\n\n\"'What is the matter?' I demanded. Thomas, my own servant, answered by\nsaying sharply, 'Go into the house, madam.' And then calling to another\nservant, who came hurrying from the kitchen as if summoned by some\ninstinct, 'Ruth, take missis into the house directly.' But I was\nkneeling down in the snow, beside something that lay there--something\nthat I had seen dragged along the ground--something that sighed, that\ngroaned on my breast, as I lifted and drew it to me. He was not dead;\nhe was not quite unconscious. I had him carried in; I refused to be\nordered about and thrust from him. I was quite collected enough, not\nonly to be my own mistress but the mistress of others. They had begun\nby trying to treat me like a child, as they always do with people\nstruck by God's hand; but I gave place to none except the surgeon; and\nwhen he had done what he could, I took my dying Frank to myself. He had\nstrength to fold me in his arms; he had power to speak my name; he\nheard me as I prayed over him very softly; he felt me as I tenderly and\nfondly comforted him.\n\n\"'Maria,' he said, 'I am dying in Paradise.' He spent his last breath\nin faithful words for me. When the dawn of Christmas morning broke, my\nFrank was with God.\n\n\"And that,\" she went on, \"happened thirty years ago. I have suffered\nsince. I doubt if I have made the best use of all my calamities. Soft,\namiable natures they would have refined to saintliness; of strong, evil\nspirits they would have made demons; as for me, I have only been a\nwoe-struck and selfish woman.\"\n\n\"You have done much good,\" I said; for she was noted for her liberal\nalmsgiving.\n\n\"I have not withheld money, you mean, where it could assuage\naffliction. What of that? It cost me no effort or pang to give. But I\nthink from this day I am about to enter a better frame of mind, to\nprepare myself for reunion with Frank. You see I still think of Frank\nmore than of God; and unless it be counted that in thus loving the\ncreature so much, so long, and so exclusively, I have not at least\nblasphemed the Creator, small is my chance of salvation. What do you\nthink, Lucy, of these things? Be my chaplain, and tell me.\"\n\nThis question I could not answer: I had no words. It seemed as if she\nthought I _had_ answered it.\n\n\"Very right, my child. We should acknowledge God merciful, but not\nalways for us comprehensible. We should accept our own lot, whatever it\nbe, and try to render happy that of others. Should we not? Well,\nto-morrow I will begin by trying to make you happy. I will endeavour to\ndo something for you, Lucy: something that will benefit you when I am\ndead. My head aches now with talking too much; still I am happy. Go to\nbed. The clock strikes two. How late you sit up; or rather how late I,\nin my selfishness, keep you up. But go now; have no more anxiety for\nme; I feel I shall rest well.\"\n\nShe composed herself as if to slumber. I, too, retired to my crib in a\ncloset within her room. The night passed in quietness; quietly her doom\nmust at last have come: peacefully and painlessly: in the morning she\nwas found without life, nearly cold, but all calm and undisturbed. Her\nprevious excitement of spirits and change of mood had been the prelude\nof a fit; one stroke sufficed to sever the thread of an existence so\nlong fretted by affliction.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V.\n\nTURNING A NEW LEAF.\n\n\nMy mistress being dead, and I once more alone, I had to look out for a\nnew place. About this time I might be a little--a very little--shaken\nin nerves. I grant I was not looking well, but, on the contrary, thin,\nhaggard, and hollow-eyed; like a sitter-up at night, like an\noverwrought servant, or a placeless person in debt. In debt, however, I\nwas not; nor quite poor; for though Miss Marchmont had not had time to\nbenefit me, as, on that last night, she said she intended, yet, after\nthe funeral, my wages were duly paid by her second cousin, the heir, an\navaricious-looking man, with pinched nose and narrow temples, who,\nindeed, I heard long afterwards, turned out a thorough miser: a direct\ncontrast to his generous kinswoman, and a foil to her memory, blessed\nto this day by the poor and needy. The possessor, then, of fifteen\npounds; of health, though worn, not broken, and of a spirit in similar\ncondition; I might still; in comparison with many people, be regarded\nas occupying an enviable position. An embarrassing one it was, however,\nat the same time; as I felt with some acuteness on a certain day, of\nwhich the corresponding one in the next week was to see my departure\nfrom my present abode, while with another I was not provided.\n\nIn this dilemma I went, as a last and sole resource, to see and consult\nan old servant of our family; once my nurse, now housekeeper at a grand\nmansion not far from Miss Marchmont's. I spent some hours with her; she\ncomforted, but knew not how to advise me. Still all inward darkness, I\nleft her about twilight; a walk of two miles lay before me; it was a\nclear, frosty night. In spite of my solitude, my poverty, and my\nperplexity, my heart, nourished and nerved with the vigour of a youth\nthat had not yet counted twenty-three summers, beat light and not\nfeebly. Not feebly, I am sure, or I should have trembled in that lonely\nwalk, which lay through still fields, and passed neither village nor\nfarmhouse, nor cottage: I should have quailed in the absence of\nmoonlight, for it was by the leading of stars only I traced the dim\npath; I should have quailed still more in the unwonted presence of that\nwhich to-night shone in the north, a moving mystery--the Aurora\nBorealis. But this solemn stranger influenced me otherwise than through\nmy fears. Some new power it seemed to bring. I drew in energy with the\nkeen, low breeze that blew on its path. A bold thought was sent to my\nmind; my mind was made strong to receive it.\n\n\"Leave this wilderness,\" it was said to me, \"and go out hence.\"\n\n\"Where?\" was the query.\n\nI had not very far to look; gazing from this country parish in that\nflat, rich middle of England--I mentally saw within reach what I had\nnever yet beheld with my bodily eyes: I saw London.\n\nThe next day I returned to the hall, and asking once more to see the\nhousekeeper, I communicated to her my plan.\n\nMrs. Barrett was a grave, judicious woman, though she knew little more\nof the world than myself; but grave and judicious as she was, she did\nnot charge me with being out of my senses; and, indeed, I had a staid\nmanner of my own which ere now had been as good to me as cloak and hood\nof hodden grey, since under its favour I had been enabled to achieve\nwith impunity, and even approbation, deeds that, if attempted with an\nexcited and unsettled air, would in some minds have stamped me as a\ndreamer and zealot.\n\nThe housekeeper was slowly propounding some difficulties, while she\nprepared orange-rind for marmalade, when a child ran past the window\nand came bounding into the room. It was a pretty child, and as it\ndanced, laughing, up to me--for we were not strangers (nor, indeed, was\nits mother--a young married daughter of the house--a stranger)--I took\nit on my knee.\n\nDifferent as were our social positions now, this child's mother and I\nhad been schoolfellows, when I was a girl of ten and she a young lady\nof sixteen; and I remembered her, good-looking, but dull, in a lower\nclass than mine.\n\nI was admiring the boy's handsome dark eyes, when the mother, young\nMrs. Leigh, entered. What a beautiful and kind-looking woman was the\ngood-natured and comely, but unintellectual, girl become! Wifehood and\nmaternity had changed her thus, as I have since seen them change others\neven less promising than she. Me she had forgotten. I was changed too,\nthough not, I fear, for the better. I made no attempt to recall myself\nto her memory; why should I? She came for her son to accompany her in a\nwalk, and behind her followed a nurse, carrying an infant. I only\nmention the incident because, in addressing the nurse, Mrs. Leigh spoke\nFrench (very bad French, by the way, and with an incorrigibly bad\naccent, again forcibly reminding me of our school-days): and I found\nthe woman was a foreigner. The little boy chattered volubly in French\ntoo. When the whole party were withdrawn, Mrs. Barrett remarked that\nher young lady had brought that foreign nurse home with her two years\nago, on her return from a Continental excursion; that she was treated\nalmost as well as a governess, and had nothing to do but walk out with\nthe baby and chatter French with Master Charles; \"and,\" added Mrs.\nBarrett, \"she says there are many Englishwomen in foreign families as\nwell placed as she.\"\n\nI stored up this piece of casual information, as careful housewives\nstore seemingly worthless shreds and fragments for which their\nprescient minds anticipate a possible use some day. Before I left my\nold friend, she gave me the address of a respectable old-fashioned inn\nin the City, which, she said, my uncles used to frequent in former days.\n\nIn going to London, I ran less risk and evinced less enterprise than\nthe reader may think. In fact, the distance was only fifty miles. My\nmeans would suffice both to take me there, to keep me a few days, and\nalso to bring me back if I found no inducement to stay. I regarded it\nas a brief holiday, permitted for once to work-weary faculties, rather\nthan as an adventure of life and death. There is nothing like taking\nall you do at a moderate estimate: it keeps mind and body tranquil;\nwhereas grandiloquent notions are apt to hurry both into fever.\n\nFifty miles were then a day's journey (for I speak of a time gone by:\nmy hair, which, till a late period, withstood the frosts of time, lies\nnow, at last white, under a white cap, like snow beneath snow). About\nnine o'clock of a wet February night I reached London.\n\nMy reader, I know, is one who would not thank me for an elaborate\nreproduction of poetic first impressions; and it is well, inasmuch as I\nhad neither time nor mood to cherish such; arriving as I did late, on a\ndark, raw, and rainy evening, in a Babylon and a wilderness, of which\nthe vastness and the strangeness tried to the utmost any powers of\nclear thought and steady self-possession with which, in the absence of\nmore brilliant faculties, Nature might have gifted me.\n\nWhen I left the coach, the strange speech of the cabmen and others\nwaiting round, seemed to me odd as a foreign tongue. I had never before\nheard the English language chopped up in that way. However, I managed\nto understand and to be understood, so far as to get myself and trunk\nsafely conveyed to the old inn whereof I had the address. How\ndifficult, how oppressive, how puzzling seemed my flight! In London for\nthe first time; at an inn for the first time; tired with travelling;\nconfused with darkness; palsied with cold; unfurnished with either\nexperience or advice to tell me how to act, and yet--to act obliged.\n\nInto the hands of common sense I confided the matter. Common sense,\nhowever, was as chilled and bewildered as all my other faculties, and\nit was only under the spur of an inexorable necessity that she\nspasmodically executed her trust. Thus urged, she paid the porter:\nconsidering the crisis, I did not blame her too much that she was\nhugely cheated; she asked the waiter for a room; she timorously called\nfor the chambermaid; what is far more, she bore, without being wholly\novercome, a highly supercilious style of demeanour from that young\nlady, when she appeared.\n\nI recollect this same chambermaid was a pattern of town prettiness and\nsmartness. So trim her waist, her cap, her dress--I wondered how they\nhad all been manufactured. Her speech had an accent which in its\nmincing glibness seemed to rebuke mine as by authority; her spruce\nattire flaunted an easy scorn to my plain country garb.\n\n\"Well, it can't be helped,\" I thought, \"and then the scene is new, and\nthe circumstances; I shall gain good.\"\n\nMaintaining a very quiet manner towards this arrogant little maid, and\nsubsequently observing the same towards the parsonic-looking,\nblack-coated, white-neckclothed waiter, I got civility from them ere\nlong. I believe at first they thought I was a servant; but in a little\nwhile they changed their minds, and hovered in a doubtful state between\npatronage and politeness.\n\nI kept up well till I had partaken of some refreshment, warmed myself\nby a fire, and was fairly shut into my own room; but, as I sat down by\nthe bed and rested my head and arms on the pillow, a terrible\noppression overcame me. All at once my position rose on me like a\nghost. Anomalous, desolate, almost blank of hope it stood. What was I\ndoing here alone in great London? What should I do on the morrow? What\nprospects had I in life? What friends had I on, earth? Whence did I\ncome? Whither should I go? What should I do?\n\nI wet the pillow, my arms, and my hair, with rushing tears. A dark\ninterval of most bitter thought followed this burst; but I did not\nregret the step taken, nor wish to retract it A strong, vague\npersuasion that it was better to go forward than backward, and that I\n_could_ go forward--that a way, however narrow and difficult, would in\ntime open--predominated over other feelings: its influence hushed them\nso far, that at last I became sufficiently tranquil to be able to say\nmy prayers and seek my couch. I had just extinguished my candle and\nlain down, when a deep, low, mighty tone swung through the night. At\nfirst I knew it not; but it was uttered twelve times, and at the\ntwelfth colossal hum and trembling knell, I said: \"I lie in the shadow\nof St. Paul's.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI.\n\nLONDON.\n\n\nThe next day was the first of March, and when I awoke, rose, and opened\nmy curtain, I saw the risen sun struggling through fog. Above my head,\nabove the house-tops, co-elevate almost with the clouds, I saw a\nsolemn, orbed mass, dark blue and dim--THE DOME. While I looked, my\ninner self moved; my spirit shook its always-fettered wings half loose;\nI had a sudden feeling as if I, who never yet truly lived, were at last\nabout to taste life. In that morning my soul grew as fast as Jonah's\ngourd.\n\n\"I did well to come,\" I said, proceeding to dress with speed and care.\n\"I like the spirit of this great London which I feel around me. Who but\na coward would pass his whole life in hamlets; and for ever abandon his\nfaculties to the eating rust of obscurity?\"\n\nBeing dressed, I went down; not travel-worn and exhausted, but tidy and\nrefreshed. When the waiter came in with my breakfast, I managed to\naccost him sedately, yet cheerfully; we had ten minutes' discourse, in\nthe course of which we became usefully known to each other.\n\nHe was a grey-haired, elderly man; and, it seemed, had lived in his\npresent place twenty years. Having ascertained this, I was sure he must\nremember my two uncles, Charles and Wilmot, who, fifteen, years ago,\nwere frequent visitors here. I mentioned their names; he recalled them\nperfectly, and with respect. Having intimated my connection, my\nposition in his eyes was henceforth clear, and on a right footing. He\nsaid I was like my uncle Charles: I suppose he spoke truth, because\nMrs. Barrett was accustomed to say the same thing. A ready and obliging\ncourtesy now replaced his former uncomfortably doubtful manner;\nhenceforth I need no longer be at a loss for a civil answer to a\nsensible question.\n\nThe street on which my little sitting-room window looked was narrow,\nperfectly quiet, and not dirty: the few passengers were just such as\none sees in provincial towns: here was nothing formidable; I felt sure\nI might venture out alone.\n\nHaving breakfasted, out I went. Elation and pleasure were in my heart:\nto walk alone in London seemed of itself an adventure. Presently I\nfound myself in Paternoster Row--classic ground this. I entered a\nbookseller's shop, kept by one Jones: I bought a little book--a piece\nof extravagance I could ill afford; but I thought I would one day give\nor send it to Mrs. Barrett. Mr. Jones, a dried-in man of business,\nstood behind his desk: he seemed one of the greatest, and I one of the\nhappiest of beings.\n\nProdigious was the amount of life I lived that morning. Finding myself\nbefore St. Paul's, I went in; I mounted to the dome: I saw thence\nLondon, with its river, and its bridges, and its churches; I saw\nantique Westminster, and the green Temple Gardens, with sun upon them,\nand a glad, blue sky, of early spring above; and between them and it,\nnot too dense, a cloud of haze.\n\nDescending, I went wandering whither chance might lead, in a still\necstasy of freedom and enjoyment; and I got--I know not how--I got into\nthe heart of city life. I saw and felt London at last: I got into the\nStrand; I went up Cornhill; I mixed with the life passing along; I\ndared the perils of crossings. To do this, and to do it utterly alone,\ngave me, perhaps an irrational, but a real pleasure. Since those days,\nI have seen the West End, the parks, the fine squares; but I love the\ncity far better. The city seems so much more in earnest: its business,\nits rush, its roar, are such serious things, sights, and sounds. The\ncity is getting its living--the West End but enjoying its pleasure. At\nthe West End you may be amused, but in the city you are deeply excited.\n\nFaint, at last, and hungry (it was years since I had felt such healthy\nhunger), I returned, about two o'clock, to my dark, old, and quiet inn.\nI dined on two dishes--a plain joint and vegetables; both seemed\nexcellent: how much better than the small, dainty messes Miss\nMarchmont's cook used to send up to my kind, dead mistress and me, and\nto the discussion of which we could not bring half an appetite between\nus! Delightfully tired, I lay down, on three chairs for an hour (the\nroom did not boast a sofa). I slept, then I woke and thought for two\nhours.\n\nMy state of mind, and all accompanying circumstances, were just now\nsuch as most to favour the adoption of a new, resolute, and\ndaring--perhaps desperate--line of action. I had nothing to lose.\nUnutterable loathing of a desolate existence past, forbade return. If I\nfailed in what I now designed to undertake, who, save myself, would\nsuffer? If I died far away from--home, I was going to say, but I had no\nhome--from England, then, who would weep?\n\nI might suffer; I was inured to suffering: death itself had not, I\nthought, those terrors for me which it has for the softly reared. I\nhad, ere this, looked on the thought of death with a quiet eye.\nPrepared, then, for any consequences, I formed a project.\n\nThat same evening I obtained from my friend, the waiter, information\nrespecting, the sailing of vessels for a certain continental port,\nBoue-Marine. No time, I found, was to be lost: that very night I must\ntake my berth. I might, indeed, have waited till the morning before\ngoing on board, but would not run the risk of being too late.\n\n\"Better take your berth at once, ma'am,\" counselled the waiter. I\nagreed with him, and having discharged my bill, and acknowledged my\nfriend's services at a rate which I now know was princely, and which in\nhis eyes must have seemed absurd--and indeed, while pocketing the cash,\nhe smiled a faint smile which intimated his opinion of the donor's\n_savoir-faire_--he proceeded to call a coach. To the driver he also\nrecommended me, giving at the same time an injunction about taking me,\nI think, to the wharf, and not leaving me to the watermen; which that\nfunctionary promised to observe, but failed in keeping his promise: on\nthe contrary, he offered me up as an oblation, served me as a dripping\nroast, making me alight in the midst of a throng of watermen.\n\nThis was an uncomfortable crisis. It was a dark night. The coachman\ninstantly drove off as soon as he had got his fare: the watermen\ncommenced a struggle for me and my trunk. Their oaths I hear at this\nmoment: they shook my philosophy more than did the night, or the\nisolation, or the strangeness of the scene. One laid hands on my trunk.\nI looked on and waited quietly; but when another laid hands on me, I\nspoke up, shook off his touch, stepped at once into a boat, desired\nausterely that the trunk should be placed beside me--\"Just\nthere,\"--which was instantly done; for the owner of the boat I had\nchosen became now an ally: I was rowed off.\n\nBlack was the river as a torrent of ink; lights glanced on it from the\npiles of building round, ships rocked on its bosom. They rowed me up to\nseveral vessels; I read by lantern-light their names painted in great\nwhite letters on a dark ground. \"The Ocean,\" \"The Phoenix,\" \"The\nConsort,\" \"The Dolphin,\" were passed in turns; but \"The Vivid\" was my\nship, and it seemed she lay further down.\n\nDown the sable flood we glided, I thought of the Styx, and of Charon\nrowing some solitary soul to the Land of Shades. Amidst the strange\nscene, with a chilly wind blowing in my face and midnight clouds\ndropping rain above my head; with two rude rowers for companions, whose\ninsane oaths still tortured my ear, I asked myself if I was wretched or\nterrified. I was neither. Often in my life have I been far more so\nunder comparatively safe circumstances. \"How is this?\" said I.\n\"Methinks I am animated and alert, instead of being depressed and\napprehensive?\" I could not tell how it was.\n\n\"THE VIVID\" started out, white and glaring, from the black night at\nlast.--\"Here you are!\" said the waterman, and instantly demanded six\nshillings.\n\n\"You ask too much,\" I said. He drew off from the vessel and swore he\nwould not embark me till I paid it. A young man, the steward as I found\nafterwards, was looking over the ship's side; he grinned a smile in\nanticipation of the coming contest; to disappoint him, I paid the\nmoney. Three times that afternoon I had given crowns where I should\nhave given shillings; but I consoled myself with the reflection, \"It is\nthe price of experience.\"\n\n\"They've cheated you!\" said the steward exultingly when I got on board.\nI answered phlegmatically that \"I knew it,\" and went below.\n\nA stout, handsome, and showy woman was in the ladies' cabin. I asked to\nbe shown my berth; she looked hard at me, muttered something about its\nbeing unusual for passengers to come on board at that hour, and seemed\ndisposed to be less than civil. What a face she had--so comely--so\ninsolent and so selfish!\n\n\"Now that I am on board, I shall certainly stay here,\" was my answer.\n\"I will trouble you to show me my berth.\"\n\nShe complied, but sullenly. I took off my bonnet, arranged my things,\nand lay down. Some difficulties had been passed through; a sort of\nvictory was won: my homeless, anchorless, unsupported mind had again\nleisure for a brief repose. Till the \"Vivid\" arrived in harbour, no\nfurther action would be required of me; but then.... Oh! I could not\nlook forward. Harassed, exhausted, I lay in a half-trance.\n\nThe stewardess talked all night; not to me but to the young steward,\nher son and her very picture. He passed in and out of the cabin\ncontinually: they disputed, they quarrelled, they made it up again\ntwenty times in the course of the night. She professed to be writing a\nletter home--she said to her father; she read passages of it aloud,\nheeding me no more than a stock--perhaps she believed me asleep.\nSeveral of these passages appeared to comprise family secrets, and bore\nspecial reference to one \"Charlotte,\" a younger sister who, from the\nbearing of the epistle, seemed to be on the brink of perpetrating a\nromantic and imprudent match; loud was the protest of this elder lady\nagainst the distasteful union. The dutiful son laughed his mother's\ncorrespondence to scorn. She defended it, and raved at him. They were a\nstrange pair. She might be thirty-nine or forty, and was buxom and\nblooming as a girl of twenty. Hard, loud, vain and vulgar, her mind and\nbody alike seemed brazen and imperishable. I should think, from her\nchildhood, she must have lived in public stations; and in her youth\nmight very likely have been a barmaid.\n\nTowards morning her discourse ran on a new theme: \"the Watsons,\" a\ncertain expected family-party of passengers, known to her, it appeared,\nand by her much esteemed on account of the handsome profit realized in\ntheir fees. She said, \"It was as good as a little fortune to her\nwhenever this family crossed.\"\n\nAt dawn all were astir, and by sunrise the passengers came on board.\nBoisterous was the welcome given by the stewardess to the \"Watsons,\"\nand great was the bustle made in their honour. They were four in\nnumber, two males and two females. Besides them, there was but one\nother passenger--a young lady, whom a gentlemanly, though\nlanguid-looking man escorted. The two groups offered a marked contrast.\nThe Watsons were doubtless rich people, for they had the confidence of\nconscious wealth in their bearing; the women--youthful both of them,\nand one perfectly handsome, as far as physical beauty went--were\ndressed richly, gaily, and absurdly out of character for the\ncircumstances. Their bonnets with bright flowers, their velvet cloaks\nand silk dresses, seemed better suited for park or promenade than for a\ndamp packet deck. The men were of low stature, plain, fat, and vulgar;\nthe oldest, plainest, greasiest, broadest, I soon found was the\nhusband--the bridegroom I suppose, for she was very young--of the\nbeautiful girl. Deep was my amazement at this discovery; and deeper\nstill when I perceived that, instead of being desperately wretched in\nsuch a union, she was gay even to giddiness. \"Her laughter,\" I\nreflected, \"must be the mere frenzy of despair.\" And even while this\nthought was crossing my mind, as I stood leaning quiet and solitary\nagainst the ship's side, she came tripping up to me, an utter stranger,\nwith a camp-stool in her hand, and smiling a smile of which the levity\npuzzled and startled me, though it showed a perfect set of perfect\nteeth, she offered me the accommodation of this piece of furniture. I\ndeclined it of course, with all the courtesy I could put into my\nmanner; she danced off heedless and lightsome. She must have been\ngood-natured; but what had made her marry that individual, who was at\nleast as much like an oil-barrel as a man?\n\nThe other lady passenger, with the gentleman-companion, was quite a\ngirl, pretty and fair: her simple print dress, untrimmed straw-bonnet\nand large shawl, gracefully worn, formed a costume plain to quakerism:\nyet, for her, becoming enough. Before the gentleman quitted her, I\nobserved him throwing a glance of scrutiny over all the passengers, as\nif to ascertain in what company his charge would be left. With a most\ndissatisfied air did his eye turn from the ladies with the gay flowers;\nhe looked at me, and then he spoke to his daughter, niece, or whatever\nshe was: she also glanced in my direction, and slightly curled her\nshort, pretty lip. It might be myself, or it might be my homely\nmourning habit, that elicited this mark of contempt; more likely, both.\nA bell rang; her father (I afterwards knew that it was her father)\nkissed her, and returned to land. The packet sailed.\n\nForeigners say that it is only English girls who can thus be trusted to\ntravel alone, and deep is their wonder at the daring confidence of\nEnglish parents and guardians. As for the \"jeunes Meess,\" by some their\nintrepidity is pronounced masculine and \"inconvenant,\" others regard\nthem as the passive victims of an educational and theological system\nwhich wantonly dispenses with proper \"surveillance.\" Whether this\nparticular young lady was of the sort that can the most safely be left\nunwatched, I do not know: or, rather did not _then_ know; but it soon\nappeared that the dignity of solitude was not to her taste. She paced\nthe deck once or twice backwards and forwards; she looked with a little\nsour air of disdain at the flaunting silks and velvets, and the bears\nwhich thereon danced attendance, and eventually she approached me and\nspoke.\n\n\"Are you fond of a sea-voyage?\" was her question.\n\nI explained that my _fondness_ for a sea-voyage had yet to undergo the\ntest of experience; I had never made one.\n\n\"Oh, how charming!\" cried she. \"I quite envy you the novelty: first\nimpressions, you know, are so pleasant. Now I have made so many, I\nquite forget the first: I am quite _blasée_ about the sea and all that.\"\n\nI could not help smiling.\n\n\"Why do you laugh at me?\" she inquired, with a frank testiness that\npleased me better than her other talk.\n\n\"Because you are so young to be _blasée_ about anything.\"\n\n\"I am seventeen\" (a little piqued).\n\n\"You hardly look sixteen. Do you like travelling alone?\"\n\n\"Bah! I care nothing about it. I have crossed the Channel ten times,\nalone; but then I take care never to be long alone: I always make\nfriends.\"\n\n\"You will scarcely make many friends this voyage, I think\" (glancing at\nthe Watson-group, who were now laughing and making a great deal of\nnoise on deck).\n\n\"Not of those odious men and women,\" said she: \"such people should be\nsteerage passengers. Are you going to school?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Where are you going?\"\n\n\"I have not the least idea--beyond, at least, the port of Boue-Marine.\"\n\nShe stared, then carelessly ran on:\n\n\"I am going to school. Oh, the number of foreign schools I have been at\nin my life! And yet I am quite an ignoramus. I know nothing--nothing in\nthe world--I assure you; except that I play and dance beautifully,--and\nFrench and German of course I know, to speak; but I can't read or write\nthem very well. Do you know they wanted me to translate a page of an\neasy German book into English the other day, and I couldn't do it. Papa\nwas so mortified: he says it looks as if M. de Bassompierre--my\ngodpapa, who pays all my school-bills--had thrown away all his money.\nAnd then, in matters of information--in history, geography, arithmetic,\nand so on, I am quite a baby; and I write English so badly--such\nspelling and grammar, they tell me. Into the bargain I have quite\nforgotten my religion; they call me a Protestant, you know, but really\nI am not sure whether I am one or not: I don't well know the difference\nbetween Romanism and Protestantism. However, I don't in the least care\nfor that. I was a Lutheran once at Bonn--dear Bonn!--charming\nBonn!--where there were so many handsome students. Every nice girl in\nour school had an admirer; they knew our hours for walking out, and\nalmost always passed us on the promenade: 'Schönes Mädchen,' we used to\nhear them say. I was excessively happy at Bonn!\"\n\n\"And where are you now?\" I inquired.\n\n\"Oh! at--_chose_,\" said she.\n\nNow, Miss Ginevra Fanshawe (such was this young person's name) only\nsubstituted this word \"_chose_\" in temporary oblivion of the real name.\nIt was a habit she had: \"_chose_\" came in at every turn in her\nconversation--the convenient substitute for any missing word in any\nlanguage she might chance at the time to be speaking. French girls\noften do the like; from them she had caught the custom. \"_Chose_,\"\nhowever, I found in this instance, stood for Villette--the great\ncapital of the great kingdom of Labassecour.\n\n\"Do you like Villette?\" I asked.\n\n\"Pretty well. The natives, you know, are intensely stupid and vulgar;\nbut there are some nice English families.\"\n\n\"Are you in a school?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"A good one?\"\n\n\"Oh, no! horrid: but I go out every Sunday, and care nothing about the\n_maîtresses_ or the _professeurs_, or the _élèves_, and send lessons\n_au diable_ (one daren't say that in English, you know, but it sounds\nquite right in French); and thus I get on charmingly.... You are\nlaughing at me again?\"\n\n\"No--I am only smiling at my own thoughts.\"\n\n\"What are they?\" (Without waiting for an answer)--\"Now, _do_ tell me\nwhere you are going.\"\n\n\"Where Fate may lead me. My business is to earn a living where I can\nfind it.\"\n\n\"To earn!\" (in consternation) \"are you poor, then?\"\n\n\"As poor as Job.\"\n\n(After a pause)--\"Bah! how unpleasant! But _I_ know what it is to be\npoor: they are poor enough at home--papa and mamma, and all of them.\nPapa is called Captain Fanshawe; he is an officer on half-pay, but\nwell-descended, and some of our connections are great enough; but my\nuncle and godpapa De Bassompierre, who lives in France, is the only one\nthat helps us: he educates us girls. I have five sisters and three\nbrothers. By-and-by we are to marry--rather elderly gentlemen, I\nsuppose, with cash: papa and mamma manage that. My sister Augusta is\nmarried now to a man much older-looking than papa. Augusta is very\nbeautiful--not in my style--but dark; her husband, Mr. Davies, had the\nyellow fever in India, and he is still the colour of a guinea; but then\nhe is rich, and Augusta has her carriage and establishment, and we all\nthink she has done perfectly well. Now, this is better than 'earning a\nliving,' as you say. By the way, are you clever?\"\n\n\"No--not at all.\"\n\n\"You can play, sing, speak three or four languages?\"\n\n\"By no means.\"\n\n\"Still I think you are clever\" (a pause and a yawn).\n\n\"Shall you be sea-sick?\"\n\n\"Shall you?\"\n\n\"Oh, immensely! as soon as ever we get in sight of the sea: I begin,\nindeed, to feel it already. I shall go below; and won't I order about\nthat fat odious stewardess! Heureusement je sais faire aller mon monde.\"\n\nDown she went.\n\nIt was not long before the other passengers followed her: throughout\nthe afternoon I remained on deck alone. When I recall the tranquil, and\neven happy mood in which I passed those hours, and remember, at the\nsame time, the position in which I was placed; its hazardous--some\nwould have said its hopeless--character; I feel that, as--\n\n  Stone walls do not a prison make,\n  Nor iron bars--a cage,\n\nso peril, loneliness, an uncertain future, are not oppressive evils, so\nlong as the frame is healthy and the faculties are employed; so long,\nespecially, as Liberty lends us her wings, and Hope guides us by her\nstar.\n\nI was not sick till long after we passed Margate, and deep was the\npleasure I drank in with the sea-breeze; divine the delight I drew from\nthe heaving Channel waves, from the sea-birds on their ridges, from the\nwhite sails on their dark distance, from the quiet yet beclouded sky,\noverhanging all. In my reverie, methought I saw the continent of\nEurope, like a wide dream-land, far away. Sunshine lay on it, making\nthe long coast one line of gold; tiniest tracery of clustered town and\nsnow-gleaming tower, of woods deep massed, of heights serrated, of\nsmooth pasturage and veiny stream, embossed the metal-bright prospect.\nFor background, spread a sky, solemn and dark blue, and--grand with\nimperial promise, soft with tints of enchantment--strode from north to\nsouth a God-bent bow, an arch of hope.\n\nCancel the whole of that, if you please, reader--or rather let it\nstand, and draw thence a moral--an alliterative, text-hand copy--\n\n  Day-dreams are delusions of the demon.\n\nBecoming excessively sick, I faltered down into the cabin.\n\nMiss Fanshawe's berth chanced to be next mine; and, I am sorry to say,\nshe tormented me with an unsparing selfishness during the whole time of\nour mutual distress. Nothing could exceed her impatience and\nfretfulness. The Watsons, who were very sick too, and on whom the\nstewardess attended with shameless partiality, were stoics compared\nwith her. Many a time since have I noticed, in persons of Ginevra\nFanshawe's light, careless temperament, and fair, fragile style of\nbeauty, an entire incapacity to endure: they seem to sour in adversity,\nlike small beer in thunder. The man who takes such a woman for his\nwife, ought to be prepared to guarantee her an existence all sunshine.\nIndignant at last with her teasing peevishness, I curtly requested her\n\"to hold her tongue.\" The rebuff did her good, and it was observable\nthat she liked me no worse for it.\n\nAs dark night drew on, the sea roughened: larger waves swayed strong\nagainst the vessel's side. It was strange to reflect that blackness and\nwater were round us, and to feel the ship ploughing straight on her\npathless way, despite noise, billow, and rising gale. Articles of\nfurniture began to fall about, and it became needful to lash them to\ntheir places; the passengers grew sicker than ever; Miss Fanshawe\ndeclared, with groans, that she must die.\n\n\"Not just yet, honey,\" said the stewardess. \"We're just in port.\"\nAccordingly, in another quarter of an hour, a calm fell upon us all;\nand about midnight the voyage ended.\n\nI was sorry: yes, I was sorry. My resting-time was past; my\ndifficulties--my stringent difficulties--recommenced. When I went on\ndeck, the cold air and black scowl of the night seemed to rebuke me for\nmy presumption in being where I was: the lights of the foreign sea-port\ntown, glimmering round the foreign harbour, met me like unnumbered\nthreatening eyes. Friends came on board to welcome the Watsons; a whole\nfamily of friends surrounded and bore away Miss Fanshawe; I--but I\ndared not for one moment dwell on a comparison of positions.\n\nYet where should I go? I must go somewhere. Necessity dare not be nice.\nAs I gave the stewardess her fee--and she seemed surprised at receiving\na coin of more value than, from such a quarter, her coarse calculations\nhad probably reckoned on--I said, \"Be kind enough to direct me to some\nquiet, respectable inn, where I can go for the night.\"\n\nShe not only gave me the required direction, but called a\ncommissionaire, and bid him take charge of me, and--_not_ my trunk, for\nthat was gone to the custom-house.\n\nI followed this man along a rudely-paved street, lit now by a fitful\ngleam of moonlight; he brought me to the inn. I offered him sixpence,\nwhich he refused to take; supposing it not enough, I changed it for a\nshilling; but this also he declined, speaking rather sharply, in a\nlanguage to me unknown. A waiter, coming forward into the lamp-lit\ninn-passage, reminded me, in broken English, that my money was foreign\nmoney, not current here. I gave him a sovereign to change. This little\nmatter settled, I asked for a bedroom; supper I could not take: I was\nstill sea-sick and unnerved, and trembling all over. How deeply glad I\nwas when the door of a very small chamber at length closed on me and my\nexhaustion. Again I might rest: though the cloud of doubt would be as\nthick to-morrow as ever; the necessity for exertion more urgent, the\nperil (of destitution) nearer, the conflict (for existence) more severe.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII.\n\nVILLETTE.\n\n\nI awoke next morning with courage revived and spirits refreshed:\nphysical debility no longer enervated my judgment; my mind felt prompt\nand clear.\n\nJust as I finished dressing, a tap came to the door: I said, \"Come in,\"\nexpecting the chambermaid, whereas a rough man walked in and said,--\n\n\"Gif me your keys, Meess.\"\n\n\"Why?\" I asked.\n\n\"Gif!\" said he impatiently; and as he half-snatched them from my hand,\nhe added, \"All right! haf your tronc soon.\"\n\nFortunately it did turn out all right: he was from the custom-house.\nWhere to go to get some breakfast I could not tell; but I proceeded,\nnot without hesitation, to descend.\n\nI now observed, what I had not noticed in my extreme weariness last\nnight, viz. that this inn was, in fact, a large hotel; and as I slowly\ndescended the broad staircase, halting on each step (for I was in\nwonderfully little haste to get down), I gazed at the high ceiling\nabove me, at the painted walls around, at the wide windows which filled\nthe house with light, at the veined marble I trod (for the steps were\nall of marble, though uncarpeted and not very clean), and contrasting\nall this with the dimensions of the closet assigned to me as a chamber,\nwith the extreme modesty of its appointments, I fell into a\nphilosophizing mood.\n\nMuch I marvelled at the sagacity evinced by waiters and chamber-maids\nin proportioning the accommodation to the guest. How could inn-servants\nand ship-stewardesses everywhere tell at a glance that I, for instance,\nwas an individual of no social significance, and little burdened by\ncash? They _did_ know it evidently: I saw quite well that they all, in\na moment's calculation, estimated me at about the same fractional\nvalue. The fact seemed to me curious and pregnant: I would not disguise\nfrom myself what it indicated, yet managed to keep up my spirits pretty\nwell under its pressure.\n\nHaving at last landed in a great hall, full of skylight glare, I made\nmy way somehow to what proved to be the coffee-room. It cannot be\ndenied that on entering this room I trembled somewhat; felt uncertain,\nsolitary, wretched; wished to Heaven I knew whether I was doing right\nor wrong; felt convinced that it was the last, but could not help\nmyself. Acting in the spirit and with the calm of a fatalist, I sat\ndown at a small table, to which a waiter presently brought me some\nbreakfast; and I partook of that meal in a frame of mind not greatly\ncalculated to favour digestion. There were many other people\nbreakfasting at other tables in the room; I should have felt rather\nmore happy if amongst them all I could have seen any women; however,\nthere was not one--all present were men. But nobody seemed to think I\nwas doing anything strange; one or two gentlemen glanced at me\noccasionally, but none stared obtrusively: I suppose if there was\nanything eccentric in the business, they accounted for it by this word\n\"Anglaise!\"\n\nBreakfast over, I must again move--in what direction? \"Go to Villette,\"\nsaid an inward voice; prompted doubtless by the recollection of this\nslight sentence uttered carelessly and at random by Miss Fanshawe, as\nshe bid me good-by: \"I wish you would come to Madame Beck's; she has\nsome marmots whom you might look after; she wants an English\ngouvernante, or was wanting one two months ago.\"\n\nWho Madame Beck was, where she lived, I knew not; I had asked, but the\nquestion passed unheard: Miss Fanshawe, hurried away by her friends,\nleft it unanswered. I presumed Villette to be her residence--to\nVillette I would go. The distance was forty miles. I knew I was\ncatching at straws; but in the wide and weltering deep where I found\nmyself, I would have caught at cobwebs. Having inquired about the means\nof travelling to Villette, and secured a seat in the diligence, I\ndeparted on the strength of this outline--this shadow of a project.\nBefore you pronounce on the rashness of the proceeding, reader, look\nback to the point whence I started; consider the desert I had left,\nnote how little I perilled: mine was the game where the player cannot\nlose and may win.\n\nOf an artistic temperament, I deny that I am; yet I must possess\nsomething of the artist's faculty of making the most of present\npleasure: that is to say, when it is of the kind to my taste. I enjoyed\nthat day, though we travelled slowly, though it was cold, though it\nrained. Somewhat bare, flat, and treeless was the route along which our\njourney lay; and slimy canals crept, like half-torpid green snakes,\nbeside the road; and formal pollard willows edged level fields, tilled\nlike kitchen-garden beds. The sky, too, was monotonously gray; the\natmosphere was stagnant and humid; yet amidst all these deadening\ninfluences, my fancy budded fresh and my heart basked in sunshine.\nThese feelings, however, were well kept in check by the secret but\nceaseless consciousness of anxiety lying in wait on enjoyment, like a\ntiger crouched in a jungle. The breathing of that beast of prey was in\nmy ear always; his fierce heart panted close against mine; he never\nstirred in his lair but I felt him: I knew he waited only for sun-down\nto bound ravenous from his ambush.\n\nI had hoped we might reach Villette ere night set in, and that thus I\nmight escape the deeper embarrassment which obscurity seems to throw\nround a first arrival at an unknown bourne; but, what with our slow\nprogress and long stoppages--what with a thick fog and small, dense\nrain--darkness, that might almost be felt, had settled on the city by\nthe time we gained its suburbs.\n\nI know we passed through a gate where soldiers were stationed--so much\nI could see by lamplight; then, having left behind us the miry\nChaussée, we rattled over a pavement of strangely rough and flinty\nsurface. At a bureau, the diligence stopped, and the passengers\nalighted. My first business was to get my trunk; a small matter enough,\nbut important to me. Understanding that it was best not to be\nimportunate or over-eager about luggage, but to wait and watch quietly\nthe delivery of other boxes till I saw my own, and then promptly claim\nand secure it, I stood apart; my eye fixed on that part of the vehicle\nin which I had seen my little portmanteau safely stowed, and upon which\npiles of additional bags and boxes were now heaped. One by one, I saw\nthese removed, lowered, and seized on.\n\nI was sure mine ought to be by this time visible: it was not. I had\ntied on the direction-card with a piece of green ribbon, that I might\nknow it at a glance: not a fringe or fragment of green was perceptible.\nEvery package was removed; every tin-case and brown-paper parcel; the\noilcloth cover was lifted; I saw with distinct vision that not an\numbrella, cloak, cane, hat-box or band-box remained.\n\nAnd my portmanteau, with my few clothes and little pocket-book\nenclasping the remnant of my fifteen pounds, where were they?\n\nI ask this question now, but I could not ask it then. I could say\nnothing whatever; not possessing a phrase of _speaking_ French: and it\nwas French, and French only, the whole world seemed now gabbling around\nme. _What_ should I do? Approaching the conductor, I just laid my hand\non his arm, pointed to a trunk, thence to the  diligence-roof, and\ntried to express a question with my eyes. He misunderstood me, seized\nthe trunk indicated, and was about to hoist it on the vehicle.\n\n\"Let that alone--will you?\" said a voice in good English; then, in\ncorrection, \"Qu'est-ce que vous faîtes donc? Cette malle est à moi.\"\n\nBut I had heard the Fatherland accents; they rejoiced my heart; I\nturned: \"Sir,\" said I, appealing to the stranger, without, in my\ndistress, noticing what he was like, \"I cannot speak French. May I\nentreat you to ask this man what he has done with my trunk?\"\n\nWithout discriminating, for the moment, what sort of face it was to\nwhich my eyes were raised and on which they were fixed, I felt in its\nexpression half-surprise at my appeal and half-doubt of the wisdom of\ninterference.\n\n\"_Do_ ask him; I would do as much for you,\" said I.\n\nI don't know whether he smiled, but he said in a gentlemanly tone--that\nis to say, a tone not hard nor terrifying,--\"What sort of trunk was\nyours?\"\n\nI described it, including in my description the green ribbon. And\nforthwith he took the conductor under hand, and I felt, through all the\nstorm of French which followed, that he raked him fore and aft.\nPresently he returned to me.\n\n\"The fellow avers he was overloaded, and confesses that he removed your\ntrunk after you saw it put on, and has left it behind at Boue-Marine\nwith other parcels; he has promised, however, to forward it to-morrow;\nthe day after, therefore, you will find it safe at this bureau.\"\n\n\"Thank you,\" said I: but my heart sank.\n\nMeantime what should I do? Perhaps this English gentleman saw the\nfailure of courage in my face; he inquired kindly, \"Have you any\nfriends in this city?\"\n\n\"No, and I don't know where to go.\"\n\nThere was a little pause, in the course of which, as he turned more\nfully to the light of a lamp above him, I saw that he was a young,\ndistinguished, and handsome man; he might be a lord, for anything I\nknew: nature had made him good enough for a prince, I thought. His face\nwas very pleasant; he looked high but not arrogant, manly but not\noverbearing. I was turning away, in the deep consciousness of all\nabsence of claim to look for further help from such a one as he.\n\n\"Was all your money in your trunk?\" he asked, stopping me.\n\nHow thankful was I to be able to answer with truth--\"No. I have enough\nin my purse\" (for I had near twenty francs) \"to keep me at a quiet inn\ntill the day after to-morrow; but I am quite a stranger in Villette,\nand don't know the streets and the inns.\"\n\n\"I can give you the address of such an inn as you want,\" said he; \"and\nit is not far off: with my direction you will easily find it.\"\n\nHe tore a leaf from his pocket-book, wrote a few words and gave it to\nme. I _did_ think him kind; and as to distrusting him, or his advice,\nor his address, I should almost as soon have thought of distrusting the\nBible. There was goodness in his countenance, and honour in his bright\neyes.\n\n\"Your shortest way will be to follow the Boulevard and cross the park,\"\nhe continued; \"but it is too late and too dark for a woman to go\nthrough the park alone; I will step with you thus far.\"\n\nHe moved on, and I followed him, through the darkness and the small\nsoaking rain. The Boulevard was all deserted, its path miry, the water\ndripping from its trees; the park was black as midnight. In the double\ngloom of trees and fog, I could not see my guide; I could only follow\nhis tread. Not the least fear had I: I believe I would have followed\nthat frank tread, through continual night, to the world's end.\n\n\"Now,\" said he, when the park was traversed, \"you will go along this\nbroad street till you come to steps; two lamps will show you where they\nare: these steps you will descend: a narrower street lies below;\nfollowing that, at the bottom you will find your inn. They speak\nEnglish there, so your difficulties are now pretty well over.\nGood-night.\"\n\n\"Good-night, sir,\" said I: \"accept my sincerest thanks.\" And we parted.\n\nThe remembrance of his countenance, which I am sure wore a light not\nunbenignant to the friendless--the sound in my ear of his voice, which\nspoke a nature chivalric to the needy and feeble, as well as the\nyouthful and fair--were a sort of cordial to me long after. He was a\ntrue young English gentleman.\n\nOn I went, hurrying fast through a magnificent street and square, with\nthe grandest houses round, and amidst them the huge outline of more\nthan one overbearing pile; which might be palace or church--I could not\ntell. Just as I passed a portico, two mustachioed men came suddenly\nfrom behind the pillars; they were smoking cigars: their dress implied\npretensions to the rank of gentlemen, but, poor things! they were very\nplebeian in soul. They spoke with insolence, and, fast as I walked,\nthey kept pace with me a long way. At last I met a sort of patrol, and\nmy dreaded hunters were turned from the pursuit; but they had driven me\nbeyond my reckoning: when I could collect my faculties, I no longer\nknew where I was; the staircase I must long since have passed. Puzzled,\nout of breath, all my pulses throbbing in inevitable agitation, I knew\nnot where to turn. It was terrible to think of again encountering those\nbearded, sneering simpletons; yet the ground must be retraced, and the\nsteps sought out.\n\nI came at last to an old and worn flight, and, taking it for granted\nthat this must be the one indicated, I descended them. The street into\nwhich they led was indeed narrow, but it contained no inn. On I\nwandered. In a very quiet and comparatively clean and well-paved\nstreet, I saw a light burning over the door of a rather large house,\nloftier by a story than those round it. _This_ might be the inn at\nlast. I hastened on: my knees now trembled under me: I was getting\nquite exhausted.\n\nNo inn was this. A brass-plate embellished the great porte-cochère:\n\"Pensionnat de Demoiselles\" was the inscription; and beneath, a name,\n\"Madame Beck.\"\n\nI started. About a hundred thoughts volleyed through my mind in a\nmoment. Yet I planned nothing, and considered nothing: I had not time.\nProvidence said, \"Stop here; this is _your_ inn.\" Fate took me in her\nstrong hand; mastered my will; directed my actions: I rang the\ndoor-bell.\n\nWhile I waited, I would not reflect. I fixedly looked at the\nstreet-stones, where the door-lamp shone, and counted them and noted\ntheir shapes, and the glitter of wet on their angles. I rang again.\nThey opened at last. A bonne in a smart cap stood before me.\n\n\"May I see Madame Beck?\" I inquired.\n\nI believe if I had spoken French she would not have admitted me; but,\nas I spoke English, she concluded I was a foreign teacher come on\nbusiness connected with the pensionnat, and, even at that late hour,\nshe let me in, without a word of reluctance, or a moment of hesitation.\n\nThe next moment I sat in a cold, glittering salon, with porcelain\nstove, unlit, and gilded ornaments, and polished floor. A pendule on\nthe mantel-piece struck nine o'clock.\n\nA quarter of an hour passed. How fast beat every pulse in my frame! How\nI turned cold and hot by turns! I sat with my eyes fixed on the door--a\ngreat white folding-door, with gilt mouldings: I watched to see a leaf\nmove and open. All had been quiet: not a mouse had stirred; the white\ndoors were closed and motionless.\n\n\"You ayre Engliss?\" said a voice at my elbow. I almost bounded, so\nunexpected was the sound; so certain had I been of solitude.\n\nNo ghost stood beside me, nor anything of spectral aspect; merely a\nmotherly, dumpy little woman, in a large shawl, a wrapping-gown, and a\nclean, trim nightcap.\n\nI said I was English, and immediately, without further prelude, we fell\nto a most remarkable conversation. Madame Beck (for Madame Beck it\nwas--she had entered by a little door behind me, and, being shod with\nthe shoes of silence, I had heard neither her entrance nor\napproach)--Madame Beck had exhausted her command of insular speech when\nshe said, \"You ayre Engliss,\" and she now proceeded to work away\nvolubly in her own tongue. I answered in mine. She partly understood\nme, but as I did not at all understand her--though we made together an\nawful clamour (anything like Madame's gift of utterance I had not\nhitherto heard or imagined)--we achieved little progress. She rang, ere\nlong, for aid; which arrived in the shape of a \"maîtresse,\" who had\nbeen partly educated in an Irish convent, and was esteemed a perfect\nadept in the English language. A bluff little personage this maîtresse\nwas--Labassecourienne from top to toe: and how she did slaughter the\nspeech of Albion! However, I told her a plain tale, which she\ntranslated. I told her how I had left my own country, intent on\nextending my knowledge, and gaining my bread; how I was ready to turn\nmy hand to any useful thing, provided it was not wrong or degrading;\nhow I would be a child's-nurse, or a lady's-maid, and would not refuse\neven housework adapted to my strength. Madame heard this; and,\nquestioning her countenance, I almost thought the tale won her ear:\n\n\"Il n'y a que les Anglaises pour ces sortes d'entreprises,\" said she:\n\"sont-elles donc intrépides ces femmes là!\"\n\nShe asked my name, my age; she sat and looked at me--not pityingly, not\nwith interest: never a gleam of sympathy, or a shade of compassion,\ncrossed her countenance during the interview. I felt she was not one to\nbe led an inch by her feelings: grave and considerate, she gazed,\nconsulting her judgment and studying my narrative. A bell rang.\n\n\"Voilà pour la prière du soir!\" said she, and rose. Through her\ninterpreter, she desired me to depart now, and come back on the morrow;\nbut this did not suit me: I could not bear to return to the perils of\ndarkness and the street. With energy, yet with a collected and\ncontrolled manner, I said, addressing herself personally, and not the\nmaîtresse: \"Be assured, madame, that by instantly securing my services,\nyour interests will be served and not injured: you will find me one who\nwill wish to give, in her labour, a full equivalent for her wages; and\nif you hire me, it will be better that I should stay here this night:\nhaving no acquaintance in Villette, and not possessing the language of\nthe country, how can I secure a lodging?\"\n\n\"It is true,\" said she; \"but at least you can give a reference?\"\n\n\"None.\"\n\nShe inquired after my luggage: I told her when it would arrive. She\nmused. At that moment a man's step was heard in the vestibule, hastily\nproceeding to the outer door. (I shall go on with this part of my tale\nas if I had understood all that passed; for though it was then scarce\nintelligible to me, I heard it translated afterwards).\n\n\"Who goes out now?\" demanded Madame Beck, listening to the tread.\n\n\"M. Paul,\" replied the teacher. \"He came this evening to give a reading\nto the first class.\"\n\n\"The very man I should at this moment most wish to see. Call him.\"\n\nThe teacher ran to the salon door. M. Paul was summoned. He entered: a\nsmall, dark and spare man, in spectacles.\n\n\"Mon cousin,\" began Madame, \"I want your opinion. We know your skill in\nphysiognomy; use it now. Read that countenance.\"\n\nThe little man fixed on me his spectacles: A resolute compression of\nthe lips, and gathering of the brow, seemed to say that he meant to see\nthrough me, and that a veil would be no veil for him.\n\n\"I read it,\" he pronounced.\n\n\"Et qu'en dites vous?\"\n\n\"Mais--bien des choses,\" was the oracular answer.\n\n\"Bad or good?\"\n\n\"Of each kind, without doubt,\" pursued the diviner.\n\n\"May one trust her word?\"\n\n\"Are you negotiating a matter of importance?\"\n\n\"She wishes me to engage her as bonne or gouvernante; tells a tale full\nof integrity, but gives no reference.\"\n\n\"She is a stranger?\"\n\n\"An Englishwoman, as one may see.\"\n\n\"She speaks French?\"\n\n\"Not a word.\"\n\n\"She understands it?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"One may then speak plainly in her presence?\"\n\n\"Doubtless.\"\n\nHe gazed steadily. \"Do you need her services?\"\n\n\"I could do with them. You know I am disgusted with Madame Svini.\"\n\nStill he scrutinized. The judgment, when it at last came, was as\nindefinite as what had gone before it.\n\n\"Engage her. If good predominates in that nature, the action will bring\nits own reward; if evil--eh bien! ma cousine, ce sera toujours une\nbonne oeuvre.\" And with a bow and a \"bon soir,\" this vague arbiter of\nmy destiny vanished.\n\nAnd Madame did engage me that very night--by God's blessing I was\nspared the necessity of passing forth again into the lonesome, dreary,\nhostile street.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII.\n\nMADAME BECK.\n\n\nBeing delivered into the charge of the maîtresse, I was led through a\nlong narrow passage into a foreign kitchen, very clean but very\nstrange. It seemed to contain no means of cooking--neither fireplace\nnor oven; I did not understand that the great black furnace which\nfilled one corner, was an efficient substitute for these. Surely pride\nwas not already beginning its whispers in my heart; yet I felt a sense\nof relief when, instead of being left in the kitchen, as I half\nanticipated, I was led forward to a small inner room termed a\n\"cabinet.\" A cook in a jacket, a short petticoat and sabots, brought my\nsupper: to wit--some meat, nature unknown, served in an odd and acid,\nbut pleasant sauce; some chopped potatoes, made savoury with, I know\nnot what: vinegar and sugar, I think: a tartine, or slice of bread and\nbutter, and a baked pear. Being hungry, I ate and was grateful.\n\nAfter the \"prière du soir,\" Madame herself came to have another look at\nme. She desired me to follow her up-stairs. Through a series of the\nqueerest little dormitories--which, I heard afterwards, had once been\nnuns' cells: for the premises were in part of ancient date--and through\nthe oratory--a long, low, gloomy room, where a crucifix hung, pale,\nagainst the wall, and two tapers kept dim vigils--she conducted me to\nan apartment where three children were asleep in three tiny beds. A\nheated stove made the air of this room oppressive; and, to mend\nmatters, it was scented with an odour rather strong than delicate: a\nperfume, indeed, altogether surprising and unexpected under the\ncircumstances, being like the combination of smoke with some spirituous\nessence--a smell, in short, of whisky.\n\nBeside a table, on which flared the remnant of a candle guttering to\nwaste in the socket, a coarse woman, heterogeneously clad in a broad\nstriped showy silk dress, and a stuff apron, sat in a chair fast\nasleep. To complete the picture, and leave no doubt as to the state of\nmatters, a bottle and an empty glass stood at the sleeping beauty's\nelbow.\n\nMadame contemplated this remarkable tableau with great calm; she\nneither smiled nor scowled; no impress of anger, disgust, or surprise,\nruffled the equality of her grave aspect; she did not even wake the\nwoman! Serenely pointing to a fourth bed, she intimated that it was to\nbe mine; then, having extinguished the candle and substituted for it a\nnight-lamp, she glided through an inner door, which she left ajar--the\nentrance to her own chamber, a large, well-furnished apartment; as was\ndiscernible through the aperture.\n\nMy devotions that night were all thanksgiving. Strangely had I been led\nsince morning--unexpectedly had I been provided for. Scarcely could I\nbelieve that not forty-eight hours had elapsed since I left London,\nunder no other guardianship than that which protects the\npassenger-bird--with no prospect but the dubious cloud-tracery of hope.\n\nI was a light sleeper; in the dead of night I suddenly awoke. All was\nhushed, but a white figure stood in the room--Madame in her\nnight-dress. Moving without perceptible sound, she visited the three\nchildren in the three beds; she approached me: I feigned sleep, and she\nstudied me long. A small pantomime ensued, curious enough. I daresay\nshe sat a quarter of an hour on the edge of my bed, gazing at my face.\nShe then drew nearer, bent close over me; slightly raised my cap, and\nturned back the border so as to expose my hair; she looked at my hand\nlying on the bedclothes. This done, she turned to the chair where my\nclothes lay: it was at the foot of the bed. Hearing her touch and lift\nthem, I opened my eyes with precaution, for I own I felt curious to see\nhow far her taste for research would lead her. It led her a good way:\nevery article did she inspect. I divined her motive for this\nproceeding, viz. the wish to form from the garments a judgment\nrespecting the wearer, her station, means, neatness, &c. The end was\nnot bad, but the means were hardly fair or justifiable. In my dress was\na pocket; she fairly turned it inside out: she counted the money in my\npurse; she opened a little memorandum-book, coolly perused its\ncontents, and took from between the leaves a small plaited lock of Miss\nMarchmont's grey hair. To a bunch of three keys, being those of my\ntrunk, desk, and work-box, she accorded special attention: with these,\nindeed, she withdrew a moment to her own room. I softly rose in my bed\nand followed her with my eye: these keys, reader, were not brought back\ntill they had left on the toilet of the adjoining room the impress of\ntheir wards in wax. All being thus done decently and in order, my\nproperty was returned to its place, my clothes were carefully refolded.\nOf what nature were the conclusions deduced from this scrutiny? Were\nthey favourable or otherwise? Vain question. Madame's face of stone\n(for of stone in its present night aspect it looked: it had been human,\nand, as I said before, motherly, in the salon) betrayed no response.\n\nHer duty done--I felt that in her eyes this business was a duty--she\nrose, noiseless as a shadow: she moved towards her own chamber; at the\ndoor, she turned, fixing her eye on the heroine of the bottle, who\nstill slept and loudly snored. Mrs. Svini (I presume this was Mrs.\nSvini, Anglicé or Hibernicé, Sweeny)--Mrs. Sweeny's doom was in Madame\nBeck's eye--an immutable purpose that eye spoke: Madame's visitations\nfor shortcomings might be slow, but they were sure. All this was very\nun-English: truly I was in a foreign land.\n\nThe morrow made me further acquainted with Mrs. Sweeny. It seems she\nhad introduced herself to her present employer as an English lady in\nreduced circumstances: a native, indeed, of Middlesex, professing to\nspeak the English tongue with the purest metropolitan accent.\nMadame--reliant on her own infallible expedients for finding out the\ntruth in time--had a singular intrepidity in hiring service off-hand\n(as indeed seemed abundantly proved in my own case). She received Mrs.\nSweeny as nursery-governess to her three children. I need hardly\nexplain to the reader that this lady was in effect a native of Ireland;\nher station I do not pretend to fix: she boldly declared that she had\n\"had the bringing-up of the son and daughter of a marquis.\" I think\nmyself, she might possibly have been a hanger-on, nurse, fosterer, or\nwasherwoman, in some Irish family: she spoke a smothered tongue,\ncuriously overlaid with mincing cockney inflections. By some means or\nother she had acquired, and now held in possession, a wardrobe of\nrather suspicious splendour--gowns of stiff and costly silk, fitting\nher indifferently, and apparently made for other proportions than those\nthey now adorned; caps with real lace borders, and--the chief item in\nthe inventory, the spell by which she struck a certain awe through the\nhousehold, quelling the otherwise scornfully disposed teachers and\nservants, and, so long as her broad shoulders _wore_ the folds of that\nmajestic drapery, even influencing Madame herself--_a real Indian\nshawl_--\"un véritable cachemire,\" as Madame Beck said, with unmixed\nreverence and amaze. I feel quite sure that without this \"cachemire\"\nshe would not have kept her footing in the pensionnat for two days: by\nvirtue of it, and it only, she maintained the same a month.\n\nBut when Mrs. Sweeny knew that I was come to fill her shoes, then it\nwas that she declared herself--then did she rise on Madame Beck in her\nfull power--then come down on me with her concentrated weight. Madame\nbore this revelation and visitation so well, so stoically, that I for\nvery shame could not support it otherwise than with composure. For one\nlittle moment Madame Beck absented herself from the room; ten minutes\nafter, an agent of the police stood in the midst of us. Mrs. Sweeny and\nher effects were removed. Madame's brow had not been ruffled during the\nscene--her lips had not dropped one sharply-accented word.\n\nThis brisk little affair of the dismissal was all settled before\nbreakfast: order to march given, policeman called, mutineer expelled;\n\"chambre d'enfans\" fumigated and cleansed, windows thrown open, and\nevery trace of the accomplished Mrs. Sweeny--even to the fine essence\nand spiritual fragrance which gave token so subtle and so fatal of the\nhead and front of her offending--was annihilated from the Rue Fossette:\nall this, I say, was done between the moment of Madame Beck's issuing\nlike Aurora from her chamber, and that in which she coolly sat down to\npour out her first cup of coffee.\n\nAbout noon, I was summoned to dress Madame. (It appeared my place was\nto be a hybrid between gouvernante and lady's-maid.) Till noon, she\nhaunted the house in her wrapping-gown, shawl, and soundless slippers.\nHow would the lady-chief of an English school approve this custom?\n\nThe dressing of her hair puzzled me; she had plenty of it: auburn,\nunmixed with grey: though she was forty years old. Seeing my\nembarrassment, she said, \"You have not been a femme-de-chambre in your\nown country?\" And taking the brush from my hand, and setting me aside,\nnot ungently or disrespectfully, she arranged it herself. In performing\nother offices of the toilet, she half-directed, half-aided me, without\nthe least display of temper or impatience. N.B.--That was the first and\nlast time I was required to dress her. Henceforth, on Rosine, the\nportress, devolved that duty.\n\nWhen attired, Madame Beck appeared a personage of a figure rather short\nand stout, yet still graceful in its own peculiar way; that is, with\nthe grace resulting from proportion of parts. Her complexion was fresh\nand sanguine, not too rubicund; her eye, blue and serene; her dark silk\ndress fitted her as a French sempstress alone can make a dress fit; she\nlooked well, though a little bourgeoise; as bourgeoise, indeed, she\nwas. I know not what of harmony pervaded her whole person; and yet her\nface offered contrast, too: its features were by no means such as are\nusually seen in conjunction with a complexion of such blended freshness\nand repose: their outline was stern: her forehead was high but narrow;\nit expressed capacity and some benevolence, but no expanse; nor did her\npeaceful yet watchful eye ever know the fire which is kindled in the\nheart or the softness which flows thence. Her mouth was hard: it could\nbe a little grim; her lips were thin. For sensibility and genius, with\nall their tenderness and temerity, I felt somehow that Madame would be\nthe right sort of Minos in petticoats.\n\nIn the long run, I found she was something else in petticoats too. Her\nname was Modeste Maria Beck, née Kint: it ought to have been Ignacia.\nShe was a charitable woman, and did a great deal of good. There never\nwas a mistress whose rule was milder. I was told that she never once\nremonstrated with the intolerable Mrs. Sweeny, despite her tipsiness,\ndisorder, and general neglect; yet Mrs. Sweeny had to go the moment her\ndeparture became convenient. I was told, too, that neither masters nor\nteachers were found fault with in that establishment; yet both masters\nand teachers were often changed: they vanished and others filled their\nplaces, none could well explain how.\n\nThe establishment was both a pensionnat and an externat: the externes\nor day-pupils exceeded one hundred in number; the boarders were about a\nscore. Madame must have possessed high administrative powers: she ruled\nall these, together with four teachers, eight masters, six servants,\nand three children, managing at the same time to perfection the pupils'\nparents and friends; and that without apparent effort; without bustle,\nfatigue, fever, or any symptom of undue, excitement: occupied she\nalways was--busy, rarely. It is true that Madame had her own system for\nmanaging and regulating this mass of machinery; and a very pretty\nsystem it was: the reader has seen a specimen of it, in that small\naffair of turning my pocket inside out, and reading my private\nmemoranda. \"Surveillance,\" \"espionage,\"--these were her watchwords.\n\nStill, Madame knew what honesty was, and liked it--that is, when it did\nnot obtrude its clumsy scruples in the way of her will and interest.\nShe had a respect for \"Angleterre;\" and as to \"les Anglaises,\" she\nwould have the women of no other country about her own children, if she\ncould help it.\n\nOften in the evening, after she had been plotting and counter-plotting,\nspying and receiving the reports of spies all day, she would come up to\nmy room--a trace of real weariness on her brow--and she would sit down\nand listen while the children said their little prayers to me in\nEnglish: the Lord's Prayer, and the hymn beginning \"Gentle Jesus,\"\nthese little Catholics were permitted to repeat at my knee; and, when I\nhad put them to bed, she would talk to me (I soon gained enough French\nto be able to understand, and even answer her) about England and\nEnglishwomen, and the reasons for what she was pleased to term their\nsuperior intelligence, and more real and reliable probity. Very good\nsense she often showed; very sound opinions she often broached: she\nseemed to know that keeping girls in distrustful restraint, in blind\nignorance, and under a surveillance that left them no moment and no\ncorner for retirement, was not the best way to make them grow up honest\nand modest women; but she averred that ruinous consequences would ensue\nif any other method were tried with continental children: they were so\naccustomed to restraint, that relaxation, however guarded, would be\nmisunderstood and fatally presumed on. She was sick, she would declare,\nof the means she had to use, but use them she must; and after\ndiscoursing, often with dignity and delicacy, to me, she would move\naway on her \"souliers de silence,\" and glide ghost-like through the\nhouse, watching and spying everywhere, peering through every keyhole,\nlistening behind every door.\n\nAfter all, Madame's system was not bad--let me do her justice. Nothing\ncould be better than all her arrangements for the physical well-being\nof her scholars. No minds were overtasked: the lessons were well\ndistributed and made incomparably easy to the learner; there was a\nliberty of amusement, and a provision for exercise which kept the girls\nhealthy; the food was abundant and good: neither pale nor puny faces\nwere anywhere to be seen in the Rue Fossette. She never grudged a\nholiday; she allowed plenty of time for sleeping, dressing, washing,\neating; her method in all these matters was easy, liberal, salutary,\nand rational: many an austere English school-mistress would do vastly\nwell to imitate her--and I believe many would be glad to do so, if\nexacting English parents would let them.\n\nAs Madame Beck ruled by espionage, she of course had her staff of\nspies: she perfectly knew the quality of the tools she used, and while\nshe would not scruple to handle the dirtiest for a dirty\noccasion--flinging this sort from her like refuse rind, after the\norange has been duly squeezed--I have known her fastidious in seeking\npure metal for clean uses; and when once a bloodless and rustless\ninstrument was found, she was careful of the prize, keeping it in silk\nand cotton-wool. Yet, woe be to that man or woman who relied on her one\ninch beyond the point where it was her interest to be trustworthy:\ninterest was the master-key of Madame's nature--the mainspring of her\nmotives--the alpha and omega of her life. I have seen her _feelings_\nappealed to, and I have smiled in half-pity, half-scorn at the\nappellants. None ever gained her ear through that channel, or swayed\nher purpose by that means. On the contrary, to attempt to touch her\nheart was the surest way to rouse her antipathy, and to make of her a\nsecret foe. It proved to her that she had no heart to be touched: it\nreminded her where she was impotent and dead. Never was the distinction\nbetween charity and mercy better exemplified than in her. While devoid\nof sympathy, she had a sufficiency of rational benevolence: she would\ngive in the readiest manner to people she had never seen--rather,\nhowever, to classes than to individuals. \"Pour les pauvres,\" she opened\nher purse freely--against _the poor man_, as a rule, she kept it\nclosed. In philanthropic schemes for the benefit of society at large\nshe took a cheerful part; no private sorrow touched her: no force or\nmass of suffering concentrated in one heart had power to pierce hers.\nNot the agony in Gethsemane, not the death on Calvary, could have wrung\nfrom her eyes one tear.\n\nI say again, Madame was a very great and a very capable woman. That\nschool offered her for her powers too limited a sphere; she ought to\nhave swayed a nation: she should have been the leader of a turbulent\nlegislative assembly. Nobody could have browbeaten her, none irritated\nher nerves, exhausted her patience, or over-reached her astuteness. In\nher own single person, she could have comprised the duties of a first\nminister and a superintendent of police. Wise, firm, faithless; secret,\ncrafty, passionless; watchful and inscrutable; acute and\ninsensate--withal perfectly decorous--what more could be desired?\n\nThe sensible reader will not suppose that I gained all the knowledge\nhere condensed for his benefit in one month, or in one half-year. No!\nwhat I saw at first was the thriving outside of a large and flourishing\neducational establishment. Here was a great house, full of healthy,\nlively girls, all well-dressed and many of them handsome, gaining\nknowledge by a marvellously easy method, without painful exertion or\nuseless waste of spirits; not, perhaps, making very rapid progress in\nanything; taking it easy, but still always employed, and never\noppressed. Here was a corps of teachers and masters, more stringently\ntasked, as all the real head-labour was to be done by them, in order to\nsave the pupils, yet having their duties so arranged that they relieved\neach other in quick succession whenever the work was severe: here, in\nshort, was a foreign school; of which the life, movement, and variety\nmade it a complete and most charming contrast to many English\ninstitutions of the same kind.\n\nBehind the house was a large garden, and, in summer, the pupils almost\nlived out of doors amongst the rose-bushes and the fruit-trees. Under\nthe vast and vine-draped berceau, Madame would take her seat on summer\nafternoons, and send for the classes, in turns, to sit round her and\nsew and read. Meantime, masters came and went, delivering short and\nlively lectures, rather than lessons, and the pupils made notes of\ntheir instructions, or did _not_ make them--just as inclination\nprompted; secure that, in case of neglect, they could copy the notes of\ntheir companions. Besides the regular monthly _jours de sortie_, the\nCatholic fête-days brought a succession of holidays all the year round;\nand sometimes on a bright summer morning, or soft summer evening; the\nboarders were taken out for a long walk into the country, regaled with\n_gaufres_ and _vin blanc_, or new milk and _pain bis_, or _pistolets au\nbeurre_ (rolls) and coffee. All this seemed very pleasant, and Madame\nappeared goodness itself; and the teachers not so bad but they might be\nworse; and the pupils, perhaps, a little noisy and rough, but types of\nhealth and glee.\n\nThus did the view appear, seen through the enchantment of distance; but\nthere came a time when distance was to melt for me--when I was to be\ncalled down from my watch-tower of the nursery, whence I had hitherto\nmade my observations, and was to be compelled into closer intercourse\nwith this little world of the Rue Fossette.\n\nI was one day sitting up-stairs, as usual, hearing the children their\nEnglish lessons, and at the same time turning a silk dress for Madame,\nwhen she came sauntering into the room with that absorbed air and brow\nof hard thought she sometimes wore, and which made her look so little\ngenial. Dropping into a seat opposite mine, she remained some minutes\nsilent. Désirée, the eldest girl, was reading to me some little essay\nof Mrs. Barbauld's, and I was making her translate currently from\nEnglish to French as she proceeded, by way of ascertaining that she\ncomprehended what she read: Madame listened.\n\nPresently, without preface or prelude, she said, almost in the tone of\none making an accusation, \"Meess, in England you were a governess?\"\n\n\"No, Madame,\" said I smiling, \"you are mistaken.\"\n\n\"Is this your first essay at teaching--this attempt with my children?\"\n\nI assured her it was. Again she became silent; but looking up, as I\ntook a pin from the cushion, I found myself an object of study: she\nheld me under her eye; she seemed turning me round in her\nthoughts--measuring my fitness for a purpose, weighing my value in a\nplan. Madame had, ere this, scrutinized all I had, and I believe she\nesteemed herself cognizant of much that I was; but from that day, for\nthe space of about a fortnight, she tried me by new tests. She listened\nat the nursery door when I was shut in with the children; she followed\nme at a cautious distance when I walked out with them, stealing within\near-shot whenever the trees of park or boulevard afforded a sufficient\nscreen: a strict preliminary process having thus been observed, she\nmade a move forward.\n\nOne morning, coming on me abruptly, and with the semblance of hurry,\nshe said she found herself placed in a little dilemma. Mr. Wilson, the\nEnglish master, had failed to come at his hour, she feared he was ill;\nthe pupils were waiting in classe; there was no one to give a lesson;\nshould I, for once, object to giving a short dictation exercise, just\nthat the pupils might not have it to say they had missed their English\nlesson?\n\n\"In classe, Madame?\" I asked.\n\n\"Yes, in classe: in the second division.\"\n\n\"Where there are sixty pupils,\" said I; for I knew the number, and with\nmy usual base habit of cowardice, I shrank into my sloth like a snail\ninto its shell, and alleged incapacity and impracticability as a\npretext to escape action. If left to myself, I should infallibly have\nlet this chance slip. Inadventurous, unstirred by impulses of practical\nambition, I was capable of sitting twenty years teaching infants the\nhornbook, turning silk dresses and making children's frocks. Not that\ntrue contentment dignified this infatuated resignation: my work had\nneither charm for my taste, nor hold on my interest; but it seemed to\nme a great thing to be without heavy anxiety, and relieved from\nintimate trial: the negation of severe suffering was the nearest\napproach to happiness I expected to know. Besides, I seemed to hold two\nlives--the life of thought, and that of reality; and, provided the\nformer was nourished with a sufficiency of the strange necromantic joys\nof fancy, the privileges of the latter might remain limited to daily\nbread, hourly work, and a roof of shelter.\n\n\"Come,\" said Madame, as I stooped more busily than ever over the\ncutting-out of a child's pinafore, \"leave that work.\"\n\n\"But Fifine wants it, Madame.\"\n\n\"Fifine must want it, then, for I want _you_.\"\n\nAnd as Madame Beck did really want and was resolved to have me--as she\nhad long been dissatisfied with the English master, with his\nshortcomings in punctuality, and his careless method of tuition--as,\ntoo, _she_ did not lack resolution and practical activity, whether _I_\nlacked them or not--she, without more ado, made me relinquish thimble\nand needle; my hand was taken into hers, and I was conducted\ndown-stairs. When we reached the carré, a large square hall between the\ndwelling-house and the pensionnat, she paused, dropped my hand, faced,\nand scrutinized me. I was flushed, and tremulous from head to foot:\ntell it not in Gath, I believe I was crying. In fact, the difficulties\nbefore me were far from being wholly imaginary; some of them were real\nenough; and not the least substantial lay in my want of mastery over\nthe medium through which I should be obliged to teach. I had, indeed,\nstudied French closely since my arrival in Villette; learning its\npractice by day, and its theory in every leisure moment at night, to as\nlate an hour as the rule of the house would allow candle-light; but I\nwas far from yet being able to trust my powers of correct oral\nexpression.\n\n\"Dîtes donc,\" said Madame sternly, \"vous sentez vous réellement trop\nfaible?\"\n\nI might have said \"Yes,\" and gone back to nursery obscurity, and there,\nperhaps, mouldered for the rest of my life; but looking up at Madame, I\nsaw in her countenance a something that made me think twice ere I\ndecided. At that instant she did not wear a woman's aspect, but rather\na man's. Power of a particular kind strongly limned itself in all her\ntraits, and that power was not my kind of power: neither sympathy, nor\ncongeniality, nor submission, were the emotions it awakened. I\nstood--not soothed, nor won, nor overwhelmed. It seemed as if a\nchallenge of strength between opposing gifts was given, and I suddenly\nfelt all the dishonour of my diffidence--all the pusillanimity of my\nslackness to aspire.\n\n\"Will you,\" she said, \"go backward or forward?\" indicating with her\nhand, first, the small door of communication with the dwelling-house,\nand then the great double portals of the classes or schoolrooms.\n\n\"En avant,\" I said.\n\n\"But,\" pursued she, cooling as I warmed, and continuing the hard look,\nfrom very antipathy to which I drew strength and determination, \"can\nyou face the classes, or are you over-excited?\"\n\nShe sneered slightly in saying this: nervous excitability was not much\nto Madame's taste.\n\n\"I am no more excited than this stone,\" I said, tapping the flag with\nmy toe: \"or than you,\" I added, returning her look.\n\n\"Bon! But let me tell you these are not quiet, decorous, English girls\nyou are going to encounter. Ce sont des Labassecouriennes, rondes,\nfranches, brusques, et tant soit peu rebelles.\"\n\nI said: \"I know; and I know, too, that though I have studied French\nhard since I came here, yet I still speak it with far too much\nhesitation--too little accuracy to be able to command their respect I\nshall make blunders that will lay me open to the scorn of the most\nignorant. Still I mean to give the lesson.\"\n\n\"They always throw over timid teachers,\" said she.\n\n\"I know that too, Madame; I have heard how they rebelled against and\npersecuted Miss Turner\"--a poor friendless English teacher, whom Madame\nhad employed, and lightly discarded; and to whose piteous history I was\nno stranger.\n\n\"C'est vrai,\" said she, coolly. \"Miss Turner had no more command over\nthem than a servant from the kitchen would have had. She was weak and\nwavering; she had neither tact nor intelligence, decision nor dignity.\nMiss Turner would not do for these girls at all.\"\n\nI made no reply, but advanced to the closed schoolroom door.\n\n\"You will not expect aid from me, or from any one,\" said Madame. \"That\nwould at once set you down as incompetent for your office.\"\n\nI opened the door, let her pass with courtesy, and followed her. There\nwere three schoolrooms, all large. That dedicated to the second\ndivision, where I was to figure, was considerably the largest, and\naccommodated an assemblage more numerous, more turbulent, and\ninfinitely more unmanageable than the other two. In after days, when I\nknew the ground better, I used to think sometimes (if such a comparison\nmay be permitted), that the quiet, polished, tame first division was to\nthe robust, riotous, demonstrative second division, what the English\nHouse of Lords is to the House of Commons.\n\nThe first glance informed me that many of the pupils were more than\ngirls--quite young women; I knew that some of them were of noble family\n(as nobility goes in Labassecour), and I was well convinced that not\none amongst them was ignorant of my position in Madame's household. As\nI mounted the estràde (a low platform, raised a step above the\nflooring), where stood the teacher's chair and desk, I beheld opposite\nto me a row of eyes and brows that threatened stormy weather--eyes full\nof an insolent light, and brows hard and unblushing as marble. The\ncontinental \"female\" is quite a different being to the insular \"female\"\nof the same age and class: I never saw such eyes and brows in England.\nMadame Beck introduced me in one cool phrase, sailed from the room, and\nleft me alone in my glory.\n\nI shall never forget that first lesson, nor all the under-current of\nlife and character it opened up to me. Then first did I begin rightly\nto see the wide difference that lies between the novelist's and poet's\nideal \"jeune fille\" and the said \"jeune fille\" as she really is.\n\nIt seems that three titled belles in the first row had sat down\npredetermined that a _bonne d'enfants_ should not give them lessons in\nEnglish. They knew they had succeeded in expelling obnoxious teachers\nbefore now; they knew that Madame would at any time throw overboard a\nprofesseur or maitresse who became unpopular with the school--that she\nnever assisted a weak official to retain his place--that if he had not\nstrength to fight, or tact to win his way, down he went: looking at\n\"Miss Snowe,\" they promised themselves an easy victory.\n\nMesdemoiselles Blanche, Virginie, and Angélique opened the campaign by\na series of titterings and whisperings; these soon swelled into murmurs\nand short laughs, which the remoter benches caught up and echoed more\nloudly. This growing revolt of sixty against one, soon became\noppressive enough; my command of French being so limited, and exercised\nunder such cruel constraint.\n\nCould I but have spoken in my own tongue, I felt as if I might have\ngained a hearing; for, in the first place, though I knew I looked a\npoor creature, and in many respects actually was so, yet nature had\ngiven me a voice that could make itself heard, if lifted in excitement\nor deepened by emotion. In the second place, while I had no flow, only\na hesitating trickle of language, in ordinary circumstances, yet--under\nstimulus such as was now rife through the mutinous mass--I could, in\nEnglish, have rolled out readily phrases stigmatizing their proceedings\nas such proceedings deserved to be stigmatized; and then with some\nsarcasm, flavoured with contemptuous bitterness for the ringleaders,\nand relieved with easy banter for the weaker but less knavish\nfollowers, it seemed to me that one might possibly get command over\nthis wild herd, and bring them into training, at least. All I could now\ndo was to walk up to Blanche--Mademoiselle de Melcy, a young\nbaronne--the eldest, tallest, handsomest, and most vicious--stand\nbefore her desk, take from under her hand her exercise-book, remount\nthe estrade, deliberately read the composition, which I found very\nstupid, and, as deliberately, and in the face of the whole school, tear\nthe blotted page in two.\n\nThis action availed to draw attention and check noise. One girl alone,\nquite in the background, persevered in the riot with undiminished\nenergy. I looked at her attentively. She had a pale face, hair like\nnight, broad strong eyebrows, decided features, and a dark, mutinous,\nsinister eye: I noted that she sat close by a little door, which door,\nI was well aware, opened into a small closet where books were kept. She\nwas standing up for the purpose of conducting her clamour with freer\nenergies. I measured her stature and calculated her strength She seemed\nboth tall and wiry; but, so the conflict were brief and the attack\nunexpected, I thought I might manage her.\n\nAdvancing up the room, looking as cool and careless as I possibly\ncould, in short, _ayant l'air de rien_, I slightly pushed the door and\nfound it was ajar. In an instant, and with sharpness, I had turned on\nher. In another instant she occupied the closet, the door was shut, and\nthe key in my pocket.\n\nIt so happened that this girl, Dolores by name, and a Catalonian by\nrace, was the sort of character at once dreaded and hated by all her\nassociates; the act of summary justice above noted proved popular:\nthere was not one present but, in her heart, liked to see it done. They\nwere stilled for a moment; then a smile--not a laugh--passed from desk\nto desk: then--when I had gravely and tranquilly returned to the\nestrade, courteously requested silence, and commenced a dictation as if\nnothing at all had happened--the pens travelled peacefully over the\npages, and the remainder of the lesson passed in order and industry.\n\n\"C'est bien,\" said Madame Beck, when I came out of class, hot and a\nlittle exhausted. \"Ca ira.\"\n\nShe had been listening and peeping through a spy-hole the whole time.\n\nFrom that day I ceased to be nursery governess, and became English\nteacher. Madame raised my salary; but she got thrice the work out of me\nshe had extracted from Mr. Wilson, at half the expense.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX.\n\nISIDORE.\n\n\nMy time was now well and profitably filled up. What with teaching\nothers and studying closely myself, I had hardly a spare moment. It was\npleasant. I felt I was getting, on; not lying the stagnant prey of\nmould and rust, but polishing my faculties and whetting them to a keen\nedge with constant use. Experience of a certain kind lay before me, on\nno narrow scale. Villette is a cosmopolitan city, and in this school\nwere girls of almost every European nation, and likewise of very varied\nrank in life. Equality is much practised in Labassecour; though not\nrepublican in form, it is nearly so in substance, and at the desks of\nMadame Beck's establishment the young countess and the young bourgeoise\nsat side by side. Nor could you always by outward indications decide\nwhich was noble and which plebeian; except that, indeed, the latter had\noften franker and more courteous manners, while the former bore away\nthe bell for a delicately-balanced combination of insolence and deceit.\nIn the former there was often quick French blood mixed with the\nmarsh-phlegm: I regret to say that the effect of this vivacious fluid\nchiefly appeared in the oilier glibness with which flattery and fiction\nran from the tongue, and in a manner lighter and livelier, but quite\nheartless and insincere.\n\nTo do all parties justice, the honest aboriginal Labassecouriennes had\nan hypocrisy of their own, too; but it was of a coarse order, such as\ncould deceive few. Whenever a lie was necessary for their occasions,\nthey brought it out with a careless ease and breadth altogether\nuntroubled by the rebuke of conscience. Not a soul in Madame Beck's\nhouse, from the scullion to the directress herself, but was above being\nashamed of a lie; they thought nothing of it: to invent might not be\nprecisely a virtue, but it was the most venial of faults. \"J'ai menti\nplusieurs fois,\" formed an item of every girl's and woman's monthly\nconfession: the priest heard unshocked, and absolved unreluctant. If\nthey had missed going to mass, or read a chapter of a novel, that was\nanother thing: these were crimes whereof rebuke and penance were the\nunfailing weed.\n\nWhile yet but half-conscious of this state of things, and unlearned in\nits results, I got on in my new sphere very well. After the first few\ndifficult lessons, given amidst peril and on the edge of a moral\nvolcano that rumbled under my feet and sent sparks and hot fumes into\nmy eyes, the eruptive spirit seemed to subside, as far as I was\nconcerned. My mind was a good deal bent on success: I could not bear\nthe thought of being baffled by mere undisciplined disaffection and\nwanton indocility, in this first attempt to get on in life. Many hours\nof the night I used to lie awake, thinking what plan I had best adopt\nto get a reliable hold on these mutineers, to bring this stiff-necked\ntribe under permanent influence. In, the first place, I saw plainly\nthat aid in no shape was to be expected from Madame: her righteous plan\nwas to maintain an unbroken popularity with the pupils, at any and\nevery cost of justice or comfort to the teachers. For a teacher to seek\nher alliance in any crisis of insubordination was equivalent to\nsecuring her own expulsion. In intercourse with her pupils, Madame only\ntook to herself what was pleasant, amiable, and recommendatory; rigidly\nrequiring of her lieutenants sufficiency for every annoying crisis,\nwhere to act with adequate promptitude was to be unpopular. Thus, I\nmust look only to myself.\n\nImprimis--it was clear as the day that this swinish multitude were not\nto be driven by force. They were to be humoured, borne with very\npatiently: a courteous though sedate manner impressed them; a very rare\nflash of raillery did good. Severe or continuous mental application\nthey could not, or would not, bear: heavy demand on the memory, the\nreason, the attention, they rejected point-blank. Where an English girl\nof not more than average capacity and docility would quietly take a\ntheme and bind herself to the task of comprehension and mastery, a\nLabassecourienne would laugh in your face, and throw it back to you\nwith the phrase,--\"Dieu, que c'est difficile! Je n'en veux pas. Cela\nm'ennuie trop.\"\n\nA teacher who understood her business would take it back at once,\nwithout hesitation, contest, or expostulation--proceed with even\nexaggerated care to smoothe every difficulty, to reduce it to the level\nof their understandings, return it to them thus modified, and lay on\nthe lash of sarcasm with unsparing hand. They would feel the sting,\nperhaps wince a little under it; but they bore no malice against this\nsort of attack, provided the sneer was not _sour_, but _hearty_, and\nthat it held well up to them, in a clear, light, and bold type, so that\nshe who ran might read, their incapacity, ignorance, and sloth. They\nwould riot for three additional lines to a lesson; but I never knew\nthem rebel against a wound given to their self-respect: the little they\nhad of that quality was trained to be crushed, and it rather liked the\npressure of a firm heel than otherwise.\n\nBy degrees, as I acquired fluency and freedom in their language, and\ncould make such application of its more nervous idioms as suited their\ncase, the elder and more intelligent girls began rather to like me in\ntheir way: I noticed that whenever a pupil had been roused to feel in\nher soul the stirring of worthy emulation, or the quickening of honest\nshame, from that date she was won. If I could but once make their\n(usually large) ears burn under their thick glossy hair, all was\ncomparatively well. By-and-by bouquets began to be laid on my desk in\nthe morning; by way of acknowledgment for this little foreign\nattention, I used sometimes to walk with a select few during\nrecreation. In the course of conversation it befel once or twice that I\nmade an unpremeditated attempt to rectify some of their singularly\ndistorted notions of principle; especially I expressed my ideas of the\nevil and baseness of a lie. In an unguarded moment, I chanced to say\nthat, of the two errors; I considered falsehood worse than an\noccasional lapse in church-attendance. The poor girls were tutored to\nreport in Catholic ears whatever the Protestant teacher said. An\nedifying consequence ensued. Something--an unseen, an indefinite, a\nnameless--something stole between myself and these my best pupils: the\nbouquets continued to be offered, but conversation thenceforth became\nimpracticable. As I paced the alleys or sat in the berceau, a girl\nnever came to my right hand but a teacher, as if by magic, appeared at\nmy left. Also, wonderful to relate, Madame's shoes of silence brought\nher continually to my back, as quick, as noiseless and unexpected, as\nsome wandering zephyr.\n\nThe opinion of my Catholic acquaintance concerning my spiritual\nprospects was somewhat naïvely expressed to me on one occasion. A\npensionnaire, to whom I had rendered some little service, exclaimed one\nday as she sat beside me: \"Mademoiselle, what a pity you are a\nProtestant!\"\n\n\"Why, Isabelle?\"\n\n\"Parceque, quand vous serez morte--vous brûlerez tout de suite dans\nl'Enfer.\"\n\n\"Croyez-vous?\"\n\n\"Certainement que j'y crois: tout le monde le sait; et d'ailleurs le\nprêtre me l'a dit.\"\n\nIsabelle was an odd, blunt little creature. She added, _sotto voce_:\n\"Pour assurer votre salut là-haut, on ferait bien de vous brûler toute\nvive ici-bas.\"\n\nI laughed, as, indeed, it was impossible to do otherwise.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nHas the reader forgotten Miss Ginevra Fanshawe? If so, I must be\nallowed to re-introduce that young lady as a thriving pupil of Madame\nBeck's; for such she was. On her arrival in the Rue Fossette, two or\nthree days after my sudden settlement there, she encountered me with\nvery little surprise. She must have had good blood in her veins, for\nnever was any duchess more perfectly, radically, unaffectedly\n_nonchalante_ than she: a weak, transient amaze was all she knew of the\nsensation of wonder. Most of her other faculties seemed to be in the\nsame flimsy condition: her liking and disliking, her love and hate,\nwere mere cobweb and gossamer; but she had one thing about her that\nseemed strong and durable enough, and that was--her selfishness.\n\nShe was not proud; and--_bonne d'enfants_ as I was--she would forthwith\nhave made of me a sort of friend and confidant. She teased me with a\nthousand vapid complaints about school-quarrels and household economy:\nthe cookery was not to her taste; the people about her, teachers and\npupils, she held to be despicable, because they were foreigners. I bore\nwith her abuse of the Friday's salt fish and hard eggs--with her\ninvective against the soup, the bread, the coffee--with some patience\nfor a time; but at last, wearied by iteration, I turned crusty, and put\nher to rights: a thing I ought to have done in the very beginning, for\na salutary setting down always agreed with her.\n\nMuch longer had I to endure her demands on me in the way of work. Her\nwardrobe, so far as concerned articles of external wear, was well and\nelegantly supplied; but there were other habiliments not so carefully\nprovided: what she had, needed frequent repair. She hated\nneedle-drudgery herself, and she would bring her hose, &c. to me in\nheaps, to be mended. A compliance of some weeks threatening to result\nin the establishment of an intolerable bore--I at last distinctly told\nher she must make up her mind to mend her own garments. She cried on\nreceiving this information, and accused me of having ceased to be her\nfriend; but I held by my decision, and let the hysterics pass as they\ncould.\n\nNotwithstanding these foibles, and various others needless to\nmention--but by no means of a refined or elevating character--how\npretty she was! How charming she looked, when she came down on a sunny\nSunday morning, well-dressed and well-humoured, robed in pale lilac\nsilk, and with her fair long curls reposing on her white shoulders.\nSunday was a holiday which she always passed with friends resident in\ntown; and amongst these friends she speedily gave me to understand was\none who would fain become something more. By glimpses and hints it was\nshown me, and by the general buoyancy of her look and manner it was ere\nlong proved, that ardent admiration--perhaps genuine love--was at her\ncommand. She called her suitor \"Isidore:\" this, however, she intimated\nwas not his real name, but one by which it pleased her to baptize\nhim--his own, she hinted, not being \"very pretty.\" Once, when she had\nbeen bragging about the vehemence of \"Isidore's\" attachment, I asked if\nshe loved him in return.\n\n\"Comme cela,\" said she: \"he is handsome, and he loves me to\ndistraction, so that I am well amused. Ca suffit.\"\n\nFinding that she carried the thing on longer than, from her very fickle\ntastes, I had anticipated, I one day took it upon me to make serious\ninquiries as to whether the gentleman was such as her parents, and\nespecially her uncle--on whom, it appeared, she was dependent--would be\nlikely to approve. She allowed that this was very doubtful, as she did\nnot believe \"Isidore\" had much money.\n\n\"Do you encourage him?\" I asked.\n\n\"Furieusement sometimes,\" said she.\n\n\"Without being certain that you will be permitted to marry him?\"\n\n\"Oh, how dowdyish you are! I don't want to be married. I am too young.\"\n\n\"But if he loves you as much as you say, and yet it comes to nothing in\nthe end, he will be made miserable.\"\n\n\"Of course he will break his heart. I should be shocked and,\ndisappointed if he didn't.\"\n\n\"I wonder whether this M. Isidore is a fool?\" said I.\n\n\"He is, about me; but he is wise in other things, à ce qu'on dit. Mrs.\nCholmondeley considers him extremely clever: she says he will push his\nway by his talents; all I know is, that he does little more than sigh\nin my presence, and that I can wind him round my little finger.\"\n\nWishing to get a more definite idea of this love-stricken M. Isidore;\nwhose position seemed to me of the least secure, I requested her to\nfavour me with a personal description; but she could not describe: she\nhad neither words nor the power of putting them together so as to make\ngraphic phrases. She even seemed not properly to have noticed him:\nnothing of his looks, of the changes in his countenance, had touched\nher heart or dwelt in her memory--that he was \"beau, mais plutôt bel\nhomme que joli garçon,\" was all she could assert. My patience would\noften have failed, and my interest flagged, in listening to her, but\nfor one thing. All the hints she dropped, all the details she gave,\nwent unconsciously to prove, to my thinking, that M. Isidore's homage\nwas offered with great delicacy and respect. I informed her very\nplainly that I believed him much too good for her, and intimated with\nequal plainness my impression that she was but a vain coquette. She\nlaughed, shook her curls from her eyes, and danced away as if I had\npaid her a compliment.\n\nMiss Ginevra's school-studies were little better than nominal; there\nwere but three things she practised in earnest, viz. music, singing,\nand dancing; also embroidering the fine cambric handkerchiefs which she\ncould not afford to buy ready worked: such mere trifles as lessons in\nhistory, geography, grammar, and arithmetic, she left undone, or got\nothers to do for her. Very much of her time was spent in visiting.\nMadame, aware that her stay at school was now limited to a certain\nperiod, which would not be extended whether she made progress or not,\nallowed her great licence in this particular. Mrs. Cholmondeley--her\n_chaperon_--a gay, fashionable lady, invited her whenever she had\ncompany at her own house, and sometimes took her to evening-parties at\nthe houses of her acquaintance. Ginevra perfectly approved this mode of\nprocedure: it had but one inconvenience; she was obliged to be well\ndressed, and she had not money to buy variety of dresses. All her\nthoughts turned on this difficulty; her whole soul was occupied with\nexpedients for effecting its solution. It was wonderful to witness the\nactivity of her otherwise indolent mind on this point, and to see the\nmuch-daring intrepidity to which she was spurred by a sense of\nnecessity, and the wish to shine.\n\nShe begged boldly of Mrs. Cholmondeley--boldly, I say: not with an air\nof reluctant shame, but in this strain:--\n\n\"My darling Mrs. C., I have nothing in the world fit to wear for your\nparty next week; you _must_ give me a book-muslin dress, and then a\n_ceinture bleu celeste_: _do_--there's an angel! will you?\"\n\nThe \"darling Mrs. C.\" yielded at first; but finding that applications\nincreased as they were complied with, she was soon obliged, like all\nMiss Fanshawe's friends, to oppose resistance to encroachment. After a\nwhile I heard no more of Mrs. Cholmondeley's presents; but still,\nvisiting went on, and the absolutely necessary dresses continued to be\nsupplied: also many little expensive _etcetera_--gloves, bouquets, even\ntrinkets. These things, contrary to her custom, and even nature--for\nshe was not secretive--were most sedulously kept out of sight for a\ntime; but one evening, when she was going to a large party for which\nparticular care and elegance of costume were demanded, she could not\nresist coming to my chamber to show herself in all her splendour.\n\nBeautiful she looked: so young, so fresh, and with a delicacy of skin\nand flexibility of shape altogether English, and not found in the list\nof continental female charms. Her dress was new, costly, and perfect. I\nsaw at a glance that it lacked none of those finishing details which\ncost so much, and give to the general effect such an air of tasteful\ncompleteness.\n\nI viewed her from top to toe. She turned airily round that I might\nsurvey her on all sides. Conscious of her charms, she was in her best\nhumour: her rather small blue eyes sparkled gleefully. She was going to\nbestow on me a kiss, in her school-girl fashion of showing her delights\nbut I said, \"Steady! Let us be Steady, and know what we are about, and\nfind out the meaning of our magnificence\"--and so put her off at arm's\nlength, to undergo cooler inspection.\n\n\"Shall I do?\" was her question.\n\n\"Do?\" said I. \"There are different ways of doing; and, by my word, I\ndon't understand yours.\"\n\n\"But how do I look?\"\n\n\"You look well dressed.\"\n\nShe thought the praise not warm enough, and proceeded to direct\nattention to the various decorative points of her attire. \"Look at this\n_parure_,\" said she. \"The brooch, the ear-rings, the bracelets: no one\nin the school has such a set--not Madame herself.\"\n\n\"I see them all.\" (Pause.) \"Did M. de Bassompierre give you those\njewels?\"\n\n\"My uncle knows nothing about them.\"\n\n\"Were they presents from Mrs. Cholmondeley?\"\n\n\"Not they, indeed. Mrs. Cholmondeley is a mean, stingy creature; she\nnever gives me anything now.\"\n\nI did not choose to ask any further questions, but turned abruptly away.\n\n\"Now, old Crusty--old Diogenes\" (these were her familiar terms for me\nwhen we disagreed), \"what is the matter now?\"\n\n\"Take yourself away. I have no pleasure in looking at you or your\n_parure_.\"\n\nFor an instant, she seemed taken by surprise.\n\n\"What now, Mother Wisdom? I have not got into debt for it--that is, not\nfor the jewels, nor the gloves, nor the bouquet. My dress is certainly\nnot paid for, but uncle de Bassompierre will pay it in the bill: he\nnever notices items, but just looks at the total; and he is so rich,\none need not care about a few guineas more or less.\"\n\n\"Will you go? I want to shut the door.... Ginevra, people may tell you\nyou are very handsome in that ball-attire; but, in _my_ eyes, you will\nnever look so pretty as you did in the gingham gown and plain straw\nbonnet you wore when I first saw you.\"\n\n\"Other people have not your puritanical tastes,\" was her angry reply.\n\"And, besides, I see no right you have to sermonize me.\"\n\n\"Certainly! I have little right; and you, perhaps, have still less to\ncome flourishing and fluttering into my chamber--a mere jay in borrowed\nplumes. I have not the least respect for your feathers, Miss Fanshawe;\nand especially the peacock's eyes you call a _parure_: very pretty\nthings, if you had bought them with money which was your own, and which\nyou could well spare, but not at all pretty under present\ncircumstances.\"\n\n\"On est là pour Mademoiselle Fanshawe!\" was announced by the portress,\nand away she tripped.\n\nThis semi-mystery of the _parure_ was not solved till two or three days\nafterwards, when she came to make a voluntary confession.\n\n\"You need not be sulky with me,\" she began, \"in the idea that I am\nrunning somebody, papa or M. de Bassompierre, deeply into debt. I\nassure you nothing remains unpaid for, but the few dresses I have\nlately had: all the rest is settled.\"\n\n\"There,\" I thought, \"lies the mystery; considering that they were not\ngiven you by Mrs. Cholmondeley, and that your own means are limited to\na few shillings, of which I know you to be excessively careful.\"\n\n\"Ecoutez!\" she went on, drawing near and speaking in her most\nconfidential and coaxing tone; for my \"sulkiness\" was inconvenient to\nher: she liked me to be in a talking and listening mood, even if I only\ntalked to chide and listened to rail. \"Ecoutez, chère grogneuse! I will\ntell you all how and about it; and you will then see, not only how\nright the whole thing is, but how cleverly managed. In the first place,\nI _must_ go out. Papa himself said that he wished me to see something\nof the world; he particularly remarked to Mrs. Cholmondeley, that,\nthough I was a sweet creature enough, I had rather a\nbread-and-butter-eating, school-girl air; of which it was his special\ndesire that I should get rid, by an introduction to society here,\nbefore I make my regular début in England. Well, then, if I go out, I\n_must_ dress. Mrs. Cholmondeley is turned shabby, and will give nothing\nmore; it would be too hard upon uncle to make him pay for _all_ the\nthings I need: _that_ you can't deny--_that_ agrees with your own\npreachments. Well, but SOMEBODY who heard me (quite by chance, I assure\nyou) complaining to Mrs. Cholmondeley of my distressed circumstances,\nand what straits I was put to for an ornament or two--_somebody_, far\nfrom grudging one a present, was quite delighted at the idea of being\npermitted to offer some trifle. You should have seen what a _blanc-bec_\nhe looked when he first spoke of it: how he hesitated and blushed, and\npositively trembled from fear of a repulse.\"\n\n\"That will do, Miss Fanshawe. I suppose I am to understand that M.\nIsidore is the benefactor: that it is from him you have accepted that\ncostly _parure_; that he supplies your bouquets and your gloves?\"\n\n\"You express yourself so disagreeably,\" said she, \"one hardly knows how\nto answer; what I mean to say is, that I occasionally allow Isidore the\npleasure and honour of expressing his homage by the offer of a trifle.\"\n\n\"It comes to the same thing.... Now, Ginevra, to speak the plain truth,\nI don't very well understand these matters; but I believe you are doing\nvery wrong--seriously wrong. Perhaps, however, you now feel certain\nthat you will be able to marry M. Isidore; your parents and uncle have\ngiven their consent, and, for your part, you love him entirely?\"\n\n\"Mais pas du tout!\" (she always had recourse to French when about to\nsay something specially heartless and perverse). \"Je suis sa reine,\nmais il n'est pas mon roi.\"\n\n\"Excuse me, I must believe this language is mere nonsense and coquetry.\nThere is nothing great about you, yet you are above profiting by the\ngood nature and purse of a man to whom you feel absolute indifference.\nYou love M. Isidore far more than you think, or will avow.\"\n\n\"No. I danced with a young officer the other night, whom I love a\nthousand times more than he. I often wonder why I feel so very cold to\nIsidore, for everybody says he is handsome, and other ladies admire\nhim; but, somehow, he bores me: let me see now how it is....\"\n\nAnd she seemed to make an effort to reflect. In this I encouraged her.\n\n\"Yes!\" I said, \"try to get a clear idea of the state of your mind. To\nme it seems in a great mess--chaotic as a rag-bag.\"\n\n\"It is something in this fashion,\" she cried out ere long: \"the man is\ntoo romantic and devoted, and he expects something more of me than I\nfind it convenient to be. He thinks I am perfect: furnished with all\nsorts of sterling qualities and solid virtues, such as I never had, nor\nintend to have. Now, one can't help, in his presence, rather trying to\njustify his good opinion; and it does so tire one to be goody, and to\ntalk sense,--for he really thinks I am sensible. I am far more at my\nease with you, old lady--you, you dear crosspatch--who take me at my\nlowest, and know me to be coquettish, and ignorant, and flirting, and\nfickle, and silly, and selfish, and all the other sweet things you and\nI have agreed to be a part of my character.\"\n\n\"This is all very well,\" I said, making a strenuous effort to preserve\nthat gravity and severity which ran risk of being shaken by this\nwhimsical candour, \"but it does not alter that wretched business of the\npresents. Pack them up, Ginevra, like a good, honest girl, and send\nthem back.\"\n\n\"Indeed, I won't,\" said she, stoutly.\n\n\"Then you are deceiving M. Isidore. It stands to reason that by\naccepting his presents you give him to understand he will one day\nreceive an equivalent, in your regard...\"\n\n\"But he won't,\" she interrupted: \"he has his equivalent now, in the\npleasure of seeing me wear them--quite enough for him: he is only\nbourgeois.\"\n\nThis phrase, in its senseless arrogance, quite cured me of the\ntemporary weakness which had made me relax my tone and aspect. She\nrattled on:\n\n\"My present business is to enjoy youth, and not to think of fettering\nmyself, by promise or vow, to this man or that. When first I saw\nIsidore, I believed he would help me to enjoy it I believed he would be\ncontent with my being a pretty girl; and that we should meet and part\nand flutter about like two butterflies, and be happy. Lo, and behold! I\nfind him at times as grave as a judge, and deep-feeling and thoughtful.\nBah! Les penseurs, les hommes profonds et passionnés ne sont pas à mon\ngoût. Le Colonel Alfred de Hamal suits me far better. Va pour les beaux\nfats et les jolis fripons! Vive les joies et les plaisirs! A bas les\ngrandes passions et les sévères vertus!\"\n\nShe looked for an answer to this tirade. I gave none.\n\n\"J'aime mon beau Colonel,\" she went on: \"je n'aimerai jamais son rival.\nJe ne serai jamais femme de bourgeois, moi!\"\n\nI now signified that it was imperatively necessary my apartment should\nbe relieved of the honour of her presence: she went away laughing.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X.\n\nDR JOHN.\n\n\nMadame Beck was a most consistent character; forbearing with all the\nworld, and tender to no part of it. Her own children drew her into no\ndeviation from the even tenor of her stoic calm. She was solicitous\nabout her family, vigilant for their interests and physical well-being;\nbut she never seemed to know the wish to take her little children upon\nher lap, to press their rosy lips with her own, to gather them in a\ngenial embrace, to shower on them softly the benignant caress, the\nloving word.\n\nI have watched her sometimes sitting in the garden, viewing the little\nbees afar off, as they walked in a distant alley with Trinette, their\n_bonne_; in her mien spoke care and prudence. I know she often pondered\nanxiously what she called \"leur avenir;\" but if the youngest, a puny\nand delicate but engaging child, chancing to spy her, broke from its\nnurse, and toddling down the walk, came all eager and laughing and\npanting to clasp her knee, Madame would just calmly put out one hand,\nso as to prevent inconvenient concussion from the child's sudden onset:\n\"Prends garde, mon enfant!\" she would say unmoved, patiently permit it\nto stand near her a few moments, and then, without smile or kiss, or\nendearing syllable, rise and lead it back to Trinette.\n\nHer demeanour to the eldest girl was equally characteristic in another\nway. This was a vicious child. \"Quelle peste que cette Désirée! Quel\npoison que cet enfant là!\" were the expressions dedicated to her, alike\nin kitchen and in schoolroom. Amongst her other endowments she boasted\nan exquisite skill in the art, of provocation, sometimes driving her\n_bonne_ and the servants almost wild. She would steal to their attics,\nopen their drawers and boxes, wantonly tear their best caps and soil\ntheir best shawls; she would watch her opportunity to get at the buffet\nof the salle-à-manger, where she would smash articles of porcelain or\nglass--or to the cupboard of the storeroom, where she would plunder the\npreserves, drink the sweet wine, break jars and bottles, and so\ncontrive as to throw the onus of suspicion on the cook and the\nkitchen-maid. All this when Madame saw, and of which when she received\nreport, her sole observation, uttered with matchless serenity, was:\n\n\"Désirée a besoin d'une surveillance toute particulière.\" Accordingly\nshe kept this promising olive-branch a good deal at her side. Never\nonce, I believe, did she tell her faithfully of her faults, explain the\nevil of such habits, and show the results which must thence ensue.\nSurveillance must work the whole cure. It failed of course. Désirée was\nkept in some measure from the servants, but she teased and pillaged her\nmamma instead. Whatever belonging to Madame's work-table or toilet she\ncould lay her hands on, she stole and hid. Madame saw all this, but she\nstill pretended not to see: she had not rectitude of soul to confront\nthe child with her vices. When an article disappeared whose value\nrendered restitution necessary, she would profess to think that Désirée\nhad taken it away in play, and beg her to restore it. Désirée was not\nto be so cheated: she had learned to bring falsehood to the aid of\ntheft, and would deny having touched the brooch, ring, or scissors.\nCarrying on the hollow system, the mother would calmly assume an air of\nbelief, and afterwards ceaselessly watch and dog the child till she\ntracked her: to her hiding-places--some hole in the garden-wall--some\nchink or cranny in garret or out-house. This done, Madame would send\nDésirée out for a walk with her _bonne_, and profit by her absence to\nrob the robber. Désirée proved herself the true daughter of her astute\nparent, by never suffering either her countenance or manner to betray\nthe least sign of mortification on discovering the loss.\n\nThe second child, Fifine, was said to be like its dead father.\nCertainly, though the mother had given it her healthy frame, her blue\neye and ruddy cheek, not from her was derived its moral being. It was\nan honest, gleeful little soul: a passionate, warm-tempered, bustling\ncreature it was too, and of the sort likely to blunder often into\nperils and difficulties. One day it bethought itself to fall from top\nto bottom of a steep flight of stone steps; and when Madame, hearing\nthe noise (she always heard every noise), issued from the\nsalle-à-manger and picked it up, she said quietly,--\"Cet enfant a un os\ncassé.\"\n\nAt first we hoped this was not the case. It was, however, but too true:\none little plump arm hung powerless.\n\n\"Let Meess\" (meaning me) \"take her,\" said Madame; \"et qu'on aille tout\nde suite chercher un fiacre.\"\n\nIn a _fiacre_ she promptly, but with admirable coolness and\nself-possession, departed to fetch a surgeon.\n\nIt appeared she did not find the family-surgeon at home; but that\nmattered not: she sought until she laid her hand on a substitute to her\nmind, and brought him back with her. Meantime I had cut the child's\nsleeve from its arm, undressed and put it to bed.\n\nWe none of us, I suppose (by _we_ I mean the bonne, the cook, the\nportress, and myself, all which personages were now gathered in the\nsmall and heated chamber), looked very scrutinizingly at the new doctor\nwhen he came into the room. I, at least, was taken up with endeavouring\nto soothe Fifine; whose cries (for she had good lungs) were appalling\nto hear. These cries redoubled in intensity as the stranger approached\nher bed; when he took her up, \"Let alone!\" she cried passionately, in\nher broken English (for she spoke English as did the other children).\n\"I will not you: I will Dr. Pillule!\"\n\n\"And Dr. Pillule is my very good friend,\" was the answer, in perfect\nEnglish; \"but he is busy at a place three leagues off, and I am come in\nhis stead. So now, when we get a little calmer, we must commence\nbusiness; and we will soon have that unlucky little arm bandaged and in\nright order.\"\n\nHereupon he called for a glass of _eau sucrée_, fed her with some\nteaspoonfuls of the sweet liquid (Fifine was a frank gourmande; anybody\ncould win her heart through her palate), promised her more when the\noperation should be over, and promptly went to work. Some assistance\nbeing needed, he demanded it of the cook, a robust, strong-armed woman;\nbut she, the portress, and the nurse instantly fled. I did not like to\ntouch that small, tortured limb, but thinking there was no alternative,\nmy hand was already extended to do what was requisite. I was\nanticipated; Madame Beck had put out her own hand: hers was steady\nwhile mine trembled.\n\n\"Ca vaudra mieux,\" said the doctor, turning from me to her.\n\nHe showed wisdom in his choice. Mine would have been feigned stoicism,\nforced fortitude. Hers was neither forced nor feigned.\n\n\"Merci, Madame; très bien, fort bien!\" said the operator when he had\nfinished. \"Voilà un sang-froid bien opportun, et qui vaut mille élans\nde sensibilité déplacée.\"\n\nHe was pleased with her firmness, she with his compliment. It was\nlikely, too, that his whole general appearance, his voice, mien, and\nmanner, wrought impressions in his favour. Indeed, when you looked well\nat him, and when a lamp was brought in--for it was evening and now\nwaxing dusk--you saw that, unless Madame Beck had been less than woman,\nit could not well be otherwise. This young doctor (he _was_ young) had\nno common aspect. His stature looked imposingly tall in that little\nchamber, and amidst that group of Dutch-made women; his profile was\nclear, fine and expressive: perhaps his eye glanced from face to face\nrather too vividly, too quickly, and too often; but it had a most\npleasant character, and so had his mouth; his chin was full, cleft,\nGrecian, and perfect. As to his smile, one could not in a hurry make up\none's mind as to the descriptive epithet it merited; there was\nsomething in it that pleased, but something too that brought surging up\ninto the mind all one's foibles and weak points: all that could lay one\nopen to a laugh. Yet Fifine liked this doubtful smile, and thought the\nowner genial: much as he had hurt her, she held out her hand to bid him\na friendly good-night. He patted the little hand kindly, and then he\nand Madame went down-stairs together; she talking in her highest tide\nof spirits and volubility, he listening with an air of good-natured\namenity, dashed with that unconscious roguish archness I find it\ndifficult to describe.\n\nI noticed that though he spoke French well, he spoke English better; he\nhad, too, an English complexion, eyes, and form. I noticed more. As he\npassed me in leaving the room, turning his face in my direction one\nmoment--not to address me, but to speak to Madame, yet so standing,\nthat I almost necessarily looked up at him--a recollection which had\nbeen struggling to form in my memory, since the first moment I heard\nhis voice, started up perfected. This was the very gentleman to whom I\nhad spoken at the bureau; who had helped me in the matter of the trunk;\nwho had been my guide through the dark, wet park. Listening, as he\npassed down the long vestibule out into the street, I recognised his\nvery tread: it was the same firm and equal stride I had followed under\nthe dripping trees.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIt was, to be concluded that this young surgeon-physician's first visit\nto the Rue Fossette would be the last. The respectable Dr. Pillule\nbeing expected home the next day, there appeared no reason why his\ntemporary substitute should again represent him; but the Fates had\nwritten their decree to the contrary.\n\nDr. Pillule had been summoned to see a rich old hypochondriac at the\nantique university town of Bouquin-Moisi, and upon his prescribing\nchange of air and travel as remedies, he was retained to accompany the\ntimid patient on a tour of some weeks; it but remained, therefore, for\nthe new doctor to continue his attendance at the Rue Fossette.\n\nI often saw him when he came; for Madame would not trust the little\ninvalid to Trinette, but required me to spend much of my time in the\nnursery. I think he was skilful. Fifine recovered rapidly under his\ncare, yet even her convalescence did not hasten his dismissal. Destiny\nand Madame Beck seemed in league, and both had ruled that he should\nmake deliberate acquaintance with the vestibule, the private staircase\nand upper chambers of the Rue Fossette.\n\nNo sooner did Fifine emerge from his hands than Désirée declared\nherself ill. That possessed child had a genius for simulation, and\ncaptivated by the attentions and indulgences of a sick-room, she came\nto the conclusion that an illness would perfectly accommodate her\ntastes, and took her bed accordingly. She acted well, and her mother\nstill better; for while the whole case was transparent to Madame Beck\nas the day, she treated it with an astonishingly well-assured air of\ngravity and good faith.\n\nWhat surprised me was, that Dr. John (so the young Englishman had\ntaught Fifine to call him, and we all took from her the habit of\naddressing him by this name, till it became an established custom, and\nhe was known by no other in the Rue Fossette)--that Dr. John consented\ntacitly to adopt Madame's tactics, and to fall in with her manoeuvres.\nHe betrayed, indeed, a period of comic doubt, cast one or two rapid\nglances from the child to the mother, indulged in an interval of\nself-consultation, but finally resigned himself with a good grace to\nplay his part in the farce. Désirée eat like a raven, gambolled day and\nnight in her bed, pitched tents with the sheets and blankets, lounged\nlike a Turk amidst pillows and bolsters, diverted herself with throwing\nher shoes at her bonne and grimacing at her sisters--over-flowed, in\nshort, with unmerited health and evil spirits; only languishing when\nher mamma and the physician paid their diurnal visit. Madame Beck, I\nknew, was glad, at any price, to have her daughter in bed out of the\nway of mischief; but I wondered that Dr. John did not tire of the\nbusiness.\n\nEvery day, on this mere pretext of a motive, he gave punctual\nattendance; Madame always received him with the same empressement, the\nsame sunshine for himself, the same admirably counterfeited air of\nconcern for her child. Dr. John wrote harmless prescriptions for the\npatient, and viewed her mother with a shrewdly sparkling eye. Madame\ncaught his rallying looks without resenting them--she had too much good\nsense for that. Supple as the young doctor seemed, one could not\ndespise him--this pliant part was evidently not adopted in the design\nto curry favour with his employer: while he liked his office at the\npensionnat, and lingered strangely about the Rue Fossette, he was\nindependent, almost careless in his carriage there; and yet, too, he\nwas often thoughtful and preoccupied.\n\nIt was not perhaps my business to observe the mystery of his bearing,\nor search out its origin or aim; but, placed as I was, I could hardly\nhelp it. He laid himself open to my observation, according to my\npresence in the room just that degree of notice and consequence a\nperson of my exterior habitually expects: that is to say, about what is\ngiven to unobtrusive articles of furniture, chairs of ordinary joiner's\nwork, and carpets of no striking pattern. Often, while waiting for\nMadame, he would muse, smile, watch, or listen like a man who thinks\nhimself alone. I, meantime, was free to puzzle over his countenance and\nmovements, and wonder what could be the meaning of that peculiar\ninterest and attachment--all mixed up with doubt and strangeness, and\ninexplicably ruled by some presiding spell--which wedded him to this\ndemi-convent, secluded in the built-up core of a capital. He, I\nbelieve, never remembered that I had eyes in my head, much less a brain\nbehind them.\n\nNor would he ever have found this out, but that one day, while he sat\nin the sunshine and I was observing the colouring of his hair,\nwhiskers, and complexion--the whole being of such a tone as a strong\nlight brings out with somewhat perilous force (indeed I recollect I was\ndriven to compare his beamy head in my thoughts to that of the \"golden\nimage\" which Nebuchadnezzar the king had set up), an idea new, sudden,\nand startling, riveted my attention with an over-mastering strength and\npower of attraction. I know not to this day how I looked at him: the\nforce of surprise, and also of conviction, made me forget myself; and I\nonly recovered wonted consciousness when I saw that his notice was\narrested, and that it had caught my movement in a clear little oval\nmirror fixed in the side of the window recess--by the aid of which\nreflector Madame often secretly spied persons walking in the garden\nbelow. Though of so gay and sanguine a temperament, he was not without\na certain nervous sensitiveness which made him ill at ease under a\ndirect, inquiring gaze. On surprising me thus, he turned and said, in a\ntone which, though courteous, had just so much dryness in it as to mark\na shade of annoyance, as well as to give to what was said the character\nof rebuke, \"Mademoiselle does not spare me: I am not vain enough to\nfancy that it is my merits which attract her attention; it must then be\nsome defect. Dare I ask--what?\"\n\nI was confounded, as the reader may suppose, yet not with an\nirrecoverable confusion; being conscious that it was from no emotion of\nincautious admiration, nor yet in a spirit of unjustifiable\ninquisitiveness, that I had incurred this reproof. I might have cleared\nmyself on the spot, but would not. I did not speak. I was not in the\nhabit of speaking to him. Suffering him, then, to think what he chose\nand accuse me of what he would, I resumed some work I had dropped, and\nkept my head bent over it during the remainder of his stay. There is a\nperverse mood of the mind which is rather soothed than irritated by\nmisconstruction; and in quarters where we can never be rightly known,\nwe take pleasure, I think, in being consummately ignored. What honest\nman, on being casually taken for a housebreaker, does not feel rather\ntickled than vexed at the mistake?\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI.\n\nTHE PORTRESS'S CABINET.\n\n\nIt was summer and very hot. Georgette, the youngest of Madame Beck's\nchildren, took a fever. Désirée, suddenly cured of her ailments, was,\ntogether with Fifine, packed off to Bonne-Maman, in the country, by way\nof precaution against infection. Medical aid was now really needed, and\nMadame, choosing to ignore the return of Dr. Pillule, who had been at\nhome a week, conjured his English rival to continue his visits. One or\ntwo of the pensionnaires complained of headache, and in other respects\nseemed slightly to participate in Georgette's ailment. \"Now, at last,\"\nI thought, \"Dr. Pillule must be recalled: the prudent directress will\nnever venture to permit the attendance of so young a man on the pupils.\"\n\nThe directress was very prudent, but she could also be intrepidly\nventurous. She actually introduced Dr. John to the school-division of\nthe premises, and established him in attendance on the proud and\nhandsome Blanche de Melcy, and the vain, flirting Angélique, her\nfriend. Dr. John, I thought, testified a certain gratification at this\nmark of confidence; and if discretion of bearing could have justified\nthe step, it would by him have been amply justified. Here, however, in\nthis land of convents and confessionals, such a presence as his was not\nto be suffered with impunity in a \"pensionnat de demoiselles.\" The\nschool gossiped, the kitchen whispered, the town caught the rumour,\nparents wrote letters and paid visits of remonstrance. Madame, had she\nbeen weak, would now have been lost: a dozen rival educational houses\nwere ready to improve this false step--if false step it were--to her\nruin; but Madame was not weak, and little Jesuit though she might be,\nyet I clapped the hands of my heart, and with its voice cried \"brava!\"\nas I watched her able bearing, her skilled management, her temper and\nher firmness on this occasion.\n\nShe met the alarmed parents with a good-humoured, easy grace for nobody\nmatched her in, I know not whether to say the possession or the\nassumption of a certain \"rondeur et franchise de bonne femme;\" which on\nvarious occasions gained the point aimed at with instant and complete\nsuccess, where severe gravity and serious reasoning would probably have\nfailed.\n\n\"Ce pauvre Docteur Jean!\" she would say, chuckling and rubbing joyously\nher fat little white hands; \"ce cher jeune homme! le meilleur créature\ndu monde!\" and go on to explain how she happened to be employing him\nfor her own children, who were so fond of him they would scream\nthemselves into fits at the thought of another doctor; how, where she\nhad confidence for her own, she thought it natural to repose trust for\nothers, and au reste, it was only the most temporary expedient in the\nworld; Blanche and Angélique had the migraine; Dr. John had written a\nprescription; voilà tout!\n\nThe parents' mouths were closed. Blanche and Angélique saved her all\nremaining trouble by chanting loud duets in their physician's praise;\nthe other pupils echoed them, unanimously declaring that when they were\nill they would have Dr. John and nobody else; and Madame laughed, and\nthe parents laughed too. The Labassecouriens must have a large organ of\nphiloprogenitiveness: at least the indulgence of offspring is carried\nby them to excessive lengths; the law of most households being the\nchildren's will. Madame now got credit for having acted on this\noccasion in a spirit of motherly partiality: she came off with flying\ncolours; people liked her as a directress better than ever.\n\nTo this day I never fully understood why she thus risked her interest\nfor the sake of Dr. John. What people said, of course I know well: the\nwhole house--pupils, teachers, servants included--affirmed that she was\ngoing to marry him. So they had settled it; difference of age seemed to\nmake no obstacle in their eyes: it was to be so.\n\nIt must be admitted that appearances did not wholly discountenance this\nidea; Madame seemed so bent on retaining his services, so oblivious of\nher former protégé, Pillule. She made, too, such a point of personally\nreceiving his visits, and was so unfailingly cheerful, blithe, and\nbenignant in her manner to him. Moreover, she paid, about this time,\nmarked attention to dress: the morning dishabille, the nightcap and\nshawl, were discarded; Dr. John's early visits always found her with\nauburn braids all nicely arranged, silk dress trimly fitted on, neat\nlaced brodequins in lieu of slippers: in short the whole toilette\ncomplete as a model, and fresh as a flower. I scarcely think, however,\nthat her intention in this went further than just to show a very\nhandsome man that she was not quite a plain woman; and plain she was\nnot. Without beauty of feature or elegance of form, she pleased.\nWithout youth and its gay graces, she cheered. One never tired of\nseeing her: she was never monotonous, or insipid, or colourless, or\nflat. Her unfaded hair, her eye with its temperate blue light, her\ncheek with its wholesome fruit-like bloom--these things pleased in\nmoderation, but with constancy.\n\nHad she, indeed, floating visions of adopting Dr. John as a husband,\ntaking him to her well-furnished home, endowing him with her savings,\nwhich were said to amount to a moderate competency, and making him\ncomfortable for the rest of his life? Did Dr. John suspect her of such\nvisions? I have met him coming out of her presence with a mischievous\nhalf-smile about his lips, and in his eyes a look as of masculine\nvanity elate and tickled. With all his good looks and good-nature, he\nwas not perfect; he must have been very imperfect if he roguishly\nencouraged aims he never intended to be successful. But did he not\nintend them to be successful? People said he had no money, that he was\nwholly dependent upon his profession. Madame--though perhaps some\nfourteen years his senior--was yet the sort of woman never to grow old,\nnever to wither, never to break down. They certainly were on good\nterms. _He_ perhaps was not in love; but how many people ever _do_\nlove, or at least marry for love, in this world. We waited the end.\n\nFor what _he_ waited, I do not know, nor for what he watched; but the\npeculiarity of his manner, his expectant, vigilant, absorbed, eager\nlook, never wore off: it rather intensified. He had never been quite\nwithin the compass of my penetration, and I think he ranged farther and\nfarther beyond it.\n\nOne morning little Georgette had been more feverish and consequently\nmore peevish; she was crying, and would not be pacified. I thought a\nparticular draught ordered, disagreed with her, and I doubted whether\nit ought to be continued; I waited impatiently for the doctor's coming\nin order to consult him.\n\nThe door-bell rang, he was admitted; I felt sure of this, for I heard\nhis voice addressing the portress. It was his custom to mount straight\nto the nursery, taking about three degrees of the staircase at once,\nand coming upon us like a cheerful surprise. Five minutes\nelapsed--ten--and I saw and heard nothing of him. What could he be\ndoing? Possibly waiting in the corridor below. Little Georgette still\npiped her plaintive wail, appealing to me by her familiar term,\n\"Minnie, Minnie, me very poorly!\" till my heart ached. I descended to\nascertain why he did not come. The corridor was empty. Whither was he\nvanished? Was he with Madame in the _salle-à-manger?_ Impossible: I had\nleft her but a short time since, dressing in her own chamber. I\nlistened. Three pupils were just then hard at work practising in three\nproximate rooms--the dining-room and the greater and lesser\ndrawing-rooms, between which and the corridor there was but the\nportress's cabinet communicating with the salons, and intended\noriginally for a boudoir. Farther off, at a fourth instrument in the\noratory, a whole class of a dozen or more were taking a singing lesson,\nand just then joining in a \"barcarole\" (I think they called it),\nwhereof I yet remember these words \"fraîchë,\" \"brisë,\" and \"Venisë.\"\nUnder these circumstances, what could I hear? A great deal, certainly;\nhad it only been to the purpose.\n\nYes; I heard a giddy treble laugh in the above-mentioned little\ncabinet, close by the door of which I stood--that door half-unclosed; a\nman's voice in a soft, deep, pleading tone, uttered some, words,\nwhereof I only caught the adjuration, \"For God's sake!\" Then, after a\nsecond's pause, forth issued Dr. John, his eye full shining, but not\nwith either joy or triumph; his fair English cheek high-coloured; a\nbaffled, tortured, anxious, and yet a tender meaning on his brow.\n\nThe open door served me as a screen; but had I been full in his way, I\nbelieve he would have passed without seeing me. Some mortification,\nsome strong vexation had hold of his soul: or rather, to write my\nimpressions now as I received them at the time I should say some\nsorrow, some sense of injustice. I did not so much think his pride was\nhurt, as that his affections had been wounded--cruelly wounded, it\nseemed to me. But who was the torturer? What being in that house had\nhim so much in her power? Madame I believed to be in her chamber; the\nroom whence he had stepped was dedicated to the portress's sole use;\nand she, Rosine Matou, an unprincipled though pretty little French\ngrisette, airy, fickle, dressy, vain, and mercenary--it was not,\nsurely, to _her_ hand he owed the ordeal through which he seemed to\nhave passed?\n\nBut while I pondered, her voice, clear, though somewhat sharp, broke\nout in a lightsome French song, trilling through the door still ajar: I\nglanced in, doubting my senses. There at the table she sat in a smart\ndress of \"jaconas rose,\" trimming a tiny blond cap: not a living thing\nsave herself was in the room, except indeed some gold fish in a glass\nglobe, some flowers in pots, and a broad July sunbeam.\n\nHere was a problem: but I must go up-stairs to ask about the medicine.\n\nDr. John sat in a chair at Georgette's bedside; Madame stood before\nhim; the little patient had been examined and soothed, and now lay\ncomposed in her crib. Madame Beck, as I entered, was discussing the\nphysician's own health, remarking on some real or fancied change in his\nlooks, charging him with over-work, and recommending rest and change of\nair. He listened good-naturedly, but with laughing indifference,\ntelling her that she was \"trop bonne,\" and that he felt perfectly well.\nMadame appealed to me--Dr. John following her movement with a slow\nglance which seemed to express languid surprise at reference being made\nto a quarter so insignificant.\n\n\"What do you think, Miss Lucie?\" asked Madame. \"Is he not paler and\nthinner?\"\n\nIt was very seldom that I uttered more than monosyllables in Dr. John's\npresence; he was the kind of person with whom I was likely ever to\nremain the neutral, passive thing he thought me. Now, however, I took\nlicence to answer in a phrase: and a phrase I purposely made quite\nsignificant.\n\n\"He looks ill at this moment; but perhaps it is owing to some temporary\ncause: Dr. John may have been vexed or harassed.\" I cannot tell how he\ntook this speech, as I never sought his face for information. Georgette\nhere began to ask me in her broken English if she might have a glass of\n_eau sucrée_. I answered her in English. For the first time, I fancy,\nhe noticed that I spoke his language; hitherto he had always taken me\nfor a foreigner, addressing me as \"Mademoiselle,\" and giving in French\nthe requisite directions about the children's treatment. He seemed on\nthe point of making a remark; but thinking better of it, held his\ntongue.\n\nMadame recommenced advising him; he shook his head, laughing, rose and\nbid her good-morning, with courtesy, but still with the regardless air\nof one whom too much unsolicited attention was surfeiting and spoiling.\n\nWhen he was gone, Madame dropped into the chair he had just left; she\nrested her chin in her hand; all that was animated and amiable vanished\nfrom her face: she looked stony and stern, almost mortified and morose.\nShe sighed; a single, but a deep sigh. A loud bell rang for\nmorning-school. She got up; as she passed a dressing-table with a glass\nupon it, she looked at her reflected image. One single white hair\nstreaked her nut-brown tresses; she plucked it out with a shudder. In\nthe full summer daylight, her face, though it still had the colour,\ncould plainly be seen to have lost the texture of youth; and then,\nwhere were youth's contours? Ah, Madame! wise as you were, even _you_\nknew weakness. Never had I pitied Madame before, but my heart softened\ntowards her, when she turned darkly from the glass. A calamity had come\nupon her. That hag Disappointment was greeting her with a grisly\n\"All-hail,\" and her soul rejected the intimacy.\n\nBut Rosine! My bewilderment there surpasses description. I embraced\nfive opportunities of passing her cabinet that day, with a view to\ncontemplating her charms, and finding out the secret of their\ninfluence. She was pretty, young, and wore a well-made dress. All very\ngood points, and, I suppose, amply sufficient to account, in any\nphilosophic mind, for any amount of agony and distraction in a young\nman, like Dr. John. Still, I could not help forming half a wish that\nthe said doctor were my brother; or at least that he had a sister or a\nmother who would kindly sermonize him. I say _half_ a wish; I broke it,\nand flung it away before it became a whole one, discovering in good\ntime its exquisite folly. \"Somebody,\" I argued, \"might as well\nsermonize Madame about her young physician: and what good would that\ndo?\"\n\nI believe Madame sermonized herself. She did not behave weakly, or make\nherself in any shape ridiculous. It is true she had neither strong\nfeelings to overcome, nor tender feelings by which to be miserably\npained. It is true likewise that she had an important avocation, a real\nbusiness to fill her time, divert her thoughts, and divide her\ninterest. It is especially true that she possessed a genuine good sense\nwhich is not given to all women nor to all men; and by dint of these\ncombined advantages she behaved wisely--she behaved well. Brava! once\nmore, Madame Beck. I saw you matched against an Apollyon of a\npredilection; you fought a good fight, and you overcame!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII.\n\nTHE CASKET.\n\n\nBehind the house at the Rue Fossette there was a garden--large,\nconsidering that it lay in the heart of a city, and to my recollection\nat this day it seems pleasant: but time, like distance, lends to\ncertain scenes an influence so softening; and where all is stone\naround, blank wall and hot pavement, how precious seems one shrub, how\nlovely an enclosed and planted spot of ground!\n\nThere went a tradition that Madame Beck's house had in old days been a\nconvent. That in years gone by--how long gone by I cannot tell, but I\nthink some centuries--before the city had over-spread this quarter, and\nwhen it was tilled ground and avenue, and such deep and leafy seclusion\nas ought to embosom a religious house-that something had happened on\nthis site which, rousing fear and inflicting horror, had left to the\nplace the inheritance of a ghost-story. A vague tale went of a black\nand white nun, sometimes, on some night or nights of the year, seen in\nsome part of this vicinage. The ghost must have been built out some\nages ago, for there were houses all round now; but certain\nconvent-relics, in the shape of old and huge fruit-trees, yet\nconsecrated the spot; and, at the foot of one--a Methuselah of a\npear-tree, dead, all but a few boughs which still faithfully renewed\ntheir perfumed snow in spring, and their honey-sweet pendants in\nautumn--you saw, in scraping away the mossy earth between the\nhalf-bared roots, a glimpse of slab, smooth, hard, and black. The\nlegend went, unconfirmed and unaccredited, but still propagated, that\nthis was the portal of a vault, imprisoning deep beneath that ground,\non whose surface grass grew and flowers bloomed, the bones of a girl\nwhom a monkish conclave of the drear middle ages had here buried alive\nfor some sin against her vow. Her shadow it was that tremblers had\nfeared, through long generations after her poor frame was dust; her\nblack robe and white veil that, for timid eyes, moonlight and shade had\nmocked, as they fluctuated in the night-wind through the garden-thicket.\n\nIndependently of romantic rubbish, however, that old garden had its\ncharms. On summer mornings I used to rise early, to enjoy them alone;\non summer evenings, to linger solitary, to keep tryste with the rising\nmoon, or taste one kiss of the evening breeze, or fancy rather than\nfeel the freshness of dew descending. The turf was verdant, the\ngravelled walks were white; sun-bright nasturtiums clustered beautiful\nabout the roots of the doddered orchard giants. There was a large\nberceau, above which spread the shade of an acacia; there was a\nsmaller, more sequestered bower, nestled in the vines which ran all\nalong a high and grey wall, and gathered their tendrils in a knot of\nbeauty, and hung their clusters in loving profusion about the favoured\nspot where jasmine and ivy met and married them.\n\nDoubtless at high noon, in the broad, vulgar middle of the day, when\nMadame Beck's large school turned out rampant, and externes and\npensionnaires were spread abroad, vying with the denizens of the boys'\ncollege close at hand, in the brazen exercise of their lungs and\nlimbs--doubtless _then_ the garden was a trite, trodden-down place\nenough. But at sunset or the hour of _salut_, when the externes were\ngone home, and the boarders quiet at their studies; pleasant was it\nthen to stray down the peaceful alleys, and hear the bells of St. Jean\nBaptiste peal out with their sweet, soft, exalted sound.\n\nI was walking thus one evening, and had been detained farther within\nthe verge of twilight than usual, by the still-deepening calm, the\nmellow coolness, the fragrant breathing with which flowers no sunshine\ncould win now answered the persuasion of the dew. I saw by a light in\nthe oratory window that the Catholic household were then gathered to\nevening prayer--a rite, from attendance on which, I now and then, as a\nProtestant, exempted myself.\n\n\"One moment longer,\" whispered solitude and the summer moon, \"stay with\nus: all is truly quiet now; for another quarter of an hour your\npresence will not be missed: the day's heat and bustle have tired you;\nenjoy these precious minutes.\"\n\nThe windowless backs of houses built in this garden, and in particular\nthe whole of one side, was skirted by the rear of a long line of\npremises--being the boarding-houses of the neighbouring college. This\nrear, however, was all blank stone, with the exception of certain attic\nloopholes high up, opening from the sleeping-rooms of the\nwomen-servants, and also one casement in a lower story said to mark the\nchamber or study of a master. But, though thus secure, an alley, which\nran parallel with the very high wall on that side the garden, was\nforbidden to be entered by the pupils. It was called indeed \"l'allée\ndéfendue,\" and any girl setting foot there would have rendered herself\nliable to as severe a penalty as the mild rules of Madame Beck's\nestablishment permitted. Teachers might indeed go there with impunity;\nbut as the walk was narrow, and the neglected shrubs were grown very\nthick and close on each side, weaving overhead a roof of branch and\nleaf which the sun's rays penetrated but in rare chequers, this alley\nwas seldom entered even during day, and after dusk was carefully\nshunned.\n\nFrom the first I was tempted to make an exception to this rule of\navoidance: the seclusion, the very gloom of the walk attracted me. For\na long time the fear of seeming singular scared me away; but by\ndegrees, as people became accustomed to me and my habits, and to such\nshades of peculiarity as were engrained in my nature--shades, certainly\nnot striking enough to interest, and perhaps not prominent enough to\noffend, but born in and with me, and no more to be parted with than my\nidentity--by slow degrees I became a frequenter of this strait and\nnarrow path. I made myself gardener of some tintless flowers that grew\nbetween its closely-ranked shrubs; I cleared away the relics of past\nautumns, choking up a rustic seat at the far end. Borrowing of Goton,\nthe cuisinière, a pail of water and a scrubbing-brush, I made this seat\nclean. Madame saw me at work and smiled approbation: whether sincerely\nor not I don't know; but she _seemed_ sincere.\n\n\"Voyez-vous,\" cried she, \"comme elle est propre, cette demoiselle\nLucie? Vous aimez done cette allée, Meess?\" \"Yes,\" I said, \"it is quiet\nand shady.\"\n\n\"C'est juste,\" cried she with an air of bonté; and she kindly\nrecommended me to confine myself to it as much as I chose, saying, that\nas I was not charged with the surveillance, I need not trouble myself\nto walk with the pupils: only I might permit her children to come\nthere, to talk English with me.\n\nOn the night in question, I was sitting on the hidden seat reclaimed\nfrom fungi and mould, listening to what seemed the far-off sounds of\nthe city. Far off, in truth, they were not: this school was in the\ncity's centre; hence, it was but five minutes' walk to the park, scarce\nten to buildings of palatial splendour. Quite near were wide streets\nbrightly lit, teeming at this moment with life: carriages were rolling\nthrough them to balls or to the opera. The same hour which tolled\ncurfew for our convent, which extinguished each lamp, and dropped the\ncurtain round each couch, rang for the gay city about us the summons to\nfestal enjoyment. Of this contrast I thought not, however: gay\ninstincts my nature had few; ball or opera I had never seen; and though\noften I had heard them described, and even wished to see them, it was\nnot the wish of one who hopes to partake a pleasure if she could only\nreach it--who feels fitted to shine in some bright distant sphere,\ncould she but thither win her way; it was no yearning to attain, no\nhunger to taste; only the calm desire to look on a new thing.\n\nA moon was in the sky, not a full moon, but a young crescent. I saw her\nthrough a space in the boughs overhead. She and the stars, visible\nbeside her, were no strangers where all else was strange: my childhood\nknew them. I had seen that golden sign with the dark globe in its curve\nleaning back on azure, beside an old thorn at the top of an old field,\nin Old England, in long past days, just as it now leaned back beside a\nstately spire in this continental capital.\n\nOh, my childhood! I had feelings: passive as I lived, little as I\nspoke, cold as I looked, when I thought of past days, I _could_ feel.\nAbout the present, it was better to be stoical; about the future--such\na future as mine--to be dead. And in catalepsy and a dead trance, I\nstudiously held the quick of my nature.\n\nAt that time, I well remember whatever could excite--certain accidents\nof the weather, for instance, were almost dreaded by me, because they\nwoke the being I was always lulling, and stirred up a craving cry I\ncould not satisfy. One night a thunder-storm broke; a sort of hurricane\nshook us in our beds: the Catholics rose in panic and prayed to their\nsaints. As for me, the tempest took hold of me with tyranny: I was\nroughly roused and obliged to live. I got up and dressed myself, and\ncreeping outside the casement close by my bed, sat on its ledge, with\nmy feet on the roof of a lower adjoining building. It was wet, it was\nwild, it was pitch-dark. Within the dormitory they gathered round the\nnight-lamp in consternation, praying loud. I could not go in: too\nresistless was the delight of staying with the wild hour, black and\nfull of thunder, pealing out such an ode as language never delivered to\nman--too terribly glorious, the spectacle of clouds, split and pierced\nby white and blinding bolts.\n\nI did long, achingly, then and for four and twenty hours afterwards,\nfor something to fetch me out of my present existence, and lead me\nupwards and onwards. This longing, and all of a similar kind, it was\nnecessary to knock on the head; which I did, figuratively, after the\nmanner of Jael to Sisera, driving a nail through their temples. Unlike\nSisera, they did not die: they were but transiently stunned, and at\nintervals would turn on the nail with a rebellious wrench: then did the\ntemples bleed, and the brain thrill to its core.\n\nTo-night, I was not so mutinous, nor so miserable. My Sisera lay quiet\nin the tent, slumbering; and if his pain ached through his slumbers,\nsomething like an angel--the ideal--knelt near, dropping balm on the\nsoothed temples, holding before the sealed eyes a magic glass, of which\nthe sweet, solemn visions were repeated in dreams, and shedding a\nreflex from her moonlight wings and robe over the transfixed sleeper,\nover the tent threshold, over all the landscape lying without. Jael,\nthe stern woman; sat apart, relenting somewhat over her captive; but\nmore prone to dwell on the faithful expectation of Heber coming home.\nBy which words I mean that the cool peace and dewy sweetness of the\nnight filled me with a mood of hope: not hope on any definite point,\nbut a general sense of encouragement and heart-ease.\n\nShould not such a mood, so sweet, so tranquil, so unwonted, have been\nthe harbinger of good? Alas, no good came of it! I Presently the rude\nReal burst coarsely in--all evil grovelling and repellent as she too\noften is.\n\nAmid the intense stillness of that pile of stone overlooking the walk,\nthe trees, the high wall, I heard a sound; a casement [all the windows\nhere are casements, opening on hinges] creaked. Ere I had time to look\nup and mark where, in which story, or by whom unclosed, a tree overhead\nshook, as if struck by a missile; some object dropped prone at my feet.\n\nNine was striking by St. Jean Baptiste's clock; day was fading, but it\nwas not dark: the crescent moon aided little, but the deep gilding of\nthat point in heaven where the sun beamed last, and the crystalline\nclearness of a wide space above, sustained the summer twilight; even in\nmy dark walk I could, by approaching an opening, have managed to read\nprint of a small type. Easy was it to see then that the missile was a\nbox, a small box of white and coloured ivory; its loose lid opened in\nmy hand; violets lay within, violets smothering a closely folded bit of\npink paper, a note, superscribed, \"Pour la robe grise.\" I wore indeed a\ndress of French grey.\n\nGood. Was this a billet-doux? A thing I had heard of, but hitherto had\nnot had the honour of seeing or handling. Was it this sort of commodity\nI held between my finger and thumb at this moment?\n\nScarcely: I did not dream it for a moment. Suitor or admirer my very\nthoughts had not conceived. All the teachers had dreams of some lover;\none (but she was naturally of a credulous turn) believed in a future\nhusband. All the pupils above fourteen knew of some prospective\nbridegroom; two or three were already affianced by their parents, and\nhad been so from childhood: but into the realm of feelings and hopes\nwhich such prospects open, my speculations, far less my presumptions,\nhad never once had warrant to intrude. If the other teachers went into\ntown, or took a walk on the boulevards, or only attended mass, they\nwere very certain (according to the accounts brought back) to meet with\nsome individual of the \"opposite sex,\" whose rapt, earnest gaze assured\nthem of their power to strike and to attract. I can't say that my\nexperience tallied with theirs, in this respect. I went to church and I\ntook walks, and am very well convinced that nobody minded me. There was\nnot a girl or woman in the Rue Fossette who could not, and did not\ntestify to having received an admiring beam from our young doctor's\nblue eyes at one time or other. I am obliged, however humbling it may\nsound, to except myself: as far as I was concerned, those blue eyes\nwere guiltless, and calm as the sky, to whose tint theirs seemed akin.\nSo it came to pass that I heard the others talk, wondered often at\ntheir gaiety, security, and self-satisfaction, but did not trouble\nmyself to look up and gaze along the path they seemed so certain of\ntreading. This then was no billet-doux; and it was in settled\nconviction to the contrary that I quietly opened it. Thus it ran--I\ntranslate:--\n\n\"Angel of my dreams! A thousand, thousand thanks for the promise kept:\nscarcely did I venture to hope its fulfilment. I believed you, indeed,\nto be half in jest; and then you seemed to think the enterprise beset\nwith such danger--the hour so untimely, the alley so strictly\nsecluded--often, you said, haunted by that dragon, the English\nteacher--une véritable bégueule Britannique à ce que vous dites--espèce\nde monstre, brusque et rude comme un vieux caporal de grenadiers, et\nrevêche comme une religieuse\" (the reader will excuse my modesty in\nallowing this flattering sketch of my amiable self to retain the slight\nveil of the original tongue). \"You are aware,\" went on this precious\neffusion, \"that little Gustave, on account of his illness, has been\nremoved to a master's chamber--that favoured chamber, whose lattice\noverlooks your prison-ground. There, I, the best uncle in the world, am\nadmitted to visit him. How tremblingly I approached the window and\nglanced into your Eden--an Eden for me, though a desert for you!--how I\nfeared to behold vacancy, or the dragon aforesaid! How my heart\npalpitated with delight when, through apertures in the envious boughs,\nI at once caught the gleam of your graceful straw-hat, and the waving\nof your grey dress--dress that I should recognise amongst a thousand.\nBut why, my angel, will you not look up? Cruel, to deny me one ray of\nthose adorable eyes!--how a single glance would have revived me! I\nwrite this in fiery haste; while the physician examines Gustave, I\nsnatch an opportunity to enclose it in a small casket, together with a\nbouquet of flowers, the sweetest that blow--yet less sweet than thee,\nmy Peri--my all-charming! ever thine-thou well knowest whom!\"\n\n\"I wish I did know whom,\" was my comment; and the wish bore even closer\nreference to the person addressed in this choice document, than to the\nwriter thereof. Perhaps it was from the fiancé of one of the engaged\npupils; and, in that case, there was no great harm done or\nintended--only a small irregularity. Several of the girls, the\nmajority, indeed, had brothers or cousins at the neighbouring college.\nBut \"la robe grise, le chapeau de paille,\" here surely was a clue--a\nvery confusing one. The straw-hat was an ordinary garden head-screen,\ncommon to a score besides myself. The grey dress hardly gave more\ndefinite indication. Madame Beck herself ordinarily wore a grey dress\njust now; another teacher, and three of the pensionnaires, had had grey\ndresses purchased of the same shade and fabric as mine: it was a sort\nof every-day wear which happened at that time to be in vogue.\n\nMeanwhile, as I pondered, I knew I must go in. Lights, moving in the\ndormitory, announced that prayers were over, and the pupils going to\nbed. Another half-hour and all doors would be locked--all lights\nextinguished. The front door yet stood open, to admit into the heated\nhouse the coolness of the summer night; from the portress's cabinet\nclose by shone a lamp, showing the long vestibule with the two-leaved\ndrawing-room doors on one side, the great street-door closing the vista.\n\nAll at once, quick rang the bell--quick, but not loud--a cautious\ntinkle--a sort of warning metal whisper. Rosine darted from her cabinet\nand ran to open. The person she admitted stood with her two minutes in\nparley: there seemed a demur, a delay. Rosine came to the garden door,\nlamp in hand; she stood on the steps, lifting her lamp, looking round\nvaguely.\n\n\"Quel conte!\" she cried, with a coquettish laugh. \"Personne n'y a été.\"\n\n\"Let me pass,\" pleaded a voice I knew: \"I ask but five minutes;\" and a\nfamiliar shape, tall and grand (as we of the Rue Fossette all thought\nit), issued from the house, and strode down amongst the beds and walks.\nIt was sacrilege--the intrusion of a man into that spot, at that hour;\nbut he knew himself privileged, and perhaps he trusted to the friendly\nnight. He wandered down the alleys, looking on this side and on\nthat--he was lost in the shrubs, trampling flowers and breaking\nbranches in his search--he penetrated at last the \"forbidden walk.\"\nThere I met him, like some ghost, I suppose.\n\n\"Dr. John! it is found.\"\n\nHe did not ask by whom, for with his quick eye he perceived that I held\nit in my hand.\n\n\"Do not betray her,\" he said, looking at me as if I were indeed a\ndragon.\n\n\"Were I ever so disposed to treachery, I cannot betray what I do not\nknow,\" was my answer. \"Read the note, and you will see how little it\nreveals.\"\n\n\"Perhaps you have read it,\" I thought to myself; and yet I could not\nbelieve he wrote it: that could hardly be his style: besides, I was\nfool enough to think there would be a degree of hardship in his calling\nme such names. His own look vindicated him; he grew hot, and coloured\nas he read.\n\n\"This is indeed too much: this is cruel, this is humiliating,\" were the\nwords that fell from him.\n\nI thought it _was_ cruel, when I saw his countenance so moved. No\nmatter whether he was to blame or not; somebody, it seemed to me, must\nbe more to blame.\n\n\"What shall you do about it?\" he inquired of me. \"Shall you tell Madame\nBeck what you have found, and cause a stir--an esclandre?\"\n\nI thought I ought to tell, and said so; adding that I did not believe\nthere would be either stir or esclandre: Madame was much too prudent to\nmake a noise about an affair of that sort connected with her\nestablishment.\n\nHe stood looking down and meditating. He was both too proud and too\nhonourable to entreat my secresy on a point which duty evidently\ncommanded me to communicate. I wished to do right, yet loathed to\ngrieve or injure him. Just then Rosine glanced out through the open\ndoor; she could not see us, though between the trees I could plainly\nsee her: her dress was grey, like mine. This circumstance, taken in\nconnection with prior transactions, suggested to me that perhaps the\ncase, however deplorable, was one in which I was under no obligation\nwhatever to concern myself. Accordingly, I said,--\"If you can assure me\nthat none of Madame Beck's pupils are implicated in this business, I\nshall be very happy to stand aloof from all interference. Take the\ncasket, the bouquet, and the billet; for my part, I gladly forget the\nwhole affair.\"\n\n\"Look there!\" he whispered suddenly, as his hand closed on what I\noffered, and at the same time he pointed through the boughs.\n\nI looked. Behold Madame, in shawl, wrapping-gown, and slippers, softly\ndescending the steps, and stealing like a cat round the garden: in two\nminutes she would have been upon Dr. John. If _she_ were like a cat,\nhowever, _he_, quite as much, resembled a leopard: nothing could be\nlighter than his tread when he chose. He watched, and as she turned a\ncorner, he took the garden at two noiseless bounds. She reappeared, and\nhe was gone. Rosine helped him, instantly interposing the door between\nhim and his huntress. I, too, might have got, away, but I preferred to\nmeet Madame openly.\n\nThough it was my frequent and well-known custom to spend twilight in\nthe garden, yet, never till now, had I remained so late. Full sure was\nI that Madame had missed--was come in search of me, and designed now to\npounce on the defaulter unawares. I expected a reprimand. No. Madame\nwas all goodness. She tendered not even a remonstrance; she testified\nno shade of surprise. With that consummate tact of hers, in which I\nbelieve she was never surpassed by living thing, she even professed\nmerely to have issued forth to taste \"la brise du soir.\"\n\n\"Quelle belle nuit!\" cried she, looking up at the stars--the moon was\nnow gone down behind the broad tower of Jean Baptiste. \"Qu'il fait bon?\nque l'air est frais!\"\n\nAnd, instead of sending me in, she detained me to take a few turns with\nher down the principal alley. When at last we both re-entered, she\nleaned affably on my shoulder by way of support in mounting the\nfront-door steps; at parting, her cheek was presented to my lips, and\n\"Bon soir, my bonne amie; dormez bien!\" was her kindly adieu for the\nnight.\n\nI caught myself smiling as I lay awake and thoughtful on my\ncouch--smiling at Madame. The unction, the suavity of her behaviour\noffered, for one who knew her, a sure token that suspicion of some kind\nwas busy in her brain. From some aperture or summit of observation,\nthrough parted bough or open window, she had doubtless caught a\nglimpse, remote or near, deceptive or instructive, of that night's\ntransactions. Finely accomplished as she was in the art of\nsurveillance, it was next to impossible that a casket could be thrown\ninto her garden, or an interloper could cross her walks to seek it,\nwithout that she, in shaken branch, passing shade, unwonted footfall,\nor stilly murmur (and though Dr. John had spoken very low in the few\nwords he dropped me, yet the hum of his man's voice pervaded, I\nthought, the whole conventual ground)--without, I say, that she should\nhave caught intimation of things extraordinary transpiring on her\npremises. _What_ things, she might by no means see, or at that time be\nable to discover; but a delicious little ravelled plot lay tempting her\nto disentanglement; and in the midst, folded round and round in\ncobwebs, had she not secured \"Meess Lucie\" clumsily involved, like the\nfoolish fly she was?\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII.\n\nA SNEEZE OUT OF SEASON.\n\n\nI had occasion to smile--nay, to laugh, at Madame again, within the\nspace of four and twenty hours after the little scene treated of in the\nlast chapter.\n\nVillette owns a climate as variable, though not so humid, as that of\nany English town. A night of high wind followed upon that soft sunset,\nand all the next day was one of dry storm--dark, beclouded, yet\nrainless,--the streets were dim with sand and dust, whirled from the\nboulevards. I know not that even lovely weather would have tempted me\nto spend the evening-time of study and recreation where I had spent it\nyesterday. My alley, and, indeed, all the walks and shrubs in the\ngarden, had acquired a new, but not a pleasant interest; their\nseclusion was now become precarious; their calm--insecure. That\ncasement which rained billets, had vulgarized the once dear nook it\noverlooked; and elsewhere, the eyes of the flowers had gained vision,\nand the knots in the tree-boles listened like secret ears. Some plants\nthere were, indeed, trodden down by Dr. John in his search, and his\nhasty and heedless progress, which I wished to prop up, water, and\nrevive; some footmarks, too, he had left on the beds: but these, in\nspite of the strong wind, I found a moment's leisure to efface very\nearly in the morning, ere common eyes had discovered them. With a\npensive sort of content, I sat down to my desk and my German, while the\npupils settled to their evening lessons; and the other teachers took up\ntheir needlework.\n\nThe scene of the \"etude du soir\" was always the refectory, a much\nsmaller apartment than any of the three classes or schoolrooms; for\nhere none, save the boarders, were ever admitted, and these numbered\nonly a score. Two lamps hung from the ceiling over the two tables;\nthese were lit at dusk, and their kindling was the signal for\nschool-books being set aside, a grave demeanour assumed, general\nsilence enforced, and then commenced \"la lecture pieuse.\" This said\n\"lecture pieuse\" was, I soon found, mainly designed as a wholesome\nmortification of the Intellect, a useful humiliation of the Reason; and\nsuch a dose for Common Sense as she might digest at her leisure, and\nthrive on as she best could.\n\nThe book brought out (it was never changed, but when finished,\nrecommenced) was a venerable volume, old as the hills--grey as the\nHôtel de Ville.\n\nI would have given two francs for the chance of getting that book once\ninto my bands, turning over the sacred yellow leaves, ascertaining the\ntitle, and perusing with my own eyes the enormous figments which, as an\nunworthy heretic, it was only permitted me to drink in with my\nbewildered ears. This book contained legends of the saints. Good God!\n(I speak the words reverently) what legends they were. What gasconading\nrascals those saints must have been, if they first boasted these\nexploits or invented these miracles. These legends, however, were no\nmore than monkish extravagances, over which one laughed inwardly; there\nwere, besides, priestly matters, and the priestcraft of the book was\nfar worse than its monkery. The ears burned on each side of my head as\nI listened, perforce, to tales of moral martyrdom inflicted by Rome;\nthe dread boasts of confessors, who had wickedly abused their office,\ntrampling to deep degradation high-born ladies, making of countesses\nand princesses the most tormented slaves under the sun. Stories like\nthat of Conrad and Elizabeth of Hungary, recurred again and again, with\nall its dreadful viciousness, sickening tyranny and black impiety:\ntales that were nightmares of oppression, privation, and agony.\n\nI sat out this \"lecture pieuse\" for some nights as well as I could, and\nas quietly too; only once breaking off the points of my scissors by\ninvoluntarily sticking them somewhat deep in the worm-eaten board of\nthe table before me. But, at last, it made me so burning hot, and my\ntemples, and my heart, and my wrist throbbed so fast, and my sleep\nafterwards was so broken with excitement, that I could sit no longer.\nPrudence recommended henceforward a swift clearance of my person from\nthe place, the moment that guilty old book was brought out. No Mause\nHeadrigg ever felt a stronger call to take up her testimony against\nSergeant Bothwell, than I--to speak my mind in this matter of the\npopish \"lecture pieuse.\" However, I did manage somehow to curb and rein\nin; and though always, as soon as Rosine came to light the lamps, I\nshot from the room quickly, yet also I did it quietly; seizing that\nvantage moment given by the little bustle before the dead silence, and\nvanishing whilst the boarders put their books away.\n\nWhen I vanished--it was into darkness; candles were not allowed to be\ncarried about, and the teacher who forsook the refectory, had only the\nunlit hall, schoolroom, or bedroom, as a refuge. In winter I sought the\nlong classes, and paced them fast to keep myself warm--fortunate if the\nmoon shone, and if there were only stars, soon reconciled to their dim\ngleam, or even to the total eclipse of their absence. In summer it was\nnever quite dark, and then I went up-stairs to my own quarter of the\nlong dormitory, opened my own casement (that chamber was lit by five\ncasements large as great doors), and leaning out, looked forth upon the\ncity beyond the garden, and listened to band-music from the park or the\npalace-square, thinking meantime my own thoughts, living my own life,\nin my own still, shadow-world.\n\nThis evening, fugitive as usual before the Pope and his works, I\nmounted the staircase, approached the dormitory, and quietly opened the\ndoor, which was always kept carefully shut, and which, like every other\ndoor in this house, revolved noiselessly on well-oiled hinges. Before I\n_saw_, I _felt_ that life was in the great room, usually void: not that\nthere was either stir or breath, or rustle of sound, but Vacuum lacked,\nSolitude was not at home. All the white beds--the \"lits d'ange,\" as\nthey were poetically termed--lay visible at a glance; all were empty:\nno sleeper reposed therein. The sound of a drawer cautiously slid out\nstruck my ear; stepping a little to one side, my vision took a free\nrange, unimpeded by falling curtains. I now commanded my own bed and my\nown toilet, with a locked work-box upon it, and locked drawers\nunderneath.\n\nVery good. A dumpy, motherly little body, in decent shawl and the\ncleanest of possible nightcaps, stood before this toilet, hard at work\napparently doing me the kindness of \"tidying out\" the \"meuble.\" Open\nstood the lid of the work-box, open the top drawer; duly and\nimpartially was each succeeding drawer opened in turn: not an article\nof their contents but was lifted and unfolded, not a paper but was\nglanced over, not a little box but was unlidded; and beautiful was the\nadroitness, exemplary the care with which the search was accomplished.\nMadame wrought at it like a true star, \"unhasting yet unresting.\" I\nwill not deny that it was with a secret glee I watched her. Had I been\na gentleman I believe Madame would have found favour in my eyes, she\nwas so handy, neat, thorough in all she did: some people's movements\nprovoke the soul by their loose awkwardness, hers--satisfied by their\ntrim compactness. I stood, in short, fascinated; but it was necessary\nto make an effort to break this spell a retreat must be beaten. The\nsearcher might have turned and caught me; there would have been nothing\nfor it then but a scene, and she and I would have had to come all at\nonce, with a sudden clash, to a thorough knowledge of each other: down\nwould have gone conventionalities, away swept disguises, and _I_ should\nhave looked into her eyes, and she into mine--we should have known that\nwe could work together no more, and parted in this life for ever.\n\nWhere was the use of tempting such a catastrophe? I was not angry, and\nhad no wish in the world to leave her. I could hardly get another\nemployer whose yoke would be so light and so, easy of carriage; and\ntruly I liked Madame for her capital sense, whatever I might think of\nher principles: as to her system, it did me no harm; she might work me\nwith it to her heart's content: nothing would come of the operation.\nLoverless and inexpectant of love, I was as safe from spies in my\nheart-poverty, as the beggar from thieves in his destitution of purse.\nI turned, then, and fled; descending the stairs with progress as swift\nand soundless as that of the spider, which at the same instant ran down\nthe bannister.\n\nHow I laughed when I reached the schoolroom. I knew now she had\ncertainly seen Dr. John in the garden; I knew what her thoughts were.\nThe spectacle of a suspicious nature so far misled by its own\ninventions, tickled me much. Yet as the laugh died, a kind of wrath\nsmote me, and then bitterness followed: it was the rock struck, and\nMeribah's waters gushing out. I never had felt so strange and\ncontradictory an inward tumult as I felt for an hour that evening:\nsoreness and laughter, and fire, and grief, shared my heart between\nthem. I cried hot tears: not because Madame mistrusted me--I did not\ncare twopence for her mistrust--but for other reasons. Complicated,\ndisquieting thoughts broke up the whole repose of my nature. However,\nthat turmoil subsided: next day I was again Lucy Snowe.\n\nOn revisiting my drawers, I found them all securely locked; the closest\nsubsequent examination could not discover change or apparent\ndisturbance in the position of one object. My few dresses were folded\nas I had left them; a certain little bunch of white violets that had\nonce been silently presented to me by a stranger (a stranger to me, for\nwe had never exchanged words), and which I had dried and kept for its\nsweet perfume between the folds of my best dress, lay there unstirred;\nmy black silk scarf, my lace chemisette and collars, were unrumpled.\nHad she creased one solitary article, I own I should have felt much\ngreater difficulty in forgiving her; but finding all straight and\norderly, I said, \"Let bygones be bygones. I am unharmed: why should I\nbear malice?\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nA thing there was which puzzled myself, and I sought in my brain a key\nto that riddle almost as sedulously as Madame had sought a guide to\nuseful knowledge in my toilet drawers. How was it that Dr. John, if he\nhad not been accessory to the dropping of that casket into the garden,\nshould have known that it _was_ dropped, and appeared so promptly on\nthe spot to seek it? So strong was the wish to clear up this point that\nI began to entertain this daring suggestion: \"Why may I not, in case I\nshould ever have the opportunity, ask Dr. John himself to explain this\ncoincidence?\"\n\nAnd so long as Dr. John was absent, I really believed I had courage to\ntest him with such a question.\n\nLittle Georgette was now convalescent; and her physician accordingly\nmade his visits very rare: indeed, he would have ceased them\naltogether, had not Madame insisted on his giving an occasional call\ntill the child should be quite well.\n\nShe came into the nursery one evening just after I had listened to\nGeorgette's lisped and broken prayer, and had put her to bed. Taking\nthe little one's hand, she said, \"Cette enfant a toujours un peu de\nfièvre.\" And presently afterwards, looking at me with a quicker glance\nthan was habitual to her quiet eye, \"Le Docteur John l'a-t-il vue\ndernièrement? Non, n'est-ce pas?\"\n\nOf course she knew this better than any other person in the house.\n\"Well,\" she continued, \"I am going out, pour faire quelques courses en\nfiacre. I shall call on Dr. John, and send him to the child. I will\nthat he sees her this evening; her cheeks are flushed, her pulse is\nquick; _you_ will receive him--for my part, I shall be from home.\"\n\nNow the child was well enough, only warm with the warmth of July; it\nwas scarcely less needful to send for a priest to administer extreme\nunction than for a doctor to prescribe a dose; also Madame rarely made\n\"courses,\" as she called them, in the evening: moreover, this was the\nfirst time she had chosen to absent herself on the occasion of a visit\nfrom Dr. John. The whole arrangement indicated some plan; this I saw,\nbut without the least anxiety. \"Ha! ha! Madame,\" laughed Light-heart\nthe Beggar, \"your crafty wits are on the wrong tack.\"\n\nShe departed, attired very smartly, in a shawl of price, and a certain\n_chapeau vert tendre_--hazardous, as to its tint, for any complexion\nless fresh than her own, but, to her, not unbecoming. I wondered what\nshe intended: whether she really would send Dr. John or not; or whether\nindeed he would come: he might be engaged.\n\nMadame had charged me not to let Georgette sleep till the doctor came;\nI had therefore sufficient occupation in telling her nursery tales and\npalavering the little language for her benefit. I affected Georgette;\nshe was a sensitive and a loving child: to hold her in my lap, or carry\nher in my arms, was to me a treat. To-night she would have me lay my\nhead on the pillow of her crib; she even put her little arms round my\nneck. Her clasp, and the nestling action with which she pressed her\ncheek to mine, made me almost cry with a tender pain. Feeling of no\nkind abounded in that house; this pure little drop from a pure little\nsource was too sweet: it penetrated deep, and subdued the heart, and\nsent a gush to the eyes. Half an hour or an hour passed; Georgette\nmurmured in her soft lisp that she was growing sleepy. \"And you _shall_\nsleep,\" thought I, \"malgré maman and médecin, if they are not here in\nten minutes.\"\n\nHark! There was the ring, and there the tread, astonishing the\nstaircase by the fleetness with which it left the steps behind. Rosine\nintroduced Dr. John, and, with a freedom of manner not altogether\npeculiar to herself, but characteristic of the domestics of Villette\ngenerally, she stayed to hear what he had to say. Madame's presence\nwould have awed her back to her own realm of the vestibule and the\ncabinet--for mine, or that of any other teacher or pupil, she cared not\na jot. Smart, trim and pert, she stood, a hand in each pocket of her\ngay grisette apron, eyeing Dr. John with no more fear or shyness than\nif he had been a picture instead of a living gentleman.\n\n\"Le marmot n'a rien, nest-ce pas?\" said she, indicating Georgette with\na jerk of her chin.\n\n\"Pas beaucoup,\" was the answer, as the doctor hastily scribbled with\nhis pencil some harmless prescription.\n\n\"Eh bien!\" pursued Rosine, approaching him quite near, while he put up\nhis pencil. \"And the box--did you get it? Monsieur went off like a\ncoup-de-vent the other night; I had not time to ask him.\"\n\n\"I found it: yes.\"\n\n\"And who threw it, then?\" continued Rosine, speaking quite freely the\nvery words I should so much have wished to say, but had no address or\ncourage to bring it out: how short some people make the road to a point\nwhich, for others, seems unattainable!\n\n\"That may be my secret,\" rejoined Dr. John briefly, but with no, sort\nof hauteur: he seemed quite to understand the Rosine or grisette\ncharacter.\n\n\"Mais enfin,\" continued she, nothing abashed, \"monsieur knew it was\nthrown, since he came to seek it--how did he know?\"\n\n\"I was attending a little patient in the college near,\" said he, \"and\nsaw it dropped out of his chamber window, and so came to pick it up.\"\n\nHow simple the whole explanation! The note had alluded to a physician\nas then examining \"Gustave.\"\n\n\"Ah ça!\" pursued Rosine; \"il n'y a donc rien là-dessous: pas de\nmystère, pas d'amourette, par exemple?\"\n\n\"Pas plus que sur ma main,\" responded the doctor, showing his palm.\n\n\"Quel dommage!\" responded the grisette: \"et moi--à qui tout cela\ncommençait à donner des idées.\"\n\n\"Vraiment! vous en êtes pour vos frais,\" was the doctor's cool\nrejoinder.\n\nShe pouted. The doctor could not help laughing at the sort of \"moue\"\nshe made: when he laughed, he had something peculiarly good-natured and\ngenial in his look. I saw his hand incline to his pocket.\n\n\"How many times have you opened the door for me within this last\nmonth?\" he asked.\n\n\"Monsieur ought to have kept count of that,\" said Rosine, quite readily.\n\n\"As if I had not something better to do!\" rejoined he; but I saw him\ngive her a piece of gold, which she took unscrupulously, and then\ndanced off to answer the door-bell, ringing just now every five\nminutes, as the various servants came to fetch the half-boarders.\n\nThe reader must not think too hardly of Rosine; on the whole, she was\nnot a bad sort of person, and had no idea there could be any disgrace\nin grasping at whatever she could get, or any effrontery in chattering\nlike a pie to the best gentleman in Christendom.\n\nI had learnt something from the above scene besides what concerned the\nivory box: viz., that not on the robe de jaconas, pink or grey, nor yet\non the frilled and pocketed apron, lay the blame of breaking Dr. John's\nheart: these items of array were obviously guiltless as Georgette's\nlittle blue tunic. So much the better. But who then was the culprit?\nWhat was the ground--what the origin--what the perfect explanation of\nthe whole business? Some points had been cleared, but how many yet\nremained obscure as night!\n\n\"However,\" I said to myself, \"it is no affair of yours;\" and turning\nfrom the face on which I had been unconsciously dwelling with a\nquestioning gaze, I looked through the window which commanded the\ngarden below. Dr. John, meantime, standing by the bed-side, was slowly\ndrawing on his gloves and watching his little patient, as her eyes\nclosed and her rosy lips parted in coming sleep. I waited till he\nshould depart as usual, with a quick bow and scarce articulate\n\"good-night.\". Just as he took his hat, my eyes, fixed on the tall\nhouses bounding the garden, saw the one lattice, already commemorated,\ncautiously open; forth from the aperture projected a hand and a white\nhandkerchief; both waved. I know not whether the signal was answered\nfrom some viewless quarter of our own dwelling; but immediately after\nthere fluttered from, the lattice a falling object, white and\nlight--billet the second, of course.\n\n\"There!\" I ejaculated involuntarily.\n\n\"Where?\", asked Dr. John with energy, making direct for the window.\n\"What, is it?\"\n\n\"They have gone and done it again,\" was my reply. \"A handkerchief waved\nand something fell:\" and I pointed to the lattice, now closed and\nlooking hypocritically blank.\n\n\"Go, at once; pick it up and bring it here,\" was his prompt direction;\nadding, \"Nobody will take notice of _you: I_ should be seen.\"\n\nStraight I went. After some little search, I found a folded paper,\nlodged on the lower branch of a shrub; I seized and brought it direct\nto Dr. John. This time, I believe not even Rosine saw me.\n\nHe instantly tore the billet into small pieces, without reading it. \"It\nis not in the least _her_ fault, you must remember,\" he said, looking\nat me.\n\n\"_Whose_ fault?\" I asked. \"_Who_ is it?\"\n\n\"You don't yet know, then?\"\n\n\"Not in the least.\"\n\n\"Have you no guess?\"\n\n\"None.\"\n\n\"If I knew you better, I might be tempted to risk some confidence, and\nthus secure you as guardian over a most innocent and excellent, but\nsomewhat inexperienced being.\"\n\n\"As a duenna?\" I asked.\n\n\"Yes,\" said he abstractedly. \"What snares are round her!\" he added,\nmusingly: and now, certainly for the first time, he examined my face,\nanxious, doubtless, to see if any kindly expression there, would\nwarrant him in recommending to my care and indulgence some ethereal\ncreature, against whom powers of darkness were plotting. I felt no\nparticular vocation to undertake the surveillance of ethereal\ncreatures; but recalling the scene at the bureau, it seemed to me that\nI owed _him_ a good turn: if I _could_ help him then I would, and it\nlay not with me to decide how. With as little reluctance as might be, I\nintimated that \"I was willing to do what I could towards taking care of\nany person in whom he might be interested.\".\n\n\"I am no farther interested than as a spectator,\" said he, with a\nmodesty, admirable, as I thought, to witness. \"I happen to be\nacquainted with the rather worthless character of the person, who, from\nthe house opposite, has now twice invaded the sanctity of this place; I\nhave also met in society the object at whom these vulgar attempts are\naimed. Her exquisite superiority and innate refinement ought, one would\nthink, to scare impertinence from her very idea. It is not so, however;\nand innocent, unsuspicious as she is, I would guard her from evil if I\ncould. In person, however, I can do nothing I cannot come near her\"--he\npaused.\n\n\"Well, I am willing to help you,\" said I, \"only tell me how.\" And\nbusily, in my own mind, I ran over the list of our inmates, seeking\nthis paragon, this pearl of great price, this gem without flaw. \"It\nmust be Madame,\" I concluded. \"_She_ only, amongst us all, has the art\neven to _seem_ superior: but as to being unsuspicious, inexperienced,\n&c., Dr. John need not distract himself about that. However, this is\njust his whim, and I will not contradict him; he shall be humoured: his\nangel shall be an angel.\n\n\"Just notify the quarter to which my care is to be directed,\" I\ncontinued gravely: chuckling, however, to myself over the thought of\nbeing set to chaperon Madame Beck or any of her pupils. Now Dr. John\nhad a fine set of nerves, and he at once felt by instinct, what no more\ncoarsely constituted mind would have detected; namely, that I was a\nlittle amused at him. The colour rose to his cheek; with half a smile\nhe turned and took his hat--he was going. My heart smote me.\n\n\"I will--I will help you,\" said I eagerly. \"I will do what you wish. I\nwill watch over your angel; I will take care of her, only tell me who\nshe is.\"\n\n\"But you _must_ know,\" said he then with earnestness, yet speaking very\nlow. \"So spotless, so good, so unspeakably beautiful! impossible that\none house should contain two like her. I allude, of course--\"\n\nHere the latch of Madame Beck's chamber-door (opening into the nursery)\ngave a sudden click, as if the hand holding it had been slightly\nconvulsed; there was the suppressed explosion of an irrepressible\nsneeze. These little accidents will happen to the best of us.\nMadame--excellent woman! was then on duty. She had come home quietly,\nstolen up-stairs on tip-toe; she was in her chamber. If she had not\nsneezed, she would have heard all, and so should I; but that unlucky\nsternutation routed Dr. John. While he stood aghast, she came forward\nalert, composed, in the best yet most tranquil spirits: no novice to\nher habits but would have thought she had just come in, and scouted the\nidea of her ear having been glued to the key-hole for at least ten\nminutes. She affected to sneeze again, declared she was \"enrhumée,\" and\nthen proceeded volubly to recount her \"courses en fiacre.\" The\nprayer-bell rang, and I left her with the doctor.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV.\n\nTHE FÊTE.\n\n\nAs soon as Georgette was well, Madame sent her away into the country. I\nwas sorry; I loved the child, and her loss made me poorer than before.\nBut I must not complain. I lived in a house full of robust life; I\nmight have had companions, and I chose solitude. Each of the teachers\nin turn made me overtures of special intimacy; I tried them all. One I\nfound to be an honest woman, but a narrow thinker, a coarse feeler, and\nan egotist. The second was a Parisienne, externally refined--at heart,\ncorrupt--without a creed, without a principle, without an affection:\nhaving penetrated the outward crust of decorum in this character, you\nfound a slough beneath. She had a wonderful passion for presents; and,\nin this point, the third teacher--a person otherwise characterless and\ninsignificant--closely resembled her. This last-named had also one\nother distinctive property--that of avarice. In her reigned the love of\nmoney for its own sake. The sight of a piece of gold would bring into\nher eyes a green glisten, singular to witness. She once, as a mark of\nhigh favour, took me up-stairs, and, opening a secret door, showed me a\nhoard--a mass of coarse, large coin--about fifteen guineas, in\nfive-franc pieces. She loved this hoard as a bird loves its eggs. These\nwere her savings. She would come and talk to me about them with an\ninfatuated and persevering dotage, strange to behold in a person not\nyet twenty-five.\n\nThe Parisienne, on the other hand, was prodigal and profligate (in\ndisposition, that is: as to action, I do not know). That latter quality\nshowed its snake-head to me but once, peeping out very cautiously. A\ncurious kind of reptile it seemed, judging from the glimpse I got; its\nnovelty whetted my curiosity: if it would have come out boldly, perhaps\nI might philosophically have stood my ground, and coolly surveyed the\nlong thing from forked tongue to scaly tail-tip; but it merely rustled\nin the leaves of a bad novel; and, on encountering a hasty and\nill-advised demonstration of wrath, recoiled and vanished, hissing. She\nhated me from that day.\n\nThis Parisienne was always in debt; her salary being anticipated, not\nonly in dress, but in perfumes, cosmetics, confectionery, and\ncondiments. What a cold, callous epicure she was in all things! I see\nher now. Thin in face and figure, sallow in complexion, regular in\nfeatures, with perfect teeth, lips like a thread, a large, prominent\nchin, a well-opened, but frozen eye, of light at once craving and\ningrate. She mortally hated work, and loved what she called pleasure;\nbeing an insipid, heartless, brainless dissipation of time.\n\nMadame Beck knew this woman's character perfectly well. She once talked\nto me about her, with an odd mixture of discrimination, indifference,\nand antipathy. I asked why she kept her in the establishment. She\nanswered plainly, \"because it suited her interest to do so;\" and\npointed out a fact I had already noticed, namely, that Mademoiselle St.\nPierre possessed, in an almost unique degree, the power of keeping\norder amongst her undisciplined ranks of scholars. A certain petrifying\ninfluence accompanied and surrounded her: without passion, noise, or\nviolence, she held them in check as a breezeless frost-air might still\na brawling stream. She was of little use as far as communication of\nknowledge went, but for strict surveillance and maintenance of rules\nshe was invaluable. \"Je sais bien qu'elle n'a pas de principes, ni,\npeut-être, de moeurs,\" admitted Madame frankly; but added with\nphilosophy, \"son maintien en classe est toujours convenable et rempli\nmême d'une certaine dignité: c'est tout ce qu'il faut. Ni les élèves ni\nles parents ne regardent plus loin; ni, par conséquent, moi non plus.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nA strange, frolicsome, noisy little world was this school: great pains\nwere taken to hide chains with flowers: a subtle essence of Romanism\npervaded every arrangement: large sensual indulgence (so to speak) was\npermitted by way of counterpoise to jealous spiritual restraint. Each\nmind was being reared in slavery; but, to prevent reflection from\ndwelling on this fact, every pretext for physical recreation was seized\nand made the most of. There, as elsewhere, the CHURCH strove to bring\nup her children robust in body, feeble in soul, fat, ruddy, hale,\njoyous, ignorant, unthinking, unquestioning. \"Eat, drink, and live!\"\nshe says. \"Look after your bodies; leave your souls to me. I hold their\ncure--guide their course: I guarantee their final fate.\" A bargain, in\nwhich every true Catholic deems himself a gainer. Lucifer just offers\nthe same terms: \"All this power will I give thee, and the glory of it;\nfor that is delivered unto me, and to whomsoever I will I give it. If\nthou, therefore, wilt worship me, all shall be thine!\"\n\nAbout this time--in the ripest glow of summer--Madame Beck's house\nbecame as merry a place as a school could well be. All day long the\nbroad folding-doors and the two-leaved casements stood wide open:\nsettled sunshine seemed naturalized in the atmosphere; clouds were far\noff, sailing away beyond sea, resting, no doubt, round islands such as\nEngland--that dear land of mists--but withdrawn wholly from the drier\ncontinent. We lived far more in the garden than under a roof: classes\nwere held, and meals partaken of, in the \"grand berceau.\" Moreover,\nthere was a note of holiday preparation, which almost turned freedom\ninto licence. The autumnal long vacation was but two months distant;\nbut before that, a great day--an important ceremony--none other than\nthe fête of Madame--awaited celebration.\n\nThe conduct of this fête devolved chiefly on Mademoiselle St. Pierre:\nMadame herself being supposed to stand aloof, disinterestedly\nunconscious of what might be going forward in her honour. Especially,\nshe never knew, never in the least suspected, that a subscription was\nannually levied on the whole school for the purchase of a handsome\npresent. The polite tact of the reader will please to leave out of the\naccount a brief, secret consultation on this point in Madame's own\nchamber.\n\n\"What will you have this year?\" was asked by her Parisian lieutenant.\n\n\"Oh, no matter! Let it alone. Let the poor children keep their francs,\"\nAnd Madame looked benign and modest.\n\nThe St. Pierre would here protrude her chin; she knew Madame by heart;\nshe always called her airs of \"bonté\"--\"des grimaces.\" She never even\nprofessed to respect them one instant.\n\n\"Vite!\" she would say coldly. \"Name the article. Shall it be jewellery\nor porcelain, haberdashery or silver?\"\n\n\"Eh bien! Deux ou trois cuillers, et autant de fourchettes en argent.\"\n\nAnd the result was a handsome case, containing 300 francs worth of\nplate.\n\nThe programme of the fête-day's proceedings comprised: Presentation of\nplate, collation in the garden, dramatic performance (with pupils and\nteachers for actors), a dance and supper. Very gorgeous seemed the\neffect of the whole to me, as I well remember. Zélie St. Pierre\nunderstood these things and managed them ably.\n\nThe play was the main point; a month's previous drilling being there\nrequired. The choice, too, of the actors required knowledge and care;\nthen came lessons in elocution, in attitude, and then the fatigue of\ncountless rehearsals. For all this, as may well be supposed, St. Pierre\ndid not suffice: other management, other accomplishments than hers were\nrequisite here. They were supplied in the person of a master--M. Paul\nEmanuel, professor of literature. It was never my lot to be present at\nthe histrionic lessons of M. Paul, but I often saw him as he crossed\nthe _carré_ (a square hall between the dwelling-house and\nschool-house). I heard him, too, in the warm evenings, lecturing with\nopen doors, and his name, with anecdotes of him, resounded in ones ears\nfrom all sides. Especially our former acquaintance, Miss Ginevra\nFanshawe,--who had been selected to take a prominent part in the\nplay--used, in bestowing upon me a large portion of her leisure, to\nlard her discourse with frequent allusions to his sayings and doings.\nShe esteemed him hideously plain, and used to profess herself\nfrightened almost into hysterics at the sound of his step or voice. A\ndark little man he certainly was; pungent and austere. Even to me he\nseemed a harsh apparition, with his close-shorn, black head, his broad,\nsallow brow, his thin cheek, his wide and quivering nostril, his\nthorough glance, and hurried bearing. Irritable he was; one heard that,\nas he apostrophized with vehemence the awkward squad under his orders.\nSometimes he would break out on these raw amateur actresses with a\npassion of impatience at their falseness of conception, their coldness\nof emotion, their feebleness of delivery. \"Ecoutez!\" he would cry; and\nthen his voice rang through the premises like a trumpet; and when,\nmimicking it, came the small pipe of a Ginevra, a Mathilde, or a\nBlanche, one understood why a hollow groan of scorn, or a fierce hiss\nof rage, rewarded the tame echo.\n\n\"Vous n'êtes donc que des poupées,\" I heard him thunder. \"Vous n'avez\npas de passions--vous autres. Vous ne sentez donc rien? Votre chair est\nde neige, votre sang de glace! Moi, je veux que tout cela s'allume,\nqu'il ait une vie, une âme!\"\n\nVain resolve! And when he at last found it _was_ vain, he suddenly\nbroke the whole business down. Hitherto he had been teaching them a\ngrand tragedy; he tore the tragedy in morsels, and came next day with a\ncompact little comic trifle. To this they took more kindly; he\npresently knocked it all into their smooth round pates.\n\nMademoiselle St. Pierre always presided at M. Emanuel's lessons, and I\nwas told that the polish of her manner, her seeming attention, her tact\nand grace, impressed that gentleman very favourably. She had, indeed,\nthe art of pleasing, for a given time, whom she would; but the feeling\nwould not last: in an hour it was dried like dew, vanished like\ngossamer.\n\nThe day preceding Madame's fête was as much a holiday as the fête\nitself. It was devoted to clearing out, cleaning, arranging and\ndecorating the three schoolrooms. All within-doors was the gayest\nbustle; neither up-stairs nor down could a quiet, isolated person find\nrest for the sole of her foot; accordingly, for my part, I took refuge\nin the garden. The whole day did I wander or sit there alone, finding\nwarmth in the sun, shelter among the trees, and a sort of companionship\nin my own thoughts. I well remember that I exchanged but two sentences\nthat day with any living being: not that I felt solitary; I was glad to\nbe quiet. For a looker-on, it sufficed to pass through the rooms once\nor twice, observe what changes were being wrought, how a green-room and\na dressing-room were being contrived, a little stage with scenery\nerected, how M. Paul Emanuel, in conjunction with Mademoiselle St.\nPierre, was directing all, and how an eager band of pupils, amongst\nthem Ginevra Fanshawe, were working gaily under his control.\n\nThe great day arrived. The sun rose hot and unclouded, and hot and\nunclouded it burned on till evening. All the doors and all the windows\nwere set open, which gave a pleasant sense of summer freedom--and\nfreedom the most complete seemed indeed the order of the day. Teachers\nand pupils descended to breakfast in dressing-gowns and curl-papers:\nanticipating \"avec délices\" the toilette of the evening, they seemed to\ntake a pleasure in indulging that forenoon in a luxury of slovenliness;\nlike aldermen fasting in preparation for a feast. About nine o'clock\nA.M., an important functionary, the \"coiffeur,\" arrived. Sacrilegious\nto state, he fixed his head-quarters in the oratory, and there, in\npresence of _bénitier_, candle, and crucifix, solemnised the mysteries\nof his art. Each girl was summoned in turn to pass through his hands;\nemerging from them with head as smooth as a shell, intersected by\nfaultless white lines, and wreathed about with Grecian plaits that\nshone as if lacquered. I took my turn with the rest, and could hardly\nbelieve what the glass said when I applied to it for information\nafterwards; the lavished garlandry of woven brown hair amazed me--I\nfeared it was not all my own, and it required several convincing pulls\nto give assurance to the contrary. I then acknowledged in the coiffeur\na first-rate artist--one who certainly made the most of indifferent\nmaterials.\n\nThe oratory closed, the dormitory became the scene of ablutions,\narrayings and bedizenings curiously elaborate. To me it was, and ever\nmust be an enigma, how they contrived to spend so much time in doing so\nlittle. The operation seemed close, intricate, prolonged: the result\nsimple. A clear white muslin dress, a blue sash (the Virgin's colours),\na pair of white, or straw-colour kid gloves--such was the gala uniform,\nto the assumption whereof that houseful of teachers and pupils devoted\nthree mortal hours. But though simple, it must be allowed the array was\nperfect--perfect in fashion, fit, and freshness; every head being also\ndressed with exquisite nicety, and a certain compact taste--suiting the\nfull, firm comeliness of Labassecourien contours, though too stiff for\nany more flowing and flexible style of beauty--the general effect was,\non the whole, commendable.\n\nIn beholding this diaphanous and snowy mass, I well remember feeling\nmyself to be a mere shadowy spot on a field of light; the courage was\nnot in me to put on a transparent white dress: something thin I must\nwear--the weather and rooms being too hot to give substantial fabrics\nsufferance, so I had sought through a dozen shops till I lit upon a\ncrape-like material of purple-gray--the colour, in short, of dun mist,\nlying on a moor in bloom. My _tailleuse_ had kindly made it as well as\nshe could: because, as she judiciously observed, it was \"si triste--si\npen voyant,\" care in the fashion was the more imperative: it was well\nshe took this view of the matter, for I, had no flower, no jewel to\nrelieve it: and, what was more, I had no natural rose of complexion.\n\nWe become oblivious of these deficiencies in the uniform routine of\ndaily drudgery, but they _will_ force upon us their unwelcome blank on\nthose bright occasions when beauty should shine.\n\nHowever, in this same gown of shadow, I felt at home and at ease; an\nadvantage I should not have enjoyed in anything more brilliant or\nstriking. Madame Beck, too, kept me in countenance; her dress was\nalmost as quiet as mine, except that she wore a bracelet, and a large\nbrooch bright with gold and fine stones. We chanced to meet on the\nstairs, and she gave me a nod and smile of approbation. Not that she\nthought I was looking well--a point unlikely to engage her\ninterest--but she considered me dressed \"convenablement,\" \"décemment,\"\nand la Convenance et la Décence were the two calm deities of Madame's\nworship. She even paused, laid on my shoulder her gloved hand, holding\nan embroidered and perfumed handkerchief, and confided to my ear a\nsarcasm on the other teachers (whom she had just been complimenting to\ntheir faces). \"Nothing so absurd,\" she said, \"as for des femmes mûres\n'to dress themselves like girls of fifteen'--quant à la. St. Pierre,\nelle a l'air d'une vieille coquette qui fait l'ingénue.\"\n\nBeing dressed at least a couple of hours before anybody else, I felt a\npleasure in betaking myself--not to the garden, where servants were\nbusy propping up long tables, placing seats, and spreading cloths in\nreadiness for the collation but to the schoolrooms, now empty, quiet,\ncool, and clean; their walls fresh stained, their planked floors fresh\nscoured and scarce dry; flowers fresh gathered adorning the recesses in\npots, and draperies, fresh hung, beautifying the great windows.\n\nWithdrawing to the first classe, a smaller and neater room than the\nothers, and taking from the glazed bookcase, of which I kept the key, a\nvolume whose title promised some interest, I sat down to read. The\nglass-door of this \"classe,\" or schoolroom, opened into the large\nberceau; acacia-boughs caressed its panes, as they stretched across to\nmeet a rose-bush blooming by the opposite lintel: in this rose-bush\nbees murmured busy and happy. I commenced reading. Just as the stilly\nhum, the embowering shade, the warm, lonely calm of my retreat were\nbeginning to steal meaning from the page, vision from my eyes, and to\nlure me along the track of reverie, down into some deep dell of\ndreamland--just then, the sharpest ring of the street-door bell to\nwhich that much-tried instrument had ever thrilled, snatched me back to\nconsciousness.\n\nNow the bell had been ringing all the morning, as workmen, or servants,\nor _coiffeurs_, or _tailleuses_, went and came on their several\nerrands. Moreover, there was good reason to expect it would ring all\nthe afternoon, since about one hundred externes were yet to arrive in\ncarriages or fiacres: nor could it be expected to rest during the\nevening, when parents and friends would gather thronging to the play.\nUnder these circumstances, a ring--even a sharp ring--was a matter of\ncourse: yet this particular peal had an accent of its own, which chased\nmy dream, and startled my book from my knee.\n\nI was stooping to pick up this last, when--firm, fast, straight--right\non through vestibule--along corridor, across carré, through first\ndivision, second division, grand salle--strode a step, quick, regular,\nintent. The closed door of the first classe--my sanctuary--offered no\nobstacle; it burst open, and a paletôt and a bonnet grec filled the\nvoid; also two eyes first vaguely struck upon, and then hungrily dived\ninto me.\n\n\"C'est cela!\" said a voice. \"Je la connais: c'est l'Anglaise. Tant pis.\nToute Anglaise, et, par conséquent, toute bégueule qu'elle soit--elle\nfera mon affaire, ou je saurai pourquoi.\"\n\nThen, with a certain stern politeness (I suppose he thought I had not\ncaught the drift of his previous uncivil mutterings), and in a jargon\nthe most execrable that ever was heard, \"Meess----, play you must: I am\nplanted there.\"\n\n\"What can I do for you, M. Paul Emanuel?\" I inquired: for M. Paul\nEmanuel it was, and in a state of no little excitement.\n\n\"Play you must. I will not have you shrink, or frown, or make the\nprude. I read your skull that night you came; I see your moyens: play\nyou can; play you must.\"\n\n\"But how, M. Paul? What do you mean?\"\n\n\"There is no time to be lost,\" he went on, now speaking in French; \"and\nlet us thrust to the wall all reluctance, all excuses, all minauderies.\nYou must take a part.\"\n\n\"In the vaudeville?\"\n\n\"In the vaudeville. You have said it.\"\n\nI gasped, horror-struck. _What_ did the little man mean?\n\n\"Listen!\" he said. \"The case shall be stated, and you shall then answer\nme Yes, or No; and according to your answer shall I ever after estimate\nyou.\"\n\nThe scarce-suppressed impetus of a most irritable nature glowed in his\ncheek, fed with sharp shafts his glances, a nature--the injudicious,\nthe mawkish, the hesitating, the sullen, the affected, above all, the\nunyielding, might quickly render violent and implacable. Silence and\nattention was the best balm to apply: I listened.\n\n\"The whole matter is going to fail,\" he began. \"Louise Vanderkelkov has\nfallen ill--at least so her ridiculous mother asserts; for my part, I\nfeel sure she might play if she would: it is only good-will that lacks.\nShe was charged with a _rôle_, as you know, or do _not_ know--it is\nequal: without that _rôle_ the play is stopped. There are now but a few\nhours in which to learn it: not a girl in this school would hear\nreason, and accept the task. Forsooth, it is not an interesting, not an\namiable, part; their vile _amour-propre_--that base quality of which\nwomen have so much--would revolt from it. Englishwomen are either the\nbest or the worst of their sex. Dieu sait que je les déteste comme la\npeste, ordinairement\" (this between his recreant teeth). \"I apply to an\nEnglishwoman to rescue me. What is her answer--Yes, or No?\"\n\nA thousand objections rushed into my mind. The foreign language, the\nlimited time, the public display... Inclination recoiled, Ability\nfaltered, Self-respect (that \"vile quality\") trembled. \"Non, non, non!\"\nsaid all these; but looking up at M. Paul, and seeing in his vexed,\nfiery, and searching eye, a sort of appeal behind all its menace, my\nlips dropped the word \"oui\". For a moment his rigid countenance relaxed\nwith a quiver of content: quickly bent up again, however, he went on,--\n\n\"Vite à l'ouvrage! Here is the book; here is your _rôle_: read.\" And I\nread. He did not commend; at some passages he scowled and stamped. He\ngave me a lesson: I diligently imitated. It was a disagreeable part--a\nman's--an empty-headed fop's. One could put into it neither heart nor\nsoul: I hated it. The play--a mere trifle--ran chiefly on the efforts\nof a brace of rivals to gain the hand of a fair coquette. One lover was\ncalled the \"Ours,\" a good and gallant but unpolished man, a sort of\ndiamond in the rough; the other was a butterfly, a talker, and a\ntraitor: and I was to be the butterfly, talker, and traitor.\n\nI did my best--which was bad, I know: it provoked M. Paul; he fumed.\nPutting both--hands to the work, I endeavoured to do better than my\nbest; I presume he gave me credit for good intentions; he professed to\nbe partially content. \"Ca ira!\" he cried; and as voices began sounding\nfrom the garden, and white dresses fluttering among the trees, he\nadded: \"You must withdraw: you must be alone to learn this. Come with\nme.\"\n\nWithout being allowed time or power to deliberate, I found myself in\nthe same breath convoyed along as in a species of whirlwind, up-stairs,\nup two pair of stairs, nay, actually up three (for this fiery little\nman seemed as by instinct to know his way everywhere); to the solitary\nand lofty attic was I borne, put in and locked in, the key being, in\nthe door, and that key he took with him and vanished.\n\nThe attic was no pleasant place: I believe he did not know how\nunpleasant it was, or he never would have locked me in with so little\nceremony. In this summer weather, it was hot as Africa; as in winter,\nit was always cold as Greenland. Boxes and lumber filled it; old\ndresses draped its unstained wall--cobwebs its unswept ceiling. Well\nwas it known to be tenanted by rats, by black beetles, and by\ncockroaches--nay, rumour affirmed that the ghostly Nun of the garden\nhad once been seen here. A partial darkness obscured one end, across\nwhich, as for deeper mystery, an old russet curtain was drawn, by way\nof screen to a sombre band of winter cloaks, pendent each from its pin,\nlike a malefactor from his gibbet. From amongst these cloaks, and\nbehind that curtain, the Nun was said to issue. I did not believe this,\nnor was I troubled by apprehension thereof; but I saw a very dark and\nlarge rat, with a long tail, come gliding out from that squalid alcove;\nand, moreover, my eye fell on many a black-beetle, dotting the floor.\nThese objects discomposed me more, perhaps, than it would be wise to\nsay, as also did the dust, lumber, and stifling heat of the place. The\nlast inconvenience would soon have become intolerable, had I not found\nmeans to open and prop up the skylight, thus admitting some freshness.\nUnderneath this aperture I pushed a large empty chest, and having\nmounted upon it a smaller box, and wiped from both the dust, I gathered\nmy dress (my best, the reader must remember, and therefore a legitimate\nobject of care) fastidiously around me, ascended this species of\nextempore throne, and being seated, commenced the acquisition of my\ntask; while I learned, not forgetting to keep a sharp look-out on the\nblack-beetles and cockroaches, of which, more even, I believe, than of\nthe rats, I sat in mortal dread.\n\nMy impression at first was that I had undertaken what it really was\nimpossible to perform, and I simply resolved to do my best and be\nresigned to fail. I soon found, however, that one part in so short a\npiece was not more than memory could master at a few hours' notice. I\nlearned and learned on, first in a whisper, and then aloud. Perfectly\nsecure from human audience, I acted my part before the garret-vermin.\nEntering into its emptiness, frivolity, and falsehood, with a spirit\ninspired by scorn and impatience, I took my revenge on this \"fat,\" by\nmaking him as fatuitous as I possibly could.\n\nIn this exercise the afternoon passed: day began to glide into evening;\nand I, who had eaten nothing since breakfast, grew excessively hungry.\nNow I thought of the collation, which doubtless they were just then\ndevouring in the garden far below. (I had seen in the vestibule a\nbasketful of small _pâtés à la crême_, than which nothing in the whole\nrange of cookery seemed to me better). A _pâté_, or a square of cake,\nit seemed to me would come very _àpropos;_ and as my relish for those\ndainties increased, it began to appear somewhat hard that I should pass\nmy holiday, fasting and in prison. Remote as was the attic from the\nstreet-door and vestibule, yet the ever-tinkling bell was faintly\naudible here; and also the ceaseless roll of wheels, on the tormented\npavement. I knew that the house and garden were thronged, and that all\nwas gay and glad below; here it began to grow dusk: the beetles were\nfading from my sight; I trembled lest they should steal on me a march,\nmount my throne unseen, and, unsuspected, invade my skirts. Impatient\nand apprehensive, I recommenced the rehearsal of my part merely to kill\ntime. Just as I was concluding, the long-delayed rattle of the key in\nthe lock came to my ear--no unwelcome sound. M. Paul (I could just see\nthrough the dusk that it _was_ M. Paul, for light enough still lingered\nto show the velvet blackness of his close-shorn head, and the sallow\nivory of his brow) looked in.\n\n\"Brava!\" cried he, holding the door open and remaining at the\nthreshold. \"J'ai tout entendu. C'est assez bien. Encore!\"\n\nA moment I hesitated.\n\n\"Encore!\" said he sternly. \"Et point de grimaces! A bas la timidité!\"\n\nAgain I went through the part, but not half so well as I had spoken it\nalone.\n\n\"Enfin, elle sait,\" said he, half dissatisfied, \"and one cannot be\nfastidious or exacting under the circumstances.\" Then he added, \"You\nmay yet have twenty minutes for preparation: au revoir!\" And he was\ngoing.\n\n\"Monsieur,\" I called out, taking courage.\n\n\"Eh bien! Qu'est-ce que c'est, Mademoiselle?\"\n\n\"J'ai bien faim.\"\n\n\"Comment, vous avez faim! Et la collation?\"\n\n\"I know nothing about it. I have not seen it, shut up here.\"\n\n\"Ah! C'est vrai,\" cried he.\n\nIn a moment my throne was abdicated, the attic evacuated; an inverse\nrepetition of the impetus which had brought me up into the attic,\ninstantly took me down--down--down to the very kitchen. I thought I\nshould have gone to the cellar. The cook was imperatively ordered to\nproduce food, and I, as imperatively, was commanded to eat. To my great\njoy this food was limited to coffee and cake: I had feared wine and\nsweets, which I did not like. How he guessed that I should like a\n_petit pâté à la crême_ I cannot tell; but he went out and procured me\none from some quarter. With considerable willingness I ate and drank,\nkeeping the _petit pâté_ till the last, as a _bonne bouche_. M. Paul\nsuperintended my repast, and almost forced upon me more than I could\nswallow.\n\n\"A la bonne heure,\" he cried, when I signified that I really could take\nno more, and, with uplifted hands, implored to be spared the additional\nroll on which he had just spread butter. \"You will set me down as a\nspecies of tyrant and Bluebeard, starving women in a garret; whereas,\nafter all, I am no such thing. Now, Mademoiselle, do you feel courage\nand strength to appear?\"\n\nI said, I thought I did; though, in truth, I was perfectly confused,\nand could hardly tell how I felt: but this little man was of the order\nof beings who must not be opposed, unless you possessed an all-dominant\nforce sufficient to crush him at once.\n\n\"Come then,\" said he, offering his hand.\n\nI gave him mine, and he set off with a rapid walk, which obliged me to\nrun at his side in order to keep pace. In the carré he stopped a\nmoment: it was lit with large lamps; the wide doors of the classes were\nopen, and so were the equally wide garden-doors; orange-trees in tubs,\nand tall flowers in pots, ornamented these portals on each side; groups\nof ladies and gentlemen in evening-dress stood and walked amongst the\nflowers. Within, the long vista of the school-rooms presented a\nthronging, undulating, murmuring, waving, streaming multitude, all\nrose, and blue, and half translucent white. There were lustres burning\noverhead; far off there was a stage, a solemn green curtain, a row of\nfootlights.\n\n\"Nest-ce pas que c'est beau?\" demanded my companion.\n\nI should have said it was, but my heart got up into my throat. M. Paul\ndiscovered this, and gave me a side-scowl and a little shake for my\npains.\n\n\"I will do my best, but I wish it was over,\" said I; then I asked: \"Are\nwe to walk through that crowd?\"\n\n\"By no means: I manage matters better: we pass through the\ngarden--here.\"\n\nIn an instant we were out of doors: the cool, calm night revived me\nsomewhat. It was moonless, but the reflex from the many glowing windows\nlit the court brightly, and even the alleys--dimly. Heaven was\ncloudless, and grand with the quiver of its living fires. How soft are\nthe nights of the Continent! How bland, balmy, safe! No sea-fog; no\nchilling damp: mistless as noon, and fresh as morning.\n\nHaving crossed court and garden, we reached the glass door of the first\nclasse. It stood open, like all other doors that night; we passed, and\nthen I was ushered into a small cabinet, dividing the first classe from\nthe grand salle. This cabinet dazzled me, it was so full of light: it\ndeafened me, it was clamorous with voices: it stifled me, it was so\nhot, choking, thronged.\n\n\"De l'ordre! Du silence!\" cried M. Paul. \"Is this chaos?\", he demanded;\nand there was a hush. With a dozen words, and as many gestures, he\nturned out half the persons present, and obliged the remnant to fall\ninto rank. Those left were all in costume: they were the performers,\nand this was the green-room. M. Paul introduced me. All stared and some\ntittered. It was a surprise: they had not expected the Englishwoman\nwould play in a _vaudeville_. Ginevra Fanshawe, beautifully dressed for\nher part, and looking fascinatingly pretty, turned on me a pair of eyes\nas round as beads. In the highest spirit, unperturbed by fear or\nbashfulness, delighted indeed at the thought of shining off before\nhundreds--my entrance seemed to transfix her with amazement in the\nmidst of her joy. She would have exclaimed, but M. Paul held her and\nall the rest in check.\n\nHaving surveyed and criticized the whole troop, he turned to me.\n\n\"You, too, must be dressed for your part.\"\n\n\"Dressed--dressed like a man!\" exclaimed Zélie St. Pierre, darting\nforwards; adding with officiousness, \"I will dress her myself.\"\n\nTo be dressed like a man did not please, and would not suit me. I had\nconsented to take a man's name and part; as to his dress--_halte là!_\nNo. I would keep my own dress, come what might. M. Paul might storm,\nmight rage: I would keep my own dress. I said so, with a voice as\nresolute in intent, as it was low, and perhaps unsteady in utterance.\n\nHe did not immediately storm or rage, as I fully thought he would he\nstood silent. But Zélie again interposed.\n\n\"She will make a capital _petit-mâitre_. Here are the garments,\nall--all complete: somewhat too large, but--I will arrange all that.\nCome, chère amie--belle Anglaise!\"\n\nAnd she sneered, for I was not \"belle.\" She seized my hand, she was\ndrawing me away. M. Paul stood impassable--neutral.\n\n\"You must not resist,\" pursued St. Pierre--for resist I did. \"You will\nspoil all, destroy the mirth of the piece, the enjoyment of the\ncompany, sacrifice everything to your _amour-propre_. This would be too\nbad--monsieur will never permit this?\"\n\nShe sought his eye. I watched, likewise, for a glance. He gave her one,\nand then he gave me one. \"Stop!\" he said slowly, arresting St. Pierre,\nwho continued her efforts to drag me after her. Everybody awaited the\ndecision. He was not angry, not irritated; I perceived that, and took\nheart.\n\n\"You do not like these clothes?\" he asked, pointing to the masculine\nvestments.\n\n\"I don't object to some of them, but I won't have them all.\"\n\n\"How must it be, then? How accept a man's part, and go on the stage\ndressed as a woman? This is an amateur affair, it is true--a\n_vaudeville de pensionnat;_ certain modifications I might sanction, yet\nsomething you must have to announce you as of the nobler sex.\"\n\n\"And I will, Monsieur; but it must be arranged in my own way: nobody\nmust meddle; the things must not be forced upon me. Just let me dress\nmyself.\"\n\nMonsieur, without another word, took the costume from St. Pierre, gave\nit to me, and permitted me to pass into the dressing-room. Once alone,\nI grew calm, and collectedly went to work. Retaining my woman's garb\nwithout the slightest retrenchment, I merely assumed, in addition, a\nlittle vest, a collar, and cravat, and a paletôt of small dimensions;\nthe whole being the costume of a brother of one of the pupils. Having\nloosened my hair out of its braids, made up the long back-hair close,\nand brushed the front hair to one side, I took my hat and gloves in my\nhand and came out. M. Paul was waiting, and so were the others. He\nlooked at me. \"That may pass in a pensionnat,\" he pronounced. Then\nadded, not unkindly, \"Courage, mon ami! Un peu de sangfroid--un peu\nd'aplomb, M. Lucien, et tout ira bien.\"\n\nSt. Pierre sneered again, in her cold snaky manner.\n\nI was irritable, because excited, and I could not help turning upon her\nand saying, that if she were not a lady and I a gentleman, I should\nfeel disposed to call her out.\n\n\"After the play, after the play,\" said M. Paul. \"I will then divide my\npair of pistols between you, and we will settle the dispute according\nto form: it will only be the old quarrel of France and England.\"\n\nBut now the moment approached for the performance to commence. M. Paul,\nsetting us before him, harangued us briefly, like a general addressing\nsoldiers about to charge. I don't know what he said, except that he\nrecommended each to penetrate herself with a sense of her personal\ninsignificance. God knows I thought this advice superfluous for some of\nus. A bell tinkled. I and two more were ushered on to the stage. The\nbell tinkled again. I had to speak the very first words.\n\n\"Do not look at the crowd, nor think of it,\" whispered M. Paul in my\near. \"Imagine yourself in the garret, acting to the rats.\"\n\nHe vanished. The curtain drew up--shrivelled to the ceiling: the bright\nlights, the long room, the gay throng, burst upon us. I thought of the\nblack-beetles, the old boxes, the worm-eaten bureau. I said my say\nbadly; but I said it. That first speech was the difficulty; it revealed\nto me this fact, that it was not the crowd I feared so much as my own\nvoice. Foreigners and strangers, the crowd were nothing to me. Nor did\nI think of them. When my tongue once got free, and my voice took its\ntrue pitch, and found its natural tone, I thought of nothing but the\npersonage I represented--and of M. Paul, who was listening, watching,\nprompting in the side-scenes.\n\nBy-and-by, feeling the right power come--the spring demanded gush and\nrise inwardly--I became sufficiently composed to notice my\nfellow-actors. Some of them played very well; especially Ginevra\nFanshawe, who had to coquette between two suitors, and managed\nadmirably: in fact she was in her element. I observed that she once or\ntwice threw a certain marked fondness and pointed partiality into her\nmanner towards me--the fop. With such emphasis and animation did she\nfavour me, such glances did she dart out into the listening and\napplauding crowd, that to me--who knew her--it presently became evident\nshe was acting _at_ some one; and I followed her eye, her smile, her\ngesture, and ere long discovered that she had at least singled out a\nhandsome and distinguished aim for her shafts; full in the path of\nthose arrows--taller than other spectators, and therefore more sure to\nreceive them--stood, in attitude quiet but intent, a well-known\nform--that of Dr. John.\n\nThe spectacle seemed somehow suggestive. There was language in Dr.\nJohn's look, though I cannot tell what he said; it animated me: I drew\nout of it a history; I put my idea into the part I per formed; I threw\nit into my wooing of Ginevra. In the \"Ours,\" or sincere lover, I saw\nDr. John. Did I pity him, as erst? No, I hardened my heart, rivalled\nand out-rivalled him. I knew myself but a fop, but where _he_ was\noutcast _I_ could please. Now I know acted as if wishful and resolute\nto win and conquer. Ginevra seconded me; between us we half-changed the\nnature of the _rôle_, gilding it from top to toe. Between the acts M.\nPaul, told us he knew not what possessed us, and half expostulated.\n\"C'est peut-être plus beau que votre modèle,\" said he, \"mais ce n'est\npas juste.\" I know not what possessed me either; but somehow, my\nlonging was to eclipse the \"Ours,\" _i.e._, Dr. John. Ginevra was\ntender; how could I be otherwise than chivalric? Retaining the letter,\nI recklessly altered the spirit of the _rôle_. Without heart, without\ninterest, I could not play it at all. It must be played--in went the\nyearned-for seasoning--thus favoured, I played it with relish.\n\nWhat I felt that night, and what I did, I no more expected to feel and\ndo, than to be lifted in a trance to the seventh heaven. Cold,\nreluctant, apprehensive, I had accepted a part to please another: ere\nlong, warming, becoming interested, taking courage, I acted to please\nmyself. Yet the next day, when I thought it over, I quite disapproved\nof these amateur performances; and though glad that I had obliged M.\nPaul, and tried my own strength for once, I took a firm resolution,\nnever to be drawn into a similar affair. A keen relish for dramatic\nexpression had revealed itself as part of my nature; to cherish and\nexercise this new-found faculty might gift me with a world of delight,\nbut it would not do for a mere looker-on at life: the strength and\nlonging must be put by; and I put them by, and fastened them in with\nthe lock of a resolution which neither Time nor Temptation has since\npicked.\n\nNo sooner was the play over, and _well_ over, than the choleric and\narbitrary M. Paul underwent a metamorphosis. His hour of managerial\nresponsibility past, he at once laid aside his magisterial austerity;\nin a moment he stood amongst us, vivacious, kind, and social, shook\nhands with us all round, thanked us separately, and announced his\ndetermination that each of us should in turn be his partner in the\ncoming ball. On his claiming my promise, I told him I did not dance.\n\"For once I must,\" was the answer; and if I had not slipped aside and\nkept out of his way, he would have compelled me to this second\nperformance. But I had acted enough for one evening; it was time I\nretired into myself and my ordinary life. My dun-coloured dress did\nwell enough under a paletôt on the stage, but would not suit a waltz or\na quadrille. Withdrawing to a quiet nook, whence unobserved I could\nobserve--the ball, its splendours and its pleasures, passed before me\nas a spectacle.\n\nAgain Ginevra Fanshawe was the belle, the fairest and the gayest\npresent; she was selected to open the ball: very lovely she looked,\nvery gracefully she danced, very joyously she smiled. Such scenes were\nher triumphs--she was the child of pleasure. Work or suffering found\nher listless and dejected, powerless and repining; but gaiety expanded\nher butterfly's wings, lit up their gold-dust and bright spots, made\nher flash like a gem, and flush like a flower. At all ordinary diet and\nplain beverage she would pout; but she fed on creams and ices like a\nhumming-bird on honey-paste: sweet wine was her element, and sweet cake\nher daily bread. Ginevra lived her full life in a ball-room; elsewhere\nshe drooped dispirited.\n\nThink not, reader, that she thus bloomed and sparkled for the mere sake\nof M. Paul, her partner, or that she lavished her best graces that\nnight for the edification of her companions only, or for that of the\nparents and grand-parents, who filled the carré, and lined the\nball-room; under circumstances so insipid and limited, with motives so\nchilly and vapid, Ginevra would scarce have deigned to walk one\nquadrille, and weariness and fretfulness would have replaced animation\nand good-humour, but she knew of a leaven in the otherwise heavy festal\nmass which lighted the whole; she tasted a condiment which gave it\nzest; she perceived reasons justifying the display of her choicest\nattractions.\n\nIn the ball-room, indeed, not a single male spectator was to be seen\nwho was not married and a father--M. Paul excepted--that gentleman,\ntoo, being the sole creature of his sex permitted to lead out a pupil\nto the dance; and this exceptional part was allowed him, partly as a\nmatter of old-established custom (for he was a kinsman of Madame\nBeck's, and high in her confidence), partly because he would always\nhave his own way and do as he pleased, and partly because--wilful,\npassionate, partial, as he might be--he was the soul of honour, and\nmight be trusted with a regiment of the fairest and purest; in perfect\nsecurity that under his leadership they would come to no harm. Many of\nthe girls--it may be noted in parenthesis--were not pure-minded at all,\nvery much otherwise; but they no more dare betray their natural\ncoarseness in M. Paul's presence, than they dare tread purposely on his\ncorns, laugh in his face during a stormy apostrophe, or speak above\ntheir breath while some crisis of irritability was covering his human\nvisage with the mask of an intelligent tiger. M. Paul, then, might\ndance with whom he would--and woe be to the interference which put him\nout of step.\n\nOthers there were admitted as spectators--with (seeming) reluctance,\nthrough prayers, by influence, under restriction, by special and\ndifficult exercise of Madame Beck's gracious good-nature, and whom she\nall the evening--with her own personal surveillance--kept far aloof at\nthe remotest, drearest, coldest, darkest side of the carré--a small,\nforlorn band of \"jeunes gens;\" these being all of the best families,\ngrown-up sons of mothers present, and whose sisters were pupils in the\nschool. That whole evening was Madame on duty beside these \"jeunes\ngens\"--attentive to them as a mother, but strict with them as a dragon.\nThere was a sort of cordon stretched before them, which they wearied\nher with prayers to be permitted to pass, and just to revive themselves\nby one dance with that \"belle blonde,\" or that \"jolie brune,\" or \"cette\njeune fille magnifique aux cheveux noirs comme le jais.\"\n\n\"Taisez-vous!\" Madame would reply, heroically and inexorably. \"Vous ne\npasserez pas à moins que ce ne soit sur mon cadavre, et vous ne\ndanserez qu'avec la nonnette du jardin\" (alluding to the legend). And\nshe majestically walked to and fro along their disconsolate and\nimpatient line, like a little Bonaparte in a mouse-coloured silk gown.\n\nMadame knew something of the world; Madame knew much of human nature. I\ndon't think that another directress in Villette would have dared to\nadmit a \"jeune homme\" within her walls; but Madame knew that by\ngranting such admission, on an occasion like the present, a bold stroke\nmight be struck, and a great point gained.\n\nIn the first place, the parents were made accomplices to the deed, for\nit was only through their mediation it was brought about. Secondly: the\nadmission of these rattlesnakes, so fascinating and so dangerous,\nserved to draw out Madame precisely in her strongest character--that of\na first-rate _surveillante_. Thirdly: their presence furnished a most\npiquant ingredient to the entertainment: the pupils knew it, and saw\nit, and the view of such golden apples shining afar off, animated them\nwith a spirit no other circumstance could have kindled. The children's\npleasure spread to the parents; life and mirth circulated quickly round\nthe ball-room; the \"jeunes gens\" themselves, though restrained, were\namused: for Madame never permitted them to feel dull--and thus Madame\nBeck's fête annually ensured a success unknown to the fête of any other\ndirectress in the land.\n\nI observed that Dr. John was at first permitted to walk at large\nthrough the classes: there was about him a manly, responsible look,\nthat redeemed his youth, and half-expiated his beauty; but as soon as\nthe ball began, Madame ran up to him.\n\n\"Come, Wolf; come,\" said she, laughing: \"you wear sheep's clothing, but\nyou must quit the fold notwithstanding. Come; I have a fine menagerie\nof twenty here in the carré: let me place you amongst my collection.\"\n\n\"But first suffer me to have one dance with one pupil of my choice.\"\n\n\"Have you the face to ask such a thing? It is madness: it is impiety.\nSortez, sortez, au plus vite.\"\n\nShe drove him before her, and soon had him enclosed within the cordon.\n\nGinevra being, I suppose, tired with dancing, sought me out in my\nretreat. She threw herself on the bench beside me, and (a demonstration\nI could very well have dispensed with) cast her arms round my neck.\n\n\"Lucy Snowe! Lucy Snowe!\" she cried in a somewhat sobbing voice, half\nhysterical.\n\n\"What in the world is the matter?\" I drily said.\n\n\"How do I look--how do I look to-night?\" she demanded.\n\n\"As usual,\" said I; \"preposterously vain.\"\n\n\"Caustic creature! You never have a kind word for me; but in spite of\nyou, and all other envious detractors, I know I am beautiful; I feel\nit, I see it--for there is a great looking-glass in the dressing-room,\nwhere I can view my shape from head to foot. Will you go with me now,\nand let us two stand before it?\"\n\n\"I will, Miss Fanshawe: you shall be humoured even to the top of your\nbent.\"\n\nThe dressing-room was very near, and we stepped in. Putting her arm\nthrough mine, she drew me to the mirror. Without resistance\nremonstrance, or remark, I stood and let her self-love have its feast\nand triumph: curious to see how much it could swallow--whether it was\npossible it could feed to satiety--whether any whisper of consideration\nfor others could penetrate her heart, and moderate its vainglorious\nexultation.\n\nNot at all. She turned me and herself round; she viewed us both on all\nsides; she smiled, she waved her curls, she retouched her sash, she\nspread her dress, and finally, letting go my arm, and curtseying with\nmock respect, she said: \"I would not be you for a kingdom.\"\n\nThe remark was too _naïve_ to rouse anger; I merely said: \"Very good.\"\n\n\"And what would _you_ give to be ME?\" she inquired.\n\n\"Not a bad sixpence--strange as it may sound,\" I replied. \"You are but\na poor creature.\"\n\n\"You don't think so in your heart.\"\n\n\"No; for in my heart you have not the outline of a place: I only\noccasionally turn you over in my brain.\"\n\n\"Well, but,\" said she, in an expostulatory tone, \"just listen to the\ndifference of our positions, and then see how happy am I, and how\nmiserable are you.\"\n\n\"Go on; I listen.\"\n\n\"In the first place: I am the daughter of a gentleman of family, and\nthough my father is not rich, I have expectations from an uncle. Then,\nI am just eighteen, the finest age possible. I have had a continental\neducation, and though I can't spell, I have abundant accomplishments. I\n_am_ pretty; _you_ can't deny that; I may have as many admirers as I\nchoose. This very night I have been breaking the hearts of two\ngentlemen, and it is the dying look I had from one of them just now,\nwhich puts me in such spirits. I do so like to watch them turn red and\npale, and scowl and dart fiery glances at each other, and languishing\nones at me. There is _me_--happy ME; now for _you_, poor soul!\n\n\"I suppose you are nobody's daughter, since you took care of little\nchildren when you first came to Villette: you have no relations; you\ncan't call yourself young at twenty-three; you have no attractive\naccomplishments--no beauty. As to admirers, you hardly know what they\nare; you can't even talk on the subject: you sit dumb when the other\nteachers quote their conquests. I believe you never were in love, and\nnever will be: you don't know the feeling, and so much the better, for\nthough you might have your own heart broken, no living heart will you\never break. Isn't it all true?\"\n\n\"A good deal of it is true as gospel, and shrewd besides. There must be\ngood in you, Ginevra, to speak so honestly; that snake, Zélie St.\nPierre, could not utter what you have uttered. Still, Miss Fanshawe,\nhapless as I am, according to your showing, sixpence I would not give\nto purchase you, body and soul.\"\n\n\"Just because I am not clever, and that is all _you_ think of. Nobody\nin the world but you cares for cleverness.\"\n\n\"On the contrary, I consider you _are_ clever, in your way--very smart\nindeed. But you were talking of breaking hearts--that edifying\namusement into the merits of which I don't quite enter; pray on whom\ndoes your vanity lead you to think you have done execution to-night?\"\n\nShe approached her lips to my ear--\"Isidore and Alfred de Hamal are\nboth here?\" she whispered.\n\n\"Oh! they are? I should like to see them.\"\n\n\"There's a dear creature! your curiosity is roused at last. Follow me,\nI will point them out.\"\n\nShe proudly led the way--\"But you cannot see them well from the\nclasses,\" said she, turning, \"Madame keeps them too far off. Let us\ncross the garden, enter by the corridor, and get close to them behind:\nwe shall be scolded if we are seen, but never mind.\"\n\nFor once, I did not mind. Through the garden we went--penetrated into\nthe corridor by a quiet private entrance, and approaching the _carré_,\nyet keeping in the corridor shade, commanded a near view of the band of\n\"jeunes gens.\"\n\nI believe I could have picked out the conquering de Hamal even\nundirected. He was a straight-nosed, very correct-featured little\ndandy. I say _little_ dandy, though he was not beneath the middle\nstandard in stature; but his lineaments were small, and so were his\nhands and feet; and he was pretty and smooth, and as trim as a doll: so\nnicely dressed, so nicely curled, so booted and gloved and cravated--he\nwas charming indeed. I said so. \"What, a dear personage!\" cried I, and\ncommended Ginevra's taste warmly; and asked her what she thought de\nHamal might have done with the precious fragments of that heart she had\nbroken--whether he kept them in a scent-vial, and conserved them in\notto of roses? I observed, too, with deep rapture of approbation, that\nthe colonel's hands were scarce larger than Miss Fanshawe's own, and\nsuggested that this circumstance might be convenient, as he could wear\nher gloves at a pinch. On his dear curls, I told her I doated: and as\nto his low, Grecian brow, and exquisite classic headpiece, I confessed\nI had no language to do such perfections justice.\n\n\"And if he were your lover?\" suggested the cruelly exultant Ginevra.\n\n\"Oh! heavens, what bliss!\" said I; \"but do not be inhuman, Miss\nFanshawe: to put such thoughts into my head is like showing poor\noutcast Cain a far, glimpse of Paradise.\"\n\n\"You like him, then?\"\n\n\"As I like sweets, and jams, and comfits, and conservatory flowers.\"\n\nGinevra admired my taste, for all these things were her adoration; she\ncould then readily credit that they were mine too.\n\n\"Now for Isidore,\" I went on. I own I felt still more curious to see\nhim than his rival; but Ginevra was absorbed in the latter.\n\n\"Alfred was admitted here to-night,\" said she, \"through the influence\nof his aunt, Madame la Baronne de Dorlodot; and now, having seen him,\ncan you not understand why I have been in such spirits all the evening,\nand acted so well, and danced with such life, and why I am now happy as\na queen? Dieu! Dieu! It was such good fun to glance first at him and\nthen at the other, and madden them both.\"\n\n\"But that other--where is he? Show me Isidore.\"\n\n\"I don't like.\"\n\n\"Why not?\"\n\n\"I am ashamed of him.\"\n\n\"For what reason?\"\n\n\"Because--because\" (in a whisper) \"he has such--such whiskers,\norange--red--there now!\"\n\n\"The murder is out,\" I subjoined. \"Never mind, show him all the same; I\nengage not to faint.\"\n\nShe looked round. Just then an English voice spoke behind her and me.\n\n\"You are both standing in a draught; you must leave this corridor.\"\n\n\"There is no draught, Dr. John,\" said I, turning.\n\n\"She takes cold so easily,\" he pursued, looking at Ginevra with extreme\nkindness. \"She is delicate; she must be cared for: fetch her a shawl.\"\n\n\"Permit me to judge for myself,\" said Miss Fanshawe, with hauteur. \"I\nwant no shawl.\"\n\n\"Your dress is thin, you have been dancing, you are heated.\"\n\n\"Always preaching,\" retorted she; \"always coddling and admonishing.\"\n\nThe answer Dr. John would have given did not come; that his heart was\nhurt became evident in his eye; darkened, and saddened, and pained, he\nturned a little aside, but was patient. I knew where there were plenty\nof shawls near at hand; I ran and fetched one.\n\n\"She shall wear this, if I have strength to make her,\" said I, folding\nit well round her muslin dress, covering carefully her neck and her\narms. \"Is that Isidore?\" I asked, in a somewhat fierce whisper.\n\nShe pushed up her lip, smiled, and nodded.\n\n\"Is _that_ Isidore?\" I repeated, giving her a shake: I could have given\nher a dozen.\n\n\"C'est lui-même,\" said she. \"How coarse he is, compared with the\nColonel-Count! And then--oh ciel!--the whiskers!\"\n\nDr. John now passed on.\n\n\"The Colonel-Count!\" I echoed. \"The doll--the puppet--the manikin--the\npoor inferior creature! A mere lackey for Dr. John his valet, his\nfoot-boy! Is it possible that fine generous gentleman--handsome as a\nvision--offers you his honourable hand and gallant heart, and promises\nto protect your flimsy person and feckless mind through the storms and\nstruggles of life--and you hang back--you scorn, you sting, you torture\nhim! Have you power to do this? Who gave you that power? Where is it?\nDoes it lie all in your beauty--your pink and white complexion, and\nyour yellow hair? Does this bind his soul at your feet, and bend his\nneck under your yoke? Does this purchase for you his affection, his\ntenderness, his thoughts, his hopes, his interest, his noble, cordial\nlove--and will you not have it? Do you scorn it? You are only\ndissembling: you are not in earnest: you love him; you long for him;\nbut you trifle with his heart to make him more surely yours?\"\n\n\"Bah! How you run on! I don't understand half you have said.\"\n\nI had got her out into the garden ere this. I now set her down on a\nseat and told her she should not stir till she had avowed which she\nmeant in the end to accept--the man or the monkey.\n\n\"Him you call the man,\" said she, \"is bourgeois, sandy-haired, and\nanswers to the name of John!--cela suffit: je n'en veux pas. Colonel de\nHamal is a gentleman of excellent connections, perfect manners, sweet\nappearance, with pale interesting face, and hair and eyes like an\nItalian. Then too he is the most delightful company possible--a man\nquite in my way; not sensible and serious like the other; but one with\nwhom I can talk on equal terms--who does not plague and bore, and\nharass me with depths, and heights, and passions, and talents for which\nI have no taste. There now. Don't hold me so fast.\"\n\nI slackened my grasp, and she darted off. I did not care to pursue her.\n\nSomehow I could not avoid returning once more in the direction of the\ncorridor to get another glimpse of Dr. John; but I met him on the\ngarden-steps, standing where the light from a window fell broad. His\nwell-proportioned figure was not to be mistaken, for I doubt whether\nthere was another in that assemblage his equal. He carried his hat in\nhis hand; his uncovered head, his face and fine brow were most handsome\nand manly. _His_ features were not delicate, not slight like those of a\nwoman, nor were they cold, frivolous, and feeble; though well cut, they\nwere not so chiselled, so frittered away, as to lose in expression or\nsignificance what they gained in unmeaning symmetry. Much feeling spoke\nin them at times, and more sat silent in his eye. Such at least were my\nthoughts of him: to me he seemed all this. An inexpressible sense of\nwonder occupied me, as I looked at this man, and reflected that _he_\ncould not be slighted.\n\nIt was, not my intention to approach or address him in the garden, our\nterms of acquaintance not warranting such a step; I had only meant to\nview him in the crowd--myself unseen: coming upon him thus alone, I\nwithdrew. But he was looking out for me, or rather for her who had been\nwith me: therefore he descended the steps, and followed me down the\nalley.\n\n\"You know Miss Fanshawe? I have often wished to ask whether you knew\nher,\" said he.\n\n\"Yes: I know her.\"\n\n\"Intimately?\"\n\n\"Quite as intimately as I wish.\"\n\n\"What have you done with her now?\"\n\n\"Am I her keeper?\" I felt inclined to ask; but I simply answered, \"I\nhave shaken her well, and would have shaken her better, but she escaped\nout of my hands and ran away.\"\n\n\"Would you favour me,\" he asked, \"by watching over her this one\nevening, and observing that she does nothing imprudent--does not, for\ninstance, run out into the night-air immediately after dancing?\"\n\n\"I may, perhaps, look after her a little; since you wish it; but she\nlikes her own way too well to submit readily to control.\"\n\n\"She is so young, so thoroughly artless,\" said he.\n\n\"To me she is an enigma,\" I responded.\n\n\"Is she?\" he asked--much interested. \"How?\"\n\n\"It would be difficult to say how--difficult, at least, to tell _you_\nhow.\"\n\n\"And why me?\"\n\n\"I wonder she is not better pleased that you are so much her friend.\"\n\n\"But she has not the slightest idea how much I _am_ her friend. That is\nprecisely the point I cannot teach her. May I inquire did she ever\nspeak of me to you?\"\n\n\"Under the name of 'Isidore' she has talked about you often; but I must\nadd that it is only within the last ten minutes I have discovered that\nyou and 'Isidore' are identical. It is only, Dr. John, within that\nbrief space of time I have learned that Ginevra Fanshawe is the person,\nunder this roof, in whom you have long been interested--that she is the\nmagnet which attracts you to the Rue Fossette, that for her sake you\nventure into this garden, and seek out caskets dropped by rivals.\"\n\n\"You know all?\"\n\n\"I know so much.\"\n\n\"For more than a year I have been accustomed to meet her in society.\nMrs. Cholmondeley, her friend, is an acquaintance of mine; thus I see\nher every Sunday. But you observed that under the name of 'Isidore' she\noften spoke of me: may I--without inviting you to a breach of\nconfidence--inquire what was the tone, what the feeling of her remarks?\nI feel somewhat anxious to know, being a little tormented with\nuncertainty as to how I stand with her.\"\n\n\"Oh, she varies: she shifts and changes like the wind.\"\n\n\"Still, you can gather some general idea--?\"\n\n\"I can,\" thought I, \"but it would not do to communicate that general\nidea to you. Besides, if I said she did not love you, I know you would\nnot believe me.\"\n\n\"You are silent,\" he pursued. \"I suppose you have no good news to\nimpart. No matter. If she feels for me positive coldness and aversion,\nit is a sign I do not deserve her.\"\n\n\"Do you doubt yourself? Do you consider yourself the inferior of\nColonel de Hamal?\"\n\n\"I love Miss Fanshawe far more than de Hamal loves any human being, and\nwould care for and guard her better than he. Respecting de Hamal, I\nfear she is under an illusion; the man's character is known to me, all\nhis antecedents, all his scrapes. He is not worthy of your beautiful\nyoung friend.\"\n\n\"My 'beautiful young friend' ought to know that, and to know or feel\nwho is worthy of her,\" said I. \"If her beauty or her brains will not\nserve her so far, she merits the sharp lesson of experience.\"\n\n\"Are you not a little severe?\"\n\n\"I am excessively severe--more severe than I choose to show you. You\nshould hear the strictures with which I favour my 'beautiful young\nfriend,' only that you would be unutterably shocked at my want of\ntender considerateness for her delicate nature.\"\n\n\"She is so lovely, one cannot but be loving towards her. You--every\nwoman older than herself, must feel for such a simple, innocent,\ngirlish fairy a sort of motherly or elder-sisterly fondness. Graceful\nangel! Does not your heart yearn towards her when she pours into your\near her pure, childlike confidences? How you are privileged!\" And he\nsighed.\n\n\"I cut short these confidences somewhat abruptly now and then,\" said I.\n\"But excuse me, Dr. John, may I change the theme for one instant? What\na god-like person is that de Hamal! What a nose on his face--perfect!\nModel one in putty or clay, you could not make a better or straighter,\nor neater; and then, such classic lips and chin--and his\nbearing--sublime.\"\n\n\"De Hamal is an unutterable puppy, besides being a very white-livered\nhero.\"\n\n\"You, Dr. John, and every man of a less-refined mould than he, must\nfeel for him a sort of admiring affection, such as Mars and the coarser\ndeities may be supposed to have borne the young, graceful Apollo.\"\n\n\"An unprincipled, gambling little jackanapes!\" said Dr. John curtly,\n\"whom, with one hand, I could lift up by the waistband any day, and lay\nlow in the kennel if I liked.\"\n\n\"The sweet seraph!\" said I. \"What a cruel idea! Are you not a little\nsevere, Dr. John?\"\n\nAnd now I paused. For the second time that night I was going beyond\nmyself--venturing out of what I looked on as my natural\nhabits--speaking in an unpremeditated, impulsive strain, which startled\nme strangely when I halted to reflect. On rising that morning, had I\nanticipated that before night I should have acted the part of a gay\nlover in a vaudeville; and an hour after, frankly discussed with Dr.\nJohn the question of his hapless suit, and rallied him on his\nillusions? I had no more presaged such feats than I had looked forward\nto an ascent in a balloon, or a voyage to Cape Horn.\n\nThe Doctor and I, having paced down the walk, were now returning; the\nreflex from the window again lit his face: he smiled, but his eye was\nmelancholy. How I wished that he could feel heart's-ease! How I grieved\nthat he brooded over pain, and pain from such a cause! He, with his\ngreat advantages, _he_ to love in vain! I did not then know that the\npensiveness of reverse is the best phase for some minds; nor did I\nreflect that some herbs, \"though scentless when entire, yield fragrance\nwhen they're bruised.\"\n\n\"Do not be sorrowful, do not grieve,\" I broke out. \"If there is in\nGinevra one spark of worthiness of your affection, she will--she _must_\nfeel devotion in return. Be cheerful, be hopeful, Dr. John. Who should\nhope, if not you?\"\n\nIn return for this speech I got--what, it must be supposed, I\ndeserved--a look of surprise: I thought also of some disapprobation. We\nparted, and I went into the house very chill. The clocks struck and the\nbells tolled midnight; people were leaving fast: the fête was over; the\nlamps were fading. In another hour all the dwelling-house, and all the\npensionnat, were dark and hushed. I too was in bed, but not asleep. To\nme it was not easy to sleep after a day of such excitement.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV.\n\nTHE LONG VACATION.\n\n\nFollowing Madame Beck's fête, with its three preceding weeks of\nrelaxation, its brief twelve hours' burst of hilarity and dissipation,\nand its one subsequent day of utter languor, came a period of reaction;\ntwo months of real application, of close, hard study. These two months,\nbeing the last of the \"année scolaire,\" were indeed the only genuine\nworking months in the year. To them was procrastinated--into them\nconcentrated, alike by professors, mistresses, and pupils--the main\nburden of preparation for the examinations preceding the distribution\nof prizes. Candidates for rewards had then to work in good earnest;\nmasters and teachers had to set their shoulders to the wheel, to urge\non the backward, and diligently aid and train the more promising. A\nshowy demonstration--a telling exhibition--must be got up for public\nview, and all means were fair to this end.\n\nI scarcely noted how the other teachers went to work; I had my own\nbusiness to mind; and _my_ task was not the least onerous, being to\nimbue some ninety sets of brains with a due tincture of what they\nconsidered a most complicated and difficult science, that of the\nEnglish language; and to drill ninety tongues in what, for them, was an\nalmost impossible pronunciation--the lisping and hissing dentals of the\nIsles.\n\nThe examination-day arrived. Awful day! Prepared for with anxious care,\ndressed for with silent despatch--nothing vaporous or fluttering\nnow--no white gauze or azure streamers; the grave, close, compact was\nthe order of the toilette. It seemed to me that I was this day,\nespecially doomed--the main burden and trial falling on me alone of all\nthe female teachers. The others were not expected to examine in the\nstudies they taught; the professor of literature, M. Paul, taking upon\nhimself this duty. He, this school autocrat, gathered all and sundry\nreins into the hollow of his one hand; he irefully rejected any\ncolleague; he would not have help. Madame herself, who evidently rather\nwished to undertake the examination in geography--her favourite study,\nwhich she taught well--was forced to succumb, and be subordinate to her\ndespotic kinsman's direction. The whole staff of instructors, male and\nfemale, he set aside, and stood on the examiner's estrade alone. It\nirked him that he was forced to make one exception to this rule. He\ncould not manage English: he was obliged to leave that branch of\neducation in the English teacher's hands; which he did, not without a\nflash of naïve jealousy.\n\nA constant crusade against the \"amour-propre\" of every human being but\nhimself, was the crotchet of this able, but fiery and grasping little\nman. He had a strong relish for public representation in his own\nperson, but an extreme abhorrence of the like display in any other. He\nquelled, he kept down when he could; and when he could not, he fumed\nlike a bottled storm.\n\nOn the evening preceding the examination-day, I was walking in the\ngarden, as were the other teachers and all the boarders. M. Emanuel\njoined me in the \"allée défendue;\" his cigar was at his lips; his\npaletôt--a most characteristic garment of no particular shape--hung\ndark and menacing; the tassel of his bonnet grec sternly shadowed his\nleft temple; his black whiskers curled like those of a wrathful cat;\nhis blue eye had a cloud in its glitter.\n\n\"Ainsi,\" he began, abruptly fronting and arresting me, \"vous allez\ntrôner comme une reine; demain--trôner à mes côtés? Sans doute vous\nsavourez d'avance les délices de l'autorité. Je crois voir en je ne\nsais quoi de rayonnante, petite ambitieuse!\"\n\nNow the fact was, he happened to be entirely mistaken. I did not--could\nnot--estimate the admiration or the good opinion of tomorrow's audience\nat the same rate he did. Had that audience numbered as many personal\nfriends and acquaintance for me as for him, I know not how it might\nhave been: I speak of the case as it stood. On me school-triumphs shed\nbut a cold lustre. I had wondered--and I wondered now--how it was that\nfor him they seemed to shine as with hearth-warmth and hearth-glow.\n_He_ cared for them perhaps too much; _I_, probably, too little.\nHowever, I had my own fancies as well as he. I liked, for instance, to\nsee M. Emanuel jealous; it lit up his nature, and woke his spirit; it\nthrew all sorts of queer lights and shadows over his dun face, and into\nhis violet-azure eyes (he used to say that his black hair and blue eyes\nwere \"une de ses beautés\"). There was a relish in his anger; it was\nartless, earnest, quite unreasonable, but never hypocritical. I uttered\nno disclaimer then of the complacency he attributed to me; I merely\nasked where the English examination came in--whether at the\ncommencement or close of the day?\n\n\"I hesitate,\" said he, \"whether at the very beginning, before many\npersons are come, and when your aspiring nature will not be gratified\nby a large audience, or quite at the close, when everybody is tired,\nand only a jaded and worn-out attention will be at your service.\"\n\n\"Que vous êtes dur, Monsieur!\" I said, affecting dejection.\n\n\"One ought to be 'dur' with you. You are one of those beings who must\nbe _kept down_. I know you! I know you! Other people in this house see\nyou pass, and think that a colourless shadow has gone by. As for me, I\nscrutinized your face once, and it sufficed.\"\n\n\"You are satisfied that you understand me?\"\n\nWithout answering directly, he went on, \"Were you not gratified when\nyou succeeded in that vaudeville? I watched you and saw a passionate\nardour for triumph in your physiognomy. What fire shot into the glance!\nNot mere light, but flame: je me tiens pour averti.\"\n\n\"What feeling I had on that occasion, Monsieur--and pardon me, if I\nsay, you immensely exaggerate both its quality and quantity--was quite\nabstract. I did not care for the vaudeville. I hated the part you\nassigned me. I had not the slightest sympathy with the audience below\nthe stage. They are good people, doubtless, but do I know them? Are\nthey anything to me? Can I care for being brought before their view\nagain to-morrow? Will the examination be anything but a task to me--a\ntask I wish well over?\"\n\n\"Shall I take it out of your hands?\"\n\n\"With all my heart; if you do not fear failure.\"\n\n\"But I should fail. I only know three phrases of English, and a few\nwords: par exemple, de sonn, de mone, de stares--est-ce bien dit? My\nopinion is that it would be better to give up the thing altogether: to\nhave no English examination, eh?\"\n\n\"If Madame consents, I consent.\"\n\n\"Heartily?\"\n\n\"Very heartily.\"\n\nHe smoked his cigar in silence. He turned suddenly.\n\n\"Donnez-moi la main,\" said he, and the spite and jealousy melted out of\nhis face, and a generous kindliness shone there instead.\n\n\"Come, we will not be rivals, we will be friends,\" he pursued. \"The\nexamination shall take place, and I will choose a good moment; and\ninstead of vexing and hindering, as I felt half-inclined ten minutes\nago--for I have my malevolent moods: I always had from childhood--I\nwill aid you sincerely. After all, you are solitary and a stranger, and\nhave your way to make and your bread to earn; it may be well that you\nshould become known. We will be friends: do you agree?\"\n\n\"Out of my heart, Monsieur. I am glad of a friend. I like that better\nthan a triumph.\"\n\n\"Pauvrette?\" said he, and turned away and left the alley.\n\nThe examination passed over well; M. Paul was as good as his word, and\ndid his best to make my part easy. The next day came the distribution\nof prizes; that also passed; the school broke up; the pupils went home,\nand now began the long vacation.\n\nThat vacation! Shall I ever forget it? I think not. Madame Beck went,\nthe first day of the holidays, to join her children at the sea-side;\nall the three teachers had parents or friends with whom they took\nrefuge; every professor quitted the city; some went to Paris, some to\nBoue-Marine; M. Paul set forth on a pilgrimage to Rome; the house was\nleft quite empty, but for me, a servant, and a poor deformed and\nimbecile pupil, a sort of crétin, whom her stepmother in a distant\nprovince would not allow to return home.\n\nMy heart almost died within me; miserable longings strained its chords.\nHow long were the September days! How silent, how lifeless! How vast\nand void seemed the desolate premises! How gloomy the forsaken\ngarden--grey now with the dust of a town summer departed. Looking\nforward at the commencement of those eight weeks, I hardly knew how I\nwas to live to the end. My spirits had long been gradually sinking; now\nthat the prop of employment was withdrawn, they went down fast. Even to\nlook forward was not to hope: the dumb future spoke no comfort, offered\nno promise, gave no inducement to bear present evil in reliance on\nfuture good. A sorrowful indifference to existence often pressed on\nme--a despairing resignation to reach betimes the end of all things\nearthly. Alas! When I had full leisure to look on life as life must be\nlooked on by such as me, I found it but a hopeless desert: tawny sands,\nwith no green fields, no palm-tree, no well in view. The hopes which\nare dear to youth, which bear it up and lead it on, I knew not and\ndared not know. If they knocked at my heart sometimes, an inhospitable\nbar to admission must be inwardly drawn. When they turned away thus\nrejected, tears sad enough sometimes flowed: but it could not be\nhelped: I dared not give such guests lodging. So mortally did I fear\nthe sin and weakness of presumption.\n\nReligious reader, you will preach to me a long sermon about what I have\njust written, and so will you, moralist: and you, stern sage: you,\nstoic, will frown; you, cynic, sneer; you, epicure, laugh. Well, each\nand all, take it your own way. I accept the sermon, frown, sneer, and\nlaugh; perhaps you are all right: and perhaps, circumstanced like me,\nyou would have been, like me, wrong. The first month was, indeed, a\nlong, black, heavy month to me.\n\nThe crétin did not seem unhappy. I did my best to feed her well and\nkeep her warm, and she only asked food and sunshine, or when that\nlacked, fire. Her weak faculties approved of inertion: her brain, her\neyes, her ears, her heart slept content; they could not wake to work,\nso lethargy was their Paradise.\n\nThree weeks of that vacation were hot, fair, and dry, but the fourth\nand fifth were tempestuous and wet. I do not know why that change in\nthe atmosphere made a cruel impression on me, why the raging storm and\nbeating rain crushed me with a deadlier paralysis than I had\nexperienced while the air had remained serene; but so it was; and my\nnervous system could hardly support what it had for many days and\nnights to undergo in that huge empty house. How I used to pray to\nHeaven for consolation and support! With what dread force the\nconviction would grasp me that Fate was my permanent foe, never to be\nconciliated. I did not, in my heart, arraign the mercy or justice of\nGod for this; I concluded it to be a part of his great plan that some\nmust deeply suffer while they live, and I thrilled in the certainty\nthat of this number, I was one.\n\nIt was some relief when an aunt of the crétin, a kind old woman, came\none day, and took away my strange, deformed companion. The hapless\ncreature had been at times a heavy charge; I could not take her out\nbeyond the garden, and I could not leave her a minute alone: for her\npoor mind, like her body, was warped: its propensity was to evil. A\nvague bent to mischief, an aimless malevolence, made constant vigilance\nindispensable. As she very rarely spoke, and would sit for hours\ntogether moping and mowing, and distorting her features with\nindescribable grimaces, it was more like being prisoned with some\nstrange tameless animal, than associating with a human being. Then\nthere were personal attentions to be rendered which required the nerve\nof a hospital nurse; my resolution was so tried, it sometimes fell\ndead-sick. These duties should not have fallen on me; a servant, now\nabsent, had rendered them hitherto, and in the hurry of holiday\ndeparture, no substitute to fill this office had been provided. This\ntax and trial were by no means the least I have known in life. Still,\nmenial and distasteful as they were, my mental pain was far more\nwasting and wearing. Attendance on the crétin deprived me often of the\npower and inclination to swallow a meal, and sent me faint to the fresh\nair, and the well or fountain in the court; but this duty never wrung\nmy heart, or brimmed my eyes, or scalded my cheek with tears hot as\nmolten metal.\n\nThe crétin being gone, I was free to walk out. At first I lacked\ncourage to venture very far from the Rue Fossette, but by degrees I\nsought the city gates, and passed them, and then went wandering away\nfar along chaussées, through fields, beyond cemeteries, Catholic and\nProtestant, beyond farmsteads, to lanes and little woods, and I know\nnot where. A goad thrust me on, a fever forbade me to rest; a want of\ncompanionship maintained in my soul the cravings of a most deadly\nfamine. I often walked all day, through the burning noon and the arid\nafternoon, and the dusk evening, and came back with moonrise.\n\nWhile wandering in solitude, I would sometimes picture the present\nprobable position of others, my acquaintance. There was Madame Beck at\na cheerful watering-place with her children, her mother, and a whole\ntroop of friends who had sought the same scene of relaxation. Zélie St.\nPierre was at Paris, with her relatives; the other teachers were at\ntheir homes. There was Ginevra Fanshawe, whom certain of her\nconnections had carried on a pleasant tour southward. Ginevra seemed to\nme the happiest. She was on the route of beautiful scenery; these\nSeptember suns shone for her on fertile plains, where harvest and\nvintage matured under their mellow beam. These gold and crystal moons\nrose on her vision over blue horizons waved in mounted lines.\n\nBut all this was nothing; I too felt those autumn suns and saw those\nharvest moons, and I almost wished to be covered in with earth and\nturf, deep out of their influence; for I could not live in their light,\nnor make them comrades, nor yield them affection. But Ginevra had a\nkind of spirit with her, empowered to give constant strength and\ncomfort, to gladden daylight and embalm darkness; the best of the good\ngenii that guard humanity curtained her with his wings, and canopied\nher head with his bending form. By True Love was Ginevra followed:\nnever could she be alone. Was she insensible to this presence? It\nseemed to me impossible: I could not realize such deadness. I imagined\nher grateful in secret, loving now with reserve; but purposing one day\nto show how much she loved: I pictured her faithful hero half conscious\nof her coy fondness, and comforted by that consciousness: I conceived\nan electric chord of sympathy between them, a fine chain of mutual\nunderstanding, sustaining union through a separation of a hundred\nleagues--carrying, across mound and hollow, communication by prayer and\nwish. Ginevra gradually became with me a sort of heroine. One day,\nperceiving this growing illusion, I said, \"I really believe my nerves\nare getting overstretched: my mind has suffered somewhat too much a\nmalady is growing upon it--what shall I do? How shall I keep well?\"\n\nIndeed there was no way to keep well under the circumstances. At last a\nday and night of peculiarly agonizing depression were succeeded by\nphysical illness, I took perforce to my bed. About this time the Indian\nsummer closed and the equinoctial storms began; and for nine dark and\nwet days, of which the hours rushed on all turbulent, deaf,\ndishevelled--bewildered with sounding hurricane--I lay in a strange\nfever of the nerves and blood. Sleep went quite away. I used to rise in\nthe night, look round for her, beseech her earnestly to return. A\nrattle of the window, a cry of the blast only replied---Sleep never\ncame!\n\nI err. She came once, but in anger. Impatient of my importunity she\nbrought with her an avenging dream. By the clock of St. Jean Baptiste,\nthat dream remained scarce fifteen minutes--a brief space, but\nsufficing to wring my whole frame with unknown anguish; to confer a\nnameless experience that had the hue, the mien, the terror, the very\ntone of a visitation from eternity. Between twelve and one that night a\ncup was forced to my lips, black, strong, strange, drawn from no well,\nbut filled up seething from a bottomless and boundless sea. Suffering,\nbrewed in temporal or calculable measure, and mixed for mortal lips,\ntastes not as this suffering tasted. Having drank and woke, I thought\nall was over: the end come and past by. Trembling fearfully--as\nconsciousness returned--ready to cry out on some fellow-creature to\nhelp me, only that I knew no fellow-creature was near enough to catch\nthe wild summons--Goton in her far distant attic could not hear--I rose\non my knees in bed. Some fearful hours went over me: indescribably was\nI torn, racked and oppressed in mind. Amidst the horrors of that dream\nI think the worst lay here. Methought the well-loved dead, who had\nloved _me_ well in life, met me elsewhere, alienated: galled was my\ninmost spirit with an unutterable sense of despair about the future.\nMotive there was none why I should try to recover or wish to live; and\nyet quite unendurable was the pitiless and haughty voice in which Death\nchallenged me to engage his unknown terrors. When I tried to pray I\ncould only utter these words: \"From my youth up Thy terrors have I\nsuffered with a troubled mind.\"\n\nMost true was it.\n\nOn bringing me my tea next morning Goton urged me to call in a doctor.\nI would not: I thought no doctor could cure me.\n\nOne evening--and I was not delirious: I was in my sane mind, I got\nup--I dressed myself, weak and shaking. The solitude and the stillness\nof the long dormitory could not be borne any longer; the ghastly white\nbeds were turning into spectres--the coronal of each became a\ndeath's-head, huge and sun-bleached--dead dreams of an elder world and\nmightier race lay frozen in their wide gaping eyeholes. That evening\nmore firmly than ever fastened into my soul the conviction that Fate\nwas of stone, and Hope a false idol--blind, bloodless, and of granite\ncore. I felt, too, that the trial God had appointed me was gaining its\nclimax, and must now be turned by my own hands, hot, feeble, trembling\nas they were. It rained still, and blew; but with more clemency, I\nthought, than it had poured and raged all day. Twilight was falling,\nand I deemed its influence pitiful; from the lattice I saw coming\nnight-clouds trailing low like banners drooping. It seemed to me that\nat this hour there was affection and sorrow in Heaven above for all\npain suffered on earth beneath; the weight of my dreadful dream became\nalleviated--that insufferable thought of being no more loved--no more\nowned, half-yielded to hope of the contrary--I was sure this hope would\nshine clearer if I got out from under this house-roof, which was\ncrushing as the slab of a tomb, and went outside the city to a certain\nquiet hill, a long way distant in the fields. Covered with a cloak (I\ncould not be delirious, for I had sense and recollection to put on warm\nclothing), forth I set. The bells of a church arrested me in passing;\nthey seemed to call me in to the _salut_, and I went in. Any solemn\nrite, any spectacle of sincere worship, any opening for appeal to God\nwas as welcome to me then as bread to one in extremity of want. I knelt\ndown with others on the stone pavement. It was an old solemn church,\nits pervading gloom not gilded but purpled by light shed through\nstained glass.\n\nFew worshippers were assembled, and, the _salut_ over, half of them\ndeparted. I discovered soon that those left remained to confess. I did\nnot stir. Carefully every door of the church was shut; a holy quiet\nsank upon, and a solemn shade gathered about us. After a space,\nbreathless and spent in prayer, a penitent approached the confessional.\nI watched. She whispered her avowal; her shrift was whispered back; she\nreturned consoled. Another went, and another. A pale lady, kneeling\nnear me, said in a low, kind voice:--\"Go you now, I am not quite\nprepared.\"\n\nMechanically obedient, I rose and went. I knew what I was about; my\nmind had run over the intent with lightning-speed. To take this step\ncould not make me more wretched than I was; it might soothe me.\n\nThe priest within the confessional never turned his eyes to regard me;\nhe only quietly inclined his ear to my lips. He might be a good man,\nbut this duty had become to him a sort of form: he went through it with\nthe phlegm of custom. I hesitated; of the formula of confession I was\nignorant: instead of commencing, then, with the prelude usual, I\nsaid:--\"Mon père, je suis Protestante.\"\n\nHe directly turned. He was not a native priest: of that class, the cast\nof physiognomy is, almost invariably, grovelling: I saw by his profile\nand brow he was a Frenchman; though grey and advanced in years, he did\nnot, I think, lack feeling or intelligence. He inquired, not unkindly,\nwhy, being a Protestant, I came to him?\n\nI said I was perishing for a word of advice or an accent of comfort. I\nhad been living for some weeks quite alone; I had been ill; I had a\npressure of affliction on my mind of which it would hardly any longer\nendure the weight.\n\n\"Was it a sin, a crime?\" he inquired, somewhat startled. I reassured\nhim on this point, and, as well as I could, I showed him the mere\noutline of my experience.\n\nHe looked thoughtful, surprised, puzzled. \"You take me unawares,\" said\nhe. \"I have not had such a case as yours before: ordinarily we know our\nroutine, and are prepared; but this makes a great break in the common\ncourse of confession. I am hardly furnished with counsel fitting the\ncircumstances.\"\n\nOf course, I had not expected he would be; but the mere relief of\ncommunication in an ear which was human and sentient, yet\nconsecrated--the mere pouring out of some portion of long accumulating,\nlong pent-up pain into a vessel whence it could not be again\ndiffused--had done me good. I was already solaced.\n\n\"Must I go, father?\" I asked of him as he sat silent.\n\n\"My daughter,\" he said kindly--and I am sure he was a kind man: he had\na compassionate eye--\"for the present you had better go: but I assure\nyou your words have struck me. Confession, like other things, is apt to\nbecome formal and trivial with habit. You have come and poured your\nheart out; a thing seldom done. I would fain think your case over, and\ntake it with me to my oratory. Were you of our faith I should know what\nto say--a mind so tossed can find repose but in the bosom of retreat,\nand the punctual practice of piety. The world, it is well known, has no\nsatisfaction for that class of natures. Holy men have bidden penitents\nlike you to hasten their path upward by penance, self-denial, and\ndifficult good works. Tears are given them here for meat and\ndrink--bread of affliction and waters of affliction--their recompence\ncomes hereafter. It is my own conviction that these impressions under\nwhich you are smarting are messengers from God to bring you back to the\ntrue Church. You were made for our faith: depend upon it our faith\nalone could heal and help you--Protestantism is altogether too dry,\ncold, prosaic for you. The further I look into this matter, the more\nplainly I see it is entirely out of the common order of things. On no\naccount would I lose sight of you. Go, my daughter, for the present;\nbut return to me again.\"\n\nI rose and thanked him. I was withdrawing when he signed me to return.\n\n\"You must not come to this church,\" said he: \"I see you are ill, and\nthis church is too cold; you must come to my house: I live----\" (and he\ngave me his address). \"Be there to-morrow morning at ten.\"\n\nIn reply to this appointment, I only bowed; and pulling down my veil,\nand gathering round me my cloak, I glided away.\n\nDid I, do you suppose, reader, contemplate venturing again within that\nworthy priest's reach? As soon should I have thought of walking into a\nBabylonish furnace. That priest had arms which could influence me: he\nwas naturally kind, with a sentimental French kindness, to whose\nsoftness I knew myself not wholly impervious. Without respecting some\nsorts of affection, there was hardly any sort having a fibre of root in\nreality, which I could rely on my force wholly to withstand. Had I gone\nto him, he would have shown me all that was tender, and comforting, and\ngentle, in the honest Popish superstition. Then he would have tried to\nkindle, blow and stir up in me the zeal of good works. I know not how\nit would all have ended. We all think ourselves strong in some points;\nwe all know ourselves weak in many; the probabilities are that had I\nvisited Numero 10, Rue des Mages, at the hour and day appointed, I\nmight just now, instead of writing this heretic narrative, be counting\nmy beads in the cell of a certain Carmelite convent on the Boulevard of\nCrécy, in Villette. There was something of Fénélon about that benign\nold priest; and whatever most of his brethren may be, and whatever I\nmay think of his Church and creed (and I like neither), of himself I\nmust ever retain a grateful recollection. He was kind when I needed\nkindness; he did me good. May Heaven bless him!\n\nTwilight had passed into night, and the lamps were lit in the streets\nere I issued from that sombre church. To turn back was now become\npossible to me; the wild longing to breathe this October wind on the\nlittle hill far without the city walls had ceased to be an imperative\nimpulse, and was softened into a wish with which Reason could cope: she\nput it down, and I turned, as I thought, to the Rue Fossette. But I had\nbecome involved in a part of the city with which I was not familiar; it\nwas the old part, and full of narrow streets of picturesque, ancient,\nand mouldering houses. I was much too weak to be very collected, and I\nwas still too careless of my own welfare and safety to be cautious; I\ngrew embarrassed; I got immeshed in a network of turns unknown. I was\nlost and had no resolution to ask guidance of any passenger.\n\nIf the storm had lulled a little at sunset, it made up now for lost\ntime. Strong and horizontal thundered the current of the wind from\nnorth-west to south-east; it brought rain like spray, and sometimes a\nsharp hail, like shot: it was cold and pierced me to the vitals. I bent\nmy head to meet it, but it beat me back. My heart did not fail at all\nin this conflict; I only wished that I had wings and could ascend the\ngale, spread and repose my pinions on its strength, career in its\ncourse, sweep where it swept. While wishing this, I suddenly felt\ncolder where before I was cold, and more powerless where before I was\nweak. I tried to reach the porch of a great building near, but the mass\nof frontage and the giant spire turned black and vanished from my eyes.\nInstead of sinking on the steps as I intended, I seemed to pitch\nheadlong down an abyss. I remember no more.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI.\n\nAULD LANG SYNE.\n\n\nWhere my soul went during that swoon I cannot tell. Whatever she saw,\nor wherever she travelled in her trance on that strange night she kept\nher own secret; never whispering a word to Memory, and baffling\nimagination by an indissoluble silence. She may have gone upward, and\ncome in sight of her eternal home, hoping for leave to rest now, and\ndeeming that her painful union with matter was at last dissolved. While\nshe so deemed, an angel may have warned her away from heaven's\nthreshold, and, guiding her weeping down, have bound her, once more,\nall shuddering and unwilling, to that poor frame, cold and wasted, of\nwhose companionship she was grown more than weary.\n\nI know she re-entered her prison with pain, with reluctance, with a\nmoan and a long shiver. The divorced mates, Spirit and Substance, were\nhard to re-unite: they greeted each other, not in an embrace, but a\nracking sort of struggle. The returning sense of sight came upon me,\nred, as if it swam in blood; suspended hearing rushed back loud, like\nthunder; consciousness revived in fear: I sat up appalled, wondering\ninto what region, amongst what strange beings I was waking. At first I\nknew nothing I looked on: a wall was not a wall--a lamp not a lamp. I\nshould have understood what we call a ghost, as well as I did the\ncommonest object: which is another way of intimating that all my eye\nrested on struck it as spectral. But the faculties soon settled each in\nhis place; the life-machine presently resumed its wonted and regular\nworking.\n\nStill, I knew not where I was; only in time I saw I had been removed\nfrom the spot where I fell: I lay on no portico-step; night and tempest\nwere excluded by walls, windows, and ceiling. Into some house I had\nbeen carried--but what house?\n\nI could only think of the pensionnat in the Rue Fossette. Still\nhalf-dreaming, I tried hard to discover in what room they had put me;\nwhether the great dormitory, or one of the little dormitories. I was\npuzzled, because I could not make the glimpses of furniture I saw\naccord with my knowledge of any of these apartments. The empty white\nbeds were wanting, and the long line of large windows. \"Surely,\"\nthought I, \"it is not to Madame Beck's own chamber they have carried\nme!\" And here my eye fell on an easy-chair covered with blue damask.\nOther seats, cushioned to match, dawned on me by degrees; and at last I\ntook in the complete fact of a pleasant parlour, with a wood fire on a\nclear-shining hearth, a carpet where arabesques of bright blue relieved\na ground of shaded fawn; pale walls over which a slight but endless\ngarland of azure forget-me-nots ran mazed and bewildered amongst myriad\ngold leaves and tendrils. A gilded mirror filled up the space between\ntwo windows, curtained amply with blue damask. In this mirror I saw\nmyself laid, not in bed, but on a sofa. I looked spectral; my eyes\nlarger and more hollow, my hair darker than was natural, by contrast\nwith my thin and ashen face. It was obvious, not only from the\nfurniture, but from the position of windows, doors, and fireplace, that\nthis was an unknown room in an unknown house.\n\nHardly less plain was it that my brain was not yet settled; for, as I\ngazed at the blue arm-chair, it appeared to grow familiar; so did a\ncertain scroll-couch, and not less so the round centre-table, with a\nblue-covering, bordered with autumn-tinted foliage; and, above all, two\nlittle footstools with worked covers, and a small ebony-framed chair,\nof which the seat and back were also worked with groups of brilliant\nflowers on a dark ground.\n\nStruck with these things, I explored further. Strange to say, old\nacquaintance were all about me, and \"auld lang syne\" smiled out of\nevery nook. There were two oval miniatures over the mantel-piece, of\nwhich I knew by heart the pearls about the high and powdered \"heads;\"\nthe velvets circling the white throats; the swell of the full muslin\nkerchiefs: the pattern of the lace sleeve-ruffles. Upon the\nmantel-shelf there were two china vases, some relics of a diminutive\ntea-service, as smooth as enamel and as thin as egg-shell, and a white\ncentre ornament, a classic group in alabaster, preserved under glass.\nOf all these things I could have told the peculiarities, numbered the\nflaws or cracks, like any _clairvoyante_. Above all, there was a pair\nof handscreens, with elaborate pencil-drawings finished like line\nengravings; these, my very eyes ached at beholding again, recalling\nhours when they had followed, stroke by stroke and touch by touch, a\ntedious, feeble, finical, school-girl pencil held in these fingers, now\nso skeleton-like.\n\nWhere was I? Not only in what spot of the world, but in what year of\nour Lord? For all these objects were of past days, and of a distant\ncountry. Ten years ago I bade them good-by; since my fourteenth year\nthey and I had never met. I gasped audibly, \"Where am I?\"\n\nA shape hitherto unnoticed, stirred, rose, came forward: a shape\ninharmonious with the environment, serving only to complicate the\nriddle further. This was no more than a sort of native bonne, in a\ncommon-place bonne's cap and print-dress. She spoke neither French nor\nEnglish, and I could get no intelligence from her, not understanding\nher phrases of dialect. But she bathed my temples and forehead with\nsome cool and perfumed water, and then she heightened the cushion on\nwhich I reclined, made signs that I was not to speak, and resumed her\npost at the foot of the sofa.\n\nShe was busy knitting; her eyes thus drawn from me, I could gaze on her\nwithout interruption. I did mightily wonder how she came there, or what\nshe could have to do among the scenes, or with the days of my girlhood.\nStill more I marvelled what those scenes and days could now have to do\nwith me.\n\nToo weak to scrutinize thoroughly the mystery, I tried to settle it by\nsaying it was a mistake, a dream, a fever-fit; and yet I knew there\ncould be no mistake, and that I was not sleeping, and I believed I was\nsane. I wished the room had not been so well lighted, that I might not\nso clearly have seen the little pictures, the ornaments, the screens,\nthe worked chair. All these objects, as well as the blue-damask\nfurniture, were, in fact, precisely the same, in every minutest detail,\nwith those I so well remembered, and with which I had been so\nthoroughly intimate, in the drawing-room of my godmother's house at\nBretton. Methought the apartment only was changed, being of different\nproportions and dimensions.\n\nI thought of Bedreddin Hassan, transported in his sleep from Cairo to\nthe gates of Damascus. Had a Genius stooped his dark wing down the\nstorm to whose stress I had succumbed, and gathering me from the\nchurch-steps, and \"rising high into the air,\" as the eastern tale said,\nhad he borne me over land and ocean, and laid me quietly down beside a\nhearth of Old England? But no; I knew the fire of that hearth burned\nbefore its Lares no more--it went out long ago, and the household gods\nhad been carried elsewhere.\n\nThe bonne turned again to survey me, and seeing my eyes wide open, and,\nI suppose, deeming their expression perturbed and excited, she put down\nher knitting. I saw her busied for a moment at a little stand; she\npoured out water, and measured drops from a phial: glass in hand, she\napproached me. What dark-tinged draught might she now be offering? what\nGenii-elixir or Magi-distillation?\n\nIt was too late to inquire--I had swallowed it passively, and at once.\nA tide of quiet thought now came gently caressing my brain; softer and\nsofter rose the flow, with tepid undulations smoother than balm. The\npain of weakness left my limbs, my muscles slept. I lost power to move;\nbut, losing at the same time wish, it was no privation. That kind bonne\nplaced a screen between me and the lamp; I saw her rise to do this, but\ndo not remember seeing her resume her place: in the interval between\nthe two acts, I \"fell on sleep.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAt waking, lo! all was again changed. The light of high day surrounded\nme; not, indeed, a warm, summer light, but the leaden gloom of raw and\nblustering autumn. I felt sure now that I was in the pensionnat--sure\nby the beating rain on the casement; sure by the \"wuther\" of wind\namongst trees, denoting a garden outside; sure by the chill, the\nwhiteness, the solitude, amidst which I lay. I say _whiteness_--for the\ndimity curtains, dropped before a French bed, bounded my view.\n\nI lifted them; I looked out. My eye, prepared to take in the range of a\nlong, large, and whitewashed chamber, blinked baffled, on encountering\nthe limited area of a small cabinet--a cabinet with seagreen walls;\nalso, instead of five wide and naked windows, there was one high\nlattice, shaded with muslin festoons: instead of two dozen little\nstands of painted wood, each holding a basin and an ewer, there was a\ntoilette-table dressed, like a lady for a ball, in a white robe over a\npink skirt; a polished and large glass crowned, and a pretty\npin-cushion frilled with lace, adorned it. This toilette, together with\na small, low, green and white chintz arm-chair, a washstand topped with\na marble slab, and supplied with utensils of pale greenware,\nsufficiently furnished the tiny chamber.\n\nReader; I felt alarmed! Why? you will ask. What was there in this\nsimple and somewhat pretty sleeping-closet to startle the most timid?\nMerely this--These articles of furniture could not be real, solid\narm-chairs, looking-glasses, and washstands--they must be the ghosts of\nsuch articles; or, if this were denied as too wild an hypothesis--and,\nconfounded as I was, I _did_ deny it--there remained but to conclude\nthat I had myself passed into an abnormal state of mind; in short, that\nI was very ill and delirious: and even then, mine was the strangest\nfigment with which delirium had ever harassed a victim.\n\nI knew--I was obliged to know--the green chintz of that little chair;\nthe little snug chair itself, the carved, shining-black, foliated frame\nof that glass; the smooth, milky-green of the china vessels on the\nstand; the very stand too, with its top of grey marble, splintered at\none corner;--all these I was compelled to recognise and to hail, as\nlast night I had, perforce, recognised and hailed the rosewood, the\ndrapery, the porcelain, of the drawing-room.\n\nBretton! Bretton! and ten years ago shone reflected in that mirror. And\nwhy did Bretton and my fourteenth year haunt me thus? Why, if they came\nat all, did they not return complete? Why hovered before my distempered\nvision the mere furniture, while the rooms and the locality were gone?\nAs to that pincushion made of crimson satin, ornamented with gold beads\nand frilled with thread-lace, I had the same right to know it as to\nknow the screens--I had made it myself. Rising with a start from the\nbed, I took the cushion in my hand and examined it. There was the\ncipher \"L. L. B.\" formed in gold beds, and surrounded with an oval\nwreath embroidered in white silk. These were the initials of my\ngodmother's name--Lonisa Lucy Bretton.\n\n\"Am I in England? Am I at Bretton?\" I muttered; and hastily pulling up\nthe blind with which the lattice was shrouded, I looked out to try and\ndiscover _where_ I was; half-prepared to meet the calm, old, handsome\nbuildings and clean grey pavement of St. Ann's Street, and to see at\nthe end the towers of the minster: or, if otherwise, fully expectant of\na town view somewhere, a rue in Villette, if not a street in a pleasant\nand ancient English city.\n\nI looked, on the contrary, through a frame of leafage, clustering round\nthe high lattice, and forth thence to a grassy mead-like level, a\nlawn-terrace with trees rising from the lower ground beyond--high\nforest-trees, such as I had not seen for many a day. They were now\ngroaning under the gale of October, and between their trunks I traced\nthe line of an avenue, where yellow leaves lay in heaps and drifts, or\nwere whirled singly before the sweeping west wind. Whatever landscape\nmight lie further must have been flat, and these tall beeches shut it\nout. The place seemed secluded, and was to me quite strange: I did not\nknow it at all.\n\nOnce more I lay down. My bed stood in a little alcove; on turning my\nface to the wall, the room with its bewildering accompaniments became\nexcluded. Excluded? No! For as I arranged my position in this hope,\nbehold, on the green space between the divided and looped-up curtains,\nhung a broad, gilded picture-frame enclosing a portrait. It was\ndrawn--well drawn, though but a sketch--in water-colours; a head, a\nboy's head, fresh, life-like, speaking, and animated. It seemed a youth\nof sixteen, fair-complexioned, with sanguine health in his cheek; hair\nlong, not dark, and with a sunny sheen; penetrating eyes, an arch\nmouth, and a gay smile. On the whole a most pleasant face to look at,\nespecially for, those claiming a right to that youth's\naffections--parents, for instance, or sisters. Any romantic little\nschool-girl might almost have loved it in its frame. Those eyes looked\nas if when somewhat older they would flash a lightning-response to\nlove: I cannot tell whether they kept in store the steady-beaming shine\nof faith. For whatever sentiment met him in form too facile, his lips\nmenaced, beautifully but surely, caprice and light esteem.\n\nStriving to take each new discovery as quietly as I could, I whispered\nto myself--\n\n\"Ah! that portrait used to hang in the breakfast-room, over the\nmantel-piece: somewhat too high, as I thought. I well remember how I\nused to mount a music-stool for the purpose of unhooking it, holding it\nin my hand, and searching into those bonny wells of eyes, whose glance\nunder their hazel lashes seemed like a pencilled laugh; and well I\nliked to note the colouring of the cheek, and the expression of the\nmouth.\" I hardly believed fancy could improve on the curve of that\nmouth, or of the chin; even _my_ ignorance knew that both were\nbeautiful, and pondered perplexed over this doubt: \"How it was that\nwhat charmed so much, could at the same time so keenly pain?\" Once, by\nway of test, I took little Missy Home, and, lifting her in my arms,\ntold her to look at the picture.\n\n\"Do you like it, Polly?\" I asked. She never answered, but gazed long,\nand at last a darkness went trembling through her sensitive eye, as she\nsaid, \"Put me down.\" So I put her down, saying to myself: \"The child\nfeels it too.\"\n\nAll these things do I now think over, adding, \"He had his faults, yet\nscarce ever was a finer nature; liberal, suave, impressible.\" My\nreflections closed in an audibly pronounced word, \"Graham!\"\n\n\"Graham!\" echoed a sudden voice at the bedside. \"Do you want Graham?\"\n\nI looked. The plot was but thickening; the wonder but culminating. If\nit was strange to see that well-remembered pictured form on the wall,\nstill stranger was it to turn and behold the equally well-remembered\nliving form opposite--a woman, a lady, most real and substantial, tall,\nwell-attired, wearing widow's silk, and such a cap as best became her\nmatron and motherly braids of hair. Hers, too, was a good face; too\nmarked, perhaps, now for beauty, but not for sense or character. She\nwas little changed; something sterner, something more robust--but she\nwas my godmother: still the distinct vision of Mrs. Bretton.\n\nI kept quiet, yet internally _I_ was much agitated: my pulse fluttered,\nand the blood left my cheek, which turned cold.\n\n\"Madam, where am I?\" I inquired.\n\n\"In a very safe asylum; well protected for the present; make your mind\nquite easy till you get a little better; you look ill this morning.\"\n\n\"I am so entirely bewildered, I do not know whether I can trust my\nsenses at all, or whether they are misleading me in every particular:\nbut you speak English, do you not, madam?\"\n\n\"I should think you might hear that: it would puzzle me to hold a long\ndiscourse in French.\"\n\n\"You do not come from England?\"\n\n\"I am lately arrived thence. Have you been long in this country? You\nseem to know my son?\"\n\n\"Do, I, madam? Perhaps I do. Your son--the picture there?\"\n\n\"That is his portrait as a youth. While looking at it, you pronounced\nhis name.\"\n\n\"Graham Bretton?\"\n\nShe nodded.\n\n\"I speak to Mrs. Bretton, formerly of Bretton, ----shire?\"\n\n\"Quite right; and you, I am told, are an English teacher in a foreign\nschool here: my son recognised you as such.\"\n\n\"How was I found, madam, and by whom?\"\n\n\"My son shall tell you that by-and-by,\" said she; \"but at present you\nare too confused and weak for conversation: try to eat some breakfast,\nand then sleep.\"\n\nNotwithstanding all I had undergone--the bodily fatigue, the\nperturbation of spirits, the exposure to weather--it seemed that I was\nbetter: the fever, the real malady which had oppressed my frame, was\nabating; for, whereas during the last nine days I had taken no solid\nfood, and suffered from continual thirst, this morning, on breakfast\nbeing offered, I experienced a craving for nourishment: an inward\nfaintness which caused me eagerly to taste the tea this lady offered,\nand to eat the morsel of dry toast she allowed in accompaniment. It was\nonly a morsel, but it sufficed; keeping up my strength till some two or\nthree hours afterwards, when the bonne brought me a little cup of broth\nand a biscuit.\n\nAs evening began to darken, and the ceaseless blast still blew wild and\ncold, and the rain streamed on, deluge-like, I grew weary--very weary\nof my bed. The room, though pretty, was small: I felt it confining: I\nlonged for a change. The increasing chill and gathering gloom, too,\ndepressed me; I wanted to see--to feel firelight. Besides, I kept\nthinking of the son of that tall matron: when should I see him?\nCertainly not till I left my room.\n\nAt last the bonne came to make my bed for the night. She prepared to\nwrap me in a blanket and place me in the little chintz chair; but,\ndeclining these attentions, I proceeded to dress myself:\n\nThe business was just achieved, and I was sitting down to take breath,\nwhen Mrs. Bretton once more appeared.\n\n\"Dressed!\" she exclaimed, smiling with that smile I so well knew--a\npleasant smile, though not soft. \"You are quite better then? Quite\nstrong--eh?\"\n\nShe spoke to me so much as of old she used to speak that I almost\nfancied she was beginning to know me. There was the same sort of\npatronage in her voice and manner that, as a girl, I had always\nexperienced from her--a patronage I yielded to and even liked; it was\nnot founded on conventional grounds of superior wealth or station (in\nthe last particular there had never been any inequality; her degree was\nmine); but on natural reasons of physical advantage: it was the shelter\nthe tree gives the herb. I put a request without further ceremony.\n\n\"Do let me go down-stairs, madam; I am so cold and dull here.\"\n\n\"I desire nothing better, if you are strong enough to bear the change,\"\nwas her reply. \"Come then; here is an arm.\" And she offered me hers: I\ntook it, and we descended one flight of carpeted steps to a landing\nwhere a tall door, standing open, gave admission into the blue-damask\nroom. How pleasant it was in its air of perfect domestic comfort! How\nwarm in its amber lamp-light and vermilion fire-flush! To render the\npicture perfect, tea stood ready on the table--an English tea, whereof\nthe whole shining service glanced at me familiarly; from the solid\nsilver urn, of antique pattern, and the massive pot of the same metal,\nto the thin porcelain cups, dark with purple and gilding. I knew the\nvery seed-cake of peculiar form, baked in a peculiar mould, which\nalways had a place on the tea-table at Bretton. Graham liked it, and\nthere it was as of yore--set before Graham's plate with the silver\nknife and fork beside it. Graham was then expected to tea: Graham was\nnow, perhaps, in the house; ere many minutes I might see him.\n\n\"Sit down--sit down,\" said my conductress, as my step faltered a little\nin passing to the hearth. She seated me on the sofa, but I soon passed\nbehind it, saying the fire was too hot; in its shade I found another\nseat which suited me better. Mrs. Bretton was never wont to make a fuss\nabout any person or anything; without remonstrance she suffered me to\nhave my own way. She made the tea, and she took up the newspaper. I\nliked to watch every action of my godmother; all her movements were so\nyoung: she must have been now above fifty, yet neither her sinews nor\nher spirit seemed yet touched by the rust of age. Though portly, she\nwas alert, and though serene, she was at times impetuous--good health\nand an excellent temperament kept her green as in her spring.\n\nWhile she read, I perceived she listened--listened for her son. She was\nnot the woman ever to confess herself uneasy, but there was yet no lull\nin the weather, and if Graham were out in that hoarse wind--roaring\nstill unsatisfied--I well knew his mother's heart would be out with him.\n\n\"Ten minutes behind his time,\" said she, looking at her watch; then, in\nanother minute, a lifting of her eyes from the page, and a slight\ninclination of her head towards the door, denoted that she heard some\nsound. Presently her brow cleared; and then even my ear, less\npractised, caught the iron clash of a gate swung to, steps on gravel,\nlastly the door-bell. He was come. His mother filled the teapot from\nthe urn, she drew nearer the hearth the stuffed and cushioned blue\nchair--her own chair by right, but I saw there was one who might with\nimpunity usurp it. And when that _one_ came up the stairs--which he\nsoon did, after, I suppose, some such attention to the toilet as the\nwild and wet night rendered necessary, and strode straight in--\n\n\"Is it you, Graham?\" said his mother, hiding a glad smile and speaking\ncurtly.\n\n\"Who else should it be, mamma?\" demanded the Unpunctual, possessing\nhimself irreverently of the abdicated throne.\n\n\"Don't you deserve cold tea, for being late?\"\n\n\"I shall not get my deserts, for the urn sings cheerily.\"\n\n\"Wheel yourself to the table, lazy boy: no seat will serve you but\nmine; if you had one spark of a sense of propriety, you would always\nleave that chair for the Old Lady.\"\n\n\"So I should; only the dear Old Lady persists in leaving it for me. How\nis your patient, mamma?\"\n\n\"Will she come forward and speak for herself?\" said Mrs. Bretton,\nturning to my corner; and at this invitation, forward I came. Graham\ncourteously rose up to greet me. He stood tall on the hearth, a figure\njustifying his mother's unconcealed pride.\n\n\"So you are come down,\" said he; \"you must be better then--much better.\nI scarcely expected we should meet thus, or here. I was alarmed last\nnight, and if I had not been forced to hurry away to a dying patient, I\ncertainly would not have left you; but my mother herself is something\nof a doctress, and Martha an excellent nurse. I saw the case was a\nfainting-fit, not necessarily dangerous. What brought it on, I have yet\nto learn, and all particulars; meantime, I trust you really do feel\nbetter?\"\n\n\"Much better,\" I said calmly. \"Much better, I thank you, Dr. John.\"\n\nFor, reader, this tall young man--this darling son--this host of\nmine--this Graham Bretton, _was_ Dr. John: he, and no other; and, what\nis more, I ascertained this identity scarcely with surprise. What is\nmore, when I heard Graham's step on the stairs, I knew what manner of\nfigure would enter, and for whose aspect to prepare my eyes. The\ndiscovery was not of to-day, its dawn had penetrated my perceptions\nlong since. Of course I remembered young Bretton well; and though ten\nyears (from sixteen to twenty-six) may greatly change the boy as they\nmature him to the man, yet they could bring no such utter difference as\nwould suffice wholly to blind my eyes, or baffle my memory. Dr. John\nGraham Bretton retained still an affinity to the youth of sixteen: he\nhad his eyes; he had some of his features; to wit, all the\nexcellently-moulded lower half of the face; I found him out soon. I\nfirst recognised him on that occasion, noted several chapters back,\nwhen my unguardedly-fixed attention had drawn on me the mortification\nof an implied rebuke. Subsequent observation confirmed, in every point,\nthat early surmise. I traced in the gesture, the port, and the habits\nof his manhood, all his boy's promise. I heard in his now deep tones\nthe accent of former days. Certain turns of phrase, peculiar to him of\nold, were peculiar to him still; and so was many a trick of eye and\nlip, many a smile, many a sudden ray levelled from the irid, under his\nwell-charactered brow.\n\nTo _say_ anything on the subject, to _hint_ at my discovery, had not\nsuited my habits of thought, or assimilated with my system of feeling.\nOn the contrary, I had preferred to keep the matter to myself. I liked\nentering his presence covered with a cloud he had not seen through,\nwhile he stood before me under a ray of special illumination which\nshone all partial over his head, trembled about his feet, and cast\nlight no farther.\n\nWell I knew that to him it could make little difference, were I to come\nforward and announce, \"This is Lucy Snowe!\" So I kept back in my\nteacher's place; and as he never asked my name, so I never gave it. He\nheard me called \"Miss,\" and \"Miss Lucy;\" he never heard the surname,\n\"Snowe.\" As to spontaneous recognition--though I, perhaps, was still\nless changed than he--the idea never approached his mind, and why\nshould I suggest it?\n\nDuring tea, Dr. John was kind, as it was his nature to be; that meal\nover, and the tray carried out, he made a cosy arrangement of the\ncushions in a corner of the sofa, and obliged me to settle amongst\nthem. He and his mother also drew to the fire, and ere we had sat ten\nminutes, I caught the eye of the latter fastened steadily upon me.\nWomen are certainly quicker in some things than men.\n\n\"Well,\" she exclaimed, presently, \"I have seldom seen a stronger\nlikeness! Graham, have you observed it?\"\n\n\"Observed what? What ails the Old Lady now? How you stare, mamma! One\nwould think you had an attack of second sight.\"\n\n\"Tell me, Graham, of whom does that young lady remind you?\" pointing to\nme.\n\n\"Mamma, you put her out of countenance. I often tell you abruptness is\nyour fault; remember, too, that to you she is a stranger, and does not\nknow your ways.\"\n\n\"Now, when she looks down; now, when she turns sideways, who is she\nlike, Graham?\"\n\n\"Indeed, mamma, since you propound the riddle, I think you ought to\nsolve it!\"\n\n\"And you have known her some time, you say--ever since you first began\nto attend the school in the Rue Fossette:--yet you never mentioned to\nme that singular resemblance!\"\n\n\"I could not mention a thing of which I never thought, and which I do\nnot now acknowledge. What _can_ you mean?\"\n\n\"Stupid boy! look at her.\"\n\nGraham did look: but this was not to be endured; I saw how it must end,\nso I thought it best to anticipate.\n\n\"Dr. John,\" I said, \"has had so much to do and think of, since he and I\nshook hands at our last parting in St. Ann's Street, that, while I\nreadily found out Mr. Graham Bretton, some months ago, it never\noccurred to me as possible that he should recognise Lucy Snowe.\"\n\n\"Lucy Snowe! I thought so! I knew it!\" cried Mrs. Bretton. And she at\nonce stepped across the hearth and kissed me. Some ladies would,\nperhaps, have made a great bustle upon such a discovery without being\nparticularly glad of it; but it was not my godmother's habit to make a\nbustle, and she preferred all sentimental demonstrations in bas-relief.\nSo she and I got over the surprise with few words and a single salute;\nyet I daresay she was pleased, and I know I was. While we renewed old\nacquaintance, Graham, sitting opposite, silently disposed of his\nparoxysm of astonishment.\n\n\"Mamma calls me a stupid boy, and I think I am so,\" at length he said;\n\"for, upon my honour, often as I have seen you, I never once suspected\nthis fact: and yet I perceive it all now. Lucy Snowe! To be sure! I\nrecollect her perfectly, and there she sits; not a doubt of it. But,\"\nhe added, \"you surely have not known me as an old acquaintance all this\ntime, and never mentioned it.\"\n\n\"That I have,\" was my answer.\n\nDr. John commented not. I supposed he regarded my silence as eccentric,\nbut he was indulgent in refraining from censure. I daresay, too, he\nwould have deemed it impertinent to have interrogated me very closely,\nto have asked me the why and wherefore of my reserve; and, though he\nmight feel a little curious, the importance of the case was by no means\nsuch as to tempt curiosity to infringe on discretion.\n\nFor my part, I just ventured to inquire whether he remembered the\ncircumstance of my once looking at him very fixedly; for the slight\nannoyance he had betrayed on that occasion still lingered sore on my\nmind.\n\n\"I think I do!\" said he: \"I think I was even cross with you.\"\n\n\"You considered me a little bold; perhaps?\" I inquired.\n\n\"Not at all. Only, shy and retiring as your general manner was, I\nwondered what personal or facial enormity in me proved so magnetic to\nyour usually averted eyes.\"\n\n\"You see how it was now?\"\n\n\"Perfectly.\"\n\nAnd here Mrs. Bretton broke in with many, many questions about past\ntimes; and for her satisfaction I had to recur to gone-by troubles, to\nexplain causes of seeming estrangement, to touch on single-handed\nconflict with Life, with Death, with Grief, with Fate. Dr. John\nlistened, saying little. He and she then told me of changes they had\nknown: even with them all had not gone smoothly, and fortune had\nretrenched her once abundant gifts. But so courageous a mother, with\nsuch a champion in her son, was well fitted to fight a good fight with\nthe world, and to prevail ultimately. Dr. John himself was one of those\non whose birth benign planets have certainly smiled. Adversity might\nset against him her most sullen front: he was the man to beat her down\nwith smiles. Strong and cheerful, and firm and courteous; not rash, yet\nvaliant; he was the aspirant to woo Destiny herself, and to win from\nher stone eyeballs a beam almost loving.\n\nIn the profession he had adopted, his success was now quite decided.\nWithin the last three months he had taken this house (a small château,\nthey told me, about half a league without the Porte de Crécy); this\ncountry site being chosen for the sake of his mother's health, with\nwhich town air did not now agree. Hither he had invited Mrs. Bretton,\nand she, on leaving England, had brought with her such residue\nfurniture of the former St. Ann's Street mansion as she had thought fit\nto keep unsold. Hence my bewilderment at the phantoms of chairs, and\nthe wraiths of looking-glasses, tea-urns, and teacups.\n\nAs the clock struck eleven, Dr. John stopped his mother.\n\n\"Miss Snowe must retire now,\" he said; \"she is beginning to look very\npale. To-morrow I will venture to put some questions respecting the\ncause of her loss of health. She is much changed, indeed, since last\nJuly, when I saw her enact with no little spirit the part of a very\nkilling fine gentleman. As to last night's catastrophe, I am sure\nthereby hangs a tale, but we will inquire no further this evening.\nGood-night, Miss Lucy.\"\n\nAnd so he kindly led me to the door, and holding a wax-candle, lighted\nme up the one flight of stairs.\n\nWhen I had said my prayers, and when I was undressed and laid down, I\nfelt that I still had friends. Friends, not professing vehement\nattachment, not offering the tender solace of well-matched and\ncongenial relationship; on whom, therefore, but moderate demand of\naffection was to be made, of whom but moderate expectation formed; but\ntowards whom my heart softened instinctively, and yearned with an\nimportunate gratitude, which I entreated Reason betimes to check.\n\n\"Do not let me think of them too often, too much, too fondly,\" I\nimplored: \"let me be content with a temperate draught of this living\nstream: let me not run athirst, and apply passionately to its welcome\nwaters: let me not imagine in them a sweeter taste than earth's\nfountains know. Oh! would to God I may be enabled to feel enough\nsustained by an occasional, amicable intercourse, rare, brief,\nunengrossing and tranquil: quite tranquil!\"\n\nStill repeating this word, I turned to my pillow; and _still_ repeating\nit, I steeped that pillow with tears.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII.\n\nLA TERRASSE.\n\n\nThese struggles with the natural character, the strong native bent of\nthe heart, may seem futile and fruitless, but in the end they do good.\nThey tend, however slightly, to give the actions, the conduct, that\nturn which Reason approves, and which Feeling, perhaps, too often\nopposes: they certainly make a difference in the general tenour of a\nlife, and enable it to be better regulated, more equable, quieter on\nthe surface; and it is on the surface only the common gaze will fall.\nAs to what lies below, leave that with God. Man, your equal, weak as\nyou, and not fit to be your judge, may be shut out thence: take it to\nyour Maker--show Him the secrets of the spirit He gave--ask Him how you\nare to bear the pains He has appointed--kneel in His presence, and pray\nwith faith for light in darkness, for strength in piteous weakness, for\npatience in extreme need. Certainly, at some hour, though perhaps not\n_your_ hour, the waiting waters will stir; in _some_ shape, though\nperhaps not the shape you dreamed, which your heart loved, and for\nwhich it bled, the healing herald will descend, the cripple and the\nblind, and the dumb, and the possessed will be led to bathe. Herald,\ncome quickly! Thousands lie round the pool, weeping and despairing, to\nsee it, through slow years, stagnant. Long are the \"times\" of Heaven:\nthe orbits of angel messengers seem wide to mortal vision; they may\nenring ages: the cycle of one departure and return may clasp unnumbered\ngenerations; and dust, kindling to brief suffering life, and through\npain, passing back to dust, may meanwhile perish out of memory again,\nand yet again. To how many maimed and mourning millions is the first\nand sole angel visitant, him easterns call Azrael!\n\nI tried to get up next morning, but while I was dressing, and at\nintervals drinking cold water from the _carafe_ on my washstand, with\ndesign to brace up that trembling weakness which made dressing so\ndifficult, in came Mrs. Bretton.\n\n\"Here is an absurdity!\" was her morning accost. \"Not so,\" she added,\nand dealing with me at once in her own brusque, energetic fashion--that\nfashion which I used formerly to enjoy seeing applied to her son, and\nby him vigorously resisted--in two minutes she consigned me captive to\nthe French bed.\n\n\"There you lie till afternoon,\" said she. \"My boy left orders before he\nwent out that such should be the case, and I can assure you my son is\nmaster and must be obeyed. Presently you shall have breakfast.\"\n\nPresently she brought that meal--brought it with her own active\nhands--not leaving me to servants. She seated herself on the bed while\nI ate. Now it is not everybody, even amongst our respected friends and\nesteemed acquaintance, whom we like to have near us, whom we like to\nwatch us, to wait on us, to approach us with the proximity of a nurse\nto a patient. It is not every friend whose eye is a light in a sick\nroom, whose presence is there a solace: but all this was Mrs. Bretton\nto me; all this she had ever been. Food or drink never pleased me so\nwell as when it came through her hands. I do not remember the occasion\nwhen her entrance into a room had not made that room cheerier. Our\nnatures own predilections and antipathies alike strange. There are\npeople from whom we secretly shrink, whom we would personally avoid,\nthough reason confesses that they are good people: there are others\nwith faults of temper, &c., evident enough, beside whom we live\ncontent, as if the air about them did us good. My godmother's lively\nblack eye and clear brunette cheek, her warm, prompt hand, her\nself-reliant mood, her decided bearing, were all beneficial to me as\nthe atmosphere of some salubrious climate. Her son used to call her\n\"the old lady;\" it filled me with pleasant wonder to note how the\nalacrity and power of five-and-twenty still breathed from her and\naround her.\n\n\"I would bring my work here,\" she said, as she took from me the emptied\nteacup, \"and sit with you the whole day, if that overbearing John\nGraham had not put his veto upon such a proceeding. 'Now, mamma,' he\nsaid, when he went out, 'take notice, you are not to knock up your\ngod-daughter with gossip,' and he particularly desired me to keep close\nto my own quarters, and spare you my fine company. He says, Lucy, he\nthinks you have had a nervous fever, judging from your look,--is that\nso?\"\n\nI replied that I did not quite know what my ailment had been, but that\nI had certainly suffered a good deal especially in mind. Further, on\nthis subject, I did not consider it advisable to dwell, for the details\nof what I had undergone belonged to a portion of my existence in which\nI never expected my godmother to take a share. Into what a new region\nwould such a confidence have led that hale, serene nature! The\ndifference between her and me might be figured by that between the\nstately ship cruising safe on smooth seas, with its full complement of\ncrew, a captain gay and brave, and venturous and provident; and the\nlife-boat, which most days of the year lies dry and solitary in an old,\ndark boat-house, only putting to sea when the billows run high in rough\nweather, when cloud encounters water, when danger and death divide\nbetween them the rule of the great deep. No, the \"Louisa Bretton\" never\nwas out of harbour on such a night, and in such a scene: her crew could\nnot conceive it; so the half-drowned life-boat man keeps his own\ncounsel, and spins no yarns.\n\nShe left me, and I lay in bed content: it was good of Graham to\nremember me before he went out.\n\nMy day was lonely, but the prospect of coming evening abridged and\ncheered it. Then, too, I felt weak, and rest seemed welcome; and after\nthe morning hours were gone by,--those hours which always bring, even\nto the necessarily unoccupied, a sense of business to be done, of tasks\nwaiting fulfilment, a vague impression of obligation to be\nemployed--when this stirring time was past, and the silent descent of\nafternoon hushed housemaid steps on the stairs and in the chambers, I\nthen passed into a dreamy mood, not unpleasant.\n\nMy calm little room seemed somehow like a cave in the sea. There was no\ncolour about it, except that white and pale green, suggestive of foam\nand deep water; the blanched cornice was adorned with shell-shaped\nornaments, and there were white mouldings like dolphins in the\nceiling-angles. Even that one touch of colour visible in the red satin\npincushion bore affinity to coral; even that dark, shining glass might\nhave mirrored a mermaid. When I closed my eyes, I heard a gale,\nsubsiding at last, bearing upon the house-front like a settling swell\nupon a rock-base. I heard it drawn and withdrawn far, far off, like a\ntide retiring from a shore of the upper world--a world so high above\nthat the rush of its largest waves, the dash of its fiercest breakers,\ncould sound down in this submarine home, only like murmurs and a\nlullaby.\n\nAmidst these dreams came evening, and then Martha brought a light; with\nher aid I was quickly dressed, and stronger now than in the morning, I\nmade my way down to the blue saloon unassisted.\n\nDr. John, it appears, had concluded his round of professional calls\nearlier than usual; his form was the first object that met my eyes as I\nentered the parlour; he stood in that window-recess opposite the door,\nreading the close type of a newspaper by such dull light as closing day\nyet gave. The fire shone clear, but the lamp stood on the table unlit,\nand tea was not yet brought up.\n\nAs to Mrs. Bretton, my active godmother--who, I afterwards found, had\nbeen out in the open air all day--lay half-reclined in her\ndeep-cushioned chair, actually lost in a nap. Her son seeing me, came\nforward. I noticed that he trod carefully, not to wake the sleeper; he\nalso spoke low: his mellow voice never had any sharpness in it;\nmodulated as at present, it was calculated rather to soothe than\nstartle slumber.\n\n\"This is a quiet little château,\" he observed, after inviting me to sit\nnear the casement. \"I don't know whether you may have noticed it in\nyour walks: though, indeed, from the chaussée it is not visible; just a\nmile beyond the Porte de Crécy, you turn down a lane which soon becomes\nan avenue, and that leads you on, through meadow and shade, to the very\ndoor of this house. It is not a modern place, but built somewhat in the\nold style of the Basse-Ville. It is rather a manoir than a château;\nthey call it 'La Terrasse,' because its front rises from a broad turfed\nwalk, whence steps lead down a grassy slope to the avenue. See yonder!\nThe moon rises: she looks well through the tree-boles.\"\n\nWhere, indeed, does the moon not look well? What is the scene, confined\nor expansive, which her orb does not hallow? Rosy or fiery, she mounted\nnow above a not distant bank; even while we watched her flushed ascent,\nshe cleared to gold, and in very brief space, floated up stainless into\na now calm sky. Did moonlight soften or sadden Dr. Bretton? Did it\ntouch him with romance? I think it did. Albeit of no sighing mood, he\nsighed in watching it: sighed to himself quietly. No need to ponder the\ncause or the course of that sigh; I knew it was wakened by beauty; I\nknew it pursued Ginevra. Knowing this, the idea pressed upon me that it\nwas in some sort my duty to speak the name he meditated. Of course he\nwas ready for the subject: I saw in his countenance a teeming plenitude\nof comment, question and interest; a pressure of language and\nsentiment, only checked, I thought, by sense of embarrassment how to\nbegin. To spare him this embarrassment was my best, indeed my sole use.\nI had but to utter the idol's name, and love's tender litany would flow\nout. I had just found a fitting phrase, \"You know that Miss Fanshawe is\ngone on a tour with the Cholmondeleys,\" and was opening my lips to\nspeak to it, when he scattered my plans by introducing another theme.\n\n\"The first thing this morning,\" said he, putting his sentiment in his\npocket, turning from the moon, and sitting down, \"I went to the Rue\nFossette, and told the cuisinière that you were safe and in good hands.\nDo you know that I actually found that she had not yet discovered your\nabsence from the house: she thought you safe in the great dormitory.\nWith what care you must have been waited on!\"\n\n\"Oh! all that is very conceivable,\" said I. \"Goton could do nothing for\nme but bring me a little tisane and a crust of bread, and I had\nrejected both so often during the past week, that the good woman got\ntired of useless journeys from the dwelling-house kitchen to the\nschool-dormitory, and only came once a day at noon to make my bed. I\nbelieve, however, that she is a good-natured creature, and would have\nbeen delighted to cook me côtelettes de mouton, if I could have eaten\nthem.\"\n\n\"What did Madame Beck mean by leaving you alone?\"\n\n\"Madame Beck could not foresee that I should fall ill.\"\n\n\"Your nervous system bore a good share of the suffering?\"\n\n\"I am not quite sure what my nervous system is, but I was dreadfully\nlow-spirited.\"\n\n\"Which disables me from helping you by pill or potion. Medicine can\ngive nobody good spirits. My art halts at the threshold of\nHypochondria: she just looks in and sees a chamber of torture, but can\nneither say nor do much. Cheerful society would be of use; you should\nbe as little alone as possible; you should take plenty of exercise.\"\n\nAcquiescence and a pause followed these remarks. They sounded all\nright, I thought, and bore the safe sanction of custom, and the\nwell-worn stamp of use.\n\n\"Miss Snowe,\" recommenced Dr. John--my health, nervous system included,\nbeing now, somewhat to my relief, discussed and done with--\"is it\npermitted me to ask what your religion is? Are you a Catholic?\"\n\nI looked up in some surprise--\"A Catholic? No! Why suggest such an\nidea?\"\n\n\"The manner in which you were consigned to me last night made me doubt.\"\n\n\"I consigned to you? But, indeed, I forget. It yet remains for me to\nlearn how I fell into your hands.\"\n\n\"Why, under circumstances that puzzled me. I had been in attendance all\nday yesterday on a case of singularly interesting and critical\ncharacter; the disease being rare, and its treatment doubtful: I saw a\nsimilar and still finer case in a hospital in Paris; but that will not\ninterest you. At last a mitigation of the patient's most urgent\nsymptoms (acute pain is one of its accompaniments) liberated me, and I\nset out homeward. My shortest way lay through the Basse-Ville, and as\nthe night was excessively dark, wild, and wet, I took it. In riding\npast an old church belonging to a community of Béguines, I saw by a\nlamp burning over the porch or deep arch of the entrance, a priest\nlifting some object in his arms. The lamp was bright enough to reveal\nthe priest's features clearly, and I recognised him; he was a man I\nhave often met by the sick beds of both rich and poor: and chiefly the\nlatter. He is, I think, a good old man, far better than most of his\nclass in this country; superior, indeed, in every way, better informed,\nas well as more devoted to duty. Our eyes met; he called on me to stop:\nwhat he supported was a woman, fainting or dying. I alighted.\n\n\"'This person is one of your countrywomen,' he said: 'save her, if she\nis not dead.'\n\n\"My countrywoman, on examination, turned out to be the English teacher\nat Madame Beck's pensionnat. She was perfectly unconscious, perfectly\nbloodless, and nearly cold.\n\n\"'What does it all mean?' was my inquiry.\n\n\"He communicated a curious account; that you had been to him that\nevening at confessional; that your exhausted and suffering appearance,\ncoupled with some things you had said--\"\n\n\"Things I had said? I wonder what things!\"\n\n\"Awful crimes, no doubt; but he did not tell me what: there, you know,\nthe seal of the confessional checked his garrulity, and my curiosity.\nYour confidences, however, had not made an enemy of the good father; it\nseems he was so struck, and felt so sorry that you should be out on\nsuch a night alone, that he had esteemed it a Christian duty to watch\nyou when you quitted the church, and so to manage as not to lose sight\nof you, till you should have reached home. Perhaps the worthy man\nmight, half unconsciously, have blent in this proceeding some little of\nthe subtlety of his class: it might have been his resolve to learn the\nlocality of your home--did you impart that in your confession?\"\n\n\"I did not: on the contrary, I carefully avoided the shadow of any\nindication: and as to my confession, Dr. John, I suppose you will think\nme mad for taking such a step, but I could not help it: I suppose it\nwas all the fault of what you call my 'nervous system.' I cannot put\nthe case into words, but my days and nights were grown intolerable: a\ncruel sense of desolation pained my mind: a feeling that would make its\nway, rush out, or kill me--like (and this you will understand, Dr.\nJohn) the current which passes through the heart, and which, if\naneurism or any other morbid cause obstructs its natural channels,\nseeks abnormal outlet. I wanted companionship, I wanted friendship, I\nwanted counsel. I could find none of these in closet or chamber, so I\nwent and sought them in church and confessional. As to what I said, it\nwas no confidence, no narrative. I have done nothing wrong: my life has\nnot been active enough for any dark deed, either of romance or reality:\nall I poured out was a dreary, desperate complaint.\"\n\n\"Lucy, you ought to travel for about six months: why, your calm nature\nis growing quite excitable! Confound Madame Beck! Has the little buxom\nwidow no bowels, to condemn her best teacher to solitary confinement?\"\n\n\"It was not Madame Beck's fault,\" said I; \"it is no living being's\nfault, and I won't hear any one blamed.\"\n\n\"Who is in the wrong, then, Lucy?\"\n\n\"Me--Dr. John--me; and a great abstraction on whose wide shoulders I\nlike to lay the mountains of blame they were sculptured to bear: me and\nFate.\"\n\n\"'Me' must take better care in future,\" said Dr. John--smiling, I\nsuppose, at my bad grammar.\n\n\"Change of air--change of scene; those are my prescriptions,\" pursued\nthe practical young doctor. \"But to return to our muttons, Lucy. As\nyet, Père Silas, with all his tact (they say he is a Jesuit), is no\nwiser than you choose him to be; for, instead of returning to the Rue\nFossette, your fevered wanderings--there must have been high fever--\"\n\n\"No, Dr. John: the fever took its turn that night--now, don't make out\nthat I was delirious, for I know differently.\"\n\n\"Good! you were as collected as myself at this moment, no doubt. Your\nwanderings had taken an opposite direction to the pensionnat. Near the\nBéguinage, amidst the stress of flood and gust, and in the perplexity\nof darkness, you had swooned and fallen. The priest came to your\nsuccour, and the physician, as we have seen, supervened. Between us we\nprocured a fiacre and brought you here. Père Silas, old as he is, would\ncarry you up-stairs, and lay you on that couch himself. He would\ncertainly have remained with you till suspended animation had been\nrestored: and so should I, but, at that juncture, a hurried messenger\narrived from the dying patient I had scarcely left--the last duties\nwere called for--the physician's last visit and the priest's last rite;\nextreme unction could not be deferred. Père Silas and myself departed\ntogether, my mother was spending the evening abroad; we gave you in\ncharge to Martha, leaving directions, which it seems she followed\nsuccessfully. Now, are you a Catholic?\"\n\n\"Not yet,\" said I, with a smile. \"And never let Père Silas know where I\nlive, or he will try to convert me; but give him my best and truest\nthanks when you see him, and if ever I get rich I will send him money\nfor his charities. See, Dr. John, your mother wakes; you ought to ring\nfor tea.\"\n\nWhich he did; and, as Mrs. Bretton sat up--astonished and indignant at\nherself for the indulgence to which she had succumbed, and fully\nprepared to deny that she had slept at all--her son came gaily to the\nattack.\n\n\"Hushaby, mamma! Sleep again. You look the picture of innocence in your\nslumbers.\"\n\n\"My slumbers, John Graham! What are you talking about? You know I never\n_do_ sleep by day: it was the slightest doze possible.\"\n\n\"Exactly! a seraph's gentle lapse--a fairy's dream. Mamma, under such\ncircumstances, you always remind me of Titania.\"\n\n\"That is because you, yourself, are so like Bottom.\"\n\n\"Miss Snowe--did you ever hear anything like mamma's wit? She is a most\nsprightly woman of her size and age.\"\n\n\"Keep your compliments to yourself, sir, and do not neglect your own\nsize: which seems to me a good deal on the increase. Lucy, has he not\nrather the air of an incipient John Bull? He used to be slender as an\neel, and now I fancy in him a sort of heavy dragoon bent--a beef-eater\ntendency. Graham, take notice! If you grow fat I disown you.\"\n\n\"As if you could not sooner disown your own personality! I am\nindispensable to the old lady's happiness, Lucy. She would pine away in\ngreen and yellow melancholy if she had not my six feet of iniquity to\nscold. It keeps her lively--it maintains the wholesome ferment of her\nspirits.\"\n\nThe two were now standing opposite to each other, one on each side the\nfire-place; their words were not very fond, but their mutual looks\natoned for verbal deficiencies. At least, the best treasure of Mrs.\nBretton's life was certainly casketed in her son's bosom; her dearest\npulse throbbed in his heart. As to him, of course another love shared\nhis feelings with filial love, and, no doubt, as the new passion was\nthe latest born, so he assigned it in his emotions Benjamin's portion.\nGinevra! Ginevra! Did Mrs. Bretton yet know at whose feet her own young\nidol had laid his homage? Would she approve that choice? I could not\ntell; but I could well guess that if she knew Miss Fanshawe's conduct\ntowards Graham: her alternations between coldness and coaxing, and\nrepulse and allurement; if she could at all suspect the pain with which\nshe had tried him; if she could have seen, as I had seen, his fine\nspirits subdued and harassed, his inferior preferred before him, his\nsubordinate made the instrument of his humiliation--_then_ Mrs. Bretton\nwould have pronounced Ginevra imbecile, or perverted, or both. Well--I\nthought so too.\n\nThat second evening passed as sweetly as the first--_more_ sweetly\nindeed: we enjoyed a smoother interchange of thought; old troubles were\nnot reverted to, acquaintance was better cemented; I felt happier,\neasier, more at home. That night--instead of crying myself asleep--I\nwent down to dreamland by a pathway bordered with pleasant thoughts.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII.\n\nWE QUARREL.\n\n\nDuring the first days of my stay at the Terrace, Graham never took a\nseat near me, or in his frequent pacing of the room approached the\nquarter where I sat, or looked pre-occupied, or more grave than usual,\nbut I thought of Miss Fanshawe and expected her name to leap from his\nlips. I kept my ear and mind in perpetual readiness for the tender\ntheme; my patience was ordered to be permanently under arms, and my\nsympathy desired to keep its cornucopia replenished and ready for\noutpouring. At last, and after a little inward struggle, which I saw\nand respected, he one day launched into the topic. It was introduced\ndelicately; anonymously as it were.\n\n\"Your friend is spending her vacation in travelling, I hear?\"\n\n\"Friend, forsooth!\" thought I to myself: but it would not do to\ncontradict; he must have his own way; I must own the soft impeachment:\nfriend let it be. Still, by way of experiment, I could not help asking\nwhom he meant?\n\nHe had taken a seat at my work-table; he now laid hands on a reel of\nthread which he proceeded recklessly to unwind.\n\n\"Ginevra--Miss Fanshawe, has accompanied the Cholmondeleys on a tour\nthrough the south of France?\"\n\n\"She has.\"\n\n\"Do you and she correspond?\"\n\n\"It will astonish you to hear that I never once thought of making\napplication for that privilege.\"\n\n\"You have seen letters of her writing?\"\n\n\"Yes; several to her uncle.\"\n\n\"They will not be deficient in wit and _naïveté_; there is so much\nsparkle, and so little art in her soul?\"\n\n\"She writes comprehensively enough when she writes to M. de\nBassompierre: he who runs may read.\" (In fact, Ginevra's epistles to\nher wealthy kinsman were commonly business documents, unequivocal\napplications for cash.)\n\n\"And her handwriting? It must be pretty, light, ladylike, I should\nthink?\"\n\nIt was, and I said so.\n\n\"I verily believe that all she does is well done,\" said Dr. John; and\nas I seemed in no hurry to chime in with this remark, he added \"You,\nwho know her, could you name a point in which she is deficient?\"\n\n\"She does several things very well.\" (\"Flirtation amongst the rest,\"\nsubjoined I, in thought.)\n\n\"When do you suppose she will return to town?\" he soon inquired.\n\n\"Pardon me, Dr. John, I must explain. You honour me too much in\nascribing to me a degree of intimacy with Miss Fanshawe I have not the\nfelicity to enjoy. I have never been the depositary of her plans and\nsecrets. You will find her particular friends in another sphere than\nmine: amongst the Cholmondeleys, for instance.\"\n\nHe actually thought I was stung with a kind of jealous pain similar to\nhis own!\n\n\"Excuse her,\" he said; \"judge her indulgently; the glitter of fashion\nmisleads her, but she will soon find out that these people are hollow,\nand will return to you with augmented attachment and confirmed trust. I\nknow something of the Cholmondeleys: superficial, showy, selfish\npeople; depend on it, at heart Ginevra values you beyond a score of\nsuch.\"\n\n\"You are very kind,\" I said briefly.\n\nA disclaimer of the sentiments attributed to me burned on my lips, but\nI extinguished the flame. I submitted to be looked upon as the\nhumiliated, cast-off, and now pining confidante of the distinguished\nMiss Fanshawe: but, reader, it was a hard submission.\n\n\"Yet, you see,\" continued Graham, \"while I comfort _you_, I cannot take\nthe same consolation to myself; I cannot hope she will do me justice.\nDe Hamal is most worthless, yet I fear he pleases her: wretched\ndelusion!\"\n\nMy patience really gave way, and without notice: all at once. I suppose\nillness and weakness had worn it and made it brittle.\n\n\"Dr. Bretton,\" I broke out, \"there is no delusion like your own. On all\npoints but one you are a man, frank, healthful, right-thinking,\nclear-sighted: on this exceptional point you are but a slave. I\ndeclare, where Miss Fanshawe is concerned, you merit no respect; nor\nhave you mine.\"\n\nI got up, and left the room very much excited.\n\nThis little scene took place in the morning; I had to meet him again in\nthe evening, and then I saw I had done mischief. He was not made of\ncommon clay, not put together out of vulgar materials; while the\noutlines of his nature had been shaped with breadth and vigour, the\ndetails embraced workmanship of almost feminine delicacy: finer, much\nfiner, than you could be prepared to meet with; than you could believe\ninherent in him, even after years of acquaintance. Indeed, till some\nover-sharp contact with his nerves had betrayed, by its effects, their\nacute sensibility, this elaborate construction must be ignored; and the\nmore especially because the sympathetic faculty was not prominent in\nhim: to feel, and to seize quickly another's feelings, are separate\nproperties; a few constructions possess both, some neither. Dr. John\nhad the one in exquisite perfection; and because I have admitted that\nhe was not endowed with the other in equal degree, the reader will\nconsiderately refrain from passing to an extreme, and pronouncing him\n_un_sympathizing, unfeeling: on the contrary, he was a kind, generous\nman. Make your need known, his hand was open. Put your grief into\nwords, he turned no deaf ear. Expect refinements of perception,\nmiracles of intuition, and realize disappointment. This night, when Dr.\nJohn entered the room, and met the evening lamp, I saw well and at one\nglance his whole mechanism.\n\nTo one who had named him \"slave,\" and, on any point, banned him from\nrespect, he must now have peculiar feelings. That the epithet was well\napplied, and the ban just, might be; he put forth no denial that it was\nso: his mind even candidly revolved that unmanning possibility. He\nsought in this accusation the cause of that ill-success which had got\nso galling a hold on his mental peace: Amid the worry of a\nself-condemnatory soliloquy, his demeanour seemed grave, perhaps cold,\nboth to me and his mother. And yet there was no bad feeling, no malice,\nno rancour, no littleness in his countenance, beautiful with a man's\nbest beauty, even in its depression. When I placed his chair at the\ntable, which I hastened to do, anticipating the servant, and when I\nhanded him his tea, which I did with trembling care, he said: \"Thank\nyou, Lucy,\" in as kindly a tone of his full pleasant voice as ever my\near welcomed.\n\nFor my part, there was only one plan to be pursued; I must expiate my\nculpable vehemence, or I must not sleep that night. This would not do\nat all; I could not stand it: I made no pretence of capacity to wage\nwar on this footing. School solitude, conventual silence and\nstagnation, anything seemed preferable to living embroiled with Dr.\nJohn. As to Ginevra, she might take the silver wings of a dove, or any\nother fowl that flies, and mount straight up to the highest place,\namong the highest stars, where her lover's highest flight of fancy\nchose to fix the constellation of her charms: never more be it mine to\ndispute the arrangement. Long I tried to catch his eye. Again and again\nthat eye just met mine; but, having nothing to say, it withdrew, and I\nwas baffled. After tea, he sat, sad and quiet, reading a book. I wished\nI could have dared to go and sit near him, but it seemed that if I\nventured to take that step, he would infallibly evince hostility and\nindignation. I longed to speak out, and I dared not whisper. His mother\nleft the room; then, moved by insupportable regret, I just murmured the\nwords \"Dr. Bretton.\"\n\nHe looked up from his book; his eyes were not cold or malevolent, his\nmouth was not cynical; he was ready and willing to hear what I might\nhave to say: his spirit was of vintage too mellow and generous to sour\nin one thunder-clap.\n\n\"Dr. Bretton, forgive my hasty words: _do, do_ forgive them.\"\n\nHe smiled that moment I spoke. \"Perhaps I deserved them, Lucy. If you\ndon't respect me, I am sure it is because I am not respectable. I fear,\nI am an awkward fool: I must manage badly in some way, for where I wish\nto please, it seems I don't please.\"\n\n\"Of that you cannot be sure; and even if such be the case, is it the\nfault of your character, or of another's perceptions? But now, let me\nunsay what I said in anger. In one thing, and in all things, I deeply\nrespect you. If you think scarcely enough of yourself, and too much of\nothers, what is that but an excellence?\"\n\n\"Can I think too much of Ginevra?\"\n\n\"_I_ believe you may; _you_ believe you can't. Let us agree to differ.\nLet me be pardoned; that is what I ask.\"\n\n\"Do you think I cherish ill-will for one warm word?\"\n\n\"I see you do not and cannot; but just say, 'Lucy, I forgive you!' Say\nthat, to ease me of the heart-ache.\"\n\n\"Put away your heart-ache, as I will put away mine; for you wounded me\na little, Lucy. Now, when the pain is gone, I more than forgive: I feel\ngrateful, as to a sincere well-wisher.\"\n\n\"I _am_ your sincere well-wisher: you are right.\"\n\nThus our quarrel ended.\n\nReader, if in the course of this work, you find that my opinion of Dr.\nJohn undergoes modification, excuse the seeming inconsistency. I give\nthe feeling as at the time I felt it; I describe the view of character\nas it appeared when discovered.\n\nHe showed the fineness of his nature by being kinder to me after that\nmisunderstanding than before. Nay, the very incident which, by my\ntheory, must in some degree estrange me and him, changed, indeed,\nsomewhat our relations; but not in the sense I painfully anticipated.\nAn invisible, but a cold something, very slight, very transparent, but\nvery chill: a sort of screen of ice had hitherto, all through our two\nlives, glazed the medium through which we exchanged intercourse. Those\nfew warm words, though only warm with anger, breathed on that frail\nfrost-work of reserve; about this time, it gave note of dissolution. I\nthink from that day, so long as we continued friends, he never in\ndiscourse stood on topics of ceremony with me. He seemed to know that\nif he would but talk about himself, and about that in which he was most\ninterested, my expectation would always be answered, my wish always\nsatisfied. It follows, as a matter of course, that I continued to hear\nmuch of \"Ginevra.\"\n\n\"Ginevra!\" He thought her so fair, so good; he spoke so lovingly of her\ncharms, her sweetness, her innocence, that, in spite of my plain prose\nknowledge of the reality, a kind of reflected glow began to settle on\nher idea, even for me. Still, reader, I am free to confess, that he\noften talked nonsense; but I strove to be unfailingly patient with him.\nI had had my lesson: I had learned how severe for me was the pain of\ncrossing, or grieving, or disappointing him. In a strange and new\nsense, I grew most selfish, and quite powerless to deny myself the\ndelight of indulging his mood, and being pliant to his will. He still\nseemed to me most absurd when he obstinately doubted, and desponded\nabout his power to win in the end Miss Fanshawe's preference. The fancy\nbecame rooted in my own mind more stubbornly than ever, that she was\nonly coquetting to goad him, and that, at heart, she coveted everyone\nof his words and looks. Sometimes he harassed me, in spite of my\nresolution to bear and hear; in the midst of the indescribable\ngall-honey pleasure of thus bearing and hearing, he struck so on the\nflint of what firmness I owned, that it emitted fire once and again. I\nchanced to assert one day, with a view to stilling his impatience, that\nin my own mind, I felt positive Miss Fanshawe _must_ intend eventually\nto accept him.\n\n\"Positive! It was easy to say so, but had I any grounds for such\nassurance?\"\n\n\"The best grounds.\"\n\n\"Now, Lucy, _do_ tell me what!\"\n\n\"You know them as well as I; and, knowing them, Dr. John, it really\namazes me that you should not repose the frankest confidence in her\nfidelity. To doubt, under the circumstances, is almost to insult.\"\n\n\"Now you are beginning to speak fast and to breathe short; but speak a\nlittle faster and breathe a little shorter, till you have given an\nexplanation--a full explanation: I must have it.\"\n\n\"You shall, Dr. John. In some cases, you are a lavish, generous man:\nyou are a worshipper ever ready with the votive offering should Père\nSilas ever convert _you_, you will give him abundance of alms for his\npoor, you will supply his altar with tapers, and the shrine of your\nfavourite saint you will do your best to enrich: Ginevra, Dr. John--\"\n\n\"Hush!\" said he, \"don't go on.\"\n\n\"Hush, I will _not_: and go on I _will_: Ginevra has had her hands\nfilled from your hands more times than I can count. You have sought for\nher the costliest flowers; you have busied your brain in devising gifts\nthe most delicate: such, one would have thought, as only a woman could\nhave imagined; and in addition, Miss Fanshawe owns a set of ornaments,\nto purchase which your generosity must have verged on extravagance.\"\n\nThe modesty Ginevra herself had never evinced in this matter, now\nflushed all over the face of her admirer.\n\n\"Nonsense!\" he said, destructively snipping a skein of silk with my\nscissors. \"I offered them to please myself: I felt she did me a favour\nin accepting them.\"\n\n\"She did more than a favour, Dr. John: she pledged her very honour that\nshe would make you some return; and if she cannot pay you in affection,\nshe ought to hand out a business-like equivalent, in the shape of some\nrouleaux of gold pieces.\"\n\n\"But you don't understand her; she is far too disinterested to care for\nmy gifts, and too simple-minded to know their value.\"\n\nI laughed out: I had heard her adjudge to every jewel its price; and\nwell I knew money-embarrassment, money-schemes; money's worth, and\nendeavours to realise supplies, had, young as she was, furnished the\nmost frequent, and the favourite stimulus of her thoughts for years.\n\nHe pursued. \"You should have seen her whenever I have laid on her lap\nsome trifle; so cool, so unmoved: no eagerness to take, not even\npleasure in contemplating. Just from amiable reluctance to grieve me,\nshe would permit the bouquet to lie beside her, and perhaps consent to\nbear it away. Or, if I achieved the fastening of a bracelet on her\nivory arm, however pretty the trinket might be (and I always carefully\nchose what seemed to _me_ pretty, and what of course was not\nvalueless), the glitter never dazzled her bright eyes: she would hardly\ncast one look on my gift.\"\n\n\"Then, of course, not valuing it, she would unloose, and return it to\nyou?\"\n\n\"No; for such a repulse she was too good-natured. She would consent to\nseem to forget what I had done, and retain the offering with lady-like\nquiet and easy oblivion. Under such circumstances, how can a man build\non acceptance of his presents as a favourable symptom? For my part,\nwere I to offer her all I have, and she to take it, such is her\nincapacity to be swayed by sordid considerations, I should not venture\nto believe the transaction advanced me one step.\"\n\n\"Dr. John,\" I began, \"Love is blind;\" but just then a blue subtle ray\nsped sideways from Dr. John's eye: it reminded me of old days, it\nreminded me of his picture: it half led me to think that part, at\nleast, of his professed persuasion of Miss Fanshawe's _naïveté_ was\nassumed; it led me dubiously to conjecture that perhaps, in spite of\nhis passion for her beauty, his appreciation of her foibles might\npossibly be less mistaken, more clear-sighted, than from his general\nlanguage was presumable. After all it might be only a chance look, or\nat best the token of a merely momentary impression. Chance or\nintentional real or imaginary, it closed the conversation.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIX.\n\nTHE CLEOPATRA.\n\n\nMy stay at La Terrasse was prolonged a fortnight beyond the close of\nthe vacation. Mrs. Bretton's kind management procured me this respite.\nHer son having one day delivered the dictum that \"Lucy was not yet\nstrong enough to go back to that den of a pensionnat,\" she at once\ndrove over to the Rue Fossette, had an interview with the directress,\nand procured the indulgence, on the plea of prolonged rest and change\nbeing necessary to perfect recovery. Hereupon, however, followed an\nattention I could very well have dispensed with, viz--a polite call\nfrom Madame Beck.\n\nThat lady--one fine day--actually came out in a fiacre as far as the\nchâteau. I suppose she had resolved within herself to see what manner\nof place Dr. John inhabited. Apparently, the pleasant site and neat\ninterior surpassed her expectations; she eulogized all she saw,\npronounced the blue salon \"une pièce magnifique,\" profusely\ncongratulated me on the acquisition of friends, \"tellement dignes,\naimables, et respectables,\" turned also a neat compliment in my favour,\nand, upon Dr. John coming in, ran up to him with the utmost buoyancy,\nopening at the same time such a fire of rapid language, all sparkling\nwith felicitations and protestations about his \"château,\"--\"madame sa\nmère, la digne châtelaine:\" also his looks; which, indeed, were very\nflourishing, and at the moment additionally embellished by the\ngood-natured but amused smile with which he always listened to Madame's\nfluent and florid French. In short, Madame shone in her very best phase\nthat day, and came in and went out quite a living catherine-wheel of\ncompliments, delight, and affability. Half purposely, and half to ask\nsome question about school-business, I followed her to the carriage,\nand looked in after she was seated and the door closed. In that brief\nfraction of time what a change had been wrought! An instant ago, all\nsparkles and jests, she now sat sterner than a judge and graver than a\nsage. Strange little woman!\n\nI went back and teased Dr. John about Madame's devotion to him. How he\nlaughed! What fun shone in his eyes as he recalled some of her fine\nspeeches, and repeated them, imitating her voluble delivery! He had an\nacute sense of humour, and was the finest company in the world--when he\ncould forget Miss Fanshawe.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nTo \"sit in sunshine calm and sweet\" is said to be excellent for weak\npeople; it gives them vital force. When little Georgette Beck was\nrecovering from her illness, I used to take her in my arms and walk\nwith her in the garden by the hour together, beneath a certain wall\nhung with grapes, which the Southern sun was ripening: that sun\ncherished her little pale frame quite as effectually as it mellowed and\nswelled the clustering fruit.\n\nThere are human tempers, bland, glowing, and genial, within whose\ninfluence it is as good for the poor in spirit to live, as it is for\nthe feeble in frame to bask in the glow of noon. Of the number of these\nchoice natures were certainly both Dr. Bretton's and his mother's. They\nliked to communicate happiness, as some like to occasion misery: they\ndid it instinctively; without fuss, and apparently with little\nconsciousness; the means to give pleasure rose spontaneously in their\nminds. Every day while I stayed with them, some little plan was\nproposed which resulted in beneficial enjoyment. Fully occupied as was\nDr. John's time, he still made it in his way to accompany us in each\nbrief excursion. I can hardly tell how he managed his engagements; they\nwere numerous, yet by dint of system, he classed them in an order which\nleft him a daily period of liberty. I often saw him hard-worked, yet\nseldom over-driven, and never irritated, confused, or oppressed. What\nhe did was accomplished with the ease and grace of all-sufficing\nstrength; with the bountiful cheerfulness of high and unbroken\nenergies. Under his guidance I saw, in that one happy fortnight, more\nof Villette, its environs, and its inhabitants, than I had seen in the\nwhole eight months of my previous residence. He took me to places of\ninterest in the town, of whose names I had not before so much as heard;\nwith willingness and spirit he communicates much noteworthy\ninformation. He never seemed to think it a trouble to talk to me, and,\nI am sure, it was never a task to me to listen. It was not his way to\ntreat subjects coldly and vaguely; he rarely generalized, never prosed.\nHe seemed to like nice details almost as much as I liked them myself:\nhe seemed observant of character: and not superficially observant,\neither. These points gave the quality of interest to his discourse; and\nthe fact of his speaking direct from his own resources, and not\nborrowing or stealing from books--here a dry fact, and there a trite\nphrase, and elsewhere a hackneyed opinion--ensured a freshness, as\nwelcome as it was rare. Before my eyes, too, his disposition seemed to\nunfold another phase; to pass to a fresh day: to rise in new and nobler\ndawn.\n\nHis mother possessed a good development of benevolence, but he owned a\nbetter and larger. I found, on accompanying him to the Basse-Ville--the\npoor and crowded quarter of the city--that his errands there were as\nmuch those of the philanthropist as the physician. I understood\npresently that cheerfully, habitually, and in single-minded\nunconsciousness of any special merit distinguishing his deeds--he was\nachieving, amongst a very wretched population, a world of active good.\nThe lower orders liked him well; his poor, patients in the hospitals\nwelcomed him with a sort of enthusiasm.\n\nBut stop--I must not, from the faithful narrator, degenerate into the\npartial eulogist. Well, full well, do I know that Dr. John was not\nperfect, anymore than I am perfect. Human fallibility leavened him\nthroughout: there was no hour, and scarcely a moment of the time I\nspent with him that in act or speech, or look, he did not betray\nsomething that was not of a god. A god could not have the cruel vanity\nof Dr. John, nor his sometime levity., No immortal could have resembled\nhim in his occasional temporary oblivion of all but the present--in his\npassing passion for that present; shown not coarsely, by devoting it to\nmaterial indulgence, but selfishly, by extracting from it whatever it\ncould yield of nutriment to his masculine self-love: his delight was to\nfeed that ravenous sentiment, without thought of the price of\nprovender, or care for the cost of keeping it sleek and high-pampered.\n\nThe reader is requested to note a seeming contradiction in the two\nviews which have been given of Graham Bretton--the public and\nprivate--the out-door and the in-door view. In the first, the public,\nhe is shown oblivious of self; as modest in the display of his\nenergies, as earnest in their exercise. In the second, the fireside\npicture, there is expressed consciousness of what he has and what he\nis; pleasure in homage, some recklessness in exciting, some vanity in\nreceiving the same. Both portraits are correct.\n\nIt was hardly possible to oblige Dr. John quietly and in secret. When\nyou thought that the fabrication of some trifle dedicated to his use\nhad been achieved unnoticed, and that, like other men, he would use it\nwhen placed ready for his use, and never ask whence it came, he amazed\nyou by a smilingly-uttered observation or two, proving that his eye had\nbeen on the work from commencement to close: that he had noted the\ndesign, traced its progress, and marked its completion. It pleased him\nto be thus served, and he let his pleasure beam in his eye and play\nabout his mouth.\n\nThis would have been all very well, if he had not added to such kindly\nand unobtrusive evidence a certain wilfulness in discharging what he\ncalled debts. When his mother worked for him, he paid her by showering\nabout her his bright animal spirits, with even more affluence than his\ngay, taunting, teasing, loving wont. If Lucy Snowe were discovered to\nhave put her hand to such work, he planned, in recompence, some\npleasant recreation.\n\nI often felt amazed at his perfect knowledge of Villette; a knowledge\nnot merely confined to its open streets, but penetrating to all its\ngalleries, salles, and cabinets: of every door which shut in an object\nworth seeing, of every museum, of every hall, sacred to art or science,\nhe seemed to possess the \"Open! Sesame.\" I never had a head for\nscience, but an ignorant, blind, fond instinct inclined me to art. I\nliked to visit the picture-galleries, and I dearly liked to be left\nthere alone. In company, a wretched idiosyncracy forbade me to see much\nor to feel anything. In unfamiliar company, where it was necessary to\nmaintain a flow of talk on the subjects in presence, half an hour would\nknock me up, with a combined pressure of physical lassitude and entire\nmental incapacity. I never yet saw the well-reared child, much less the\neducated adult, who could not put me to shame, by the sustained\nintelligence of its demeanour under the ordeal of a conversable,\nsociable visitation of pictures, historical sights or buildings, or any\nlions of public interest. Dr. Bretton was a cicerone after my own\nheart; he would take me betimes, ere the galleries were filled, leave\nme there for two or three hours, and call for me when his own\nengagements were discharged. Meantime, I was happy; happy, not always\nin admiring, but in examining, questioning, and forming conclusions. In\nthe commencement of these visits, there was some misunderstanding and\nconsequent struggle between Will and Power. The former faculty exacted\napprobation of that which it was considered orthodox to admire; the\nlatter groaned forth its utter inability to pay the tax; it was then\nself-sneered at, spurred up, goaded on to refine its taste, and whet\nits zest. The more it was chidden, however, the more it wouldn't\npraise. Discovering gradually that a wonderful sense of fatigue\nresulted from these conscientious efforts, I began to reflect whether I\nmight not dispense with that great labour, and concluded eventually\nthat I might, and so sank supine into a luxury of calm before\nninety-nine out of a hundred of the exhibited frames.\n\nIt seemed to me that an original and good picture was just as scarce as\nan original and good book; nor did I, in the end, tremble to say to\nmyself, standing before certain _chef-d'oeuvres_ bearing great names,\n\"These are not a whit like nature. Nature's daylight never had that\ncolour: never was made so turbid, either by storm or cloud, as it is\nlaid out there, under a sky of indigo: and that indigo is not ether;\nand those dark weeds plastered upon it are not trees.\" Several very\nwell executed and complacent-looking fat women struck me as by no means\nthe goddesses they appeared to consider themselves. Many scores of\nmarvellously-finished little Flemish pictures, and also of sketches,\nexcellent for fashion-books displaying varied costumes in the\nhandsomest materials, gave evidence of laudable industry whimsically\napplied. And yet there were fragments of truth here and there which\nsatisfied the conscience, and gleams of light that cheered the vision.\nNature's power here broke through in a mountain snow-storm; and there\nher glory in a sunny southern day. An expression in this portrait\nproved clear insight into character; a face in that historical\npainting, by its vivid filial likeness, startlingly reminded you that\ngenius gave it birth. These exceptions I loved: they grew dear as\nfriends.\n\nOne day, at a quiet early hour, I found myself nearly alone in a\ncertain gallery, wherein one particular picture of portentous size, set\nup in the best light, having a cordon of protection stretched before\nit, and a cushioned bench duly set in front for the accommodation of\nworshipping connoisseurs, who, having gazed themselves off their feet,\nmight be fain to complete the business sitting: this picture, I say,\nseemed to consider itself the queen of the collection.\n\nIt represented a woman, considerably larger, I thought, than the life.\nI calculated that this lady, put into a scale of magnitude, suitable\nfor the reception of a commodity of bulk, would infallibly turn from\nfourteen to sixteen stone. She was, indeed, extremely well fed: very\nmuch butcher's meat--to say nothing of bread, vegetables, and\nliquids--must she have consumed to attain that breadth and height, that\nwealth of muscle, that affluence of flesh. She lay half-reclined on a\ncouch: why, it would be difficult to say; broad daylight blazed round\nher; she appeared in hearty health, strong enough to do the work of two\nplain cooks; she could not plead a weak spine; she ought to have been\nstanding, or at least sitting bolt upright. She, had no business to\nlounge away the noon on a sofa. She ought likewise to have worn decent\ngarments; a gown covering her properly, which was not the case: out of\nabundance of material--seven-and-twenty yards, I should say, of\ndrapery--she managed to make inefficient raiment. Then, for the\nwretched untidiness surrounding her, there could be no excuse. Pots and\npans--perhaps I ought to say vases and goblets--were rolled here and\nthere on the foreground; a perfect rubbish of flowers was mixed amongst\nthem, and an absurd and disorderly mass of curtain upholstery smothered\nthe couch and cumbered the floor. On referring to the catalogue, I\nfound that this notable production bore the name \"Cleopatra.\"\n\nWell, I was sitting wondering at it (as the bench was there, I thought\nI might as well take advantage of its accommodation), and thinking that\nwhile some of the details--as roses, gold cups, jewels, &c., were very\nprettily painted, it was on the whole an enormous piece of claptrap;\nthe room, almost vacant when I entered, began to fill. Scarcely\nnoticing this circumstance (as, indeed, it did not matter to me) I\nretained my seat; rather to rest myself than with a view to studying\nthis huge, dark-complexioned gipsy-queen; of whom, indeed, I soon\ntired, and betook myself for refreshment to the contemplation of some\nexquisite little pictures of still life: wild-flowers, wild-fruit,\nmossy woodnests, casketing eggs that looked like pearls seen through\nclear green sea-water; all hung modestly beneath that coarse and\npreposterous canvas.\n\nSuddenly a light tap visited my shoulder. Starting, turning, I met a\nface bent to encounter mine; a frowning, almost a shocked face it was.\n\n\"Que faites-vous ici?\" said a voice.\n\n\"Mais, Monsieur, je m'amuse.\"\n\n\"Vous vous amusez! et à quoi, s'il vous plait? Mais d'abord, faites-moi\nle plaisir de vous lever; prenez mon bras, et allons de l'autre côté.\"\n\nI did precisely as I was bid. M. Paul Emanuel (it was he) returned from\nRome, and now a travelled man, was not likely to be less tolerant of\ninsubordination now, than before this added distinction laurelled his\ntemples.\n\n\"Permit me to conduct you to your party,\" said he, as we crossed the\nroom.\n\n\"I have no party.\"\n\n\"You are not alone?\"\n\n\"Yes, Monsieur.\"\n\n\"Did you come here unaccompanied?\"\n\n\"No, Monsieur. Dr. Bretton brought me here.\"\n\n\"Dr. Bretton and Madame his mother, of course?\"\n\n\"No; only Dr. Bretton.\"\n\n\"And he told you to look at _that_ picture?\"\n\n\"By no means; I found it out for myself.\"\n\nM. Paul's hair was shorn close as raven down, or I think it would have\nbristled on his head. Beginning now to perceive his drift, I had a\ncertain pleasure in keeping cool, and working him up.\n\n\"Astounding insular audacity!\" cried the Professor. \"Singulières femmes\nque ces Anglaises!\"\n\n\"What is the matter, Monsieur?\"\n\n\"Matter! How dare you, a young person, sit coolly down, with the\nself-possession of a garçon, and look at _that_ picture?\"\n\n\"It is a very ugly picture, but I cannot at all see why I should not\nlook at it.\"\n\n\"Bon! bon! Speak no more of it. But you ought not to be here alone.\"\n\n\"If, however, I have no society--no _party_, as you say? And then, what\ndoes it signify whether I am alone, or accompanied? nobody meddles with\nme.\"\n\n\"Taisez-vous, et asseyez-vous là--là!\"--setting down a chair with\nemphasis in a particularly dull corner, before a series of most\nspecially dreary \"cadres.\"\n\n\"Mais, Monsieur?\"\n\n\"Mais, Mademoiselle, asseyez-vous, et ne bougez\npas--entendez-vous?--jusqu'à ce qu'on vienne vous chercher, ou que je\nvous donne la permission.\"\n\n\"Quel triste coin!\" cried I, \"et quelles laids tableaux!\"\n\nAnd \"laids,\" indeed, they were; being a set of four, denominated in the\ncatalogue \"La vie d'une femme.\" They were painted rather in a\nremarkable style--flat, dead, pale, and formal. The first represented a\n\"Jeune Fille,\" coming out of a church-door, a missal in her hand, her\ndress very prim, her eyes cast down, her mouth pursed up--the image of\na most villanous little precocious she-hypocrite. The second, a\n\"Mariée,\" with a long white veil, kneeling at a prie-dieu in her\nchamber, holding her hands plastered together, finger to finger, and\nshowing the whites of her eyes in a most exasperating manner. The\nthird, a \"Jeune Mère,\" hanging disconsolate over a clayey and puffy\nbaby with a face like an unwholesome full moon. The fourth, a \"Veuve,\"\nbeing a black woman, holding by the hand a black little girl, and the\ntwain studiously surveying an elegant French monument, set up in a\ncorner of some Père la Chaise. All these four \"Anges\" were grim and\ngrey as burglars, and cold and vapid as ghosts. What women to live\nwith! insincere, ill-humoured, bloodless, brainless nonentities! As bad\nin their way as the indolent gipsy-giantess, the Cleopatra, in hers.\n\nIt was impossible to keep one's attention long confined to these\nmaster-pieces, and so, by degrees, I veered round, and surveyed the\ngallery.\n\nA perfect crowd of spectators was by this time gathered round the\nLioness, from whose vicinage I had been banished; nearly half this\ncrowd were ladies, but M. Paul afterwards told me, these were \"des\ndames,\" and it was quite proper for them to contemplate what no\n\"demoiselle\" ought to glance at. I assured him plainly I could not\nagree in this doctrine, and did not see the sense of it; whereupon,\nwith his usual absolutism, he merely requested my silence, and also, in\nthe same breath, denounced my mingled rashness and ignorance. A more\ndespotic little man than M. Paul never filled a professor's chair. I\nnoticed, by the way, that he looked at the picture himself quite at his\nease, and for a very long while: he did not, however, neglect to glance\nfrom time to time my way, in order, I suppose, to make sure that I was\nobeying orders, and not breaking bounds. By-and-by, he again accosted\nme.\n\n\"Had I not been ill?\" he wished to know: \"he understood I had.\"\n\n\"Yes, but I was now quite well.\"\n\n\"Where had I spent the vacation?\"\n\n\"Chiefly in the Rue Fossette; partly with Madame Bretton.\"\n\n\"He had heard that I was left alone in the Rue Fossette; was that so?\"\n\n\"Not quite alone: Marie Broc\" (the crétin) \"was with me.\"\n\nHe shrugged his shoulders; varied and contradictory expressions played\nrapidly over his countenance. Marie Broc was well known to M. Paul; he\nnever gave a lesson in the third division (containing the least\nadvanced pupils), that she did not occasion in him a sharp conflict\nbetween antagonistic impressions. Her personal appearance, her\nrepulsive manners, her often unmanageable disposition, irritated his\ntemper, and inspired him with strong antipathy; a feeling he was too\napt to conceive when his taste was offended or his will thwarted. On\nthe other hand, her misfortunes, constituted a strong claim on his\nforbearance and compassion--such a claim as it was not in his nature to\ndeny; hence resulted almost daily drawn battles between impatience and\ndisgust on the one hand, pity and a sense of justice on the other; in\nwhich, to his credit be it said, it was very seldom that the former\nfeelings prevailed: when they did, however, M. Paul showed a phase of\ncharacter which had its terrors. His passions were strong, his\naversions and attachments alike vivid; the force he exerted in holding\nboth in check by no means mitigated an observer's sense of their\nvehemence. With such tendencies, it may well be supposed he often\nexcited in ordinary minds fear and dislike; yet it was an error to fear\nhim: nothing drove him so nearly frantic as the tremor of an\napprehensive and distrustful spirit; nothing soothed him like\nconfidence tempered with gentleness. To evince these sentiments,\nhowever, required a thorough comprehension of his nature; and his\nnature was of an order rarely comprehended.\n\n\"How did you get on with Marie Broc?\" he asked, after some minutes'\nsilence.\n\n\"Monsieur, I did my best; but it was terrible to be alone with her!\"\n\n\"You have, then, a weak heart! You lack courage; and, perhaps, charity.\nYours are not the qualities which might constitute a Sister of Mercy.\"\n\n[He was a religious little man, in his way: the self-denying and\nself-sacrificing part of the Catholic religion commanded the homage of\nhis soul.]\n\n\"I don't know, indeed: I took as good care of her as I could; but when\nher aunt came to fetch her away, it was a great relief.\"\n\n\"Ah! you are an egotist. There are women who have nursed hospitals-full\nof similar unfortunates. You could not do that?\"\n\n\"Could Monsieur do it himself?\"\n\n\"Women who are worthy the name ought infinitely to surpass; our coarse,\nfallible, self-indulgent sex, in the power to perform such duties.\"\n\n\"I washed her, I kept her clean, I fed her, I tried to amuse her; but\nshe made mouths at me instead of speaking.\"\n\n\"You think you did great things?\"\n\n\"No; but as great as I _could_ do.\"\n\n\"Then limited are your powers, for in tending one idiot you fell sick.\"\n\n\"Not with that, Monsieur; I had a nervous fever: my mind was ill.\"\n\n\"Vraiment! Vous valez peu de chose. You are not cast in an heroic\nmould; your courage will not avail to sustain you in solitude; it\nmerely gives you the temerity to gaze with sang-froid at pictures of\nCleopatra.\"\n\nIt would have been easy to show anger at the teasing, hostile tone of\nthe little man. I had never been angry with him yet, however, and had\nno present disposition to begin.\n\n\"Cleopatra!\" I repeated, quietly. \"Monsieur, too, has been looking at\nCleopatra; what does he think of her?\"\n\n\"Cela ne vaut rien,\" he responded. \"Une femme superbe--une taille\nd'impératrice, des formes de Junon, mais une personne dont je ne\nvoudrais ni pour femme, ni pour fille, ni pour soeur. Aussi vous ne\njeterez plus un seul coup d'oeil de sa côté.\"\n\n\"But I have looked at her a great many times while Monsieur has been\ntalking: I can see her quite well from this corner.\"\n\n\"Turn to the wall and study your four pictures of a woman's life.\"\n\n\"Excuse me, M. Paul; they are too hideous: but if you admire them,\nallow me to vacate my seat and leave you to their contemplation.\"\n\n\"Mademoiselle,\" he said, grimacing a half-smile, or what he intended\nfor a smile, though it was but a grim and hurried manifestation. \"You\nnurslings of Protestantism astonish me. You unguarded Englishwomen walk\ncalmly amidst red-hot ploughshares and escape burning. I believe, if\nsome of you were thrown into Nebuchadnezzar's hottest furnace you would\nissue forth untraversed by the smell of fire.\"\n\n\"Will Monsieur have the goodness to move an inch to one side?\"\n\n\"How! At what are you gazing now? You are not recognising an\nacquaintance amongst that group of jeunes gens?\"\n\n\"I think so--Yes, I see there a person I know.\"\n\nIn fact, I had caught a glimpse of a head too pretty to belong to any\nother than the redoubted Colonel de Hamal. What a very finished, highly\npolished little pate it was! What a figure, so trim and natty! What\nwomanish feet and hands! How daintily he held a glass to one of his\noptics! with what admiration he gazed upon the Cleopatra! and then, how\nengagingly he tittered and whispered a friend at his elbow! Oh, the man\nof sense! Oh, the refined gentleman of superior taste and tact! I\nobserved him for about ten minutes, and perceived that he was\nexceedingly taken with this dusk and portly Venus of the Nile. So much\nwas I interested in his bearing, so absorbed in divining his character\nby his looks and movements, I temporarily forgot M. Paul; in the\ninterim a group came between that gentleman and me; or possibly his\nscruples might have received another and worse shock from my present\nabstraction, causing him to withdraw voluntarily: at any rate, when I\nagain looked round, he was gone.\n\nMy eye, pursuant of the search, met not him, but another and dissimilar\nfigure, well seen amidst the crowd, for the height as well as the port\nlent each its distinction. This way came Dr. John, in visage, in shape,\nin hue, as unlike the dark, acerb, and caustic little professor, as the\nfruit of the Hesperides might be unlike the sloe in the wild thicket;\nas the high-couraged but tractable Arabian is unlike the rude and\nstubborn \"sheltie.\" He was looking for me, but had not yet explored the\ncorner where the schoolmaster had just put me. I remained quiet; yet\nanother minute I would watch.\n\nHe approached de Hamal; he paused near him; I thought he had a pleasure\nin looking over his head; Dr. Bretton, too, gazed on the Cleopatra. I\ndoubt if it were to his taste: he did not simper like the little Count;\nhis mouth looked fastidious, his eye cool; without demonstration he\nstepped aside, leaving room for others to approach. I saw now that he\nwas waiting, and, rising, I joined him.\n\nWe took one turn round the gallery; with Graham it was very pleasant to\ntake such a turn. I always liked dearly to hear what he had to say\nabout either pictures or books; because without pretending to be a\nconnoisseur, he always spoke his thought, and that was sure to be\nfresh: very often it was also just and pithy. It was pleasant also to\ntell him some things he did not know--he listened so kindly, so\nteachably; unformalized by scruples lest so to bend his bright handsome\nhead, to gather a woman's rather obscure and stammering explanation,\nshould imperil the dignity of his manhood. And when he communicated\ninformation in return, it was with a lucid intelligence that left all\nhis words clear graven on the memory; no explanation of his giving, no\nfact of his narrating, did I ever forget.\n\nAs we left the gallery, I asked him what he thought of the Cleopatra\n(after making him laugh by telling him how Professor Emanuel had sent\nme to the right about, and taking him to see the sweet series of\npictures recommended to my attention.)\n\n\"Pooh!\" said he. \"My mother is a better-looking woman. I heard some\nFrench fops, yonder, designating her as 'le type du voluptueux;' if so,\nI can only say, 'le voluptueux' is little to my liking. Compare that\nmulatto with Ginevra!\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XX.\n\nTHE CONCERT.\n\n\nOne morning, Mrs. Bretton, coming promptly into my room, desired me to\nopen my drawers and show her my dresses; which I did, without a word.\n\n\"That will do,\" said she, when she had turned them over. \"You must have\na new one.\"\n\nShe went out. She returned presently with a dressmaker. She had me\nmeasured. \"I mean,\" said she, \"to follow my own taste, and to have my\nown way in this little matter.\"\n\nTwo days after came home--a pink dress!\n\n\"That is not for me,\" I said, hurriedly, feeling that I would almost as\nsoon clothe myself in the costume of a Chinese lady of rank.\n\n\"We shall see whether it is for you or not,\" rejoined my godmother,\nadding with her resistless decision: \"Mark my words. You will wear it\nthis very evening.\"\n\nI thought I should not; I thought no human force should avail to put me\ninto it. A pink dress! I knew it not. It knew not me. I had not proved\nit.\n\nMy godmother went on to decree that I was to go with her and Graham to\na concert that same night: which concert, she explained, was a grand\naffair to be held in the large salle, or hall, of the principal musical\nsociety. The most advanced of the pupils of the Conservatoire were to\nperform: it was to be followed by a lottery \"au bénéfice des pauvres;\"\nand to crown all, the King, Queen, and Prince of Labassecour were to be\npresent. Graham, in sending tickets, had enjoined attention to costume\nas a compliment due to royalty: he also recommended punctual readiness\nby seven o'clock.\n\nAbout six, I was ushered upstairs. Without any force at all, I found\nmyself led and influenced by another's will, unconsulted, unpersuaded,\nquietly overruled. In short, the pink dress went on, softened by some\ndrapery of black lace. I was pronounced to be en grande tenue, and\nrequested to look in the glass. I did so with some fear and trembling;\nwith more fear and trembling, I turned away. Seven o'clock struck; Dr.\nBretton was come; my godmother and I went down. _She_ was clad in brown\nvelvet; as I walked in her shadow, how I envied her those folds of\ngrave, dark majesty! Graham stood in the drawing-room doorway.\n\n\"I _do_ hope he will not think I have been decking myself out to draw\nattention,\" was my uneasy aspiration.\n\n\"Here, Lucy, are some flowers,\" said he, giving me a bouquet. He took\nno further notice of my dress than was conveyed in a kind smile and\nsatisfied nod, which calmed at once my sense of shame and fear of\nridicule. For the rest; the dress was made with extreme simplicity,\nguiltless of flounce or furbelow; it was but the light fabric and\nbright tint which scared me, and since Graham found in it nothing\nabsurd, my own eye consented soon to become reconciled.\n\nI suppose people who go every night to places of public amusement, can\nhardly enter into the fresh gala feeling with which an opera or a\nconcert is enjoyed by those for whom it is a rarity: I am not sure that\nI expected great pleasure from the concert, having but a very vague\nnotion of its nature, but I liked the drive there well. The snug\ncomfort of the close carriage on a cold though fine night, the pleasure\nof setting out with companions so cheerful and friendly, the sight of\nthe stars glinting fitfully through the trees as we rolled along the\navenue; then the freer burst of the night-sky when we issued forth to\nthe open chaussée, the passage through the city gates, the lights there\nburning, the guards there posted, the pretence of inspection, to which\nwe there submitted, and which amused us so much--all these small\nmatters had for me, in their novelty, a peculiarly exhilarating charm.\nHow much of it lay in the atmosphere of friendship diffused about me, I\nknow not: Dr. John and his mother were both in their finest mood,\ncontending animatedly with each other the whole way, and as frankly\nkind to me as if I had been of their kin.\n\nOur way lay through some of the best streets of Villette, streets\nbrightly lit, and far more lively now than at high noon. How brilliant\nseemed the shops! How glad, gay, and abundant flowed the tide of life\nalong the broad pavement! While I looked, the thought of the Rue\nFossette came across me--of the walled-in garden and school-house, and\nof the dark, vast \"classes,\" where, as at this very hour, it was my\nwont to wander all solitary, gazing at the stars through the high,\nblindless windows, and listening to the distant voice of the reader in\nthe refectory, monotonously exercised upon the \"lecture pieuse.\" Thus\nmust I soon again listen and wander; and this shadow of the future\nstole with timely sobriety across the radiant present.\n\nBy this time we had got into a current of carriages all tending in one\ndirection, and soon the front of a great illuminated building blazed\nbefore us. Of what I should see within this building, I had, as before\nintimated, but an imperfect idea; for no place of public entertainment\nhad it ever been my lot to enter yet.\n\nWe alighted under a portico where there was a great bustle and a great\ncrowd, but I do not distinctly remember further details, until I found\nmyself mounting a majestic staircase wide and easy of ascent, deeply\nand softly carpeted with crimson, leading up to great doors closed\nsolemnly, and whose panels were also crimson-clothed.\n\nI hardly noticed by what magic these doors were made to roll back--Dr.\nJohn managed these points; roll back they did, however, and within was\ndisclosed a hall--grand, wide, and high, whose sweeping circular walls,\nand domed hollow ceiling, seemed to me all dead gold (thus with nice\nart was it stained), relieved by cornicing, fluting, and garlandry,\neither bright, like gold burnished, or snow-white, like alabaster, or\nwhite and gold mingled in wreaths of gilded leaves and spotless lilies:\nwherever drapery hung, wherever carpets were spread, or cushions\nplaced, the sole colour employed was deep crimson. Pendent from the\ndome, flamed a mass that dazzled me--a mass, I thought, of\nrock-crystal, sparkling with facets, streaming with drops, ablaze with\nstars, and gorgeously tinged with dews of gems dissolved, or fragments\nof rainbows shivered. It was only the chandelier, reader, but for me it\nseemed the work of eastern genii: I almost looked to see if a huge,\ndark, cloudy hand--that of the Slave of the Lamp--were not hovering in\nthe lustrous and perfumed atmosphere of the cupola, guarding its\nwondrous treasure.\n\nWe moved on--I was not at all conscious whither--but at some turn we\nsuddenly encountered another party approaching from the opposite\ndirection. I just now see that group, as it flashed--upon me for one\nmoment. A handsome middle-aged lady in dark velvet; a gentleman who\nmight be her son--the best face, the finest figure, I thought, I had\never seen; a third person in a pink dress and black lace mantle.\n\nI noted them all--the third person as well as the other two--and for\nthe fraction of a moment believed them all strangers, thus receiving an\nimpartial impression of their appearance. But the impression was hardly\nfelt and not fixed, before the consciousness that I faced a great\nmirror, filling a compartment between two pillars, dispelled it: the\nparty was our own party. Thus for the first, and perhaps only time in\nmy life, I enjoyed the \"giftie\" of seeing myself as others see me. No\nneed to dwell on the result. It brought a jar of discord, a pang of\nregret; it was not flattering, yet, after all, I ought to be thankful;\nit might have been worse.\n\nAt last, we were seated in places commanding a good general view of\nthat vast and dazzling, but warm and cheerful hall. Already it was\nfilled, and filled with a splendid assemblage. I do not know that the\nwomen were very beautiful, but their dresses were so perfect; and\nforeigners, even such as are ungraceful in domestic privacy, seem to\nposses the art of appearing graceful in public: however blunt and\nboisterous those every-day and home movements connected with peignoir\nand papillotes, there is a slide, a bend, a carriage of the head and\narms, a mien of the mouth and eyes, kept nicely in reserve for gala\nuse--always brought out with the grande toilette, and duly put on with\nthe \"parure.\"\n\nSome fine forms there were here and there, models of a peculiar style\nof beauty; a style, I think, never seen in England; a solid, firm-set,\nsculptural style. These shapes have no angles: a caryatid in marble is\nalmost as flexible; a Phidian goddess is not more perfect in a certain\nstill and stately sort. They have such features as the Dutch painters\ngive to their madonnas: low-country classic features, regular but\nround, straight but stolid; and for their depth of expressionless calm,\nof passionless peace, a polar snow-field could alone offer a type.\nWomen of this order need no ornament, and they seldom wear any; the\nsmooth hair, closely braided, supplies a sufficient contrast to the\nsmoother cheek and brow; the dress cannot be too simple; the rounded\narm and perfect neck require neither bracelet nor chain.\n\nWith one of these beauties I once had the honour and rapture to be\nperfectly acquainted: the inert force of the deep, settled love she\nbore herself, was wonderful; it could only be surpassed by her proud\nimpotency to care for any other living thing. Of blood, her cool veins\nconducted no flow; placid lymph filled and almost obstructed her\narteries.\n\nSuch a Juno as I have described sat full in our view--a sort of mark\nfor all eyes, and quite conscious that so she was, but proof to the\nmagnetic influence of gaze or glance: cold, rounded, blonde, and\nbeauteous as the white column, capitalled with gilding, which rose at\nher side.\n\nObserving that Dr. John's attention was much drawn towards her, I\nentreated him in a low voice \"for the love of heaven to shield well his\nheart. You need not fall in love with _that_ lady,\" I said, \"because, I\ntell you beforehand, you might die at her feet, and she would not love\nyou again.\"\n\n\"Very well,\" said he, \"and how do you know that the spectacle of her\ngrand insensibility might not with me be the strongest stimulus to\nhomage? The sting of desperation is, I think, a wonderful irritant to\nmy emotions: but\" (shrugging his shoulders) \"you know nothing about\nthese things; I'll address myself to my mother. Mamma, I'm in a\ndangerous way.\"\n\n\"As if that interested me!\" said Mrs. Bretton.\n\n\"Alas! the cruelty of my lot!\" responded her son. \"Never man had a more\nunsentimental mother than mine: she never seems to think that such a\ncalamity can befall her as a daughter-in-law.\"\n\n\"If I don't, it is not for want of having that same calamity held over\nmy head: you have threatened me with it for the last ten years. 'Mamma,\nI am going to be married soon!' was the cry before you were well out of\njackets.\"\n\n\"But, mother, one of these days it will be realized. All of a sudden,\nwhen you think you are most secure, I shall go forth like Jacob or\nEsau, or any other patriarch, and take me a wife: perhaps of these\nwhich are of the daughters of the land.\"\n\n\"At your peril, John Graham! that is all.\"\n\n\"This mother of mine means me to be an old bachelor. What a jealous old\nlady it is! But now just look at that splendid creature in the pale\nblue satin dress, and hair of paler brown, with 'reflets satinés' as\nthose of her robe. Would you not feel proud, mamma, if I were to bring\nthat goddess home some day, and introduce her to you as Mrs. Bretton,\njunior?\"\n\n\"You will bring no goddess to La Terrasse: that little château will not\ncontain two mistresses; especially if the second be of the height,\nbulk, and circumference of that mighty doll in wood and wax, and kid\nand satin.\"\n\n\"Mamma, she would fill your blue chair so admirably!\"\n\n\"Fill my chair? I defy the foreign usurper! a rueful chair should it be\nfor her: but hush, John Graham! Hold your tongue, and use your eyes.\"\n\nDuring the above skirmish, the hall, which, I had thought, seemed full\nat the entrance, continued to admit party after party, until the\nsemicircle before the stage presented one dense mass of heads, sloping\nfrom floor to ceiling. The stage, too, or rather the wide temporary\nplatform, larger than any stage, desert half an hour since, was now\noverflowing with life; round two grand pianos, placed about the centre,\na white flock of young girls, the pupils of the Conservatoire, had\nnoiselessly poured. I had noticed their gathering, while Graham and his\nmother were engaged in discussing the belle in blue satin, and had\nwatched with interest the process of arraying and marshalling them. Two\ngentlemen, in each of whom I recognised an acquaintance, officered this\nvirgin troop. One, an artistic-looking man, bearded, and with long\nhair, was a noted pianiste, and also the first music-teacher in\nVillette; he attended twice a week at Madame Beck's pensionnat, to give\nlessons to the few pupils whose parents were rich enough to allow their\ndaughters the privilege of his instructions; his name was M. Josef\nEmanuel, and he was half-brother to M. Paul: which potent personage was\nnow visible in the person of the second gentleman.\n\nM. Paul amused me; I smiled to myself as I watched him, he seemed so\nthoroughly in his element--standing conspicuous in presence of a wide\nand grand assemblage, arranging, restraining, over-aweing about one\nhundred young ladies. He was, too, so perfectly in earnest--so\nenergetic, so intent, and, above all, so absolute: and yet what\nbusiness had he there? What had he to do with music or the\nConservatoire—he who could hardly distinguish one note from another? I\nknew that it was his love of display and authority which had brought\nhim there--a love not offensive, only because so naive. It presently\nbecame obvious that his brother, M. Josef, was as much under his\ncontrol as were the girls themselves. Never was such a little hawk of a\nman as that M. Paul! Ere long, some noted singers and musicians dawned\nupon the platform: as these stars rose, the comet-like professor set.\nInsufferable to him were all notorieties and celebrities: where he\ncould not outshine, he fled.\n\nAnd now all was prepared: but one compartment of the hall waited to be\nfilled--a compartment covered with crimson, like the grand staircase\nand doors, furnished with stuffed and cushioned benches, ranged on each\nside of two regal chairs, placed solemnly under a canopy.\n\nA signal was given, the doors rolled back, the assembly stood up, the\norchestra burst out, and, to the welcome of a choral burst, enter the\nKing, the Queen, the Court of Labassecour.\n\nTill then, I had never set eyes on living king or queen; it may\nconsequently be conjectured how I strained my powers of vision to take\nin these specimens of European royalty. By whomsoever majesty is beheld\nfor the first time, there will always be experienced a vague surprise\nbordering on disappointment, that the same does not appear seated, en\npermanence, on a throne, bonneted with a crown, and furnished, as to\nthe hand, with a sceptre. Looking out for a king and queen, and seeing\nonly a middle-aged soldier and a rather young lady, I felt half\ncheated, half pleased.\n\nWell do I recall that King--a man of fifty, a little bowed, a little\ngrey: there was no face in all that assembly which resembled his. I had\nnever read, never been told anything of his nature or his habits; and\nat first the strong hieroglyphics graven as with iron stylet on his\nbrow, round his eyes, beside his mouth, puzzled and baffled instinct.\nEre long, however, if I did not know, at least I felt, the meaning of\nthose characters written without hand. There sat a silent sufferer--a\nnervous, melancholy man. Those eyes had looked on the visits of a\ncertain ghost--had long waited the comings and goings of that strangest\nspectre, Hypochondria. Perhaps he saw her now on that stage, over\nagainst him, amidst all that brilliant throng. Hypochondria has that\nwont, to rise in the midst of thousands--dark as Doom, pale as Malady,\nand well-nigh strong as Death. Her comrade and victim thinks to be\nhappy one moment--\"Not so,\" says she; \"I come.\" And she freezes the\nblood in his heart, and beclouds the light in his eye.\n\nSome might say it was the foreign crown pressing the King's brows which\nbent them to that peculiar and painful fold; some might quote the\neffects of early bereavement. Something there might be of both these;\nbut these are embittered by that darkest foe of\nhumanity--constitutional melancholy. The Queen, his wife, knew this: it\nseemed to me, the reflection of her husband's grief lay, a subduing\nshadow, on her own benignant face. A mild, thoughtful, graceful woman\nthat princess seemed; not beautiful, not at all like the women of solid\ncharms and marble feelings described a page or two since. Hers was a\nsomewhat slender shape; her features, though distinguished enough, were\ntoo suggestive of reigning dynasties and royal lines to give\nunqualified pleasure. The expression clothing that profile was\nagreeable in the present instance; but you could not avoid connecting\nit with remembered effigies, where similar lines appeared, under phase\nignoble; feeble, or sensual, or cunning, as the case might be. The\nQueen's eye, however, was her own; and pity, goodness, sweet sympathy,\nblessed it with divinest light. She moved no sovereign, but a\nlady--kind, loving, elegant. Her little son, the Prince of Labassecour,\nand young Duc de Dindonneau, accompanied her: he leaned on his mother's\nknee; and, ever and anon, in the course of that evening, I saw her\nobservant of the monarch at her side, conscious of his beclouded\nabstraction, and desirous to rouse him from it by drawing his attention\nto their son. She often bent her head to listen to the boy's remarks,\nand would then smilingly repeat them to his sire. The moody King\nstarted, listened, smiled, but invariably relapsed as soon as his good\nangel ceased speaking. Full mournful and significant was that\nspectacle! Not the less so because, both for the aristocracy and the\nhonest bourgeoisie of Labassecour, its peculiarity seemed to be wholly\ninvisible: I could not discover that one soul present was either struck\nor touched.\n\nWith the King and Queen had entered their court, comprising two or\nthree foreign ambassadors; and with them came the elite of the\nforeigners then resident in Villette. These took possession of the\ncrimson benches; the ladies were seated; most of the men remained\nstanding: their sable rank, lining the background, looked like a dark\nfoil to the splendour displayed in front. Nor was this splendour\nwithout varying light and shade and gradation: the middle distance was\nfilled with matrons in velvets and satins, in plumes and gems; the\nbenches in the foreground, to the Queen's right hand, seemed devoted\nexclusively to young girls, the flower--perhaps, I should rather say,\nthe bud--of Villette aristocracy. Here were no jewels, no head-dresses,\nno velvet pile or silken sheen purity, simplicity, and aërial grace\nreigned in that virgin band. Young heads simply braided, and fair forms\n(I was going to write _sylph_ forms, but that would have been quite\nuntrue: several of these \"jeunes filles,\" who had not numbered more\nthan sixteen or seventeen years, boasted contours as robust and solid\nas those of a stout Englishwoman of five-and-twenty)--fair forms robed\nin white, or pale rose, or placid blue, suggested thoughts of heaven\nand angels. I knew a couple, at least, of these \"rose et blanche\"\nspecimens of humanity. Here was a pair of Madame Beck's late\npupils--Mesdemoiselles Mathilde and Angélique: pupils who, during their\nlast year at school, ought to have been in the first class, but whose\nbrains never got them beyond the second division. In English, they had\nbeen under my own charge, and hard work it was to get them to translate\nrationally a page of _The Vicar of Wakefield_. Also during three months\nI had one of them for my vis-à-vis at table, and the quantity of\nhousehold bread, butter, and stewed fruit, she would habitually consume\nat \"second déjeuner\" was a real world's wonder--to be exceeded only by\nthe fact of her actually pocketing slices she could not eat. Here be\ntruths--wholesome truths, too.\n\nI knew another of these seraphs--the prettiest, or, at any rate, the\nleast demure and hypocritical looking of the lot: she was seated by the\ndaughter of an English peer, also an honest, though haughty-looking\ngirl: both had entered in the suite of the British embassy. She (_i.e._\nmy acquaintance) had a slight, pliant figure, not at all like the forms\nof the foreign damsels: her hair, too, was not close-braided, like a\nshell or a skull-cap of satin; it looked _like_ hair, and waved from\nher head, long, curled, and flowing. She chatted away volubly, and\nseemed full of a light-headed sort of satisfaction with herself and her\nposition. I did not look at Dr. Bretton; but I knew that he, too, saw\nGinevra Fanshawe: he had become so quiet, he answered so briefly his\nmother's remarks, he so often suppressed a sigh. Why should he sigh? He\nhad confessed a taste for the pursuit of love under difficulties; here\nwas full gratification for that taste. His lady-love beamed upon him\nfrom a sphere above his own: he could not come near her; he was not\ncertain that he could win from her a look. I watched to see if she\nwould so far favour him. Our seat was not far from the crimson benches;\nwe must inevitably be seen thence, by eyes so quick and roving as Miss\nFanshawe's, and very soon those optics of hers were upon us: at least,\nupon Dr. and Mrs. Bretton. I kept rather in the shade and out of sight,\nnot wishing to be immediately recognised: she looked quite steadily at\nDr. John, and then she raised a glass to examine his mother; a minute\nor two afterwards she laughingly whispered her neighbour; upon the\nperformance commencing, her rambling attention was attracted to the\nplatform.\n\nOn the concert I need not dwell; the reader would not care to have my\nimpressions thereanent: and, indeed, it would not be worth while to\nrecord them, as they were the impressions of an ignorance crasse. The\nyoung ladies of the Conservatoire, being very much frightened, made\nrather a tremulous exhibition on the two grand pianos. M. Josef Emanuel\nstood by them while they played; but he had not the tact or influence\nof his kinsman, who, under similar circumstances, would certainly have\n_compelled_ pupils of his to demean themselves with heroism and\nself-possession. M. Paul would have placed the hysteric débutantes\nbetween two fires--terror of the audience, and terror of himself--and\nwould have inspired them with the courage of desperation, by making the\nlatter terror incomparably the greater: M. Josef could not do this.\n\nFollowing the white muslin pianistes, came a fine, full-grown, sulky\nlady in white satin. She sang. Her singing just affected me like the\ntricks of a conjuror: I wondered how she did it--how she made her voice\nrun up and down, and cut such marvellous capers; but a simple Scotch\nmelody, played by a rude street minstrel, has often moved me more\ndeeply.\n\nAfterwards stepped forth a gentleman, who, bending his body a good deal\nin the direction of the King and Queen, and frequently approaching his\nwhite-gloved hand to the region of his heart, vented a bitter outcry\nagainst a certain \"fausse Isabelle.\" I thought he seemed especially to\nsolicit the Queen's sympathy; but, unless I am egregiously mistaken,\nher Majesty lent her attention rather with the calm of courtesy than\nthe earnestness of interest. This gentleman's state of mind was very\nharrowing, and I was glad when he wound up his musical exposition of\nthe same.\n\nSome rousing choruses struck me as the best part of the evening's\nentertainment. There were present deputies from all the best provincial\nchoral societies; genuine, barrel-shaped, native Labassecouriens. These\nworthies gave voice without mincing the matter their hearty exertions\nhad at least this good result--the ear drank thence a satisfying sense\nof power.\n\nThrough the whole performance--timid instrumental duets, conceited\nvocal solos, sonorous, brass-lunged choruses--my attention gave but one\neye and one ear to the stage, the other being permanently retained in\nthe service of Dr. Bretton: I could not forget him, nor cease to\nquestion how he was feeling, what he was thinking, whether he was\namused or the contrary. At last he spoke.\n\n\"And how do you like it all, Lucy? You are very quiet,\" he said, in his\nown cheerful tone.\n\n\"I am quiet,\" I said, \"because I am so very, _very_ much interested:\nnot merely with the music, but with everything about me.\"\n\nHe then proceeded to make some further remarks, with so much equanimity\nand composure that I began to think he had really not seen what I had\nseen, and I whispered--\"Miss Fanshawe is here: have you noticed her?\"\n\n\"Oh, yes! and I observed that you noticed her too?\"\n\n\"Is she come with Mrs. Cholmondeley, do you think?\"\n\n\"Mrs. Cholmondeley is there with a very grand party. Yes; Ginevra was\nin _her_ train; and Mrs. Cholmondeley was in Lady ----'s train, who was\nin the Queen's train. If this were not one of the compact little minor\nEuropean courts, whose very formalities are little more imposing than\nfamiliarities, and whose gala grandeur is but homeliness in Sunday\narray, it would sound all very fine.\"\n\n\"Ginevra saw you, I think?\"\n\n\"So do I think so. I have had my eye on her several times since you\nwithdrew yours; and I have had the honour of witnessing a little\nspectacle which you were spared.\"\n\nI did not ask what; I waited voluntary information, which was presently\ngiven.\n\n\"Miss Fanshawe,\" he said, \"has a companion with her--a lady of rank. I\nhappen to know Lady Sara by sight; her noble mother has called me in\nprofessionally. She is a proud girl, but not in the least insolent, and\nI doubt whether Ginevra will have gained ground in her estimation by\nmaking a butt of her neighbours.\"\n\n\"What neighbours?\"\n\n\"Merely myself and my mother. As to me it is all very natural: nothing,\nI suppose, can be fairer game than the young bourgeois doctor; but my\nmother! I never saw her ridiculed before. Do you know, the curling lip,\nand sarcastically levelled glass thus directed, gave me a most curious\nsensation?\"\n\n\"Think nothing of it, Dr. John: it is not worth while. If Ginevra were\nin a giddy mood, as she is eminently to-night, she would make no\nscruple of laughing at that mild, pensive Queen, or that melancholy\nKing. She is not actuated by malevolence, but sheer, heedless folly. To\na feather-brained school-girl nothing is sacred.\"\n\n\"But you forget: I have not been accustomed to look on Miss Fanshawe in\nthe light of a feather-brained school-girl. Was she not my\ndivinity--the angel of my career?\"\n\n\"Hem! There was your mistake.\"\n\n\"To speak the honest truth, without any false rant or assumed romance,\nthere actually was a moment, six months ago, when I thought her divine.\nDo you remember our conversation about the presents? I was not quite\nopen with you in discussing that subject: the warmth with which you\ntook it up amused me. By way of having the full benefit of your lights,\nI allowed you to think me more in the dark than I really was. It was\nthat test of the presents which first proved Ginevra mortal. Still her\nbeauty retained its fascination: three days--three hours ago, I was\nvery much her slave. As she passed me to-night, triumphant in beauty,\nmy emotions did her homage; but for one luckless sneer, I should yet be\nthe humblest of her servants. She might have scoffed at _me_, and,\nwhile wounding, she would not soon have alienated me: through myself,\nshe could not in ten years have done what, in a moment, she has done\nthrough my mother.\"\n\nHe held his peace awhile. Never before had I seen so much fire, and so\nlittle sunshine in Dr. John's blue eye as just now.\n\n\"Lucy,\" he recommenced, \"look well at my mother, and say, without fear\nor favour, in what light she now appears to you.\"\n\n\"As she always does--an English, middle-class gentlewoman; well, though\ngravely dressed, habitually independent of pretence, constitutionally\ncomposed and cheerful.\"\n\n\"So she seems to me--bless her! The merry may laugh _with_ mamma, but\nthe weak only will laugh _at_ her. She shall not be ridiculed, with my\nconsent, at least; nor without my--my scorn--my antipathy--my--\"\n\nHe stopped: and it was time--for he was getting excited--more it seemed\nthan the occasion warranted. I did not then know that he had witnessed\ndouble cause for dissatisfaction with Miss Fanshawe. The glow of his\ncomplexion, the expansion of his nostril, the bold curve which disdain\ngave his well-cut under lip, showed him in a new and striking phase.\nYet the rare passion of the constitutionally suave and serene, is not a\npleasant spectacle; nor did I like the sort of vindictive thrill which\npassed through his strong young frame.\n\n\"Do I frighten you, Lucy?\" he asked.\n\n\"I cannot tell why you are so very angry.\"\n\n\"For this reason,\" he muttered in my ear. \"Ginevra is neither a pure\nangel, nor a pure-minded woman.\"\n\n\"Nonsense! you exaggerate: she has no great harm in her.\"\n\n\"Too much for me. _I_ can see where _you_ are blind. Now dismiss the\nsubject. Let me amuse myself by teasing mamma: I will assert that she\nis flagging. Mamma, pray rouse yourself.\"\n\n\"John, I will certainly rouse you if you are not better conducted. Will\nyou and Lucy be silent, that I may hear the singing?\"\n\nThey were then thundering in a chorus, under cover of which all the\nprevious dialogue had taken place.\n\n\"_You_ hear the singing, mamma! Now, I will wager my studs, which are\ngenuine, against your paste brooch--\"\n\n\"My paste brooch, Graham? Profane boy! you know that it is a stone of\nvalue.\"\n\n\"Oh! that is one of your superstitions: you were cheated in the\nbusiness.\"\n\n\"I am cheated in fewer things than you imagine. How do you happen to be\nacquainted with young ladies of the court, John? I have observed two of\nthem pay you no small attention during the last half-hour.\"\n\n\"I wish you would not observe them.\"\n\n\"Why not? Because one of them satirically levels her eyeglass at me?\nShe is a pretty, silly girl: but are you apprehensive that her titter\nwill discomfit the old lady?\"\n\n\"The sensible, admirable old lady! Mother, you are better to me than\nten wives yet.\"\n\n\"Don't be demonstrative, John, or I shall faint, and you will have to\ncarry me out; and if that burden were laid upon you, you would reverse\nyour last speech, and exclaim, 'Mother, ten wives could hardly be worse\nto me than you are!'\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe concert over, the Lottery \"au bénéfice des pauvres\" came next: the\ninterval between was one of general relaxation, and the pleasantest\nimaginable stir and commotion. The white flock was cleared from the\nplatform; a busy throng of gentlemen crowded it instead, making\narrangements for the drawing; and amongst these--the busiest of\nall--re-appeared that certain well-known form, not tall but active,\nalive with the energy and movement of three tall men. How M. Paul did\nwork! How he issued directions, and, at the same time, set his own\nshoulder to the wheel! Half-a-dozen assistants were at his beck to\nremove the pianos, &c.; no matter, he must add to their strength his\nown. The redundancy of his alertness was half-vexing, half-ludicrous:\nin my mind I both disapproved and derided most of this fuss. Yet, in\nthe midst of prejudice and annoyance, I could not, while watching,\navoid perceiving a certain not disagreeable naïveté in all he did and\nsaid; nor could I be blind to certain vigorous characteristics of his\nphysiognomy, rendered conspicuous now by the contrast with a throng of\ntamer faces: the deep, intent keenness of his eye, the power of his\nforehead, pale, broad, and full--the mobility of his most flexible\nmouth. He lacked the calm of force, but its movement and its fire he\nsignally possessed.\n\nMeantime the whole hall was in a stir; most people rose and remained\nstanding, for a change; some walked about, all talked and laughed. The\ncrimson compartment presented a peculiarly animated scene. The long\ncloud of gentlemen, breaking into fragments, mixed with the rainbow\nline of ladies; two or three officer-like men approached the King and\nconversed with him. The Queen, leaving her chair, glided along the rank\nof young ladies, who all stood up as she passed; and to each in turn I\nsaw her vouchsafe some token of kindness--a gracious word, look or\nsmile. To the two pretty English girls, Lady Sara and Ginevra Fanshawe,\nshe addressed several sentences; as she left them, both, and especially\nthe latter, seemed to glow all over with gratification. They were\nafterwards accosted by several ladies, and a little circle of gentlemen\ngathered round them; amongst these--the nearest to Ginevra--stood the\nCount de Hamal.\n\n\"This room is stiflingly hot,\" said Dr. Bretton, rising with sudden\nimpatience. \"Lucy--mother--will you come a moment to the fresh air?\"\n\n\"Go with him, Lucy,\" said Mrs. Bretton. \"I would rather keep my seat.\"\n\nWillingly would I have kept mine also, but Graham's desire must take\nprecedence of my own; I accompanied him.\n\nWe found the night-air keen; or at least I did: he did not seem to feel\nit; but it was very still, and the star-sown sky spread cloudless. I\nwas wrapped in a fur shawl. We took some turns on the pavement; in\npassing under a lamp, Graham encountered my eye.\n\n\"You look pensive, Lucy: is it on my account?\"\n\n\"I was only fearing that you were grieved.\"\n\n\"Not at all: so be of good cheer--as I am. Whenever I die, Lucy, my\npersuasion is that it will not be of heart-complaint. I may be stung, I\nmay seem to droop for a time, but no pain or malady of sentiment has\nyet gone through my whole system. You have always seen me cheerful at\nhome?\"\n\n\"Generally.\"\n\n\"I am glad she laughed at my mother. I would not give the old lady for\na dozen beauties. That sneer did me all the good in the world. Thank\nyou, Miss Fanshawe!\" And he lifted his hat from his waved locks, and\nmade a mock reverence.\n\n\"Yes,\" he said, \"I thank her. She has made me feel that nine parts in\nten of my heart have always been sound as a bell, and the tenth bled\nfrom a mere puncture: a lancet-prick that will heal in a trice.\"\n\n\"You are angry just now, heated and indignant; you will think and feel\ndifferently to-morrow.\"\n\n\"_I_ heated and indignant! You don't know me. On the contrary, the heat\nis gone: I am as cool as the night--which, by the way, may be too cool\nfor you. We will go back.\"\n\n\"Dr. John, this is a sudden change.\"\n\n\"Not it: or if it be, there are good reasons for it--two good reasons:\nI have told you one. But now let us re-enter.\"\n\nWe did not easily regain our seats; the lottery was begun, and all was\nexcited confusion; crowds blocked the sort of corridor along which we\nhad to pass: it was necessary to pause for a time. Happening to glance\nround--indeed I half fancied I heard my name pronounced--I saw quite\nnear, the ubiquitous, the inevitable M. Paul. He was looking at me\ngravely and intently: at me, or rather at my pink dress--sardonic\ncomment on which gleamed in his eye. Now it was his habit to indulge in\nstrictures on the dress, both of the teachers and pupils, at Madame\nBeck's--a habit which the former, at least, held to be an offensive\nimpertinence: as yet I had not suffered from it--my sombre daily attire\nnot being calculated to attract notice. I was in no mood to permit any\nnew encroachment to-night: rather than accept his banter, I would\nignore his presence, and accordingly steadily turned my face to the\nsleeve of Dr. John's coat; finding in that same black sleeve a prospect\nmore redolent of pleasure and comfort, more genial, more friendly, I\nthought, than was offered by the dark little Professor's unlovely\nvisage. Dr. John seemed unconsciously to sanction the preference by\nlooking down and saying in his kind voice, \"Ay, keep close to my side,\nLucy: these crowding burghers are no respecters of persons.\"\n\nI could not, however, be true to myself. Yielding to some influence,\nmesmeric or otherwise--an influence unwelcome, displeasing, but\neffective--I again glanced round to see if M. Paul was gone. No, there\nhe stood on the same spot, looking still, but with a changed eye; he\nhad penetrated my thought, and read my wish to shun him. The mocking\nbut not ill-humoured gaze was turned to a swarthy frown, and when I\nbowed, with a view to conciliation, I got only the stiffest and\nsternest of nods in return.\n\n\"Whom have you made angry, Lucy?\" whispered Dr. Bretton, smiling. \"Who\nis that savage-looking friend of yours?\"\n\n\"One of the professors at Madame Beck's: a very cross little man.\"\n\n\"He looks mighty cross just now: what have you done to him? What is it\nall about? Ah, Lucy, Lucy! tell me the meaning of this.\"\n\n\"No mystery, I assure you. M. Emanuel is very exigeant, and because I\nlooked at your coat-sleeve, instead of curtseying and dipping to him,\nhe thinks I have failed in respect.\"\n\n\"The little--\" began Dr. John: I know not what more he would have\nadded, for at that moment I was nearly thrown down amongst the feet of\nthe crowd. M. Paul had rudely pushed past, and was elbowing his way\nwith such utter disregard to the convenience and security of all\naround, that a very uncomfortable pressure was the consequence.\n\n\"I think he is what he himself would call 'méchant,'\" said Dr. Bretton.\nI thought so, too.\n\nSlowly and with difficulty we made our way along the passage, and at\nlast regained our seats. The drawing of the lottery lasted nearly an\nhour; it was an animating and amusing scene; and as we each held\ntickets, we shared in the alternations of hope and fear raised by each\nturn of the wheel. Two little girls, of five and six years old, drew\nthe numbers: and the prizes were duly proclaimed from the platform.\nThese prizes were numerous, though of small value. It so fell out that\nDr. John and I each gained one: mine was a cigar-case, his a lady's\nhead-dress--a most airy sort of blue and silver turban, with a streamer\nof plumage on one side, like a snowy cloud. He was excessively anxious\nto make an exchange; but I could not be brought to hear reason, and to\nthis day I keep my cigar-case: it serves, when I look at it, to remind\nme of old times, and one happy evening.\n\nDr. John, for his part, held his turban at arm's length between his\nfinger and thumb, and looked at it with a mixture of reverence and\nembarrassment highly provocative of laughter. The contemplation over,\nhe was about coolly to deposit the delicate fabric on the ground\nbetween his feet; he seemed to have no shadow of an idea of the\ntreatment or stowage it ought to receive: if his mother had not come to\nthe rescue, I think he would finally have crushed it under his arm like\nan opera-hat; she restored it to the band-box whence it had issued.\n\nGraham was quite cheerful all the evening, and his cheerfulness seemed\nnatural and unforced. His demeanour, his look, is not easily described;\nthere was something in it peculiar, and, in its way, original. I read\nin it no common mastery of the passions, and a fund of deep and healthy\nstrength which, without any exhausting effort, bore down Disappointment\nand extracted her fang. His manner, now, reminded me of qualities I had\nnoticed in him when professionally engaged amongst the poor, the\nguilty, and the suffering, in the Basse-Ville: he looked at once\ndetermined, enduring, and sweet-tempered. Who could help liking him?\n_He_ betrayed no weakness which harassed all your feelings with\nconsiderations as to how its faltering must be propped; from _him_\nbroke no irritability which startled calm and quenched mirth; _his_\nlips let fall no caustic that burned to the bone; _his_ eye shot no\nmorose shafts that went cold, and rusty, and venomed through your\nheart: beside him was rest and refuge--around him, fostering sunshine.\n\nAnd yet he had neither forgiven nor forgotten Miss Fanshawe. Once\nangered, I doubt if Dr. Bretton were to be soon propitiated--once\nalienated, whether he were ever to be reclaimed. He looked at her more\nthan once; not stealthily or humbly, but with a movement of hardy, open\nobservation. De Hamal was now a fixture beside her; Mrs. Cholmondeley\nsat near, and they and she were wholly absorbed in the discourse,\nmirth, and excitement, with which the crimson seats were as much astir\nas any plebeian part of the hall. In the course of some apparently\nanimated discussion, Ginevra once or twice lifted her hand and arm; a\nhandsome bracelet gleamed upon the latter. I saw that its gleam\nflickered in Dr. John's eye--quickening therein a derisive, ireful\nsparkle; he laughed:----\n\n\"I think,\" he said, \"I will lay my turban on my wonted altar of\nofferings; there, at any rate, it would be certain to find favour: no\ngrisette has a more facile faculty of acceptance. Strange! for after\nall, I know she is a girl of family.\"\n\n\"But you don't know her education, Dr. John,\" said I. \"Tossed about all\nher life from one foreign school to another, she may justly proffer the\nplea of ignorance in extenuation of most of her faults. And then, from\nwhat she says, I believe her father and mother were brought up much as\nshe has been brought up.\"\n\n\"I always understood she had no fortune; and once I had pleasure in the\nthought,\" said he.\n\n\"She tells me,\" I answered, \"that they are poor at home; she always\nspeaks quite candidly on such points: you never find her lying, as\nthese foreigners will often lie. Her parents have a large family: they\noccupy such a station and possess such connections as, in their\nopinion, demand display; stringent necessity of circumstances and\ninherent thoughtlessness of disposition combined, have engendered\nreckless unscrupulousness as to how they obtain the means of sustaining\na good appearance. This is the state of things, and the only state of\nthings, she has seen from childhood upwards.\"\n\n\"I believe it--and I thought to mould her to something better: but,\nLucy, to speak the plain truth, I have felt a new thing to-night, in\nlooking at her and de Hamal. I felt it before noticing the impertinence\ndirected at my mother. I saw a look interchanged between them\nimmediately after their entrance, which threw a most unwelcome light on\nmy mind.\"\n\n\"How do you mean? You have been long aware of the flirtation they keep\nup?\"\n\n\"Ay, flirtation! That might be an innocent girlish wile to lure on the\ntrue lover; but what I refer to was not flirtation: it was a look\nmarking mutual and secret understanding--it was neither girlish nor\ninnocent. No woman, were she as beautiful as Aphrodite, who could give\nor receive such a glance, shall ever be sought in marriage by me: I\nwould rather wed a paysanne in a short petticoat and high cap--and be\nsure that she was honest.\"\n\nI could not help smiling. I felt sure he now exaggerated the case:\nGinevra, I was certain, was honest enough, with all her giddiness. I\ntold him so. He shook his head, and said he would not be the man to\ntrust her with his honour.\n\n\"The only thing,\" said I, \"with which you may safely trust her. She\nwould unscrupulously damage a husband's purse and property, recklessly\ntry his patience and temper: I don't think she would breathe, or let\nanother breathe, on his honour.\"\n\n\"You are becoming her advocate,\" said he. \"Do you wish me to resume my\nold chains?\"\n\n\"No: I am glad to see you free, and trust that free you will long\nremain. Yet be, at the same time, just.\"\n\n\"I am so: just as Rhadamanthus, Lucy. When once I am thoroughly\nestranged, I cannot help being severe. But look! the King and Queen are\nrising. I like that Queen: she has a sweet countenance. Mamma, too, is\nexcessively tired; we shall never get the old lady home if we stay\nlonger.\"\n\n\"I tired, John?\" cried Mrs. Bretton, looking at least as animated and\nas wide-awake as her son. \"I would undertake to sit you out yet: leave\nus both here till morning, and we should see which would look the most\njaded by sunrise.\"\n\n\"I should not like to try the experiment; for, in truth, mamma, you are\nthe most unfading of evergreens and the freshest of matrons. It must\nthen be on the plea of your son's delicate nerves and fragile\nconstitution that I found a petition for our speedy adjournment.\"\n\n\"Indolent young man! You wish you were in bed, no doubt; and I suppose\nyou must be humoured. There is Lucy, too, looking quite done up. For\nshame, Lucy! At your age, a week of evenings-out would not have made me\na shade paler. Come away, both of you; and you may laugh at the old\nlady as much as you please, but, for my part, I shall take charge of\nthe bandbox and turban.\"\n\nWhich she did accordingly. I offered to relieve her, but was shaken off\nwith kindly contempt: my godmother opined that I had enough to do to\ntake care of myself. Not standing on ceremony now, in the midst of the\ngay \"confusion worse confounded\" succeeding to the King and Queen's\ndeparture, Mrs. Bretton preceded us, and promptly made us a lane\nthrough the crowd. Graham followed, apostrophizing his mother as the\nmost flourishing grisette it had ever been his good fortune to see\ncharged with carriage of a bandbox; he also desired me to mark her\naffection for the sky-blue turban, and announced his conviction that\nshe intended one day to wear it.\n\nThe night was now very cold and very dark, but with little delay we\nfound the carriage. Soon we were packed in it, as warm and as snug as\nat a fire-side; and the drive home was, I think, still pleasanter than\nthe drive to the concert. Pleasant it was, even though the\ncoachman--having spent in the shop of a \"marchand de vin\" a portion of\nthe time we passed at the concert--drove us along the dark and solitary\nchaussée far past the turn leading down to La Terrasse; we, who were\noccupied in talking and laughing, not noticing the aberration till, at\nlast, Mrs. Bretton intimated that, though she had always thought the\nchâteau a retired spot, she did not know it was situated at the world's\nend, as she declared seemed now to be the case, for she believed we had\nbeen an hour and a half en route, and had not yet taken the turn down\nthe avenue.\n\nThen Graham looked out, and perceiving only dim-spread fields, with\nunfamiliar rows of pollards and limes ranged along their else invisible\nsunk-fences, began to conjecture how matters were, and calling a halt\nand descending, he mounted the box and took the reins himself. Thanks\nto him, we arrived safe at home about an hour and a half beyond our\ntime.\n\nMartha had not forgotten us; a cheerful fire was burning, and a neat\nsupper spread in the dining-room: we were glad of both. The winter dawn\nwas actually breaking before we gained our chambers. I took off my pink\ndress and lace mantle with happier feelings than I had experienced in\nputting them on. Not all, perhaps, who had shone brightly arrayed at\nthat concert could say the same; for not all had been satisfied with\nfriendship--with its calm comfort and modest hope.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXI.\n\nREACTION.\n\n\nYet three days, and then I must go back to the _pensionnat_. I almost\nnumbered the moments of these days upon the clock; fain would I have\nretarded their flight; but they glided by while I watched them: they\nwere already gone while I yet feared their departure.\n\n\"Lucy will not leave us to-day,\" said Mrs. Bretton, coaxingly at\nbreakfast; \"she knows we can procure a second respite.\"\n\n\"I would not ask for one if I might have it for a word,\" said I. \"I\nlong to get the good-by over, and to be settled in the Rue Fossette\nagain. I must go this morning: I must go directly; my trunk is packed\nand corded.\"\n\nIt appeared; however, that my going depended upon Graham; he had said\nhe would accompany, me, and it so fell out that he was engaged all day,\nand only returned home at dusk. Then ensued a little combat of words.\nMrs. Bretton and her son pressed me to remain one night more. I could\nhave cried, so irritated and eager was I to be gone. I longed to leave\nthem as the criminal on the scaffold longs for the axe to descend: that\nis, I wished the pang over. How much I wished it, they could not tell.\nOn these points, mine was a state of mind out of their experience.\n\nIt was dark when Dr. John handed me from the carriage at Madame Beck's\ndoor. The lamp above was lit; it rained a November drizzle, as it had\nrained all day: the lamplight gleamed on the wet pavement. Just such a\nnight was it as that on which, not a year ago, I had first stopped at\nthis very threshold; just similar was the scene. I remembered the very\nshapes of the paving-stones which I had noted with idle eye, while,\nwith a thick-beating heart, I waited the unclosing of that door at\nwhich I stood--a solitary and a suppliant. On that night, too, I had\nbriefly met him who now stood with me. Had I ever reminded him of that\nrencontre, or explained it? I had not, nor ever felt the inclination to\ndo so: it was a pleasant thought, laid by in my own mind, and best kept\nthere.\n\nGraham rung the bell. The door was instantly opened, for it was just\nthat period of the evening when the half-boarders took their\ndeparture--consequently, Rosine was on the alert.\n\n\"Don't come in,\" said I to him; but he stepped a moment into the\nwell-lighted vestibule. I had not wished him to see that \"the water\nstood in my eyes,\" for his was too kind a nature ever to be needlessly\nshown such signs of sorrow. He always wished to heal--to relieve--when,\nphysician as he was, neither cure nor alleviation were, perhaps, in his\npower.\n\n\"Keep up your courage, Lucy. Think of my mother and myself as true\nfriends. We will not forget you.\"\n\n\"Nor will I forget you, Dr. John.\"\n\nMy trunk was now brought in. We had shaken hands; he had turned to go,\nbut he was not satisfied: he had not done or said enough to content his\ngenerous impulses.\n\n\"Lucy,\"--stepping after me--\"shall you feel very solitary here?\"\n\n\"At first I shall.\"\n\n\"Well, my mother will soon call to see you; and, meantime, I'll tell\nyou what I'll do. I'll write--just any cheerful nonsense that comes\ninto my head--shall I?\"\n\n\"Good, gallant heart!\" thought I to myself; but I shook my head,\nsmiling, and said, \"Never think of it: impose on yourself no such task.\n_You_ write to _me_!--you'll not have time.\"\n\n\"Oh! I will find or make time. Good-by!\"\n\nHe was gone. The heavy door crashed to: the axe had fallen--the pang\nwas experienced.\n\nAllowing myself no time to think or feel--swallowing tears as if they\nhad been wine--I passed to Madame's sitting-room to pay the necessary\nvisit of ceremony and respect. She received me with perfectly\nwell-acted cordiality--was even demonstrative, though brief, in her\nwelcome. In ten minutes I was dismissed. From the salle-à-manger I\nproceeded to the refectory, where pupils and teachers were now\nassembled for evening study: again I had a welcome, and one not, I\nthink, quite hollow. That over, I was free to repair to the dormitory.\n\n\"And will Graham really write?\" I questioned, as I sank tired on the\nedge of the bed.\n\nReason, coming stealthily up to me through the twilight of that long,\ndim chamber, whispered sedately--\"He may write once. So kind is his\nnature, it may stimulate him for once to make the effort. But it\n_cannot_ be continued--it _may_ not be repeated. Great were that folly\nwhich should build on such a promise--insane that credulity which\nshould mistake the transitory rain-pool, holding in its hollow one\ndraught, for the perennial spring yielding the supply of seasons.\"\n\nI bent my head: I sat thinking an hour longer. Reason still whispered\nme, laying on my shoulder a withered hand, and frostily touching my ear\nwith the chill blue lips of eld.\n\n\"If,\" muttered she, \"if he _should_ write, what then? Do you meditate\npleasure in replying? Ah, fool! I warn you! Brief be your answer. Hope\nno delight of heart--no indulgence of intellect: grant no expansion to\nfeeling--give holiday to no single faculty: dally with no friendly\nexchange: foster no genial intercommunion....\"\n\n\"But I have talked to Graham and you did not chide,\" I pleaded.\n\n\"No,\" said she, \"I needed not. Talk for you is good discipline. You\nconverse imperfectly. While you speak, there can be no oblivion of\ninferiority--no encouragement to delusion: pain, privation, penury\nstamp your language....\"\n\n\"But,\" I again broke in, \"where the bodily presence is weak and the\nspeech contemptible, surely there cannot be error in making written\nlanguage the medium of better utterance than faltering lips can\nachieve?\"\n\nReason only answered, \"At your peril you cherish that idea, or suffer\nits influence to animate any writing of yours!\"\n\n\"But if I feel, may I _never_ express?\"\n\n\"_Never!_\" declared Reason.\n\nI groaned under her bitter sternness. Never--never--oh, hard word! This\nhag, this Reason, would not let me look up, or smile, or hope: she\ncould not rest unless I were altogether crushed, cowed, broken-in, and\nbroken-down. According to her, I was born only to work for a piece of\nbread, to await the pains of death, and steadily through all life to\ndespond. Reason might be right; yet no wonder we are glad at times to\ndefy her, to rush from under her rod and give a truant hour to\nImagination--_her_ soft, bright foe, _our_ sweet Help, our divine Hope.\nWe shall and must break bounds at intervals, despite the terrible\nrevenge that awaits our return. Reason is vindictive as a devil: for me\nshe was always envenomed as a step-mother. If I have obeyed her it has\nchiefly been with the obedience of fear, not of love. Long ago I should\nhave died of her ill-usage her stint, her chill, her barren board, her\nicy bed, her savage, ceaseless blows; but for that kinder Power who\nholds my secret and sworn allegiance. Often has Reason turned me out by\nnight, in mid-winter, on cold snow, flinging for sustenance the gnawed\nbone dogs had forsaken: sternly has she vowed her stores held nothing\nmore for me--harshly denied my right to ask better things.... Then,\nlooking up, have I seen in the sky a head amidst circling stars, of\nwhich the midmost and the brightest lent a ray sympathetic and attent.\nA spirit, softer and better than Human Reason, has descended with quiet\nflight to the waste--bringing all round her a sphere of air borrowed of\neternal summer; bringing perfume of flowers which cannot\nfade--fragrance of trees whose fruit is life; bringing breezes pure\nfrom a world whose day needs no sun to lighten it. My hunger has this\ngood angel appeased with food, sweet and strange, gathered amongst\ngleaning angels, garnering their dew-white harvest in the first fresh\nhour of a heavenly day; tenderly has she assuaged the insufferable\nfears which weep away life itself--kindly given rest to deadly\nweariness--generously lent hope and impulse to paralyzed despair.\nDivine, compassionate, succourable influence! When I bend the knee to\nother than God, it shall be at thy white and winged feet, beautiful on\nmountain or on plain. Temples have been reared to the Sun--altars\ndedicated to the Moon. Oh, greater glory! To thee neither hands build,\nnor lips consecrate: but hearts, through ages, are faithful to thy\nworship. A dwelling thou hast, too wide for walls, too high for dome--a\ntemple whose floors are space--rites whose mysteries transpire in\npresence, to the kindling, the harmony of worlds!\n\nSovereign complete! thou hadst, for endurance, thy great army of\nmartyrs; for achievement, thy chosen band of worthies. Deity\nunquestioned, thine essence foils decay!\n\nThis daughter of Heaven remembered me to-night; she saw me weep, and\nshe came with comfort: \"Sleep,\" she said. \"Sleep, sweetly--I gild thy\ndreams!\"\n\nShe kept her word, and watched me through a night's rest; but at dawn\nReason relieved the guard. I awoke with a sort of start; the rain was\ndashing against the panes, and the wind uttering a peevish cry at\nintervals; the night-lamp was dying on the black circular stand in the\nmiddle of the dormitory: day had already broken. How I pity those whom\nmental pain stuns instead of rousing! This morning the pang of waking\nsnatched me out of bed like a hand with a giant's gripe. How quickly I\ndressed in the cold of the raw dawn! How deeply I drank of the ice-cold\nwater in my carafe! This was always my cordial, to which, like other\ndram-drinkers, I had eager recourse when unsettled by chagrin.\n\nEre long the bell rang its _réveillée_ to the whole school. Being\ndressed, I descended alone to the refectory, where the stove was lit\nand the air was warm; through the rest of the house it was cold, with\nthe nipping severity of a continental winter: though now but the\nbeginning of November, a north wind had thus early brought a wintry\nblight over Europe: I remember the black stoves pleased me little when\nI first came; but now I began to associate with them a sense of\ncomfort, and liked them, as in England we like a fireside.\n\nSitting down before this dark comforter, I presently fell into a deep\nargument with myself on life and its chances, on destiny and her\ndecrees. My mind, calmer and stronger now than last night, made for\nitself some imperious rules, prohibiting under deadly penalties all\nweak retrospect of happiness past; commanding a patient journeying\nthrough the wilderness of the present, enjoining a reliance on faith--a\nwatching of the cloud and pillar which subdue while they guide, and awe\nwhile they illumine--hushing the impulse to fond idolatry, checking the\nlonging out-look for a far-off promised land whose rivers are, perhaps,\nnever to be, reached save in dying dreams, whose sweet pastures are to\nbe viewed but from the desolate and sepulchral summit of a Nebo.\n\nBy degrees, a composite feeling of blended strength and pain wound\nitself wirily round my heart, sustained, or at least restrained, its\nthrobbings, and made me fit for the day's work. I lifted my head.\n\nAs I said before, I was sitting near the stove, let into the wall\nbeneath the refectory and the carré, and thus sufficing to heat both\napartments. Piercing the same wall, and close beside the stove, was a\nwindow, looking also into the carré; as I looked up a cap-tassel, a\nbrow, two eyes, filled a pane of that window; the fixed gaze of those\ntwo eyes hit right against my own glance: they were watching me. I had\nnot till that moment known that tears were on my cheek, but I felt them\nnow.\n\nThis was a strange house, where no corner was sacred from intrusion,\nwhere not a tear could be shed, nor a thought pondered, but a spy was\nat hand to note and to divine. And this new, this out-door, this male\nspy, what business had brought him to the premises at this unwonted\nhour? What possible right had he to intrude on me thus? No other\nprofessor would have dared to cross the carré before the class-bell\nrang. M. Emanuel took no account of hours nor of claims: there was some\nbook of reference in the first-class library which he had occasion to\nconsult; he had come to seek it: on his way he passed the refectory. It\nwas very much his habit to wear eyes before, behind, and on each side\nof him: he had seen me through the little window--he now opened the\nrefectory door, and there he stood.\n\n\"Mademoiselle, vous êtes triste.\"\n\n\"Monsieur, j'en ai bien le droit.\"\n\n\"Vous êtes malade de coeur et d'humeur,\" he pursued. \"You are at once\nmournful and mutinous. I see on your cheek two tears which I know are\nhot as two sparks, and salt as two crystals of the sea. While I speak\nyou eye me strangely. Shall I tell you of what I am reminded while\nwatching you?\"\n\n\"Monsieur, I shall be called away to prayers shortly; my time for\nconversation is very scant and brief at this hour--excuse----\"\n\n\"I excuse everything,\" he interrupted; \"my mood is so meek, neither\nrebuff nor, perhaps, insult could ruffle it. You remind me, then, of a\nyoung she wild creature, new caught, untamed, viewing with a mixture of\nfire and fear the first entrance of the breaker-in.\"\n\nUnwarrantable accost!--rash and rude if addressed to a pupil; to a\nteacher inadmissible. He thought to provoke a warm reply; I had seen\nhim vex the passionate to explosion before now. In me his malice should\nfind no gratification; I sat silent.\n\n\"You look,\" said he, \"like one who would snatch at a draught of sweet\npoison, and spurn wholesome bitters with disgust.\n\n\"Indeed, I never liked bitters; nor do I believe them wholesome. And to\nwhatever is sweet, be it poison or food, you cannot, at least, deny its\nown delicious quality--sweetness. Better, perhaps, to die quickly a\npleasant death, than drag on long a charmless life.\"\n\n\"Yet,\" said he, \"you should take your bitter dose duly and daily, if I\nhad the power to administer it; and, as to the well-beloved poison, I\nwould, perhaps, break the very cup which held it.\"\n\nI sharply turned my head away, partly because his presence utterly\ndispleased me, and partly because I wished to shun questions: lest, in\nmy present mood, the effort of answering should overmaster self-command.\n\n\"Come,\" said he, more softly, \"tell me the truth--you grieve at being\nparted from friends--is it not so?\"\n\nThe insinuating softness was not more acceptable than the inquisitorial\ncuriosity. I was silent. He came into the room, sat down on the bench\nabout two yards from me, and persevered long, and, for him, patiently,\nin attempts to draw me into conversation--attempts necessarily\nunavailing, because I _could_ not talk. At last I entreated to be let\nalone. In uttering the request, my voice faltered, my head sank on my\narms and the table. I wept bitterly, though quietly. He sat a while\nlonger. I did not look up nor speak, till the closing door and his\nretreating step told me that he was gone. These tears proved a relief.\n\nI had time to bathe my eyes before breakfast, and I suppose I appeared\nat that meal as serene as any other person: not, however, quite as\njocund-looking as the young lady who placed herself in the seat\nopposite mine, fixed on me a pair of somewhat small eyes twinkling\ngleefully, and frankly stretched across the table a white hand to be\nshaken. Miss Fanshawe's travels, gaieties, and flirtations agreed with\nher mightily; she had become quite plump, her cheeks looked as round as\napples. I had seen her last in elegant evening attire. I don't know\nthat she looked less charming now in her school-dress, a kind of\ncareless peignoir of a dark-blue material, dimly and dingily plaided\nwith black. I even think this dusky wrapper gave her charms a triumph;\nenhancing by contrast the fairness of her skin, the freshness of her\nbloom, the golden beauty of her tresses.\n\n\"I am glad you are come back, Timon,\" said she. Timon was one of her\ndozen names for me. \"You don't know how often I have wanted you in this\ndismal hole.\"\n\n\"Oh, have you? Then, of course, if you wanted me, you have something\nfor me to do: stockings to mend, perhaps.\" I never gave Ginevra a\nminute's or a farthing's credit for disinterestedness.\n\n\"Crabbed and crusty as ever!\" said she. \"I expected as much: it would\nnot be you if you did not snub one. But now, come, grand-mother, I hope\nyou like coffee as much, and pistolets as little as ever: are you\ndisposed to barter?\"\n\n\"Take your own way.\"\n\nThis way consisted in a habit she had of making me convenient. She did\nnot like the morning cup of coffee; its school brewage not being strong\nor sweet enough to suit her palate; and she had an excellent appetite,\nlike any other healthy school-girl, for the morning pistolets or rolls,\nwhich were new-baked and very good, and of which a certain allowance\nwas served to each. This allowance being more than I needed, I gave\nhalf to Ginevra; never varying in my preference, though many others\nused to covet the superfluity; and she in return would sometimes give\nme a portion of her coffee. This morning I was glad of the draught;\nhunger I had none, and with thirst I was parched. I don't know why I\nchose to give my bread rather to Ginevra than to another; nor why, if\ntwo had to share the convenience of one drinking-vessel, as sometimes\nhappened--for instance, when we took a long walk into the country, and\nhalted for refreshment at a farm--I always contrived that she should be\nmy convive, and rather liked to let her take the lion's share, whether\nof the white beer, the sweet wine, or the new milk: so it was, however,\nand she knew it; and, therefore, while we wrangled daily, we were never\nalienated.\n\nAfter breakfast my custom was to withdraw to the first classe, and sit\nand read, or think (oftenest the latter) there alone, till the\nnine-o'clock bell threw open all doors, admitted the gathered rush of\nexternes and demi-pensionnaires, and gave the signal for entrance on\nthat bustle and business to which, till five P.M., there was no relax.\n\nI was just seated this morning, when a tap came to the door.\n\n\"Pardon, Mademoiselle,\" said a pensionnaire, entering gently; and\nhaving taken from her desk some necessary book or paper, she withdrew\non tip-toe, murmuring as she passed me, \"Que mademoiselle est\nappliquée!\"\n\nAppliquée, indeed! The means of application were spread before me, but\nI was doing nothing; and had done nothing, and meant to do nothing.\nThus does the world give us credit for merits we have not. Madame Beck\nherself deemed me a regular bas-bleu, and often and solemnly used to\nwarn me not to study too much, lest \"the blood should all go to my\nhead.\" Indeed, everybody in the Rue Fossette held a superstition that\n\"Meess Lucie\" was learned; with the notable exception of M. Emanuel,\nwho, by means peculiar to himself, and quite inscrutable to me, had\nobtained a not inaccurate inkling of my real qualifications, and used\nto take quiet opportunities of chuckling in my ear his malign glee over\ntheir scant measure. For my part, I never troubled myself about this\npenury. I dearly like to think my own thoughts; I had great pleasure in\nreading a few books, but not many: preferring always those on whose\nstyle or sentiment the writer's individual nature was plainly stamped;\nflagging inevitably over characterless books, however clever and\nmeritorious: perceiving well that, as far as my own mind was concerned,\nGod had limited its powers and, its action--thankful, I trust, for the\ngift bestowed, but unambitious of higher endowments, not restlessly\neager after higher culture.\n\nThe polite pupil was scarcely gone, when, unceremoniously, without tap,\nin burst a second intruder. Had I been blind I should have known who\nthis was. A constitutional reserve of manner had by this time told with\nwholesome and, for me, commodious effect, on the manners of my\nco-inmates; rarely did I now suffer from rude or intrusive treatment.\nWhen I first came, it would happen once and again that a blunt German\nwould clap me on the shoulder, and ask me to run a race; or a riotous\nLabassecourienne seize me by the arm and drag me towards the\nplayground: urgent proposals to take a swing at the \"Pas de Géant,\" or\nto join in a certain romping hide-and-seek game called \"Un, deux,\ntrois,\" were formerly also of hourly occurrence; but all these little\nattentions had ceased some time ago--ceased, too, without my finding it\nnecessary to be at the trouble of point-blank cutting them short. I had\nnow no familiar demonstration to dread or endure, save from one\nquarter; and as that was English I could bear it. Ginevra Fanshawe made\nno scruple of--at times--catching me as I was crossing the carré,\nwhirling me round in a compulsory waltz, and heartily enjoying the\nmental and physical discomfiture her proceeding induced. Ginevra\nFanshawe it was who now broke in upon \"my learned leisure.\" She carried\na huge music-book under her arm.\n\n\"Go to your practising,\" said I to her at once: \"away with you to the\nlittle salon!\"\n\n\"Not till I have had a talk with you, chère amie. I know where you have\nbeen spending your vacation, and how you have commenced sacrificing to\nthe graces, and enjoying life like any other belle. I saw you at the\nconcert the other night, dressed, actually, like anybody else. Who is\nyour tailleuse?\"\n\n\"Tittle-tattle: how prettily it begins! My tailleuse!--a fiddlestick!\nCome, sheer off, Ginevra. I really don't want your company.\"\n\n\"But when I want yours so much, ange farouche, what does a little\nreluctance on your part signify? Dieu merci! we know how to manoeuvre\nwith our gifted compatriote--the learned 'ourse Britannique.' And so,\nOurson, you know Isidore?\"\n\n\"I know John Bretton.\"\n\n\"Oh, hush!\" (putting her fingers in her ears) \"you crack my tympanums\nwith your rude Anglicisms. But, how is our well-beloved John? Do tell\nme about him. The poor man must be in a sad way. What did he say to my\nbehaviour the other night? Wasn't I cruel?\"\n\n\"Do you think I noticed you?\"\n\n\"It was a delightful evening. Oh, that divine de Hamal! And then to\nwatch the other sulking and dying in the distance; and the old lady--my\nfuture mamma-in-law! But I am afraid I and Lady Sara were a little rude\nin quizzing her.\"\n\n\"Lady Sara never quizzed her at all; and for what _you_ did, don't make\nyourself in the least uneasy: Mrs. Bretton will survive _your_ sneer.\"\n\n\"She may: old ladies are tough; but that poor son of hers! Do tell me\nwhat he said: I saw he was terribly cut up.\"\n\n\"He said you looked as if at heart you were already Madame de Hamal.\"\n\n\"Did he?\" she cried with delight. \"He noticed that? How charming! I\nthought he would be mad with jealousy?\"\n\n\"Ginevra, have you seriously done with Dr. Bretton? Do you want him to\ngive you up?\"\n\n\"Oh! you know he _can't_ do that: but wasn't he mad?\"\n\n\"Quite mad,\" I assented; \"as mad as a March hare.\"\n\n\"Well, and how _ever_ did you get him home?\"\n\n\"How _ever_, indeed! Have you no pity on his poor mother and me? Fancy\nus holding him tight down in the carriage, and he raving between us,\nfit to drive everybody delirious. The very coachman went wrong,\nsomehow, and we lost our way.\"\n\n\"You don't say so? You are laughing at me. Now, Lucy Snowe--\"\n\n\"I assure you it is fact--and fact, also, that Dr. Bretton would _not_\nstay in the carriage: he broke from us, and _would_ ride outside.\"\n\n\"And afterwards?\"\n\n\"Afterwards--when he _did_ reach home--the scene transcends\ndescription.\"\n\n\"Oh, but describe it--you know it is such fun!\"\n\n\"Fun for _you_, Miss Fanshawe? but\" (with stern gravity) \"you know the\nproverb--'What is sport to one may be death to another.'\"\n\n\"Go on, there's a darling Timon.\"\n\n\"Conscientiously, I cannot, unless you assure me you have some heart.\"\n\n\"I have--such an immensity, you don't know!\"\n\n\"Good! In that case, you will be able to conceive Dr. Graham Bretton\nrejecting his supper in the first instance--the chicken, the sweetbread\nprepared for his refreshment, left on the table untouched. Then----but\nit is of no use dwelling at length on the harrowing details. Suffice it\nto say, that never, in the most stormy fits and moments of his infancy,\nhad his mother such work to tuck the sheets about him as she had that\nnight.\"\n\n\"He wouldn't lie still?\"\n\n\"He wouldn't lie still: there it was. The sheets might be tucked in,\nbut the thing was to keep them tucked in.\"\n\n\"And what did he say?\"\n\n\"Say! Can't you imagine him demanding his divine Ginevra,\nanathematizing that demon, de Hamal--raving about golden locks, blue\neyes, white arms, glittering bracelets?\"\n\n\"No, did he? He saw the bracelet?\"\n\n\"Saw the bracelet? Yes, as plain as I saw it: and, perhaps, for the\nfirst time, he saw also the brand-mark with which its pressure has\nencircled your arm. Ginevra\" (rising, and changing my tone), \"come, we\nwill have an end of this. Go away to your practising.\"\n\nAnd I opened the door.\n\n\"But you have not told me all.\"\n\n\"You had better not wait until I _do_ tell you all. Such extra\ncommunicativeness could give you no pleasure. March!\"\n\n\"Cross thing!\" said she; but she obeyed: and, indeed, the first classe\nwas my territory, and she could not there legally resist a notice of\nquittance from me.\n\nYet, to speak the truth, never had I been less dissatisfied with her\nthan I was then. There was pleasure in thinking of the contrast between\nthe reality and my description--to remember Dr. John enjoying the drive\nhome, eating his supper with relish, and retiring to rest with\nChristian composure. It was only when I saw him really unhappy that I\nfelt really vexed with the fair, frail cause of his suffering.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nA fortnight passed; I was getting once more inured to the harness of\nschool, and lapsing from the passionate pain of change to the palsy of\ncustom. One afternoon, in crossing the carré, on my way to the first\nclasse, where I was expected to assist at a lesson of \"style and\nliterature,\" I saw, standing by one of the long and large windows,\nRosine, the portress. Her attitude, as usual, was quite nonchalante.\nShe always \"stood at ease;\" one of her hands rested in her\napron-pocket, the other at this moment held to her eyes a letter,\nwhereof Mademoiselle coolly perused the address, and deliberately\nstudied the seal.\n\nA letter! The shape of a letter similar to that had haunted my brain in\nits very core for seven days past. I had dreamed of a letter last\nnight. Strong magnetism drew me to that letter now; yet, whether I\nshould have ventured to demand of Rosine so much as a glance at that\nwhite envelope, with the spot of red wax in the middle, I know not. No;\nI think I should have sneaked past in terror of a rebuff from\nDisappointment: my heart throbbed now as if I already heard the tramp\nof her approach. Nervous mistake! It was the rapid step of the\nProfessor of Literature measuring the corridor. I fled before him.\nCould I but be seated quietly at my desk before his arrival, with the\nclass under my orders all in disciplined readiness, he would, perhaps,\nexempt me from notice; but, if caught lingering in the carré, I should\nbe sure to come in for a special harangue. I had time to get seated, to\nenforce perfect silence, to take out my work, and to commence it amidst\nthe profoundest and best trained hush, ere M. Emanuel entered with his\nvehement burst of latch and panel, and his deep, redundant bow,\nprophetic of choler.\n\nAs usual he broke upon us like a clap of thunder; but instead of\nflashing lightning-wise from the door to the estrade, his career halted\nmidway at my desk. Setting his face towards me and the window, his back\nto the pupils and the room, he gave me a look--such a look as might\nhave licensed me to stand straight up and demand what he meant--a look\nof scowling distrust.\n\n\"Voilà! pour vous,\" said he, drawing his hand from his waist-coat, and\nplacing on my desk a letter--the very letter I had seen in Rosine's\nhand--the letter whose face of enamelled white and single Cyclop's-eye\nof vermilion-red had printed themselves so clear and perfect on the\nretina of an inward vision. I knew it, I felt it to be the letter of my\nhope, the fruition of my wish, the release from my doubt, the ransom\nfrom my terror. This letter M. Paul, with his unwarrantably interfering\nhabits, had taken from the portress, and now delivered it himself.\n\nI might have been angry, but had not a second for the sensation. Yes: I\nheld in my hand not a slight note, but an envelope, which must, at\nleast, contain a sheet: it felt not flimsy, but firm, substantial,\nsatisfying. And here was the direction, \"Miss Lucy Snowe,\" in a clean,\nclear, equal, decided hand; and here was the seal, round, full, deftly\ndropped by untremulous fingers, stamped with the well-cut impress of\ninitials, \"J. G. B.\" I experienced a happy feeling--a glad emotion\nwhich went warm to my heart, and ran lively through all my veins. For\nonce a hope was realized. I held in my hand a morsel of real solid joy:\nnot a dream, not an image of the brain, not one of those shadowy\nchances imagination pictures, and on which humanity starves but cannot\nlive; not a mess of that manna I drearily eulogized awhile ago--which,\nindeed, at first melts on the lips with an unspeakable and\npreternatural sweetness, but which, in the end, our souls full surely\nloathe; longing deliriously for natural and earth-grown food, wildly\npraying Heaven's Spirits to reclaim their own spirit-dew and\nessence--an aliment divine, but for mortals deadly. It was neither\nsweet hail nor small coriander-seed--neither slight wafer, nor luscious\nhoney, I had lighted on; it was the wild, savoury mess of the hunter,\nnourishing and salubrious meat, forest-fed or desert-reared, fresh,\nhealthful, and life-sustaining. It was what the old dying patriarch\ndemanded of his son Esau, promising in requital the blessing of his\nlast breath. It was a godsend; and I inwardly thanked the God who had\nvouchsafed it. Outwardly I only thanked man, crying, \"Thank you, thank\nyou, Monsieur!\"\n\nMonsieur curled his lip, gave me a vicious glance of the eye, and\nstrode to his estrade. M. Paul was not at all a good little man, though\nhe had good points.\n\nDid I read my letter there and then? Did I consume the venison at once\nand with haste, as if Esau's shaft flew every day?\n\nI knew better. The cover with its address--the seal, with its three\nclear letters--was bounty and abundance for the present. I stole from\nthe room, I procured the key of the great dormitory, which was kept\nlocked by day. I went to my bureau; with a sort of haste and trembling\nlest Madame should creep up-stairs and spy me, I opened a drawer,\nunlocked a box, and took out a case, and--having feasted my eyes with\none more look, and approached the seal with a mixture of awe and shame\nand delight, to my lips--I folded the untasted treasure, yet all fair\nand inviolate, in silver paper, committed it to the case, shut up box\nand drawer, reclosed, relocked the dormitory, and returned to class,\nfeeling as if fairy tales were true, and fairy gifts no dream. Strange,\nsweet insanity! And this letter, the source of my joy, I had not yet\nread: did not yet know the number of its lines.\n\nWhen I re-entered the schoolroom, behold M. Paul raging like a\npestilence! Some pupil had not spoken audibly or distinctly enough to\nsuit his ear and taste, and now she and others were weeping, and he was\nraving from his estrade, almost livid. Curious to mention, as I\nappeared, he fell on me.\n\n\"Was I the mistress of these girls? Did I profess to teach them the\nconduct befitting ladies?--and did I permit and, he doubted not,\nencourage them to strangle their mother-tongue in their throats, to\nmince and mash it between their teeth, as if they had some base cause\nto be ashamed of the words they uttered? Was this modesty? He knew\nbetter. It was a vile pseudo sentiment--the offspring or the forerunner\nof evil. Rather than submit to this mopping and mowing, this mincing\nand grimacing, this, grinding of a noble tongue, this general\naffectation and sickening stubbornness of the pupils of the first\nclass, he would throw them up for a set of insupportable petites\nmaîtresses, and confine himself to teaching the ABC to the babies of\nthe third division.\"\n\nWhat could I say to all this? Really nothing; and I hoped he would\nallow me to be silent. The storm recommenced.\n\n\"Every answer to his queries was then refused? It seemed to be\nconsidered in _that_ place--that conceited boudoir of a first classe,\nwith its pretentious book-cases, its green-baized desks, its rubbish of\nflower-stands, its trash of framed pictures and maps, and its foreign\nsurveillante, forsooth!--it seemed to be the fashion to think _there_\nthat the Professor of Literature was not worthy of a reply! These were\nnew ideas; imported, he did not doubt, straight from 'la Grande\nBretagne:' they savoured of island insolence and arrogance.\"\n\nLull the second--the girls, not one of whom was ever known to weep a\ntear for the rebukes of any other master, now all melting like\nsnow-statues before the intemperate heat of M. Emanuel: I not yet much\nshaken, sitting down, and venturing to resume my work.\n\nSomething--either in my continued silence or in the movement of my\nhand, stitching--transported M. Emanuel beyond the last boundary of\npatience; he actually sprang from his estrade. The stove stood near my\ndesk, he attacked it; the little iron door was nearly dashed from its\nhinges, the fuel was made to fly.\n\n\"Est-ce que vous avez l'intention de m'insulter?\" said he to me, in a\nlow, furious voice, as he thus outraged, under pretence of arranging\nthe fire.\n\nIt was time to soothe him a little if possible.\n\n\"Mais, Monsieur,\" said I, \"I would not insult you for the world. I\nremember too well that you once said we should be friends.\"\n\nI did not intend my voice to falter, but it did: more, I think, through\nthe agitation of late delight than in any spasm of present fear. Still\nthere certainly was something in M. Paul's anger--a kind of passion of\nemotion--that specially tended to draw tears. I was not unhappy, nor\nmuch afraid, yet I wept.\n\n\"Allons, allons!\" said he presently, looking round and seeing the\ndeluge universal. \"Decidedly I am a monster and a ruffian. I have only\none pocket-handkerchief,\" he added, \"but if I had twenty, I would offer\nyou each one. Your teacher shall be your representative. Here, Miss\nLucy.\"\n\nAnd he took forth and held out to me a clean silk handkerchief. Now a\nperson who did not know M. Paul, who was unused to him and his\nimpulses, would naturally have bungled at this offer--declined\naccepting the same--et cetera. But I too plainly felt this would never\ndo: the slightest hesitation would have been fatal to the incipient\ntreaty of peace. I rose and met the handkerchief half-way, received it\nwith decorum, wiped therewith my eyes, and, resuming my seat, and\nretaining the flag of truce in my hand and on my lap, took especial\ncare during the remainder of the lesson to touch neither needle nor\nthimble, scissors nor muslin. Many a jealous glance did M. Paul cast at\nthese implements; he hated them mortally, considering sewing a source\nof distraction from the attention due to himself. A very eloquent\nlesson he gave, and very kind and friendly was he to the close. Ere he\nhad done, the clouds were dispersed and the sun shining out--tears were\nexchanged for smiles.\n\nIn quitting the room he paused once more at my desk.\n\n\"And your letter?\" said he, this time not quite fiercely.\n\n\"I have not yet read it, Monsieur.\"\n\n\"Ah! it is too good to read at once; you save it, as, when I was a boy,\nI used to save a peach whose bloom was very ripe?\"\n\nThe guess came so near the truth, I could not prevent a suddenly-rising\nwarmth in my face from revealing as much.\n\n\"You promise yourself a pleasant moment,\" said he, \"in reading that\nletter; you will open it when alone--n'est-ce pas? Ah! a smile answers.\nWell, well! one should not be too harsh; 'la jeunesse n'a qu'un temps.'\"\n\n\"Monsieur, Monsieur!\" I cried, or rather whispered after him, as he\nturned to go, \"do not leave me under a mistake. This is merely a\nfriend's letter. Without reading it, I can vouch for that.\"\n\n\"Je conçois, je conçois: on sait ce que c'est qu'un ami. Bonjour,\nMademoiselle!\"\n\n\"But, Monsieur, here is your handkerchief.\"\n\n\"Keep it, keep it, till the letter is read, then bring it me; I shall\nread the billet's tenor in your eyes.\"\n\nWhen he was gone, the pupils having already poured out of the\nschoolroom into the berceau, and thence into the garden and court to\ntake their customary recreation before the five-o'clock dinner, I stood\na moment thinking, and absently twisting the handkerchief round my arm.\nFor some reason--gladdened, I think, by a sudden return of the golden\nglimmer of childhood, roused by an unwonted renewal of its buoyancy,\nmade merry by the liberty of the closing hour, and, above all, solaced\nat heart by the joyous consciousness of that treasure in the case, box,\ndrawer up-stairs,--I fell to playing with the handkerchief as if it\nwere a ball, casting it into the air and catching it--as it fell. The\ngame was stopped by another hand than mine-a hand emerging from a\npaletôt-sleeve and stretched over my shoulder; it caught the\nextemporised plaything and bore it away with these sullen words:\n\n\"Je vois bien que vous vous moquez de moi et de mes effets.\"\n\nReally that little man was dreadful: a mere sprite of caprice and,\nubiquity: one never knew either his whim or his whereabout.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXII.\n\nTHE LETTER.\n\n\nWhen all was still in the house; when dinner was over and the noisy\nrecreation-hour past; when darkness had set in, and the quiet lamp of\nstudy was lit in the refectory; when the externes were gone home, the\nclashing door and clamorous bell hushed for the evening; when Madame\nwas safely settled in the salle-à-manger in company with her mother and\nsome friends; I then glided to the kitchen, begged a bougie for one\nhalf-hour for a particular occasion, found acceptance of my petition at\nthe hands of my friend Goton, who answered, \"Mais certainement,\nchou-chou, vous en aurez deux, si vous voulez;\" and, light in hand, I\nmounted noiseless to the dormitory.\n\nGreat was my chagrin to find in that apartment a pupil gone to bed\nindisposed,--greater when I recognised, amid the muslin nightcap\nborders, the \"figure chiffonnée\" of Mistress Ginevra Fanshawe; supine\nat this moment, it is true--but certain to wake and overwhelm me with\nchatter when the interruption would be least acceptable: indeed, as I\nwatched her, a slight twinkling of the eyelids warned me that the\npresent appearance of repose might be but a ruse, assumed to cover sly\nvigilance over \"Timon's\" movements; she was not to be trusted. And I\nhad so wished to be alone, just to read my precious letter in peace.\n\nWell, I must go to the classes. Having sought and found my prize in its\ncasket, I descended. Ill-luck pursued me. The classes were undergoing\nsweeping and purification by candle-light, according to hebdomadal\ncustom: benches were piled on desks, the air was dim with dust, damp\ncoffee-grounds (used by Labassecourien housemaids instead of\ntea-leaves) darkened the floor; all was hopeless confusion. Baffled,\nbut not beaten, I withdrew, bent as resolutely as ever on finding\nsolitude _somewhere_.\n\nTaking a key whereof I knew the repository, I mounted three staircases\nin succession, reached a dark, narrow, silent landing, opened a\nworm-eaten door, and dived into the deep, black, cold garret. Here none\nwould follow me--none interrupt--not Madame herself. I shut the\ngarret-door; I placed my light on a doddered and mouldy chest of\ndrawers; I put on a shawl, for the air was ice-cold; I took my letter;\ntrembling with sweet impatience, I broke its seal.\n\n\"Will it be long--will it be short?\" thought I, passing my hand across\nmy eyes to dissipate the silvery dimness of a suave, south-wind shower.\n\nIt was long.\n\n\"Will it be cool?--will it be kind?\"\n\nIt was kind.\n\nTo my checked, bridled, disciplined expectation, it seemed very kind:\nto my longing and famished thought it seemed, perhaps, kinder than it\nwas.\n\nSo little had I hoped, so much had I feared; there was a fulness of\ndelight in this taste of fruition--such, perhaps, as many a human being\npasses through life without ever knowing. The poor English teacher in\nthe frosty garret, reading by a dim candle guttering in the wintry air,\na letter simply good-natured--nothing more; though that good-nature\nthen seemed to me godlike--was happier than most queens in palaces.\n\nOf course, happiness of such shallow origin could be but brief; yet,\nwhile it lasted it was genuine and exquisite: a bubble--but a sweet\nbubble--of real honey-dew. Dr. John had written to me at length; he had\nwritten to me with pleasure; he had written with benignant mood,\ndwelling with sunny satisfaction on scenes that had passed before his\neyes and mine,--on places we had visited together--on conversations we\nhad held--on all the little subject-matter, in short, of the last few\nhalcyon weeks. But the cordial core of the delight was, a conviction\nthe blithe, genial language generously imparted, that it had been\npoured out not merely to content _me_--but to gratify _himself_. A\ngratification he might never more desire, never more seek--an\nhypothesis in every point of view approaching the certain; but _that_\nconcerned the future. This present moment had no pain, no blot, no\nwant; full, pure, perfect, it deeply blessed me. A passing seraph\nseemed to have rested beside me, leaned towards my heart, and reposed\non its throb a softening, cooling, healing, hallowing wing. Dr. John,\nyou pained me afterwards: forgiven be every ill--freely forgiven--for\nthe sake of that one dear remembered good!\n\nAre there wicked things, not human, which envy human bliss? Are there\nevil influences haunting the air, and poisoning it for man? What was\nnear me?\n\nSomething in that vast solitary garret sounded strangely. Most surely\nand certainly I heard, as it seemed, a stealthy foot on that floor: a\nsort of gliding out from the direction of the black recess haunted by\nthe malefactor cloaks. I turned: my light was dim; the room was\nlong--but as I live! I saw in the middle of that ghostly chamber a\nfigure all black and white; the skirts straight, narrow, black; the\nhead bandaged, veiled, white.\n\nSay what you will, reader--tell me I was nervous or mad; affirm that I\nwas unsettled by the excitement of that letter; declare that I dreamed;\nthis I vow--I saw there--in that room--on that night--an image like--a\nNUN.\n\nI cried out; I sickened. Had the shape approached me I might have\nswooned. It receded: I made for the door. How I descended all the\nstairs I know not. By instinct I shunned the refectory, and shaped my\ncourse to Madame's sitting-room: I burst in. I said--\n\n\"There is something in the grenier; I have been there: I saw something.\nGo and look at it, all of you!\"\n\nI said, \"All of you;\" for the room seemed to me full of people, though\nin truth there were but four present: Madame Beck; her mother, Madame\nKint, who was out of health, and now staying with her on a visit; her\nbrother, M. Victor Kint, and another gentleman, who, when I entered the\nroom, was conversing with the old lady, and had his back towards the\ndoor.\n\nMy mortal fear and faintness must have made me deadly pale. I felt cold\nand shaking. They all rose in consternation; they surrounded me. I\nurged them to go to the grenier; the sight of the gentlemen did me good\nand gave me courage: it seemed as if there were some help and hope,\nwith men at hand. I turned to the door, beckoning them to follow. They\nwanted to stop me, but I said they must come this way: they must see\nwhat I had seen---something strange, standing in the middle of the\ngarret. And, now, I remembered my letter, left on the drawers with the\nlight. This precious letter! Flesh or spirit must be defied for its\nsake. I flew up-stairs, hastening the faster as I knew I was followed:\nthey were obliged to come.\n\nLo! when I reached the garret-door, all within was dark as a pit: the\nlight was out. Happily some one--Madame, I think, with her usual calm\nsense--had brought a lamp from the room; speedily, therefore, as they\ncame up, a ray pierced the opaque blackness. There stood the bougie\nquenched on the drawers; but where was the letter? And I looked for\n_that_ now, and not for the nun.\n\n\"My letter! my letter!\" I panted and plained, almost beside myself. I\ngroped on the floor, wringing my hands wildly. Cruel, cruel doom! To\nhave my bit of comfort preternaturally snatched from me, ere I had well\ntasted its virtue!\n\nI don't know what the others were doing; I could not watch them: they\nasked me questions I did not answer; they ransacked all corners; they\nprattled about this and that disarrangement of cloaks, a breach or\ncrack in the sky-light--I know not what. \"Something or somebody has\nbeen here,\" was sagely averred.\n\n\"Oh! they have taken my letter!\" cried the grovelling, groping,\nmonomaniac.\n\n\"What letter, Lucy? My dear girl, what letter?\" asked a known voice in\nmy ear. Could I believe that ear? No: and I looked up. Could I trust my\neyes? Had I recognised the tone? Did I now look on the face of the\nwriter of that very letter? Was this gentleman near me in this dim\ngarret, John Graham--Dr. Bretton himself?\n\nYes: it was. He had been called in that very evening to prescribe for\nsome access of illness in old Madame Kint; he was the second gentleman\npresent in the salle-à-manger when I entered.\n\n\"Was it _my_ letter, Lucy?\"\n\n\"Your own: yours--the letter you wrote to me. I had come here to read\nit quietly. I could not find another spot where it was possible to have\nit to myself. I had saved it all day--never opened it till this\nevening: it was scarcely glanced over: I _cannot bear_ to lose it. Oh,\nmy letter!\"\n\n\"Hush! don't cry and distress yourself so cruelly. What is it worth?\nHush! Come out of this cold room; they are going to send for the police\nnow to examine further: we need not stay here--come, we will go down.\"\n\nA warm hand, taking my cold fingers, led me down to a room where there\nwas a fire. Dr. John and I sat before the stove. He talked to me and\nsoothed me with unutterable goodness, promising me twenty letters for\nthe one lost. If there are words and wrongs like knives, whose\ndeep-inflicted lacerations never heal--cutting injuries and insults of\nserrated and poison-dripping edge--so, too, there are consolations of\ntone too fine for the ear not fondly and for ever to retain their echo:\ncaressing kindnesses--loved, lingered over through a whole life,\nrecalled with unfaded tenderness, and answering the call with undimmed\nshine, out of that raven cloud foreshadowing Death himself. I have been\ntold since that Dr. Bretton was not nearly so perfect as I thought him:\nthat his actual character lacked the depth, height, compass, and\nendurance it possessed in my creed. I don't know: he was as good to me\nas the well is to the parched wayfarer--as the sun to the shivering\njailbird. I remember him heroic. Heroic at this moment will I hold him\nto be.\n\nHe asked me, smiling, why I cared for his letter so very much. I\nthought, but did not say, that I prized it like the blood in my veins.\nI only answered that I had so few letters to care for.\n\n\"I am sure you did not read it,\" said he; \"or you would think nothing\nof it!\"\n\n\"I read it, but only once. I want to read it again. I am sorry it is\nlost.\" And I could not help weeping afresh.\n\n\"Lucy, Lucy, my poor little god-sister (if there be such a\nrelationship), here--_here_ is your letter. Why is it not better worth\nsuch tears, and such tenderly exaggerating faith?\"\n\nCurious, characteristic manoeuvre! His quick eye had seen the letter on\nthe floor where I sought it; his hand, as quick, had snatched it up. He\nhad hidden it in his waistcoat pocket. If my trouble had wrought with a\nwhit less stress and reality, I doubt whether he would ever have\nacknowledged or restored it. Tears of temperature one degree cooler\nthan those I shed would only have amused Dr. John.\n\nPleasure at regaining made me forget merited reproach for the teasing\ntorment; my joy was great; it could not be concealed: yet I think it\nbroke out more in countenance than language. I said little.\n\n\"Are you satisfied now?\" asked Dr. John.\n\nI replied that I was--satisfied and happy.\n\n\"Well then,\" he proceeded, \"how do you feel physically? Are you growing\ncalmer? Not much: for you tremble like a leaf still.\"\n\nIt seemed to me, however, that I was sufficiently calm: at least I felt\nno longer terrified. I expressed myself composed.\n\n\"You are able, consequently, to tell me what you saw? Your account was\nquite vague, do you know? You looked white as the wall; but you only\nspoke of 'something,' not defining _what_. Was it a man? Was it an\nanimal? What was it?\"\n\n\"I never will tell exactly what I saw,\" said I, \"unless some one else\nsees it too, and then I will give corroborative testimony; but\notherwise, I shall be discredited and accused of dreaming.\"\n\n\"Tell me,\" said Dr. Bretton; \"I will hear it in my professional\ncharacter: I look on you now from a professional point of view, and I\nread, perhaps, all you would conceal--in your eye, which is curiously\nvivid and restless: in your cheek, which the blood has forsaken; in\nyour hand, which you cannot steady. Come, Lucy, speak and tell me.\"\n\n\"You would laugh--?\"\n\n\"If you don't tell me you shall have no more letters.\"\n\n\"You are laughing now.\"\n\n\"I will again take away that single epistle: being mine, I think I have\na right to reclaim it.\"\n\nI felt raillery in his words: it made me grave and quiet; but I folded\nup the letter and covered it from sight.\n\n\"You may hide it, but I can possess it any moment I choose. You don't\nknow my skill in sleight of hand; I might practise as a conjuror if I\nliked. Mamma says sometimes, too, that I have a harmonizing property of\ntongue and eye; but you never saw that in me--did you, Lucy?\"\n\n\"Indeed--indeed--when you were a mere boy I used to see both: far more\nthen than now--for now you are strong, and strength dispenses with\nsubtlety. But still,--Dr. John, you have what they call in this country\n'un air fin,' that nobody can, mistake. Madame Beck saw it, and---\"\n\n\"And liked it,\" said he, laughing, \"because she has it herself. But,\nLucy, give me that letter--you don't really care for it.\"\n\nTo this provocative speech I made no answer. Graham in mirthful mood\nmust not be humoured too far. Just now there was a new sort of smile\nplaying about his lips--very sweet, but it grieved me somehow--a new\nsort of light sparkling in his eyes: not hostile, but not reassuring. I\nrose to go--I bid him good-night a little sadly.\n\nHis sensitiveness--that peculiar, apprehensive, detective faculty of\nhis--felt in a moment the unspoken complaint--the scarce-thought\nreproach. He asked quietly if I was offended. I shook my head as\nimplying a negative.\n\n\"Permit me, then, to speak a little seriously to you before you go. You\nare in a highly nervous state. I feel sure from what is apparent in\nyour look and manner, however well controlled, that whilst alone this\nevening in that dismal, perishing sepulchral garret--that dungeon under\nthe leads, smelling of damp and mould, rank with phthisis and catarrh:\na place you never ought to enter--that you saw, or _thought_ you saw,\nsome appearance peculiarly calculated to impress the imagination. I\nknow that you _are_ not, nor ever were, subject to material terrors,\nfears of robbers, &c.--I am not so sure that a visitation, bearing a\nspectral character, would not shake your very mind. Be calm now. This\nis all a matter of the nerves, I see: but just specify the vision.\"\n\n\"You will tell nobody?\"\n\n\"Nobody--most certainly. You may trust me as implicitly as you did Père\nSilas. Indeed, the doctor is perhaps the safer confessor of the two,\nthough he has not grey hair.\"\n\n\"You will not laugh?\"\n\n\"Perhaps I may, to do you good: but not in scorn. Lucy, I feel as a\nfriend towards you, though your timid nature is slow to trust.\"\n\nHe now looked like a friend: that indescribable smile and sparkle were\ngone; those formidable arched curves of lip, nostril, eyebrow, were\ndepressed; repose marked his attitude--attention sobered his aspect.\nWon to confidence, I told him exactly what I had seen: ere now I had\nnarrated to him the legend of the house--whiling away with that\nnarrative an hour of a certain mild October afternoon, when he and I\nrode through Bois l'Etang.\n\nHe sat and thought, and while he thought, we heard them all coming\ndown-stairs.\n\n\"Are they going to interrupt?\" said he, glancing at the door with an\nannoyed expression.\n\n\"They will not come here,\" I answered; for we were in the little salon\nwhere Madame never sat in the evening, and where it was by mere chance\nthat heat was still lingering in the stove. They passed the door and\nwent on to the salle-à-manger.\n\n\"Now,\" he pursued, \"they will talk about thieves, burglars, and so on:\nlet them do so--mind you say nothing, and keep your resolution of\ndescribing your nun to nobody. She may appear to you again: don't\nstart.\"\n\n\"You think then,\" I said, with secret horror, \"she came out of my\nbrain, and is now gone in there, and may glide out again at an hour and\na day when I look not for her?\"\n\n\"I think it a case of spectral illusion: I fear, following on and\nresulting from long-continued mental conflict.\"\n\n\"Oh, Doctor John--I shudder at the thought of being liable to such an\nillusion! It seemed so real. Is there no cure?--no preventive?\"\n\n\"Happiness is the cure--a cheerful mind the preventive: cultivate both.\"\n\nNo mockery in this world ever sounds to me so hollow as that of being\ntold to _cultivate_ happiness. What does such advice mean? Happiness is\nnot a potato, to be planted in mould, and tilled with manure. Happiness\nis a glory shining far down upon us out of Heaven. She is a divine dew\nwhich the soul, on certain of its summer mornings, feels dropping upon\nit from the amaranth bloom and golden fruitage of Paradise.\n\n\"Cultivate happiness!\" I said briefly to the doctor: \"do _you_\ncultivate happiness? How do you manage?\"\n\n\"I am a cheerful fellow by nature: and then ill-luck has never dogged\nme. Adversity gave me and my mother one passing scowl and brush, but we\ndefied her, or rather laughed at her, and she went by.\".\n\n\"There is no cultivation in all this.\"\n\n\"I do not give way to melancholy.\"\n\n\"Yes: I have seen you subdued by that feeling.\"\n\n\"About Ginevra Fanshawe--eh?\"\n\n\"Did she not sometimes make you miserable?\"\n\n\"Pooh! stuff! nonsense! You see I am better now.\"\n\nIf a laughing eye with a lively light, and a face bright with beaming\nand healthy energy, could attest that he was better, better he\ncertainly was.\n\n\"You do not look much amiss, or greatly out of condition,\" I allowed.\n\n\"And why, Lucy, can't you look and feel as I do--buoyant, courageous,\nand fit to defy all the nuns and flirts in Christendom? I would give\ngold on the spot just to see you snap your fingers. Try the manoeuvre.\"\n\n\"If I were to bring Miss Fanshawe into your presence just now?\"\n\n\"I vow, Lucy, she should not move me: or, she should move me but by one\nthing--true, yes, and passionate love. I would accord forgiveness at no\nless a price.\"\n\n\"Indeed! a smile of hers would have been a fortune to you a while\nsince.\"\n\n\"Transformed, Lucy: transformed! Remember, you once called me a slave!\nbut I am a free man now!\"\n\nHe stood up: in the port of his head, the carriage of his figure, in\nhis beaming eye and mien, there revealed itself a liberty which was\nmore than ease--a mood which was disdain of his past bondage.\n\n\"Miss Fanshawe,\" he pursued, \"has led me through a phase of feeling\nwhich is over: I have entered another condition, and am now much\ndisposed to exact love for love--passion for passion--and good measure\nof it, too.\"\n\n\"Ah, Doctor! Doctor! you said it was your nature to pursue Love under\ndifficulties--to be charmed by a proud insensibility!\".\n\nHe laughed, and answered, \"My nature varies: the mood of one hour is\nsometimes the mockery of the next. Well, Lucy\" (drawing on his gloves),\n\"will the Nun come again to-night, think you?\"\n\n\"I don't think she will.\"\n\n\"Give her my compliments, if she does--Dr. John's compliments--and\nentreat her to have the goodness to wait a visit from him. Lucy, was\nshe a pretty nun? Had she a pretty face? You have not told me that yet;\nand _that_ is the really important point.\"\n\n\"She had a white cloth over her face,\" said I, \"but her eyes glittered.\"\n\n\"Confusion to her goblin trappings!\" cried he, irreverently: \"but at\nleast she had handsome eyes--bright and soft.\"\n\n\"Cold and fixed,\" was the reply.\n\n\"No, no, we'll none of her: she shall not haunt you, Lucy. Give her\nthat shake of the hand, if she comes again. Will she stand _that_, do\nyou think?\"\n\nI thought it too kind and cordial for a ghost to stand: and so was the\nsmile which matched it, and accompanied his \"Good-night.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAnd had there been anything in the garret? What did they discover? I\nbelieve, on the closest examination, their discoveries amounted to very\nlittle. They talked, at first, of the cloaks being disturbed; but\nMadame Beck told me afterwards she thought they hung much as usual: and\nas for the broken pane in the skylight, she affirmed that aperture was\nrarely without one or more panes broken or cracked: and besides, a\nheavy hail-storm had fallen a few days ago. Madame questioned me very\nclosely as to what I had seen, but I only described an obscure figure\nclothed in black: I took care not to breathe the word \"nun,\" certain\nthat this word would at once suggest to her mind an idea of romance and\nunreality. She charged me to say nothing on the subject to any servant,\npupil, or teacher, and highly commended my discretion in coming to her\nprivate salle-à-manger, instead of carrying the tale of horror to the\nschool refectory. Thus the subject dropped. I was left secretly and\nsadly to wonder, in my own mind, whether that strange thing was of this\nworld, or of a realm beyond the grave; or whether indeed it was only\nthe child of malady, and I of that malady the prey.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIII.\n\nVASHTI.\n\n\nTo wonder sadly, did I say? No: a new influence began to act upon my\nlife, and sadness, for a certain space, was held at bay. Conceive a\ndell, deep-hollowed in forest secresy; it lies in dimness and mist: its\nturf is dank, its herbage pale and humid. A storm or an axe makes a\nwide gap amongst the oak-trees; the breeze sweeps in; the sun looks\ndown; the sad, cold dell becomes a deep cup of lustre; high summer\npours her blue glory and her golden light out of that beauteous sky,\nwhich till now the starved hollow never saw.\n\nA new creed became mine--a belief in happiness.\n\nIt was three weeks since the adventure of the garret, and I possessed\nin that case, box, drawer up-stairs, casketed with that first letter,\nfour companions like to it, traced by the same firm pen, sealed with\nthe same clear seal, full of the same vital comfort. Vital comfort it\nseemed to me then: I read them in after years; they were kind letters\nenough--pleasing letters, because composed by one well pleased; in the\ntwo last there were three or four closing lines half-gay, half-tender,\n\"by _feeling_ touched, but not subdued.\" Time, dear reader, mellowed\nthem to a beverage of this mild quality; but when I first tasted their\nelixir, fresh from the fount so honoured, it seemed juice of a divine\nvintage: a draught which Hebe might fill, and the very gods approve.\n\nDoes the reader, remembering what was said some pages back, care to ask\nhow I answered these letters: whether under the dry, stinting check of\nReason, or according to the full, liberal impulse of Feeling?\n\nTo speak truth, I compromised matters; I served two masters: I bowed\ndown in the houses of Rimmon, and lifted the heart at another shrine. I\nwrote to these letters two answers--one for my own relief, the other\nfor Graham's perusal.\n\nTo begin with: Feeling and I turned Reason out of doors, drew against\nher bar and bolt, then we sat down, spread our paper, dipped in the ink\nan eager pen, and, with deep enjoyment, poured out our sincere heart.\nWhen we had done--when two sheets were covered with the language of a\nstrongly-adherent affection, a rooted and active gratitude--(once, for\nall, in this parenthesis, I disclaim, with the utmost scorn, every\nsneaking suspicion of what are called \"warmer feelings:\" women do not\nentertain these \"warmer feelings\" where, from the commencement, through\nthe whole progress of an acquaintance, they have never once been\ncheated of the conviction that, to do so would be to commit a mortal\nabsurdity: nobody ever launches into Love unless he has seen or dreamed\nthe rising of Hope's star over Love's troubled waters)--when, then, I\nhad given expression to a closely-clinging and deeply-honouring\nattachment--an attachment that wanted to attract to itself and take to\nits own lot all that was painful in the destiny of its object; that\nwould, if it could, have absorbed and conducted away all storms and\nlightnings from an existence viewed with a passion of solicitude--then,\njust at that moment, the doors of my heart would shake, bolt and bar\nwould yield, Reason would leap in vigorous and revengeful, snatch the\nfull sheets, read, sneer, erase, tear up, re-write, fold, seal, direct,\nand send a terse, curt missive of a page. She did right.\n\nI did not live on letters only: I was visited, I was looked after; once\na week I was taken out to La Terrasse; always I was made much of. Dr.\nBretton failed not to tell me _why_ he was so kind: \"To keep away the\nnun,\" he said; \"he was determined to dispute with her her prey. He had\ntaken,\" he declared, \"a thorough dislike to her, chiefly on account of\nthat white face-cloth, and those cold grey eyes: the moment he heard of\nthose odious particulars,\" he affirmed, \"consummate disgust had incited\nhim to oppose her; he was determined to try whether he or she was the\ncleverest, and he only wished she would once more look in upon me when\nhe was present:\" but _that_ she never did. In short, he regarded me\nscientifically in the light of a patient, and at once exercised his\nprofessional skill, and gratified his natural benevolence, by a course\nof cordial and attentive treatment.\n\nOne evening, the first in December, I was walking by myself in the\ncarré; it was six o'clock; the classe-doors were closed; but within,\nthe pupils, rampant in the licence of evening recreation, were\ncounterfeiting a miniature chaos. The carré was quite dark, except a\nred light shining under and about the stove; the wide glass-doors and\nthe long windows were frosted over; a crystal sparkle of starlight,\nhere and there spangling this blanched winter veil, and breaking with\nscattered brilliance the paleness of its embroidery, proved it a clear\nnight, though moonless. That I should dare to remain thus alone in\ndarkness, showed that my nerves were regaining a healthy tone: I\nthought of the nun, but hardly feared her; though the staircase was\nbehind me, leading up, through blind, black night, from landing to\nlanding, to the haunted grenier. Yet I own my heart quaked, my pulse\nleaped, when I suddenly heard breathing and rustling, and turning, saw\nin the deep shadow of the steps a deeper shadow still--a shape that\nmoved and descended. It paused a while at the classe-door, and then it\nglided before me. Simultaneously came a clangor of the distant\ndoor-bell. Life-like sounds bring life-like feelings: this shape was\ntoo round and low for my gaunt nun: it was only Madame Beck on duty.\n\n\"Mademoiselle Lucy!\" cried Rosine, bursting in, lamp in hand, from the\ncorridor, \"on est là pour vous au salon.\"\n\nMadame saw me, I saw Madame, Rosine saw us both: there was no mutual\nrecognition. I made straight for the salon. There I found what I own I\nanticipated I should find--Dr. Bretton; but he was in evening-dress.\n\n\"The carriage is at the door,\" said he; \"my mother has sent it to take\nyou to the theatre; she was going herself, but an arrival has prevented\nher: she immediately said, 'Take Lucy in my place.' Will you go?\"\n\n\"Just now? I am not dressed,\" cried I, glancing despairingly at my dark\nmerino.\n\n\"You have half an hour to dress. I should have given you notice, but I\nonly determined on going since five o'clock, when I heard there was to\nbe a genuine regale in the presence of a great actress.\"\n\nAnd he mentioned a name that thrilled me--a name that, in those days,\ncould thrill Europe. It is hushed now: its once restless echoes are all\nstill; she who bore it went years ago to her rest: night and oblivion\nlong since closed above her; but _then_ her day--a day of Sirius--stood\nat its full height, light and fervour.\n\n\"I'll go; I will be ready in ten minutes,\" I vowed. And away I flew,\nnever once checked, reader, by the thought which perhaps at this moment\nchecks you: namely, that to go anywhere with Graham and without Mrs.\nBretton could be objectionable. I could not have conceived, much less\nhave expressed to Graham, such thought--such scruple--without risk of\nexciting a tyrannous self-contempt: of kindling an inward fire of shame\nso quenchless, and so devouring, that I think it would soon have licked\nup the very life in my veins. Besides, my godmother, knowing her son,\nand knowing me, would as soon have thought of chaperoning a sister with\na brother, as of keeping anxious guard over our incomings and outgoings.\n\nThe present was no occasion for showy array; my dun mist crape would\nsuffice, and I sought the same in the great oak-wardrobe in the\ndormitory, where hung no less than forty dresses. But there had been\nchanges and reforms, and some innovating hand had pruned this same\ncrowded wardrobe, and carried divers garments to the grenier--my crape\namongst the rest. I must fetch it. I got the key, and went aloft\nfearless, almost thoughtless. I unlocked the door, I plunged in. The\nreader may believe it or not, but when I thus suddenly entered, that\ngarret was not wholly dark as it should have been: from one point there\nshone a solemn light, like a star, but broader. So plainly it shone,\nthat it revealed the deep alcove with a portion of the tarnished\nscarlet curtain drawn over it. Instantly, silently, before my eyes, it\nvanished; so did the curtain and alcove: all that end of the garret\nbecame black as night. I ventured no research; I had not time nor will;\nsnatching my dress, which hung on the wall, happily near the door, I\nrushed out, relocked the door with convulsed haste, and darted\ndownwards to the dormitory.\n\nBut I trembled too much to dress myself: impossible to arrange hair or\nfasten hooks-and-eyes with such fingers, so I called Rosine and bribed\nher to help me. Rosine liked a bribe, so she did her best, smoothed and\nplaited my hair as well as a coiffeur would have done, placed the lace\ncollar mathematically straight, tied the neck-ribbon accurately--in\nshort, did her work like the neat-handed Phillis she could be when she\nthose. Having given me my handkerchief and gloves, she took the candle\nand lighted me down-stairs. After all, I had forgotten my shawl; she\nran back to fetch it; and I stood with Dr. John in the vestibule,\nwaiting.\n\n\"What is this, Lucy?\" said he, looking down at me narrowly. \"Here is\nthe old excitement. Ha! the nun again?\"\n\nBut I utterly denied the charge: I was vexed to be suspected of a\nsecond illusion. He was sceptical.\n\n\"She has been, as sure as I live,\" said he; \"her figure crossing your\neyes leaves on them a peculiar gleam and expression not to be mistaken.\"\n\n\"She has _not_ been,\" I persisted: for, indeed, I could deny her\napparition with truth.\n\n\"The old symptoms are there,\" he affirmed: \"a particular pale, and what\nthe Scotch call a 'raised' look.\"\n\nHe was so obstinate, I thought it better to tell him what I really\n_had_ seen. Of course with him it was held to be another effect of the\nsame cause: it was all optical illusion--nervous malady, and so on. Not\none bit did I believe him; but I dared not contradict: doctors are so\nself-opinionated, so immovable in their dry, materialist views.\n\nRosine brought the shawl, and I was bundled into the carriage.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe theatre was full--crammed to its roof: royal and noble were there:\npalace and hotel had emptied their inmates into those tiers so thronged\nand so hushed. Deeply did I feel myself privileged in having a place\nbefore that stage; I longed to see a being of whose powers I had heard\nreports which made me conceive peculiar anticipations. I wondered if\nshe would justify her renown: with strange curiosity, with feelings\nsevere and austere, yet of riveted interest, I waited. She was a study\nof such nature as had not encountered my eyes yet: a great and new\nplanet she was: but in what shape? I waited her rising.\n\nShe rose at nine that December night: above the horizon I saw her come.\nShe could shine yet with pale grandeur and steady might; but that star\nverged already on its judgment-day. Seen near, it was a chaos--hollow,\nhalf-consumed: an orb perished or perishing--half lava, half glow.\n\nI had heard this woman termed \"plain,\" and I expected bony harshness\nand grimness--something large, angular, sallow. What I saw was the\nshadow of a royal Vashti: a queen, fair as the day once, turned pale\nnow like twilight, and wasted like wax in flame.\n\nFor awhile--a long while--I thought it was only a woman, though an\nunique woman, Who moved in might and grace before this multitude.\nBy-and-by I recognised my mistake. Behold! I found upon her something\nneither of woman nor of man: in each of her eyes sat a devil. These\nevil forces bore her through the tragedy, kept up her feeble\nstrength--for she was but a frail creature; and as the action rose and\nthe stir deepened, how wildly they shook her with their passions of the\npit! They wrote HELL on her straight, haughty brow. They tuned her\nvoice to the note of torment. They writhed her regal face to a demoniac\nmask. Hate and Murder and Madness incarnate she stood.\n\nIt was a marvellous sight: a mighty revelation.\n\nIt was a spectacle low, horrible, immoral.\n\nSwordsmen thrust through, and dying in their blood on the arena sand;\nbulls goring horses disembowelled, made a meeker vision for the\npublic--a milder condiment for a people's palate--than Vashti torn by\nseven devils: devils which cried sore and rent the tenement they\nhaunted, but still refused to be exorcised.\n\nSuffering had struck that stage empress; and she stood before her\naudience neither yielding to, nor enduring, nor, in finite measure,\nresenting it: she stood locked in struggle, rigid in resistance. She\nstood, not dressed, but draped in pale antique folds, long and regular\nlike sculpture. A background and entourage and flooring of deepest\ncrimson threw her out, white like alabaster--like silver: rather, be it\nsaid, like Death.\n\nWhere was the artist of the Cleopatra? Let him come and sit down and\nstudy this different vision. Let him seek here the mighty brawn, the\nmuscle, the abounding blood, the full-fed flesh he worshipped: let all\nmaterialists draw nigh and look on.\n\nI have said that she does not _resent_ her grief. No; the weakness of\nthat word would make it a lie. To her, what hurts becomes immediately\nembodied: she looks on it as a thing that can be attacked, worried\ndown, torn in shreds. Scarcely a substance herself, she grapples to\nconflict with abstractions. Before calamity she is a tigress; she rends\nher woes, shivers them in convulsed abhorrence. Pain, for her, has no\nresult in good: tears water no harvest of wisdom: on sickness, on death\nitself, she looks with the eye of a rebel. Wicked, perhaps, she is, but\nalso she is strong; and her strength has conquered Beauty, has overcome\nGrace, and bound both at her side, captives peerlessly fair, and docile\nas fair. Even in the uttermost frenzy of energy is each maenad movement\nroyally, imperially, incedingly upborne. Her hair, flying loose in\nrevel or war, is still an angel's hair, and glorious under a halo.\nFallen, insurgent, banished, she remembers the heaven where she\nrebelled. Heaven's light, following her exile, pierces its confines,\nand discloses their forlorn remoteness.\n\nPlace now the Cleopatra, or any other slug, before her as an obstacle,\nand see her cut through the pulpy mass as the scimitar of Saladin clove\nthe down cushion. Let Paul Peter Rubens wake from the dead, let him\nrise out of his cerements, and bring into this presence all the army of\nhis fat women; the magian power or prophet-virtue gifting that slight\nrod of Moses, could, at one waft, release and re-mingle a sea\nspell-parted, whelming the heavy host with the down-rush of overthrown\nsea-ramparts.\n\nVashti was not good, I was told; and I have said she did not look good:\nthough a spirit, she was a spirit out of Tophet. Well, if so much of\nunholy force can arise from below, may not an equal efflux of sacred\nessence descend one day from above?\n\nWhat thought Dr. Graham of this being?\n\nFor long intervals I forgot to look how he demeaned himself, or to\nquestion what he thought. The strong magnetism of genius drew my heart\nout of its wonted orbit; the sunflower turned from the south to a\nfierce light, not solar--a rushing, red, cometary light--hot on vision\nand to sensation. I had seen acting before, but never anything like\nthis: never anything which astonished Hope and hushed Desire; which\noutstripped Impulse and paled Conception; which, instead of merely\nirritating imagination with the thought of what _might_ be done, at the\nsame time fevering the nerves because it was _not_ done, disclosed\npower like a deep, swollen winter river, thundering in cataract, and\nbearing the soul, like a leaf, on the steep and steelly sweep of its\ndescent.\n\nMiss Fanshawe, with her usual ripeness of judgment, pronounced Dr.\nBretton a serious, impassioned man, too grave and too impressible. Not\nin such light did I ever see him: no such faults could I lay to his\ncharge. His natural attitude was not the meditative, nor his natural\nmood the sentimental; _impressionable_ he was as dimpling water, but,\nalmost as water, _unimpressible:_ the breeze, the sun, moved him--metal\ncould not grave, nor fire brand.\n\nDr. John _could_ think and think well, but he was rather a man of\naction than of thought; he _could_ feel, and feel vividly in his way,\nbut his heart had no chord for enthusiasm: to bright, soft, sweet\ninfluences his eyes and lips gave bright, soft, sweet welcome,\nbeautiful to see as dyes of rose and silver, pearl and purple, imbuing\nsummer clouds; for what belonged to storm, what was wild and intense,\ndangerous, sudden, and flaming, he had no sympathy, and held with it no\ncommunion. When I took time and regained inclination to glance at him,\nit amused and enlightened me to discover that he was watching that\nsinister and sovereign Vashti, not with wonder, nor worship, nor yet\ndismay, but simply with intense curiosity. Her agony did not pain him,\nher wild moan--worse than a shriek--did not much move him; her fury\nrevolted him somewhat, but not to the point of horror. Cool young\nBriton! The pale cliffs of his own England do not look down on the\ntides of the Channel more calmly than he watched the Pythian\ninspiration of that night.\n\nLooking at his face, I longed to know his exact opinions, and at last I\nput a question tending to elicit them. At the sound of my voice he\nawoke as if out of a dream; for he had been thinking, and very intently\nthinking, his own thoughts, after his own manner. \"How did he like\nVashti?\" I wished to know.\n\n\"Hm-m-m,\" was the first scarce articulate but expressive answer; and\nthen such a strange smile went wandering round his lips, a smile so\ncritical, so almost callous! I suppose that for natures of that order\nhis sympathies _were_ callous. In a few terse phrases he told me his\nopinion of, and feeling towards, the actress: he judged her as a woman,\nnot an artist: it was a branding judgment.\n\nThat night was already marked in my book of life, not with white, but\nwith a deep-red cross. But I had not done with it yet; and other\nmemoranda were destined to be set down in characters of tint indelible.\n\nTowards midnight, when the deepening tragedy blackened to the\ndeath-scene, and all held their breath, and even Graham bit his\nunder-lip, and knit his brow, and sat still and struck--when the whole\ntheatre was hushed, when the vision of all eyes centred in one point,\nwhen all ears listened towards one quarter--nothing being seen but the\nwhite form sunk on a seat, quivering in conflict with her last, her\nworst-hated, her visibly-conquering foe--nothing heard but her throes,\nher gaspings, breathing yet of mutiny, panting still defiance; when, as\nit seemed, an inordinate will, convulsing a perishing mortal frame,\nbent it to battle with doom and death, fought every inch of ground,\nsold every drop of blood, resisted to the latest the rape of every\nfaculty, _would_ see, _would_ hear, _would_ breathe, _would_ live, up\nto, within, well-nigh _beyond_ the moment when death says to all sense\nand all being--\"Thus far and no farther!\"--\n\nJust then a stir, pregnant with omen, rustled behind the scenes--feet\nran, voices spoke. What was it? demanded the whole house. A flame, a\nsmell of smoke replied.\n\n\"Fire!\" rang through the gallery. \"Fire!\" was repeated, re-echoed,\nyelled forth: and then, and faster than pen can set it down, came\npanic, rushing, crushing--a blind, selfish, cruel chaos.\n\nAnd Dr. John? Reader, I see him yet, with his look of comely courage\nand cordial calm.\n\n\"Lucy will sit still, I know,\" said he, glancing down at me with the\nsame serene goodness, the same repose of firmness that I have seen in\nhim when sitting at his side amid the secure peace of his mother's\nhearth. Yes, thus adjured, I think I would have sat still under a\nrocking crag: but, indeed, to sit still in actual circumstances was my\ninstinct; and at the price of my very life, I would not have moved to\ngive him trouble, thwart his will, or make demands on his attention. We\nwere in the stalls, and for a few minutes there was a most terrible,\nruthless pressure about us.\n\n\"How terrified are the women!\" said he; \"but if the men were not almost\nequally so, order might be maintained. This is a sorry scene: I see\nfifty selfish brutes at this moment, each of whom, if I were near, I\ncould conscientiously knock down. I see some women braver than some\nmen. There is one yonder--Good God!\"\n\nWhile Graham was speaking, a young girl who had been very quietly and\nsteadily clinging to a gentleman before us, was suddenly struck from\nher protector's arms by a big, butcherly intruder, and hurled under the\nfeet of the crowd. Scarce two seconds lasted her disappearance. Graham\nrushed forwards; he and the gentleman, a powerful man though\ngrey-haired, united their strength to thrust back the throng; her head\nand long hair fell back over his shoulder: she seemed unconscious.\n\n\"Trust her with me; I am a medical man,\" said Dr. John.\n\n\"If you have no lady with you, be it so,\" was the answer. \"Hold her,\nand I will force a passage: we must get her to the air.\"\n\n\"I have a lady,\" said Graham; \"but she will be neither hindrance nor\nincumbrance.\"\n\nHe summoned me with his eye: we were separated. Resolute, however, to\nrejoin him, I penetrated the living barrier, creeping under where I\ncould not get between or over.\n\n\"Fasten on me, and don't leave go,\" he said; and I obeyed him.\n\nOur pioneer proved strong and adroit; he opened the dense mass like a\nwedge; with patience and toil he at last bored through the\nflesh-and-blood rock--so solid, hot, and suffocating--and brought us to\nthe fresh, freezing night.\n\n\"You are an Englishman!\" said he, turning shortly on Dr. Bretton, when\nwe got into the street.\n\n\"An Englishman. And I speak to a countryman?\" was the reply.\n\n\"Right. Be good enough to stand here two minutes, whilst I find my\ncarriage.\"\n\n\"Papa, I am not hurt,\" said a girlish voice; \"am I with papa?\"\n\n\"You are with a friend, and your father is close at hand.\"\n\n\"Tell him I am not hurt, except just in my shoulder. Oh, my shoulder!\nThey trod just here.\"\n\n\"Dislocation, perhaps!\" muttered the Doctor: \"let us hope there is no\nworse injury done. Lucy, lend a hand one instant.\"\n\nAnd I assisted while he made some arrangement of drapery and position\nfor the ease of his suffering burden. She suppressed a moan, and lay in\nhis arms quietly and patiently.\n\n\"She is very light,\" said Graham, \"like a child!\" and he asked in my\near, \"Is she a child, Lucy? Did you notice her age?\"\n\n\"I am not a child--I am a person of seventeen,\" responded the patient,\ndemurely and with dignity. Then, directly after: \"Tell papa to come; I\nget anxious.\"\n\nThe carriage drove up; her father relieved Graham; but in the exchange\nfrom one bearer to another she was hurt, and moaned again.\n\n\"My darling!\" said the father, tenderly; then turning to Graham, \"You\nsaid, sir, you are a medical man?\"\n\n\"I am: Dr. Bretton, of La Terrasse.\"\n\n\"Good. Will you step into my carriage?\"\n\n\"My own carriage is here: I will seek it, and accompany you.\"\n\n\"Be pleased, then, to follow us.\" And he named his address: \"The Hôtel\nCrécy, in the Rue Crécy.\"\n\nWe followed; the carriage drove fast; myself and Graham were silent.\nThis seemed like an adventure.\n\nSome little time being lost in seeking our own equipage, we reached the\nhotel perhaps about ten minutes after these strangers. It was an hotel\nin the foreign sense: a collection of dwelling-houses, not an inn--a\nvast, lofty pile, with a huge arch to its street-door, leading through\na vaulted covered way, into a square all built round.\n\nWe alighted, passed up a wide, handsome public staircase, and stopped\nat Numéro 2 on the second landing; the first floor comprising the abode\nof I know not what \"prince Russe,\" as Graham informed me. On ringing\nthe bell at a second great door, we were admitted to a suite of very\nhandsome apartments. Announced by a servant in livery, we entered a\ndrawing-room whose hearth glowed with an English fire, and whose walls\ngleamed with foreign mirrors. Near the hearth appeared a little group:\na slight form sunk in a deep arm-chair, one or two women busy about it,\nthe iron-grey gentleman anxiously looking on.\n\n\"Where is Harriet? I wish Harriet would come to me,\" said the girlish\nvoice, faintly.\n\n\"Where is Mrs. Hurst?\" demanded the gentleman impatiently and somewhat\nsternly of the man-servant who had admitted us.\n\n\"I am sorry to say she is gone out of town, sir; my young lady gave her\nleave till to-morrow.\"\n\n\"Yes--I did--I did. She is gone to see her sister; I said she might go:\nI remember now,\" interposed the young lady; \"but I am so sorry, for\nManon and Louison cannot understand a word I say, and they hurt me\nwithout meaning to do so.\"\n\nDr. John and the gentleman now interchanged greetings; and while they\npassed a few minutes in consultation, I approached the easy-chair, and\nseeing what the faint and sinking girl wished to have done, I did it\nfor her.\n\nI was still occupied in the arrangement, when Graham drew near; he was\nno less skilled in surgery than medicine, and, on examination, found\nthat no further advice than his own was necessary to the treatment of\nthe present case. He ordered her to be carried to her chamber, and\nwhispered to me:--\"Go with the women, Lucy; they seem but dull; you can\nat least direct their movements, and thus spare her some pain. She must\nbe touched very tenderly.\"\n\nThe chamber was a room shadowy with pale-blue hangings, vaporous with\ncurtainings and veilings of muslin; the bed seemed to me like\nsnow-drift and mist--spotless, soft, and gauzy. Making the women stand\napart, I undressed their mistress, without their well-meaning but\nclumsy aid. I was not in a sufficiently collected mood to note with\nseparate distinctness every detail of the attire I removed, but I\nreceived a general impression of refinement, delicacy, and perfect\npersonal cultivation; which, in a period of after-thought, offered in\nmy reflections a singular contrast to notes retained of Miss Ginevra\nFanshawe's appointments.\n\nThe girl was herself a small, delicate creature, but made like a model.\nAs I folded back her plentiful yet fine hair, so shining and soft, and\nso exquisitely tended, I had under my observation a young, pale, weary,\nbut high-bred face. The brow was smooth and clear; the eyebrows were\ndistinct, but soft, and melting to a mere trace at the temples; the\neyes were a rich gift of nature--fine and full, large, deep, seeming to\nhold dominion over the slighter subordinate features--capable,\nprobably, of much significance at another hour and under other\ncircumstances than the present, but now languid and suffering. Her skin\nwas perfectly fair, the neck and hands veined finely like the petals of\na flower; a thin glazing of the ice of pride polished this delicate\nexterior, and her lip wore a curl--I doubt not inherent and\nunconscious, but which, if I had seen it first with the accompaniments\nof health and state, would have struck me as unwarranted, and proving\nin the little lady a quite mistaken view of life and her own\nconsequence.\n\nHer demeanour under the Doctor's hands at first excited a smile; it was\nnot puerile--rather, on the whole, patient and firm--but yet, once or\ntwice she addressed him with suddenness and sharpness, saying that he\nhurt her, and must contrive to give her less pain; I saw her large\neyes, too, settle on his face like the solemn eyes of some pretty,\nwondering child. I know not whether Graham felt this examination: if he\ndid, he was cautious not to check or discomfort it by any retaliatory\nlook. I think he performed his work with extreme care and gentleness,\nsparing her what pain he could; and she acknowledged as much, when he\nhad done, by the words:--\"Thank you, Doctor, and good-night,\" very\ngratefully pronounced as she uttered them, however, it was with a\nrepetition of the serious, direct gaze, I thought, peculiar in its\ngravity and intentness.\n\nThe injuries, it seems, were not dangerous: an assurance which her\nfather received with a smile that almost made one his friend--it was so\nglad and gratified. He now expressed his obligations to Graham with as\nmuch earnestness as was befitting an Englishman addressing one who has\nserved him, but is yet a stranger; he also begged him to call the next\nday.\n\n\"Papa,\" said a voice from the veiled couch, \"thank the lady, too; is\nshe there?\"\n\nI opened the curtain with a smile, and looked in at her. She lay now at\ncomparative ease; she looked pretty, though pale; her face was\ndelicately designed, and if at first sight it appeared proud, I believe\ncustom might prove it to be soft.\n\n\"I thank the lady very sincerely,\" said her father: \"I fancy she has\nbeen very good to my child. I think we scarcely dare tell Mrs. Hurst\nwho has been her substitute and done her work; she will feel at once\nashamed and jealous.\"\n\nAnd thus, in the most friendly spirit, parting greetings were\ninterchanged; and refreshment having been hospitably offered, but by\nus, as it was late, refused, we withdrew from the Hôtel Crécy.\n\nOn our way back we repassed the theatre. All was silence and darkness:\nthe roaring, rushing crowd all vanished and gone--the damps, as well as\nthe incipient fire, extinct and forgotten. Next morning's papers\nexplained that it was but some loose drapery on which a spark had\nfallen, and which had blazed up and been quenched in a moment.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIV.\n\nM. DE BASSOMPIERRE.\n\n\nThose who live in retirement, whose lives have fallen amid the\nseclusion of schools or of other walled-in and guarded dwellings, are\nliable to be suddenly and for a long while dropped out of the memory of\ntheir friends, the denizens of a freer world. Unaccountably, perhaps,\nand close upon some space of unusually frequent intercourse--some\ncongeries of rather exciting little circumstances, whose natural sequel\nwould rather seem to be the quickening than the suspension of\ncommunication--there falls a stilly pause, a wordless silence, a long\nblank of oblivion. Unbroken always is this blank; alike entire and\nunexplained. The letter, the message once frequent, are cut off; the\nvisit, formerly periodical, ceases to occur; the book, paper, or other\ntoken that indicated remembrance, comes no more.\n\nAlways there are excellent reasons for these lapses, if the hermit but\nknew them. Though he is stagnant in his cell, his connections without\nare whirling in the very vortex of life. That void interval which\npasses for him so slowly that the very clocks seem at a stand, and the\nwingless hours plod by in the likeness of tired tramps prone to rest at\nmilestones--that same interval, perhaps, teems with events, and pants\nwith hurry for his friends.\n\nThe hermit--if he be a sensible hermit--will swallow his own thoughts,\nand lock up his own emotions during these weeks of inward winter. He\nwill know that Destiny designed him to imitate, on occasion, the\ndormouse, and he will be conformable: make a tidy ball of himself,\ncreep into a hole of life's wall, and submit decently to the drift\nwhich blows in and soon blocks him up, preserving him in ice for the\nseason.\n\nLet him say, \"It is quite right: it ought to be so, since so it is.\"\nAnd, perhaps, one day his snow-sepulchre will open, spring's softness\nwill return, the sun and south-wind will reach him; the budding of\nhedges, and carolling of birds, and singing of liberated streams, will\ncall him to kindly resurrection. _Perhaps_ this may be the case,\nperhaps not: the frost may get into his heart and never thaw more; when\nspring comes, a crow or a pie may pick out of the wall only his\ndormouse-bones. Well, even in that case, all will be right: it is to be\nsupposed he knew from the first he was mortal, and must one day go the\nway of all flesh, \"As well soon as syne.\"\n\nFollowing that eventful evening at the theatre, came for me seven weeks\nas bare as seven sheets of blank paper: no word was written on one of\nthem; not a visit, not a token.\n\nAbout the middle of that time I entertained fancies that something had\nhappened to my friends at La Terrasse. The mid-blank is always a\nbeclouded point for the solitary: his nerves ache with the strain of\nlong expectancy; the doubts hitherto repelled gather now to a mass\nand--strong in accumulation--roll back upon him with a force which\nsavours of vindictiveness. Night, too, becomes an unkindly time, and\nsleep and his nature cannot agree: strange starts and struggles harass\nhis couch: the sinister band of bad dreams, with horror of calamity,\nand sick dread of entire desertion at their head, join the league\nagainst him. Poor wretch! He does his best to bear up, but he is a\npoor, pallid, wasting wretch, despite that best.\n\nTowards the last of these long seven weeks I admitted, what through the\nother six I had jealously excluded--the conviction that these blanks\nwere inevitable: the result of circumstances, the fiat of fate, a part\nof my life's lot and--above all--a matter about whose origin no\nquestion must ever be asked, for whose painful sequence no murmur ever\nuttered. Of course I did not blame myself for suffering: I thank God I\nhad a truer sense of justice than to fall into any imbecile\nextravagance of self-accusation; and as to blaming others for silence,\nin my reason I well knew them blameless, and in my heart acknowledged\nthem so: but it was a rough and heavy road to travel, and I longed for\nbetter days.\n\nI tried different expedients to sustain and fill existence: I commenced\nan elaborate piece of lace-work, I studied German pretty hard, I\nundertook a course of regular reading of the driest and thickest books\nin the library; in all my efforts I was as orthodox as I knew how to\nbe. Was there error somewhere? Very likely. I only know the result was\nas if I had gnawed a file to satisfy hunger, or drank brine to quench\nthirst.\n\nMy hour of torment was the post-hour. Unfortunately, I knew it too\nwell, and tried as vainly as assiduously to cheat myself of that\nknowledge; dreading the rack of expectation, and the sick collapse of\ndisappointment which daily preceded and followed upon that\nwell-recognised ring.\n\nI suppose animals kept in cages, and so scantily fed as to be always\nupon the verge of famine, await their food as I awaited a letter.\nOh!--to speak truth, and drop that tone of a false calm which long to\nsustain, outwears nature's endurance--I underwent in those seven weeks\nbitter fears and pains, strange inward trials, miserable defections of\nhope, intolerable encroachments of despair. This last came so near me\nsometimes that her breath went right through me. I used to feel it like\na baleful air or sigh, penetrate deep, and make motion pause at my\nheart, or proceed only under unspeakable oppression. The letter--the\nwell-beloved letter--would not come; and it was all of sweetness in\nlife I had to look for.\n\nIn the very extremity of want, I had recourse again, and yet again, to\nthe little packet in the case--the five letters. How splendid that\nmonth seemed whose skies had beheld the rising of these five stars! It\nwas always at night I visited them, and not daring to ask every evening\nfor a candle in the kitchen, I bought a wax taper and matches to light\nit, and at the study-hour stole up to the dormitory and feasted on my\ncrust from the Barmecide's loaf. It did not nourish me: I pined on it,\nand got as thin as a shadow: otherwise I was not ill.\n\nReading there somewhat late one evening, and feeling that the power to\nread was leaving me--for the letters from incessant perusal were losing\nall sap and significance: my gold was withering to leaves before my\neyes, and I was sorrowing over the disillusion--suddenly a quick\ntripping foot ran up the stairs. I knew Ginevra Fanshawe's step: she\nhad dined in town that afternoon; she was now returned, and would come\nhere to replace her shawl, &c. in the wardrobe.\n\nYes: in she came, dressed in bright silk, with her shawl falling from\nher shoulders, and her curls, half-uncurled in the damp of night,\ndrooping careless and heavy upon her neck. I had hardly time to\nrecasket my treasures and lock them up when she was at my side her\nhumour seemed none of the best.\n\n\"It has been a stupid evening: they are stupid people,\" she began.\n\n\"Who? Mrs. Cholmondeley? I thought you always found her house charming?\"\n\n\"I have not been to Mrs. Cholmondeley's.\"\n\n\"Indeed! Have you made new acquaintance?\"\n\n\"My uncle de Bassompierre is come.\"\n\n\"Your uncle de Bassompierre! Are you not glad?--I thought he was a\nfavourite.\"\n\n\"You thought wrong: the man is odious; I hate him.\"\n\n\"Because he is a foreigner? or for what other reason of equal weight?\"\n\n\"He is not a foreigner. The man is English enough, goodness knows; and\nhad an English name till three or four years ago; but his mother was a\nforeigner, a de Bassompierre, and some of her family are dead and have\nleft him estates, a title, and this name: he is quite a great man now.\"\n\n\"Do you hate him for that reason?\"\n\n\"Don't I know what mamma says about him? He is not my own uncle, but\nmarried mamma's sister. Mamma detests him; she says he killed aunt\nGinevra with unkindness: he looks like a bear. Such a dismal evening!\"\nshe went on. \"I'll go no more to his big hotel. Fancy me walking into a\nroom alone, and a great man fifty years old coming forwards, and after\na few minutes' conversation actually turning his back upon me, and then\nabruptly going out of the room. Such odd ways! I daresay his conscience\nsmote him, for they all say at home I am the picture of aunt Ginevra.\nMamma often declares the likeness is quite ridiculous.\"\n\n\"Were you the only visitor?\"\n\n\"The only visitor? Yes; then there was missy, my cousin: little\nspoiled, pampered thing.\"\n\n\"M. de Bassompierre has a daughter?\"\n\n\"Yes, yes: don't tease one with questions. Oh, dear! I am so tired.\"\n\nShe yawned. Throwing herself without ceremony on my bed she added, \"It\nseems Mademoiselle was nearly crushed to a jelly in a hubbub at the\ntheatre some weeks ago.\"\n\n\"Ah! indeed. And they live at a large hotel in the Rue Crécy?\"\n\n\"Justement. How do _you_ know?\"\n\n\"I have been there.\"\n\n\"Oh, you have? Really! You go everywhere in these days. I suppose\nMother Bretton took you. She and Esculapius have the _entrée_ of the de\nBassompierre apartments: it seems 'my son John' attended missy on the\noccasion of her accident--Accident? Bah! All affectation! I don't think\nshe was squeezed more than she richly deserves for her airs. And now\nthere is quite an intimacy struck up: I heard something about 'auld\nlang syne,' and what not. Oh, how stupid they all were!\"\n\n\"_All!_ You said you were the only visitor.\"\n\n\"Did I? You see one forgets to particularize an old woman and her boy.\"\n\n\"Dr. and Mrs. Bretton were at M. de Bassompierre's this evening?\"\n\n\"Ay, ay! as large as life; and missy played the hostess. What a\nconceited doll it is!\"\n\nSoured and listless, Miss Fanshawe was beginning to disclose the causes\nof her prostrate condition. There had been a retrenchment of incense, a\ndiversion or a total withholding of homage and attention coquetry had\nfailed of effect, vanity had undergone mortification. She lay fuming in\nthe vapours.\n\n\"Is Miss de Bassompierre quite well now?\" I asked.\n\n\"As well as you or I, no doubt; but she is an affected little thing,\nand gave herself invalid airs to attract medical notice. And to see the\nold dowager making her recline on a couch, and 'my son John'\nprohibiting excitement, etcetera--faugh! the scene was quite sickening.\"\n\n\"It would not have been so if the object of attention had been changed:\nif you had taken Miss de Bassompierre's place.\"\n\n\"Indeed! I hate 'my son John!'\"\n\n\"'My son John!'--whom do you indicate by that name? Dr. Bretton's\nmother never calls him so.\"\n\n\"Then she ought. A clownish, bearish John he is.\"\n\n\"You violate the truth in saying so; and as the whole of my patience is\nnow spun off the distaff, I peremptorily desire you to rise from that\nbed, and vacate this room.\"\n\n\"Passionate thing! Your face is the colour of a coquelicot. I wonder\nwhat always makes you so mighty testy à l'endroit du gros Jean? 'John\nAnderson, my Joe, John!' Oh, the distinguished name!\"\n\nThrilling with exasperation, to which it would have been sheer folly to\nhave given vent--for there was no contending with that unsubstantial\nfeather, that mealy-winged moth--I extinguished my taper, locked my\nbureau, and left her, since she would not leave me. Small-beer as she\nwas, she had turned insufferably acid.\n\nThe morrow was Thursday and a half-holiday. Breakfast was over; I had\nwithdrawn to the first classe. The dreaded hour, the post-hour, was\nnearing, and I sat waiting it, much as a ghost-seer might wait his\nspectre. Less than ever was a letter probable; still, strive as I\nwould, I could not forget that it was possible. As the moments\nlessened, a restlessness and fear almost beyond the average assailed\nme. It was a day of winter east wind, and I had now for some time\nentered into that dreary fellowship with the winds and their changes,\nso little known, so incomprehensible to the healthy. The north and east\nowned a terrific influence, making all pain more poignant, all sorrow\nsadder. The south could calm, the west sometimes cheer: unless, indeed,\nthey brought on their wings the burden of thunder-clouds, under the\nweight and warmth of which all energy died.\n\nBitter and dark as was this January day, I remember leaving the classe,\nand running down without bonnet to the bottom of the long garden, and\nthen lingering amongst the stripped shrubs, in the forlorn hope that\nthe postman's ring might occur while I was out of hearing, and I might\nthus be spared the thrill which some particular nerve or nerves, almost\ngnawed through with the unremitting tooth of a fixed idea, were\nbecoming wholly unfit to support. I lingered as long as I dared without\nfear of attracting attention by my absence. I muffled my head in my\napron, and stopped my ears in terror of the torturing clang, sure to be\nfollowed by such blank silence, such barren vacuum for me. At last I\nventured to re-enter the first classe, where, as it was not yet nine\no'clock, no pupils had been admitted. The first thing seen was a white\nobject on my black desk, a white, flat object. The post had, indeed,\narrived; by me unheard. Rosine had visited my cell, and, like some\nangel, had left behind her a bright token of her presence. That shining\nthing on the desk was indeed a letter, a real letter; I saw so much at\nthe distance of three yards, and as I had but one correspondent on\nearth, from that one it must come. He remembered me yet. How deep a\npulse of gratitude sent new life through my heart.\n\nDrawing near, bending and looking on the letter, in trembling but\nalmost certain hope of seeing a known hand, it was my lot to find, on\nthe contrary, an autograph for the moment deemed unknown--a pale female\nscrawl, instead of a firm, masculine character. I then thought fate was\n_too_ hard for me, and I said, audibly, \"This is cruel.\"\n\nBut I got over that pain also. Life is still life, whatever its pangs:\nour eyes and ears and their use remain with us, though the prospect of\nwhat pleases be wholly withdrawn, and the sound of what consoles be\nquite silenced.\n\nI opened the billet: by this time I had recognised its handwriting as\nperfectly familiar. It was dated \"La Terrasse,\" and it ran thus:--\n\n\"DEAR LUCY,--It occurs to me to inquire what you have been doing with\nyourself for the last month or two? Not that I suspect you would have\nthe least difficulty in giving an account of your proceedings. I\ndaresay you have been just as busy and as happy as ourselves at La\nTerrasse. As to Graham, his professional connection extends daily: he\nis so much sought after, so much engaged, that I tell him he will grow\nquite conceited. Like a right good mother, as I am, I do my best to\nkeep him down: no flattery does he get from me, as you know. And yet,\nLucy, he is a fine fellow: his mother's heart dances at the sight of\nhim. After being hurried here and there the whole day, and passing the\nordeal of fifty sorts of tempers, and combating a hundred caprices, and\nsometimes witnessing cruel sufferings--perhaps, occasionally, as I tell\nhim, inflicting them--at night he still comes home to me in such\nkindly, pleasant mood, that really, I seem to live in a sort of moral\nantipodes, and on these January evenings my day rises when other\npeople's night sets in.\n\n\"Still he needs keeping in order, and correcting, and repressing, and I\ndo him that good service; but the boy is so elastic there is no such\nthing as vexing him thoroughly. When I think I have at last driven him\nto the sullens, he turns on me with jokes for retaliation: but you know\nhim and all his iniquities, and I am but an elderly simpleton to make\nhim the subject of this epistle.\n\n\"As for me, I have had my old Bretton agent here on a visit, and have\nbeen plunged overhead and ears in business matters. I do so wish to\nregain for Graham at least some part of what his father left him. He\nlaughs to scorn my anxiety on this point, bidding me look and see how\nhe can provide for himself and me too, and asking what the old lady can\npossibly want that she has not; hinting about sky-blue turbans;\naccusing me of an ambition to wear diamonds, keep livery servants, have\nan hotel, and lead the fashion amongst the English clan in Villette.\n\n\"Talking of sky-blue turbans, I wish you had been with us the other\nevening. He had come in really tired, and after I had given him his\ntea, he threw himself into my chair with his customary presumption. To\nmy great delight, he dropped asleep. (You know how he teases me about\nbeing drowsy; I, who never, by any chance, close an eye by daylight.)\nWhile he slept, I thought he looked very bonny, Lucy: fool as I am to\nbe so proud of him; but who can help it? Show me his peer. Look where I\nwill, I see nothing like him in Villette. Well, I took it into my head\nto play him a trick: so I brought out the sky-blue turban, and handling\nit with gingerly precaution, I managed to invest his brows with this\ngrand adornment. I assure you it did not at all misbecome him; he\nlooked quite Eastern, except that he is so fair. Nobody, however, can\naccuse him of having red hair _now_--it is genuine chestnut--a dark,\nglossy chestnut; and when I put my large cashmere about him, there was\nas fine a young bey, dey, or pacha improvised as you would wish to see.\n\n\"It was good entertainment; but only half-enjoyed, since I was alone:\nyou should have been there.\n\n\"In due time my lord awoke: the looking-glass above the fireplace soon\nintimated to him his plight: as you may imagine, I now live under\nthreat and dread of vengeance.\n\n\"But to come to the gist of my letter. I know Thursday is a\nhalf-holiday in the Rue Fossette: be ready, then, by five in the\nafternoon, at which hour I will send the carriage to take you out to La\nTerrasse. Be sure to come: you may meet some old acquaintance. Good-by,\nmy wise, dear, grave little god-daughter.--Very truly yours,\n\n\"LOUISA BRETTON.\".\n\nNow, a letter like that sets one to rights! I might still be sad after\nreading that letter, but I was more composed; not exactly cheered,\nperhaps, but relieved. My friends, at least, were well and happy: no\naccident had occurred to Graham; no illness had seized his\nmother-calamities that had so long been my dream and thought. Their\nfeelings for me too were--as they had been. Yet, how strange it was to\nlook on Mrs. Bretton's seven weeks and contrast them with my seven\nweeks! Also, how very wise it is in people placed in an exceptional\nposition to hold their tongues and not rashly declare how such position\ngalls them! The world can understand well enough the process of\nperishing for want of food: perhaps few persons can enter into or\nfollow out that of going mad from solitary confinement. They see the\nlong-buried prisoner disinterred, a maniac or an idiot!--how his senses\nleft him--how his nerves, first inflamed, underwent nameless agony, and\nthen sunk to palsy--is a subject too intricate for examination, too\nabstract for popular comprehension. Speak of it! you might almost as\nwell stand up in an European market-place, and propound dark sayings in\nthat language and mood wherein Nebuchadnezzar, the imperial\nhypochondriac, communed with his baffled Chaldeans. And long, long may\nthe minds to whom such themes are no mystery--by whom their bearings\nare sympathetically seized--be few in number, and rare of rencounter.\nLong may it be generally thought that physical privations alone merit\ncompassion, and that the rest is a figment. When the world was younger\nand haler than now, moral trials were a deeper mystery still: perhaps\nin all the land of Israel there was but one Saul--certainly but one\nDavid to soothe or comprehend him.\n\nThe keen, still cold of the morning was succeeded, later in the day, by\na sharp breathing from Russian wastes: the cold zone sighed over the\ntemperate zone, and froze it fast. A heavy firmament, dull, and thick\nwith snow, sailed up from the north, and settled over expectant Europe.\nTowards afternoon began the descent. I feared no carriage would come,\nthe white tempest raged so dense and wild. But trust my godmother! Once\nhaving asked, she would have her guest. About six o'clock I was lifted\nfrom the carriage over the already blocked-up front steps of the\nchâteau, and put in at the door of La Terrasse.\n\nRunning through the vestibule, and up-stairs to the drawing-room, there\nI found Mrs. Bretton--a summer-day in her own person. Had I been twice\nas cold as I was, her kind kiss and cordial clasp would have warmed me.\nInured now for so long a time to rooms with bare boards, black benches,\ndesks, and stoves, the blue saloon seemed to me gorgeous. In its\nChristmas-like fire alone there was a clear and crimson splendour which\nquite dazzled me.\n\nWhen my godmother had held my hand for a little while, and chatted with\nme, and scolded me for having become thinner than when she last saw me,\nshe professed to discover that the snow-wind had disordered my hair,\nand sent me up-stairs to make it neat and remove my shawl.\n\nRepairing to my own little sea-green room, there also I found a bright\nfire, and candles too were lit: a tall waxlight stood on each side the\ngreat looking glass; but between the candles, and before the glass,\nappeared something dressing itself--an airy, fairy thing--small,\nslight, white--a winter spirit.\n\nI declare, for one moment I thought of Graham and his spectral\nillusions. With distrustful eye I noted the details of this new vision.\nIt wore white, sprinkled slightly with drops of scarlet; its girdle was\nred; it had something in its hair leafy, yet shining--a little wreath\nwith an evergreen gloss. Spectral or not, here truly was nothing\nfrightful, and I advanced.\n\nTurning quick upon me, a large eye, under long lashes, flashed over me,\nthe intruder: the lashes were as dark as long, and they softened with\ntheir pencilling the orb they guarded.\n\n\"Ah! you are come!\" she breathed out, in a soft, quiet voice, and she\nsmiled slowly, and gazed intently.\n\nI knew her now. Having only once seen that sort of face, with that cast\nof fine and delicate featuring, I could not but know her.\n\n\"Miss de Bassompierre,\" I pronounced.\n\n\"No,\" was the reply, \"not Miss de Bassompierre for _you!_\" I did not\ninquire who then she might be, but waited voluntary information.\n\n\"You are changed, but still you are yourself,\" she said, approaching\nnearer. \"I remember you well--your countenance, the colour of your\nhair, the outline of your face....\"\n\nI had moved to the fire, and she stood opposite, and gazed into me; and\nas she gazed, her face became gradually more and more expressive of\nthought and feeling, till at last a dimness quenched her clear vision.\n\n\"It makes me almost cry to look so far back,\" said she: \"but as to\nbeing sorry, or sentimental, don't think it: on the contrary, I am\nquite pleased and glad.\"\n\nInterested, yet altogether at fault, I knew not what to say. At last I\nstammered, \"I think I never met you till that night, some weeks ago,\nwhen you were hurt...?\"\n\nShe smiled. \"You have forgotten then that I have sat on your knee, been\nlifted in your arms, even shared your pillow? You no longer remember\nthe night when I came crying, like a naughty little child as I was, to\nyour bedside, and you took me in. You have no memory for the comfort\nand protection by which you soothed an acute distress? Go back to\nBretton. Remember Mr. Home.\"\n\nAt last I saw it all. \"And you are little Polly?\"\n\n\"I am Paulina Mary Home de Bassompierre.\"\n\nHow time can change! Little Polly wore in her pale, small features, her\nfairy symmetry, her varying expression, a certain promise of interest\nand grace; but Paulina Mary was become beautiful--not with the beauty\nthat strikes the eye like a rose--orbed, ruddy, and replete; not with\nthe plump, and pink, and flaxen attributes of her blond cousin Ginevra;\nbut her seventeen years had brought her a refined and tender charm\nwhich did not lie in complexion, though hers was fair and clear; nor in\noutline, though her features were sweet, and her limbs perfectly\nturned; but, I think, rather in a subdued glow from the soul outward.\nThis was not an opaque vase, of material however costly, but a lamp\nchastely lucent, guarding from extinction, yet not hiding from worship,\na flame vital and vestal. In speaking of her attractions, I would not\nexaggerate language; but, indeed, they seemed to me very real and\nengaging. What though all was on a small scale, it was the perfume\nwhich gave this white violet distinction, and made it superior to the\nbroadest camelia--the fullest dahlia that ever bloomed.\n\n\"Ah! and you remember the old time at Bretton?\"\n\n\"Better,\" said she, \"better, perhaps, than you. I remember it with\nminute distinctness: not only the time, but the days of the time, and\nthe hours of the days.\"\n\n\"You must have forgotten some things?\"\n\n\"Very little, I imagine.\"\n\n\"You were then a little creature of quick feelings: you must, long ere\nthis, have outgrown the impressions with which joy and grief, affection\nand bereavement, stamped your mind ten years ago.\"\n\n\"You think I have forgotten whom I liked, and in what degree I liked\nthem when a child?\"\n\n\"The sharpness must be gone--the point, the poignancy--the deep imprint\nmust be softened away and effaced?\"\n\n\"I have a good memory for those days.\"\n\nShe looked as if she had. Her eyes were the eyes of one who can\nremember; one whose childhood does not fade like a dream, nor whose\nyouth vanish like a sunbeam. She would not take life, loosely and\nincoherently, in parts, and let one season slip as she entered on\nanother: she would retain and add; often review from the commencement,\nand so grow in harmony and consistency as she grew in years. Still I\ncould not quite admit the conviction that _all_ the pictures which now\ncrowded upon me were vivid and visible to her. Her fond attachments,\nher sports and contests with a well-loved playmate, the patient, true\ndevotion of her child's heart, her fears, her delicate reserves, her\nlittle trials, the last piercing pain of separation.... I retraced\nthese things, and shook my head incredulous. She persisted. \"The child\nof seven years lives yet in the girl of seventeen,\" said she.\n\n\"You used to be excessively fond of Mrs. Bretton,\" I remarked,\nintending to test her. She set me right at once.\n\n\"Not _excessively_ fond,\" said she; \"I liked her: I respected her as I\nshould do now: she seems to me very little altered.\"\n\n\"She is not much changed,\" I assented.\n\nWe were silent a few minutes. Glancing round the room she said, \"There\nare several things here that used to be at Bretton! I remember that\npincushion and that looking-glass.\"\n\nEvidently she was not deceived in her estimate of her own memory; not,\nat least, so far.\n\n\"You think, then, you would have known Mrs. Bretton?\" I went on.\n\n\"I perfectly remembered her; the turn of her features, her olive\ncomplexion, and black hair, her height, her walk, her voice.\"\n\n\"Dr. Bretton, of course,\" I pursued, \"would be out of the question:\nand, indeed, as I saw your first interview with him, I am aware that he\nappeared to you as a stranger.\"\n\n\"That first night I was puzzled,\" she answered.\n\n\"How did the recognition between him and your father come about?\"\n\n\"They exchanged cards. The names Graham Bretton and Home de\nBassompierre gave rise to questions and explanations. That was on the\nsecond day; but before then I was beginning to know something.\"\n\n\"How--know something?\"\n\n\"Why,\" she said, \"how strange it is that most people seem so slow to\nfeel the truth--not to see, but _feel_! When Dr. Bretton had visited me\na few times, and sat near and talked to me; when I had observed the\nlook in his eyes, the expression about his mouth, the form of his chin,\nthe carriage of his head, and all that we _do_ observe in persons who\napproach us--how could I avoid being led by association to think of\nGraham Bretton? Graham was slighter than he, and not grown so tall, and\nhad a smoother face, and longer and lighter hair, and spoke--not so\ndeeply--more like a girl; but yet _he_ is Graham, just as _I_ am little\nPolly, or you are Lucy Snowe.\"\n\nI thought the same, but I wondered to find my thoughts hers: there are\ncertain things in which we so rarely meet with our double that it seems\na miracle when that chance befalls.\n\n\"You and Graham were once playmates.\"\n\n\"And do you remember that?\" she questioned in her turn.\n\n\"No doubt he will remember it also,\" said I.\n\n\"I have not asked him: few things would surprise me so much as to find\nthat he did. I suppose his disposition is still gay and careless?\"\n\n\"Was it so formerly? Did it so strike you? Do you thus remember him?\"\n\n\"I scarcely remember him in any other light. Sometimes he was studious;\nsometimes he was merry: but whether busy with his books or disposed for\nplay, it was chiefly the books or game he thought of; not much heeding\nthose with whom he read or amused himself.\"\n\n\"Yet to you he was partial.\"\n\n\"Partial to me? Oh, no! he had other playmates--his school-fellows; I\nwas of little consequence to him, except on Sundays: yes, he was kind\non Sundays. I remember walking with him hand-in-hand to St. Mary's, and\nhis finding the places in my prayer-book; and how good and still he was\non Sunday evenings! So mild for such a proud, lively boy; so patient\nwith all my blunders in reading; and so wonderfully to be depended on,\nfor he never spent those evenings from home: I had a constant fear that\nhe would accept some invitation and forsake us; but he never did, nor\nseemed ever to wish to do it. Thus, of course, it can be no more. I\nsuppose Sunday will now be Dr. Bretton's dining-out day....?\"\n\n\"Children, come down!\" here called Mrs. Bretton from below. Paulina\nwould still have lingered, but I inclined to descend: we went down.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXV.\n\nTHE LITTLE COUNTESS.\n\n\nCheerful as my godmother naturally was, and entertaining as, for our\nsakes, she made a point of being, there was no true enjoyment that\nevening at La Terrasse, till, through the wild howl of the\nwinter-night, were heard the signal sounds of arrival. How often, while\nwomen and girls sit warm at snug fire-sides, their hearts and\nimaginations are doomed to divorce from the comfort surrounding their\npersons, forced out by night to wander through dark ways, to dare\nstress of weather, to contend with the snow-blast, to wait at lonely\ngates and stiles in wildest storms, watching and listening to see and\nhear the father, the son, the husband coming home.\n\nFather and son came at last to the château: for the Count de\nBassompierre that night accompanied Dr. Bretton. I know not which of\nour trio heard the horses first; the asperity, the violence of the\nweather warranted our running down into the hall to meet and greet the\ntwo riders as they came in; but they warned us to keep our distance:\nboth were white--two mountains of snow; and indeed Mrs. Bretton, seeing\ntheir condition, ordered them instantly to the kitchen; prohibiting\nthem, at their peril, from setting foot on her carpeted staircase till\nthey had severally put off that mask of Old Christmas they now\naffected. Into the kitchen, however, we could not help following them:\nit was a large old Dutch kitchen, picturesque and pleasant. The little\nwhite Countess danced in a circle about her equally white sire,\nclapping her hands and crying, \"Papa, papa, you look like an enormous\nPolar bear.\"\n\nThe bear shook himself, and the little sprite fled far from the frozen\nshower. Back she came, however, laughing, and eager to aid in removing\nthe arctic disguise. The Count, at last issuing from his dreadnought,\nthreatened to overwhelm her with it as with an avalanche.\n\n\"Come, then,\" said she, bending to invite the fall, and when it was\nplayfully advanced above her head, bounding out of reach like some\nlittle chamois.\n\nHer movements had the supple softness, the velvet grace of a kitten;\nher laugh was clearer than the ring of silver and crystal; as she took\nher sire's cold hands and rubbed them, and stood on tiptoe to reach his\nlips for a kiss, there seemed to shine round her a halo of loving\ndelight. The grave and reverend seignor looked down on her as men _do_\nlook on what is the apple of their eye.\n\n\"Mrs. Bretton,\" said he: \"what am I to do with this daughter or\ndaughterling of mine? She neither grows in wisdom nor in stature. Don't\nyou find her pretty nearly as much the child as she was ten years ago?\"\n\n\"She cannot be more the child than this great boy of mine,\" said Mrs.\nBretton, who was in conflict with her son about some change of dress\nshe deemed advisable, and which he resisted. He stood leaning against\nthe Dutch dresser, laughing and keeping her at arm's length.\n\n\"Come, mamma,\" said he, \"by way of compromise, and to secure for us\ninward as well as outward warmth, let us have a Christmas wassail-cup,\nand toast Old England here, on the hearth.\"\n\nSo, while the Count stood by the fire, and Paulina Mary still danced to\nand fro--happy in the liberty of the wide hall-like kitchen--Mrs.\nBretton herself instructed Martha to spice and heat the wassail-bowl,\nand, pouring the draught into a Bretton flagon, it was served round,\nreaming hot, by means of a small silver vessel, which I recognised as\nGraham's christening-cup.\n\n\"Here's to Auld Lang Syne!\" said the Count; holding the glancing cup on\nhigh. Then, looking at Mrs. Bretton.--\n\n  \"We twa ha' paidlet i' the burn\n      Fra morning sun till dine,\n  But seas between us braid ha' roared\n      Sin' auld lane syne.\n\n  \"And surely ye'll be your pint-stoup,\n      And surely I'll be mine;\n  And we'll taste a cup o' kindness yet\n      For auld lang syne.\"\n\n\"Scotch! Scotch!\" cried Paulina; \"papa is talking Scotch; and Scotch he\nis, partly. We are Home and de Bassompierre, Caledonian and Gallic.\"\n\n\"And is that a Scotch reel you are dancing, you Highland fairy?\" asked\nher father. \"Mrs. Bretton, there will be a green ring growing up in the\nmiddle of your kitchen shortly. I would not answer for her being quite\ncannie: she is a strange little mortal.\"\n\n\"Tell Lucy to dance with me, papa; there is Lucy Snowe.\"\n\nMr. Home (there was still quite as much about him of plain Mr. Home as\nof proud Count de Bassompierre) held his hand out to me, saying kindly,\n\"he remembered me well; and, even had his own memory been less\ntrustworthy, my name was so often on his daughter's lips, and he had\nlistened to so many long tales about me, I should seem like an old\nacquaintance.\"\n\nEvery one now had tasted the wassail-cup except Paulina, whose pas de\nfée, ou de fantaisie, nobody thought of interrupting to offer so\nprofanatory a draught; but she was not to be overlooked, nor baulked of\nher mortal privileges.\n\n\"Let me taste,\" said she to Graham, as he was putting the cup on the\nshelf of the dresser out of her reach.\n\nMrs. Bretton and Mr. Home were now engaged in conversation. Dr. John\nhad not been unobservant of the fairy's dance; he had watched it, and\nhe had liked it. To say nothing of the softness and beauty of the\nmovements, eminently grateful to his grace-loving eye, that ease in his\nmother's house charmed him, for it set _him_ at ease: again she seemed\na child for him--again, almost his playmate. I wondered how he would\nspeak to her; I had not yet seen him address her; his first words\nproved that the old days of \"little Polly\" had been recalled to his\nmind by this evening's child-like light-heartedness.\n\n\"Your ladyship wishes for the tankard?\"\n\n\"I think I said so. I think I intimated as much.\"\n\n\"Couldn't consent to a step of the kind on any account. Sorry for it,\nbut couldn't do it.\"\n\n\"Why? I am quite well now: it can't break my collar-bone again, or\ndislocate my shoulder. Is it wine?\"\n\n\"No; nor dew.\"\n\n\"I don't want dew; I don't like dew: but what is it?\"\n\n\"Ale--strong ale--old October; brewed, perhaps, when I was born.\"\n\n\"It must be curious: is it good?\"\n\n\"Excessively good.\"\n\nAnd he took it down, administered to himself a second dose of this\nmighty elixir, expressed in his mischievous eyes extreme contentment\nwith the same, and solemnly replaced the cup on the shelf.\n\n\"I should like a little,\" said Paulina, looking up; \"I never had any\n'old October:' is it sweet?\"\n\n\"Perilously sweet,\" said Graham.\n\nShe continued to look up exactly with the countenance of a child that\nlongs for some prohibited dainty. At last the Doctor relented, took it\ndown, and indulged himself in the gratification of letting her taste\nfrom his hand; his eyes, always expressive in the revelation of\npleasurable feelings, luminously and smilingly avowed that it _was_ a\ngratification; and he prolonged it by so regulating the position of the\ncup that only a drop at a time could reach the rosy, sipping lips by\nwhich its brim was courted.\n\n\"A little more--a little more,\" said she, petulantly touching his hand\nwith the forefinger, to make him incline the cup more generously and\nyieldingly. \"It smells of spice and sugar, but I can't taste it; your\nwrist is so stiff, and you are so stingy.\"\n\nHe indulged her, whispering, however, with gravity: \"Don't tell my\nmother or Lucy; they wouldn't approve.\"\n\n\"Nor do I,\" said she, passing into another tone and manner as soon as\nshe had fairly assayed the beverage, just as if it had acted upon her\nlike some disenchanting draught, undoing the work of a wizard: \"I find\nit anything but sweet; it is bitter and hot, and takes away my breath.\nYour old October was only desirable while forbidden. Thank you, no\nmore.\"\n\nAnd, with a slight bend--careless, but as graceful as her dance--she\nglided from him and rejoined her father.\n\nI think she had spoken truth: the child of seven was in the girl of\nseventeen.\n\nGraham looked after her a little baffled, a little puzzled; his eye was\non her a good deal during the rest of the evening, but she did not seem\nto notice him.\n\nAs we ascended to the drawing-room for tea, she took her father's arm:\nher natural place seemed to be at his side; her eyes and her ears were\ndedicated to him. He and Mrs. Bretton were the chief talkers of our\nlittle party, and Paulina was their best listener, attending closely to\nall that was said, prompting the repetition of this or that trait or\nadventure.\n\n\"And where were you at such a time, papa? And what did you say then?\nAnd tell Mrs. Bretton what happened on that occasion.\" Thus she drew\nhim out.\n\nShe did not again yield to any effervescence of glee; the infantine\nsparkle was exhaled for the night: she was soft, thoughtful, and\ndocile. It was pretty to see her bid good-night; her manner to Graham\nwas touched with dignity: in her very slight smile and quiet bow spoke\nthe Countess, and Graham could not but look grave, and bend responsive.\nI saw he hardly knew how to blend together in his ideas the dancing\nfairy and delicate dame.\n\nNext day, when we were all assembled round the breakfast-table,\nshivering and fresh from the morning's chill ablutions, Mrs. Bretton\npronounced a decree that nobody, who was not forced by dire necessity,\nshould quit her house that day.\n\nIndeed, egress seemed next to impossible; the drift darkened the lower\npanes of the casement, and, on looking out, one saw the sky and air\nvexed and dim, the wind and snow in angry conflict. There was no fall\nnow, but what had already descended was torn up from the earth, whirled\nround by brief shrieking gusts, and cast into a hundred fantastic forms.\n\nThe Countess seconded Mrs. Bretton.\n\n\"Papa shall not go out,\" said she, placing a seat for herself beside\nher father's arm-chair. \"I will look after him. You won't go into town,\nwill you, papa?\"\n\n\"Ay, and No,\" was the answer. \"If you and Mrs. Bretton are _very_ good\nto me, Polly--kind, you know, and attentive; if you pet me in a very\nnice manner, and make much of me, I may possibly be induced to wait an\nhour after breakfast and see whether this razor-edged wind settles.\nBut, you see, you give me no breakfast; you offer me nothing: you let\nme starve.\"\n\n\"Quick! please, Mrs. Bretton, and pour out the coffee,\" entreated\nPaulina, \"whilst I take care of the Count de Bassompierre in other\nrespects: since he grew into a Count, he has needed _so_ much\nattention.\"\n\nShe separated and prepared a roll.\n\n\"There, papa, are your 'pistolets' charged,\" said she. \"And there is\nsome marmalade, just the same sort of marmalade we used to have at\nBretton, and which you said was as good as if it had been conserved in\nScotland--\"\n\n\"And which your little ladyship used to beg for my boy--do you remember\nthat?\" interposed Mrs. Bretton. \"Have you forgotten how you would come\nto my elbow and touch my sleeve with the whisper, 'Please, ma'am,\nsomething good for Graham--a little marmalade, or honey, or jam?\"'\n\n\"No, mamma,\" broke in Dr. John, laughing, yet reddening; \"it surely was\nnot so: I could not have cared for these things.\"\n\n\"Did he or did he not, Paulina?\"\n\n\"He liked them,\" asserted Paulina.\n\n\"Never blush for it, John,\" said Mr. Home, encouragingly. \"I like them\nmyself yet, and always did. And Polly showed her sense in catering for\na friend's material comforts: it was I who put her into the way of such\ngood manners--nor do I let her forget them. Polly, offer me a small\nslice of that tongue.\"\n\n\"There, papa: but remember you are only waited upon with this\nassiduity; on condition of being persuadable, and reconciling yourself\nto La Terrasse for the day.\"\n\n\"Mrs. Bretton,\" said the Count, \"I want to get rid of my daughter--to\nsend her to school. Do you know of any good school?\"\n\n\"There is Lucy's place--Madame Beck's.\"\n\n\"Miss Snowe is in a school?\"\n\n\"I am a teacher,\" I said, and was rather glad of the opportunity of\nsaying this. For a little while I had been feeling as if placed in a\nfalse position. Mrs. Bretton and son knew my circumstances; but the\nCount and his daughter did not. They might choose to vary by some\nshades their hitherto cordial manner towards me, when aware of my grade\nin society. I spoke then readily: but a swarm of thoughts I had not\nanticipated nor invoked, rose dim at the words, making me sigh\ninvoluntarily. Mr. Home did not lift his eyes from his breakfast-plate\nfor about two minutes, nor did he speak; perhaps he had not caught the\nwords--perhaps he thought that on a confession of that nature,\npoliteness would interdict comment: the Scotch are proverbially proud;\nand homely as was Mr. Home in look, simple in habits and tastes, I have\nall along intimated that he was not without his share of the national\nquality. Was his a pseudo pride? was it real dignity? I leave the\nquestion undecided in its wide sense. Where it concerned me\nindividually I can only answer: then, and always, he showed himself a\ntrue-hearted gentleman.\n\nBy nature he was a feeler and a thinker; over his emotions and his\nreflections spread a mellowing of melancholy; more than a mellowing: in\ntrouble and bereavement it became a cloud. He did not know much about\nLucy Snowe; what he knew, he did not very accurately comprehend: indeed\nhis misconceptions of my character often made me smile; but he saw my\nwalk in life lay rather on the shady side of the hill: he gave me\ncredit for doing my endeavour to keep the course honestly straight; he\nwould have helped me if he could: having no opportunity of helping, he\nstill wished me well. When he did look at me, his eye was kind; when he\ndid speak, his voice was benevolent.\n\n\"Yours,\" said he, \"is an arduous calling. I wish you health and\nstrength to win in it--success.\"\n\nHis fair little daughter did not take the information quite so\ncomposedly: she fixed on me a pair of eyes wide with wonder--almost\nwith dismay.\n\n\"Are you a teacher?\" cried she. Then, having paused on the unpalatable\nidea, \"Well, I never knew what you were, nor ever thought of asking:\nfor me, you were always Lucy Snowe.\"\n\n\"And what am I now?\" I could not forbear inquiring.\n\n\"Yourself, of course. But do you really teach here, in Villette?\"\n\n\"I really do.\"\n\n\"And do you like it?\"\n\n\"Not always.\"\n\n\"And why do you go on with it?\"\n\nHer father looked at, and, I feared, was going to check her; but he\nonly said, \"Proceed, Polly, proceed with that catechism--prove yourself\nthe little wiseacre you are. If Miss Snowe were to blush and look\nconfused, I should have to bid you hold your tongue; and you and I\nwould sit out the present meal in some disgrace; but she only smiles,\nso push her hard, multiply the cross-questions. Well, Miss Snowe, why\ndo you go on with it?\"\n\n\"Chiefly, I fear, for the sake of the money I get.\"\n\n\"Not then from motives of pure philanthropy? Polly and I were clinging\nto that hypothesis as the most lenient way of accounting for your\neccentricity.\"\n\n\"No--no, sir. Rather for the roof of shelter I am thus enabled to keep\nover my head; and for the comfort of mind it gives me to think that\nwhile I can work for myself, I am spared the pain of being a burden to\nanybody.\"\n\n\"Papa, say what you will, I pity Lucy.\"\n\n\"Take up that pity, Miss de Bassompierre; take it up in both hands, as\nyou might a little callow gosling squattering out of bounds without\nleave; put it back in the warm nest of a heart whence it issued, and\nreceive in your ear this whisper. If my Polly ever came to know by\nexperience the uncertain nature of this world's goods, I should like\nher to act as Lucy acts: to work for herself, that she might burden\nneither kith nor kin.\"\n\n\"Yes, papa,\" said she, pensively and tractably. \"But poor Lucy! I\nthought she was a rich lady, and had rich friends.\"\n\n\"You thought like a little simpleton. _I_ never thought so. When I had\ntime to consider Lucy's manner and aspect, which was not often, I saw\nshe was one who had to guard and not be guarded; to act and not be\nserved: and this lot has, I imagine, helped her to an experience for\nwhich, if she live long enough to realize its full benefit, she may yet\nbless Providence. But this school,\" he pursued, changing his tone from\ngrave to gay: \"would Madame Beck admit my Polly, do you think, Miss\nLucy?\"\n\nI said, there needed but to try Madame; it would soon be seen: she was\nfond of English pupils. \"If you, sir,\" I added, \"will but take Miss de\nBassompierre in your carriage this very afternoon, I think I can answer\nfor it that Rosine, the portress, will not be very slow in answering\nyour ring; and Madame, I am sure, will put on her best pair of gloves\nto come into the salon to receive you.\"\n\n\"In that case,\" responded Mr. Home, \"I see no sort of necessity there\nis for delay. Mrs. Hurst can send what she calls her young lady's\n'things' after her; Polly can settle down to her horn-book before\nnight; and you, Miss Lucy, I trust, will not disdain to cast an\noccasional eye upon her, and let me know, from time to time, how she\ngets on. I hope you approve of the arrangement, Countess de\nBassompierre?\"\n\nThe Countess hemmed and hesitated. \"I thought,\" said she, \"I thought I\nhad finished my education--\"\n\n\"That only proves how much we may be mistaken in our thoughts I hold a\nfar different opinion, as most of these will who have been auditors of\nyour profound knowledge of life this morning. Ah, my little girl, thou\nhast much to learn; and papa ought to have taught thee more than he has\ndone! Come, there is nothing for it but to try Madame Beck; and the\nweather seems settling, and I have finished my breakfast--\"\n\n\"But, papa!\"\n\n\"Well?\"\n\n\"I see an obstacle.\"\n\n\"I don't at all.\"\n\n\"It is enormous, papa; it can never be got over; it is as large as you\nin your greatcoat, and the snowdrift on the top.\"\n\n\"And, like that snowdrift, capable of melting?\"\n\n\"No! it is of too--too solid flesh: it is just your own self. Miss\nLucy, warn Madame Beck not to listen to any overtures about taking me,\nbecause, in the end, it would turn out that she would have to take papa\ntoo: as he is so teasing, I will just tell tales about him. Mrs.\nBretton and all of you listen: About five years ago, when I was twelve\nyears old, he took it into his head that he was spoiling me; that I was\ngrowing unfitted for the world, and I don't know what, and nothing\nwould serve or satisfy him, but I must go to school. I cried, and so\non; but M. de Bassompierre proved hard-hearted, quite firm and flinty,\nand to school I went. What was the result? In the most admirable\nmanner, papa came to school likewise: every other day he called to see\nme. Madame Aigredoux grumbled, but it was of no use; and so, at last,\npapa and I were both, in a manner, expelled. Lucy can just tell Madame\nBeck this little trait: it is only fair to let her know what she has to\nexpect.\"\n\nMrs. Bretton asked Mr. Home what he had to say in answer to this\nstatement. As he made no defence, judgment was given against him, and\nPaulina triumphed.\n\nBut she had other moods besides the arch and naïve. After breakfast;\nwhen the two elders withdrew--I suppose to talk over certain of Mrs.\nBretton's business matters--and the Countess, Dr. Bretton, and I, were\nfor a short time alone together--all the child left her; with us, more\nnearly her companions in age, she rose at once to the little lady: her\nvery face seemed to alter; that play of feature, and candour of look,\nwhich, when she spoke to her father, made it quite dimpled and round,\nyielded to an aspect more thoughtful, and lines distincter and less\n_mobile_.\n\nNo doubt Graham noted the change as well as I. He stood for some\nminutes near the window, looking out at the snow; presently he,\napproached the hearth, and entered into conversation, but not quite\nwith his usual ease: fit topics did not seem to rise to his lips; he\nchose them fastidiously, hesitatingly, and consequently infelicitously:\nhe spoke vaguely of Villette--its inhabitants, its notable sights and\nbuildings. He was answered by Miss de Bassompierre in quite womanly\nsort; with intelligence, with a manner not indeed wholly\ndisindividualized: a tone, a glance, a gesture, here and there, rather\nanimated and quick than measured and stately, still recalled little\nPolly; but yet there was so fine and even a polish, so calm and\ncourteous a grace, gilding and sustaining these peculiarities, that a\nless sensitive man than Graham would not have ventured to seize upon\nthem as vantage points, leading to franker intimacy.\n\nYet while Dr. Bretton continued subdued, and, for him, sedate, he was\nstill observant. Not one of those petty impulses and natural breaks\nescaped him. He did not miss one characteristic movement, one\nhesitation in language, or one lisp in utterance. At times, in speaking\nfast, she still lisped; but coloured whenever such lapse occurred, and\nin a painstaking, conscientious manner, quite as amusing as the slight\nerror, repeated the word more distinctly.\n\nWhenever she did this, Dr. Bretton smiled. Gradually, as they\nconversed, the restraint on each side slackened: might the conference\nhave but been prolonged, I believe it would soon have become genial:\nalready to Paulina's lip and cheek returned the wreathing, dimpling\nsmile; she lisped once, and forgot to correct herself. And Dr. John, I\nknow not how _he_ changed, but change he did. He did not grow gayer--no\nraillery, no levity sparkled across his aspect--but his position seemed\nto become one of more pleasure to himself, and he spoke his augmented\ncomfort in readier language, in tones more suave. Ten years ago this\npair had always found abundance to say to each other; the intervening\ndecade had not narrowed the experience or impoverished the intelligence\nof either: besides, there are certain natures of which the mutual\ninfluence is such, that the more they say, the more they have to say.\nFor these out of association grows adhesion, and out of adhesion,\namalgamation.\n\nGraham, however, must go: his was a profession whose claims are neither\nto be ignored nor deferred. He left the room; but before he could leave\nthe house there was a return. I am sure he came back--not for the\npaper, or card in his desk, which formed his ostensible errand--but to\nassure himself, by one more glance, that Paulina's aspect was really\nsuch as memory was bearing away: that he had not been viewing her\nsomehow by a partial, artificial light, and making a fond mistake. No!\nhe found the impression true--rather, indeed, he gained than lost by\nthis return: he took away with him a parting look--shy, but very\nsoft--as beautiful, as innocent, as any little fawn could lift out of\nits cover of fern, or any lamb from its meadow-bed.\n\nBeing left alone, Paulina and I kept silence for some time: we both\ntook out some work, and plied a mute and diligent task. The white-wood\nworkbox of old days was now replaced by one inlaid with precious\nmosaic, and furnished with implements of gold; the tiny and trembling\nfingers that could scarce guide the needle, though tiny still, were now\nswift and skilful: but there was the same busy knitting of the brow,\nthe same little dainty mannerisms, the same quick turns and\nmovements--now to replace a stray tress, and anon to shake from the\nsilken skirt some imaginary atom of dust--some clinging fibre of thread.\n\nThat morning I was disposed for silence: the austere fury of the\nwinter-day had on me an awing, hushing influence. That passion of\nJanuary, so white and so bloodless, was not yet spent: the storm had\nraved itself hoarse, but seemed no nearer exhaustion. Had Ginevra\nFanshawe been my companion in that drawing-room, she would not have\nsuffered me to muse and listen undisturbed. The presence just gone from\nus would have been her theme; and how she would have rung the changes\non one topic! how she would have pursued and pestered me with questions\nand surmises--worried and oppressed me with comments and confidences I\ndid not want, and longed to avoid.\n\nPaulina Mary cast once or twice towards me a quiet but penetrating\nglance of her dark, full eye; her lips half opened, as if to the\nimpulse of coming utterance: but she saw and delicately respected my\ninclination for silence.\n\n\"This will not hold long,\" I thought to myself; for I was not\naccustomed to find in women or girls any power of self-control, or\nstrength of self-denial. As far as I knew them, the chance of a gossip\nabout their usually trivial secrets, their often very washy and paltry\nfeelings, was a treat not to be readily foregone.\n\nThe little Countess promised an exception: she sewed till she was tired\nof sewing, and then she took a book.\n\nAs chance would have it, she had sought it in Dr. Bretton's own\ncompartment of the bookcase; and it proved to be an old Bretton\nbook--some illustrated work of natural history. Often had I seen her\nstanding at Graham's side, resting that volume on his knee, and reading\nto his tuition; and, when the lesson was over, begging, as a treat,\nthat he would tell her all about the pictures. I watched her keenly:\nhere was a true test of that memory she had boasted would her\nrecollections now be faithful?\n\nFaithful? It could not be doubted. As she turned the leaves, over her\nface passed gleam after gleam of expression, the least intelligent of\nwhich was a full greeting to the Past. And then she turned to the\ntitle-page, and looked at the name written in the schoolboy hand. She\nlooked at it long; nor was she satisfied with merely looking: she\ngently passed over the characters the tips of her fingers, accompanying\nthe action with an unconscious but tender smile, which converted the\ntouch into a caress. Paulina loved the Past; but the peculiarity of\nthis little scene was, that she _said_ nothing: she could feel without\npouring out her feelings in a flux of words.\n\nShe now occupied herself at the bookcase for nearly an hour; taking\ndown volume after volume, and renewing her acquaintance with each. This\ndone, she seated herself on a low stool, rested her cheek on her hand,\nand thought, and still was mute.\n\nThe sound of the front door opened below, a rush of cold wind, and her\nfather's voice speaking to Mrs. Bretton in the hall, startled her at\nlast. She sprang up: she was down-stairs in one second.\n\n\"Papa! papa! you are not going out?\"\n\n\"My pet, I must go into town.\"\n\n\"But it is too--_too_ cold, papa.\"\n\nAnd then I heard M. de Bassompierre showing to her how he was well\nprovided against the weather; and how he was going to have the\ncarriage, and to be quite snugly sheltered; and, in short, proving that\nshe need not fear for his comfort.\n\n\"But you will promise to come back here this evening, before it is\nquite dark;--you and Dr. Bretton, both, in the carriage? It is not fit\nto ride.\"\n\n\"Well, if I see the Doctor, I will tell him a lady has laid on him her\ncommands to take care of his precious health and come home early under\nmy escort.\"\n\n\"Yes, you must say a lady; and he will think it is his mother, and be\nobedient And, papa, mind to come soon, for I _shall_ watch and listen.\"\n\nThe door closed, and the carriage rolled softly through the snow; and\nback returned the Countess, pensive and anxious.\n\nShe _did_ listen, and watch, when evening closed; but it was in\nstillest sort: walking the drawing-room with quite noiseless step. She\nchecked at intervals her velvet march; inclined her ear, and consulted\nthe night sounds: I should rather say, the night silence; for now, at\nlast, the wind was fallen. The sky, relieved of its avalanche, lay\nnaked and pale: through the barren boughs of the avenue we could see it\nwell, and note also the polar splendour of the new-year moon--an orb\nwhite as a world of ice. Nor was it late when we saw also the return of\nthe carriage.\n\nPaulina had no dance of welcome for this evening. It was with a sort of\ngravity that she took immediate possession of her father, as he entered\nthe room; but she at once made him her entire property, led him to the\nseat of her choice, and, while softly showering round him honeyed words\nof commendation for being so good and coming home so soon, you would\nhave thought it was entirely by the power of her little hands he was\nput into his chair, and settled and arranged; for the strong man seemed\nto take pleasure in wholly yielding himself to this dominion-potent\nonly by love.\n\nGraham did not appear till some minutes after the Count. Paulina half\nturned when his step was heard: they spoke, but only a word or two;\ntheir fingers met a moment, but obviously with slight contact. Paulina\nremained beside her father; Graham threw himself into a seat on the\nother side of the room.\n\nIt was well that Mrs. Bretton and Mr. Home had a great deal to say to\neach other-almost an inexhaustible fund of discourse in old\nrecollections; otherwise, I think, our party would have been but a\nstill one that evening.\n\nAfter tea, Paulina's quick needle and pretty golden thimble were busily\nplied by the lamp-light, but her tongue rested, and her eyes seemed\nreluctant to raise often their lids, so smooth and so full-fringed.\nGraham, too, must have been tired with his day's work: he listened\ndutifully to his elders and betters, said very little himself, and\nfollowed with his eye the gilded glance of Paulina's thimble; as if it\nhad been some bright moth on the wing, or the golden head of some\ndarting little yellow serpent.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVI.\n\nA BURIAL.\n\n\nFrom this date my life did not want variety; I went out a good deal,\nwith the entire consent of Madame Beck, who perfectly approved the\ngrade of my acquaintance. That worthy directress had never from the\nfirst treated me otherwise than with respect; and when she found that I\nwas liable to frequent invitations from a château and a great hotel,\nrespect improved into distinction.\n\nNot that she was fulsome about it: Madame, in all things worldly, was\nin nothing weak; there was measure and sense in her hottest pursuit of\nself-interest, calm and considerateness in her closest clutch of gain;\nwithout, then, laying herself open to my contempt as a time-server and\na toadie, she marked with tact that she was pleased people connected\nwith her establishment should frequent such associates as must\ncultivate and elevate, rather than those who might deteriorate and\ndepress. She never praised either me or my friends; only once when she\nwas sitting in the sun in the garden, a cup of coffee at her elbow and\nthe Gazette in her hand, looking very comfortable, and I came up and\nasked leave of absence for the evening, she delivered herself in this\ngracious sort:--\n\n\"Oui, oui, ma bonne amie: je vous donne la permission de coeur et de\ngré. Votre travail dans ma maison a toujours été admirable, rempli de\nzèle et de discrétion: vous avez bien le droit de vous amuser. Sortez\ndonc tant que vous voudrez. Quant à votre choix de connaissances, j'en\nsuis contente; c'est sage, digne, laudable.\"\n\nShe closed her lips and resumed the Gazette.\n\nThe reader will not too gravely regard the little circumstance that\nabout this time the triply-enclosed packet of five letters temporarily\ndisappeared from my bureau. Blank dismay was naturally my first\nsensation on making the discovery; but in a moment I took heart of\ngrace.\n\n\"Patience!\" whispered I to myself. \"Let me say nothing, but wait\npeaceably; they will come back again.\"\n\nAnd they did come back: they had only been on a short visit to Madame's\nchamber; having passed their examination, they came back duly and\ntruly: I found them all right the next day.\n\nI wonder what she thought of my correspondence? What estimate did she\nform of Dr. John Bretton's epistolary powers? In what light did the\noften very pithy thoughts, the generally sound, and sometimes original\nopinions, set, without pretension, in an easily-flowing, spirited\nstyle, appear to her? How did she like that genial, half humorous vein,\nwhich to me gave such delight? What did she think of the few kind words\nscattered here and there-not thickly, as the diamonds were scattered in\nthe valley of Sindbad, but sparely, as those gems lie in unfabled beds?\nOh, Madame Beck! how seemed these things to you?\n\nI think in Madame Beck's eyes the five letters found a certain favour.\nOne day after she had _borrowed_ them of me (in speaking of so suave a\nlittle woman, one ought to use suave terms), I caught her examining me\nwith a steady contemplative gaze, a little puzzled, but not at all\nmalevolent. It was during that brief space between lessons, when the\npupils turned out into the court for a quarter of an hour's recreation;\nshe and I remained in the first classe alone: when I met her eye, her\nthoughts forced themselves partially through her lips.\n\n\"Il y a,\" said she, \"quelquechose de bien remarquable dans le caractère\nAnglais.\"\n\n\"How, Madame?\"\n\nShe gave a little laugh, repeating the word \"how\" in English.\n\n\"Je ne saurais vous dire 'how;' mais, enfin, les Anglais ont des idées\nà eux, en amitié, en amour, en tout. Mais au moins il n'est pas besoin\nde les surveiller,\" she added, getting up and trotting away like the\ncompact little pony she was.\n\n\"Then I hope,\" murmured I to myself, \"you will graciously let alone my\nletters for the future.\"\n\nAlas! something came rushing into my eyes, dimming utterly their\nvision, blotting from sight the schoolroom, the garden, the bright\nwinter sun, as I remembered that never more would letters, such as she\nhad read, come to me. I had seen the last of them. That goodly river on\nwhose banks I had sojourned, of whose waves a few reviving drops had\ntrickled to my lips, was bending to another course: it was leaving my\nlittle hut and field forlorn and sand-dry, pouring its wealth of waters\nfar away. The change was right, just, natural; not a word could be\nsaid: but I loved my Rhine, my Nile; I had almost worshipped my Ganges,\nand I grieved that the grand tide should roll estranged, should vanish\nlike a false mirage. Though stoical, I was not quite a stoic; drops\nstreamed fast on my hands, on my desk: I wept one sultry shower, heavy\nand brief.\n\nBut soon I said to myself, \"The Hope I am bemoaning suffered and made\nme suffer much: it did not die till it was full time: following an\nagony so lingering, death ought to be welcome.\"\n\nWelcome I endeavoured to make it. Indeed, long pain had made patience a\nhabit. In the end I closed the eyes of my dead, covered its face, and\ncomposed its limbs with great calm.\n\nThe letters, however, must be put away, out of sight: people who have\nundergone bereavement always jealously gather together and lock away\nmementos: it is not supportable to be stabbed to the heart each moment\nby sharp revival of regret.\n\nOne vacant holiday afternoon (the Thursday) going to my treasure, with\nintent to consider its final disposal, I perceived--and this time with\na strong impulse of displeasure--that it had been again tampered with:\nthe packet was there, indeed, but the ribbon which secured it had been\nuntied and retied; and by other symptoms I knew that my drawer had been\nvisited.\n\nThis was a little too much. Madame Beck herself was the soul of\ndiscretion, besides having as strong a brain and sound a judgment as\never furnished a human head; that she should know the contents of my\ncasket, was not pleasant, but might be borne. Little Jesuit\ninquisitress as she was, she could see things in a true light, and\nunderstand them in an unperverted sense; but the idea that she had\nventured to communicate information, thus gained, to others; that she\nhad, perhaps, amused herself with a companion over documents, in my\neyes most sacred, shocked me cruelly. Yet, that such was the case I now\nsaw reason to fear; I even guessed her confidant. Her kinsman, M. Paul\nEmanuel, had spent yesterday evening with her: she was much in the\nhabit of consulting him, and of discussing with him matters she\nbroached to no one else. This very morning, in class, that gentleman\nhad favoured me with a glance which he seemed to have borrowed from\nVashti, the actress; I had not at the moment comprehended that blue,\nyet lurid, flash out of his angry eye; but I read its meaning now.\n_He_, I believed, was not apt to regard what concerned me from a fair\npoint of view, nor to judge me with tolerance and candour: I had always\nfound him severe and suspicious: the thought that these letters, mere\nfriendly letters as they were, had fallen once, and might fall again,\ninto his hands, jarred my very soul.\n\nWhat should I do to prevent this? In what corner of this strange house\nwas it possible to find security or secresy? Where could a key be a\nsafeguard, or a padlock a barrier?\n\nIn the grenier? No, I did not like the grenier. Besides, most of the\nboxes and drawers there were mouldering, and did not lock. Rats, too,\ngnawed their way through the decayed wood; and mice made nests amongst\nthe litter of their contents: my dear letters (most dear still, though\nIchabod was written on their covers) might be consumed by vermin;\ncertainly the writing would soon become obliterated by damp. No; the\ngrenier would not do--but where then?\n\nWhile pondering this problem, I sat in the dormitory window-seat. It\nwas a fine frosty afternoon; the winter sun, already setting, gleamed\npale on the tops of the garden-shrubs in the \"allée défendue.\" One\ngreat old pear-tree--the nun's pear-tree--stood up a tall dryad\nskeleton, grey, gaunt, and stripped. A thought struck me--one of those\nqueer fantastic thoughts that will sometimes strike solitary people. I\nput on my bonnet, cloak, and furs, and went out into the city.\n\nBending my steps to the old historical quarter of the town, whose hoax\nand overshadowed precincts I always sought by instinct in melancholy\nmoods, I wandered on from street to street, till, having crossed a half\ndeserted \"place\" or square, I found myself before a sort of broker's\nshop; an ancient place, full of ancient things. What I wanted was a\nmetal box which might be soldered, or a thick glass jar or bottle which\nmight be stoppered or sealed hermetically. Amongst miscellaneous heaps,\nI found and purchased the latter article.\n\nI then made a little roll of my letters, wrapped them in oiled silk,\nbound them with twine, and, having put them in the bottle, got the old\nJew broker to stopper, seal, and make it air-tight. While obeying my\ndirections, he glanced at me now and then suspiciously from under his\nfrost-white eyelashes. I believe he thought there was some evil deed on\nhand. In all this I had a dreary something--not pleasure--but a sad,\nlonely satisfaction. The impulse under which I acted, the mood\ncontrolling me, were similar to the impulse and the mood which had\ninduced me to visit the confessional. With quick walking I regained the\npensionnat just at dark, and in time for dinner.\n\nAt seven o'clock the moon rose. At half-past seven, when the pupils and\nteachers were at study, and Madame Beck was with her mother and\nchildren in the salle-à-manger, when the half-boarders were all gone\nhome, and Rosine had left the vestibule, and all was still--I shawled\nmyself, and, taking the sealed jar, stole out through the first-classe\ndoor, into the berceau and thence into the \"allée défendue.\"\n\nMethusaleh, the pear-tree, stood at the further end of this walk, near\nmy seat: he rose up, dim and gray, above the lower shrubs round him.\nNow Methusaleh, though so very old, was of sound timber still; only\nthere was a hole, or rather a deep hollow, near his root. I knew there\nwas such a hollow, hidden partly by ivy and creepers growing thick\nround; and there I meditated hiding my treasure. But I was not only\ngoing to hide a treasure--I meant also to bury a grief. That grief over\nwhich I had lately been weeping, as I wrapped it in its winding-sheet,\nmust be interred.\n\nWell, I cleared away the ivy, and found the hole; it was large enough\nto receive the jar, and I thrust it deep in. In a tool-shed at the\nbottom of the garden, lay the relics of building-materials, left by\nmasons lately employed to repair a part of the premises. I fetched\nthence a slate and some mortar, put the slate on the hollow, secured it\nwith cement, covered the hole with black mould, and, finally, replaced\nthe ivy. This done, I rested, leaning against the tree; lingering, like\nany other mourner, beside a newly-sodded grave.\n\nThe air of the night was very still, but dim with a peculiar mist,\nwhich changed the moonlight into a luminous haze. In this air, or this\nmist, there was some quality--electrical, perhaps--which acted in\nstrange sort upon me. I felt then as I had felt a year ago in\nEngland--on a night when the aurora borealis was streaming and sweeping\nround heaven, when, belated in lonely fields, I had paused to watch\nthat mustering of an army with banners--that quivering of serried\nlances--that swift ascent of messengers from below the north star to\nthe dark, high keystone of heaven's arch. I felt, not happy, far\notherwise, but strong with reinforced strength.\n\nIf life be a war, it seemed my destiny to conduct it single-handed. I\npondered now how to break up my winter-quarters--to leave an encampment\nwhere food and forage failed. Perhaps, to effect this change, another\npitched battle must be fought with fortune; if so, I had a mind to the\nencounter: too poor to lose, God might destine me to gain. But what\nroad was open?--what plan available?\n\nOn this question I was still pausing, when the moon, so dim hitherto,\nseemed to shine out somewhat brighter: a ray gleamed even white before\nme, and a shadow became distinct and marked. I looked more narrowly, to\nmake out the cause of this well-defined contrast appearing a little\nsuddenly in the obscure alley: whiter and blacker it grew on my eye: it\ntook shape with instantaneous transformation. I stood about three yards\nfrom a tall, sable-robed, snowy-veiled woman.\n\nFive minutes passed. I neither fled nor shrieked. She was there still.\nI spoke.\n\n\"Who are you? and why do you come to me?\"\n\nShe stood mute. She had no face--no features: all below her brow was\nmasked with a white cloth; but she had eyes, and they viewed me.\n\nI felt, if not brave, yet a little desperate; and desperation will\noften suffice to fill the post and do the work of courage. I advanced\none step. I stretched out my hand, for I meant to touch her. She seemed\nto recede. I drew nearer: her recession, still silent, became swift. A\nmass of shrubs, full-leaved evergreens, laurel and dense yew,\nintervened between me and what I followed. Having passed that obstacle,\nI looked and saw nothing. I waited. I said,--\"If you have any errand to\nmen, come back and deliver it.\" Nothing spoke or re-appeared.\n\nThis time there was no Dr. John to whom to have recourse: there was no\none to whom I dared whisper the words, \"I have again seen the nun.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nPaulina Mary sought my frequent presence in the Rue Crécy. In the old\nBretton days, though she had never professed herself fond of me, my\nsociety had soon become to her a sort of unconscious necessary. I used\nto notice that if I withdrew to my room, she would speedily come\ntrotting after me, and opening the door and peeping in, say, with her\nlittle peremptory accent,--\"Come down. Why do you sit here by yourself?\nYou must come into the parlour.\"\n\nIn the same spirit she urged me now--\"Leave the Rue Fossette,\" she\nsaid, \"and come and live with us. Papa would give you far more than\nMadame Beck gives you.\"\n\nMr. Home himself offered me a handsome sum--thrice my present\nsalary--if I would accept the office of companion to his daughter. I\ndeclined. I think I should have declined had I been poorer than I was,\nand with scantier fund of resource, more stinted narrowness of future\nprospect. I had not that vocation. I could teach; I could give lessons;\nbut to be either a private governess or a companion was unnatural to\nme. Rather than fill the former post in any great house, I would\ndeliberately have taken a housemaid's place, bought a strong pair of\ngloves, swept bedrooms and staircases, and cleaned stoves and locks, in\npeace and independence. Rather than be a companion, I would have made\nshirts and starved.\n\nI was no bright lady's shadow--not Miss de Bassompierre's. Overcast\nenough it was my nature often to be; of a subdued habit I was: but the\ndimness and depression must both be voluntary--such as kept me docile\nat my desk, in the midst of my now well-accustomed pupils in Madame\nBeck's fist classe; or alone, at my own bedside, in her dormitory, or\nin the alley and seat which were called mine, in her garden: my\nqualifications were not convertible, nor adaptable; they could not be\nmade the foil of any gem, the adjunct of any beauty, the appendage of\nany greatness in Christendom. Madame Beck and I, without assimilating,\nunderstood each other well. I was not _her_ companion, nor her\nchildren's governess; she left me free: she tied me to nothing--not to\nherself--not even to her interests: once, when she had for a fortnight\nbeen called from home by a near relation's illness, and on her return,\nall anxious and full of care about her establishment, lest something in\nher absence should have gone wrong finding that matters had proceeded\nmuch as usual, and that there was no evidence of glaring neglect--she\nmade each of the teachers a present, in acknowledgment of steadiness.\nTo my bedside she came at twelve o'clock at night, and told me she had\nno present for me: \"I must make fidelity advantageous to the St.\nPierre,\" said she; \"if I attempt to make it advantageous to you, there\nwill arise misunderstanding between us--perhaps separation. One thing,\nhowever, I _can_ do to please you--leave you alone with your liberty:\nc'est-ce que je ferai.\" She kept her word. Every slight shackle she had\never laid on me, she, from that time, with quiet hand removed. Thus I\nhad pleasure in voluntarily respecting her rules: gratification in\ndevoting double time, in taking double pains with the pupils she\ncommitted to my charge.\n\nAs to Mary de Bassompierre, I visited her with pleasure, though I would\nnot live with her. My visits soon taught me that it was unlikely even\nmy occasional and voluntary society would long be indispensable to her.\nM. de Bassompierre, for his part, seemed impervious to this conjecture,\nblind to this possibility; unconscious as any child to the signs, the\nlikelihoods, the fitful beginnings of what, when it drew to an end, he\nmight not approve.\n\nWhether or not he would cordially approve, I used to speculate.\nDifficult to say. He was much taken up with scientific interests; keen,\nintent, and somewhat oppugnant in what concerned his favourite\npursuits, but unsuspicious and trustful in the ordinary affairs of\nlife. From all I could gather, he seemed to regard his \"daughterling\"\nas still but a child, and probably had not yet admitted the notion that\nothers might look on her in a different light: he would speak of what\nshould be done when \"Polly\" was a woman, when she should be grown up;\nand \"Polly,\" standing beside his chair, would sometimes smile and take\nhis honoured head between her little hands, and kiss his iron-grey\nlocks; and, at other times, she would pout and toss her curls: but she\nnever said, \"Papa, I _am_ grown up.\"\n\nShe had different moods for different people. With her father she\nreally was still a child, or child-like, affectionate, merry, and\nplayful. With me she was serious, and as womanly as thought and feeling\ncould make her. With Mrs. Bretton she was docile and reliant, but not\nexpansive. With Graham she was shy, at present very shy; at moments she\ntried to be cold; on occasion she endeavoured to shun him. His step\nmade her start; his entrance hushed her; when he spoke, her answers\nfailed of fluency; when he took leave, she remained self-vexed and\ndisconcerted. Even her father noticed this demeanour in her.\n\n\"My little Polly,\" he said once, \"you live too retired a life; if you\ngrow to be a woman with these shy manners, you will hardly be fitted\nfor society. You really make quite a stranger of Dr. Bretton: how is\nthis? Don't you remember that, as a little girl, you used to be rather\npartial to him?\"\n\n\"_Rather_, papa,\" echoed she, with her slightly dry, yet gentle and\nsimple tone.\n\n\"And you don't like him now? What has he done?\"\n\n\"Nothing. Y--e--s, I like him a little; but we are grown strange to\neach other.\"\n\n\"Then rub it off, Polly; rub the rust and the strangeness off. Talk\naway when he is here, and have no fear of him?\"\n\n\"_He_ does not talk much. Is he afraid of me, do you think, papa?\"\n\n\"Oh, to be sure, what man would not be afraid of such a little silent\nlady?\"\n\n\"Then tell him some day not to mind my being silent. Say that it is my\nway, and that I have no unfriendly intention.\"\n\n\"Your way, you little chatter-box? So far from being your way, it is\nonly your whim!\"\n\n\"Well, I'll improve, papa.\"\n\nAnd very pretty was the grace with which, the next day, she tried to\nkeep her word. I saw her make the effort to converse affably with Dr.\nJohn on general topics. The attention called into her guest's face a\npleasurable glow; he met her with caution, and replied to her in his\nsoftest tones, as if there was a kind of gossamer happiness hanging in\nthe air which he feared to disturb by drawing too deep a breath.\nCertainly, in her timid yet earnest advance to friendship, it could not\nbe denied that there was a most exquisite and fairy charm.\n\nWhen the Doctor was gone, she approached her father's chair.\n\n\"Did I keep my word, papa? Did I behave better?\"\n\n\"My Polly behaved like a queen. I shall become quite proud of her if\nthis improvement continues. By-and-by we shall see her receiving my\nguests with quite a calm, grand manner. Miss Lucy and I will have to\nlook about us, and polish up all our best airs and graces lest we\nshould be thrown into the shade. Still, Polly, there is a little\nflutter, a little tendency to stammer now and then, and even, to lisp\nas you lisped when you were six years old.\"\n\n\"No, papa,\" interrupted she indignantly, \"that can't be true.\"\n\n\"I appeal to Miss Lucy. Did she not, in answering Dr. Bretton's\nquestion as to whether she had ever seen the palace of the Prince of\nBois l'Etang, say, 'yeth,' she had been there 'theveral' times?\"\n\n\"Papa, you are satirical, you are méchant! I can pronounce all the\nletters of the alphabet as clearly as you can. But tell me this you are\nvery particular in making me be civil to Dr. Bretton, do you like him\nyourself?\"\n\n\"To be sure: for old acquaintance sake I like him: then he is a very\ngood son to his mother; besides being a kind-hearted fellow and clever\nin his profession: yes, the callant is well enough.\"\n\n\"_Callant_! Ah, Scotchman! Papa, is it the Edinburgh or the Aberdeen\naccent you have?\"\n\n\"Both, my pet, both: and doubtless the Glaswegian into the bargain. It\nis that which enables me to speak French so well: a gude Scots tongue\nalways succeeds well at the French.\"\n\n\"_The_ French! Scotch again: incorrigible papa. You, too, need\nschooling.\"\n\n\"Well, Polly, you must persuade Miss Snowe to undertake both you and\nme; to make you steady and womanly, and me refined and classical.\"\n\nThe light in which M. de Bassompierre evidently regarded \"Miss Snowe,\"\nused to occasion me much inward edification. What contradictory\nattributes of character we sometimes find ascribed to us, according to\nthe eye with which we are viewed! Madame Beck esteemed me learned and\nblue; Miss Fanshawe, caustic, ironic, and cynical; Mr. Home, a model\nteacher, the essence of the sedate and discreet: somewhat conventional,\nperhaps, too strict, limited, and scrupulous, but still the pink and\npattern of governess-correctness; whilst another person, Professor Paul\nEmanuel, to wit, never lost an opportunity of intimating his opinion\nthat mine was rather a fiery and rash nature--adventurous, indocile,\nand audacious. I smiled at them all. If any one knew me it was little\nPaulina Mary.\n\nAs I would not be Paulina's nominal and paid companion, genial and\nharmonious as I began to find her intercourse, she persuaded me to join\nher in some study, as a regular and settled means of sustaining\ncommunication: she proposed the German language, which, like myself,\nshe found difficult of mastery. We agreed to take our lessons in the\nRue Crécy of the same mistress; this arrangement threw us together for\nsome hours of every week. M. de Bassompierre seemed quite pleased: it\nperfectly met his approbation, that Madame Minerva Gravity should\nassociate a portion of her leisure with that of his fair and dear child.\n\nThat other self-elected judge of mine, the professor in the Rue\nFossette, discovering by some surreptitious spying means, that I was no\nlonger so stationary as hitherto, but went out regularly at certain\nhours of certain days, took it upon himself to place me under\nsurveillance. People said M. Emanuel had been brought up amongst\nJesuits. I should more readily have accredited this report had his\nmanoeuvres been better masked. As it was, I doubted it. Never was a\nmore undisguised schemer, a franker, looser intriguer. He would analyze\nhis own machinations: elaborately contrive plots, and forthwith indulge\nin explanatory boasts of their skill. I know not whether I was more\namused or provoked, by his stepping up to me one morning and whispering\nsolemnly that he \"had his eye on me: _he_ at least would discharge the\nduty of a friend, and not leave me entirely to my own devices. My,\nproceedings seemed at present very unsettled: he did not know what to\nmake of them: he thought his cousin Beck very much to blame in\nsuffering this sort of fluttering inconsistency in a teacher attached\nto her house. What had a person devoted to a serious calling, that of\neducation, to do with Counts and Countesses, hotels and châteaux? To\nhim, I seemed altogether 'en l'air.' On his faith, he believed I went\nout six days in the seven.\"\n\nI said, \"Monsieur exaggerated. I certainly had enjoyed the advantage of\na little change lately, but not before it had become necessary; and the\nprivilege was by no means exercised in excess.\"\n\n\"Necessary! How was it necessary? I was well enough, he supposed?\nChange necessary! He would recommend me to look at the Catholic\n'religieuses,' and study _their_ lives. _They_ asked no change.\"\n\nI am no judge of what expression crossed my face when he thus spoke,\nbut it was one which provoked him: he accused me of being reckless,\nworldly, and epicurean; ambitious of greatness, and feverishly athirst\nfor the pomps and vanities of life. It seems I had no \"dévouement,\" no\n\"récueillement\" in my character; no spirit of grace, faith, sacrifice,\nor self-abasement. Feeling the inutility of answering these charges, I\nmutely continued the correction of a pile of English exercises.\n\n\"He could see in me nothing Christian: like many other Protestants, I\nrevelled in the pride and self-will of paganism.\"\n\nI slightly turned from him, nestling still closer under the wing of\nsilence.\n\nA vague sound grumbled between his teeth; it could not surely be a\n\"juron:\" he was too religious for that; but I am certain I heard the\nword _sacré_. Grievous to relate, the same word was repeated, with the\nunequivocal addition of _mille_ something, when I passed him about two\nhours afterwards in the corridor, prepared to go and take my German\nlesson in the Rue Crécy. Never was a better little man, in some points,\nthan M. Paul: never, in others, a more waspish little despot.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nOur German mistress, Fräulein Anna Braun, was a worthy, hearty woman,\nof about forty-five; she ought, perhaps, to have lived in the days of\nQueen Elizabeth, as she habitually consumed, for her first and second\nbreakfasts, beer and beef: also, her direct and downright Deutsch\nnature seemed to suffer a sensation of cruel restraint from what she\ncalled our English reserve; though we thought we were very cordial with\nher: but we did not slap her on the shoulder, and if we consented to\nkiss her cheek, it was done quietly, and without any explosive smack.\nThese omissions oppressed and depressed her considerably; still, on the\nwhole, we got on very well. Accustomed to instruct foreign girls, who\nhardly ever will think and study for themselves--who have no idea of\ngrappling with a difficulty, and overcoming it by dint of reflection or\napplication--our progress, which in truth was very leisurely, seemed to\nastound her. In her eyes, we were a pair of glacial prodigies, cold,\nproud, and preternatural.\n\nThe young Countess _was_ a little proud, a little fastidious: and\nperhaps, with her native delicacy and beauty, she had a right to these\nfeelings; but I think it was a total mistake to ascribe them to me. I\nnever evaded the morning salute, which Paulina would slip when she\ncould; nor was a certain little manner of still disdain a weapon known\nin my armoury of defence; whereas, Paulina always kept it clear, fine,\nand bright, and any rough German sally called forth at once its steelly\nglisten.\n\nHonest Anna Braun, in some measure, felt this difference; and while she\nhalf-feared, half-worshipped Paulina, as a sort of dainty nymph--an\nUndine--she took refuge with me, as a being all mortal, and of easier\nmood.\n\nA book we liked well to read and translate was Schiller's Ballads;\nPaulina soon learned to read them beautifully; the Fräulein would\nlisten to her with a broad smile of pleasure, and say her voice sounded\nlike music. She translated them, too, with a facile flow of language,\nand in a strain of kindred and poetic fervour: her cheek would flush,\nher lips tremblingly smile, her beauteous eyes kindle or melt as she\nwent on. She learnt the best by heart, and would often recite them when\nwe were alone together. One she liked well was \"Des Mädchens Klage:\"\nthat is, she liked well to repeat the words, she found plaintive melody\nin the sound; the sense she would criticise. She murmured, as we sat\nover the fire one evening:--\n\n  Du Heilige, rufe dein Kind zurück,\n  Ich habe genossen das irdische Glück,\n    Ich habe gelebt und geliebet!\n\n\"Lived and loved!\" said she, \"is that the summit of earthly happiness,\nthe end of life--to love? I don't think it is. It may be the extreme of\nmortal misery, it may be sheer waste of time, and fruitless torture of\nfeeling. If Schiller had said to _be_ loved, he might have come nearer\nthe truth. Is not that another thing, Lucy, to be loved?\"\n\n\"I suppose it may be: but why consider the subject? What is love to\nyou? What do you know about it?\"\n\nShe crimsoned, half in irritation, half in shame.\n\n\"Now, Lucy,\" she said, \"I won't take that from you. It may be well for\npapa to look on me as a baby: I rather prefer that he should thus view\nme; but _you_ know and shall learn to acknowledge that I am verging on\nmy nineteenth year.\"\n\n\"No matter if it were your twenty-ninth; we will anticipate no feelings\nby discussion and conversation; we will not talk about love.\"\n\n\"Indeed, indeed!\" said she--all in hurry and heat--\"you may think to\ncheck and hold me in, as much as you please; but I _have_ talked about\nit, and heard about it too; and a great deal and lately, and\ndisagreeably and detrimentally: and in a way you wouldn't approve.\"\n\nAnd the vexed, triumphant, pretty, naughty being laughed. I could not\ndiscern what she meant, and I would not ask her: I was nonplussed.\nSeeing, however, the utmost innocence in her countenance--combined with\nsome transient perverseness and petulance--I said at last,--\n\n\"Who talks to you disagreeably and detrimentally on such matters? Who\nthat has near access to you would dare to do it?\"\n\n\"Lucy,\" replied she more softly, \"it is a person who makes me miserable\nsometimes; and I wish she would keep away--I don't want her.\"\n\n\"But who, Paulina, can it be? You puzzle me much.\"\n\n\"It is--it is my cousin Ginevra. Every time she has leave to visit Mrs.\nCholmondeley she calls here, and whenever she finds me alone she begins\nto talk about her admirers. Love, indeed! You should hear all she has\nto say about love.\"\n\n\"Oh, I have heard it,\" said I, quite coolly; \"and on the whole, perhaps\nit is as well you should have heard it too: it is not to be regretted,\nit is all right. Yet, surely, Ginevra's mind cannot influence yours.\nYou can look over both her head and her heart.\"\n\n\"She does influence me very much. She has the art of disturbing my\nhappiness and unsettling my opinions. She hurts me through the feelings\nand people dearest to me.\"\n\n\"What does she say, Paulina? Give me some idea. There may be\ncounteraction of the damage done.\"\n\n\"The people I have longest and most esteemed are degraded by her. She\ndoes not spare Mrs. Bretton--she does not spare.... Graham.\"\n\n\"No, I daresay: and how does she mix up these with her sentiment and\nher...._love_? She does mix them, I suppose?\"\n\n\"Lucy, she is insolent; and, I believe, false. You know Dr. Bretton. We\nboth know him. He may be careless and proud; but when was he ever mean\nor slavish? Day after day she shows him to me kneeling at her feet,\npursuing her like her shadow. She--repulsing him with insult, and he\nimploring her with infatuation. Lucy, is it true? Is any of it true?\"\n\n\"It may be true that he once thought her handsome: does she give him\nout as still her suitor?\"\n\n\"She says she might marry him any day: he only waits her consent.\"\n\n\"It is these tales which have caused that reserve in your manner\ntowards Graham which your father noticed.\"\n\n\"They have certainly made me all doubtful about his character. As\nGinevra speaks, they do not carry with them the sound of unmixed truth:\nI believe she exaggerates--perhaps invents--but I want to know how far.\"\n\n\"Suppose we bring Miss Fanshawe to some proof. Give her an opportunity\nof displaying the power she boasts.\"\n\n\"I could do that to-morrow. Papa has asked some gentlemen to dinner,\nall savants. Graham, who, papa is beginning to discover, is a savant,\ntoo--skilled, they say, in more than one branch of science--is among\nthe number. Now I should be miserable to sit at table unsupported,\namidst such a party. I could not talk to Messieurs A---- and Z----, the\nParisian Academicians: all my new credit for manner would be put in\nperil. You and Mrs. Bretton must come for my sake; Ginevra, at a word,\nwill join you.\"\n\n\"Yes; then I will carry a message of invitation, and she shall have the\nchance of justifying her character for veracity.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVII.\n\nTHE HÔTEL CRÉCY.\n\n\nThe morrow turned out a more lively and busy day than we--or than I, at\nleast-had anticipated. It seems it was the birthday of one of the young\nprinces of Labassecour-the eldest, I think, the Duc de Dindonneau, and\na general holiday was given in his honour at the schools, and\nespecially at the principal \"Athénée,\" or college. The youth of that\ninstitution had also concocted, and were to present a loyal address;\nfor which purpose they were to be assembled in the public building\nwhere the yearly examinations were conducted, and the prizes\ndistributed. After the ceremony of presentation, an oration, or\n\"discours,\" was to follow from one of the professors.\n\nSeveral of M. de Bassompierre's friends-the savants-being more or less\nconnected with the Athénée, they were expected to attend on this\noccasion; together with the worshipful municipality of Villette, M. le\nChevalier Staas, the burgomaster, and the parents and kinsfolk of the\nAthenians in general. M. de Bassompierre was engaged by his friends to\naccompany them; his fair daughter would, of course, be of the party,\nand she wrote a little note to Ginevra and myself, bidding us come\nearly that we might join her.\n\nAs Miss Fanshawe and I were dressing in the dormitory of the Rue\nFossette, she (Miss F.) suddenly burst into a laugh.\n\n\"What now?\" I asked; for she had suspended the operation of arranging\nher attire, and was gazing at me.\n\n\"It seems so odd,\" she replied, with her usual half-honest\nhalf-insolent unreserve, \"that you and I should now be so much on a\nlevel, visiting in the same sphere; having the same connections.\"\n\n\"Why, yes,\" said I; \"I had not much respect for the connections you\nchiefly frequented awhile ago: Mrs. Cholmondeley and Co. would never\nhave suited me at all.\"\n\n\"Who _are_ you, Miss Snowe?\" she inquired, in a tone of such\nundisguised and unsophisticated curiosity, as made me laugh in my turn.\n\n\"You used to call yourself a nursery governess; when you first came\nhere you really had the care of the children in this house: I have seen\nyou carry little Georgette in your arms, like a bonne--few governesses\nwould have condescended so far--and now Madame Beck treats you with\nmore courtesy than she treats the Parisienne, St. Pierre; and that\nproud chit, my cousin, makes you her bosom friend!\"\n\n\"Wonderful!\" I agreed, much amused at her mystification. \"Who am I\nindeed? Perhaps a personage in disguise. Pity I don't look the\ncharacter.\"\n\n\"I wonder you are not more flattered by all this,\" she went on; \"you\ntake it with strange composure. If you really are the nobody I once\nthought you, you must be a cool hand.\"\n\n\"The nobody you once thought me!\" I repeated, and my face grew a little\nhot; but I would not be angry: of what importance was a school-girl's\ncrude use of the terms nobody and somebody? I confined myself,\ntherefore, to the remark that I had merely met with civility; and asked\n\"what she saw in civility to throw the recipient into a fever of\nconfusion?\"\n\n\"One can't help wondering at some things,\" she persisted.\n\n\"Wondering at marvels of your own manufacture. Are you ready at last?\"\n\n\"Yes; let me take your arm.\"\n\n\"I would rather not: we will walk side by side.\"\n\nWhen she took my arm, she always leaned upon me her whole weight; and,\nas I was not a gentleman, or her lover, I did not like it.\n\n\"There, again!\" she cried. \"I thought, by offering to take your arm, to\nintimate approbation of your dress and general appearance: I meant it\nas a compliment.\"\n\n\"You did? You meant, in short, to express that you are not ashamed to\nbe seen in the street with me? That if Mrs. Cholmondeley should be\nfondling her lapdog at some window, or Colonel de Hamal picking his\nteeth in a balcony, and should catch a glimpse of us, you would not\nquite blush for your companion?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said she, with that directness which was her best point--which\ngave an honest plainness to her very fibs when she told them--which\nwas, in short, the salt, the sole preservative ingredient of a\ncharacter otherwise not formed to keep.\n\nI delegated the trouble of commenting on this \"yes\" to my countenance;\nor rather, my under-lip voluntarily anticipated my tongue of course,\nreverence and solemnity were not the feelings expressed in the look I\ngave her.\n\n\"Scornful, sneering creature!\" she went on, as we crossed a great\nsquare, and entered the quiet, pleasant park, our nearest way to the\nRue Crécy. \"Nobody in this world was ever such a Turk to me as you are!\"\n\n\"You bring it on yourself: let me alone: have the sense to be quiet: I\nwill let you alone.\"\n\n\"As if one _could_ let you alone, when you are so peculiar and so\nmysterious!\"\n\n\"The mystery and peculiarity being entirely the conception of your own\nbrain--maggots--neither more nor less, be so good as to keep them out\nof my sight.\"\n\n\"But _are_ you anybody?\" persevered she, pushing her hand, in spite of\nme, under my arm; and that arm pressed itself with inhospitable\ncloseness against my side, by way of keeping out the intruder.\n\n\"Yes,\" I said, \"I am a rising character: once an old lady's companion,\nthen a nursery-governess, now a school-teacher.\"\n\n\"Do--_do_ tell me who you are? I'll not repeat it,\" she urged, adhering\nwith ludicrous tenacity to the wise notion of an incognito she had got\nhold of; and she squeezed the arm of which she had now obtained full\npossession, and coaxed and conjured till I was obliged to pause in the\npark to laugh. Throughout our walk she rang the most fanciful changes\non this theme; proving, by her obstinate credulity, or incredulity, her\nincapacity to conceive how any person not bolstered up by birth or\nwealth, not supported by some consciousness of name or connection,\ncould maintain an attitude of reasonable integrity. As for me, it quite\nsufficed to my mental tranquillity that I was known where it imported\nthat known I should be; the rest sat on me easily: pedigree, social\nposition, and recondite intellectual acquisition, occupied about the\nsame space and place in my interests and thoughts; they were my\nthird-class lodgers--to whom could be assigned only the small\nsitting-room and the little back bedroom: even if the dining and\ndrawing-rooms stood empty, I never confessed it to them, as thinking\nminor accommodations better suited to their circumstances. The world, I\nsoon learned, held a different estimate: and I make no doubt, the world\nis very right in its view, yet believe also that I am not quite wrong\nin mine.\n\nThere are people whom a lowered position degrades morally, to whom loss\nof connection costs loss of self-respect: are not these justified in\nplacing the highest value on that station and association which is\ntheir safeguard from debasement? If a man feels that he would become\ncontemptible in his own eyes were it generally known that his ancestry\nwere simple and not gentle, poor and not rich, workers and not\ncapitalists, would it be right severely to blame him for keeping these\nfatal facts out of sight--for starting, trembling, quailing at the\nchance which threatens exposure? The longer we live, the more out\nexperience widens; the less prone are we to judge our neighbour's\nconduct, to question the world's wisdom: wherever an accumulation of\nsmall defences is found, whether surrounding the prude's virtue or the\nman of the world's respectability, there, be sure, it is needed.\n\nWe reached the Hôtel Crécy; Paulina was ready; Mrs. Bretton was with\nher; and, under her escort and that of M. de Bassompierre, we were soon\nconducted to the place of assembly, and seated in good seats, at a\nconvenient distance from the Tribune. The youth of the Athénée were\nmarshalled before us, the municipality and their bourgmestre were in\nplaces of honour, the young princes, with their tutors, occupied a\nconspicuous position, and the body of the building was crowded with the\naristocracy and first burghers of the town.\n\nConcerning the identity of the professor by whom the \"discours\" was to\nbe delivered, I had as yet entertained neither care nor question. Some\nvague expectation I had that a savant would stand up and deliver a\nformal speech, half dogmatism to the Athenians, half flattery to the\nprinces.\n\nThe Tribune was yet empty when we entered, but in ten minutes after it\nwas filled; suddenly, in a second of time, a head, chest, and arms grew\nabove the crimson desk. This head I knew: its colour, shape, port,\nexpression, were familiar both to me and Miss Fanshawe; the blackness\nand closeness of cranium, the amplitude and paleness of brow, the\nblueness and fire of glance, were details so domesticated in the\nmemory, and so knit with many a whimsical association, as almost by\nthis their sudden apparition, to tickle fancy to a laugh. Indeed, I\nconfess, for my part, I did laugh till I was warm; but then I bent my\nhead, and made my handkerchief and a lowered veil the sole confidants\nof my mirth.\n\nI think I was glad to see M. Paul; I think it was rather pleasant than\notherwise, to behold him set up there, fierce and frank, dark and\ncandid, testy and fearless, as when regnant on his estrade in class.\nHis presence was such a surprise: I had not once thought of expecting\nhim, though I knew he filled the chair of Belles Lettres in the\ncollege. With _him_ in that Tribune, I felt sure that neither formalism\nnor flattery would be our doom; but for what was vouchsafed us, for\nwhat was poured suddenly, rapidly, continuously, on our heads--I own I\nwas not prepared.\n\nHe spoke to the princes, the nobles, the magistrates, and the burghers,\nwith just the same ease, with almost the same pointed, choleric\nearnestness, with which he was wont to harangue the three divisions of\nthe Rue Fossette. The collegians he addressed, not as schoolboys, but\nas future citizens and embryo patriots. The times which have since come\non Europe had not been foretold yet, and M. Emanuel's spirit seemed new\nto me. Who would have thought the flat and fat soil of Labassecour\ncould yield political convictions and national feelings, such as were\nnow strongly expressed? Of the bearing of his opinions I need here give\nno special indication; yet it may be permitted me to say that I\nbelieved the little man not more earnest than right in what he said:\nwith all his fire he was severe and sensible; he trampled Utopian\ntheories under his heel; he rejected wild dreams with scorn;--but when\nhe looked in the face of tyranny--oh, then there opened a light in his\neye worth seeing; and when he spoke of injustice, his voice gave no\nuncertain sound, but reminded me rather of the band-trumpet, ringing at\ntwilight from the park.\n\nI do not think his audience were generally susceptible of sharing his\nflame in its purity; but some of the college youth caught fire as he\neloquently told them what should be their path and endeavour in their\ncountry's and in Europe's future. They gave him a long, loud, ringing\ncheer, as he concluded: with all his fierceness, he was their favourite\nprofessor.\n\nAs our party left the Hall, he stood at the entrance; he saw and knew\nme, and lifted his hat; he offered his hand in passing, and uttered the\nwords \"Qu'en dites vous?\"--question eminently characteristic, and\nreminding me, even in this his moment of triumph, of that inquisitive\nrestlessness, that absence of what I considered desirable self-control,\nwhich were amongst his faults. He should not have cared just then to\nask what I thought, or what anybody thought, but he _did_ care, and he\nwas too natural to conceal, too impulsive to repress his wish. Well! if\nI blamed his over-eagerness, I liked his _naiveté_. I would have\npraised him: I had plenty of praise in my heart; but, alas! no words on\nmy lips. Who _has_ words at the right moment? I stammered some lame\nexpressions; but was truly glad when other people, coming up with\nprofuse congratulations, covered my deficiency by their redundancy.\n\nA gentleman introduced him to M. de Bassompierre; and the Count, who\nhad likewise been highly gratified, asked him to join his friends (for\nthe most part M. Emanuel's likewise), and to dine with them at the\nHôtel Crécy. He declined dinner, for he was a man always somewhat shy\nat meeting the advances of the wealthy: there was a strength of sturdy\nindependence in the stringing of his sinews--not obtrusive, but\npleasant enough to discover as one advanced in knowledge of his\ncharacter; he promised, however, to step in with his friend, M. A----,\na French Academician, in the course of the evening.\n\nAt dinner that day, Ginevra and Paulina each looked, in her own way,\nvery beautiful; the former, perhaps, boasted the advantage in material\ncharms, but the latter shone pre-eminent for attractions more subtle\nand spiritual: for light and eloquence of eye, for grace of mien, for\nwinning variety of expression. Ginevra's dress of deep crimson relieved\nwell her light curls, and harmonized with her rose-like bloom.\nPaulina's attire--in fashion close, though faultlessly neat, but in\ntexture clear and white--made the eye grateful for the delicate life of\nher complexion, for the soft animation of her countenance, for the\ntender depth of her eyes, for the brown shadow and bounteous flow of\nher hair--darker than that of her Saxon cousin, as were also her\neyebrows, her eyelashes, her full irids, and large mobile pupils.\nNature having traced all these details slightly, and with a careless\nhand, in Miss Fanshawe's case; and in Miss de Bassompierre's, wrought\nthem to a high and delicate finish.\n\nPaulina was awed by the savants, but not quite to mutism: she conversed\nmodestly, diffidently; not without effort, but with so true a\nsweetness, so fine and penetrating a sense, that her father more than\nonce suspended his own discourse to listen, and fixed on her an eye of\nproud delight. It was a polite Frenchman, M. Z----, a very learned, but\nquite a courtly man, who had drawn her into discourse. I was charmed\nwith her French; it was faultless--the structure correct, the idioms\ntrue, the accent pure; Ginevra, who had lived half her life on the\nContinent, could do nothing like it not that words ever failed Miss\nFanshawe, but real accuracy and purity she neither possessed, nor in\nany number of years would acquire. Here, too, M. de Bassompierre was\ngratified; for, on the point of language, he was critical.\n\nAnother listener and observer there was; one who, detained by some\nexigency of his profession, had come in late to dinner. Both ladies\nwere quietly scanned by Dr. Bretton, at the moment of taking his seat\nat the table; and that guarded survey was more than once renewed. His\narrival roused Miss Fanshawe, who had hitherto appeared listless: she\nnow became smiling and complacent, talked--though what she said was\nrarely to the purpose--or rather, was of a purpose somewhat\nmortifyingly below the standard of the occasion. Her light,\ndisconnected prattle might have gratified Graham once; perhaps it\npleased him still: perhaps it was only fancy which suggested the\nthought that, while his eye was filled and his ear fed, his taste, his\nkeen zest, his lively intelligence, were not equally consulted and\nregaled. It is certain that, restless and exacting as seemed the demand\non his attention, he yielded courteously all that was required: his\nmanner showed neither pique nor coolness: Ginevra was his neighbour,\nand to her, during dinner, he almost exclusively confined his notice.\nShe appeared satisfied, and passed to the drawing-room in very good\nspirits.\n\nYet, no sooner had we reached that place of refuge, than she again\nbecame flat and listless: throwing herself on a couch, she denounced\nboth the \"discours\" and the dinner as stupid affairs, and inquired of\nher cousin how she could hear such a set of prosaic \"gros-bonnets\" as\nher father gathered about him. The moment the gentlemen were heard to\nmove, her railings ceased: she started up, flew to the piano, and\ndashed at it with spirit. Dr. Bretton entering, one of the first, took\nup his station beside her. I thought he would not long maintain that\npost: there was a position near the hearth to which I expected to see\nhim attracted: this position he only scanned with his eye; while _he_\nlooked, others drew in. The grace and mind of Paulina charmed these\nthoughtful Frenchmen: the fineness of her beauty, the soft courtesy of\nher manner, her immature, but real and inbred tact, pleased their\nnational taste; they clustered about her, not indeed to talk science;\nwhich would have rendered her dumb, but to touch on many subjects in\nletters, in arts, in actual life, on which it soon appeared that she\nhad both read and reflected. I listened. I am sure that though Graham\nstood aloof, he listened too: his hearing as well as his vision was\nvery fine, quick, discriminating. I knew he gathered the conversation;\nI felt that the mode in which it was sustained suited him\nexquisitely--pleased him almost to pain.\n\nIn Paulina there was more force, both of feeling and character; than\nmost people thought--than Graham himself imagined--than she would ever\nshow to those who did not wish to see it. To speak truth, reader, there\nis no excellent beauty, no accomplished grace, no reliable refinement,\nwithout strength as excellent, as complete, as trustworthy. As well\nmight you look for good fruit and blossom on a rootless and sapless\ntree, as for charms that will endure in a feeble and relaxed nature.\nFor a little while, the blooming semblance of beauty may flourish round\nweakness; but it cannot bear a blast: it soon fades, even in serenest\nsunshine. Graham would have started had any suggestive spirit whispered\nof the sinew and the stamina sustaining that delicate nature; but I who\nhad known her as a child, knew or guessed by what a good and strong\nroot her graces held to the firm soil of reality.\n\nWhile Dr. Bretton listened, and waited an opening in the magic circle,\nhis glance restlessly sweeping the room at intervals, lighted by chance\non me, where I sat in a quiet nook not far from my godmother and M. de\nBassompierre, who, as usual, were engaged in what Mr. Home called \"a\ntwo-handed crack:\" what the Count would have interpreted as a\ntête-à-tête. Graham smiled recognition, crossed the room, asked me how\nI was, told me I looked pale. I also had my own smile at my own\nthought: it was now about three months since Dr. John had spoken to\nme-a lapse of which he was not even conscious. He sat down, and became\nsilent. His wish was rather to look than converse. Ginevra and Paulina\nwere now opposite to him: he could gaze his fill: he surveyed both\nforms--studied both faces.\n\nSeveral new guests, ladies as well as gentlemen, had entered the room\nsince dinner, dropping in for the evening conversation; and amongst the\ngentlemen, I may incidentally observe, I had already noticed by\nglimpses, a severe, dark, professorial outline, hovering aloof in an\ninner saloon, seen only in vista. M. Emanuel knew many of the gentlemen\npresent, but I think was a stranger to most of the ladies, excepting\nmyself; in looking towards the hearth, he could not but see me, and\nnaturally made a movement to approach; seeing, however, Dr. Bretton\nalso, he changed his mind and held back. If that had been all, there\nwould have been no cause for quarrel; but not satisfied with holding\nback, he puckered up his eyebrows, protruded his lip, and looked so\nugly that I averted my eyes from the displeasing spectacle. M. Joseph\nEmanuel had arrived, as well as his austere brother, and at this very\nmoment was relieving Ginevra at the piano. What a master-touch\nsucceeded her school-girl jingle! In what grand, grateful tones the\ninstrument acknowledged the hand of the true artist!\n\n\"Lucy,\" began Dr. Bretton, breaking silence and smiling, as Ginevra\nglided before him, casting a glance as she passed by, \"Miss Fanshawe is\ncertainly a fine girl.\"\n\nOf course I assented.\n\n\"Is there,\" he pursued, \"another in the room as lovely?\"\n\n\"I think there is not another as handsome.\"\n\n\"I agree with you, Lucy: you and I do often agree in opinion, in taste,\nI think; or at least in judgment.\"\n\n\"Do we?\" I said, somewhat doubtfully.\n\n\"I believe if you had been a boy, Lucy, instead of a girl--my mother's\ngod-son instead of her god-daughter, we should have been good friends:\nour opinions would have melted into each other.\"\n\nHe had assumed a bantering air: a light, half-caressing, half-ironic,\nshone aslant in his eye. Ah, Graham! I have given more than one\nsolitary moment to thoughts and calculations of your estimate of Lucy\nSnowe: was it always kind or just? Had Lucy been intrinsically the same\nbut possessing the additional advantages of wealth and station, would\nyour manner to her, your value for her, have been quite what they\nactually were? And yet by these questions I would not seriously infer\nblame. No; you might sadden and trouble me sometimes; but then mine was\na soon-depressed, an easily-deranged temperament--it fell if a cloud\ncrossed the sun. Perhaps before the eye of severe equity I should stand\nmore at fault than you.\n\nTrying, then, to keep down the unreasonable pain which thrilled my\nheart, on thus being made to feel that while Graham could devote to\nothers the most grave and earnest, the manliest interest, he had no\nmore than light raillery for Lucy, the friend of lang syne, I inquired\ncalmly,--\"On what points are we so closely in accordance?\"\n\n\"We each have an observant faculty. You, perhaps, don't give me credit\nfor the possession; yet I have it.\"\n\n\"But you were speaking of tastes: we may see the same objects, yet\nestimate them differently?\"\n\n\"Let us bring it to the test. Of course, you cannot but render homage\nto the merits of Miss Fanshawe: now, what do you think of others in the\nroom?--my mother, for instance; or the lions yonder, Messieurs A----\nand Z----; or, let us say, that pale little lady, Miss de Bassompierre?\"\n\n\"You know what I think of your mother. I have not thought of Messieurs\nA---- and Z----.\"\n\n\"And the other?\"\n\n\"I think she is, as you say, a pale little lady--pale, certainly, just\nnow, when she is fatigued with over-excitement.\"\n\n\"You don't remember her as a child?\"\n\n\"I wonder, sometimes, whether you do.\"\n\n\"I had forgotten her; but it is noticeable, that circumstances,\npersons, even words and looks, that had slipped your memory, may, under\ncertain conditions, certain aspects of your own or another's mind,\nrevive.\"\n\n\"That is possible enough.\"\n\n\"Yet,\" he continued, \"the revival is imperfect--needs confirmation,\npartakes so much of the dim character of a dream, or of the airy one of\na fancy, that the testimony of a witness becomes necessary for\ncorroboration. Were you not a guest at Bretton ten years ago, when Mr.\nHome brought his little girl, whom we then called 'little Polly,' to\nstay with mamma?\"\n\n\"I was there the night she came, and also the morning she went away.\"\n\n\"Rather a peculiar child, was she not? I wonder how I treated her. Was\nI fond of children in those days? Was there anything gracious or kindly\nabout me--great, reckless, schoolboy as I was? But you don't recollect\nme, of course?\"\n\n\"You have seen your own picture at La Terrasse. It is like you\npersonally. In manner, you were almost the same yesterday as to-day.\"\n\n\"But, Lucy, how is that? Such an oracle really whets my curiosity. What\nam I to-day? What was I the yesterday of ten years back?\"\n\n\"Gracious to whatever pleased you--unkindly or cruel to nothing.\"\n\n\"There you are wrong; I think I was almost a brute to _you_, for\ninstance.\"\n\n\"A brute! No, Graham: I should never have patiently endured brutality.\"\n\n\"_This_, however, I _do_ remember: quiet Lucy Snowe tasted nothing of\nmy grace.\"\n\n\"As little of your cruelty.\"\n\n\"Why, had I been Nero himself, I could not have tormented a being\ninoffensive as a shadow.\"\n\nI smiled; but I also hushed a groan. Oh!--I just wished he would let me\nalone--cease allusion to me. These epithets--these attributes I put\nfrom me. His \"quiet Lucy Snowe,\" his \"inoffensive shadow,\" I gave him\nback; not with scorn, but with extreme weariness: theirs was the\ncoldness and the pressure of lead; let him whelm me with no such\nweight. Happily, he was soon on another theme.\n\n\"On what terms were 'little Polly' and I? Unless my recollections\ndeceive me, we were not foes--\"\n\n\"You speak very vaguely. Do you think little Polly's memory, not more\ndefinite?\"\n\n\"Oh! we don't talk of 'little Polly' _now_. Pray say, Miss de\nBassompierre; and, of course, such a stately personage remembers\nnothing of Bretton. Look at her large eyes, Lucy; can they read a word\nin the page of memory? Are they the same which I used to direct to a\nhorn-book? She does not know that I partly taught her to read.\"\n\n\"In the Bible on Sunday nights?\"\n\n\"She has a calm, delicate, rather fine profile now: once what a little\nrestless, anxious countenance was hers! What a thing is a child's\npreference--what a bubble! Would you believe it? that lady was fond of\nme!\"\n\n\"I think she was in some measure fond of you,\" said I, moderately.\n\n\"You don't remember then? _I_ had forgotten; but I remember _now_. She\nliked me the best of whatever there was at Bretton.\"\n\n\"You thought so.\"\n\n\"I quite well recall it. I wish I could tell her all I recall; or\nrather, I wish some one, you for instance, would go behind and whisper\nit all in her ear, and I could have the delight--here, as I sit--of\nwatching her look under the intelligence. Could you manage that, think\nyou, Lucy, and make me ever grateful?\"\n\n\"Could I manage to make you ever grateful?\" said I. \"No, _I could\nnot_.\" And I felt my fingers work and my hands interlock: I felt, too,\nan inward courage, warm and resistant. In this matter I was not\ndisposed to gratify Dr. John: not at all. With now welcome force, I\nrealized his entire misapprehension of my character and nature. He\nwanted always to give me a role not mine. Nature and I opposed him. He\ndid not at all guess what I felt: he did not read my eyes, or face, or\ngestures; though, I doubt not, all spoke. Leaning towards me coaxingly,\nhe said, softly, \"_Do_ content me, Lucy.\"\n\nAnd I would have contented, or, at least, I would clearly have\nenlightened him, and taught him well never again to expect of me the\npart of officious soubrette in a love drama; when, following his, soft,\neager, murmur, meeting almost his pleading, mellow--\"_Do_ content me,\nLucy!\" a sharp hiss pierced my ear on the other side.\n\n\"Petite chatte, doucerette, coquette!\" sibillated the sudden\nboa-constrictor; \"vous avez l'air bien triste, soumis, rêveur, mais\nvous ne l'êtes pas: c'est moi qui vous le dis: Sauvage! la flamme à\nl'âme, l'éclair aux yeux!\"\n\n\"Oui; j'ai la flamme à l'âme, et je dois l'avoir!\" retorted I, turning\nin just wrath: but Professor Emanuel had hissed his insult and was gone.\n\nThe worst of the matter was, that Dr. Bretton, whose ears, as I have\nsaid, were quick and fine, caught every word of this apostrophe; he put\nhis handkerchief to his face, and laughed till he shook.\n\n\"Well done, Lucy,\" cried he; \"capital! petite chatte, petite coquette!\nOh, I must tell my mother! Is it true, Lucy, or half-true? I believe it\nis: you redden to the colour of Miss Fanshawe's gown. And really, by my\nword, now I examine him, that is the same little man who was so savage\nwith you at the concert: the very same, and in his soul he is frantic\nat this moment because he sees me laughing. Oh! I must tease him.\"\n\nAnd Graham, yielding to his bent for mischief, laughed, jested, and\nwhispered on till I could bear no more, and my eyes filled.\n\nSuddenly he was sobered: a vacant space appeared near Miss de\nBassompierre; the circle surrounding her seemed about to dissolve. This\nmovement was instantly caught by Graham's eye--ever-vigilant, even\nwhile laughing; he rose, took his courage in both hands, crossed the\nroom, and made the advantage his own. Dr. John, throughout his whole\nlife, was a man of luck--a man of success. And why? Because he had the\neye to see his opportunity, the heart to prompt to well-timed action,\nthe nerve to consummate a perfect work. And no tyrant-passion dragged\nhim back; no enthusiasms, no foibles encumbered his way. How well he\nlooked at this very moment! When Paulina looked up as he reached her\nside, her glance mingled at once with an encountering glance, animated,\nyet modest; his colour, as he spoke to her, became half a blush, half a\nglow. He stood in her presence brave and bashful: subdued and\nunobtrusive, yet decided in his purpose and devoted in his ardour. I\ngathered all this by one view. I did not prolong my observation--time\nfailed me, had inclination served: the night wore late; Ginevra and I\nought already to have been in the Rue Fossette. I rose, and bade\ngood-night to my godmother and M. de Bassompierre.\n\nI know not whether Professor Emanuel had noticed my reluctant\nacceptance of Dr. Bretton's badinage, or whether he perceived that I\nwas pained, and that, on the whole, the evening had not been one flow\nof exultant enjoyment for the volatile, pleasure-loving Mademoiselle\nLucie; but, as I was leaving the room, he stepped up and inquired\nwhether I had any one to attend me to the Rue Fossette. The professor\n_now_ spoke politely, and even deferentially, and he looked apologetic\nand repentant; but I could not recognise his civility at a word, nor\nmeet his contrition with crude, premature oblivion. Never hitherto had\nI felt seriously disposed to resent his brusqueries, or freeze before\nhis fierceness; what he had said to-night, however, I considered\nunwarranted: my extreme disapprobation of the proceeding must be\nmarked, however slightly. I merely said:--\"I am provided with\nattendance.\"\n\nWhich was true, as Ginevra and I were to be sent home in the carriage;\nand I passed him with the sliding obeisance with which he was wont to\nbe saluted in classe by pupils crossing his estrade.\n\nHaving sought my shawl, I returned to the vestibule. M. Emanuel stood\nthere as if waiting. He observed that the night was fine.\n\n\"Is it?\" I said, with a tone and manner whose consummate chariness and\nfrostiness I could not but applaud. It was so seldom I could properly\nact out my own resolution to be reserved and cool where I had been\ngrieved or hurt, that I felt almost proud of this one successful\neffort. That \"Is it?\" sounded just like the manner of other people. I\nhad heard hundreds of such little minced, docked, dry phrases, from the\npursed-up coral lips of a score of self-possessed, self-sufficing\nmisses and mesdemoiselles. That M. Paul would not stand any prolonged\nexperience of this sort of dialogue I knew; but he certainly merited a\nsample of the curt and arid. I believe he thought so himself, for he\ntook the dose quietly. He looked at my shawl and objected to its\nlightness. I decidedly told him it was as heavy as I wished. Receding\naloof, and standing apart, I leaned on the banister of the stairs,\nfolded my shawl about me, and fixed my eyes on a dreary religious\npainting darkening the wall.\n\nGinevra was long in coming: tedious seemed her loitering. M. Paul was\nstill there; my ear expected from his lips an angry tone. He came\nnearer. \"Now for another hiss!\" thought I: had not the action been too\nuncivil I could have, stopped my ears with my fingers in terror of the\nthrill. Nothing happens as we expect: listen for a coo or a murmur; it\nis then you will hear a cry of prey or pain. Await a piercing shriek,\nan angry threat, and welcome an amicable greeting, a low kind whisper.\nM. Paul spoke gently:--\"Friends,\" said he, \"do not quarrel for a word.\nTell me, was it I or ce grand fat d'Anglais\" (so he profanely\ndenominated Dr. Bretton), \"who made your eyes so humid, and your cheeks\nso hot as they are even now?\"\n\n\"I am not conscious of you, monsieur, or of any other having excited\nsuch emotion as you indicate,\" was my answer; and in giving it, I again\nsurpassed my usual self, and achieved a neat, frosty falsehood.\n\n\"But what did I say?\" he pursued; \"tell me: I was angry: I have\nforgotten my words; what were they?\"\n\n\"Such as it is best to forget!\" said I, still quite calm and chill.\n\n\"Then it was _my_ words which wounded you? Consider them unsaid: permit\nmy retractation; accord my pardon.\"\n\n\"I am not angry, Monsieur.\"\n\n\"Then you are worse than angry--grieved. Forgive me, Miss Lucy.\"\n\n\"M. Emanuel, I _do_ forgive you.\"\n\n\"Let me hear you say, in the voice natural to you, and not in that\nalien tone, 'Mon ami, je vous pardonne.'\"\n\nHe made me smile. Who could help smiling at his wistfulness, his\nsimplicity, his earnestness?\n\n\"Bon!\" he cried. \"Voilà que le jour va poindre! Dites donc, mon ami.\"\n\n\"Monsieur Paul, je vous pardonne.\"\n\n\"I will have no monsieur: speak the other word, or I shall not believe\nyou sincere: another effort--_mon ami_, or else in English,--my friend!\"\n\nNow, \"my friend\" had rather another sound and significancy than \"_mon\nami_;\" it did not breathe the same sense of domestic and intimate\naffection; \"_mon ami_\" I could _not_ say to M. Paul; \"my friend,\" I\ncould, and did say without difficulty. This distinction existed not for\nhim, however, and he was quite satisfied with the English phrase. He\nsmiled. You should have seen him smile, reader; and you should have\nmarked the difference between his countenance now, and that he wore\nhalf an hour ago. I cannot affirm that I had ever witnessed the smile\nof pleasure, or content, or kindness round M. Paul's lips, or in his\neyes before. The ironic, the sarcastic, the disdainful, the\npassionately exultant, I had hundreds of times seen him express by what\nhe called a smile, but any illuminated sign of milder or warmer\nfeelings struck me as wholly new in his visage. It changed it as from a\nmask to a face: the deep lines left his features; the very complexion\nseemed clearer and fresher; that swart, sallow, southern darkness which\nspoke his Spanish blood, became displaced by a lighter hue. I know not\nthat I have ever seen in any other human face an equal metamorphosis\nfrom a similar cause. He now took me to the carriage: at the same\nmoment M. de Bassompierre came out with his niece.\n\nIn a pretty humour was Mistress Fanshawe; she had found the evening a\ngrand failure: completely upset as to temper, she gave way to the most\nuncontrolled moroseness as soon as we were seated, and the\ncarriage-door closed. Her invectives against Dr. Bretton had something\nvenomous in them. Having found herself impotent either to charm or\nsting him, hatred was her only resource; and this hatred she expressed\nin terms so unmeasured and proportion so monstrous, that, after\nlistening for a while with assumed stoicism, my outraged sense of\njustice at last and suddenly caught fire. An explosion ensued: for I\ncould be passionate, too; especially with my present fair but faulty\nassociate, who never failed to stir the worst dregs of me. It was well\nthat the carriage-wheels made a tremendous rattle over the flinty\nChoseville pavement, for I can assure the reader there was neither dead\nsilence nor calm discussion within the vehicle. Half in earnest, half\nin seeming, I made it my business to storm down Ginevra. She had set\nout rampant from the Rue Crécy; it was necessary to tame her before we\nreached the Rue Fossette: to this end it was indispensable to show up\nher sterling value and high deserts; and this must be done in language\nof which the fidelity and homeliness might challenge comparison with\nthe compliments of a John Knox to a Mary Stuart. This was the right\ndiscipline for Ginevra; it suited her. I am quite sure she went to bed\nthat night all the better and more settled in mind and mood, and slept\nall the more sweetly for having undergone a sound moral drubbing.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVIII.\n\nTHE WATCHGUARD.\n\n\nM. Paul Emanuel owned an acute sensitiveness to the annoyance of\ninterruption, from whatsoever cause occurring, during his lessons: to\npass through the classe under such circumstances was considered by the\nteachers and pupils of the school, individually and collectively, to be\nas much as a woman's or girl's life was worth.\n\nMadame Beck herself, if forced to the enterprise, would \"skurry\"\nthrough, retrenching her skirts, and carefully coasting the formidable\nestrade, like a ship dreading breakers. As to Rosine, the portress--on\nwhom, every half-hour, devolved the fearful duty of fetching pupils out\nof the very heart of one or other of the divisions to take their\nmusic-lessons in the oratory, the great or little saloon, the\nsalle-à-manger, or some other piano-station--she would, upon her second\nor third attempt, frequently become almost tongue-tied from excess of\nconsternation--a sentiment inspired by the unspeakable looks levelled\nat her through a pair of dart-dealing spectacles.\n\nOne morning I was sitting in the carré, at work upon a piece of\nembroidery which one of the pupils had commenced but delayed to finish,\nand while my fingers wrought at the frame, my ears regaled themselves\nwith listening to the crescendos and cadences of a voice haranguing in\nthe neighbouring classe, in tones that waxed momentarily more unquiet,\nmore ominously varied. There was a good strong partition-wall between\nme and the gathering storm, as well as a facile means of flight through\nthe glass-door to the court, in case it swept this way; so I am afraid\nI derived more amusement than alarm from these thickening symptoms.\nPoor Rosine was not safe: four times that blessed morning had she made\nthe passage of peril; and now, for the fifth time, it became her\ndangerous duty to snatch, as it were, a brand from the burning--a pupil\nfrom under M. Paul's nose.\n\n\"Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu!\" cried she. \"Que vais-je devenir? Monsieur va me\ntuer, je suis sûre; car il est d'une colère!\"\n\nNerved by the courage of desperation, she opened the door.\n\n\"Mademoiselle La Malle au piano!\" was her cry.\n\nEre she could make good her retreat, or quite close the door, this\nvoice uttered itself:--\n\n\"Dès ce moment!--la classe est défendue. La première qui ouvrira cette\nporte, ou passera par cette division, sera pendue--fut-ce Madame Beck\nelle-même!\"\n\nTen minutes had not succeeded the promulgation of this decree when\nRosine's French pantoufles were again heard shuffling along the\ncorridor.\n\n\"Mademoiselle,\" said she, \"I would not for a five-franc piece go into\nthat classe again just now: Monsieur's lunettes are really terrible;\nand here is a commissionaire come with a message from the Athénée. I\nhave told Madame Beck I dare not deliver it, and she says I am to\ncharge you with it.\"\n\n\"Me? No, that is rather too bad! It is not in my line of duty. Come,\ncome, Rosine! bear your own burden. Be brave--charge once more!\"\n\n\"I, Mademoiselle?--impossible! Five times I have crossed him this day.\nMadame must really hire a gendarme for this service. Ouf! Je n'en puis\nplus!\"\n\n\"Bah! you are only a coward. What is the message?\"\n\n\"Precisely of the kind with which Monsieur least likes to be pestered:\nan urgent summons to go directly to the Athénée, as there is an\nofficial visitor--inspector--I know not what--arrived, and Monsieur\n_must_ meet him: you know how he hates a _must_.\"\n\nYes, I knew well enough. The restive little man detested spur or curb:\nagainst whatever was urgent or obligatory, he was sure to revolt.\nHowever, I accepted the responsibility--not, certainly, without fear,\nbut fear blent with other sentiments, curiosity, amongst them. I opened\nthe door, I entered, I closed it behind me as quickly and quietly as a\nrather unsteady hand would permit; for to be slow or bustling, to\nrattle a latch, or leave a door gaping wide, were aggravations of crime\noften more disastrous in result than the main crime itself. There I\nstood then, and there he sat; his humour was visibly bad--almost at its\nworst; he had been giving a lesson in arithmetic--for he gave lessons\non any and every subject that struck his fancy--and arithmetic being a\ndry subject, invariably disagreed with him: not a pupil but trembled\nwhen he spoke of figures. He sat, bent above his desk: to look up at\nthe sound of an entrance, at the occurrence of a direct breach of his\nwill and law, was an effort he could not for the moment bring himself\nto make. It was quite as well: I thus gained time to walk up the long\nclasse; and it suited my idiosyncracy far better to encounter the near\nburst of anger like his, than to bear its menace at a distance.\n\nAt his estrade I paused, just in front; of course I was not worthy of\nimmediate attention: he proceeded with his lesson. Disdain would not\ndo: he must hear and he must answer my message.\n\nNot being quite tall enough to lift my head over his desk, elevated\nupon the estrade, and thus suffering eclipse in my present position, I\nventured to peep round, with the design, at first, of merely getting a\nbetter view of his face, which had struck me when I entered as bearing\na close and picturesque resemblance to that of a black and sallow\ntiger. Twice did I enjoy this side-view with impunity, advancing and\nreceding unseen; the third time my eye had scarce dawned beyond the\nobscuration of the desk, when it was caught and transfixed through its\nvery pupil--transfixed by the \"lunettes.\" Rosine was right; these\nutensils had in them a blank and immutable terror, beyond the mobile\nwrath of the wearer's own unglazed eyes.\n\nI now found the advantage of proximity: these short-sighted \"lunettes\"\nwere useless for the inspection of a criminal under Monsieur's nose;\naccordingly, he doffed them, and he and I stood on more equal terms.\n\nI am glad I was not really much afraid of him--that, indeed, close in\nhis presence, I felt no terror at all; for upon his demanding cord and\ngibbet to execute the sentence recently pronounced, I was able to\nfurnish him with a needleful of embroidering thread with such\naccommodating civility as could not but allay some portion at least of\nhis surplus irritation. Of course I did not parade this courtesy before\npublic view: I merely handed the thread round the angle of the desk,\nand attached it, ready noosed, to the barred back of the Professor's\nchair.\n\n\"Que me voulez-vous?\" said he in a growl of which the music was wholly\nconfined to his chest and throat, for he kept his teeth clenched; and\nseemed registering to himself an inward vow that nothing earthly should\nwring from him a smile.\n\nMy answer commenced uncompromisingly: \"Monsieur,\" I said, \"je veux\nl'impossible, des choses inouïes;\" and thinking it best not to mince\nmatters, but to administer the \"douche\" with decision, in a low but\nquick voice, I delivered the Athenian message, floridly exaggerating\nits urgency.\n\nOf course, he would not hear a word of it. \"He would not go; he would\nnot leave his present class, let all the officials of Villette send for\nhim. He would not put himself an inch out of his way at the bidding of\nking, cabinet, and chambers together.\"\n\nI knew, however, that he _must_ go; that, talk as he would, both his\nduty and interest commanded an immediate and literal compliance with\nthe summons: I stood, therefore, waiting in silence, as if he had not\nyet spoken. He asked what more I wanted.\n\n\"Only Monsieur's answer to deliver to the commissionaire.\"\n\nHe waved an impatient negative.\n\nI ventured to stretch my hand to the bonnet-grec which lay in grim\nrepose on the window-sill. He followed this daring movement with his\neye, no doubt in mixed pity and amazement at its presumption.\n\n\"Ah!\" he muttered, \"if it came to that--if Miss Lucy meddled with his\nbonnet-grec--she might just put it on herself, turn garçon for the\noccasion, and benevolently go to the Athénée in his stead.\"\n\nWith great respect, I laid the bonnet on the desk, where its tassel\nseemed to give me an awful nod.\n\n\"I'll write a note of apology--that will do!\" said he, still bent on\nevasion.\n\nKnowing well it would _not_ do, I gently pushed the bonnet towards his\nhand. Thus impelled, it slid down the polished slope of the varnished\nand unbaized desk, carried before it the light steel-framed \"lunettes,\"\nand, fearful to relate, they fell to the estrade. A score of times ere\nnow had I seen them fall and receive no damage--_this_ time, as Lucy\nSnowe's hapless luck would have it, they so fell that each clear pebble\nbecame a shivered and shapeless star.\n\nNow, indeed, dismay seized me--dismay and regret. I knew the value of\nthese \"lunettes\": M. Paul's sight was peculiar, not easily fitted, and\nthese glasses suited him. I had heard him call them his treasures: as I\npicked them up, cracked and worthless, my hand trembled. Frightened\nthrough all my nerves I was to see the mischief I had done, but I think\nI was even more sorry than afraid. For some seconds I dared not look\nthe bereaved Professor in the face; he was the first to speak.\n\n\"Là!\" said he: \"me voilà veuf de mes lunettes! I think Mademoiselle\nLucy will now confess that the cord and gallows are amply earned; she\ntrembles in anticipation of her doom. Ah, traitress! traitress! You are\nresolved to have me quite blind and helpless in your hands!\"\n\nI lifted my eyes: his face, instead of being irate, lowering, and\nfurrowed, was overflowing with the smile, coloured with the bloom I had\nseen brightening it that evening at the Hotel Crécy. He was not\nangry--not even grieved. For the real injury he showed himself full of\nclemency; under the real provocation, patient as a saint. This event,\nwhich seemed so untoward--which I thought had ruined at once my chance\nof successful persuasion--proved my best help. Difficult of management\nso long as I had done him no harm, he became graciously pliant as soon\nas I stood in his presence a conscious and contrite offender.\n\nStill gently railing at me as \"une forte femme--une Anglaise\nterrible--une petite casse-tout\"--he declared that he dared not but\nobey one who had given such an instance of her dangerous prowess; it\nwas absolutely like the \"grand Empereur smashing the vase to inspire\ndismay.\" So, at last, crowning himself with his bonnet-grec, and taking\nhis ruined \"lunettes\" from my hand with a clasp of kind pardon and\nencouragement, he made his bow, and went off to the Athénée in\nfirst-rate humour and spirits.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAfter all this amiability, the reader will be sorry for my sake to hear\nthat I was quarrelling with M. Paul again before night; yet so it was,\nand I could not help it.\n\nIt was his occasional custom--and a very laudable, acceptable custom,\ntoo--to arrive of an evening, always à l'improviste, unannounced, burst\nin on the silent hour of study, establish a sudden despotism over us\nand our occupations, cause books to be put away, work-bags to be\nbrought out, and, drawing forth a single thick volume, or a handful of\npamphlets, substitute for the besotted \"lecture pieuse,\" drawled by a\nsleepy pupil, some tragedy made grand by grand reading, ardent by fiery\naction--some drama, whereof, for my part, I rarely studied the\nintrinsic merit; for M. Emanuel made it a vessel for an outpouring, and\nfilled it with his native verve and passion like a cup with a vital\nbrewage. Or else he would flash through our conventual darkness a\nreflex of a brighter world, show us a glimpse of the current literature\nof the day, read us passages from some enchanting tale, or the last\nwitty feuilleton which had awakened laughter in the saloons of Paris;\ntaking care always to expunge, with the severest hand, whether from\ntragedy, melodrama, tale, or essay, whatever passage, phrase, or word,\ncould be deemed unsuited to an audience of \"jeunes filles.\" I noticed\nmore than once, that where retrenchment without substitute would have\nleft unmeaning vacancy, or introduced weakness, he could, and did,\nimprovise whole paragraphs, no less vigorous than irreproachable; the\ndialogue--the description--he engrafted was often far better than that\nhe pruned away.\n\nWell, on the evening in question, we were sitting silent as nuns in a\n\"retreat,\" the pupils studying, the teachers working. I remember my\nwork; it was a slight matter of fancy, and it rather interested me; it\nhad a purpose; I was not doing it merely to kill time; I meant it when\nfinished as a gift; and the occasion of presentation being near, haste\nwas requisite, and my fingers were busy.\n\nWe heard the sharp bell-peal which we all knew; then the rapid step\nfamiliar to each ear: the words \"Voilà Monsieur!\" had scarcely broken\nsimultaneously from every lip, when the two-leaved door split (as split\nit always did for his admission--such a slow word as \"open\" is\ninefficient to describe his movements), and he stood in the midst of us.\n\nThere were two study tables, both long and flanked with benches; over\nthe centre of each hung a lamp; beneath this lamp, on either side the\ntable, sat a teacher; the girls were arranged to the right hand and the\nleft; the eldest and most studious nearest the lamps or tropics; the\nidlers and little ones towards the north and south poles. Monsieur's\nhabit was politely to hand a chair to some teacher, generally Zélie St.\nPierre, the senior mistress; then to take her vacated seat; and thus\navail himself of the full beam of Cancer or Capricorn, which, owing to\nhis near sight, he needed.\n\nAs usual, Zélie rose with alacrity, smiling to the whole extent of her\nmouth, and the full display of her upper and under rows of teeth--that\nstrange smile which passes from ear to ear, and is marked only by a\nsharp thin curve, which fails to spread over the countenance, and\nneither dimples the cheek nor lights the eye. I suppose Monsieur did\nnot see her, or he had taken a whim that he would not notice her, for\nhe was as capricious as women are said to be; then his \"lunettes\" (he\nhad got another pair) served him as an excuse for all sorts of little\noversights and shortcomings. Whatever might be his reason, he passed by\nZélie, came to the other side of the table, and before I could start up\nto clear the way, whispered, \"Ne bougez pas,\" and established himself\nbetween me and Miss Fanshawe, who always would be my neighbour, and\nhave her elbow in my side, however often I declared to her, \"Ginevra, I\nwish you were at Jericho.\"\n\nIt was easy to say, \"Ne bougez pas;\" but how could I help it? I must\nmake him room, and I must request the pupils to recede that _I_ might\nrecede. It was very well for Ginevra to be gummed to me, \"keeping\nherself warm,\" as she said, on the winter evenings, and harassing my\nvery heart with her fidgetings and pokings, obliging me, indeed,\nsometimes to put an artful pin in my girdle by way of protection\nagainst her elbow; but I suppose M. Emanuel was not to be subjected to\nthe same kind of treatment, so I swept away my working materials, to\nclear space for his book, and withdrew myself to make room for his\nperson; not, however, leaving more than a yard of interval, just what\nany reasonable man would have regarded as a convenient, respectful\nallowance of bench. But M. Emanuel never _was_ reasonable; flint and\ntinder that he was! he struck and took fire directly.\n\n\"Vous ne voulez pas de moi pour voisin,\" he growled: \"vous vous donnez\ndes airs de caste; vous me traitez en paria;\" he scowled. \"Soit! je\nvais arranger la chose!\" And he set to work.\n\n\"Levez vous toutes, Mesdemoiselles!\" cried he.\n\nThe girls rose. He made them all file off to the other table. He then\nplaced me at one extremity of the long bench, and having duly and\ncarefully brought me my work-basket, silk, scissors, all my implements,\nhe fixed himself quite at the other end.\n\nAt this arrangement, highly absurd as it was, not a soul in the room\ndared to laugh; luckless for the giggler would have been the giggle. As\nfor me, I took it with entire coolness. There I sat, isolated and cut\noff from human intercourse; I sat and minded my work, and was quiet,\nand not at all unhappy.\n\n\"Est ce assez de distance?\" he demanded.\n\n\"Monsieur en est l'arbitre,\" said I.\n\n\"Vous savez bien que non. C'est vous qui avez crée ce vide immense: moi\nje n'y ai pas mis la main.\"\n\nAnd with this assertion he commenced the reading.\n\nFor his misfortune he had chosen a French translation of what he called\n\"un drame de Williams Shackspire; le faux dieu,\" he further announced,\n\"de ces sots païens, les Anglais.\" How far otherwise he would have\ncharacterized him had his temper not been upset, I scarcely need\nintimate.\n\nOf course, the translation being French, was very inefficient; nor did\nI make any particular effort to conceal the contempt which some of its\nforlorn lapses were calculated to excite. Not that it behoved or\nbeseemed me to say anything: but one can occasionally _look_ the\nopinion it is forbidden to embody in words. Monsieur's lunettes being\non the alert, he gleaned up every stray look; I don't think he lost\none: the consequence was, his eyes soon discarded a screen, that their\nblaze might sparkle free, and he waxed hotter at the north pole to\nwhich he had voluntarily exiled himself, than, considering the general\ntemperature of the room, it would have been reasonable to become under\nthe vertical ray of Cancer itself.\n\nThe reading over, it appeared problematic whether he would depart with\nhis anger unexpressed, or whether he would give it vent. Suppression\nwas not much in his habits; but still, what had been done to him\ndefinite enough to afford matter for overt reproof? I had not uttered a\nsound, and could not justly be deemed amenable to reprimand or penalty\nfor having permitted a slightly freer action than usual to the muscles\nabout my eyes and mouth.\n\nThe supper, consisting of bread, and milk diluted with tepid water, was\nbrought in. In respectful consideration of the Professor's presence,\nthe rolls and glasses were allowed to stand instead of being\nimmediately handed round.\n\n\"Take your supper, ladies,\" said he, seeming to be occupied in making\nmarginal notes to his \"Williams Shackspire.\" They took it. I also\naccepted a roll and glass, but being now more than ever interested in\nmy work, I kept my seat of punishment, and wrought while I munched my\nbread and sipped my beverage, the whole with easy _sang-froid_; with a\ncertain snugness of composure, indeed, scarcely in my habits, and\npleasantly novel to my feelings. It seemed as if the presence of a\nnature so restless, chafing, thorny as that of M. Paul absorbed all\nfeverish and unsettling influences like a magnet, and left me none but\nsuch as were placid and harmonious.\n\nHe rose. \"Will he go away without saying another word?\" Yes; he turned\nto the door.\n\nNo: he _re_-turned on his steps; but only, perhaps, to take his\npencil-case, which had been left on the table.\n\nHe took it--shut the pencil in and out, broke its point against the\nwood, re-cut and pocketed it, and . . . walked promptly up to me.\n\nThe girls and teachers, gathered round the other table, were talking\npretty freely: they always talked at meals; and, from the constant\nhabit of speaking fast and loud at such times, did not now subdue their\nvoices much.\n\nM. Paul came and stood behind me. He asked at what I was working; and I\nsaid I was making a watchguard.\n\nHe asked, \"For whom?\" And I answered, \"For a gentleman--one of my\nfriends.\"\n\nM. Paul stooped down and proceeded--as novel-writers say, and, as was\nliterally true in his case--to \"hiss\" into my ear some poignant words.\n\nHe said that, of all the women he knew, I was the one who could make\nherself the most consummately unpleasant: I was she with whom it was\nleast possible to live on friendly terms. I had a \"caractère\nintraitable,\" and perverse to a miracle. How I managed it, or what\npossessed me, he, for his part, did not know; but with whatever pacific\nand amicable intentions a person accosted me--crac! I turned concord to\ndiscord, good-will to enmity. He was sure, he--M. Paul--wished me well\nenough; he had never done me any harm that he knew of; he might, at\nleast, he supposed, claim a right to be regarded as a neutral\nacquaintance, guiltless of hostile sentiments: yet, how I behaved to\nhim! With what pungent vivacities--what an impetus of mutiny--what a\n\"fougue\" of injustice!\n\nHere I could not avoid opening my eyes somewhat wide, and even slipping\nin a slight interjectional observation: \"Vivacities? Impetus? Fougue? I\ndidn't know....\"\n\n\"Chut! à l'instant! There! there I went--vive comme la poudre!\" He was\nsorry--he was very sorry: for my sake he grieved over the hapless\npeculiarity. This \"emportement,\" this \"chaleur\"--generous, perhaps, but\nexcessive--would yet, he feared, do me a mischief. It was a pity: I was\nnot--he believed, in his soul--wholly without good qualities: and would\nI but hear reason, and be more sedate, more sober, less \"en l'air,\"\nless \"coquette,\" less taken by show, less prone to set an undue value\non outside excellence--to make much of the attentions of people\nremarkable chiefly for so many feet of stature, \"des couleurs de\npoupée,\" \"un nez plus ou moins bien fait,\" and an enormous amount of\nfatuity--I might yet prove an useful, perhaps an exemplary character.\nBut, as it was--And here, the little man's voice was for a minute\nchoked.\n\nI would have looked up at him, or held out my hand, or said a soothing\nword; but I was afraid, if I stirred, I should either laugh or cry; so\nodd, in all this, was the mixture of the touching and the absurd.\n\nI thought he had nearly done: but no; he sat down that he might go on\nat his ease.\n\n\"While he, M. Paul, was on these painful topics, he would dare my anger\nfor the sake of my good, and would venture to refer to a change he had\nnoticed in my dress. He was free to confess that when he first knew\nme--or, rather, was in the habit of catching a passing glimpse of me\nfrom time to time--I satisfied him on this point: the gravity, the\naustere simplicity, obvious in this particular, were such as to inspire\nthe highest hopes for my best interests. What fatal influence had\nimpelled me lately to introduce flowers under the brim of my bonnet, to\nwear 'des cols brodés,' and even to appear on one occasion in a\n_scarlet gown_--he might indeed conjecture, but, for the present, would\nnot openly declare.\"\n\nAgain I interrupted, and this time not without an accent at once\nindignant and horror-struck.\n\n\"Scarlet, Monsieur Paul? It was not scarlet! It was pink, and pale pink\nto: and further subdued by black lace.\"\n\n\"Pink or scarlet, yellow or crimson, pea-green or sky-blue, it was all\none: these were all flaunting, giddy colours; and as to the lace I\ntalked of, _that_ was but a 'colifichet de plus.'\" And he sighed over\nmy degeneracy. \"He could not, he was sorry to say, be so particular on\nthis theme as he could wish: not possessing the exact names of these\n'babioles,' he might run into small verbal errors which would not fail\nto lay him open to my sarcasm, and excite my unhappily sudden and\npassionate disposition. He would merely say, in general terms--and in\nthese general terms he knew he was correct--that my costume had of late\nassumed 'des façons mondaines,' which it wounded him to see.\"\n\nWhat \"façons mondaines\" he discovered in my present winter merino and\nplain white collar, I own it puzzled me to guess: and when I asked him,\nhe said it was all made with too much attention to effect--and besides,\n\"had I not a bow of ribbon at my neck?\"\n\n\"And if you condemn a bow of ribbon for a lady, Monsieur, you would\nnecessarily disapprove of a thing like this for a gentleman?\"--holding\nup my bright little chainlet of silk and gold. His sole reply was a\ngroan--I suppose over my levity.\n\nAfter sitting some minutes in silence, and watching the progress of the\nchain, at which I now wrought more assiduously than ever, he inquired:\n\"Whether what he had just said would have the effect of making me\nentirely detest him?\"\n\nI hardly remember what answer I made, or how it came about; I don't\nthink I spoke at all, but I know we managed to bid good-night on\nfriendly terms: and, even after M. Paul had reached the door, he turned\nback just to explain, \"that he would not be understood to speak in\nentire condemnation of the scarlet dress\" (\"Pink! pink!\" I threw in);\n\"that he had no intention to deny it the merit of _looking_ rather\nwell\" (the fact was, M. Emanuel's taste in colours decidedly leaned to\nthe brilliant); \"only he wished to counsel me, whenever, I wore it, to\ndo so in the same spirit as if its material were 'bure,' and its hue\n'gris de poussière.'\"\n\n\"And the flowers under my bonnet, Monsieur?\" I asked. \"They are very\nlittle ones--?\"\n\n\"Keep them little, then,\" said he. \"Permit them not to become\nfull-blown.\"\n\n\"And the bow, Monsieur--the bit of ribbon?\"\n\n\"Va pour le ruban!\" was the propitious answer.\n\nAnd so we settled it.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\"Well done, Lucy Snowe!\" cried I to myself; \"you have come in for a\npretty lecture--brought on yourself a 'rude savant,' and all through\nyour wicked fondness for worldly vanities! Who would have thought it?\nYou deemed yourself a melancholy sober-sides enough! Miss Fanshawe\nthere regards you as a second Diogenes. M. de Bassompierre, the other\nday, politely turned the conversation when it ran on the wild gifts of\nthe actress Vashti, because, as he kindly said, 'Miss Snowe looked\nuncomfortable.' Dr. John Bretton knows you only as 'quiet Lucy'--'a\ncreature inoffensive as a shadow;' he has said, and you have heard him\nsay it: 'Lucy's disadvantages spring from over-gravity in tastes and\nmanner--want of colour in character and costume.' Such are your own and\nyour friends' impressions; and behold! there starts up a little man,\ndiffering diametrically from all these, roundly charging you with being\ntoo airy and cheery--too volatile and versatile--too flowery and\ncoloury. This harsh little man--this pitiless censor--gathers up all\nyour poor scattered sins of vanity, your luckless chiffon of\nrose-colour, your small fringe of a wreath, your small scrap of ribbon,\nyour silly bit of lace, and calls you to account for the lot, and for\neach item. You are well habituated to be passed by as a shadow in\nLife's sunshine: it its a new thing to see one testily lifting his hand\nto screen his eyes, because you tease him with an obtrusive ray.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIX.\n\nMONSIEUR'S FÊTE.\n\n\nI was up the next morning an hour before daybreak, and finished my\nguard, kneeling on the dormitory floor beside the centre stand, for the\nbenefit of such expiring glimmer as the night-lamp afforded in its last\nwatch.\n\nAll my materials--my whole stock of beads and silk--were used up before\nthe chain assumed the length and richness I wished; I had wrought it\ndouble, as I knew, by the rule of contraries, that to, suit the\nparticular taste whose gratification was in view, an effective\nappearance was quite indispensable. As a finish to the ornament, a\nlittle gold clasp was needed; fortunately I possessed it in the\nfastening of my sole necklace; I duly detached and re-attached it, then\ncoiled compactly the completed guard; and enclosed it in a small box I\nhad bought for its brilliancy, made of some tropic shell of the colour\ncalled \"nacarat,\" and decked with a little coronal of sparkling blue\nstones. Within the lid of the box, I carefully graved with my scissors'\npoint certain initials.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe reader will, perhaps, remember the description of Madame Beck's\nfête; nor will he have forgotten that at each anniversary, a handsome\npresent was subscribed for and offered by the school. The observance of\nthis day was a distinction accorded to none but Madame, and, in a\nmodified form, to her kinsman and counsellor, M. Emanuel. In the latter\ncase it was an honour spontaneously awarded, not plotted and contrived\nbeforehand, and offered an additional proof, amongst many others, of\nthe estimation in which--despite his partialities, prejudices, and\nirritabilities--the professor of literature was held by his pupils. No\narticle of value was offered to him: he distinctly gave it to be\nunderstood, that he would accept neither plate nor jewellery. Yet he\nliked a slight tribute; the cost, the money-value, did not touch him: a\ndiamond ring, a gold snuff-box, presented, with pomp, would have\npleased him less than a flower, or a drawing, offered simply and with\nsincere feelings. Such was his nature. He was a man, not wise in his\ngeneration, yet could he claim a filial sympathy with \"the dayspring on\nhigh.\"\n\nM. Paul's fête fell on the first of March and a Thursday. It proved a\nfine sunny day; and being likewise the morning on which it was\ncustomary to attend mass; being also otherwise distinguished by the\nhalf-holiday which permitted the privilege of walking out, shopping, or\npaying visits in the afternoon: these combined considerations induced a\ngeneral smartness and freshness of dress. Clean collars were in vogue;\nthe ordinary dingy woollen classe-dress was exchanged for something\nlighter and clearer. Mademoiselle Zélie St. Pierre, on this particular\nThursday, even assumed a \"robe de soie,\" deemed in economical\nLabassecour an article of hazardous splendour and luxury; nay, it was\nremarked that she sent for a \"coiffeur\" to dress her hair that morning;\nthere were pupils acute enough to discover that she had bedewed her\nhandkerchief and her hands with a new and fashionable perfume. Poor\nZélie! It was much her wont to declare about this time, that she was\ntired to death of a life of seclusion and labour; that she longed to\nhave the means and leisure for relaxation; to have some one to work for\nher--a husband who would pay her debts (she was woefully encumbered\nwith debt), supply her wardrobe, and leave her at liberty, as she said,\nto \"goûter un peu les plaisirs.\" It had long been rumoured, that her\neye was upon M. Emanuel. Monsieur Emanuel's eye was certainly often\nupon her. He would sit and watch her perseveringly for minutes\ntogether. I have seen him give her a quarter-of-an-hour's gaze, while\nthe class was silently composing, and he sat throned on his estrade,\nunoccupied. Conscious always of this basilisk attention, she would\nwrithe under it, half-flattered, half-puzzled, and Monsieur would\nfollow her sensations, sometimes looking appallingly acute; for in some\ncases, he had the terrible unerring penetration of instinct, and\npierced in its hiding-place the last lurking thought of the heart, and\ndiscerned under florid veilings the bare; barren places of the spirit:\nyes, and its perverted tendencies, and its hidden false curves--all\nthat men and women would not have known--the twisted spine, the\nmalformed limb that was born with them, and far worse, the stain or\ndisfigurement they have perhaps brought on themselves. No calamity so\naccursed but M. Emanuel could pity and forgive, if it were acknowledged\ncandidly; but where his questioning eyes met dishonest denial--where\nhis ruthless researches found deceitful concealment--oh, then, he could\nbe cruel, and I thought wicked! he would exultantly snatch the screen\nfrom poor shrinking wretches, passionately hurry them to the summit of\nthe mount of exposure, and there show them all naked, all false--poor\nliving lies--the spawn of that horrid Truth which cannot be looked on\nunveiled. He thought he did justice; for my part I doubt whether man\nhas a right to do such justice on man: more than once in these his\nvisitations, I have felt compelled to give tears to his victims, and\nnot spared ire and keen reproach to himself. He deserved it; but it was\ndifficult to shake him in his firm conviction that the work was\nrighteous and needed.\n\nBreakfast being over and mass attended, the school-bell rang and the\nrooms filled: a very pretty spectacle was presented in classe. Pupils\nand teachers sat neatly arrayed, orderly and expectant, each bearing in\nher hand the bouquet of felicitation--the prettiest spring-flowers all\nfresh, and filling the air with their fragrance: I only had no bouquet.\nI like to see flowers growing, but when they are gathered, they cease\nto please. I look on them as things rootless and perishable; their\nlikeness to life makes me sad. I never offer flowers to those I love; I\nnever wish to receive them from hands dear to me. Mademoiselle St.\nPierre marked my empty hands--she could not believe I had been so\nremiss; with avidity her eye roved over and round me: surely I must\nhave some solitary symbolic flower somewhere: some small knot of\nviolets, something to win myself praise for taste, commendation for\ningenuity. The unimaginative \"Anglaise\" proved better than the\nParisienne's fears: she sat literally unprovided, as bare of bloom or\nleaf as the winter tree. This ascertained, Zélie smiled, well pleased.\n\n\"How wisely you have acted to keep your money, Miss Lucie,\" she said:\n\"silly I have gone and thrown away two francs on a bouquet of hot-house\nflowers!\"\n\nAnd she showed with pride her splendid nosegay.\n\nBut hush! a step: _the_ step. It came prompt, as usual, but with a\npromptitude, we felt disposed to flatter ourselves, inspired by other\nfeelings than mere excitability of nerve and vehemence of intent. We\nthought our Professor's \"foot-fall\" (to speak romantically) had in it a\nfriendly promise this morning; and so it had.\n\nHe entered in a mood which made him as good as a new sunbeam to the\nalready well-lit first classe. The morning light playing amongst our\nplants and laughing on our walls, caught an added lustre from M. Paul's\nall-benignant salute. Like a true Frenchman (though I don't know why I\nshould say so, for he was of strain neither French nor Labassecourien),\nhe had dressed for the \"situation\" and the occasion. Not by the vague\nfolds, sinister and conspirator-like, of his soot-dark paletôt were the\noutlines of his person obscured; on the contrary, his figure (such as\nit was, I don't boast of it) was well set off by a civilized coat and a\nsilken vest quite pretty to behold. The defiant and pagan bonnet-grec\nhad vanished: bare-headed, he came upon us, carrying a Christian hat in\nhis gloved hand. The little man looked well, very well; there was a\nclearness of amity in his blue eye, and a glow of good feeling on his\ndark complexion, which passed perfectly in the place of beauty: one\nreally did not care to observe that his nose, though far from small,\nwas of no particular shape, his cheek thin, his brow marked and square,\nhis mouth no rose-bud: one accepted him as he was, and felt his\npresence the reverse of damping or insignificant.\n\nHe passed to his desk; he placed on the same his hat and gloves. \"Bon\njour, mes amies,\" said he, in a tone that somehow made amends to some\namongst us for many a sharp snap and savage snarl: not a jocund,\ngood-fellow tone, still less an unctuous priestly, accent, but a voice\nhe had belonging to himself--a voice used when his heart passed the\nwords to his lips. That same heart did speak sometimes; though an\nirritable, it was not an ossified organ: in its core was a place,\ntender beyond a man's tenderness; a place that humbled him to little\nchildren, that bound him to girls and women to whom, rebel as he would,\nhe could not disown his affinity, nor quite deny that, on the whole, he\nwas better with them than with his own sex.\n\n\"We all wish Monsieur a good day, and present to him our\ncongratulations on the anniversary of his fête,\" said Mademoiselle\nZélie, constituting herself spokeswoman of the assembly; and advancing\nwith no more twists of affectation than were with her indispensable to\nthe achievement of motion, she laid her costly bouquet before him. He\nbowed over it.\n\nThe long train of offerings followed: all the pupils, sweeping past\nwith the gliding step foreigners practise, left their tributes as they\nwent by. Each girl so dexterously adjusted her separate gift, that when\nthe last bouquet was laid on the desk, it formed the apex to a blooming\npyramid--a pyramid blooming, spreading, and towering with such\nexuberance as, in the end, to eclipse the hero behind it. This ceremony\nover, seats were resumed, and we sat in dead silence, expectant of a\nspeech.\n\nI suppose five minutes might have elapsed, and the hush remained\nunbroken; ten--and there was no sound.\n\nMany present began, doubtless, to wonder for what Monsieur waited; as\nwell they might. Voiceless and viewless, stirless and wordless, he kept\nhis station behind the pile of flowers.\n\nAt last there issued forth a voice, rather deep, as if it spoke out of\na hollow:--\n\n\"Est-ce là tout?\"\n\nMademoiselle Zélie looked round.\n\n\"You have all presented your bouquets?\" inquired she of the pupils.\n\nYes; they had all given their nosegays, from the eldest to the\nyoungest, from the tallest to the most diminutive. The senior mistress\nsignified as much.\n\n\"Est-ce là tout?\" was reiterated in an intonation which, deep before,\nhad now descended some notes lower.\n\n\"Monsieur,\" said Mademoiselle St. Pierre, rising, and this time\nspeaking with her own sweet smile, \"I have the honour to tell you that,\nwith a single exception, every person in classe has offered her\nbouquet. For Meess Lucie, Monsieur will kindly make allowance; as a\nforeigner she probably did not know our customs, or did not appreciate\ntheir significance. Meess Lucie has regarded this ceremony as too\nfrivolous to be honoured by her observance.\"\n\n\"Famous!\" I muttered between my teeth: \"you are no bad speaker, Zélie,\nwhen you begin.\"\n\nThe answer vouchsafed to Mademoiselle St Pierre from the estrade was\ngiven in the gesticulation of a hand from behind the pyramid. This\nmanual action seemed to deprecate words, to enjoin silence.\n\nA form, ere long, followed the hand. Monsieur emerged from his eclipse;\nand producing himself on the front of his estrade, and gazing straight\nand fixedly before him at a vast \"mappe-monde\" covering the wall\nopposite, he demanded a third time, and now in really tragic tones--\n\n\"Est-ce là tout?\"\n\nI might yet have made all right, by stepping forwards and slipping into\nhis hand the ruddy little shell-box I at that moment held tight in my\nown. It was what I had fully purposed to do; but, first, the comic side\nof Monsieur's behaviour had tempted me to delay, and now, Mademoiselle\nSt. Pierre's affected interference provoked contumacity. The reader not\nhaving hitherto had any cause to ascribe to Miss Snowe's character the\nmost distant pretensions to perfection, will be scarcely surprised to\nlearn that she felt too perverse to defend herself from any imputation\nthe Parisienne might choose to insinuate and besides, M. Paul was so\ntragic, and took my defection so seriously, he deserved to be vexed. I\nkept, then, both my box and my countenance, and sat insensate as any\nstone.\n\n\"It is well!\" dropped at length from the lips of M. Paul; and having\nuttered this phrase, the shadow of some great paroxysm--the swell of\nwrath, scorn, resolve--passed over his brow, rippled his lips, and\nlined his cheeks. Gulping down all further comment, he launched into\nhis customary \"discours.\"\n\nI can't at all remember what this \"discours\" was; I did not listen to\nit: the gulping-down process, the abrupt dismissal of his mortification\nor vexation, had given me a sensation which half-counteracted the\nludicrous effect of the reiterated \"Est-ce là tout?\"\n\nTowards the close of the speech there came a pleasing diversion my\nattention was again amusingly arrested.\n\nOwing to some little accidental movement--I think I dropped my thimble\non the floor, and in stooping to regain it, hit the crown of my head\nagainst the sharp corner of my desk; which casualties (exasperating to\nme, by rights, if to anybody) naturally made a slight bustle--M. Paul\nbecame irritated, and dismissing his forced equanimity, and casting to\nthe winds that dignity and self-control with which he never cared long\nto encumber himself, he broke forth into the strain best calculated to\ngive him ease.\n\nI don't know how, in the progress of his \"discours,\" he had contrived\nto cross the Channel and land on British ground; but there I found him\nwhen I began to listen.\n\nCasting a quick, cynical glance round the room--a glance which scathed,\nor was intended to scathe, as it crossed me--he fell with fury upon\n\"les Anglaises.\"\n\nNever have I heard English women handled as M. Paul that morning\nhandled them: he spared nothing--neither their minds, morals, manners,\nnor personal appearance. I specially remember his abuse of their tall\nstature, their long necks, their thin arms, their slovenly dress, their\npedantic education, their impious scepticism(!), their insufferable\npride, their pretentious virtue: over which he ground his teeth\nmalignantly, and looked as if, had he dared, he would have said\nsingular things. Oh! he was spiteful, acrid, savage; and, as a natural\nconsequence, detestably ugly.\n\n\"Little wicked venomous man!\" thought I; \"am I going to harass myself\nwith fears of displeasing you, or hurting your feelings? No, indeed;\nyou shall be indifferent to me, as the shabbiest bouquet in your\npyramid.\"\n\nI grieve to say I could not quite carry out this resolution. For some\ntime the abuse of England and the English found and left me stolid: I\nbore it some fifteen minutes stoically enough; but this hissing\ncockatrice was determined to sting, and he said such things at\nlast--fastening not only upon our women, but upon our greatest names\nand best men; sullying, the shield of Britannia, and dabbling the union\njack in mud--that I was stung. With vicious relish he brought up the\nmost spicy current continental historical falsehoods--than which\nnothing can be conceived more offensive. Zélie, and the whole class,\nbecame one grin of vindictive delight; for it is curious to discover\nhow these clowns of Labassecour secretly hate England. At last, I\nstruck a sharp stroke on my desk, opened my lips, and let loose this\ncry:--\n\n\"Vive l'Angleterre, l'Histoire et les Héros! A bas la France, la\nFiction et les Faquins!\"\n\nThe class was struck of a heap. I suppose they thought me mad. The\nProfessor put up his handkerchief, and fiendishly smiled into its\nfolds. Little monster of malice! He now thought he had got the victory,\nsince he had made me angry. In a second he became good-humoured. With\ngreat blandness he resumed the subject of his flowers; talked\npoetically and symbolically of their sweetness, perfume, purity,\netcetera; made Frenchified comparisons between the \"jeunes filles\" and\nthe sweet blossoms before him; paid Mademoiselle St. Pierre a very\nfull-blown compliment on the superiority of her bouquet; and ended by\nannouncing that the first really fine, mild, and balmy morning in\nspring, he intended to take the whole class out to breakfast in the\ncountry. \"Such of the class, at least,\" he added, with emphasis, \"as he\ncould count amongst the number of his friends.\"\n\n\"Donc je n'y serai pas,\" declared I, involuntarily.\n\n\"Soit!\" was his response; and, gathering his flowers in his arms, he\nflashed out of classe; while I, consigning my work, scissors, thimble,\nand the neglected little box, to my desk, swept up-stairs. I don't know\nwhether _he_ felt hot and angry, but I am free to confess that _I_ did.\n\nYet with a strange evanescent anger, I had not sat an hour on the edge\nof my bed, picturing and repicturing his look, manner, words ere I\nsmiled at the whole scene. A little pang of regret I underwent that the\nbox had not been offered. I had meant to gratify him. Fate would not\nhave it so.\n\nIn the course of the afternoon, remembering that desks in classe were\nby no means inviolate repositories, and thinking that it was as well to\nsecure the box, on account of the initials in the lid, P. C. D. E., for\nPaul Carl (or Carlos) David Emanuel--such was his full name--these\nforeigners must always have a string of baptismals--I descended to the\nschoolroom.\n\nIt slept in holiday repose. The day pupils were all gone home, the\nboarders were out walking, the teachers, except the surveillante of the\nweek, were in town, visiting or shopping; the suite of divisions was\nvacant; so was the grande salle, with its huge solemn globe hanging in\nthe midst, its pair of many-branched chandeliers, and its horizontal\ngrand piano closed, silent, enjoying its mid-week Sabbath. I rather\nwondered to find the first classe door ajar; this room being usually\nlocked when empty, and being then inaccessible to any save Madame Beck\nand myself, who possessed a duplicate key. I wondered still more, on\napproaching, to hear a vague movement as of life--a step, a chair\nstirred, a sound like the opening of a desk.\n\n\"It is only Madame Beck doing inspection duty,\" was the conclusion\nfollowing a moment's reflection. The partially-opened door gave\nopportunity for assurance on this point. I looked. Behold! not the\ninspecting garb of Madame Beck--the shawl and the clean cap--but the\ncoat, and the close-shorn, dark head of a man. This person occupied my\nchair; his olive hand held my desk open, his nose was lost to view\namongst my papers. His back was towards me, but there could not be a\nmoment's question about identity. Already was the attire of ceremony\ndiscarded: the cherished and ink-stained paletôt was resumed; the\nperverse bonnet-grec lay on the floor, as if just dropped from the\nhand, culpably busy.\n\nNow I knew, and I had long known, that that hand of M. Emanuel's was on\nthe most intimate terms with my desk; that it raised and lowered the\nlid, ransacked and arranged the contents, almost as familiarly as my\nown. The fact was not dubious, nor did he wish it to be so: he left\nsigns of each visit palpable and unmistakable; hitherto, however, I had\nnever caught him in the act: watch as I would, I could not detect the\nhours and moments of his coming. I saw the brownie's work in exercises\nleft overnight full of faults, and found next morning carefully\ncorrected: I profited by his capricious good-will in loans full welcome\nand refreshing. Between a sallow dictionary and worn-out grammar would\nmagically grow a fresh interesting new work, or a classic, mellow and\nsweet in its ripe age. Out of my work-basket would laughingly peep a\nromance, under it would lurk the pamphlet, the magazine, whence last\nevening's reading had been extracted. Impossible to doubt the source\nwhence these treasures flowed: had there been no other indication, one\ncondemning and traitor peculiarity, common to them all, settled the\nquestion--_they smelt of cigars_. This was very shocking, of course:\n_I_ thought so at first, and used to open the window with some bustle,\nto air my desk, and with fastidious finger and thumb, to hold the\npeccant brochures forth to the purifying breeze. I was cured of that\nformality suddenly. Monsieur caught me at it one day, understood the\ninference, instantly relieved my hand of its burden, and, in another\nmoment, would have thrust the same into the glowing stove. It chanced\nto be a book, on the perusal of which I was bent; so for once I proved\nas decided and quicker than himself; recaptured the spoil, and--having\nsaved this volume--never hazarded a second. With all this, I had never\nyet been able to arrest in his visits the freakish, friendly,\ncigar-loving phantom.\n\nBut now at last I had him: there he was--the very brownie himself; and\nthere, curling from his lips, was the pale blue breath of his Indian\ndarling: he was smoking into my desk: it might well betray him.\nProvoked at this particular, and yet pleased to surprise him--pleased,\nthat is, with the mixed feeling of the housewife who discovers at last\nher strange elfin ally busy in the dairy at the untimely churn--I\nsoftly stole forward, stood behind him, bent with precaution over his\nshoulder.\n\nMy heart smote me to see that--after this morning's hostility, after my\nseeming remissness, after the puncture experienced by his feelings, and\nthe ruffling undergone by his temper--he, all willing to forget and\nforgive, had brought me a couple of handsome volumes, of which the\ntitle and authorship were guarantees for interest. Now, as he sat\nbending above the desk, he was stirring up its contents; but with\ngentle and careful hand; disarranging indeed, but not harming. My heart\nsmote me: as I bent over him, as he sat unconscious, doing me what good\nhe could, and I daresay not feeling towards me unkindly, my morning's\nanger quite melted: I did not dislike Professor Emanuel.\n\nI think he heard me breathe. He turned suddenly: his temperament was\nnervous, yet he never started, and seldom changed colour: there was\nsomething hardy about him.\n\n\"I thought you were gone into town with the other teachers,\" said he,\ntaking a grim gripe of his self-possession, which half-escaped him--\"It\nis as well you are not. Do you think I care for being caught? Not I. I\noften visit your desk.\"\n\n\"Monsieur, I know it.\"\n\n\"You find a brochure or tome now and then; but you don't read them,\nbecause they have passed under this?\"--touching his cigar.\n\n\"They have, and are no better for the process; but I read them.\"\n\n\"Without pleasure?\"\n\n\"Monsieur must not be contradicted.\"\n\n\"Do you like them, or any of them?--are they acceptable?\" \"Monsieur has\nseen me reading them a hundred times, and knows I have not so many\nrecreations as to undervalue those he provides.\"\n\n\"I mean well; and, if you see that I mean well, and derive some little\namusement from my efforts, why can we not be friends?\"\n\n\"A fatalist would say--because we cannot.\"\n\n\"This morning,\" he continued, \"I awoke in a bright mood, and came into\nclasse happy; you spoiled my day.\"\n\n\"No, Monsieur, only an hour or two of it, and that unintentionally.\"\n\n\"Unintentionally! No. It was my fête-day; everybody wished me happiness\nbut you. The little children of the third division gave each her knot\nof violets, lisped each her congratulation:--you--nothing. Not a bud,\nleaf, whisper--not a glance. Was this unintentional?\"\n\n\"I meant no harm.\"\n\n\"Then you really did not know our custom? You were unprepared? You\nwould willingly have laid out a few centimes on a flower to give me\npleasure, had you been aware that it was expected? Say so, and all is\nforgotten, and the pain soothed.\"\n\n\"I did know that it was expected: I _was_ prepared; yet I laid out no\ncentimes on flowers.\"\n\n\"It is well--you do right to be honest. I should almost have hated you\nhad you flattered and lied. Better declare at once 'Paul Carl\nEmanuel--je te déteste, mon garçon!'--than smile an interest, look an\naffection, and be false and cold at heart. False and cold I don't think\nyou are; but you have made a great mistake in life, that I believe; I\nthink your judgment is warped--that you are indifferent where you ought\nto be grateful--and perhaps devoted and infatuated, where you ought to\nbe cool as your name. Don't suppose that I wish you to have a passion\nfor me, Mademoiselle; Dieu vous en garde! What do you start for?\nBecause I said passion? Well, I say it again. There is such a word, and\nthere is such a thing--though not within these walls, thank heaven! You\nare no child that one should not speak of what exists; but I only\nuttered the word--the thing, I assure you, is alien to my whole life\nand views. It died in the past--in the present it lies buried--its\ngrave is deep-dug, well-heaped, and many winters old: in the future\nthere will be a resurrection, as I believe to my souls consolation; but\nall will then be changed--form and feeling: the mortal will have put on\nimmortality--it will rise, not for earth, but heaven. All I say to\n_you_, Miss Lucy Snowe, is--that you ought to treat Professor Paul\nEmanuel decently.\"\n\nI could not, and did not contradict such a sentiment.\n\n\"Tell me,\" he pursued, \"when it is _your_ fête-day, and I will not\ngrudge a few centimes for a small offering.\"\n\n\"You will be like me, Monsieur: this cost more than a few centimes, and\nI did not grudge its price.\"\n\nAnd taking from the open desk the little box, I put it into his hand.\n\n\"It lay ready in my lap this morning,\" I continued; \"and if Monsieur\nhad been rather more patient, and Mademoiselle St. Pierre less\ninterfering--perhaps I should say, too, if _I_ had been calmer and\nwiser--I should have given it then.\"\n\nHe looked at the box: I saw its clear warm tint and bright azure\ncirclet, pleased his eyes. I told him to open it.\n\n\"My initials!\" said he, indicating the letters in the lid. \"Who told\nyou I was called Carl David?\"\n\n\"A little bird, Monsieur.\"\n\n\"Does it fly from me to you? Then one can tie a message under its wing\nwhen needful.\",\n\nHe took out the chain--a trifle indeed as to value, but glossy with\nsilk and sparkling with beads. He liked that too--admired it artlessly,\nlike a child.\n\n\"For me?\"\n\n\"Yes, for you.\"\n\n\"This is the thing you were working at last night?\"\n\n\"The same.\"\n\n\"You finished it this morning?\"\n\n\"I did.\"\n\n\"You commenced it with the intention that it should be mine?\"\n\n\"Undoubtedly.\"\n\n\"And offered on my fête-day?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"This purpose continued as you wove it?\"\n\nAgain I assented.\n\n\"Then it is not necessary that I should cut out any portion--saying,\nthis part is not mine: it was plaited under the idea and for the\nadornment of another?\"\n\n\"By no means. It is neither necessary, nor would it be just.\"\n\n\"This object is _all_ mine?\"\n\n\"That object is yours entirely.\"\n\nStraightway Monsieur opened his paletôt, arranged the guard splendidly\nacross his chest, displaying as much and suppressing as little as he\ncould: for he had no notion of concealing what he admired and thought\ndecorative. As to the box, he pronounced it a superb bonbonnière--he\nwas fond of bonbons, by the way--and as he always liked to share with\nothers what pleased himself, he would give his \"dragées\" as freely as\nhe lent his books. Amongst the kind brownie's gifts left in my desk, I\nforgot to enumerate many a paper of chocolate comfits. His tastes in\nthese matters were southern, and what we think infantine. His simple\nlunch consisted frequently of a \"brioche,\" which, as often as not, to\nshared with some child of the third division.\n\n\"A présent c'est un fait accompli,\" said he, re-adjusting his paletôt;\nand we had no more words on the subject. After looking over the two\nvolumes he had brought, and cutting away some pages with his penknife\n(he generally pruned before lending his books, especially if they were\nnovels, and sometimes I was a little provoked at the severity of his\ncensorship, the retrenchments interrupting the narrative), he rose,\npolitely touched his bonnet-grec, and bade me a civil good-day.\n\n\"We are friends now,\" thought I, \"till the next time we quarrel.\"\n\nWe _might_ have quarrelled again that very same evening, but, wonderful\nto relate, failed, for once, to make the most of our opportunity.\n\nContrary to all expectation, M. Paul arrived at the study-hour. Having\nseen so much of him in the morning, we did not look for his presence at\nnight. No sooner were we seated at lessons, however, than he appeared.\nI own I was glad to see him, so glad that I could not help greeting his\narrival with a smile; and when he made his way to the same seat about\nwhich so serious a misunderstanding had formerly arisen, I took good\ncare not to make too much room for him; he watched with a jealous,\nside-long look, to see whether I shrank away, but I did not, though the\nbench was a little crowded. I was losing the early impulse to recoil\nfrom M. Paul. Habituated to the paletôt and bonnet-grec, the\nneighbourhood of these garments seemed no longer uncomfortable or very\nformidable. I did not now sit restrained, \"asphyxiée\" (as he used to\nsay) at his side; I stirred when I wished to stir, coughed when it was\nnecessary, even yawned when I was tired--did, in short, what I pleased,\nblindly reliant upon his indulgence. Nor did my temerity, this evening\nat least, meet the punishment it perhaps merited; he was both indulgent\nand good-natured; not a cross glance shot from his eyes, not a hasty\nword left his lips. Till the very close of the evening, he did not\nindeed address me at all, yet I felt, somehow, that he was full of\nfriendliness. Silence is of different kinds, and breathes different\nmeanings; no words could inspire a pleasanter content than did M.\nPaul's worldless presence. When the tray came in, and the bustle of\nsupper commenced, he just said, as he retired, that he wished me a good\nnight and sweet dreams; and a good night and sweet dreams I had.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXX.\n\nM. PAUL.\n\n\nYet the reader is advised not to be in any hurry with his kindly\nconclusions, or to suppose, with an over-hasty charity, that from that\nday M. Paul became a changed character--easy to live with, and no\nlonger apt to flash danger and discomfort round him.\n\nNo; he was naturally a little man of unreasonable moods. When\nover-wrought, which he often was, he became acutely irritable; and,\nbesides, his veins were dark with a livid belladonna tincture, the\nessence of jealousy. I do not mean merely the tender jealousy of the\nheart, but that sterner, narrower sentiment whose seat is in the head.\n\nI used to think, as I Sat looking at M. Paul, while he was knitting his\nbrow or protruding his lip over some exercise of mine, which had not as\nmany faults as he wished (for he liked me to commit faults: a knot of\nblunders was sweet to him as a cluster of nuts), that he had points of\nresemblance to Napoleon Bonaparte. I think so still.\n\nIn a shameless disregard of magnanimity, he resembled the great\nEmperor. M. Paul would have quarrelled with twenty learned women, would\nhave unblushingly carried on a system of petty bickering and\nrecrimination with a whole capital of coteries, never troubling himself\nabout loss or lack of dignity. He would have exiled fifty Madame de\nStaëls, if, they had annoyed, offended, outrivalled, or opposed him.\n\nI well remember a hot episode of his with a certain Madame Panache--a\nlady temporarily employed by Madame Beck to give lessons in history.\nShe was clever--that is, she knew a good deal; and, besides, thoroughly\npossessed the art of making the most of what she knew; of words and\nconfidence she held unlimited command. Her personal appearance was far\nfrom destitute of advantages; I believe many people would have\npronounced her \"a fine woman;\" and yet there were points in her robust\nand ample attractions, as well as in her bustling and demonstrative\npresence, which, it appeared, the nice and capricious tastes of M. Paul\ncould not away with. The sound of her voice, echoing through the carré,\nwould put him into a strange taking; her long free step--almost\nstride--along the corridor, would often make him snatch up his papers\nand decamp on the instant.\n\nWith malicious intent he bethought himself, one day, to intrude on her\nclass; as quick as lightning he gathered her method of instruction; it\ndiffered from a pet plan of his own. With little ceremony, and less\ncourtesy, he pointed out what he termed her errors. Whether he expected\nsubmission and attention, I know not; he met an acrid opposition,\naccompanied by a round reprimand for his certainly unjustifiable\ninterference.\n\nInstead of withdrawing with dignity, as he might still have done, he\nthrew down the gauntlet of defiance. Madame Panache, bellicose as a\nPenthesilea, picked it up in a minute. She snapped her fingers in the\nintermeddler's face; she rushed upon him with a storm of words. M.\nEmanuel was eloquent; but Madame Panache was voluble. A system of\nfierce antagonism ensued. Instead of laughing in his sleeve at his fair\nfoe, with all her sore amour-propre and loud self-assertion, M. Paul\ndetested her with intense seriousness; he honoured her with his earnest\nfury; he pursued her vindictively and implacably, refusing to rest\npeaceably in his bed, to derive due benefit from his meals, or even\nserenely to relish his cigar, till she was fairly rooted out of the\nestablishment. The Professor conquered, but I cannot say that the\nlaurels of this victory shadowed gracefully his temples. Once I\nventured to hint as much. To my great surprise he allowed that I might\nbe right, but averred that when brought into contact with either men or\nwomen of the coarse, self-complacent quality, whereof Madame Panache\nwas a specimen, he had no control over his own passions; an unspeakable\nand active aversion impelled him to a war of extermination.\n\nThree months afterwards, hearing that his vanquished foe had met with\nreverses, and was likely to be really distressed for want of\nemployment, he forgot his hatred, and alike active in good and evil, he\nmoved heaven and earth till he found her a place. Upon her coming to\nmake up former differences, and thank him for his recent kindness, the\nold voice--a little loud--the old manner--a little forward--so acted\nupon him that in ten minutes he started up and bowed her, or rather\nhimself, out of the room, in a transport of nervous irritation.\n\nTo pursue a somewhat audacious parallel, in a love of power, in an\neager grasp after supremacy, M. Emanuel was like Bonaparte. He was a\nman not always to be submitted to. Sometimes it was needful to resist;\nit was right to stand still, to look up into his eyes and tell him that\nhis requirements went beyond reason--that his absolutism verged on\ntyranny.\n\nThe dawnings, the first developments of peculiar talent appearing\nwithin his range, and under his rule, curiously excited, even disturbed\nhim. He watched its struggle into life with a scowl; he held back his\nhand--perhaps said, \"Come on if you have strength,\" but would not aid\nthe birth.\n\nWhen the pang and peril of the first conflict were over, when the\nbreath of life was drawn, when he saw the lungs expand and contract,\nwhen he felt the heart beat and discovered life in the eye, he did not\nyet offer to foster.\n\n\"Prove yourself true ere I cherish you,\" was his ordinance; and how\ndifficult he made that proof! What thorns and briers, what flints, he\nstrewed in the path of feet not inured to rough travel! He watched\ntearlessly--ordeals that he exacted should be passed\nthrough--fearlessly. He followed footprints that, as they approached\nthe bourne, were sometimes marked in blood--followed them grimly,\nholding the austerest police-watch over the pain-pressed pilgrim. And\nwhen at last he allowed a rest, before slumber might close the eyelids,\nhe opened those same lids wide, with pitiless finger and thumb, and\ngazed deep through the pupil and the irids into the brain, into the\nheart, to search if Vanity, or Pride, or Falsehood, in any of its\nsubtlest forms, was discoverable in the furthest recess of existence.\nIf, at last, he let the neophyte sleep, it was but a moment; he woke\nhim suddenly up to apply new tests: he sent him on irksome errands when\nhe was staggering with weariness; he tried the temper, the sense, and\nthe health; and it was only when every severest test had been applied\nand endured, when the most corrosive aquafortis had been used, and\nfailed to tarnish the ore, that he admitted it genuine, and, still in\nclouded silence, stamped it with his deep brand of approval.\n\nI speak not ignorant of these evils.\n\nTill the date at which the last chapter closes, M. Paul had not been my\nprofessor--he had not given me lessons, but about that time,\naccidentally hearing me one day acknowledge an ignorance of some branch\nof education (I think it was arithmetic), which would have disgraced a\ncharity-school boy, as he very truly remarked, he took me in hand,\nexamined me first, found me, I need not say, abundantly deficient, gave\nme some books and appointed me some tasks.\n\nHe did this at first with pleasure, indeed with unconcealed exultation,\ncondescending to say that he believed I was \"bonne et pas trop faible\"\n(i.e. well enough disposed, and not wholly destitute of parts), but,\nowing he supposed to adverse circumstances, \"as yet in a state of\nwretchedly imperfect mental development.\"\n\nThe beginning of all effort has indeed with me been marked by a\npreternatural imbecility. I never could, even in forming a common\nacquaintance, assert or prove a claim to average quickness. A\ndepressing and difficult passage has prefaced every new page I have\nturned in life.\n\nSo long as this passage lasted, M. Paul was very kind, very good, very\nforbearing; he saw the sharp pain inflicted, and felt the weighty\nhumiliation imposed by my own sense of incapacity; and words can hardly\ndo justice to his tenderness and helpfulness. His own eyes would\nmoisten, when tears of shame and effort clouded mine; burdened as he\nwas with work, he would steal half his brief space of recreation to\ngive to me.\n\nBut, strange grief! when that heavy and overcast dawn began at last to\nyield to day; when my faculties began to struggle themselves, free, and\nmy time of energy and fulfilment came; when I voluntarily doubled,\ntrebled, quadrupled the tasks he set, to please him as I thought, his\nkindness became sternness; the light changed in his eyes from a beam to\na spark; he fretted, he opposed, he curbed me imperiously; the more I\ndid, the harder I worked, the less he seemed content. Sarcasms of which\nthe severity amazed and puzzled me, harassed my ears; then flowed out\nthe bitterest inuendoes against the \"pride of intellect.\" I was vaguely\nthreatened with I know not what doom, if I ever trespassed the limits\nproper to my sex, and conceived a contraband appetite for unfeminine\nknowledge. Alas! I had no such appetite. What I loved, it joyed me by\nany effort to content; but the noble hunger for science in the\nabstract--the godlike thirst after discovery--these feelings were known\nto me but by briefest flashes.\n\nYet, when M. Paul sneered at me, I wanted to possess them more fully;\nhis injustice stirred in me ambitious wishes--it imparted a strong\nstimulus--it gave wings to aspiration.\n\nIn the beginning, before I had penetrated to motives, that\nuncomprehended sneer of his made my heart ache, but by-and-by it only\nwarmed the blood in my veins, and sent added action to my pulses.\nWhatever my powers--feminine or the contrary--God had given them, and I\nfelt resolute to be ashamed of no faculty of his bestowal.\n\nThe combat was very sharp for a time. I seemed to have lost M. Paul's\naffection; he treated me strangely. In his most unjust moments he would\ninsinuate that I had deceived him when I appeared, what he called\n\"faible\"--that is incompetent; he said I had feigned a false\nincapacity. Again, he would turn suddenly round and accuse me of the\nmost far-fetched imitations and impossible plagiarisms, asserting that\nI had extracted the pith out of books I had not so much as heard\nof--and over the perusal of which I should infallibly have fallen down\nin a sleep as deep as that of Eutychus.\n\nOnce, upon his preferring such an accusation, I turned upon him--I rose\nagainst him. Gathering an armful of his books out of my desk, I filled\nmy apron and poured them in a heap upon his estrade, at his feet.\n\n\"Take them away, M. Paul,\" I said, \"and teach me no more. I never asked\nto be made learned, and you compel me to feel very profoundly that\nlearning is not happiness.\"\n\nAnd returning to my desk, I laid my head on my arms, nor would I speak\nto him for two days afterwards. He pained and chagrined me. His\naffection had been very sweet and dear--a pleasure new and\nincomparable: now that this seemed withdrawn, I cared not for his\nlessons.\n\nThe books, however, were not taken away; they were all restored with\ncareful hand to their places, and he came as usual to teach me. He made\nhis peace somehow--too readily, perhaps: I ought to have stood out\nlonger, but when he looked kind and good, and held out his hand with\namity, memory refused to reproduce with due force his oppressive\nmoments. And then, reconcilement is always sweet!\n\nOn a certain morning a message came from my godmother, inviting me to\nattend some notable lecture to be delivered in the same public rooms\nbefore described. Dr. John had brought the message himself, and\ndelivered it verbally to Rosine, who had not scrupled to follow the\nsteps of M. Emanuel, then passing to the first classe, and, in his\npresence, stand \"carrément\" before my desk, hand in apron-pocket, and\nrehearse the same, saucily and aloud, concluding with the words, \"Qu'il\nest vraiment beau, Mademoiselle, ce jeune docteur! Quels yeux--quel\nregard! Tenez! J'en ai le coeur tout ému!\"\n\nWhen she was gone, my professor demanded of me why I suffered \"cette\nfille effrontée, cette créature sans pudeur,\" to address me in such\nterms.\n\nI had no pacifying answer to give. The terms were precisely such as\nRosine--a young lady in whose skull the organs of reverence and reserve\nwere not largely developed--was in the constant habit of using.\nBesides, what she said about the young doctor was true enough. Graham\n_was_ handsome; he had fine eyes and a thrilling: glance. An\nobservation to that effect actually formed itself into sound on my lips.\n\n\"Elle ne dit que la vérité,\" I said.\n\n\"Ah! vous trouvez?\"\n\n\"Mais, sans doute.\"\n\nThe lesson to which we had that day to submit was such as to make us\nvery glad when it terminated. At its close, the released, pupils rushed\nout, half-trembling, half-exultant. I, too, was going. A mandate to\nremain arrested me. I muttered that I wanted some fresh air sadly--the\nstove was in a glow, the classe over-heated. An inexorable voice merely\nrecommended silence; and this salamander--for whom no room ever seemed\ntoo hot--sitting down between my desk and the stove--a situation in\nwhich he ought to have felt broiled, but did not--proceeded to confront\nme with--a Greek quotation!\n\nIn M. Emanuel's soul rankled a chronic suspicion that I knew both Greek\nand Latin. As monkeys are said to have the power of speech if they\nwould but use it, and are reported to conceal this faculty in fear of\nits being turned to their detriment, so to me was ascribed a fund of\nknowledge which I was supposed criminally and craftily to conceal. The\nprivileges of a \"classical education,\" it was insinuated, had been\nmine; on flowers of Hymettus I had revelled; a golden store, hived in\nmemory, now silently sustained my efforts, and privily nurtured my wits.\n\nA hundred expedients did M. Paul employ to surprise my secret--to\nwheedle, to threaten, to startle it out of me. Sometimes he placed\nGreek and Latin books in my way, and then watched me, as Joan of Arc's\njailors tempted her with the warrior's accoutrements, and lay in wait\nfor the issue. Again he quoted I know not what authors and passages,\nand while rolling out their sweet and sounding lines (the classic tones\nfell musically from his lips--for he had a good voice--remarkable for\ncompass, modulation, and matchless expression), he would fix on me a\nvigilant, piercing, and often malicious eye. It was evident he\nsometimes expected great demonstrations; they never occurred, however;\nnot comprehending, of course I could neither be charmed nor annoyed.\n\nBaffled--almost angry--he still clung to his fixed idea; my\nsusceptibilities were pronounced marble--my face a mask. It appeared as\nif he could not be brought to accept the homely truth, and take me for\nwhat I was: men, and women too, must have delusion of some sort; if not\nmade ready to their hand, they will invent exaggeration for themselves.\n\nAt moments I _did_ wish that his suspicions had been better founded.\nThere were times when I would have given my right hand to possess the\ntreasures he ascribed to me. He deserved condign punishment for his\ntesty crotchets. I could have gloried in bringing home to him his worst\napprehensions astoundingly realized. I could have exulted to burst on\nhis vision, confront and confound his \"lunettes,\" one blaze of\nacquirements. Oh! why did nobody undertake to make me clever while I\nwas young enough to learn, that I might, by one grand, sudden, inhuman\nrevelation--one cold, cruel, overwhelming triumph--have for ever\ncrushed the mocking spirit out of Paul Carl David Emanuel!\n\nAlas! no such feat was in my power. To-day, as usual, his quotations\nfell ineffectual: he soon shifted his ground.\n\n\"Women of intellect\" was his next theme: here he was at home. A \"woman\nof intellect,\" it appeared, was a sort of \"lusus naturae,\" a luckless\naccident, a thing for which there was neither place nor use in\ncreation, wanted neither as wife nor worker. Beauty anticipated her in\nthe first office. He believed in his soul that lovely, placid, and\npassive feminine mediocrity was the only pillow on which manly thought\nand sense could find rest for its aching temples; and as to work, male\nmind alone could work to any good practical result--hein?\n\nThis \"hein?\" was a note of interrogation intended to draw from me\ncontradiction or objection. However, I only said--\"Cela ne me regarde\npas: je ne m'en soucie pas;\" and presently added--\"May I go, Monsieur?\nThey have rung the bell for the second déjeuner\" (_i.e._ luncheon).\n\n\"What of that? You are not hungry?\"\n\n\"Indeed I was,\" I said; \"I had had nothing since breakfast, at seven,\nand should have nothing till dinner, at five, if I missed this bell.\"\n\n\"Well, he was in the same plight, but I might share with him.\"\n\nAnd he broke in two the \"brioche\" intended for his own refreshment, and\ngave me half. Truly his bark was worse than his bite; but the really\nformidable attack was yet to come. While eating his cake, I could not\nforbear expressing my secret wish that I really knew all of which he\naccused me.\n\n\"Did I sincerely feel myself to be an ignoramus?\" he asked, in a\nsoftened tone.\n\nIf I had replied meekly by an unqualified affirmative, I believe he\nwould have stretched out his hand, and we should have been friends on\nthe spot, but I answered--\n\n\"Not exactly. I am ignorant, Monsieur, in the knowledge you ascribe to\nme, but I _sometimes_, not _always_, feel a knowledge of my own.\"\n\n\"What did I mean?\" he inquired, sharply.\n\nUnable to answer this question in a breath, I evaded it by change of\nsubject. He had now finished his half of the brioche feeling sure that\non so trifling a fragment he could not have satisfied his appetite, as\nindeed I had not appeased mine, and inhaling the fragrance of baked\napples afar from the refectory, I ventured to inquire whether he did\nnot also perceive that agreeable odour. He confessed that he did. I\nsaid if he would let me out by the garden-door, and permit me just to\nrun across the court, I would fetch him a plateful; and added that I\nbelieved they were excellent, as Goton had a very good method of\nbaking, or rather stewing fruit, putting in a little spice, sugar, and\na glass or two of vin blanc--might I go?\n\n\"Petite gourmande!\" said he, smiling, \"I have not forgotten how pleased\nyou were with the pâté â la crême I once gave you, and you know very\nwell, at this moment, that to fetch the apples for me will be the same\nas getting them for yourself. Go, then, but come back quickly.\"\n\nAnd at last he liberated me on parole. My own plan was to go and return\nwith speed and good faith, to put the plate in at the door, and then to\nvanish incontinent, leaving all consequences for future settlement.\n\nThat intolerably keen instinct of his seemed to have anticipated my\nscheme: he met me at the threshold, hurried me into the room, and fixed\nme in a minute in my former seat. Taking the plate of fruit from my\nhand, he divided the portion intended only for himself, and ordered me\nto eat my share. I complied with no good grace, and vexed, I suppose,\nby my reluctance, he opened a masked and dangerous battery. All he had\nyet said, I could count as mere sound and fury, signifying nothing: not\nso of the present attack.\n\nIt consisted in an unreasonable proposition with which he had before\nafflicted me: namely, that on the next public examination-day I should\nengage--foreigner as I was--to take my place on the first form of\nfirst-class pupils, and with them improvise a composition in French, on\nany subject any spectator might dictate, without benefit of grammar or\nlexicon.\n\nI knew what the result of such an experiment would be. I, to whom\nnature had denied the impromptu faculty; who, in public, was by nature\na cypher; whose time of mental activity, even when alone, was not under\nthe meridian sun; who needed the fresh silence of morning, or the\nrecluse peace of evening, to win from the Creative Impulse one evidence\nof his presence, one proof of his force; I, with whom that Impulse was\nthe most intractable, the most capricious, the most maddening of\nmasters (him before me always excepted)--a deity which sometimes, under\ncircumstances--apparently propitious, would not speak when questioned,\nwould not hear when appealed to, would not, when sought, be found; but\nwould stand, all cold, all indurated, all granite, a dark Baal with\ncarven lips and blank eye-balls, and breast like the stone face of a\ntomb; and again, suddenly, at some turn, some sound, some\nlong-trembling sob of the wind, at some rushing past of an unseen\nstream of electricity, the irrational demon would wake unsolicited,\nwould stir strangely alive, would rush from its pedestal like a\nperturbed Dagon, calling to its votary for a sacrifice, whatever the\nhour--to its victim for some blood, or some breath, whatever the\ncircumstance or scene--rousing its priest, treacherously promising\nvaticination, perhaps filling its temple with a strange hum of oracles,\nbut sure to give half the significance to fateful winds, and grudging\nto the desperate listener even a miserable remnant--yielding it\nsordidly, as though each word had been a drop of the deathless ichor of\nits own dark veins. And this tyrant I was to compel into bondage, and\nmake it improvise a theme, on a school estrade, between a Mathilde and\na Coralie, under the eye of a Madame Beck, for the pleasure, and to the\ninspiration of a bourgeois of Labassecour!\n\nUpon this argument M. Paul and I did battle more than once--strong\nbattle, with confused noise of demand and rejection, exaction and\nrepulse.\n\nOn this particular day I was soundly rated. \"The obstinacy of my whole\nsex,\" it seems, was concentrated in me; I had an \"orgueil de diable.\" I\nfeared to fail, forsooth! What did it matter whether I failed or not?\nWho was I that I should not fail, like my betters? It would do me good\nto fail. He wanted to see me worsted (I knew he did), and one minute he\npaused to take breath.\n\n\"Would I speak now, and be tractable?\"\n\n\"Never would I be tractable in this matter. Law itself should not\ncompel me. I would pay a fine, or undergo an imprisonment, rather than\nwrite for a show and to order, perched up on a platform.\"\n\n\"Could softer motives influence me? Would I yield for friendship's\nsake?\"\n\n\"Not a whit, not a hair-breadth. No form of friendship under the sun\nhad a right to exact such a concession. No true friendship would harass\nme thus.\"\n\nHe supposed then (with a sneer--M. Paul could sneer supremely, curling\nhis lip, opening his nostrils, contracting his eyelids)--he supposed\nthere was but one form of appeal to which I would listen, and of that\nform it was not for him to make use.\n\n\"Under certain persuasions, from certain quarters, je vous vois d'ici,\"\nsaid he, \"eagerly subscribing to the sacrifice, passionately arming for\nthe effort.\"\n\n\"Making a simpleton, a warning, and an example of myself, before a\nhundred and fifty of the 'papas' and 'mammas' of Villette.\"\n\nAnd here, losing patience, I broke out afresh with a cry that I wanted\nto be liberated--to get out into the air--I was almost in a fever.\n\n\"Chut!\" said the inexorable, \"this was a mere pretext to run away; _he_\nwas not hot, with the stove close at his back; how could I suffer,\nthoroughly screened by his person?\"\n\n\"I did not understand his constitution. I knew nothing of the natural\nhistory of salamanders. For my own part, I was a phlegmatic islander,\nand sitting in an oven did not agree with me; at least, might I step to\nthe well, and get a glass of water--the sweet apples had made me\nthirsty?\"\n\n\"If that was all, he would do my errand.\"\n\nHe went to fetch the water. Of course, with a door only on the latch\nbehind me, I lost not my opportunity. Ere his return, his half-worried\nprey had escaped.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXI.\n\nTHE DRYAD.\n\n\nThe spring was advancing, and the weather had turned suddenly warm.\nThis change of temperature brought with it for me, as probably for many\nothers, temporary decrease of strength. Slight exertion at this time\nleft me overcome with fatigue--sleepless nights entailed languid days.\n\nOne Sunday afternoon, having walked the distance of half a league to\nthe Protestant church, I came back weary and exhausted; and taking\nrefuge in my solitary sanctuary, the first classe, I was glad to sit\ndown, and to make of my desk a pillow for my arms and head.\n\nAwhile I listened to the lullaby of bees humming in the berceau, and\nwatched, through the glass door and the tender, lightly-strewn spring\nfoliage, Madame Beck and a gay party of friends, whom she had\nentertained that day at dinner after morning mass, walking in the\ncentre-alley under orchard boughs dressed at this season in blossom,\nand wearing a colouring as pure and warm as mountain-snow at sun-rise.\n\nMy principal attraction towards this group of guests lay, I remember,\nin one figure--that of a handsome young girl whom I had seen before as\na visitor at Madame Beck's, and of whom I had been vaguely told that\nshe was a \"filleule,\" or god-daughter, of M. Emanuel's, and that\nbetween her mother, or aunt, or some other female relation of hers, and\nthe Professor, had existed of old a special friendship. M. Paul was not\nof the holiday band to-day, but I had seen this young girl with him ere\nnow, and as far as distant observation could enable me to judge, she\nseemed to enjoy him with the frank ease of a ward with an indulgent\nguardian. I had seen her run up to him, put her arm through his, and\nhang upon him. Once, when she did so, a curious sensation had struck\nthrough me--a disagreeable anticipatory sensation--one of the family of\npresentiments, I suppose--but I refused to analyze or dwell upon it.\nWhile watching this girl, Mademoiselle Sauveur by name, and following\nthe gleam of her bright silk robe (she was always richly dressed, for\nshe was said to be wealthy) through the flowers and the glancing leaves\nof tender emerald, my eyes became dazzled--they closed; my lassitude,\nthe warmth of the day, the hum of bees and birds, all lulled me, and at\nlast I slept.\n\nTwo hours stole over me. Ere I woke, the sun had declined out of sight\nbehind the towering houses, the garden and the room were grey, bees had\ngone homeward, and the flowers were closing; the party of guests, too,\nhad vanished; each alley was void.\n\nOn waking, I felt much at ease--not chill, as I ought to have been\nafter sitting so still for at least two hours; my cheek and arms were\nnot benumbed by pressure against the hard desk. No wonder. Instead of\nthe bare wood on which I had laid them, I found a thick shawl,\ncarefully folded, substituted for support, and another shawl (both\ntaken from the corridor where such things hung) wrapped warmly round me.\n\nWho had done this? Who was my friend? Which of the teachers? Which of\nthe pupils? None, except St. Pierre, was inimical to me; but which of\nthem had the art, the thought, the habit, of benefiting thus tenderly?\nWhich of them had a step so quiet, a hand so gentle, but I should have\nheard or felt her, if she had approached or touched me in a day-sleep?\n\nAs to Ginevra Fanshawe, that bright young creature was not gentle at\nall, and would certainly have pulled me out of my chair, if she had\nmeddled in the matter. I said at last: \"It is Madame Beck's doing; she\nhas come in, seen me asleep, and thought I might take cold. She\nconsiders me a useful machine, answering well the purpose for which it\nwas hired; so would not have me needlessly injured. And now,\"\nmethought, \"I'll take a walk; the evening is fresh, and not very chill.\"\n\nSo I opened the glass door and stepped into the berceau.\n\nI went to my own alley: had it been dark, or even dusk, I should have\nhardly ventured there, for I had not yet forgotten the curious illusion\nof vision (if illusion it were) experienced in that place some months\nago. But a ray of the setting sun burnished still the grey crown of\nJean Baptiste; nor had all the birds of the garden yet vanished into\ntheir nests amongst the tufted shrubs and thick wall-ivy. I paced up\nand down, thinking almost the same thoughts I had pondered that night\nwhen I buried my glass jar--how I should make some advance in life,\ntake another step towards an independent position; for this train of\nreflection, though not lately pursued, had never by me been wholly\nabandoned; and whenever a certain eye was averted from me, and a\ncertain countenance grew dark with unkindness and injustice, into that\ntrack of speculation did I at once strike; so that, little by little, I\nhad laid half a plan.\n\n\"Living costs little,\" said I to myself, \"in this economical town of\nVillette, where people are more sensible than I understand they are in\ndear old England--infinitely less worried about appearance, and less\nemulous of display--where nobody is in the least ashamed to be quite as\nhomely and saving as he finds convenient. House-rent, in a prudently\nchosen situation, need not be high. When I shall have saved one\nthousand francs, I will take a tenement with one large room, and two or\nthree smaller ones, furnish the first with a few benches and desks, a\nblack tableau, an estrade for myself; upon it a chair and table, with a\nsponge and some white chalks; begin with taking day-pupils, and so work\nmy way upwards. Madame Beck's commencement was--as I have often heard\nher say--from no higher starting-point, and where is she now? All these\npremises and this garden are hers, bought with her money; she has a\ncompetency already secured for old age, and a flourishing establishment\nunder her direction, which will furnish a career for her children.\n\n\"Courage, Lucy Snowe! With self-denial and economy now, and steady\nexertion by-and-by, an object in life need not fail you. Venture not to\ncomplain that such an object is too selfish, too limited, and lacks\ninterest; be content to labour for independence until you have proved,\nby winning that prize, your right to look higher. But afterwards, is\nthere nothing more for me in life--no true home--nothing to be dearer\nto me than myself, and by its paramount preciousness, to draw from me\nbetter things than I care to culture for myself only? Nothing, at whose\nfeet I can willingly lay down the whole burden of human egotism, and\ngloriously take up the nobler charge of labouring and living for\nothers? I suppose, Lucy Snowe, the orb of your life is not to be so\nrounded: for you, the crescent-phase must suffice. Very good. I see a\nhuge mass of my fellow-creatures in no better circumstances. I see that\na great many men, and more women, hold their span of life on conditions\nof denial and privation. I find no reason why I should be of the few\nfavoured. I believe in some blending of hope and sunshine sweetening\nthe worst lots. I believe that this life is not all; neither the\nbeginning nor the end. I believe while I tremble; I trust while I weep.\"\n\nSo this subject is done with. It is right to look our life-accounts\nbravely in the face now and then, and settle them honestly. And he is a\npoor self-swindler who lies to himself while he reckons the items, and\nsets down under the head--happiness that which is misery. Call\nanguish--anguish, and despair--despair; write both down in strong\ncharacters with a resolute pen: you will the better pay your debt to\nDoom. Falsify: insert \"privilege\" where you should have written \"pain;\"\nand see if your mighty creditor will allow the fraud to pass, or accept\nthe coin with which you would cheat him. Offer to the strongest--if the\ndarkest angel of God's host--water, when he has asked blood--will he\ntake it? Not a whole pale sea for one red drop. I settled another\naccount.\n\nPausing before Methusaleh--the giant and patriarch of the garden--and\nleaning my brow against his knotty trunk, my foot rested on the stone\nsealing the small sepulchre at his root; and I recalled the passage of\nfeeling therein buried; I recalled Dr. John; my warm affection for him;\nmy faith in his excellence; my delight in his grace. What was become of\nthat curious one-sided friendship which was half marble and half life;\nonly on one hand truth, and on the other perhaps a jest?\n\nWas this feeling dead? I do not know, but it was buried. Sometimes I\nthought the tomb unquiet, and dreamed strangely of disturbed earth, and\nof hair, still golden, and living, obtruded through coffin-chinks.\n\nHad I been too hasty? I used to ask myself; and this question would\noccur with a cruel sharpness after some brief chance interview with Dr.\nJohn. He had still such kind looks, such a warm hand; his voice still\nkept so pleasant a tone for my name; I never liked \"Lucy\" so well as\nwhen he uttered it. But I learned in time that this benignity, this\ncordiality, this music, belonged in no shape to me: it was a part of\nhimself; it was the honey of his temper; it was the balm of his mellow\nmood; he imparted it, as the ripe fruit rewards with sweetness the\nrifling bee; he diffused it about him, as sweet plants shed their\nperfume. Does the nectarine love either the bee or bird it feeds? Is\nthe sweetbriar enamoured of the air?\n\n\"Good-night, Dr. John; you are good, you are beautiful; but you are not\nmine. Good-night, and God bless you!\"\n\nThus I closed my musings. \"Good-night\" left my lips in sound; I heard\nthe words spoken, and then I heard an echo--quite close.\n\n\"Good-night, Mademoiselle; or, rather, good-evening--the sun is scarce\nset; I hope you slept well?\"\n\nI started, but was only discomposed a moment; I knew the voice and\nspeaker.\n\n\"Slept, Monsieur! When? where?\"\n\n\"You may well inquire when--where. It seems you turn day into night,\nand choose a desk for a pillow; rather hard lodging--?\"\n\n\"It was softened for me, Monsieur, while I slept. That unseen,\ngift-bringing thing which haunts my desk, remembered me. No matter how\nI fell asleep; I awoke pillowed and covered.\"\n\n\"Did the shawls keep you warm?\"\n\n\"Very warm. Do you ask thanks for them?\"\n\n\"No. You looked pale in your slumbers: are you home-sick?\"\n\n\"To be home-sick, one must have a home; which I have not.\"\n\n\"Then you have more need of a careful friend. I scarcely know any one,\nMiss Lucy, who needs a friend more absolutely than you; your very\nfaults imperatively require it. You want so much checking, regulating,\nand keeping down.\"\n\nThis idea of \"keeping down\" never left M. Paul's head; the most\nhabitual subjugation would, in my case, have failed to relieve him of\nit. No matter; what did it signify? I listened to him, and did not\ntrouble myself to be too submissive; his occupation would have been\ngone had I left him nothing to \"keep down.\"\n\n\"You need watching, and watching over,\" he pursued; \"and it is well for\nyou that I see this, and do my best to discharge both duties. I watch\nyou and others pretty closely, pretty constantly, nearer and oftener\nthan you or they think. Do you see that window with a light in it?\"\n\nHe pointed to a lattice in one of the college boarding-houses.\n\n\"That,\" said he, \"is a room I have hired, nominally for a\nstudy--virtually for a post of observation. There I sit and read for\nhours together: it is my way--my taste. My book is this garden; its\ncontents are human nature--female human nature. I know you all by\nheart. Ah! I know you well--St. Pierre, the Parisienne--cette\nmaîtresse-femme, my cousin Beck herself.\"\n\n\"It is not right, Monsieur.\"\n\n\"Comment? it is not right? By whose creed? Does some dogma of Calvin or\nLuther condemn it? What is that to me? I am no Protestant. My rich\nfather (for, though I have known poverty, and once starved for a year\nin a garret in Rome--starved wretchedly, often on a meal a day, and\nsometimes not that--yet I was born to wealth)--my rich father was a\ngood Catholic; and he gave me a priest and a Jesuit for a tutor. I\nretain his lessons; and to what discoveries, grand Dieu! have they not\naided me!\"\n\n\"Discoveries made by stealth seem to me dishonourable discoveries.\"\n\n\"Puritaine! I doubt it not. Yet see how my Jesuit's system works. You\nknow the St. Pierre?\"\n\n\"Partially.\"\n\nHe laughed. \"You say right--_'partially'_; whereas _I_ know her\n_thoroughly_; there is the difference. She played before me the\namiable; offered me patte de velours; caressed, flattered, fawned on\nme. Now, I am accessible to a woman's flattery--accessible against my\nreason. Though never pretty, she was--when I first knew her--young, or\nknew how to look young. Like all her countrywomen, she had the art of\ndressing--she had a certain cool, easy, social assurance, which spared\nme the pain of embarrassment--\"\n\n\"Monsieur, that must have been unnecessary. I never saw you embarrassed\nin my life.\"\n\n\"Mademoiselle, you know little of me; I can be embarrassed as a petite\npensionnaire; there is a fund of modesty and diffidence in my nature--\"\n\n\"Monsieur, I never saw it.\"\n\n\"Mademoiselle, it is there. You ought to have seen it.\"\n\n\"Monsieur, I have observed you in public--on platforms, in tribunes,\nbefore titles and crowned heads--and you were as easy as you are in the\nthird division.\"\n\n\"Mademoiselle, neither titles nor crowned heads excite my modesty; and\npublicity is very much my element. I like it well, and breathe in it\nquite freely;--but--but, in short, here is the sentiment brought into\naction, at this very moment; however, I disdain to be worsted by it.\nIf, Mademoiselle, I were a marrying man (which I am not; and you may\nspare yourself the trouble of any sneer you may be contemplating at the\nthought), and found it necessary to ask a lady whether she could look\nupon me in the light of a future husband, then would it be proved that\nI am as I say--modest.\"\n\nI quite believed him now; and, in believing, I honoured him with a\nsincerity of esteem which made my heart ache.\n\n\"As to the St. Pierre,\" he went on, recovering himself, for his voice\nhad altered a little, \"she once intended to be Madame Emanuel; and I\ndon't know whither I might have been led, but for yonder little lattice\nwith the light. Ah, magic lattice! what miracles of discovery hast thou\nwrought! Yes,\" he pursued, \"I have seen her rancours, her vanities, her\nlevities--not only here, but elsewhere: I have witnessed what bucklers\nme against all her arts: I am safe from poor Zélie.\"\n\n\"And my pupils,\" he presently recommenced, \"those blondes jeunes\nfilles--so mild and meek--I have seen the most reserved--romp like\nboys, the demurest--snatch grapes from the walls, shake pears from the\ntrees. When the English teacher came, I saw her, marked her early\npreference for this alley, noticed her taste for seclusion, watched her\nwell, long before she and I came to speaking terms; do you recollect my\nonce coming silently and offering you a little knot of white violets\nwhen we were strangers?\"\n\n\"I recollect it. I dried the violets, kept them, and have them still.\"\n\n\"It pleased me when you took them peacefully and promptly, without\nprudery--that sentiment which I ever dread to excite, and which, when\nit is revealed in eye or gesture, I vindictively detest. To return. Not\nonly did _I_ watch you; but often--especially at eventide--another\nguardian angel was noiselessly hovering near: night after night my\ncousin Beck has stolen down yonder steps, and glidingly pursued your\nmovements when you did not see her.\"\n\n\"But, Monsieur, you could not from the distance of that window see what\npassed in this garden at night?\"\n\n\"By moonlight I possibly might with a glass--I use a glass--but the\ngarden itself is open to me. In the shed, at the bottom, there is a\ndoor leading into a court, which communicates with the college; of that\ndoor I possess the key, and thus come and go at pleasure. This\nafternoon I came through it, and found you asleep in classe; again this\nevening I have availed myself of the same entrance.\"\n\nI could not help saying, \"If you were a wicked, designing man, how\nterrible would all this be!\"\n\nHis attention seemed incapable of being arrested by this view of the\nsubject: he lit his cigar, and while he puffed it, leaning against a\ntree, and looking at me in a cool, amused way he had when his humour\nwas tranquil, I thought proper to go on sermonizing him: he often\nlectured me by the hour together--I did not see why I should not speak\nmy mind for once. So I told him my impressions concerning his\nJesuit-system.\n\n\"The knowledge it brings you is bought too dear, Monsieur; this coming\nand going by stealth degrades your own dignity.\"\n\n\"My dignity!\" he cried, laughing; \"when did you ever see me trouble my\nhead about my dignity? It is you, Miss Lucy, who are 'digne.' How\noften, in your high insular presence, have I taken a pleasure in\ntrampling upon, what you are pleased to call, my dignity; tearing it,\nscattering it to the winds, in those mad transports you witness with\nsuch hauteur, and which I know you think very like the ravings of a\nthird-rate London actor.\"\n\n\"Monsieur, I tell you every glance you cast from that lattice is a\nwrong done to the best part of your own nature. To study the human\nheart thus, is to banquet secretly and sacrilegiously on Eve's apples.\nI wish you were a Protestant.\"\n\nIndifferent to the wish, he smoked on. After a space of smiling yet\nthoughtful silence, he said, rather suddenly--\"I have seen other\nthings.\"\n\n\"What other things?\"\n\nTaking the weed from his lips, he threw the remnant amongst the shrubs,\nwhere, for a moment, it lay glowing in the gloom.\n\n\"Look, at it,\" said he: \"is not that spark like an eye watching you and\nme?\"\n\nHe took a turn down the walk; presently returning, he went on:--\"I have\nseen, Miss Lucy, things to me unaccountable, that have made me watch\nall night for a solution, and I have not yet found it.\"\n\nThe tone was peculiar; my veins thrilled; he saw me shiver.\n\n\"Are you afraid? Whether is it of my words or that red jealous eye just\nwinking itself out?\"\n\n\"I am cold; the night grows dark and late, and the air is changed; it\nis time to go in.\"\n\n\"It is little past eight, but you shall go in soon. Answer me only this\nquestion.\"\n\nYet he paused ere he put it. The garden was truly growing dark; dusk\nhad come on with clouds, and drops of rain began to patter through the\ntrees. I hoped he would feel this, but, for the moment, he seemed too\nmuch absorbed to be sensible of the change.\n\n\"Mademoiselle, do you Protestants believe in the supernatural?\"\n\n\"There is a difference of theory and belief on this point amongst\nProtestants as amongst other sects,\" I answered. \"Why, Monsieur, do you\nask such a question?\"\n\n\"Why do you shrink and speak so faintly? Are you superstitious?\"\n\n\"I am constitutionally nervous. I dislike the discussion of such\nsubjects. I dislike it the more because--\"\n\n\"You believe?\"\n\n\"No: but it has happened to me to experience impressions--\"\n\n\"Since you came here?\"\n\n\"Yes; not many months ago.\"\n\n\"Here?--in this house?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Bon! I am glad of it. I knew it, somehow; before you told me. I was\nconscious of rapport between you and myself. You are patient, and I am\ncholeric; you are quiet and pale, and I am tanned and fiery; you are a\nstrict Protestant, and I am a sort of lay Jesuit: but we are\nalike--there is affinity between us. Do you see it, Mademoiselle, when\nyou look in the glass? Do you observe that your forehead is shaped like\nmine--that your eyes are cut like mine? Do you hear that you have some\nof my tones of voice? Do you know that you have many of my looks? I\nperceive all this, and believe that you were born under my star. Yes,\nyou were born under my star! Tremble! for where that is the case with\nmortals, the threads of their destinies are difficult to disentangle;\nknottings and catchings occur--sudden breaks leave damage in the web.\nBut these 'impressions,' as you say, with English caution. I, too, have\nhad my 'impressions.'\"\n\n\"Monsieur, tell me them.\"\n\n\"I desire no better, and intend no less. You know the legend of this\nhouse and garden?\"\n\n\"I know it. Yes. They say that hundreds of years ago a nun was buried\nhere alive at the foot of this very tree, beneath the ground which now\nbears us.\"\n\n\"And that in former days a nun's ghost used to come and go here.\"\n\n\"Monsieur, what if it comes and goes here still?\"\n\n\"Something comes and goes here: there is a shape frequenting this house\nby night, different to any forms that show themselves by day. I have\nindisputably seen a something, more than once; and to me its conventual\nweeds were a strange sight, saying more than they can do to any other\nliving being. A nun!\"\n\n\"Monsieur, I, too, have seen it.\"\n\n\"I anticipated that. Whether this nun be flesh and blood, or something\nthat remains when blood is dried, and flesh is wasted, her business is\nas much with you as with me, probably. Well, I mean to make it out; it\nhas baffled me so far, but I mean to follow up the mystery. I mean--\"\n\nInstead of telling what he meant, he raised his head suddenly; I made\nthe same movement in the same instant; we both looked to one point--the\nhigh tree shadowing the great berceau, and resting some of its boughs\non the roof of the first classe. There had been a strange and\ninexplicable sound from that quarter, as if the arms of that tree had\nswayed of their own motion, and its weight of foliage had rushed and\ncrushed against the massive trunk. Yes; there scarce stirred a breeze,\nand that heavy tree was convulsed, whilst the feathery shrubs stood\nstill. For some minutes amongst the wood and leafage a rending and\nheaving went on. Dark as it was, it seemed to me that something more\nsolid than either night-shadow, or branch-shadow, blackened out of the\nboles. At last the struggle ceased. What birth succeeded this travail?\nWhat Dryad was born of these throes? We watched fixedly. A sudden bell\nrang in the house--the prayer-bell. Instantly into our alley there\ncame, out of the berceau, an apparition, all black and white. With a\nsort of angry rush-close, close past our faces--swept swiftly the very\nNUN herself! Never had I seen her so clearly. She looked tall of\nstature, and fierce of gesture. As she went, the wind rose sobbing; the\nrain poured wild and cold; the whole night seemed to feel her.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXII.\n\nTHE FIRST LETTER.\n\n\nWhere, it becomes time to inquire, was Paulina Mary? How fared my\nintercourse with the sumptuous Hôtel Crécy? That intercourse had, for\nan interval, been suspended by absence; M. and Miss de Bassompierre had\nbeen travelling, dividing some weeks between the provinces and capital\nof France. Chance apprised me of their return very shortly after it\ntook place.\n\nI was walking one mild afternoon on a quiet boulevard, wandering slowly\non, enjoying the benign April sun, and some thoughts not unpleasing,\nwhen I saw before me a group of riders, stopping as if they had just\nencountered, and exchanging greetings in the midst of the broad,\nsmooth, linden-bordered path; on one side a middle-aged gentleman and\nyoung lady, on the other--a young and handsome man. Very graceful was\nthe lady's mien, choice her appointments, delicate and stately her\nwhole aspect. Still, as I looked, I felt they were known to me, and,\ndrawing a little nearer, I fully recognised them all: the Count Home de\nBassompierre, his daughter, and Dr. Graham Bretton.\n\nHow animated was Graham's face! How true, how warm, yet how retiring\nthe joy it expressed! This was the state of things, this the\ncombination of circumstances, at once to attract and enchain, to subdue\nand excite Dr. John. The pearl he admired was in itself of great price\nand truest purity, but he was not the man who, in appreciating the gem,\ncould forget its setting. Had he seen Paulina with the same youth,\nbeauty, and grace, but on foot, alone, unguarded, and in simple attire,\na dependent worker, a demi-grisette, he would have thought her a pretty\nlittle creature, and would have loved with his eye her movements and\nher mien, but it required other than this to conquer him as he was now\nvanquished, to bring him safe under dominion as now, without loss, and\neven with gain to his manly honour, one saw that he was reduced; there\nwas about Dr. John all the man of the world; to satisfy himself did not\nsuffice; society must approve--the world must admire what he did, or he\ncounted his measures false and futile. In his victrix he required all\nthat was here visible--the imprint of high cultivation, the\nconsecration of a careful and authoritative protection, the adjuncts\nthat Fashion decrees, Wealth purchases, and Taste adjusts; for these\nconditions his spirit stipulated ere it surrendered: they were here to\nthe utmost fulfilled; and now, proud, impassioned, yet fearing, he did\nhomage to Paulina as his sovereign. As for her, the smile of feeling,\nrather than of conscious power, slept soft in her eyes.\n\nThey parted. He passed me at speed, hardly feeling the earth he\nskimmed, and seeing nothing on either hand. He looked very handsome;\nmettle and purpose were roused in him fully.\n\n\"Papa, there is Lucy!\" cried a musical, friendly voice. \"Lucy, dear\nLucy--_do_ come here!\"\n\nI hastened to her. She threw back her veil, and stooped from her saddle\nto kiss me.\n\n\"I was coming to see you to-morrow,\" said she; \"but now to-morrow you\nwill come and see me.\"\n\nShe named the hour, and I promised compliance.\n\nThe morrow's evening found me with her--she and I shut into her own\nroom. I had not seen her since that occasion when her claims were\nbrought into comparison with those of Ginevra Fanshawe, and had so\nsignally prevailed; she had much to tell me of her travels in the\ninterval. A most animated, rapid speaker was she in such a tête-à-tête,\na most lively describer; yet with her artless diction and clear soft\nvoice, she never seemed to speak too fast or to say too much. My own\nattention I think would not soon have flagged, but by-and-by, she\nherself seemed to need some change of subject; she hastened to wind up\nher narrative briefly. Yet why she terminated with so concise an\nabridgment did not immediately appear; silence followed--a restless\nsilence, not without symptoms of abstraction. Then, turning to me, in a\ndiffident, half-appealing voice--\"Lucy--\"\n\n\"Well, I am at your side.\"\n\n\"Is my cousin Ginevra still at Madame Beck's?\"\n\n\"Your cousin is still there; you must be longing to see her.\"\n\n\"No--not much.\"\n\n\"You want to invite her to spend another evening?\"\n\n\"No... I suppose she still talks about being married?\"\n\n\"Not to any one you care for.\"\n\n\"But of course she still thinks of Dr. Bretton? She cannot have changed\nher mind on that point, because it was so fixed two months ago.\"\n\n\"Why, you know, it does not matter. You saw the terms on which they\nstood.\"\n\n\"There was a little misunderstanding that evening, certainly; does she\nseem unhappy?\"\n\n\"Not she. To change the subject. Have you heard or seen nothing of, or\nfrom. Graham during your absence?\"\n\n\"Papa had letters from him once or twice about business, I think. He\nundertook the management of some affair which required attention while\nwe were away. Dr. Bretton seems to respect papa, and to have pleasure\nin obliging him.\"\n\n\"Yes: you met him yesterday on the boulevard; you would be able to\njudge from his aspect that his friends need not be painfully anxious\nabout his health?\"\n\n\"Papa seems to have thought with you. I could not help smiling. He is\nnot particularly observant, you know, because he is often thinking of\nother things than what pass before his eyes; but he said, as Dr.\nBretton rode away, `Really it does a man good to see the spirit and\nenergy of that boy.' He called Dr. Bretton a boy; I believe he almost\nthinks him so, just as he thinks me a little girl; he was not speaking\nto me, but dropped that remark to himself. Lucy....\"\n\nAgain fell the appealing accent, and at the same instant she left her\nchair, and came and sat on the stool at my feet.\n\nI liked her. It is not a declaration I have often made concerning my\nacquaintance, in the course of this book: the reader will bear with it\nfor once. Intimate intercourse, close inspection, disclosed in Paulina\nonly what was delicate, intelligent, and sincere; therefore my regard\nfor her lay deep. An admiration more superficial might have been more\ndemonstrative; mine, however, was quiet.\n\n\"What have you to ask of Lucy?\" said I; \"be brave, and speak out\"\n\nBut there was no courage in her eye; as it met mine, it fell; and there\nwas no coolness on her cheek--not a transient surface-blush, but a\ngathering inward excitement raised its tint and its temperature.\n\n\"Lucy, I _do_ wish to know your thoughts of Dr. Bretton. Do, _do_ give\nme your real opinion of his character, his disposition.\"\n\n\"His character stands high, and deservedly high.\"\n\n\"And his disposition? Tell me about his disposition,\" she urged; \"you\nknow him well.\"\n\n\"I know him pretty well.\"\n\n\"You know his home-side. You have seen him with his mother; speak of\nhim as a son.\"\n\n\"He is a fine-hearted son; his mother's comfort and hope, her pride and\npleasure.\"\n\nShe held my hand between hers, and at each favourable word gave it a\nlittle caressing stroke.\n\n\"In what other way is he good, Lucy?\"\n\n\"Dr. Bretton is benevolent--humanely disposed towards all his race, Dr.\nBretton would have benignity for the lowest savage, or the worst\ncriminal.\"\n\n\"I heard some gentlemen, some of papa's friends, who were talking about\nhim, say the same. They say many of the poor patients at the hospitals,\nwho tremble before some pitiless and selfish surgeons, welcome him.\"\n\n\"They are right; I have witnessed as much. He once took me over a\nhospital; I saw how he was received: your father's friends are right.\"\n\nThe softest gratitude animated her eye as she lifted it a moment. She\nhad yet more to say, but seemed hesitating about time and place. Dusk\nwas beginning to reign; her parlour fire already glowed with twilight\nruddiness; but I thought she wished the room dimmer, the hour later.\n\n\"How quiet and secluded we feel here!\" I remarked, to reassure her.\n\n\"Do we? Yes; it is a still evening, and I shall not be called down to\ntea; papa is dining out.\"\n\nStill holding my hand, she played with the fingers unconsciously,\ndressed them, now in her own rings, and now circled them with a twine\nof her beautiful hair; she patted the palm against her hot cheek, and\nat last, having cleared a voice that was naturally liquid as a lark's,\nshe said:--\n\n\"You must think it rather strange that I should talk so much about Dr.\nBretton, ask so many questions, take such an interest, but--\".\n\n\"Not at all strange; perfectly natural; you like him.\"\n\n\"And if I did,\" said she, with slight quickness, \"is that a reason why\nI should talk? I suppose you think me weak, like my cousin Ginevra?\"\n\n\"If I thought you one whit like Madame Ginevra, I would not sit here\nwaiting for your communications. I would get up, walk at my ease about\nthe room, and anticipate all you had to say by a round lecture. Go on.\"\n\n\"I mean to go on,\" retorted she; \"what else do you suppose I mean to\ndo?\"\n\nAnd she looked and spoke--the little Polly of Bretton--petulant,\nsensitive.\n\n\"If,\" said she, emphatically, \"if I liked Dr. John till I was fit to\ndie for liking him, that alone could not license me to be otherwise\nthan dumb--dumb as the grave--dumb as you, Lucy Snowe--you know it--and\nyou know you would despise me if I failed in self-control, and whined\nabout some rickety liking that was all on my side.\"\n\n\"It is true I little respect women or girls who are loquacious either\nin boasting the triumphs, or bemoaning the mortifications, of feelings.\nBut as to you, Paulina, speak, for I earnestly wish to hear you. Tell\nme all it will give you pleasure or relief to tell: I ask no more.\"\n\n\"Do you care for me, Lucy?\"\n\n\"Yes, I do, Paulina.\"\n\n\"And I love you. I had an odd content in being with you even when I was\na little, troublesome, disobedient girl; it was charming to me then to\nlavish on you my naughtiness and whims. Now you are acceptable to me,\nand I like to talk with and trust you. So listen, Lucy.\"\n\nAnd she settled herself, resting against my arm--resting gently, not\nwith honest Mistress Fanshawe's fatiguing and selfish weight.\n\n\"A few minutes since you asked whether we had not heard from Graham\nduring our absence, and I said there were two letters for papa on\nbusiness; this was true, but I did not tell you all.\"\n\n\"You evaded?\"\n\n\"I shuffled and equivocated, you know. However, I am going to speak the\ntruth now; it is getting darker; one can talk at one's ease. Papa often\nlets me open the letter-bag and give him out the contents. One morning,\nabout three weeks ago, you don't know how surprised I was to find,\namongst a dozen letters for M. de Bassompierre, a note addressed to\nMiss de Bassompierre. I spied it at once, amidst all the rest; the\nhandwriting was not strange; it attracted me directly. I was going to\nsay, 'Papa, here is another letter from Dr. Bretton;' but the 'Miss'\nstruck me mute. I actually never received a letter from a gentleman\nbefore. Ought I to have shown it to papa, and let him open it and read\nit first? I could not for my life, Lucy. I know so well papa's ideas\nabout me: he forgets my age; he thinks I am a mere school-girl; he is\nnot aware that other people see I am grown up as tall as I shall be;\nso, with a curious mixture of feelings, some of them self-reproachful,\nand some so fluttering and strong, I cannot describe them, I gave papa\nhis twelve letters--his herd of possessions--and kept back my one, my\newe-lamb. It lay in my lap during breakfast, looking up at me with an\ninexplicable meaning, making me feel myself a thing double-existent--a\nchild to that dear papa, but no more a child to myself. After breakfast\nI carried my letter up-stairs, and having secured myself by turning the\nkey in the door, I began to study the outside of my treasure: it was\nsome minutes before I could get over the direction and penetrate the\nseal; one does not take a strong place of this kind by instant\nstorm--one sits down awhile before it, as beleaguers say. Graham's hand\nis like himself, Lucy, and so is his seal--all clear, firm, and\nrounded--no slovenly splash of wax--a full, solid, steady drop--a\ndistinct impress; no pointed turns harshly pricking the optic nerve,\nbut a clean, mellow, pleasant manuscript, that soothes you as you read.\nIt is like his face--just like the chiselling of his features: do you\nknow his autograph?\"\n\n\"I have seen it: go on.\"\n\n\"The seal was too beautiful to be broken, so I cut it round with my\nscissors. On the point of reading the letter at last, I once more drew\nback voluntarily; it was too soon yet to drink that draught--the\nsparkle in the cup was so beautiful--I would watch it yet a minute.\nThen I remembered all at once that I had not said my prayers that\nmorning. Having heard papa go down to breakfast a little earlier than\nusual, I had been afraid of keeping him waiting, and had hastened to\njoin him as soon as dressed, thinking no harm to put off prayers till\nafterwards. Some people would say I ought to have served God first and\nthen man; but I don't think heaven could be jealous of anything I might\ndo for papa. I believe I am superstitious. A voice seemed now to say\nthat another feeling than filial affection was in question--to urge me\nto pray before I dared to read what I so longed to read--to deny myself\nyet a moment, and remember first a great duty. I have had these\nimpulses ever since I can remember. I put the letter down and said my\nprayers, adding, at the end, a strong entreaty that whatever happened,\nI might not be tempted or led to cause papa any sorrow, and might\nnever, in caring for others, neglect him. The very thought of such a\npossibility, so pierced my heart that it made me cry. But still, Lucy,\nI felt that in time papa would have to be taught the truth, managed,\nand induced to hear reason.\n\n\"I read the letter. Lucy, life is said to be all disappointment. _I_\nwas not disappointed. Ere I read, and while I read, my heart did more\nthan throb--it trembled fast--every quiver seemed like the pant of an\nanimal athirst, laid down at a well and drinking; and the well proved\nquite full, gloriously clear; it rose up munificently of its own\nimpulse; I saw the sun through its gush, and not a mote, Lucy, no moss,\nno insect, no atom in the thrice-refined golden gurgle.\n\n\"Life,\" she went on, \"is said to be full of pain to some. I have read\nbiographies where the wayfarer seemed to journey on from suffering to\nsuffering; where Hope flew before him fast, never alighting so near, or\nlingering so long, as to give his hand a chance of one realizing grasp.\nI have read of those who sowed in tears, and whose harvest, so far from\nbeing reaped in joy, perished by untimely blight, or was borne off by\nsudden whirlwind; and, alas! some of these met the winter with empty\ngarners, and died of utter want in the darkest and coldest of the year.\"\n\n\"Was it their fault, Paulina, that they of whom you speak thus died?\"\n\n\"Not always their fault. Some of them were good endeavouring people. I\nam not endeavouring, nor actively good, yet God has caused me to grow\nin sun, due moisture, and safe protection, sheltered, fostered, taught,\nby my dear father; and now--now--another comes. Graham loves me.\"\n\nFor some minutes we both paused on this climax.\n\n\"Does your father know?\" I inquired, in a low voice.\n\n\"Graham spoke with deep respect of papa, but implied that he dared not\napproach that quarter as yet; he must first prove his worth: he added\nthat he must have some light respecting myself and my own feelings ere\nhe ventured to risk a step in the matter elsewhere.\"\n\n\"How did you reply?\"\n\n\"I replied briefly, but I did not repulse him. Yet I almost trembled\nfor fear of making the answer too cordial: Graham's tastes are so\nfastidious. I wrote it three times--chastening and subduing the phrases\nat every rescript; at last, having confected it till it seemed to me to\nresemble a morsel of ice flavoured with ever so slight a zest of fruit\nor sugar, I ventured to seal and despatch it.\"\n\n\"Excellent, Paulina! Your instinct is fine; you understand Dr. Bretton.\"\n\n\"But how must I manage about papa? There I am still in pain.\"\n\n\"Do not manage at all. Wait now. Only maintain no further\ncorrespondence till your father knows all, and gives his sanction.\"\n\n\"Will he ever give it?\"\n\n\"Time will show. Wait.\"\n\n\"Dr. Bretton wrote one other letter, deeply grateful for my calm, brief\nnote; but I anticipated your advice, by saying, that while my\nsentiments continued the same, I could not, without my fathers\nknowledge, write again.\"\n\n\"You acted as you ought to have done; so Dr. Bretton will feel: it will\nincrease his pride in you, his love for you, if either be capable of\nincrease. Paulina, that gentle hoar-frost of yours, surrounding so much\npure, fine flame, is a priceless privilege of nature.\"\n\n\"You see I feel Graham's disposition,\" said she. \"I feel that no\ndelicacy can be too exquisite for his treatment.\"\n\n\"It is perfectly proved that you comprehend him, and then--whatever Dr.\nBretton's disposition, were he one who expected to be more nearly\nmet--you would still act truthfully, openly, tenderly, with your\nfather.\"\n\n\"Lucy, I trust I shall thus act always. Oh, it will be pain to wake\npapa from his dream, and tell him I am no more a little girl!\"\n\n\"Be in no hurry to do so, Paulina. Leave the revelation to Time and\nyour kind Fate. I also have noticed the gentleness of her cares for\nyou: doubt not she will benignantly order the circumstances, and fitly\nappoint the hour. Yes: I have thought over your life just as you have\nyourself thought it over; I have made comparisons like those to which\nyou adverted. We know not the future, but the past has been propitious.\n\n\"As a child I feared for you; nothing that has life was ever more\nsusceptible than your nature in infancy: under harshness or neglect,\nneither your outward nor your inward self would have ripened to what\nthey now are. Much pain, much fear, much struggle, would have troubled\nthe very lines of your features, broken their regularity, would have\nharassed your nerves into the fever of habitual irritation you would\nhave lost in health and cheerfulness, in grace and sweetness.\nProvidence has protected and cultured you, not only for your own sake,\nbut I believe for Graham's. His star, too, was fortunate: to develop\nfully the best of his nature, a companion like you was needed: there\nyou are, ready. You must be united. I knew it the first day I saw you\ntogether at La Terrasse. In all that mutually concerns you and Graham\nthere seems to me promise, plan, harmony. I do not think the sunny\nyouth of either will prove the forerunner of stormy age. I think it is\ndeemed good that you two should live in peace and be happy--not as\nangels, but as few are happy amongst mortals. Some lives _are_ thus\nblessed: it is God's will: it is the attesting trace and lingering\nevidence of Eden. Other lives run from the first another course. Other\ntravellers encounter weather fitful and gusty, wild and\nvariable--breast adverse winds, are belated and overtaken by the early\nclosing winter night. Neither can this happen without the sanction of\nGod; and I know that, amidst His boundless works, is somewhere stored\nthe secret of this last fate's justice: I know that His treasures\ncontain the proof as the promise of its mercy.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIII.\n\nM. PAUL KEEPS HIS PROMISE.\n\n\nOn the first of May, we had all--i.e. the twenty boarders and the four\nteachers--notice to rise at five o'clock of the morning, to be dressed\nand ready by six, to put ourselves under the command of M. le\nProfesseur Emanuel, who was to head our march forth from Villette, for\nit was on this day he proposed to fulfil his promise of taking us to\nbreakfast in the country. I, indeed, as the reader may perhaps\nremember, had not had the honour of an invitation when this excursion\nwas first projected--rather the contrary; but on my now making allusion\nto this fact, and wishing to know how it was to be, my ear received a\npull, of which I did not venture to challenge the repetition by\nraising, further difficulties.\n\n\"Je vous conseille de vous faire prier,\" said M. Emanuel, imperially\nmenacing the other ear. One Napoleonic compliment, however, was enough,\nso I made up my mind to be of the party.\n\nThe morning broke calm as summer, with singing of birds in the garden,\nand a light dew-mist that promised heat. We all said it would be warm,\nand we all felt pleasure in folding away heavy garments, and in\nassuming the attire suiting a sunny season. The clean fresh print\ndress, and the light straw bonnet, each made and trimmed as the French\nworkwoman alone can make and trim, so as to unite the utterly\nunpretending with the perfectly becoming, was the rule of costume.\nNobody flaunted in faded silk; nobody wore a second-hand best article.\n\nAt six the bell rang merrily, and we poured down the staircase, through\nthe carré, along the corridor, into the vestibule. There stood our\nProfessor, wearing, not his savage-looking paletôt and severe\nbonnet-grec, but a young-looking belted blouse and cheerful straw hat.\nHe had for us all the kindest good-morrow, and most of us for him had a\nthanksgiving smile. We were marshalled in order and soon started.\n\nThe streets were yet quiet, and the boulevards were fresh and peaceful\nas fields. I believe we were very happy as we walked along. This chief\nof ours had the secret of giving a certain impetus to happiness when he\nwould; just as, in an opposite mood, he could give a thrill to fear.\n\nHe did not lead nor follow us, but walked along the line, giving a word\nto every one, talking much to his favourites, and not wholly neglecting\neven those he disliked. It was rather my wish, for a reason I had, to\nkeep slightly aloof from notice, and being paired with Ginevra\nFanshawe, bearing on my arm the dear pressure of that angel's not\nunsubstantial limb--(she continued in excellent case, and I can assure\nthe reader it was no trifling business to bear the burden of her\nloveliness; many a time in the course of that warm day I wished to\ngoodness there had been less of the charming commodity)--however,\nhaving her, as I said, I tried to make her useful by interposing her\nalways between myself and M. Paul, shifting my place, according as I\nheard him coming up to the right hand or the left. My private motive\nfor this manoeuvre might be traced to the circumstance of the new print\ndress I wore, being pink in colour--a fact which, under our present\nconvoy, made me feel something as I have felt, when, clad in a shawl\nwith a red border, necessitated to traverse a meadow where pastured a\nbull.\n\nFor awhile, the shifting system, together with some modifications in\nthe arrangement of a black silk scarf, answered my purpose; but,\nby-and-by, he found out, that whether he came to this side or to that,\nMiss Fanshawe was still his neighbour. The course of acquaintance\nbetween Ginevra and him had never run so smooth that his temper did not\nundergo a certain crisping process whenever he heard her English\naccent: nothing in their dispositions fitted; they jarred if they came\nin contact; he held her empty and affected; she deemed him bearish,\nmeddling, repellent.\n\nAt last, when he had changed his place for about the sixth time,\nfinding still the same untoward result to the experiment--he thrust his\nhead forward, settled his eyes on mine, and demanded with impatience,\n\"Qu'est-ce que c'est? Vous me jouez des tours?\"\n\nThe words were hardly out of his mouth, however, ere, with his\ncustomary quickness, he seized the root of this proceeding: in vain I\nshook out the long fringe, and spread forth the broad end of my scarf.\n\"A-h-h! c'est la robe rose!\" broke from his lips, affecting me very\nmuch like the sudden and irate low of some lord of the meadow.\n\n\"It is only cotton,\" I alleged, hurriedly; \"and cheaper, and washes\nbetter than any other colour.\"\n\n\"Et Mademoiselle Lucy est coquette comme dix Parisiennes,\" he answered.\n\"A-t-on jamais vu une Anglaise pareille. Regardez plutôt son chapeau,\net ses gants, et ses brodequins!\" These articles of dress were just\nlike what my companions wore; certainly not one whit smarter--perhaps\nrather plainer than most--but Monsieur had now got hold of his text,\nand I began to chafe under the expected sermon. It went off, however,\nas mildly as the menace of a storm sometimes passes on a summer day. I\ngot but one flash of sheet lightning in the shape of a single bantering\nsmile from his eyes; and then he said, \"Courage!--à vrai dire je ne\nsuis pas fâché, peut-être même suis je content qu'on s'est fait si\nbelle pour ma petite fête.\"\n\n\"Mais ma robe n'est pas belle, Monsieur--elle n'est que propre.\"\n\n\"J'aime la propreté,\" said he. In short, he was not to be dissatisfied;\nthe sun of good humour was to triumph on this auspicious morning; it\nconsumed scudding clouds ere they sullied its disk.\n\nAnd now we were in the country, amongst what they called \"les bois et\nles petits sentiers.\" These woods and lanes a month later would offer\nbut a dusty and doubtful seclusion: now, however, in their May\ngreenness and morning repose, they looked very pleasant.\n\nWe reached a certain well, planted round, in the taste of Labassecour,\nwith an orderly circle of lime-trees: here a halt was called; on the\ngreen swell of ground surrounding this well, we were ordered to be\nseated, Monsieur taking his place in our midst, and suffering us to\ngather in a knot round him. Those who liked him more than they feared,\ncame close, and these were chiefly little ones; those who feared more\nthan they liked, kept somewhat aloof; those in whom much affection had\ngiven, even to what remained of fear, a pleasurable zest, observed the\ngreatest distance.\n\nHe began to tell us a story. Well could he narrate: in such a diction\nas children love, and learned men emulate; a diction simple in its\nstrength, and strong in its simplicity. There were beautiful touches in\nthat little tale; sweet glimpses of feeling and hues of description\nthat, while I listened, sunk into my mind, and since have never faded.\nHe tinted a twilight scene--I hold it in memory still--such a picture I\nhave never looked on from artist's pencil.\n\nI have said, that, for myself, I had no impromptu faculty; and perhaps\nthat very deficiency made me marvel the more at one who possessed it in\nperfection. M. Emanuel was not a man to write books; but I have heard\nhim lavish, with careless, unconscious prodigality, such mental wealth\nas books seldom boast; his mind was indeed my library, and whenever it\nwas opened to me, I entered bliss. Intellectually imperfect as I was, I\ncould read little; there were few bound and printed volumes that did\nnot weary me--whose perusal did not fag and blind--but his tomes of\nthought were collyrium to the spirit's eyes; over their contents,\ninward sight grew clear and strong. I used to think what a delight it\nwould be for one who loved him better than he loved himself, to gather\nand store up those handfuls of gold-dust, so recklessly flung to\nheaven's reckless winds.\n\nHis story done, he approached the little knoll where I and Ginevra sat\napart. In his usual mode of demanding an opinion (he had not reticence\nto wait till it was voluntarily offered) he asked, \"Were you\ninterested?\"\n\nAccording to my wonted undemonstrative fashion, I simply\nanswered--\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Was it good?\"\n\n\"Very good.\"\n\n\"Yet I could not write that down,\" said he.\n\n\"Why not, Monsieur?\"\n\n\"I hate the mechanical labour; I hate to stoop and sit still. I could\ndictate it, though, with pleasure, to an amanuensis who suited me.\nWould Mademoiselle Lucy write for me if I asked her?\"\n\n\"Monsieur would be too quick; he would urge me, and be angry if my pen\ndid not keep pace with his lips.\"\n\n\"Try some day; let us see the monster I can make of myself under the\ncircumstances. But just now, there is no question of dictation; I mean\nto make you useful in another office. Do you see yonder farm-house?\"\n\n\"Surrounded with trees? Yes.\".\n\n\"There we are to breakfast; and while the good fermière makes the café\nau lait in a caldron, you and five others, whom I shall select, will\nspread with butter half a hundred rolls.\"\n\nHaving formed his troop into line once more, he marched us straight on\nthe farm, which, on seeing our force, surrendered without capitulation.\n\nClean knives and plates, and fresh butter being provided, half-a-dozen\nof us, chosen by our Professor, set to work under his directions, to\nprepare for breakfast a huge basket of rolls, with which the baker had\nbeen ordered to provision the farm, in anticipation of our coming.\nCoffee and chocolate were already made hot; cream and new-laid eggs\nwere added to the treat, and M. Emanuel, always generous, would have\ngiven a large order for \"jambon\" and \"confitures\" in addition, but that\nsome of us, who presumed perhaps upon our influence, insisted that it\nwould be a most reckless waste of victual. He railed at us for our\npains, terming us \"des ménagères avares;\" but we let him talk, and\nmanaged the economy of the repast our own way.\n\nWith what a pleasant countenance he stood on the farm-kitchen hearth\nlooking on! He was a man whom it made happy to see others happy; he\nliked to have movement, animation, abundance and enjoyment round him.\nWe asked where he would sit. He told us, we knew well he was our slave,\nand we his tyrants, and that he dared not so much as choose a chair\nwithout our leave; so we set him the farmer's great chair at the head\nof the long table, and put him into it.\n\nWell might we like him, with all his passions and hurricanes, when he\ncould be so benignant and docile at times, as he was just now. Indeed,\nat the worst, it was only his nerves that were irritable, not his\ntemper that was radically bad; soothe, comprehend, comfort him, and he\nwas a lamb; he would not harm a fly. Only to the very stupid, perverse,\nor unsympathizing, was he in the slightest degree dangerous.\n\nMindful always of his religion, he made the youngest of the party say a\nlittle prayer before we began breakfast, crossing himself as devotedly\nas a woman. I had never seen him pray before, or make that pious sign;\nhe did it so simply, with such child-like faith, I could not help\nsmiling pleasurably as I watched; his eyes met my smile; he just\nstretched out his kind hand, saying, \"Donnez-moi la main! I see we\nworship the same God, in the same spirit, though by different rites.\"\n\nMost of M. Emanuel's brother Professors were emancipated free-thinkers,\ninfidels, atheists; and many of them men whose lives would not bear\nscrutiny; he was more like a knight of old, religious in his way, and\nof spotless fame. Innocent childhood, beautiful youth were safe at his\nside. He had vivid passions, keen feelings, but his pure honour and his\nartless piety were the strong charm that kept the lions couchant.\n\nThat breakfast was a merry meal, and the merriment was not mere vacant\nclatter: M. Paul originated, led, controlled and heightened it; his\nsocial, lively temper played unfettered and unclouded; surrounded only\nby women and children there was nothing to cross and thwart him; he had\nhis own way, and a pleasant way it was.\n\nThe meal over, the party were free to run and play in the meadows; a\nfew stayed to help the farmer's wife to put away her earthenware. M.\nPaul called me from among these to come out and sit near him under a\ntree--whence he could view the troop gambolling, over a wide\npasture--and read to him whilst he took his cigar. He sat on a rustic\nbench, and I at the tree-root. While I read (a pocket-classic--a\nCorneille--I did not like it, but he did, finding therein beauties I\nnever could be brought to perceive), he listened with a sweetness of\ncalm the more impressive from the impetuosity of his general nature;\nthe deepest happiness filled his blue eye and smoothed his broad\nforehead. I, too, was happy--happy with the bright day, happier with\nhis presence, happiest with his kindness.\n\nHe asked, by-and-by, if I would not rather run to my companions than\nsit there? I said, no; I felt content to be where he was. He asked\nwhether, if I were his sister, I should always be content to stay with\na brother such as he. I said, I believed I should; and I felt it.\nAgain, he inquired whether, if he were to leave Villette, and go far\naway, I should be sorry; and I dropped Corneille, and made no reply.\n\n\"Petite soeur,\" said he; \"how long could you remember me if we were\nseparated?\"\n\n\"That, Monsieur, I can never tell, because I do not know how long it\nwill be before I shall cease to remember everything earthly.\"\n\n\"If I were to go beyond seas for two--three--five years, should you\nwelcome me on my return?\"\n\n\"Monsieur, how could I live in the interval?\"\n\n\"Pourtant j'ai été pour vous bien dur, bien exigeant.\"\n\nI hid my face with the book, for it was covered with tears. I asked him\nwhy he talked so; and he said he would talk so no more, and cheered me\nagain with the kindest encouragement. Still, the gentleness with which\nhe treated me during the rest of the day, went somehow to my heart. It\nwas too tender. It was mournful. I would rather he had been abrupt,\nwhimsical, and irate as was his wont.\n\nWhen hot noon arrived--for the day turned out as we had anticipated,\nglowing as June--our shepherd collected his sheep from the pasture, and\nproceeded to lead us all softly home. But we had a whole league to\nwalk, thus far from Villette was the farm where he had breakfasted; the\nchildren, especially, were tired with their play; the spirits of most\nflagged at the prospect of this mid-day walk over chaussées flinty,\nglaring, and dusty. This state of things had been foreseen and provided\nfor. Just beyond the boundary of the farm we met two spacious vehicles\ncoming to fetch us--such conveyances as are hired out purposely for the\naccommodation of school-parties; here, with good management, room was\nfound for all, and in another hour M. Paul made safe consignment of his\ncharge at the Rue Fossette. It had been a pleasant day: it would have\nbeen perfect, but for the breathing of melancholy which had dimmed its\nsunshine a moment.\n\nThat tarnish was renewed the same evening.\n\nJust about sunset, I saw M. Emanuel come out of the front-door,\naccompanied by Madame Beck. They paced the centre-alley for nearly an\nhour, talking earnestly: he--looking grave, yet restless; she--wearing\nan amazed, expostulatory, dissuasive air.\n\nI wondered what was under discussion; and when Madame Beck re-entered\nthe house as it darkened, leaving her kinsman Paul yet lingering in the\ngarden, I said to myself--\"He called me 'petite soeur' this morning. If\nhe were really my brother, how I should like to go to him just now, and\nask what it is that presses on his mind. See how he leans against that\ntree, with his arms crossed and his brow bent. He wants consolation, I\nknow: Madame does not console: she only remonstrates. What now----?\"\n\nStarting from quiescence to action, M. Paul came striding erect and\nquick down the garden. The carré doors were yet open: I thought he was\nprobably going to water the orange-trees in the tubs, after his\noccasional custom; on reaching the court, however, he took an abrupt\nturn and made for the berceau and the first-classe glass door. There,\nin that first classe I was, thence I had been watching him; but there I\ncould not find courage to await his approach. He had turned so\nsuddenly, he strode so fast, he looked so strange; the coward within me\ngrew pale, shrank and--not waiting to listen to reason, and hearing the\nshrubs crush and the gravel crunch to his advance--she was gone on the\nwings of panic.\n\nNor did I pause till I had taken sanctuary in the oratory, now empty.\nListening there with beating pulses, and an unaccountable, undefined\napprehension, I heard him pass through all the schoolrooms, clashing\nthe doors impatiently as he went; I heard him invade the refectory\nwhich the \"lecture pieuse\" was now holding under hallowed constraint; I\nheard him pronounce these words--\"Où est Mademoiselle Lucie?\"\n\nAnd just as, summoning my courage, I was preparing to go down and do\nwhat, after all, I most wished to do in the world--viz., meet him--the\nwiry voice of St. Pierre replied glibly and falsely, \"Elle est au lit.\"\nAnd he passed, with the stamp of vexation, into the corridor. There\nMadame Beck met, captured, chid, convoyed to the street-door, and\nfinally dismissed him.\n\nAs that street-door closed, a sudden amazement at my own perverse\nproceeding struck like a blow upon me. I felt from the first it was me\nhe wanted--me he was seeking--and had not I wanted him too? What, then,\nhad carried me away? What had rapt me beyond his reach? He had\nsomething to tell: he was going to tell me that something: my ear\nstrained its nerve to hear it, and I had made the confidence\nimpossible. Yearning to listen and console, while I thought audience\nand solace beyond hope's reach--no sooner did opportunity suddenly and\nfully arrive, than I evaded it as I would have evaded the levelled\nshaft of mortality.\n\nWell, my insane inconsistency had its reward. Instead of the comfort,\nthe certain satisfaction, I might have won--could I but have put\nchoking panic down, and stood firm two minutes--here was dead blank,\ndark doubt, and drear suspense.\n\nI took my wages to my pillow, and passed the night counting them.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIV.\n\nMALEVOLA.\n\n\nMadame Beck called me on Thursday afternoon, and asked whether I had\nany occupation to hinder me from going into town and executing some\nlittle commissions for her at the shops.\n\nBeing disengaged, and placing myself at her service, I was presently\nfurnished with a list of the wools, silks, embroidering thread,\netcetera, wanted in the pupils' work, and having equipped myself in a\nmanner suiting the threatening aspect of a cloudy and sultry day, I was\njust drawing the spring-bolt of the street-door, in act to issue forth,\nwhen Madame's voice again summoned me to the salle-à-manger.\n\n\"Pardon, Meess Lucie!\" cried she, in the seeming haste of an impromptu\nthought, \"I have just recollected one more errand for you, if your\ngood-nature will not deem itself over-burdened?\"\n\nOf course I \"confounded myself\" in asseverations to the contrary; and\nMadame, running into the little salon, brought thence a pretty basket,\nfilled with fine hothouse fruit, rosy, perfect, and tempting, reposing\namongst the dark green, wax-like leaves, and pale yellow stars of, I\nknow not what, exotic plant.\n\n\"There,\" she said, \"it is not heavy, and will not shame your neat\ntoilette, as if it were a household, servant-like detail. Do me the\nfavour to leave this little basket at the house of Madame Walravens,\nwith my felicitations on her fête. She lives down in the old town,\nNuméro 3, Rue des Mages. I fear you will find the walk rather long, but\nyou have the whole afternoon before you, and do not hurry; if you are\nnot back in time for dinner, I will order a portion to be saved, or\nGoton, with whom you are a favourite, will have pleasure in tossing up\nsome trifle, for your especial benefit. You shall not be forgotten, ma\nbonne Meess. And oh! please!\" (calling me back once more) \"be sure to\ninsist on seeing Madame Walravens herself, and giving the basket into\nher own hands, in order that there may be no mistake, for she is rather\na punctilious personage. Adieu! Au revoir!\"\n\nAnd at last I got away. The shop commissions took some time to execute,\nthat choosing and matching of silks and wools being always a tedious\nbusiness, but at last I got through my list. The patterns for the\nslippers, the bell-ropes, the cabas were selected--the slides and\ntassels for the purses chosen--the whole \"tripotage,\" in short, was off\nmy mind; nothing but the fruit and the felicitations remained to be\nattended to.\n\nI rather liked the prospect of a long walk, deep into the old and grim\nBasse-Ville; and I liked it no worse because the evening sky, over the\ncity, was settling into a mass of black-blue metal, heated at the rim,\nand inflaming slowly to a heavy red.\n\nI fear a high wind, because storm demands that exertion of strength and\nuse of action I always yield with pain; but the sullen down-fall, the\nthick snow-descent, or dark rush of rain, ask only resignation--the\nquiet abandonment of garments and person to be, drenched. In return, it\nsweeps a great capital clean before you; it makes you a quiet path\nthrough broad, grand streets; it petrifies a living city as if by\neastern enchantment; it transforms a Villette into a Tadmor. Let, then,\nthe rains fall, and the floods descend--only I must first get rid of\nthis basket of fruit.\n\nAn unknown clock from an unknown tower (Jean Baptiste's voice was now\ntoo distant to be audible) was tolling the third quarter past five,\nwhen I reached that street and house whereof Madame Beck had given me\nthe address. It was no street at all; it seemed rather to be part of a\nsquare: it was quiet, grass grew between the broad grey flags, the\nhouses were large and looked very old--behind them rose the appearance\nof trees, indicating gardens at the back. Antiquity brooded above this\nregion, business was banished thence. Rich men had once possessed this\nquarter, and once grandeur had made her seat here. That church, whose\ndark, half-ruinous turrets overlooked the square, was the venerable and\nformerly opulent shrine of the Magi. But wealth and greatness had long\nsince stretched their gilded pinions and fled hence, leaving these\ntheir ancient nests, perhaps to house Penury for a time, or perhaps to\nstand cold and empty, mouldering untenanted in the course of winters.\n\nAs I crossed this deserted \"place,\" on whose pavement drops almost as\nlarge as a five-franc piece were now slowly darkening, I saw, in its\nwhole expanse, no symptom or evidence of life, except what was given in\nthe figure of an infirm old priest, who went past, bending and propped\non a staff--the type of eld and decay.\n\nHe had issued from the very house to which I was directed; and when I\npaused before the door just closed after him, and rang the bell, he\nturned to look at me. Nor did he soon avert his gaze; perhaps he\nthought me, with my basket of summer fruit, and my lack of the dignity\nage confers, an incongruous figure in such a scene. I know, had a young\nruddy-faced bonne opened the door to admit me, I should have thought\nsuch a one little in harmony with her dwelling; but, when I found\nmyself confronted by a very old woman, wearing a very antique peasant\ncostume, a cap alike hideous and costly, with long flaps of native\nlace, a petticoat and jacket of cloth, and sabots more like little\nboats than shoes, it seemed all right, and soothingly in character.\n\nThe expression of her face was not quite so soothing as the cut of her\ncostume; anything more cantankerous I have seldom seen; she would\nscarcely reply to my inquiry after Madame Walravens; I believe she\nwould have snatched the basket of fruit from my hand, had not the old\npriest, hobbling up, checked her, and himself lent an ear to the\nmessage with which I was charged.\n\nHis apparent deafness rendered it a little difficult to make him fully\nunderstand that I must see Madame Walravens, and consign the fruit into\nher own hands. At last, however, he comprehended the fact that such\nwere my orders, and that duty enjoined their literal fulfilment.\nAddressing the aged bonne, not in French, but in the aboriginal tongue\nof Labassecour, he persuaded her, at last, to let me cross the\ninhospitable threshold, and himself escorting me up-stairs, I was\nushered into a sort of salon, and there left.\n\nThe room was large, and had a fine old ceiling, and almost church-like\nwindows of coloured-glass; but it was desolate, and in the shadow of a\ncoming storm, looked strangely lowering. Within--opened a smaller room;\nthere, however, the blind of the single casement was closed; through\nthe deep gloom few details of furniture were apparent. These few I\namused myself by puzzling to make out; and, in particular, I was\nattracted by the outline of a picture on the wall.\n\nBy-and-by the picture seemed to give way: to my bewilderment, it shook,\nit sunk, it rolled back into nothing; its vanishing left an opening\narched, leading into an arched passage, with a mystic winding stair;\nboth passage and stair were of cold stone, uncarpeted and unpainted.\nDown this donjon stair descended a tap, tap, like a stick; soon there\nfell on the steps a shadow, and last of all, I was aware of a substance.\n\nYet, was it actual substance, this appearance approaching me? this\nobstruction, partially darkening the arch?\n\nIt drew near, and I saw it well. I began to comprehend where I was.\nWell might this old square be named quarter of the Magi--well might the\nthree towers, overlooking it, own for godfathers three mystic sages of\na dead and dark art. Hoar enchantment here prevailed; a spell had\nopened for me elf-land--that cell-like room, that vanishing picture,\nthat arch and passage, and stair of stone, were all parts of a fairy\ntale. Distincter even than these scenic details stood the chief\nfigure--Cunegonde, the sorceress! Malevola, the evil fairy. How was she?\n\nShe might be three feet high, but she had no shape; her skinny hands\nrested upon each other, and pressed the gold knob of a wand-like ivory\nstaff. Her face was large, set, not upon her shoulders, but before her\nbreast; she seemed to have no neck; I should have said there were a\nhundred years in her features, and more perhaps in her eyes--her\nmalign, unfriendly eyes, with thick grey brows above, and livid lids\nall round. How severely they viewed me, with a sort of dull displeasure!\n\nThis being wore a gown of brocade, dyed bright blue, full-tinted as the\ngentianella flower, and covered with satin foliage in a large pattern;\nover the gown a costly shawl, gorgeously bordered, and so large for\nher, that its many-coloured fringe swept the floor. But her chief\npoints were her jewels: she had long, clear earrings, blazing with a\nlustre which could not be borrowed or false; she had rings on her\nskeleton hands, with thick gold hoops, and stones--purple, green, and\nblood-red. Hunchbacked, dwarfish, and doting, she was adorned like a\nbarbarian queen.\n\n\"Que me voulez-vous?\" said she, hoarsely, with the voice rather of male\nthan of female old age; and, indeed, a silver beard bristled her chin.\n\nI delivered my basket and my message.\n\n\"Is that all?\" she demanded.\n\n\"It is all,\" said I.\n\n\"Truly, it was well worth while,\" she answered. \"Return to Madame Beck,\nand tell her I can buy fruit when I want it, et quant à ses\nfélicitations, je m'en moque!\" And this courteous dame turned her back.\n\nJust as she turned, a peal of thunder broke, and a flash of lightning\nblazed broad over salon and boudoir. The tale of magic seemed to\nproceed with due accompaniment of the elements. The wanderer, decoyed\ninto the enchanted castle, heard rising, outside, the spell-wakened\ntempest.\n\nWhat, in all this, was I to think of Madame Beck? She owned strange\nacquaintance; she offered messages and gifts at an unique shrine, and\ninauspicious seemed the bearing of the uncouth thing she worshipped.\nThere went that sullen Sidonia, tottering and trembling like palsy\nincarnate, tapping her ivory staff on the mosaic parquet, and muttering\nvenomously as she vanished.\n\nDown washed the rain, deep lowered the welkin; the clouds, ruddy a\nwhile ago, had now, through all their blackness, turned deadly pale, as\nif in terror. Notwithstanding my late boast about not fearing a shower,\nI hardly liked to go out under this waterspout. Then the gleams of\nlightning were very fierce, the thunder crashed very near; this storm\nhad gathered immediately above Villette; it seemed to have burst at the\nzenith; it rushed down prone; the forked, slant bolts pierced athwart\nvertical torrents; red zigzags interlaced a descent blanched as white\nmetal: and all broke from a sky heavily black in its swollen abundance.\n\nLeaving Madame Walravens' inhospitable salon, I betook myself to her\ncold staircase; there was a seat on the landing--there I waited.\nSomebody came gliding along the gallery just above; it was the old\npriest.\n\n\"Indeed Mademoiselle shall not sit there,\" said he. \"It would\ndispleasure our benefactor if he knew a stranger was so treated in this\nhouse.\"\n\nAnd he begged me so earnestly to return to the salon, that, without\ndiscourtesy, I could not but comply. The smaller room was better\nfurnished and more habitable than the larger; thither he introduced me.\nPartially withdrawing the blind, he disclosed what seemed more like an\noratory than a boudoir, a very solemn little chamber, looking as if it\nwere a place rather dedicated to relics and remembrance, than designed\nfor present use and comfort.\n\nThe good father sat down, as if to keep me company; but instead of\nconversing, he took out a book, fastened on the page his eyes, and\nemployed his lips in whispering--what sounded like a prayer or litany.\nA yellow electric light from the sky gilded his bald head; his figure\nremained in shade--deep and purple; he sat still as sculpture; he\nseemed to forget me for his prayers; he only looked up when a fiercer\nbolt, or a harsher, closer rattle told of nearing danger; even then, it\nwas not in fear, but in seeming awe, he raised his eyes. I too was\nawe-struck; being, however, under no pressure of slavish terror, my\nthoughts and observations were free.\n\nTo speak truth, I was beginning to fancy that the old priest resembled\nthat Père Silas, before whom I had kneeled in the church of the\nBéguinage. The idea was vague, for I had seen my confessor only in dusk\nand in profile, yet still I seemed to trace a likeness: I thought also\nI recognized the voice. While I watched him, he betrayed, by one lifted\nlook, that he felt my scrutiny; I turned to note the room; that too had\nits half mystic interest.\n\nBeside a cross of curiously carved old ivory, yellow with time, and\nsloped above a dark-red _prie-dieu_, furnished duly, with rich missal\nand ebon rosary--hung the picture whose dim outline had drawn my eyes\nbefore--the picture which moved, fell away with the wall and let in\nphantoms. Imperfectly seen, I had taken it for a Madonna; revealed by\nclearer light, it proved to be a woman's portrait in a nun's dress. The\nface, though not beautiful, was pleasing; pale, young, and shaded with\nthe dejection of grief or ill health. I say again it was not beautiful;\nit was not even intellectual; its very amiability was the amiability of\na weak frame, inactive passions, acquiescent habits: yet I looked long\nat that picture, and could not choose but look.\n\nThe old priest, who at first had seemed to me so deaf and infirm, must\nyet have retained his faculties in tolerable preservation; absorbed in\nhis book as he appeared, without once lifting his head, or, as far as I\nknew, turning his eyes, he perceived the point towards which my\nattention was drawn, and, in a slow distinct voice, dropped, concerning\nit, these four observations:--\n\n\"She was much beloved.\n\n\"She gave herself to God.\n\n\"She died young.\n\n\"She is still remembered, still wept.\"\n\n\"By that aged lady, Madame Walravens?\" I inquired, fancying that I had\ndiscovered in the incurable grief of bereavement, a key to that same\naged lady's desperate ill-humour.\n\nThe father shook his head with half a smile.\n\n\"No, no,\" said he; \"a grand-dame's affection for her children's\nchildren may be great, and her sorrow for their loss, lively; but it is\nonly the affianced lover, to whom Fate, Faith, and Death have trebly\ndenied the bliss of union, who mourns what he has lost, as Justine\nMarie is still mourned.\"\n\nI thought the father rather wished to be questioned, and therefore I\ninquired who had lost and who still mourned \"Justine Marie.\" I got, in\nreply, quite a little romantic narrative, told not unimpressively, with\nthe accompaniment of the now subsiding storm. I am bound to say it\nmight have been made much more truly impressive, if there had been less\nFrench, Rousseau-like sentimentalizing and wire-drawing; and rather\nmore healthful carelessness of effect. But the worthy father was\nobviously a Frenchman born and bred (I became more and more persuaded\nof his resemblance to my confessor)--he was a true son of Rome; when he\ndid lift his eyes, he looked at me out of their corners, with more and\nsharper subtlety than, one would have thought, could survive the wear\nand tear of seventy years. Yet, I believe, he was a good old man.\n\nThe hero of his tale was some former pupil of his, whom he now called\nhis benefactor, and who, it appears, had loved this pale Justine Marie,\nthe daughter of rich parents, at a time when his own worldly prospects\nwere such as to justify his aspiring to a well-dowered hand. The\npupil's father--once a rich banker--had failed, died, and left behind\nhim only debts and destitution. The son was then forbidden to think of\nMarie; especially that old witch of a grand-dame I had seen, Madame\nWalravens, opposed the match with all the violence of a temper which\ndeformity made sometimes demoniac. The mild Marie had neither the\ntreachery to be false, nor the force to be quite staunch to her lover;\nshe gave up her first suitor, but, refusing to accept a second with a\nheavier purse, withdrew to a convent, and there died in her noviciate.\n\nLasting anguish, it seems, had taken possession of the faithful heart\nwhich worshipped her, and the truth of that love and grief had been\nshown in a manner which touched even me, as I listened.\n\nSome years after Justine Marie's death, ruin had come on her house too:\nher father, by nominal calling a jeweller, but who also dealt a good\ndeal on the Bourse, had been concerned in some financial transactions\nwhich entailed exposure and ruinous fines. He died of grief for the\nloss, and shame for the infamy. His old hunchbacked mother and his\nbereaved wife were left penniless, and might have died too of want; but\ntheir lost daughter's once-despised, yet most true-hearted suitor,\nhearing of the condition of these ladies, came with singular\ndevotedness to the rescue. He took on their insolent pride the revenge\nof the purest charity--housing, caring for, befriending them, so as no\nson could have done it more tenderly and efficiently. The mother--on\nthe whole a good woman--died blessing him; the strange, godless,\nloveless, misanthrope grandmother lived still, entirely supported by\nthis self-sacrificing man. Her, who had been the bane of his life,\nblighting his hope, and awarding him, for love and domestic happiness,\nlong mourning and cheerless solitude, he treated with the respect a\ngood son might offer a kind mother. He had brought her to this house,\n\"and,\" continued the priest, while genuine tears rose to his eyes,\n\"here, too, he shelters me, his old tutor, and Agnes, a superannuated\nservant of his father's family. To our sustenance, and to other\ncharities, I know he devotes three-parts of his income, keeping only\nthe fourth to provide himself with bread and the most modest\naccommodations. By this arrangement he has rendered it impossible to\nhimself ever to marry: he has given himself to God and to his\nangel-bride as much as if he were a priest, like me.\"\n\nThe father had wiped away his tears before he uttered these last words,\nand in pronouncing them, he for one instant raised his eyes to mine. I\ncaught this glance, despite its veiled character; the momentary gleam\nshot a meaning which struck me.\n\nThese Romanists are strange beings. Such a one among them--whom you\nknow no more than the last Inca of Peru, or the first Emperor of\nChina--knows you and all your concerns; and has his reasons for saying\nto you so and so, when you simply thought the communication sprang\nimpromptu from the instant's impulse: his plan in bringing it about\nthat you shall come on such a day, to such a place, under such and such\ncircumstances, when the whole arrangement seems to your crude\napprehension the ordinance of chance, or the sequel of exigency. Madame\nBeck's suddenly-recollected message and present, my artless embassy to\nthe Place of the Magi, the old priest accidentally descending the steps\nand crossing the square, his interposition on my behalf with the bonne\nwho would have sent me away, his reappearance on the staircase, my\nintroduction to this room, the portrait, the narrative so affably\nvolunteered--all these little incidents, taken as they fell out, seemed\neach independent of its successor; a handful of loose beads: but\nthreaded through by that quick-shot and crafty glance of a Jesuit-eye,\nthey dropped pendent in a long string, like that rosary on the\nprie-dieu. Where lay the link of junction, where the little clasp of\nthis monastic necklace? I saw or felt union, but could not yet find the\nspot, or detect the means of connection.\n\nPerhaps the musing-fit into which I had by this time fallen, appeared\nsomewhat suspicious in its abstraction; he gently interrupted:\n\"Mademoiselle,\" said he, \"I trust you have not far to go through these\ninundated streets?\"\n\n\"More than half a league.\"\n\n\"You live----?\"\n\n\"In the Rue Fossette.\"\n\n\"Not\" (with animation), \"not at the pensionnat of Madame Beck?\"\n\n\"The same.\"\n\n\"Donc\" (clapping his hands), \"donc, vous devez connaître mon noble\nélève, mon Paul?\"\n\n\"Monsieur Paul Emanuel, Professor of Literature?\"\n\n\"He and none other.\"\n\nA brief silence fell. The spring of junction seemed suddenly to have\nbecome palpable; I felt it yield to pressure.\n\n\"Was it of M. Paul you have been speaking?\" I presently inquired. \"Was\nhe your pupil and the benefactor of Madame Walravens?\"\n\n\"Yes, and of Agnes, the old servant: and moreover, (with a certain\nemphasis), he was and _is_ the lover, true, constant and eternal, of\nthat saint in heaven--Justine Marie.\"\n\n\"And who, father, are _you?_\" I continued; and though I accentuated the\nquestion, its utterance was well nigh superfluous; I was ere this quite\nprepared for the answer which actually came.\n\n\"I, daughter, am Père Silas; that unworthy son of Holy Church whom you\nonce honoured with a noble and touching confidence, showing me the core\nof a heart, and the inner shrine of a mind whereof, in solemn truth, I\ncoveted the direction, in behalf of the only true faith. Nor have I for\na day lost sight of you, nor for an hour failed to take in you a rooted\ninterest. Passed under the discipline of Rome, moulded by her high\ntraining, inoculated with her salutary doctrines, inspired by the zeal\nshe alone gives--I realize what then might be your spiritual rank, your\npractical value; and I envy Heresy her prey.\"\n\nThis struck me as a special state of things--I half-realized myself in\nthat condition also; passed under discipline, moulded, trained,\ninoculated, and so on. \"Not so,\" thought I, but I restrained\ndeprecation, and sat quietly enough.\n\n\"I suppose M. Paul does not live here?\" I resumed, pursuing a theme\nwhich I thought more to the purpose than any wild renegade dreams.\n\n\"No; he only comes occasionally to worship his beloved saint, to make\nhis confession to me, and to pay his respects to her he calls his\nmother. His own lodging consists but of two rooms: he has no servant,\nand yet he will not suffer Madame Walravens to dispose of those\nsplendid jewels with which you see her adorned, and in which she takes\na puerile pride as the ornaments of her youth, and the last relics of\nher son the jeweller's wealth.\"\n\n\"How often,\" murmured I to myself, \"has this man, this M. Emanuel,\nseemed to me to lack magnanimity in trifles, yet how great he is in\ngreat things!\"\n\nI own I did not reckon amongst the proofs of his greatness, either the\nact of confession, or the saint-worship.\n\n\"How long is it since that lady died?\" I inquired, looking at Justine\nMarie.\n\n\"Twenty years. She was somewhat older than M. Emanuel; he was then very\nyoung, for he is not much beyond forty.\"\n\n\"Does he yet weep her?\"\n\n\"His heart will weep her always: the essence of Emanuel's nature\nis--constancy.\"\n\nThis was said with marked emphasis.\n\nAnd now the sun broke out pallid and waterish; the rain yet fell, but\nthere was no more tempest: that hot firmament had cloven and poured out\nits lightnings. A longer delay would scarce leave daylight for my\nreturn, so I rose, thanked the father for his hospitality and his tale,\nwas benignantly answered by a \"pax vobiscum,\" which I made kindly\nwelcome, because it seemed uttered with a true benevolence; but I liked\nless the mystic phrase accompanying it.\n\n\"Daughter, you _shall_ be what you _shall_ be!\" an oracle that made me\nshrug my shoulders as soon as I had got outside the door. Few of us\nknow what we are to come to certainly, but for all that had happened\nyet, I had good hopes of living and dying a sober-minded Protestant:\nthere was a hollowness within, and a flourish around \"Holy Church\"\nwhich tempted me but moderately. I went on my way pondering many\nthings. Whatever Romanism may be, there are good Romanists: this man,\nEmanuel, seemed of the best; touched with superstition, influenced by\npriestcraft, yet wondrous for fond faith, for pious devotion, for\nsacrifice of self, for charity unbounded. It remained to see how Rome,\nby her agents, handled such qualities; whether she cherished them for\ntheir own sake and for God's, or put them out to usury and made booty\nof the interest.\n\nBy the time I reached home, it was sundown. Goton had kindly saved me a\nportion of dinner, which indeed I needed. She called me into the little\ncabinet to partake of it, and there Madame Beck soon made her\nappearance, bringing me a glass of wine.\n\n\"Well,\" began she, chuckling, \"and what sort of a reception did Madame\nWalravens give you? Elle est drôle, n'est-ce pas?\"\n\nI told her what had passed, delivering verbatim the courteous message\nwith which I had been charged.\n\n\"Oh la singulière petite bossue!\" laughed she. \"Et figurez-vous qu'elle\nme déteste, parcequ'elle me croit amoureuse de mon cousin Paul; ce\npetit dévot qui n'ose pas bouger, à moins que son confesseur ne lui\ndonne la permission! Au reste\" (she went on), \"if he wanted to marry\never so much--soit moi, soit une autre--he could not do it; he has too\nlarge a family already on his hands: Mère Walravens, Père Silas, Dame\nAgnes, and a whole troop of nameless paupers. There never was a man\nlike him for laying on himself burdens greater than he can bear,\nvoluntarily incurring needless responsibilities. Besides, he harbours a\nromantic idea about some pale-faced Marie Justine--personnage assez\nniaise à ce que je pense\" (such was Madame's irreverent remark), \"who\nhas been an angel in heaven, or elsewhere, this score of years, and to\nwhom he means to go, free from all earthly ties, pure comme un lis, à\nce qu'il dit. Oh, you would laugh could you but know half M. Emanuel's\ncrotchets and eccentricities! But I hinder you from taking refreshment,\nma bonne Meess, which you must need; eat your supper, drink your wine,\noubliez les anges, les bossues, et surtout, les Professeurs--et bon\nsoir!\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXV\n\nFRATERNITY.\n\n\n\"Oubliez les Professeurs.\" So said Madame Beck. Madame Beck was a wise\nwoman, but she should not have uttered those words. To do so was a\nmistake. That night she should have left me calm--not excited,\nindifferent, not interested, isolated in my own estimation and that of\nothers--not connected, even in idea, with this second person whom I was\nto forget.\n\nForget him? Ah! they took a sage plan to make me forget him--the\nwiseheads! They showed me how good he was; they made of my dear little\nman a stainless little hero. And then they had prated about his manner\nof loving. What means had I, before this day, of being certain whether\nhe could love at all or not?\n\nI had known him jealous, suspicious; I had seen about him certain\ntendernesses, fitfulnesses--a softness which came like a warm air, and\na ruth which passed like early dew, dried in the heat of his\nirritabilities: _this_ was all I had seen. And they, Père Silas and\nModeste Maria Beck (that these two wrought in concert I could not\ndoubt) opened up the adytum of his heart--showed me one grand love, the\nchild of this southern nature's youth, born so strong and perfect, that\nit had laughed at Death himself, despised his mean rape of matter,\nclung to immortal spirit, and in victory and faith, had watched beside\na tomb twenty years.\n\nThis had been done--not idly: this was not a mere hollow indulgence of\nsentiment; he had proven his fidelity by the consecration of his best\nenergies to an unselfish purpose, and attested it by limitless personal\nsacrifices: for those once dear to her he prized--he had laid down\nvengeance, and taken up a cross.\n\nNow, as for Justine Marie, I knew what she was as well as if I had seen\nher. I knew she was well enough; there were girls like her in Madame\nBeck's school--phlegmatics--pale, slow, inert, but kind-natured,\nneutral of evil, undistinguished for good.\n\nIf she wore angels' wings, I knew whose poet-fancy conferred them. If\nher forehead shone luminous with the reflex of a halo, I knew in the\nfire of whose irids that circlet of holy flame had generation.\n\nWas I, then, to be frightened by Justine Marie? Was the picture of a\npale dead nun to rise, an eternal barrier? And what of the charities\nwhich absorbed his worldly goods? What of his heart sworn to virginity?\n\nMadame Beck--Père Silas--you should not have suggested these questions.\nThey were at once the deepest puzzle, the strongest obstruction, and\nthe keenest stimulus, I had ever felt. For a week of nights and days I\nfell asleep--I dreamt, and I woke upon these two questions. In the\nwhole world there was no answer to them, except where one dark little\nman stood, sat, walked, lectured, under the head-piece of a bandit\nbonnet-grec, and within the girth of a sorry paletôt, much be-inked,\nand no little adust.\n\nAfter that visit to the Rue des Mages, I _did_ want to see him again. I\nfelt as if--knowing what I now knew--his countenance would offer a page\nmore lucid, more interesting than ever; I felt a longing to trace in it\nthe imprint of that primitive devotedness, the signs of that\nhalf-knightly, half-saintly chivalry which the priest's narrative\nimputed to his nature. He had become my Christian hero: under that\ncharacter I wanted to view him.\n\nNor was opportunity slow to favour; my new impressions underwent her\ntest the next day. Yes: I was granted an interview with my \"Christian\nhero\"--an interview not very heroic, or sentimental, or biblical, but\nlively enough in its way.\n\nAbout three o'clock of the afternoon, the peace of the first\nclasse--safely established, as it seemed, under the serene sway of\nMadame Beck, who, _in propriâ personâ_ was giving one of her orderly\nand useful lessons--this peace, I say, suffered a sudden fracture by\nthe wild inburst of a paletôt.\n\nNobody at the moment was quieter than myself. Eased of responsibility\nby Madame Beck's presence, soothed by her uniform tones, pleased and\nedified with her clear exposition of the subject in hand (for she\ntaught well), I sat bent over my desk, drawing--that is, copying an\nelaborate line engraving, tediously working up my copy to the finish of\nthe original, for that was my practical notion of art; and, strange to\nsay, I took extreme pleasure in the labour, and could even produce\ncuriously finical Chinese facsimiles of steel or mezzotint\nplates--things about as valuable as so many achievements in\nworsted-work, but I thought pretty well of them in those days.\n\nWhat was the matter? My drawing, my pencils, my precious copy, gathered\ninto one crushed-up handful, perished from before my sight; I myself\nappeared to be shaken or emptied out of my chair, as a solitary and\nwithered nutmeg might be emptied out of a spice-box by an excited cook.\nThat chair and my desk, seized by the wild paletôt, one under each\nsleeve, were borne afar; in a second, I followed the furniture; in two\nminutes they and I were fixed in the centre of the grand salle--a vast\nadjoining room, seldom used save for dancing and choral\nsinging-lessons--fixed with an emphasis which seemed to prohibit the\nremotest hope of our ever being permitted to stir thence again.\n\nHaving partially collected my scared wits, I found myself in the\npresence of two men, gentlemen, I suppose I should say--one dark, the\nother light--one having a stiff, half-military air, and wearing a\nbraided surtout; the other partaking, in garb and bearing, more of the\ncareless aspect of the student or artist class: both flourishing in\nfull magnificence of moustaches, whiskers, and imperial. M. Emanuel\nstood a little apart from these; his countenance and eyes expressed\nstrong choler; he held forth his hand with his tribune gesture.\n\n\"Mademoiselle,\" said he, \"your business is to prove to these gentlemen\nthat I am no liar. You will answer, to the best of your ability, such\nquestions as they shall put. You will also write on such theme as they\nshall select. In their eyes, it appears, I hold the position of an\nunprincipled impostor. I write essays; and, with deliberate forgery,\nsign to them my pupils' names, and boast of them as their work. You\nwill disprove this charge.\"\n\nGrand ciel! Here was the show-trial, so long evaded, come on me like a\nthunder-clap. These two fine, braided, mustachioed, sneering\npersonages, were none other than dandy professors of the\ncollege--Messieurs Boissec and Rochemorte--a pair of cold-blooded fops\nand pedants, sceptics, and scoffers. It seems that M. Paul had been\nrashly exhibiting something I had written--something, he had never once\npraised, or even mentioned, in my hearing, and which I deemed\nforgotten. The essay was not remarkable at all; it only _seemed_\nremarkable, compared with the average productions of foreign\nschool-girls; in an English establishment it would have passed scarce\nnoticed. Messieurs Boissec and Rochemorte had thought proper to\nquestion its genuineness, and insinuate a cheat; I was now to bear my\ntestimony to the truth, and to be put to the torture of their\nexamination.\n\nA memorable scene ensued.\n\nThey began with classics. A dead blank. They went on to French history.\nI hardly knew Mérovée from Pharamond. They tried me in various\n'ologies, and still only got a shake of the head, and an unchanging \"Je\nn'en sais rien.\"\n\nAfter an expressive pause, they proceeded to matters of general\ninformation, broaching one or two subjects which I knew pretty well,\nand on which I had often reflected. M. Emanuel, who had hitherto stood\nlooking on, dark as the winter-solstice, brightened up somewhat; he\nthought I should now show myself at least no fool.\n\nHe learned his error. Though answers to the questions surged up fast,\nmy mind filling like a rising well, ideas were there, but not words. I\neither _could_ not, or _would_ not speak--I am not sure which: partly,\nI think, my nerves had got wrong, and partly my humour was crossed.\n\nI heard one of my examiners--he of the braided surtout--whisper to his\nco-professor, \"Est-elle donc idiote?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I thought, \"an idiot she is, and always will be, for such as\nyou.\"\n\nBut I suffered--suffered cruelly; I saw the damps gather on M. Paul's\nbrow, and his eye spoke a passionate yet sad reproach. He would not\nbelieve in my total lack of popular cleverness; he thought I _could_ be\nprompt if I _would_.\n\nAt last, to relieve him, the professors, and myself, I stammered out:\n\n\"Gentlemen, you had better let me go; you will get no good of me; as\nyou say, I am an idiot.\"\n\nI wish I could have spoken with calm and dignity, or I wish my sense\nhad sufficed to make me hold my tongue; that traitor tongue tripped,\nfaltered. Beholding the judges cast on M. Emanuel a hard look of\ntriumph, and hearing the distressed tremor of my own voice, out I burst\nin a fit of choking tears. The emotion was far more of anger than\ngrief; had I been a man and strong, I could have challenged that pair\non the spot--but it _was_ emotion, and I would rather have been\nscourged than betrayed it.\n\nThe incapables! Could they not see at once the crude hand of a novice\nin that composition they called a forgery? The subject was classical.\nWhen M. Paul dictated the trait on which the essay was to turn, I heard\nit for the first time; the matter was new to me, and I had no material\nfor its treatment. But I got books, read up the facts, laboriously\nconstructed a skeleton out of the dry bones of the real, and then\nclothed them, and tried to breathe into them life, and in this last aim\nI had pleasure. With me it was a difficult and anxious time till my\nfacts were found, selected, and properly jointed; nor could I rest from\nresearch and effort till I was satisfied of correct anatomy; the\nstrength of my inward repugnance to the idea of flaw or falsity\nsometimes enabled me to shun egregious blunders; but the knowledge was\nnot there in my head, ready and mellow; it had not been sown in Spring,\ngrown in Summer, harvested in Autumn, and garnered through Winter;\nwhatever I wanted I must go out and gather fresh; glean of wild herbs\nmy lapful, and shred them green into the pot. Messieurs Boissec and\nRochemorte did not perceive this. They mistook my work for the work of\na ripe scholar.\n\nThey would not yet let me go: I must sit down and write before them. As\nI dipped my pen in the ink with a shaking hand, and surveyed the white\npaper with eyes half-blinded and overflowing, one of my judges began\nmincingly to apologize for the pain he caused.\n\n\"Nous agissons dans l'intérêt de la vérité. Nous ne voulons pas vous\nblesser,\" said he.\n\nScorn gave me nerve. I only answered,--\n\n\"Dictate, Monsieur.\"\n\nRochemorte named this theme: \"Human Justice.\"\n\nHuman Justice! What was I to make of it? Blank, cold abstraction,\nunsuggestive to me of one inspiring idea; and there stood M. Emanuel,\nsad as Saul, and stern as Joab, and there triumphed his accusers.\n\nAt these two I looked. I was gathering my courage to tell them that I\nwould neither write nor speak another word for their satisfaction, that\ntheir theme did not suit, nor their presence inspire me, and that,\nnotwithstanding, whoever threw the shadow of a doubt on M. Emanuel's\nhonour, outraged that truth of which they had announced themselves\nthe--champions: I _meant_ to utter all this, I say, when suddenly, a\nlight darted on memory.\n\nThose two faces looking out of the forest of long hair, moustache, and\nwhisker--those two cold yet bold, trustless yet presumptuous\nvisages--were the same faces, the very same that, projected in full\ngaslight from behind the pillars of a portico, had half frightened me\nto death on the night of my desolate arrival in Villette. These, I felt\nmorally certain, were the very heroes who had driven a friendless\nforeigner beyond her reckoning and her strength, chased her breathless\nover a whole quarter of the town.\n\n\"Pious mentors!\" thought I. \"Pure guides for youth! If `Human Justice'\nwere what she ought to be, you two would scarce hold your present post,\nor enjoy your present credit.\"\n\nAn idea once seized, I fell to work. \"Human Justice\" rushed before me\nin novel guise, a red, random beldame, with arms akimbo. I saw her in\nher house, the den of confusion: servants called to her for orders or\nhelp which she did not give; beggars stood at her door waiting and\nstarving unnoticed; a swarm of children, sick and quarrelsome, crawled\nround her feet, and yelled in her ears appeals for notice, sympathy,\ncure, redress. The honest woman cared for none of these things. She had\na warm seat of her own by the fire, she had her own solace in a short\nblack pipe, and a bottle of Mrs. Sweeny's soothing syrup; she smoked\nand she sipped, and she enjoyed her paradise; and whenever a cry of the\nsuffering souls about her 'pierced her ears too keenly--my jolly dame\nseized the poker or the hearth-brush: if the offender was weak,\nwronged, and sickly, she effectually settled him: if he was strong,\nlively, and violent, she only menaced, then plunged her hand in her\ndeep pouch, and flung a liberal shower of sugar-plums.\n\nSuch was the sketch of \"Human Justice,\" scratched hurriedly on paper,\nand placed at the service of Messrs. Boissec and Rochemorte. M. Emanuel\nread it over my shoulder. Waiting no comment, I curtsied to the trio,\nand withdrew.\n\nAfter school that day, M. Paul and I again met. Of course the meeting\ndid not at first run smooth; there was a crow to pluck with him; that\nforced examination could not be immediately digested. A crabbed\ndialogue terminated in my being called \"une petite moqueuse et\nsans-coeur,\" and in Monsieur's temporary departure.\n\nNot wishing him to go quite away, only desiring he should feel that\nsuch a transport as he had that day given way to, could not be indulged\nwith perfect impunity, I was not sorry to see him, soon after,\ngardening in the berceau. He approached the glass door; I drew near\nalso. We spoke of some flowers growing round it. By-and-by Monsieur\nlaid down his spade; by-and-by he recommenced conversation, passed to\nother subjects, and at last touched a point of interest.\n\nConscious that his proceeding of that day was specially open to a\ncharge of extravagance, M. Paul half apologized; he half regretted,\ntoo, the fitfulness of his moods at all times, yet he hinted that some\nallowance ought to be made for him. \"But,\" said he, \"I can hardly\nexpect it at your hands, Miss Lucy; you know neither me, nor my\nposition, nor my history.\"\n\nHis history. I took up the word at once; I pursued the idea.\n\n\"No, Monsieur,\" I rejoined. \"Of course, as you say, I know neither your\nhistory, nor your position, nor your sacrifices, nor any of your\nsorrows, or trials, or affections, or fidelities. Oh, no! I know\nnothing about you; you are for me altogether a stranger.\"\n\n\"Hein?\" he murmured, arching his brows in surprise.\n\n\"You know, Monsieur, I only see you in classe--stern, dogmatic, hasty,\nimperious. I only hear of you in town as active and wilful, quick to\noriginate, hasty to lead, but slow to persuade, and hard to bend. A man\nlike you, without ties, can have no attachments; without dependants, no\nduties. All we, with whom you come in contact, are machines, which you\nthrust here and there, inconsiderate of their feelings. You seek your\nrecreations in public, by the light of the evening chandelier: this\nschool and yonder college are your workshops, where you fabricate the\nware called pupils. I don't so much as know where you live; it is\nnatural to take it for granted that you have no home, and need none.\"\n\n\"I am judged,\" said he. \"Your opinion of me is just what I thought it\nwas. For you I am neither a man nor a Christian. You see me void of\naffection and religion, unattached by friend or family, unpiloted by\nprinciple or faith. It is well, Mademoiselle; such is our reward in\nthis life.\"\n\n\"You are a philosopher, Monsieur; a cynic philosopher\" (and I looked at\nhis paletôt, of which he straightway brushed the dim sleeve with his\nhand), \"despising the foibles of humanity--above its\nluxuries--independent of its comforts.\"\n\n\"Et vous, Mademoiselle? vous êtes proprette et douillette, et\naffreusement insensible, par-dessus le marché.\"\n\n\"But, in short, Monsieur, now I think of it, you _must_ live somewhere?\nDo tell me where; and what establishment of servants do you keep?\"\n\nWith a fearful projection of the under-lip, implying an impetus of\nscorn the most decided, he broke out--\n\n\"Je vis dans un trou! I inhabit a den, Miss--a cavern, where you would\nnot put your dainty nose. Once, with base shame of speaking the whole\ntruth, I talked about my 'study' in that college: know now that this\n'study' is my whole abode; my chamber is there and my drawing-room. As\nfor my 'establishment of servants'\" (mimicking my voice) \"they number\nten; les voilà.\"\n\nAnd he grimly spread, close under my eyes, his ten fingers.\n\n\"I black my boots,\" pursued he savagely. \"I brush my paletôt.\"\n\n\"No, Monsieur, it is too plain; you never do that,\" was my parenthesis.\n\n\"Je fais mon lit et mon ménage; I seek my dinner in a restaurant; my\nsupper takes care, of itself; I pass days laborious and loveless;\nnights long and lonely; I am ferocious, and bearded and monkish; and\nnothing now living in this world loves me, except some old hearts worn\nlike my own, and some few beings, impoverished, suffering, poor in\npurse and in spirit, whom the kingdoms of this world own not, but to\nwhom a will and testament not to be disputed has bequeathed the kingdom\nof heaven.\"\n\n\"Ah, Monsieur; but I know!\"\n\n\"What do you know? many things, I verily believe; yet not me, Lucy!\"\n\n\"I know that you have a pleasant old house in a pleasant old square of\nthe Basse-Ville--why don't you go and live there?\"\n\n\"Hein?\" muttered he again.\n\n\"I liked it much, Monsieur; with the steps ascending to the door, the\ngrey flags in front, the nodding trees behind--real trees, not\nshrubs--trees dark, high, and of old growth. And the\nboudoir-oratoire--you should make that room your study; it is so quiet\nand solemn.\"\n\nHe eyed me closely; he half-smiled, half-coloured. \"Where did you pick\nup all that? Who told you?\" he asked.\n\n\"Nobody told me. Did I dream it, Monsieur, do you think?\"\n\n\"Can I enter into your visions? Can I guess a woman's waking thoughts,\nmuch less her sleeping fantasies?\"\n\n\"If I dreamt it, I saw in my dream human beings as well as a house. I\nsaw a priest, old, bent, and grey, and a domestic--old, too, and\npicturesque; and a lady, splendid but strange; her head would scarce\nreach to my elbow--her magnificence might ransom a duke. She wore a\ngown bright as lapis-lazuli--a shawl worth a thousand francs: she was\ndecked with ornaments so brilliant, I never saw any with such a\nbeautiful sparkle; but her figure looked as if it had been broken in\ntwo and bent double; she seemed also to have outlived the common years\nof humanity, and to have attained those which are only labour and\nsorrow. She was become morose--almost malevolent; yet _somebody_, it\nappears, cared for her in her infirmities--somebody forgave her\ntrespasses, hoping to have his trespasses forgiven. They lived\ntogether, these three people--the mistress, the chaplain, the\nservant--all old, all feeble, all sheltered under one kind wing.\"\n\nHe covered with his hand the upper part of his face, but did not\nconceal his mouth, where I saw hovering an expression I liked.\n\n\"I see you have entered into my secrets,\" said he, \"but how was it\ndone?\"\n\nSo I told him how--the commission on which I had been sent, the storm\nwhich had detained me, the abruptness of the lady, the kindness of the\npriest.\n\n\"As I sat waiting for the rain to cease, Père Silas whiled away the\ntime with a story,\" I said.\n\n\"A story! What story? Père Silas is no romancist.\"\n\n\"Shall I tell Monsieur the tale?\"\n\n\"Yes: begin at the beginning. Let me hear some of Miss Lucy's\nFrench--her best or her worst--I don't much care which: let us have a\ngood poignée of barbarisms, and a bounteous dose of the insular accent.\"\n\n\"Monsieur is not going to be gratified by a tale of ambitious\nproportions, and the spectacle of the narrator sticking fast in the\nmidst. But I will tell him the title--the 'Priest's Pupil.'\"\n\n\"Bah!\" said he, the swarthy flush again dyeing his dark cheek. \"The\ngood old father could not have chosen a worse subject; it is his weak\npoint. But what of the 'Priest's Pupil?'\"\n\n\"Oh! many things.\"\n\n\"You may as well define _what_ things. I mean to know.\"\n\n\"There was the pupil's youth, the pupil's manhood;--his avarice, his\ningratitude, his implacability, his inconstancy. Such a bad pupil,\nMonsieur!--so thankless, cold-hearted, unchivalrous, unforgiving!\n\n\"Et puis?\" said he, taking a cigar.\n\n\"Et puis,\" I pursued, \"he underwent calamities which one did not\npity--bore them in a spirit one did not admire--endured wrongs for\nwhich one felt no sympathy; finally took the unchristian revenge of\nheaping coals of fire on his adversary's head.\"\n\n\"You have not told me all,\" said he.\n\n\"Nearly all, I think: I have indicated the heads of Père Silas's\nchapters.\"\n\n\"You have forgotten one-that which touched on the pupil's lack of\naffection--on his hard, cold, monkish heart.\"\n\n\"True; I remember now. Père Silas _did_ say that his vocation was\nalmost that of a priest--that his life was considered consecrated.\"\n\n\"By what bonds or duties?\"\n\n\"By the ties of the past and the charities of the present.\"\n\n\"You have, then, the whole situation?\"\n\n\"I have now told Monsieur all that was told me.\"\n\nSome meditative minutes passed.\n\n\"Now, Mademoiselle Lucy, look at me, and with that truth which I\nbelieve you never knowingly violate, answer me one question. Raise your\neyes; rest them on mine; have no hesitation; fear not to trust me--I am\na man to be trusted.\"\n\nI raised my eyes.\n\n\"Knowing me thoroughly now--all my antecedents, all my\nresponsibilities--having long known my faults, can you and I still be\nfriends?\"\n\n\"If Monsieur wants a friend in me, I shall be glad to have a friend in\nhim.\"\n\n\"But a close friend I mean--intimate and real--kindred in all but\nblood. Will Miss Lucy be the sister of a very poor, fettered, burdened,\nencumbered man?\"\n\nI could not answer him in words, yet I suppose I _did_ answer him; he\ntook my hand, which found comfort, in the shelter of his. _His_\nfriendship was not a doubtful, wavering benefit--a cold, distant\nhope--a sentiment so brittle as not to bear the weight of a finger: I\nat once felt (or _thought_ I felt) its support like that of some rock.\n\n\"When I talk of friendship, I mean _true_ friendship,\" he repeated\nemphatically; and I could hardly believe that words so earnest had\nblessed my ear; I hardly could credit the reality of that kind, anxious\nlook he gave. If he _really_ wished for my confidence and regard, and\n_really_ would give me his--why, it seemed to me that life could offer\nnothing more or better. In that case, I was become strong and rich: in\na moment I was made substantially happy. To ascertain the fact, to fix\nand seal it, I asked--\n\n\"Is Monsieur quite serious? Does he really think he needs me, and can\ntake an interest in me as a sister?\"\n\n\"Surely, surely,\" said he; \"a lonely man like me, who has no sister,\nmust be but too glad to find in some woman's heart a sister's pure\naffection.\"\n\n\"And dare I rely on Monsieur's regard? Dare I speak to him when I am so\ninclined?\"\n\n\"My little sister must make her own experiments,\" said he; \"I will give\nno promises. She must tease and try her wayward brother till she has\ndrilled him into what she wishes. After all, he is no inductile\nmaterial in some hands.\"\n\nWhile he spoke, the tone of his voice, the light of his now\naffectionate eye, gave me such a pleasure as, certainly, I had never\nfelt. I envied no girl her lover, no bride her bridegroom, no wife her\nhusband; I was content with this my voluntary, self-offering friend. If\nhe would but prove reliable, and he _looked_ reliable, what, beyond his\nfriendship, could I ever covet? But, if all melted like a dream, as\nonce before had happened--?\n\n\"Qu'est-ce donc? What is it?\" said he, as this thought threw its weight\non my heart, its shadow on my countenance. I told him; and after a\nmoment's pause, and a thoughtful smile, he showed me how an equal\nfear--lest I should weary of him, a man of moods so difficult and\nfitful--had haunted his mind for more than one day, or one month.\n\nOn hearing this, a quiet courage cheered me. I ventured a word of\nre-assurance. That word was not only tolerated; its repetition was\ncourted. I grew quite happy--strangely happy--in making him secure,\ncontent, tranquil. Yesterday, I could not have believed that earth\nheld, or life afforded, moments like the few I was now passing.\nCountless times it had been my lot to watch apprehended sorrow close\ndarkly in; but to see unhoped-for happiness take form, find place, and\ngrow more real as the seconds sped, was indeed a new experience.\n\n\"Lucy,\" said M. Paul, speaking low, and still holding my hand, \"did you\nsee a picture in the boudoir of the old house?\"\n\n\"I did; a picture painted on a panel.\"\n\n\"The portrait of a nun?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"You heard her history?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"You remember what we saw that night in the berceau?\"\n\n\"I shall never forget it.\"\n\n\"You did not connect the two ideas; that would be folly?\"\n\n\"I thought of the apparition when I saw the portrait,\" said I; which\nwas true enough.\n\n\"You did not, nor will you fancy,\" pursued he, \"that a saint in heaven\nperturbs herself with rivalries of earth? Protestants are rarely\nsuperstitious; these morbid fancies will not beset _you?_\"\n\n\"I know not what to think of this matter; but I believe a perfectly\nnatural solution of this seeming mystery will one day be arrived at.\"\n\n\"Doubtless, doubtless. Besides, no good-living woman--much less a pure,\nhappy spirit-would trouble amity like ours n'est-il pas vrai?\"\n\nEre I could answer, Fifine Beck burst in, rosy and abrupt, calling out\nthat I was wanted. Her mother was going into town to call on some\nEnglish family, who had applied for a prospectus: my services were\nneeded as interpreter. The interruption was not unseasonable:\nsufficient for the day is always the evil; for this hour, its good\nsufficed. Yet I should have liked to ask M. Paul whether the \"morbid\nfancies,\" against which he warned me, wrought in his own brain.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXVI.\n\nTHE APPLE OF DISCORD.\n\n\nBesides Fifine Beck's mother, another power had a word to say to M.\nPaul and me, before that covenant of friendship could be ratified. We\nwere under the surveillance of a sleepless eye: Rome watched jealously\nher son through that mystic lattice at which I had knelt once, and to\nwhich M. Emanuel drew nigh month by month--the sliding panel of the\nconfessional.\n\n\"Why were you so glad to be friends with M. Paul?\" asks the reader.\n\"Had he not long been a friend to you? Had he not given proof on proof\nof a certain partiality in his feelings?\"\n\nYes, he had; but still I liked to hear him say so earnestly--that he\nwas my close, true friend; I liked his modest doubts, his tender\ndeference--that trust which longed to rest, and was grateful when\ntaught how. He had called me \"sister.\" It was well. Yes; he might call\nme what he pleased, so long as he confided in me. I was willing to be\nhis sister, on condition that he did not invite me to fill that\nrelation to some future wife of his; and tacitly vowed as he was to\ncelibacy, of this dilemma there seemed little danger.\n\nThrough most of the succeeding night I pondered that evening's\ninterview. I wanted much the morning to break, and then listened for\nthe bell to ring; and, after rising and dressing, I deemed prayers and\nbreakfast slow, and all the hours lingering, till that arrived at last\nwhich brought me the lesson of literature. My wish was to get a more\nthorough comprehension of this fraternal alliance: to note with how\nmuch of the brother he would demean himself when we met again; to prove\nhow much of the sister was in my own feelings; to discover whether I\ncould summon a sister's courage, and he a brother's frankness.\n\nHe came. Life is so constructed, that the event does not, cannot, will\nnot, match the expectation. That whole day he never accosted me. His\nlesson was given rather more quietly than usual, more mildly, and also\nmore gravely. He was fatherly to his pupils, but he was not brotherly\nto me. Ere he left the classe, I expected a smile, if not a word; I got\nneither: to my portion fell one nod--hurried, shy.\n\nThis distance, I argued, is accidental--it is involuntary; patience,\nand it will vanish. It vanished not; it continued for days; it\nincreased. I suppressed my surprise, and swallowed whatever other\nfeelings began to surge.\n\nWell might I ask when he offered fraternity--\"Dare I rely on you?\" Well\nmight he, doubtless knowing himself, withhold all pledge. True, he had\nbid me make my own experiments--tease and try him. Vain injunction!\nPrivilege nominal and unavailable! Some women might use it! Nothing in\nmy powers or instinct placed me amongst this brave band. Left alone, I\nwas passive; repulsed, I withdrew; forgotten--my lips would not utter,\nnor my eyes dart a reminder. It seemed there had been an error\nsomewhere in my calculations, and I wanted for time to disclose it.\n\nBut the day came when, as usual, he was to give me a lesson. One\nevening in seven he had long generously bestowed on me, devoting it to\nthe examination of what had been done in various studies during the\npast week, and to the preparation of work for the week in prospect. On\nthese occasions my schoolroom was anywhere, wherever the pupils and the\nother teachers happened to be, or in their close vicinage, very often\nin the large second division, where it was easy to choose a quiet nook\nwhen the crowding day pupils were absent, and the few boarders gathered\nin a knot about the surveillante's estrade.\n\nOn the customary evening, hearing the customary hour strike, I\ncollected my books and papers, my pen and ink, and sought the large\ndivision.\n\nIn classe there was no one, and it lay all in cool deep shadow; but\nthrough the open double doors was seen the carré, filled with pupils\nand with light; over hall and figures blushed the westering sun. It\nblushed so ruddily and vividly, that the hues of the walls and the\nvariegated tints of the dresses seemed all fused in one warm glow. The\ngirls were seated, working or studying; in the midst of their circle\nstood M. Emanuel, speaking good-humouredly to a teacher. His dark\npaletôt, his jetty hair, were tinged with many a reflex of crimson; his\nSpanish face, when he turned it momentarily, answered the sun's\nanimated kiss with an animated smile. I took my place at a desk.\n\nThe orange-trees, and several plants, full and bright with bloom,\nbasked also in the sun's laughing bounty; they had partaken it the\nwhole day, and now asked water. M. Emanuel had a taste for gardening;\nhe liked to tend and foster plants. I used to think that working\namongst shrubs with a spade or a watering-pot soothed his nerves; it\nwas a recreation to which he often had recourse; and now he looked to\nthe orange-trees, the geraniums, the gorgeous cactuses, and revived\nthem all with the refreshment their drought needed. His lips meantime\nsustained his precious cigar, that (for him) first necessary and prime\nluxury of life; its blue wreaths curled prettily enough amongst the\nflowers, and in the evening light. He spoke no more to the pupils, nor\nto the mistresses, but gave many an endearing word to a small\nspanieless (if one may coin a word), that nominally belonged to the\nhouse, but virtually owned him as master, being fonder of him than any\ninmate. A delicate, silky, loving, and lovable little doggie she was,\ntrotting at his side, looking with expressive, attached eyes into his\nface; and whenever he dropped his bonnet-grec or his handkerchief,\nwhich he occasionally did in play, crouching beside it with the air of\na miniature lion guarding a kingdom's flag.\n\nThere were many plants, and as the amateur gardener fetched all the\nwater from the well in the court, with his own active hands, his work\nspun on to some length. The great school-clock ticked on. Another hour\nstruck. The carré and the youthful group lost the illusion of sunset.\nDay was drooping. My lesson, I perceived, must to-night be very short;\nbut the orange-trees, the cacti, the camelias were all served now. Was\nit my turn?\n\nAlas! in the garden were more plants to be looked after,--favourite\nrose-bushes, certain choice flowers; little Sylvie's glad bark and\nwhine followed the receding paletôt down the alleys. I put up some of\nmy books; I should not want them all; I sat and thought; and waited,\ninvoluntarily deprecating the creeping invasion of twilight.\n\nSylvie, gaily frisking, emerged into view once more, heralding the\nreturning paletôt; the watering-pot was deposited beside the well; it\nhad fulfilled its office; how glad I was! Monsieur washed his hands in\na little stone bowl. There was no longer time for a lesson now; ere\nlong the prayer-bell must ring; but still we should meet; he would\nspeak; a chance would be offered of reading in his eyes the riddle of\nhis shyness. His ablutions over, he stood, slowly re-arranging his\ncuffs, looking at the horn of a young moon, set pale in the opal sky,\nand glimmering faint on the oriel of Jean Baptiste. Sylvie watched the\nmood contemplative; its stillness irked her; she whined and jumped to\nbreak it. He looked down.\n\n\"Petite exigeante,\" said he; \"you must not be forgotten one moment, it\nseems.\"\n\nHe stopped, lifted her in his arms, sauntered across the court, within\na yard of the line of windows near one of which I sat: he sauntered\nlingeringly, fondling the spaniel in his bosom, calling her tender\nnames in a tender voice. On the front-door steps he turned; once again\nhe looked at the moon, at the grey cathedral, over the remoter spires\nand house-roofs fading into a blue sea of night-mist; he tasted the\nsweet breath of dusk, and noted the folded bloom of the garden; he\nsuddenly looked round; a keen beam out of his eye rased the white\nfaçade of the classes, swept the long line of croisées. I think he\nbowed; if he did, I had no time to return the courtesy. In a moment he\nwas gone; the moonlit threshold lay pale and shadowless before the\nclosed front door.\n\nGathering in my arms all that was spread on the desk before me, I\ncarried back the unused heap to its place in the third classe. The\nprayer-bell rang; I obeyed its summons.\n\nThe morrow would not restore him to the Rue Fossette, that day being\ndevoted entirely to his college. I got through my teaching; I got over\nthe intermediate hours; I saw evening approaching, and armed myself for\nits heavy ennuis. Whether it was worse to stay with my co-inmates, or\nto sit alone, I had not considered; I naturally took up the latter\nalternative; if there was a hope of comfort for any moment, the heart\nor head of no human being in this house could yield it; only under the\nlid of my desk could it harbour, nestling between the leaves of some\nbook, gilding a pencil-point, the nib of a pen, or tinging the black\nfluid in that ink-glass. With a heavy heart I opened my desk-lid; with\na weary hand I turned up its contents.\n\nOne by one, well-accustomed books, volumes sewn in familiar covers,\nwere taken out and put back hopeless: they had no charm; they could not\ncomfort. Is this something new, this pamphlet in lilac? I had not seen\nit before, and I re-arranged my desk this very day--this very\nafternoon; the tract must have been introduced within the last hour,\nwhile we were at dinner.\n\nI opened it. What was it? What would it say to me?\n\nIt was neither tale nor poem, neither essay nor history; it neither\nsung, nor related, not discussed. It was a theological work; it\npreached and it persuaded.\n\nI lent to it my ear very willingly, for, small as it was, it possessed\nits own spell, and bound my attention at once. It preached Romanism; it\npersuaded to conversion. The voice of that sly little book was a\nhoneyed voice; its accents were all unction and balm. Here roared no\nutterance of Rome's thunders, no blasting of the breath of her\ndispleasure. The Protestant was to turn Papist, not so much in fear of\nthe heretic's hell, as on account of the comfort, the indulgence, the\ntenderness Holy Church offered: far be it from her to threaten or to\ncoerce; her wish was to guide and win. _She_ persecute? Oh dear no! not\non any account!\n\nThis meek volume was not addressed to the hardened and worldly; it was\nnot even strong meat for the strong: it was milk for babes: the mild\neffluence of a mother's love towards her tenderest and her youngest;\nintended wholly and solely for those whose head is to be reached\nthrough the heart. Its appeal was not to intellect; it sought to win\nthe affectionate through their affections, the sympathizing through\ntheir sympathies: St. Vincent de Paul, gathering his orphans about him,\nnever spoke more sweetly.\n\nI remember one capital inducement to apostacy was held out in the fact\nthat the Catholic who had lost dear friends by death could enjoy the\nunspeakable solace of praying them out of purgatory. The writer did not\ntouch on the firmer peace of those whose belief dispenses with\npurgatory altogether: but I thought of this; and, on the whole,\npreferred the latter doctrine as the most consolatory. The little book\namused, and did not painfully displease me. It was a canting,\nsentimental, shallow little book, yet something about it cheered my\ngloom and made me smile; I was amused with the gambols of this unlicked\nwolf-cub muffled in the fleece, and mimicking the bleat of a guileless\nlamb. Portions of it reminded me of certain Wesleyan Methodist tracts I\nhad once read when a child; they were flavoured with about the same\nseasoning of excitation to fanaticism. He that had written it was no\nbad man, and while perpetually betraying the trained cunning--the\ncloven hoof of his system--I should pause before accusing himself of\ninsincerity. His judgment, however, wanted surgical props; it was\nrickety.\n\nI smiled then over this dose of maternal tenderness, coming from the\nruddy old lady of the Seven Hills; smiled, too, at my own\ndisinclination, not to say disability, to meet these melting favours.\nGlancing at the title-page, I found the name of \"Père Silas.\" A\nfly-leaf bore in small, but clear and well-known pencil characters:\n\"From P. C. D. E. to L--y.\" And when I saw this I laughed: but not in\nmy former spirit. I was revived.\n\nA mortal bewilderment cleared suddenly from my head and vision; the\nsolution of the Sphinx-riddle was won; the conjunction of those two\nnames, Père Silas and Paul Emanuel, gave the key to all. The penitent\nhad been with his director; permitted to withhold nothing; suffered to\nkeep no corner of his heart sacred to God and to himself; the whole\nnarrative of our late interview had been drawn from him; he had avowed\nthe covenant of fraternity, and spoken of his adopted sister. How could\nsuch a covenant, such adoption, be sanctioned by the Church? Fraternal\ncommunion with a heretic! I seemed to hear Père Silas annulling the\nunholy pact; warning his penitent of its perils; entreating, enjoining\nreserve, nay, by the authority of his office, and in the name, and by\nthe memory of all M. Emanuel held most dear and sacred, commanding the\nenforcement of that new system whose frost had pierced to the marrow of\nmy bones.\n\nThese may not seem pleasant hypotheses; yet, by comparison, they were\nwelcome. The vision of a ghostly troubler hovering in the background,\nwas as nothing, matched with the fear of spontaneous change arising in\nM. Paul himself.\n\nAt this distance of time, I cannot be sure how far the above\nconjectures were self-suggested: or in what measure they owed their\norigin and confirmation to another quarter. Help was not wanting.\n\nThis evening there was no bright sunset: west and east were one cloud;\nno summer night-mist, blue, yet rose-tinged, softened the distance; a\nclammy fog from the marshes crept grey round Villette. To-night the\nwatering-pot might rest in its niche by the well: a small rain had been\ndrizzling all the afternoon, and still it fell fast and quietly. This\nwas no weather for rambling in the wet alleys, under the dripping\ntrees; and I started to hear Sylvie's sudden bark in the garden--her\nbark of welcome. Surely she was not accompanied and yet this glad,\nquick bark was never uttered, save in homage to one presence.\n\nThrough the glass door and the arching berceau, I commanded the deep\nvista of the allée défendue: thither rushed Sylvie, glistening through\nits gloom like a white guelder-rose. She ran to and fro, whining,\nspringing, harassing little birds amongst the bushes. I watched five\nminutes; no fulfilment followed the omen. I returned to my books;\nSylvie's sharp bark suddenly ceased. Again I looked up. She was\nstanding not many yards distant, wagging her white feathery tail as\nfast as the muscle would work, and intently watching the operations of\na spade, plied fast by an indefatigable hand. There was M. Emanuel,\nbent over the soil, digging in the wet mould amongst the rain-laden and\nstreaming shrubs, working as hard as if his day's pittance were yet to\nearn by the literal sweat of his brow.\n\nIn this sign I read a ruffled mood. He would dig thus in frozen snow on\nthe coldest winter day, when urged inwardly by painful emotion, whether\nof nervous excitation, or, sad thoughts of self-reproach. He would dig\nby the hour, with knit brow and set teeth, nor once lift his head, or\nopen his lips.\n\nSylvie watched till she was tired. Again scampering devious, bounding\nhere, rushing there, snuffing and sniffing everywhere; she at last\ndiscovered me in classe. Instantly she flew barking at the panes, as if\nto urge me forth to share her pleasure or her master's toil; she had\nseen me occasionally walking in that alley with M. Paul; and I doubt\nnot, considered it my duty to join him now, wet as it was.\n\nShe made such a bustle that M. Paul at last looked up, and of course\nperceived why, and at whom she barked. He whistled to call her off; she\nonly barked the louder. She seemed quite bent upon having the glass\ndoor opened. Tired, I suppose, with her importunity, he threw down his\nspade, approached, and pushed the door ajar. Sylvie burst in all\nimpetuous, sprang to my lap, and with her paws at my neck, and her\nlittle nose and tongue somewhat overpoweringly busy about my face,\nmouth, and eyes, flourished her bushy tail over the desk, and scattered\nbooks and papers far and wide.\n\nM. Emanuel advanced to still the clamour and repair the disarrangement.\nHaving gathered up the books, he captured Sylvie, and stowed her away\nunder his paletôt, where she nestled as quiet as a mouse, her head just\npeeping forth. She was very tiny, and had the prettiest little innocent\nface, the silkiest long ears, the finest dark eyes in the world. I\nnever saw her, but I thought of Paulina de Bassompierre: forgive the\nassociation, reader, it _would_ occur.\n\nM. Paul petted and patted her; the endearments she received were not to\nbe wondered at; she invited affection by her beauty and her vivacious\nlife.\n\nWhile caressing the spaniel, his eye roved over the papers and books\njust replaced; it settled on the religious tract. His lips moved; he\nhalf checked the impulse to speak. What! had he promised never to\naddress me more? If so, his better nature pronounced the vow \"more\nhonoured in the breach than in the observance,\" for with a second\neffort, he spoke.--\"You have not yet read the brochure, I presume? It\nis not sufficiently inviting?\"\n\nI replied that I had read it.\n\nHe waited, as if wishing me to give an opinion upon it unasked.\nUnasked, however, I was in no mood to do or say anything. If any\nconcessions were to be made--if any advances were demanded--that was\nthe affair of the very docile pupil of Père Silas, not mine. His eye\nsettled upon me gently: there was mildness at the moment in its blue\nray--there was solicitude--a shade of pathos; there were meanings\ncomposite and contrasted--reproach melting into remorse. At the moment\nprobably, he would have been glad to see something emotional in me. I\ncould not show it. In another minute, however, I should have betrayed\nconfusion, had I not bethought myself to take some quill-pens from my\ndesk, and begin soberly to mend them.\n\nI knew that action would give a turn to his mood. He never liked to see\nme mend pens; my knife was always dull-edged--my hand, too, was\nunskilful; I hacked and chipped. On this occasion I cut my own\nfinger--half on purpose. I wanted to restore him to his natural state,\nto set him at his ease, to get him to chide.\n\n\"Maladroit!\" he cried at last, \"she will make mincemeat of her hands.\"\n\nHe put Sylvie down, making her lie quiet beside his bonnet-grec, and,\ndepriving me of the pens and penknife, proceeded to slice, nib, and\npoint with the accuracy and celerity of a machine.\n\n\"Did I like the little book?\" he now inquired.\n\nSuppressing a yawn, I said I hardly knew.\n\n\"Had it moved me?\"\n\n\"I thought it had made me a little sleepy.\"\n\n(After a pause:) \"Allons donc! It was of no use taking that tone with\nhim. Bad as I was--and he should be sorry to have to name all my faults\nat a breath--God and nature had given me 'trop de sensibilité et de\nsympathie' not to be profoundly affected by an appeal so touching.\"\n\n\"Indeed!\" I responded, rousing myself quickly, \"I was not affected at\nall--not a whit.\"\n\nAnd in proof, I drew from my pocket a perfectly dry handkerchief, still\nclean and in its folds.\n\nHereupon I was made the object of a string of strictures rather piquant\nthan polite. I listened with zest. After those two days of unnatural\nsilence, it was better than music to hear M. Paul haranguing again just\nin his old fashion. I listened, and meantime solaced myself and Sylvie\nwith the contents of a bonbonnière, which M. Emanuel's gifts kept well\nsupplied with chocolate comfits: It pleased him to see even a small\nmatter from his hand duly appreciated. He looked at me and the spaniel\nwhile we shared the spoil; he put up his penknife. Touching my hand\nwith the bundle of new-cut quills, he said:--\"Dites donc, petite\nsoeur--speak frankly--what have you thought of me during the last two\ndays?\"\n\nBut of this question I would take no manner of notice; its purport made\nmy eyes fill. I caressed Sylvie assiduously. M. Paul, leaning--over the\ndesk, bent towards me:--\"I called myself your brother,\" he said: \"I\nhardly know what I am--brother--friend--I cannot tell. I know I think\nof you--I feel I wish, you well--but I must check myself; you are to be\nfeared. My best friends point out danger, and whisper caution.\"\n\n\"You do right to listen to your friends. By all means be cautious.\"\n\n\"It is your religion--your strange, self-reliant, invulnerable creed,\nwhose influence seems to clothe you in, I know not what, unblessed\npanoply. You are good--Père Silas calls you good, and loves you--but\nyour terrible, proud, earnest Protestantism, there is the danger. It\nexpresses itself by your eye at times; and again, it gives you certain\ntones and certain gestures that make my flesh creep. You are not\ndemonstrative, and yet, just now--when you handled that tract--my God!\nI thought Lucifer smiled.\"\n\n\"Certainly I don't respect that tract--what then?\"\n\n\"Not respect that tract? But it is the pure essence of faith, love,\ncharity! I thought it would touch you: in its gentleness, I trusted\nthat it could not fail. I laid it in your desk with a prayer: I must\nindeed be a sinner: Heaven will not hear the petitions that come\nwarmest from my heart. You scorn my little offering. Oh, cela me fait\nmal!\"\n\n\"Monsieur, I don't scorn it--at least, not as your gift. Monsieur, sit\ndown; listen to me. I am not a heathen, I am not hard-hearted, I am not\nunchristian, I am not dangerous, as they tell you; I would not trouble\nyour faith; you believe in God and Christ and the Bible, and so do I.\"\n\n\"But _do_ you believe in the Bible? Do you receive Revelation? What\nlimits are there to the wild, careless daring of your country and sect.\nPère Silas dropped dark hints.\"\n\nBy dint of persuasion, I made him half-define these hints; they\namounted to crafty Jesuit-slanders. That night M. Paul and I talked\nseriously and closely. He pleaded, he argued. _I_ could not argue--a\nfortunate incapacity; it needed but triumphant, logical opposition to\neffect all the director wished to be effected; but I could talk in my\nown way--the way M. Paul was used to--and of which he could follow the\nmeanderings and fill the hiatus, and pardon the strange stammerings,\nstrange to him no longer. At ease with him, I could defend my creed and\nfaith in my own fashion; in some degree I could lull his prejudices. He\nwas not satisfied when he went away, hardly was he appeased; but he was\nmade thoroughly to feel that Protestants were not necessarily the\nirreverent Pagans his director had insinuated; he was made to\ncomprehend something of their mode of honouring the Light, the Life,\nthe Word; he was enabled partly to perceive that, while their\nveneration for things venerable was not quite like that cultivated in\nhis Church, it had its own, perhaps, deeper power--its own more solemn\nawe.\n\nI found that Père Silas (himself, I must repeat, not a bad man, though\nthe advocate of a bad cause) had darkly stigmatized Protestants in\ngeneral, and myself by inference, with strange names, had ascribed to\nus strange \"isms;\" Monsieur Emanuel revealed all this in his frank\nfashion, which knew not secretiveness, looking at me as he spoke with a\nkind, earnest fear, almost trembling lest there should be truth in the\ncharges. Père Silas, it seems, had closely watched me, had ascertained\nthat I went by turns, and indiscriminately, to the three Protestant\nChapels of Villette--the French, German, and English--_id est_, the\nPresbyterian, Lutheran, Episcopalian. Such liberality argued in the\nfather's eyes profound indifference--who tolerates all, he reasoned,\ncan be attached to none. Now, it happened that I had often secretly\nwondered at the minute and unimportant character of the differences\nbetween these three sects--at the unity and identity of their vital\ndoctrines: I saw nothing to hinder them from being one day fused into\none grand Holy Alliance, and I respected them all, though I thought\nthat in each there were faults of form, incumbrances, and trivialities.\nJust what I thought, that did I tell M. Emanuel, and explained to him\nthat my own last appeal, the guide to which I looked, and the teacher\nwhich I owned, must always be the Bible itself, rather than any sect,\nof whatever name or nation.\n\nHe left me soothed, yet full of solicitude, breathing a wish, as strong\nas a prayer, that if I were wrong, Heaven would lead me right. I heard,\npoured forth on the threshold, some fervid murmurings to \"Marie, Reine\ndu Ciel,\" some deep aspiration that _his_ hope might yet be _mine_.\n\nStrange! I had no such feverish wish to turn him from the faith of his\nfathers. I thought Romanism wrong, a great mixed image of gold and\nclay; but it seemed to me that _this_ Romanist held the purer elements\nof his creed with an innocency of heart which God must love.\n\nThe preceding conversation passed between eight and nine o'clock of the\nevening, in a schoolroom of the quiet Rue Fossette, opening on a\nsequestered garden. Probably about the same, or a somewhat later hour\nof the succeeding evening, its echoes, collected by holy obedience,\nwere breathed verbatim in an attent ear, at the panel of a\nconfessional, in the hoary church of the Magi. It ensued that Père\nSilas paid a visit to Madame Beck, and stirred by I know not what\nmixture of motives, persuaded her to let him undertake for a time the\nEnglishwoman's spiritual direction.\n\nHereupon I was put through a course of reading--that is, I just glanced\nat the books lent me; they were too little in my way to be thoroughly\nread, marked, learned, or inwardly digested. And besides, I had a book\nup-stairs, under my pillow, whereof certain chapters satisfied my needs\nin the article of spiritual lore, furnishing such precept and example\nas, to my heart's core, I was convinced could not be improved on.\n\nThen Père Silas showed me the fair side of Rome, her good works; and\nbade me judge the tree by its fruits.\n\nIn answer, I felt and I avowed that these works were _not_ the fruits\nof Rome; they were but her abundant blossoming, but the fair promise\nshe showed the world, That bloom, when set, savoured not of charity;\nthe apple full formed was ignorance, abasement, and bigotry. Out of\nmen's afflictions and affections were forged the rivets of their\nservitude. Poverty was fed and clothed, and sheltered, to bind it by\nobligation to \"the Church;\" orphanage was reared and educated that it\nmight grow up in the fold of \"the Church;\" sickness was tended that it\nmight die after the formula and in the ordinance of \"the Church;\" and\nmen were overwrought, and women most murderously sacrificed, and all\nlaid down a world God made pleasant for his creatures' good, and took\nup a cross, monstrous in its galling weight, that they might serve\nRome, prove her sanctity, confirm her power, and spread the reign of\nher tyrant \"Church.\"\n\nFor man's good was little done; for God's glory, less. A thousand ways\nwere opened with pain, with blood-sweats, with lavishing of life;\nmountains were cloven through their breasts, and rocks were split to\ntheir base; and all for what? That a Priesthood might march straight on\nand straight upward to an all-dominating eminence, whence they might at\nlast stretch the sceptre of their Moloch \"Church.\"\n\nIt will not be. God is not with Rome, and, were human sorrows still for\nthe Son of God, would he not mourn over her cruelties and ambitions, as\nonce he mourned over the crimes and woes of doomed Jerusalem!\n\nOh, lovers of power! Oh, mitred aspirants for this world's kingdoms! an\nhour will come, even to you, when it will be well for your\nhearts--pausing faint at each broken beat--that there is a Mercy beyond\nhuman compassions, a Love, stronger than this strong death which even\nyou must face, and before it, fall; a Charity more potent than any sin,\neven yours; a Pity which redeems worlds--nay, absolves Priests.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nMy third temptation was held out in the pomp of Rome--the glory of her\nkingdom. I was taken to the churches on solemn occasions--days of fête\nand state; I was shown the Papal ritual and ceremonial. I looked at it.\n\nMany people--men and women--no doubt far my superiors in a thousand\nways, have felt this display impressive, have declared that though\ntheir Reason protested, their Imagination was subjugated. I cannot say\nthe same. Neither full procession, nor high mass, nor swarming tapers,\nnor swinging censers, nor ecclesiastical millinery, nor celestial\njewellery, touched my imagination a whit. What I saw struck me as\ntawdry, not grand; as grossly material, not poetically spiritual.\n\nThis I did not tell Père Silas; he was old, he looked venerable:\nthrough every abortive experiment, under every repeated disappointment,\nhe remained personally kind to me, and I felt tender of hurting his\nfeelings. But on the evening of a certain day when, from the balcony of\na great house, I had been made to witness a huge mingled procession of\nthe church and the army--priests with relics, and soldiers with\nweapons, an obese and aged archbishop, habited in cambric and lace,\nlooking strangely like a grey daw in bird-of-paradise plumage, and a\nband of young girls fantastically robed and garlanded--_then_ I spoke\nmy mind to M. Paul.\n\n\"I did not like it,\" I told him; \"I did not respect such ceremonies; I\nwished to see no more.\"\n\nAnd having relieved my conscience by this declaration, I was able to go\non, and, speaking more currently and clearly than my wont, to show him\nthat I had a mind to keep to my reformed creed; the more I saw of\nPopery the closer I clung to Protestantism; doubtless there were errors\nin every church, but I now perceived by contrast how severely pure was\nmy own, compared with her whose painted and meretricious face had been\nunveiled for my admiration. I told him how we kept fewer forms between\nus and God; retaining, indeed, no more than, perhaps, the nature of\nmankind in the mass rendered necessary for due observance. I told him I\ncould not look on flowers and tinsel, on wax-lights and embroidery, at\nsuch times and under such circumstances as should be devoted to lifting\nthe secret vision to Him whose home is Infinity, and His\nbeing--Eternity. That when I thought of sin and sorrow, of earthly\ncorruption, mortal depravity, weighty temporal woe--I could not care\nfor chanting priests or mumming officials; that when the pains of\nexistence and the terrors of dissolution pressed before me--when the\nmighty hope and measureless doubt of the future arose in view--_then_,\neven the scientific strain, or the prayer in a language learned and\ndead, harassed: with hindrance a heart which only longed to cry--\"God\nbe merciful to me, a sinner!\"\n\nWhen I had so spoken, so declared my faith, and so widely severed\nmyself, from him I addressed--then, at last, came a tone accordant, an\necho responsive, one sweet chord of harmony in two conflicting spirits.\n\n\"Whatever say priests or controversialists,\" murmured M. Emanuel, \"God\nis good, and loves all the sincere. Believe, then, what you can;\nbelieve it as you can; one prayer, at least, we have in common; I also\ncry--'O Dieu, sois appaisé envers moi qui suis pécheur!'\"\n\nHe leaned on the back of my chair. After some thought he again spoke:\n\n\"How seem in the eyes of that God who made all firmaments, from whose\nnostrils issued whatever of life is here, or in the stars shining\nyonder--how seem the differences of man? But as Time is not for God,\nnor Space, so neither is Measure, nor Comparison. We abase ourselves in\nour littleness, and we do right; yet it may be that the constancy of\none heart, the truth and faith of one mind according to the light He\nhas appointed, import as much to Him as the just motion of satellites\nabout their planets, of planets about their suns, of suns around that\nmighty unseen centre incomprehensible, irrealizable, with strange\nmental effort only divined.\n\n\"God guide us all! God bless you, Lucy!\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXVII.\n\nSUNSHINE.\n\n\nIt was very, well for Paulina to decline further correspondence with\nGraham till her father had sanctioned the intercourse. But Dr. Bretton\ncould not live within a league of the Hôtel Crécy, and not contrive to\nvisit there often. Both lovers meant at first, I believe, to be\ndistant; they kept their intention so far as demonstrative courtship\nwent, but in feeling they soon drew very near.\n\nAll that was best in Graham sought Paulina; whatever in him was noble,\nawoke, and grew in her presence. With his past admiration of Miss\nFanshawe, I suppose his intellect had little to do, but his whole\nintellect, and his highest tastes, came in question now. These, like\nall his faculties, were active, eager for nutriment, and alive to\ngratification when it came.\n\nI cannot say that Paulina designedly led him to talk of books, or\nformally proposed to herself for a moment the task of winning him to\nreflection, or planned the improvement of his mind, or so much as\nfancied his mind could in any one respect be improved. She thought him\nvery perfect; it was Graham himself, who, at first by the merest\nchance, mentioned some book he had been reading, and when in her\nresponse sounded a welcome harmony of sympathies, something, pleasant\nto his soul, he talked on, more and better perhaps than he had ever\ntalked before on such subjects. She listened with delight, and answered\nwith animation. In each successive answer, Graham heard a music waxing\nfiner and finer to his sense; in each he found a suggestive,\npersuasive, magic accent that opened a scarce-known treasure-house\nwithin, showed him unsuspected power in his own mind, and what was\nbetter, latent goodness in his heart. Each liked the way in which the\nother talked; the voice, the diction, the expression pleased; each\nkeenly relished the flavour of the other's wit; they met each other's\nmeaning with strange quickness, their thoughts often matched like\ncarefully-chosen pearls. Graham had wealth of mirth by nature; Paulina\npossessed no such inherent flow of animal spirits--unstimulated, she\ninclined to be thoughtful and pensive--but now she seemed merry as a\nlark; in her lover's genial presence, she glanced like some soft glad\nlight. How beautiful she grew in her happiness, I can hardly express,\nbut I wondered to see her. As to that gentle ice of hers--that reserve\non which she had depended; where was it now? Ah! Graham would not long\nbear it; he brought with him a generous influence that soon thawed the\ntimid, self-imposed restriction.\n\nNow were the old Bretton days talked over; perhaps brokenly at first,\nwith a sort of smiling diffidence, then with opening candour and still\ngrowing confidence. Graham had made for himself a better opportunity\nthan that he had wished me to give; he had earned independence of the\ncollateral help that disobliging Lucy had refused; all his\nreminiscences of \"little Polly\" found their proper expression in his\nown pleasant tones, by his own kind and handsome lips; how much better\nthan if suggested by me.\n\nMore than once when we were alone, Paulina would tell me how wonderful\nand curious it was to discover the richness and accuracy of his memory\nin this matter. How, while he was looking at her, recollections would\nseem to be suddenly quickened in his mind. He reminded her that she had\nonce gathered his head in her arms, caressed his leonine graces, and\ncried out, \"Graham, I _do_ like you!\" He told her how she would set a\nfootstool beside him, and climb by its aid to his knee. At this day he\nsaid he could recall the sensation of her little hands smoothing his\ncheek, or burying themselves in his thick mane. He remembered the touch\nof her small forefinger, placed half tremblingly, half curiously, in\nthe cleft in his chin, the lisp, the look with which she would name it\n\"a pretty dimple,\" then seek his eyes and question why they pierced so,\ntelling him he had a \"nice, strange face; far nicer, far stranger, than\neither his mamma or Lucy Snowe.\"\n\n\"Child as I was,\" remarked Paulina, \"I wonder how I dared be so\nventurous. To me he seems now all sacred, his locks are inaccessible,\nand, Lucy, I feel a sort of fear, when I look at his firm, marble chin,\nat his straight Greek features. Women are called beautiful, Lucy; he is\nnot like a woman, therefore I suppose he is not beautiful, but what is\nhe, then? Do other people see him with my eyes? Do _you_ admire him?\"\n\n\"I'll tell you what I do, Paulina,\" was once my answer to her many\nquestions. \"_I never see him_. I looked at him twice or thrice about a\nyear ago, before he recognised me, and then I shut my eyes; and if he\nwere to cross their balls twelve times between each day's sunset and\nsunrise, except from memory, I should hardly know what shape had gone\nby.\"\n\n\"Lucy, what do you mean?\" said she, under her breath.\n\n\"I mean that I value vision, and dread being struck stone blind.\"\n\nIt was best to answer her strongly at once, and to silence for ever the\ntender, passionate confidences which left her lips sweet honey, and\nsometimes dropped in my ear--molten lead. To me, she commented no more\non her lover's beauty.\n\nYet speak of him she would; sometimes shyly, in quiet, brief phrases;\nsometimes with a tenderness of cadence, and music of voice exquisite in\nitself; but which chafed me at times miserably; and then, I know, I\ngave her stern looks and words; but cloudless happiness had dazzled her\nnative clear sight, and she only thought Lucy--fitful.\n\n\"Spartan girl! Proud Lucy!\" she would say, smiling at me. \"Graham says\nyou are the most peculiar, capricious little woman he knows; but yet\nyou are excellent; we both think so.\"\n\n\"You both think you know not what,\" said I. \"Have the goodness to make\nme as little the subject of your mutual talk and thoughts as possible.\nI have my sort of life apart from yours.\"\n\n\"But ours, Lucy, is a beautiful life, or it will be; and you shall\nshare it.\"\n\n\"I shall share no man's or woman's life in this world, as you\nunderstand sharing. I think I have one friend of my own, but am not\nsure; and till I _am_ sure, I live solitary.\"\n\n\"But solitude is sadness.\"\n\n\"Yes; it is sadness. Life, however; has worse than that. Deeper than\nmelancholy, lies heart-break.\"\n\n\"Lucy, I wonder if anybody will ever comprehend you altogether.\"\n\nThere is, in lovers, a certain infatuation of egotism; they will have a\nwitness of their happiness, cost that witness what it may. Paulina had\nforbidden letters, yet Dr. Bretton wrote; she had resolved against\ncorrespondence, yet she answered, were it only to chide. She showed me\nthese letters; with something of the spoiled child's wilfulness, and of\nthe heiress's imperiousness, she _made_ me read them. As I read\nGraham's, I scarce wondered at her exaction, and understood her pride:\nthey were fine letters--manly and fond--modest and gallant. Hers must\nhave appeared to him beautiful. They had not been written to show her\ntalents; still less, I think, to express her love. On the contrary, it\nappeared that she had proposed to herself the task of hiding that\nfeeling, and bridling her lover's ardour. But how could such letters\nserve such a purpose? Graham was become dear as her life; he drew her\nlike a powerful magnet. For her there was influence unspeakable in all\nhe uttered, wrote, thought, or looked. With this unconfessed\nconfession, her letters glowed; it kindled them, from greeting to adieu.\n\n\"I wish papa knew; I _do_ wish papa knew!\" began now to be her anxious\nmurmur. \"I wish, and yet I fear. I can hardly keep Graham back from\ntelling him. There is nothing I long for more than to have this affair\nsettled--to speak out candidly; and yet I dread the crisis. I know, I\nam certain, papa will be angry at the first; I fear he will dislike me\nalmost; it will seem to him an untoward business; it will be a\nsurprise, a shock: I can hardly foresee its whole effect on him.\"\n\nThe fact was--her father, long calm, was beginning to be a little\nstirred: long blind on one point, an importunate light was beginning to\ntrespass on his eye.\n\nTo _her_, he said nothing; but when she was not looking at, or perhaps\nthinking of him, I saw him gaze and meditate on her.\n\nOne evening--Paulina was in her dressing-room, writing, I believe, to\nGraham; she had left me in the library, reading--M. de Bassompierre\ncame in; he sat down: I was about to withdraw; he requested me to\nremain--gently, yet in a manner which showed he wished compliance. He\nhad taken his seat near the window, at a distance from me; he opened a\ndesk; he took from it what looked like a memorandum-book; of this book\nhe studied a certain entry for several minutes.\n\n\"Miss Snowe,\" said he, laying it down, \"do you know my little girl's\nage?\"\n\n\"About eighteen, is it not, sir?\"\n\n\"It seems so. This old pocket-book tells me she was born on the 5th of\nMay, in the year 18--, eighteen years ago. It is strange; I had lost\nthe just reckoning of her age. I thought of her as twelve--fourteen--an\nindefinite date; but she seemed a child.\"\n\n\"She is about eighteen,\" I repeated. \"She is grown up; she will be no\ntaller.\"\n\n\"My little jewel!\" said M. de Bassompierre, in a tone which penetrated\nlike some of his daughter's accents.\n\nHe sat very thoughtful.\n\n\"Sir, don't grieve,\" I said; for I knew his feelings, utterly unspoken\nas they were.\n\n\"She is the only pearl I have,\" he said; \"and now others will find out\nthat she is pure and of price: they will covet her.\"\n\nI made no answer. Graham Bretton had dined with us that day; he had\nshone both in converse and looks: I know not what pride of bloom\nembellished his aspect and mellowed his intercourse. Under the stimulus\nof a high hope, something had unfolded in his whole manner which\ncompelled attention. I think he had purposed on that day to indicate\nthe origin of his endeavours, and the aim of his ambition. M. de\nBassompierre had found himself forced, in a manner, to descry the\ndirection and catch the character of his homage. Slow in remarking, he\nwas logical in reasoning: having once seized the thread, it had guided\nhim through a long labyrinth.\n\n\"Where is she?\" he asked.\n\n\"She is up-stairs.\"\n\n\"What is she doing?\"\n\n\"She is writing.\"\n\n\"She writes, does she? Does she receive letters?\"\n\n\"None but such as she can show me. And--sir--she--_they_ have long\nwanted to consult you.\"\n\n\"Pshaw! They don't think of me--an old father! I am in the way.\"\n\n\"Ah, M. de Bassompierre--not so--that can't be! But Paulina must speak\nfor herself: and Dr. Bretton, too, must be his own advocate.\"\n\n\"It is a little late. Matters are advanced, it seems.\"\n\n\"Sir, till you approve, nothing is done--only they love each other.\"\n\n\"Only!\" he echoed.\n\nInvested by fate with the part of confidante and mediator, I was\nobliged to go on: \"Hundreds of times has Dr. Bretton been on the point\nof appealing to you, sir; but, with all his high courage, he fears you\nmortally.\"\n\n\"He may well--he may well fear me. He has touched the best thing I\nhave. Had he but let her alone, she would have remained a child for\nyears yet. So. Are they engaged?\"\n\n\"They could not become engaged without your permission.\"\n\n\"It is well for you, Miss Snowe, to talk and think with that propriety\nwhich always characterizes you; but this matter is a grief to me; my\nlittle girl was all I had: I have no more daughters and no son; Bretton\nmight as well have looked elsewhere; there are scores of rich and\npretty women who would not, I daresay, dislike him: he has looks, and\nconduct, and connection. Would nothing serve him but my Polly?\"\n\n\"If he had never seen your 'Polly,' others might and would have pleased\nhim--your niece, Miss Fanshawe, for instance.\"\n\n\"Ah! I would have given him Ginevra with all my heart; but Polly!--I\ncan't let him have her. No--I can't. He is not her equal,\" he affirmed,\nrather gruffly. \"In what particular is he her match? They talk of\nfortune! I am not an avaricious or interested man, but the world thinks\nof these things--and Polly will be rich.\"\n\n\"Yes, that is known,\" said I: \"all Villette knows her as an heiress.\"\n\n\"Do they talk of my little girl in that light?\"\n\n\"They do, sir.\"\n\nHe fell into deep thought. I ventured to say, \"Would you, sir, think\nany one Paulina's match? Would you prefer any other to Dr. Bretton? Do\nyou think higher rank or more wealth would make much difference in your\nfeelings towards a future son-in-law?\"\n\n\"You touch me there,\" said he.\n\n\"Look at the aristocracy of Villette--you would not like them, sir?\"\n\n\"I should not--never a duc, baron, or vicomte of the lot.\"\n\n\"I am told many of these persons think about her, sir,\" I went on,\ngaining courage on finding that I met attention rather than repulse.\n\"Other suitors will come, therefore, if Dr. Bretton is refused.\nWherever you go, I suppose, aspirants will not be wanting. Independent\nof heiress-ship, it appears to me that Paulina charms most of those who\nsee her.\"\n\n\"Does she? How? My little girl is not thought a beauty.\"\n\n\"Sir, Miss de Bassompierre is very beautiful.\"\n\n\"Nonsense!--begging your pardon, Miss Snowe, but I think you are too\npartial. I like Polly: I like all her ways and all her looks--but then\nI am her father; and even I never thought about beauty. She is amusing,\nfairy-like, interesting to me;--you must be mistaken in supposing her\nhandsome?\"\n\n\"She attracts, sir: she would attract without the advantages of your\nwealth and position.\"\n\n\"My wealth and position! Are these any bait to Graham? If I thought\nso----\"\n\n\"Dr. Bretton knows these points perfectly, as you may be sure, M. de\nBassompierre, and values them as any gentleman would--as _you_ would\nyourself, under the same circumstances--but they are not his baits. He\nloves your daughter very much; he feels her finest qualities, and they\ninfluence him worthily.\"\n\n\"What! has my little pet 'fine qualities?'\"\n\n\"Ah, sir! did you observe her that evening when so many men of eminence\nand learning dined here?\"\n\n\"I certainly was rather struck and surprised with her manner that day;\nits womanliness made me smile.\"\n\n\"And did you see those accomplished Frenchmen gather round her in the\ndrawing-room?\"\n\n\"I did; but I thought it was by way of relaxation--as one might amuse\none's self with a pretty infant.\"\n\n\"Sir, she demeaned herself with distinction; and I heard the French\ngentlemen say she was 'pétrie d'esprit et de graces.' Dr. Bretton\nthought the same.\"\n\n\"She is a good, dear child, that is certain; and I _do_ believe she has\nsome character. When I think of it, I was once ill; Polly nursed me;\nthey thought I should die; she, I recollect, grew at once stronger and\ntenderer as I grew worse in health. And as I recovered, what a sunbeam\nshe was in my sick-room! Yes; she played about my chair as noiselessly\nand as cheerful as light. And now she is sought in marriage! I don't\nwant to part with her,\" said he, and he groaned.\n\n\"You have known Dr. and Mrs. Bretton so long,\" I suggested, \"it would\nbe less like separation to give her to him than to another.\"\n\nHe reflected rather gloomily.\n\n\"True. I have long known Louisa Bretton,\" he murmured. \"She and I are\nindeed old, old friends; a sweet, kind girl she was when she was young.\nYou talk of beauty, Miss Snowe! _she_ was handsome, if you will--tall,\nstraight, and blooming--not the mere child or elf my Polly seems to me:\nat eighteen, Louisa had a carriage and stature fit for a princess. She\nis a comely and a good woman now. The lad is like her; I have always\nthought so, and favoured and wished him well. Now he repays me by this\nrobbery! My little treasure used to love her old father dearly and\ntruly. It is all over now, doubtless--I am an incumbrance.\"\n\nThe door opened--his \"little treasure\" came in. She was dressed, so to\nspeak, in evening beauty; that animation which sometimes comes with the\nclose of day, warmed her eye and cheek; a tinge of summer crimson\nheightened her complexion; her curls fell full and long on her lily\nneck; her white dress suited the heat of June. Thinking me alone, she\nhad brought in her hand the letter just written--brought it folded but\nunsealed. I was to read it. When she saw her father, her tripping step\nfaltered a little, paused a moment--the colour in her cheek flowed rosy\nover her whole face.\n\n\"Polly,\" said M. de Bassompierre, in a low voice, with a grave smile,\n\"do you blush at seeing papa? That is something new.\"\n\n\"I don't blush--I never _do_ blush,\" affirmed she, while another eddy\nfrom the heart sent up its scarlet. \"But I thought you were in the\ndining-room, and I wanted Lucy.\"\n\n\"You thought I was with John Graham Bretton, I suppose? But he has just\nbeen called out: he will be back soon, Polly. He can post your letter\nfor you; it will save Matthieu a 'course,' as he calls it.\"\n\n\"I don't post letters,\" said she, rather pettishly.\n\n\"What do you do with them, then?--come here and tell me.\"\n\nBoth her mind and gesture seemed to hesitate a second--to say \"Shall I\ncome?\"--but she approached.\n\n\"How long is it since you became a letter-writer, Polly? It only seems\nyesterday when you were at your pot-hooks, labouring away absolutely\nwith both hands at the pen.\"\n\n\"Papa, they are not letters to send to the post in your letter-bag;\nthey are only notes, which I give now and then into the person's hands,\njust to satisfy.\"\n\n\"The person! That means Miss Snowe, I suppose?\"\n\n\"No, papa--not Lucy.\"\n\n\"Who then? Perhaps Mrs. Bretton?\"\n\n\"No, papa--not Mrs. Bretton.\"\n\n\"Who, then, my little daughter? Tell papa the truth.\"\n\n\"Oh, papa!\" she cried with earnestness, \"I will--I _will_ tell you the\ntruth--all the truth; I am glad to tell you--glad, though I tremble.\"\n\nShe _did_ tremble: growing excitement, kindling feeling, and also\ngathering courage, shook her.\n\n\"I hate to hide my actions from you, papa. I fear you and love you\nabove everything but God. Read the letter; look at the address.\"\n\nShe laid it on his knee. He took it up and read it through; his hand\nshaking, his eyes glistening meantime.\n\nHe re-folded it, and viewed the writer with a strange, tender, mournful\namaze.\n\n\"Can _she_ write so--the little thing that stood at my knee but\nyesterday? Can she feel so?\"\n\n\"Papa, is it wrong? Does it pain you?\"\n\n\"There is nothing wrong in it, my innocent little Mary; but it pains\nme.\"\n\n\"But, papa, listen! You shall not be pained by me. I would give up\neverything--almost\" (correcting herself); \"I would die rather than make\nyou unhappy; that would be too wicked!\"\n\nShe shuddered.\n\n\"Does the letter not please you? Must it not go? Must it be torn? It\nshall, for your sake, if you order it.\"\n\n\"I order nothing.\"\n\n\"Order something, papa; express your wish; only don't hurt, don't\ngrieve Graham. I cannot, _cannot_ bear that. I love you, papa; but I\nlove Graham too--because--because--it is impossible to help it.\"\n\n\"This splendid Graham is a young scamp, Polly--that is my present\nnotion of him: it will surprise you to hear that, for my part, I do not\nlove him one whit. Ah! years ago I saw something in that lad's eye I\nnever quite fathomed--something his mother has not--a depth which\nwarned a man not to wade into that stream too far; now, suddenly, I\nfind myself taken over the crown of the head.\"\n\n\"Papa, you don't--you have not fallen in; you are safe on the bank; you\ncan do as you please; your power is despotic; you can shut me up in a\nconvent, and break Graham's heart to-morrow, if you choose to be so\ncruel. Now, autocrat, now czar, will you do this?\"\n\n\"Off with him to Siberia, red whiskers and all; I say, I don't like\nhim, Polly, and I wonder that you should.\"\n\n\"Papa,\" said she, \"do you know you are very naughty? I never saw you\nlook so disagreeable, so unjust, so almost vindictive before. There is\nan expression in your face which does not belong to you.\"\n\n\"Off with him!\" pursued Mr. Home, who certainly did look sorely crossed\nand annoyed--even a little bitter; \"but, I suppose, if he went, Polly\nwould pack a bundle and run after him; her heart is fairly won--won,\nand weaned from her old father.\"\n\n\"Papa, I say it is naughty, it is decidedly wrong, to talk in that way.\nI am _not_ weaned from you, and no human being and no mortal influence\n_can_ wean me.\"\n\n\"Be married, Polly! Espouse the red whiskers. Cease to be a daughter;\ngo and be a wife!\"\n\n\"Red whiskers! I wonder what you mean, papa. You should take care of\nprejudice. You sometimes say to me that all the Scotch, your\ncountrymen, are the victims of prejudice. It is proved now, I think,\nwhen no distinction is to be made between red and deep nut-brown.\"\n\n\"Leave the prejudiced old Scotchman; go away.\"\n\nShe stood looking at him a minute. She wanted to show firmness,\nsuperiority to taunts; knowing her father's character, guessing his few\nfoibles, she had expected the sort of scene which was now transpiring;\nit did not take her by surprise, and she desired to let it pass with\ndignity, reliant upon reaction. Her dignity stood her in no stead.\nSuddenly her soul melted in her eyes; she fell on his neck:--\"I won't\nleave you, papa; I'll never leave you. I won't pain you! I'll never\npain you!\" was her cry.\n\n\"My lamb! my treasure!\" murmured the loving though rugged sire. He said\nno more for the moment; indeed, those two words were hoarse.\n\nThe room was now darkening. I heard a movement, a step without.\nThinking it might be a servant coming with candles, I gently opened, to\nprevent intrusion. In the ante-room stood no servant: a tall gentleman\nwas placing his hat on the table, drawing off his gloves\nslowly--lingering, waiting, it seemed to me. He called me neither by\nsign nor word; yet his eye said:--\"Lucy, come here.\" And I went.\n\nOver his face a smile flowed, while he looked down on me: no temper,\nsave his own, would have expressed by a smile the sort of agitation\nwhich now fevered him.\n\n\"M. de Bassompierre is there--is he not?\" he inquired, pointing to the\nlibrary.\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"He noticed me at dinner? He understood me?\"\n\n\"Yes, Graham.\"\n\n\"I am brought up for judgment, then, and so is _she_?\"\n\n\"Mr. Home\" (we now and always continued to term him Mr. Home at times)\n\"is talking to his daughter.\"\n\n\"Ha! These are sharp moments, Lucy!\"\n\nHe was quite stirred up; his young hand trembled; a vital (I was going\nto write _mortal_, but such words ill apply to one all living like\nhim)--a vital suspense now held, now hurried, his breath: in all this\ntrouble his smile never faded.\n\n\"Is he _very_ angry, Lucy?\"\n\n\"_She_ is very faithful, Graham.\"\n\n\"What will be done unto me?\"\n\n\"Graham, your star must be fortunate.\"\n\n\"Must it? Kind prophet! So cheered, I should be a faint heart indeed to\nquail. I think I find all women faithful, Lucy. I ought to love them,\nand I do. My mother is good; _she_ is divine; and _you_ are true as\nsteel. Are you not?\"\n\n\"Yes, Graham.\"\n\n\"Then give me thy hand, my little god-sister: it is a friendly little\nhand to me, and always has been. And now for the great venture. God be\nwith the right. Lucy, say Amen!\"\n\nHe turned, and waited till I said \"Amen!\"--which I did to please him:\nthe old charm, in doing as he bid me, came back. I wished him success;\nand successful I knew he would be. He was born victor, as some are born\nvanquished.\n\n\"Follow me!\" he said; and I followed him into Mr. Home's presence.\n\n\"Sir,\" he asked, \"what is my sentence?\"\n\nThe father looked at him: the daughter kept her face hid.\n\n\"Well, Bretton,\" said Mr. Home, \"you have given me the usual reward of\nhospitality. I entertained you; you have taken my best. I was always\nglad to see you; you were glad to see the one precious thing I had. You\nspoke me fair; and, meantime, I will not say you _robbed_ me, but I am\nbereaved, and what I have lost, _you_, it seems, have won.\"\n\n\"Sir, I cannot repent.\"\n\n\"Repent! Not you! You triumph, no doubt: John Graham, you descended\npartly from a Highlander and a chief, and there is a trace of the Celt\nin all you look, speak, and think. You have his cunning and his charm.\nThe red--(Well then, Polly, the _fair_) hair, the tongue of guile, and\nbrain of wile, are all come down by inheritance.\"\n\n\"Sir, I _feel_ honest enough,\" said Graham; and a genuine English blush\ncovered his face with its warm witness of sincerity. \"And yet,\" he\nadded, \"I won't deny that in some respects you accuse me justly. In\nyour presence I have always had a thought which I dared not show you. I\ndid truly regard you as the possessor of the most valuable thing the\nworld owns for me. I wished for it: I tried for it. Sir, I ask for it\nnow.\"\n\n\"John, you ask much.\"\n\n\"Very much, sir. It must come from your generosity, as a gift; from\nyour justice, as a reward. I can never earn it.\"\n\n\"Ay! Listen to the Highland tongue!\" said Mr. Home. \"Look up, Polly!\nAnswer this 'braw wooer;' send him away!\"\n\nShe looked up. She shyly glanced at her eager, handsome suitor. She\ngazed tenderly on her furrowed sire.\n\n\"Papa, I love you both,\" said she; \"I can take care of you both. I need\nnot send Graham away--he can live here; he will be no inconvenience,\"\nshe alleged with that simplicity of phraseology which at times was wont\nto make both her father and Graham smile. They smiled now.\n\n\"He will be a prodigious inconvenience to me,\" still persisted Mr.\nHome. \"I don't want him, Polly, he is too tall; he is in my way. Tell\nhim to march.\"\n\n\"You will get used to him, papa. He seemed exceedingly tall to me at\nfirst--like a tower when I looked up at him; but, on the whole, I would\nrather not have him otherwise.\"\n\n\"I object to him altogether, Polly; I can do without a son-in-law. I\nshould never have requested the best man in the land to stand to me in\nthat relation. Dismiss this gentleman.\"\n\n\"But he has known you so long, papa, and suits you so well.\"\n\n\"Suits _me_, forsooth! Yes; he has pretended to make my opinions and\ntastes his own. He has humoured me for good reasons. I think, Polly,\nyou and I will bid him good-by.\"\n\n\"Till to-morrow only. Shake hands with Graham, papa.\"\n\n\"No: I think not: I am not friends with him. Don't think to coax me\nbetween you.\"\n\n\"Indeed, indeed, you _are_ friends. Graham, stretch out your right\nhand. Papa, put out yours. Now, let them touch. Papa, don't be stiff;\nclose your fingers; be pliant--there! But that is not a clasp--it is a\ngrasp? Papa, you grasp like a vice. You crush Graham's hand to the\nbone; you hurt him!\"\n\nHe must have hurt him; for he wore a massive ring, set round with\nbrilliants, of which the sharp facets cut into Graham's flesh and drew\nblood: but pain only made Dr. John laugh, as anxiety had made him smile.\n\n\"Come with me into my study,\" at last said Mr. Home to the doctor. They\nwent. Their intercourse was not long, but I suppose it was conclusive.\nThe suitor had to undergo an interrogatory and a scrutiny on many\nthings. Whether Dr. Bretton was at times guileful in look and language\nor not, there was a sound foundation below. His answers, I understood\nafterwards, evinced both wisdom and integrity. He had managed his\naffairs well. He had struggled through entanglements; his fortunes were\nin the way of retrieval; he proved himself in a position to marry.\n\nOnce more the father and lover appeared in the library. M. de\nBassompierre shut the door; he pointed to his daughter.\n\n\"Take her,\" he said. \"Take her, John Bretton: and may God deal with you\nas you deal with her!\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nNot long after, perhaps a fortnight, I saw three persons, Count de\nBassompierre, his daughter, and Dr. Graham Bretton, sitting on one\nseat, under a low-spreading and umbrageous tree, in the grounds of the\npalace at Bois l'Etang. They had come thither to enjoy a summer\nevening: outside the magnificent gates their carriage waited to take\nthem home; the green sweeps of turf spread round them quiet and dim;\nthe palace rose at a distance, white as a crag on Pentelicus; the\nevening star shone above it; a forest of flowering shrubs embalmed the\nclimate of this spot; the hour was still and sweet; the scene, but for\nthis group, was solitary.\n\nPaulina sat between the two gentlemen: while they conversed, her little\nhands were busy at some work; I thought at first she was binding a\nnosegay. No; with the tiny pair of scissors, glittering in her lap, she\nhad severed spoils from each manly head beside her, and was now\noccupied in plaiting together the grey lock and the golden wave. The\nplait woven--no silk-thread being at hand to bind it--a tress of her\nown hair was made to serve that purpose; she tied it like a knot,\nprisoned it in a locket, and laid it on her heart.\n\n\"Now,\" said she, \"there is an amulet made, which has virtue to keep you\ntwo always friends. You can never quarrel so long as I wear this.\"\n\nAn amulet was indeed made, a spell framed which rendered enmity\nimpossible. She was become a bond to both, an influence over each, a\nmutual concord. From them she drew her happiness, and what she\nborrowed, she, with interest, gave back.\n\n\"Is there, indeed, such happiness on earth?\" I asked, as I watched the\nfather, the daughter, the future husband, now united--all blessed and\nblessing.\n\nYes; it is so. Without any colouring of romance, or any exaggeration of\nfancy, it is so. Some real lives do--for some certain days or\nyears--actually anticipate the happiness of Heaven; and, I believe, if\nsuch perfect happiness is once felt by good people (to the wicked it\nnever comes), its sweet effect is never wholly lost. Whatever trials\nfollow, whatever pains of sickness or shades of death, the glory\nprecedent still shines through, cheering the keen anguish, and tinging\nthe deep cloud.\n\nI will go farther. I _do_ believe there are some human beings so born,\nso reared, so guided from a soft cradle to a calm and late grave, that\nno excessive suffering penetrates their lot, and no tempestuous\nblackness overcasts their journey. And often, these are not pampered,\nselfish beings, but Nature's elect, harmonious and benign; men and\nwomen mild with charity, kind agents of God's kind attributes.\n\nLet me not delay the happy truth. Graham Bretton and Paulina de\nBassompierre were married, and such an agent did Dr. Bretton prove. He\ndid not with time degenerate; his faults decayed, his virtues ripened;\nhe rose in intellectual refinement, he won in moral profit: all dregs\nfiltered away, the clear wine settled bright and tranquil. Bright, too,\nwas the destiny of his sweet wife. She kept her husband's love, she\naided in his progress--of his happiness she was the corner stone.\n\nThis pair was blessed indeed, for years brought them, with great\nprosperity, great goodness: they imparted with open hand, yet wisely.\nDoubtless they knew crosses, disappointments, difficulties; but these\nwere well borne. More than once, too, they had to look on Him whose\nface flesh scarce can see and live: they had to pay their tribute to\nthe King of Terrors. In the fulness of years, M. de Bassompierre was\ntaken: in ripe old age departed Louisa Bretton. Once even there rose a\ncry in their halls, of Rachel weeping for her children; but others\nsprang healthy and blooming to replace the lost: Dr. Bretton saw\nhimself live again in a son who inherited his looks and his\ndisposition; he had stately daughters, too, like himself: these\nchildren he reared with a suave, yet a firm hand; they grew up\naccording to inheritance and nurture.\n\nIn short, I do but speak the truth when I say that these two lives of\nGraham and Paulina were blessed, like that of Jacob's favoured son,\nwith \"blessings of Heaven above, blessings of the deep that lies\nunder.\" It was so, for God saw that it was good.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXVIII.\n\nCLOUD.\n\n\nBut it is not so for all. What then? His will be done, as done it\nsurely will be, whether we humble ourselves to resignation or not. The\nimpulse of creation forwards it; the strength of powers, seen and\nunseen, has its fulfilment in charge. Proof of a life to come must be\ngiven. In fire and in blood, if needful, must that proof be written. In\nfire and in blood do we trace the record throughout nature. In fire and\nin blood does it cross our own experience. Sufferer, faint not through\nterror of this burning evidence. Tired wayfarer, gird up thy loins;\nlook upward, march onward. Pilgrims and brother mourners, join in\nfriendly company. Dark through the wilderness of this world stretches\nthe way for most of us: equal and steady be our tread; be our cross our\nbanner. For staff we have His promise, whose \"word is tried, whose way\nperfect:\" for present hope His providence, \"who gives the shield of\nsalvation, whose gentleness makes great;\" for final home His bosom, who\n\"dwells in the height of Heaven;\" for crowning prize a glory, exceeding\nand eternal. Let us so run that we may obtain: let us endure hardness\nas good soldiers; let us finish our course, and keep the faith, reliant\nin the issue to come off more than conquerors: \"Art thou not from\neverlasting mine Holy One? WE SHALL NOT DIE!\"\n\nOn a Thursday morning we were all assembled in classe, waiting for the\nlesson of literature. The hour was come; we expected the master.\n\nThe pupils of the first classe sat very still; the cleanly-written\ncompositions prepared since the last lesson lay ready before them,\nneatly tied with ribbon, waiting to be gathered by the hand of the\nProfessor as he made his rapid round of the desks. The month was July,\nthe morning fine, the glass-door stood ajar, through it played a fresh\nbreeze, and plants, growing at the lintel, waved, bent, looked in,\nseeming to whisper tidings.\n\nM. Emanuel was not always quite punctual; we scarcely wondered at his\nbeing a little late, but we wondered when the door at last opened and,\ninstead of him with his swiftness and his fire, there came quietly upon\nus the cautious Madame Beck.\n\nShe approached M. Paul's desk; she stood before it; she drew round her\nthe light shawl covering her shoulders; beginning to speak in low, yet\nfirm tones, and with a fixed gaze, she said, \"This morning there will\nbe no lesson of literature.\"\n\nThe second paragraph of her address followed, after about two minutes'\npause.\n\n\"It is probable the lessons will be suspended for a week. I shall\nrequire at least that space of time to find an efficient substitute for\nM. Emanuel. Meanwhile, it shall be our study to fill the blanks\nusefully.\n\n\"Your Professor, ladies,\" she went on, \"intends, if possible, duly to\ntake leave of you. At the present moment he has not leisure for that\nceremony. He is preparing for a long voyage. A very sudden and urgent\nsummons of duty calls him to a great distance. He has decided to leave\nEurope for an indefinite time. Perhaps he may tell you more himself.\nLadies, instead of the usual lesson with M. Emanuel, you will, this\nmorning, read English with Mademoiselle Lucy.\"\n\nShe bent her head courteously, drew closer the folds of her shawl, and\npassed from the classe.\n\nA great silence fell: then a murmur went round the room: I believe some\npupils wept.\n\nSome time elapsed. The noise, the whispering, the occasional sobbing\nincreased. I became conscious of a relaxation of discipline, a sort of\ngrowing disorder, as if my girls felt that vigilance was withdrawn, and\nthat surveillance had virtually left the classe. Habit and the sense of\nduty enabled me to rally quickly, to rise in my usual way, to speak in\nmy usual tone, to enjoin, and finally to establish quiet. I made the\nEnglish reading long and close. I kept them at it the whole morning. I\nremember feeling a sentiment of impatience towards the pupils who\nsobbed. Indeed, their emotion was not of much value: it was only an\nhysteric agitation. I told them so unsparingly. I half ridiculed them.\nI was severe. The truth was, I could not do with their tears, or that\ngasping sound; I could not bear it. A rather weak-minded, low-spirited\npupil kept it up when the others had done; relentless necessity obliged\nand assisted me so to accost her, that she dared not carry on the\ndemonstration, that she was forced to conquer the convulsion.\n\nThat girl would have had a right to hate me, except that, when school\nwas over and her companions departing, I ordered her to stay, and when\nthey were gone, I did what I had never done to one among them\nbefore--pressed her to my heart and kissed her cheek. But, this impulse\nyielded to, I speedily put her out of the classe, for, upon that\npoignant strain, she wept more bitterly than ever.\n\nI filled with occupation every minute of that day, and should have\nliked to sit up all night if I might have kept a candle burning; the\nnight, however, proved a bad time, and left bad effects, preparing me\nill for the next day's ordeal of insufferable gossip. Of course this\nnews fell under general discussion. Some little reserve had accompanied\nthe first surprise: that soon wore off; every mouth opened; every\ntongue wagged; teachers, pupils, the very servants, mouthed the name of\n\"Emanuel.\" He, whose connection with the school was contemporary with\nits commencement, thus suddenly to withdraw! All felt it strange.\n\nThey talked so much, so long, so often, that, out of the very multitude\nof their words and rumours, grew at last some intelligence. About the\nthird day I heard it said that he was to sail in a week; then--that he\nwas bound for the West Indies. I looked at Madame Beck's face, and into\nher eyes, for disproof or confirmation of this report; I perused her\nall over for information, but no part of her disclosed more than what\nwas unperturbed and commonplace.\n\n\"This secession was an immense loss to her,\" she alleged. \"She did not\nknow how she should fill up the vacancy. She was so used to her\nkinsman, he had become her right hand; what should she do without him?\nShe had opposed the step, but M. Paul had convinced her it was his\nduty.\"\n\nShe said all this in public, in classe, at the dinner-table, speaking\naudibly to Zélie St. Pierre.\n\n\"Why was it his duty?\" I could have asked her that. I had impulses to\ntake hold of her suddenly, as she calmly passed me in classe, to\nstretch out my hand and grasp her fast, and say, \"Stop. Let us hear the\nconclusion of the whole matter. _Why_ is it his duty to go into\nbanishment?\" But Madame always addressed some other teacher, and never\nlooked at me, never seemed conscious I could have a care in the\nquestion.\n\nThe week wore on. Nothing more was said about M. Emanuel coming to bid\nus good-by; and none seemed anxious for his coming; none questioned\nwhether or not he would come; none betrayed torment lest he should\ndepart silent and unseen; incessantly did they talk, and never, in all\ntheir talk, touched on this vital point. As to Madame, she of course\ncould see him, and say to him as much as she pleased. What should _she_\ncare whether or not he appeared in the schoolroom?\n\nThe week consumed. We were told that he was going on such a day, that\nhis destination was \"Basseterre in Guadaloupe:\" the business which\ncalled him abroad related to a friend's interests, not his own: I\nthought as much.\n\n\"Basseterre in Guadaloupe.\" I had little sleep about this time, but\nwhenever I _did_ slumber, it followed infallibly that I was quickly\nroused with a start, while the words \"Basseterre,\" \"Guadaloupe,\" seemed\npronounced over my pillow, or ran athwart the darkness round and before\nme, in zigzag characters of red or violet light.\n\nFor what I felt there was no help, and how could I help feeling? M.\nEmanuel had been very kind to me of late days; he had been growing\nhourly better and kinder. It was now a month since we had settled the\ntheological difference, and in all that time there had been no quarrel.\nNor had our peace been the cold daughter of divorce; we had not lived\naloof; he had come oftener, he had talked with me more than before; he\nhad spent hours with me, with temper soothed, with eye content, with\nmanner home-like and mild. Kind subjects of conversation had grown\nbetween us; he had inquired into my plans of life, and I had\ncommunicated them; the school project pleased him; he made me repeat it\nmore than once, though he called it an Alnaschar dream. The jar was\nover; the mutual understanding was settling and fixing; feelings of\nunion and hope made themselves profoundly felt in the heart; affection\nand deep esteem and dawning trust had each fastened its bond.\n\nWhat quiet lessons I had about this time! No more taunts on my\n\"intellect,\" no more menaces of grating public shows! How sweetly, for\nthe jealous gibe, and the more jealous, half-passionate eulogy, were\nsubstituted a mute, indulgent help, a fond guidance, and a tender\nforbearance which forgave but never praised. There were times when he\nwould sit for many minutes and not speak at all; and when dusk or duty\nbrought separation, he would leave with words like these, \"Il est doux,\nle repos! Il est précieux le calme bonheur!\"\n\nOne evening, not ten short days since, he joined me whilst walking in\nmy alley. He took my hand. I looked up in his face. I thought he meant\nto arrest my attention.\n\n\"Bonne petite amie!\" said he, softly; \"douce consolatrice!\" But through\nhis touch, and with his words, a new feeling and a strange thought\nfound a course. Could it be that he was becoming more than friend or\nbrother? Did his look speak a kindness beyond fraternity or amity?\n\nHis eloquent look had more to say, his hand drew me forward, his\ninterpreting lips stirred. No. Not now. Here into the twilight alley\nbroke an interruption: it came dual and ominous: we faced two bodeful\nforms--a woman's and a priest's--Madame Beck and Père Silas.\n\nThe aspect of the latter I shall never forget. On the first impulse it\nexpressed a Jean-Jacques sensibility, stirred by the signs of affection\njust surprised; then, immediately, darkened over it the jaundice of\necclesiastical jealousy. He spoke to _me_ with unction. He looked on\nhis pupil with sternness. As to Madame Beck, she, of course, saw\nnothing--nothing; though her kinsman retained in her presence the hand\nof the heretic foreigner, not suffering withdrawal, but clasping it\nclose and fast.\n\nFollowing these incidents, that sudden announcement of departure had\nstruck me at first as incredible. Indeed, it was only frequent\nrepetition, and the credence of the hundred and fifty minds round me,\nwhich forced on me its full acceptance. As to that week of suspense,\nwith its blank, yet burning days, which brought from him no word of\nexplanation--I remember, but I cannot describe its passage.\n\nThe last day broke. Now would he visit us. Now he would come and speak\nhis farewell, or he would vanish mute, and be seen by us nevermore.\n\nThis alternative seemed to be present in the mind of not a living\ncreature in that school. All rose at the usual hour; all breakfasted as\nusual; all, without reference to, or apparent thought of their late\nProfessor, betook themselves with wonted phlegm to their ordinary\nduties.\n\nSo oblivious was the house, so tame, so trained its proceedings, so\ninexpectant its aspect--I scarce knew how to breathe in an atmosphere\nthus stagnant, thus smothering. Would no one lend me a voice? Had no\none a wish, no one a word, no one a prayer to which I could say--Amen?\n\nI had seen them unanimous in demand for the merest trifle--a treat, a\nholiday, a lesson's remission; they could not, they _would_ not now\nband to besiege Madame Beck, and insist on a last interview with a\nMaster who had certainly been loved, at least by some--loved as _they_\ncould love--but, oh! what _is_ the love of the multitude?\n\nI knew where he lived: I knew where he was to be heard of, or\ncommunicated with; the distance was scarce a stone's-throw: had it been\nin the next room--unsummoned, I could make no use of my knowledge. To\nfollow, to seek out, to remind, to recall--for these things I had no\nfaculty.\n\nM. Emanuel might have passed within reach of my arm: had he passed\nsilent and unnoticing, silent and stirless should I have suffered him\nto go by.\n\nMorning wasted. Afternoon came, and I thought all was over. My heart\ntrembled in its place. My blood was troubled in its current. I was\nquite sick, and hardly knew how to keep at my post--or do my work. Yet\nthe little world round me plodded on indifferent; all seemed jocund,\nfree of care, or fear, or thought: the very pupils who, seven days\nsince, had wept hysterically at a startling piece of news, appeared\nquite to have forgotten the news, its import, and their emotion.\n\nA little before five o'clock, the hour of dismissal, Madame Beck sent\nfor me to her chamber, to read over and translate some English letter\nshe had received, and to write for her the answer. Before settling to\nthis work, I observed that she softly closed the two doors of her\nchamber; she even shut and fastened the casement, though it was a hot\nday, and free circulation of air was usually regarded by her as\nindispensable. Why this precaution? A keen suspicion, an almost fierce\ndistrust, suggested such question. Did she want to exclude sound? what\nsound?\n\nI listened as I had never listened before; I listened like the evening\nand winter-wolf, snuffing the snow, scenting prey, and hearing far off\nthe traveller's tramp. Yet I could both listen and write. About the\nmiddle of the letter I heard--what checked my pen--a tread in the\nvestibule. No door-bell had rung; Rosine--acting doubtless by\norders--had anticipated such réveillée. Madame saw me halt. She\ncoughed, made a bustle, spoke louder. The tread had passed on to the\nclasses.\n\n\"Proceed,\" said Madame; but my hand was fettered, my ear enchained, my\nthoughts were carried off captive.\n\nThe classes formed another building; the hall parted them from the\ndwelling-house: despite distance and partition, I heard the sudden stir\nof numbers, a whole division rising at once.\n\n\"They are putting away work,\" said Madame.\n\nIt was indeed the hour to put away work, but why that sudden hush--that\ninstant quell of the tumult?\n\n\"Wait, Madame--I will see what it is.\"\n\nAnd I put down my pen and left her. Left her? No: she would not be\nleft: powerless to detain me, she rose and followed, close as my\nshadow. I turned on the last step of the stair.\n\n\"Are you coming, too?\" I asked.\n\n\"Yes,\" said she; meeting my glance with a peculiar aspect--a look,\nclouded, yet resolute.\n\nWe proceeded then, not together, but she walked in my steps.\n\nHe was come. Entering the first classe, I saw him. There, once more\nappeared the form most familiar. I doubt not they had tried to keep him\naway, but he was come.\n\nThe girls stood in a semicircle; he was passing round, giving his\nfarewells, pressing each hand, touching with his lips each cheek. This\nlast ceremony, foreign custom permitted at such a parting--so solemn,\nto last so long.\n\nI felt it hard that Madame Beck should dog me thus; following and\nwatching me close; my neck and shoulder shrunk in fever under her\nbreath; I became terribly goaded.\n\nHe was approaching; the semicircle was almost travelled round; he came\nto the last pupil; he turned. But Madame was before me; she had stepped\nout suddenly; she seemed to magnify her proportions and amplify her\ndrapery; she eclipsed me; I was hid. She knew my weakness and\ndeficiency; she could calculate the degree of moral paralysis--the\ntotal default of self-assertion--with which, in a crisis, I could be\nstruck. She hastened to her kinsman, she broke upon him volubly, she\nmastered his attention, she hurried him to the door--the glass-door\nopening on the garden. I think he looked round; could I but have caught\nhis eye, courage, I think, would have rushed in to aid feeling, and\nthere would have been a charge, and, perhaps, a rescue; but already the\nroom was all confusion, the semicircle broken into groups, my figure\nwas lost among thirty more conspicuous. Madame had her will; yes, she\ngot him away, and he had not seen me; he thought me absent. Five\no'clock struck, the loud dismissal-bell rang, the school separated, the\nroom emptied.\n\nThere seems, to my memory, an entire darkness and distraction in some\ncertain minutes I then passed alone--a grief inexpressible over a loss\nunendurable. _What_ should I do; oh! _what_ should I do; when all my\nlife's hope was thus torn by the roots out of my riven, outraged heart?\n\nWhat I _should_ have done, I know not, when a little child--the least\nchild in the school--broke with its simplicity and its unconsciousness\ninto the raging yet silent centre of that inward conflict.\n\n\"Mademoiselle,\" lisped the treble voice, \"I am to give you that. M.\nPaul said I was to seek you all over the house, from the grenier to the\ncellar, and when I found you, to give you that.\"\n\nAnd the child delivered a note; the little dove dropped on my knee, its\nolive leaf plucked off. I found neither address nor name, only these\nwords:--\n\n\"It was not my intention to take leave of you when I said good-by to\nthe rest, but I hoped to see you in classe. I was disappointed. The\ninterview is deferred. Be ready for me. Ere I sail, I must see you at\nleisure, and speak with you at length. Be ready; my moments are\nnumbered, and, just now, monopolized; besides, I have a private\nbusiness on hand which I will not share with any, nor communicate--even\nto you.--PAUL.\"\n\n\"Be ready?\" Then it must be this evening: was he not to go on the\nmorrow? Yes; of that point I was certain. I had seen the date of his\nvessel's departure advertised. Oh! _I_ would be ready, but could that\nlonged-for meeting really be achieved? the time was so short, the\nschemers seemed so watchful, so active, so hostile; the way of access\nappeared strait as a gully, deep as a chasm--Apollyon straddled across\nit, breathing flames. Could my Greatheart overcome? Could my guide\nreach me?\n\nWho might tell? Yet I began to take some courage, some comfort; it\nseemed to me that I felt a pulse of his heart beating yet true to the\nwhole throb of mine.\n\nI waited my champion. Apollyon came trailing his Hell behind him. I\nthink if Eternity held torment, its form would not be fiery rack, nor\nits nature despair. I think that on a certain day amongst those days\nwhich never dawned, and will not set, an angel entered Hades--stood,\nshone, smiled, delivered a prophecy of conditional pardon, kindled a\ndoubtful hope of bliss to come, not now, but at a day and hour unlooked\nfor, revealed in his own glory and grandeur the height and compass of\nhis promise: spoke thus--then towering, became a star, and vanished\ninto his own Heaven. His legacy was suspense--a worse boon than despair.\n\nAll that evening I waited, trusting in the dove-sent olive-leaf, yet in\nthe midst of my trust, terribly fearing. My fear pressed heavy. Cold\nand peculiar, I knew it for the partner of a rarely-belied\npresentiment. The first hours seemed long and slow; in spirit I clung\nto the flying skirts of the last. They passed like drift cloud--like\nthe wrack scudding before a storm.\n\nThey passed. All the long, hot summer day burned away like a Yule-log;\nthe crimson of its close perished; I was left bent among the cool blue\nshades, over the pale and ashen gleams of its night.\n\nPrayers were over; it was bed-time; my co-inmates were all retired. I\nstill remained in the gloomy first classe, forgetting, or at least\ndisregarding, rules I had never forgotten or disregarded before.\n\nHow long I paced that classe I cannot tell; I must have been afoot many\nhours; mechanically had I moved aside benches and desks, and had made\nfor myself a path down its length. There I walked, and there, when\ncertain that the whole household were abed, and quite out of\nhearing--there, I at last wept. Reliant on Night, confiding in\nSolitude, I kept my tears sealed, my sobs chained, no longer; they\nheaved my heart; they tore their way. In this house, what grief could\nbe sacred?\n\nSoon after eleven o'clock--a very late hour in the Rue Fossette--the\ndoor unclosed, quietly but not stealthily; a lamp's flame invaded the\nmoonlight; Madame Beck entered, with the same composed air, as if\ncoming on an ordinary occasion, at an ordinary season. Instead of at\nonce addressing me, she went to her desk, took her keys, and seemed to\nseek something: she loitered over this feigned search long, too long.\nShe was calm, too calm; my mood scarce endured the pretence; driven\nbeyond common range, two hours since I had left behind me wonted\nrespects and fears. Led by a touch, and ruled by a word, under usual\ncircumstances, no yoke could now be borne--no curb obeyed.\n\n\"It is more than time for retirement,\" said Madame; \"the rule of the\nhouse has already been transgressed too long.\"\n\nMadame met no answer: I did not check my walk; when she came in my way,\nI put her out of it.\n\n\"Let me persuade you to calm, Meess; let me lead you to your chamber,\"\nsaid she, trying to speak softly.\n\n\"No!\" I said; \"neither you nor another shall persuade or lead me.\"\n\n\"Your bed shall be warmed. Goton is sitting up still. She shall make\nyou comfortable: she shall give you a sedative.\"\n\n\"Madame,\" I broke out, \"you are a sensualist. Under all your serenity,\nyour peace, and your decorum, you are an undenied sensualist. Make your\nown bed warm and soft; take sedatives and meats, and drinks spiced and\nsweet, as much as you will. If you have any sorrow or\ndisappointment--and, perhaps, you have--nay, I _know_ you have--seek\nyour own palliatives, in your own chosen resources. Leave me, however.\n_Leave me_, I say!\"\n\n\"I must send another to watch you, Meess: I must send Goton.\"\n\n\"I forbid it. Let me alone. Keep your hand off me, and my life, and my\ntroubles. Oh, Madame! in _your_ hand there is both chill and poison.\nYou envenom and you paralyze.\"\n\n\"What have I done, Meess? You must not marry Paul. He cannot marry.\"\n\n\"Dog in the manger!\" I said: for I knew she secretly wanted him, and\nhad always wanted him. She called him \"insupportable:\" she railed at\nhim for a \"dévot:\" she did not love, but she wanted to marry, that she\nmight bind him to her interest. Deep into some of Madame's secrets I\nhad entered--I know not how: by an intuition or an inspiration which\ncame to me--I know not whence. In the course of living with her too, I\nhad slowly learned, that, unless with an inferior, she must ever be a\nrival. She was _my_ rival, heart and soul, though secretly, under the\nsmoothest bearing, and utterly unknown to all save her and myself.\n\nTwo minutes I stood over Madame, feeling that the whole woman was in my\npower, because in some moods, such as the present--in some stimulated\nstates of perception, like that of this instant--her habitual disguise,\nher mask and her domino, were to me a mere network reticulated with\nholes; and I saw underneath a being heartless, self-indulgent, and\nignoble. She quietly retreated from me: meek and self-possessed, though\nvery uneasy, she said, \"If I would not be persuaded to take rest, she\nmust reluctantly leave me.\" Which she did incontinent, perhaps even\nmore glad to get away, than I was to see her vanish.\n\nThis was the sole flash-eliciting, truth-extorting, rencontre which\never occurred between me and Madame Beck: this short night-scene was\nnever repeated. It did not one whit change her manner to me. I do not\nknow that she revenged it. I do not know that she hated me the worse\nfor my fell candour. I think she bucklered herself with the secret\nphilosophy of her strong mind, and resolved to forget what it irked her\nto remember. I know that to the end of our mutual lives there occurred\nno repetition of, no allusion to, that fiery passage.\n\nThat night passed: all nights--even the starless night before\ndissolution--must wear away. About six o'clock, the hour which called\nup the household, I went out to the court, and washed my face in its\ncold, fresh well-water. Entering by the carré, a piece of mirror-glass,\nset in an oaken cabinet, repeated my image. It said I was changed: my\ncheeks and lips were sodden white, my eyes were glassy, and my eyelids\nswollen and purple.\n\nOn rejoining my companions, I knew they all looked at me--my heart\nseemed discovered to them: I believed myself self-betrayed. Hideously\ncertain did it seem that the very youngest of the school must guess why\nand for whom I despaired.\n\n\"Isabelle,\" the child whom I had once nursed in sickness, approached\nme. Would she, too, mock me!\n\n\"Que vous êtes pâle! Vous êtes donc bien malade, Mademoiselle!\" said\nshe, putting her finger in her mouth, and staring with a wistful\nstupidity which at the moment seemed to me more beautiful than the\nkeenest intelligence.\n\nIsabelle did not long stand alone in the recommendation of ignorance:\nbefore the day was over, I gathered cause of gratitude towards the\nwhole blind household. The multitude have something else to do than to\nread hearts and interpret dark sayings. Who wills, may keep his own\ncounsel--be his own secret's sovereign. In the course of that day,\nproof met me on proof, not only that the cause of my present sorrow was\nunguessed, but that my whole inner life for the last six months, was\nstill mine only. It was not known--it had not been noted--that I held\nin peculiar value one life among all lives. Gossip had passed me by;\ncuriosity had looked me over; both subtle influences, hovering always\nround, had never become centred upon me. A given organization may live\nin a full fever-hospital, and escape typhus. M. Emanuel had come and\ngone: I had been taught and sought; in season and out of season he had\ncalled me, and I had obeyed him: \"M. Paul wants Miss Lucy\"--\"Miss Lucy\nis with M. Paul\"--such had been the perpetual bulletin; and nobody\ncommented, far less condemned. Nobody hinted, nobody jested. Madame\nBeck read the riddle: none else resolved it. What I now suffered was\ncalled illness--a headache: I accepted the baptism.\n\nBut what bodily illness was ever like this pain? This certainty that he\nwas gone without a farewell--this cruel conviction that fate and\npursuing furies--a woman's envy and a priest's bigotry--would suffer me\nto see him no more? What wonder that the second evening found me like\nthe first--untamed, tortured, again pacing a solitary room in an\nunalterable passion of silent desolation?\n\nMadame Beck did not herself summon me to bed that night--she did not\ncome near me: she sent Ginevra Fanshawe--a more efficient agent for the\npurpose she could not have employed. Ginevra's first words--\"Is your\nheadache very bad to-night?\" (for Ginevra, like the rest, thought I had\na headache--an intolerable headache which made me frightfully white in\nthe face, and insanely restless in the foot)--her first words, I say,\ninspired the impulse to flee anywhere, so that it were only out of\nreach. And soon, what followed--plaints about her own\nheadaches--completed the business.\n\nI went up-stairs. Presently I was in my bed--my miserable bed--haunted\nwith quick scorpions. I had not been laid down five minutes, when\nanother emissary arrived: Goton came, bringing me something to drink. I\nwas consumed with thirst--I drank eagerly; the beverage was sweet, but\nI tasted a drug.\n\n\"Madame says it will make you sleep, chou-chou,\" said Goton, as she\nreceived back the emptied cup.\n\nAh! the sedative had been administered. In fact, they had given me a\nstrong opiate. I was to be held quiet for one night.\n\nThe household came to bed, the night-light was lit, the dormitory\nhushed. Sleep soon reigned: over those pillows, sleep won an easy\nsupremacy: contented sovereign over heads and hearts which did not\nache--he passed by the unquiet.\n\nThe drug wrought. I know not whether Madame had overcharged or\nunder-charged the dose; its result was not that she intended. Instead\nof stupor, came excitement. I became alive to new thought--to reverie\npeculiar in colouring. A gathering call ran among the faculties, their\nbugles sang, their trumpets rang an untimely summons. Imagination was\nroused from her rest, and she came forth impetuous and venturous. With\nscorn she looked on Matter, her mate--\"Rise!\" she said. \"Sluggard! this\nnight I will have _my_ will; nor shalt thou prevail.\"\n\n\"Look forth and view the night!\" was her cry; and when I lifted the\nheavy blind from the casement close at hand--with her own royal\ngesture, she showed me a moon supreme, in an element deep and splendid.\n\nTo my gasping senses she made the glimmering gloom, the narrow limits,\nthe oppressive heat of the dormitory, intolerable. She lured me to\nleave this den and follow her forth into dew, coolness, and glory.\n\nShe brought upon me a strange vision of Villette at midnight.\nEspecially she showed the park, the summer-park, with its long alleys\nall silent, lone and safe; among these lay a huge stone basin--that\nbasin I knew, and beside which I had often stood--deep-set in the\ntree-shadows, brimming with cool water, clear, with a green, leafy,\nrushy bed. What of all this? The park-gates were shut up, locked,\nsentinelled: the place could not be entered.\n\nCould it not? A point worth considering; and while revolving it, I\nmechanically dressed. Utterly incapable of sleeping or lying\nstill--excited from head to foot--what could I do better than dress?\n\nThe gates were locked, soldiers set before them: was there, then, no\nadmission to the park?\n\nThe other day, in walking past, I had seen, without then attending to\nthe circumstance, a gap in the paling--one stake broken down: I now saw\nthis gap again in recollection--saw it very plainly--the narrow,\nirregular aperture visible between the stems of the lindens, planted\norderly as a colonnade. A man could not have made his way through that\naperture, nor could a stout woman, perhaps not Madame Beck; but I\nthought I might: I fancied I should like to try, and once within, at\nthis hour the whole park would be mine--the moonlight, midnight park!\n\nHow soundly the dormitory slept! What deep slumbers! What quiet\nbreathing! How very still the whole large house! What was the time? I\nfelt restless to know. There stood a clock in the classe below: what\nhindered me from venturing down to consult it? By such a moon, its\nlarge white face and jet black figures must be vividly distinct.\n\nAs for hindrance to this step, there offered not so much as a creaking\nhinge or a clicking latch. On these hot July nights, close air could\nnot be tolerated, and the chamber-door stood wide open. Will the\ndormitory-planks sustain my tread untraitorous? Yes. I know wherever a\nboard is loose, and will avoid it. The oak staircase creaks somewhat as\nI descend, but not much:--I am in the carré.\n\nThe great classe-doors are close shut: they are bolted. On the other\nhand, the entrance to the corridor stands open. The classes seem to my\nthought, great dreary jails, buried far back beyond thoroughfares, and\nfor me, filled with spectral and intolerable Memories, laid miserable\namongst their straw and their manacles. The corridor offers a cheerful\nvista, leading to the high vestibule which opens direct upon the street.\n\nHush!--the clock strikes. Ghostly deep as is the stillness of this\nconvent, it is only eleven. While my ear follows to silence the hum of\nthe last stroke, I catch faintly from the built-out capital, a sound\nlike bells or like a band--a sound where sweetness, where victory,\nwhere mourning blend. Oh, to approach this music nearer, to listen to\nit alone by the rushy basin! Let me go--oh, let me go! What hinders,\nwhat does not aid freedom?\n\nThere, in the corridor, hangs my garden-costume, my large hat, my\nshawl. There is no lock on the huge, heavy, porte-cochère; there is no\nkey to seek: it fastens with a sort of spring-bolt, not to be opened\nfrom the outside, but which, from within, may be noiselessly withdrawn.\nCan I manage it? It yields to my hand, yields with propitious facility.\nI wonder as that portal seems almost spontaneously to unclose--I wonder\nas I cross the threshold and step on the paved street, wonder at the\nstrange ease with which this prison has been forced. It seems as if I\nhad been pioneered invisibly, as if some dissolving force had gone\nbefore me: for myself, I have scarce made an effort.\n\nQuiet Rue Fossette! I find on this pavement that wanderer-wooing summer\nnight of which I mused; I see its moon over me; I feel its dew in the\nair. But here I cannot stay; I am still too near old haunts: so close\nunder the dungeon, I can hear the prisoners moan. This solemn peace is\nnot what I seek, it is not what I can bear: to me the face of that sky\nbears the aspect of a world's death. The park also will be calm--I\nknow, a mortal serenity prevails everywhere--yet let me seek the park.\n\nI took a route well known, and went up towards the palatial and royal\nHaute-Ville; thence the music I had heard certainly floated; it was\nhushed now, but it might re-waken. I went on: neither band nor bell\nmusic came to meet me; another sound replaced it, a sound like a strong\ntide, a great flow, deepening as I proceeded. Light broke, movement\ngathered, chimes pealed--to what was I coming? Entering on the level of\na Grande Place, I found myself, with the suddenness of magic, plunged\namidst a gay, living, joyous crowd.\n\nVillette is one blaze, one broad illumination; the whole world seems\nabroad; moonlight and heaven are banished: the town, by her own\nflambeaux, beholds her own splendour--gay dresses, grand equipages,\nfine horses and gallant riders throng the bright streets. I see even\nscores of masks. It is a strange scene, stranger than dreams. But where\nis the park?--I ought to be near it. In the midst of this glare the\npark must be shadowy and calm--_there_, at least, are neither torches,\nlamps, nor crowd?\n\nI was asking this question when an open carriage passed me filled with\nknown faces. Through the deep throng it could pass but slowly; the\nspirited horses fretted in their curbed ardour. I saw the occupants of\nthat carriage well: me they could not see, or, at least, not know,\nfolded close in my large shawl, screened with my straw hat (in that\nmotley crowd no dress was noticeably strange). I saw the Count de\nBassompierre; I saw my godmother, handsomely apparelled, comely and\ncheerful; I saw, too, Paulina Mary, compassed with the triple halo of\nher beauty, her youth, and her happiness. In looking on her countenance\nof joy, and eyes of festal light, one scarce remembered to note the\ngala elegance of what she wore; I know only that the drapery floating\nabout her was all white and light and bridal; seated opposite to her I\nsaw Graham Bretton; it was in looking up at him her aspect had caught\nits lustre--the light repeated in _her_ eyes beamed first out of his.\n\nIt gave me strange pleasure to follow these friends viewlessly, and I\n_did_ follow them, as I thought, to the park. I watched them alight\n(carriages were inadmissible) amidst new and unanticipated splendours.\nLo! the iron gateway, between the stone columns, was spanned by a\nflaming arch built of massed stars; and, following them cautiously\nbeneath that arch, where were they, and where was I?\n\nIn a land of enchantment, a garden most gorgeous, a plain sprinkled\nwith coloured meteors, a forest with sparks of purple and ruby and\ngolden fire gemming the foliage; a region, not of trees and shadow, but\nof strangest architectural wealth--of altar and of temple, of pyramid,\nobelisk, and sphinx: incredible to say, the wonders and the symbols of\nEgypt teemed throughout the park of Villette.\n\nNo matter that in five minutes the secret was mine--the key of the\nmystery picked up, and its illusion unveiled--no matter that I quickly\nrecognised the material of these solemn fragments--the timber, the\npaint, and the pasteboard--these inevitable discoveries failed to quite\ndestroy the charm, or undermine the marvel of that night. No matter\nthat I now seized the explanation of the whole great fête--a fête of\nwhich the conventual Rue Fossette had not tasted, though it had opened\nat dawn that morning, and was still in full vigour near midnight.\n\nIn past days there had been, said history, an awful crisis in the fate\nof Labassecour, involving I know not what peril to the rights and\nliberties of her gallant citizens. Rumours of wars there had been, if\nnot wars themselves; a kind of struggling in the streets--a bustle--a\nrunning to and fro, some rearing of barricades, some burgher-rioting,\nsome calling out of troops, much interchange of brickbats, and even a\nlittle of shot. Tradition held that patriots had fallen: in the old\nBasse-Ville was shown an enclosure, solemnly built in and set apart,\nholding, it was said, the sacred bones of martyrs. Be this as it may, a\ncertain day in the year was still kept as a festival in honour of the\nsaid patriots and martyrs of somewhat apocryphal memory--the morning\nbeing given to a solemn Te Deum in St. Jean Baptiste, the evening\ndevoted to spectacles, decorations, and illuminations, such as these I\nnow saw.\n\nWhile looking up at the image of a white ibis, fixed on a column--while\nfathoming the deep, torch-lit perspective of an avenue, at the close of\nwhich was couched a sphinx--I lost sight of the party which, from the\nmiddle of the great square, I had followed--or, rather, they vanished\nlike a group of apparitions. On this whole scene was impressed a\ndream-like character: every shape was wavering, every movement\nfloating, every voice echo-like--half-mocking, half-uncertain. Paulina\nand her friends being gone, I scarce could avouch that I had really\nseen them; nor did I miss them as guides through the chaos, far less\nregret them as protectors amidst the night.\n\nThat festal night would have been safe for a very child. Half the\npeasantry had come in from the outlying environs of Villette, and the\ndecent burghers were all abroad and around, dressed in their best. My\nstraw-hat passed amidst cap and jacket, short petticoat, and long\ncalico mantle, without, perhaps, attracting a glance; I only took the\nprecaution to bind down the broad leaf gipsy-wise, with a supplementary\nribbon--and then I felt safe as if masked.\n\nSafe I passed down the avenues--safe I mixed with the crowd where it\nwas deepest. To be still was not in my power, nor quietly to observe. I\ntook a revel of the scene; I drank the elastic night-air--the swell of\nsound, the dubious light, now flashing, now fading. As to Happiness or\nHope, they and I had shaken hands, but just now--I scorned Despair.\n\nMy vague aim, as I went, was to find the stone-basin, with its clear\ndepth and green lining: of that coolness and verdure I thought, with\nthe passionate thirst of unconscious fever. Amidst the glare, and\nhurry, and throng, and noise, I still secretly and chiefly longed to\ncome on that circular mirror of crystal, and surprise the moon glassing\ntherein her pearly front.\n\nI knew my route, yet it seemed as if I was hindered from pursuing it\ndirect: now a sight, and now a sound, called me aside, luring me down\nthis alley and down that. Already I saw the thick-planted trees which\nframed this tremulous and rippled glass, when, choiring out of a glade\nto the right, broke such a sound as I thought might be heard if Heaven\nwere to open--such a sound, perhaps, as _was_ heard above the plain of\nBethlehem, on the night of glad tidings.\n\nThe song, the sweet music, rose afar, but rushing swiftly on\nfast-strengthening pinions--there swept through these shades so full a\nstorm of harmonies that, had no tree been near against which to lean, I\nthink I must have dropped. Voices were there, it seemed to me,\nunnumbered; instruments varied and countless--bugle, horn, and trumpet\nI knew. The effect was as a sea breaking into song with all its waves.\n\nThe swaying tide swept this way, and then it fell back, and I followed\nits retreat. It led me towards a Byzantine building--a sort of kiosk\nnear the park's centre. Round about stood crowded thousands, gathered\nto a grand concert in the open air. What I had heard was, I think, a\nwild Jäger chorus; the night, the space, the scene, and my own mood,\nhad but enhanced the sounds and their impression.\n\nHere were assembled ladies, looking by this light most beautiful: some\nof their dresses were gauzy, and some had the sheen of satin, the\nflowers and the blond trembled, and the veils waved about their\ndecorated bonnets, as that host-like chorus, with its greatly-gathering\nsound, sundered the air above them. Most of these ladies occupied the\nlittle light park-chairs, and behind and beside them stood guardian\ngentlemen. The outer ranks of the crowd were made up of citizens,\nplebeians and police.\n\nIn this outer rank I took my place. I rather liked to find myself the\nsilent, unknown, consequently unaccosted neighbour of the short\npetticoat and the sabot; and only the distant gazer at the silk robe,\nthe velvet mantle, and the plumed chapeau. Amidst so much life and joy,\ntoo, it suited me to be alone--quite alone. Having neither wish nor\npower to force my way through a mass so close-packed, my station was on\nthe farthest confines, where, indeed, I might hear, but could see\nlittle.\n\n\"Mademoiselle is not well placed,\" said a voice at my elbow. Who dared\naccost _me_, a being in a mood so little social? I turned, rather to\nrepel than to reply. I saw a man--a burgher--an entire stranger, as I\ndeemed him for one moment, but the next, recognised in him a certain\ntradesman--a bookseller, whose shop furnished the Rue Fossette with its\nbooks and stationery; a man notorious in our pensionnat for the\nexcessive brittleness of his temper, and frequent snappishness of his\nmanner, even to us, his principal customers: but whom, for my solitary\nself, I had ever been disposed to like, and had always found civil,\nsometimes kind; once, in aiding me about some troublesome little\nexchange of foreign money, he had done me a service. He was an\nintelligent man; under his asperity, he was a good-hearted man; the\nthought had sometimes crossed me, that a part of his nature bore\naffinity to a part of M. Emanuel's (whom he knew well, and whom I had\noften seen sitting on Miret's counter, turning over the current month's\npublications); and it was in this affinity I read the explanation of\nthat conciliatory feeling with which I instinctively regarded him.\n\nStrange to say, this man knew me under my straw-hat and closely-folded\nshawl; and, though I deprecated the effort, he insisted on making a way\nfor me through the crowd, and finding me a better situation. He carried\nhis disinterested civility further; and, from some quarter, procured me\na chair. Once and again, I have found that the most cross-grained are\nby no means the worst of mankind; nor the humblest in station, the\nleast polished in feeling. This man, in his courtesy, seemed to find\nnothing strange in my being here alone; only a reason for extending to\nme, as far as he could, a retiring, yet efficient attention. Having\nsecured me a place and a seat, he withdrew without asking a question,\nwithout obtruding a remark, without adding a superfluous word. No\nwonder that Professor Emanuel liked to take his cigar and his lounge,\nand to read his feuilleton in M. Miret's shop--the two must have suited.\n\nI had not been seated five minutes, ere I became aware that chance and\nmy worthy burgher friend had brought me once more within view of a\nfamiliar and domestic group. Right before me sat the Brettons and de\nBassompierres. Within reach of my hand--had I chosen to extend it--sat\na figure like a fairy-queen, whose array, lilies and their leaves\nseemed to have suggested; whatever was not spotless white, being\nforest-green. My godmother, too, sat so near, that, had I leaned\nforward, my breath might have stirred the ribbon of her bonnet. They\nwere too near; having been just recognised by a comparative stranger, I\nfelt uneasy at this close vicinage of intimate acquaintance.\n\nIt made me quite start when Mrs. Bretton, turning to Mr. Home, and\nspeaking out of a kind impulse of memory, said,--\"I wonder what my\nsteady little Lucy would say to all this if she were here? I wish we\nhad brought her, she would have enjoyed it much.\"\n\n\"So she would, so she would, in her grave sensible fashion; it is a\npity but we had asked her,\" rejoined the kind gentleman; and added, \"I\nlike to see her so quietly pleased; so little moved, yet so content.\"\n\nDear were they both to me, dear are they to this day in their\nremembered benevolence. Little knew they the rack of pain which had\ndriven Lucy almost into fever, and brought her out, guideless and\nreckless, urged and drugged to the brink of frenzy. I had half a mind\nto bend over the elders' shoulders, and answer their goodness with the\nthanks of my eyes. M. de Bassompierre did not well know _me_, but I\nknew _him_, and honoured and admired his nature, with all its plain\nsincerity, its warm affection, and unconscious enthusiasm. Possibly I\nmight have spoken, but just then Graham turned; he turned with one of\nhis stately firm movements, so different from those, of a\nsharp-tempered under-sized man: there was behind him a throng, a\nhundred ranks deep; there were thousands to meet his eye and divide its\nscrutiny--why then did he concentrate all on me--oppressing me with the\nwhole force of that full, blue, steadfast orb? Why, if he _would_ look,\ndid not one glance satisfy him? why did he turn on his chair, rest his\nelbow on its back, and study me leisurely? He could not see my face, I\nheld it down; surely, he _could_ not recognise me: I stooped, I turned,\nI _would_ not be known. He rose, by some means he contrived to\napproach, in two minutes he would have had my secret: my identity would\nhave been grasped between his, never tyrannous, but always powerful\nhands. There was but one way to evade or to check him. I implied, by a\nsort of supplicatory gesture, that it was my prayer to be let alone;\nafter that, had he persisted, he would perhaps have seen the spectacle\nof Lucy incensed: not all that was grand, or good, or kind in him (and\nLucy felt the full amount) should have kept her quite tame, or\nabsolutely inoffensive and shadowlike. He looked, but he desisted. He\nshook his handsome head, but he was mute. He resumed his seat, nor did\nhe again turn or disturb me by a glance, except indeed for one single\ninstant, when a look, rather solicitous than curious, stole my\nway--speaking what somehow stilled my heart like \"the south-wind\nquieting the earth.\" Graham's thoughts of me were not entirely those of\na frozen indifference, after all. I believe in that goodly mansion, his\nheart, he kept one little place under the sky-lights where Lucy might\nhave entertainment, if she chose to call. It was not so handsome as the\nchambers where he lodged his male friends; it was not like the hall\nwhere he accommodated his philanthropy, or the library where he\ntreasured his science, still less did it resemble the pavilion where\nhis marriage feast was splendidly spread; yet, gradually, by long and\nequal kindness, he proved to me that he kept one little closet, over\nthe door of which was written \"Lucy's Room.\" I kept a place for him,\ntoo--a place of which I never took the measure, either by rule or\ncompass: I think it was like the tent of Peri-Banou. All my life long I\ncarried it folded in the hollow of my hand yet, released from that hold\nand constriction, I know not but its innate capacity for expanse might\nhave magnified it into a tabernacle for a host.\n\nForbearing as he was to-night, I could not stay in this proximity; this\ndangerous place and seat must be given up: I watched my opportunity,\nrose, and stole away. He might think, he might even believe that Lucy\nwas contained within that shawl, and sheltered under that hat; he never\ncould be certain, for he did not see my face.\n\nSurely the spirit of restlessness was by this time appeased? Had I not\nhad enough of adventure? Did I not begin to flag, quail, and wish for\nsafety under a roof? Not so. I still loathed my bed in the school\ndormitory more than words can express: I clung to whatever could\ndistract thought. Somehow I felt, too, that the night's drama was but\nbegun, that the prologue was scarce spoken: throughout this woody and\nturfy theatre reigned a shadow of mystery; actors and incidents\nunlooked-for, waited behind the scenes: I thought so foreboding told me\nas much.\n\nStraying at random, obeying the push of every chance elbow, I was\nbrought to a quarter where trees planted in clusters, or towering\nsingly, broke up somewhat the dense packing of the crowd, and gave it a\nmore scattered character. These confines were far from the music, and\nsomewhat aloof even from the lamps, but there was sound enough to\nsoothe, and with that full, high moon, lamps were scarce needed. Here\nhad chiefly settled family-groups, burgher-parents; some of them, late\nas was the hour, actually surrounded by their children, with whom it\nhad not been thought advisable to venture into the closer throng.\n\nThree fine tall trees growing close, almost twined stem within stem,\nlifted a thick canopy of shade above a green knoll, crowned with a\nseat--a seat which might have held several, yet it seemed abandoned to\none, the remaining members of the fortunate party in possession of this\nsite standing dutifully round; yet, amongst this reverend circle was a\nlady, holding by the hand a little girl.\n\nWhen I caught sight of this little girl, she was twisting herself round\non her heel, swinging from her conductress's hand, flinging herself\nfrom side to side with wanton and fantastic gyrations. These perverse\nmovements arrested my attention, they struck me as of a character\nfearfully familiar. On close inspection, no less so appeared the\nchild's equipment; the lilac silk pelisse, the small swansdown boa, the\nwhite bonnet--the whole holiday toilette, in short, was the gala garb\nof a cherub but too well known, of that tadpole, Désirée Beck--and\nDésirée Beck it was--she, or an imp in her likeness.\n\nI might have taken this discovery as a thunder-clap, but such hyperbole\nwould have been premature; discovery was destined to rise more than one\ndegree, ere it reached its climax.\n\nOn whose hand could the amiable Désirée swing thus selfishly, whose\nglove could she tear thus recklessly, whose arm thus strain with\nimpunity, or on the borders of whose dress thus turn and trample\ninsolently, if not the hand, glove, arm, and robe of her lady-mother?\nAnd there, in an Indian shawl and a pale-green crape bonnet--there,\nfresh, portly, blithe, and pleasant--there stood Madame Beck.\n\nCurious! I had certainly deemed Madame in her bed, and Désirée in her\ncrib, at this blessed minute, sleeping, both of them, the sleep of the\njust, within the sacred walls, amidst the profound seclusion of the Rue\nFossette. Most certainly also they did not picture \"Meess Lucie\"\notherwise engaged; and here we all three were taking our \"ébats\" in the\nfête-blazing park at midnight!\n\nThe fact was, Madame was only acting according to her quite justifiable\nwont. I remembered now I had heard it said among the teachers--though\nwithout at the time particularly noticing the gossip--that often, when\nwe thought Madame in her chamber, sleeping, she was gone, full-dressed,\nto take her pleasure at operas, or plays, or balls. Madame had no sort\nof taste for a monastic life, and took care--largely, though\ndiscreetly--to season her existence with a relish of the world.\n\nHalf a dozen gentlemen of her friends stood about her. Amongst these, I\nwas not slow to recognise two or three. There was her brother, M.\nVictor Kint; there was another person, moustached and with long hair--a\ncalm, taciturn man, but whose traits bore a stamp and a semblance I\ncould not mark unmoved. Amidst reserve and phlegm, amidst contrasts of\ncharacter and of countenance, something there still was which recalled\na face--mobile, fervent, feeling--a face changeable, now clouded, and\nnow alight--a face from my world taken away, for my eyes lost, but\nwhere my best spring-hours of life had alternated in shadow and in\nglow; that face, where I had often seen movements so near the signs of\ngenius--that why there did not shine fully out the undoubted fire, the\nthing, the spirit, and the secret itself--I could never tell. Yes--this\nJosef Emanuel--this man of peace--reminded me of his ardent brother.\n\nBesides Messieurs Victor and Josef, I knew another of this party. This\nthird person stood behind and in the shade, his attitude too was\nstooping, yet his dress and bald white head made him the most\nconspicuous figure of the group. He was an ecclesiastic: he was Père\nSilas. Do not fancy, reader, that there was any inconsistency in the\npriest's presence at this fête. This was not considered a show of\nVanity Fair, but a commemoration of patriotic sacrifice. The Church\npatronised it, even with ostentation. There were troops of priests in\nthe park that night.\n\nPère Silas stooped over the seat with its single occupant, the rustic\nbench and that which sat upon it: a strange mass it was--bearing no\nshape, yet magnificent. You saw, indeed, the outline of a face, and\nfeatures, but these were so cadaverous and so strangely placed, you\ncould almost have fancied a head severed from its trunk, and flung at\nrandom on a pile of rich merchandise. The distant lamp-rays glanced on\nclear pendants, on broad rings; neither the chasteness of moonlight,\nnor the distance of the torches, could quite subdue the gorgeous dyes\nof the drapery. Hail, Madame Walravens! I think you looked more\nwitch-like than ever. And presently the good lady proved that she was\nindeed no corpse or ghost, but a harsh and hardy old woman; for, upon\nsome aggravation in the clamorous petition of Désirée Beck to her\nmother, to go to the kiosk and take sweetmeats, the hunchback suddenly\nfetched her a resounding rap with her gold-knobbed cane.\n\nThere, then, were Madame Walravens, Madame Beck, Père Silas--the whole\nconjuration, the secret junta. The sight of them thus assembled did me\ngood. I cannot say that I felt weak before them, or abashed, or\ndismayed. They outnumbered me, and I was worsted and under their feet;\nbut, as yet, I was not dead.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIX.\n\nOLD AND NEW ACQUAINTANCE.\n\n\nFascinated as by a basilisk with three heads, I could not leave this\nclique; the ground near them seemed to hold my feet. The canopy of\nentwined trees held out shadow, the night whispered a pledge of\nprotection, and an officious lamp flashed just one beam to show me an\nobscure, safe seat, and then vanished. Let me now briefly tell the\nreader all that, during the past dark fortnight, I have been silently\ngathering from Rumour, respecting the origin and the object of M.\nEmanuel's departure. The tale is short, and not new: its alpha is\nMammon, and its omega Interest.\n\nIf Madame Walravens was hideous as a Hindoo idol, she seemed also to\npossess, in the estimation of these her votaries, an idol's\nconsequence. The fact was, she had been rich--very rich; and though,\nfor the present, without the command of money, she was likely one day\nto be rich again. At Basseterre, in Guadaloupe, she possessed a large\nestate, received in dowry on her marriage sixty years ago, sequestered\nsince her husband's failure; but now, it was supposed, cleared of\nclaim, and, if duly looked after by a competent agent of integrity,\nconsidered capable of being made, in a few years, largely productive.\n\nPère Silas took an interest in this prospective improvement for the\nsake of religion and the church, whereof Magliore Walravens was a\ndevout daughter. Madame Beck, distantly related to the hunchback and\nknowing her to be without family of her own, had long brooded over\ncontingencies with a mother's calculating forethought, and, harshly\ntreated as she was by Madame Walravens, never ceased to court her for\ninterest's sake. Madame Beck and the priest were thus, for money\nreasons, equally and sincerely interested in the nursing of the West\nIndian estate.\n\nBut the distance was great, and the climate hazardous. The competent\nand upright agent wanted, must be a devoted man. Just such a man had\nMadame Walravens retained for twenty years in her service, blighting\nhis life, and then living on him, like an old fungus; such a man had\nPère Silas trained, taught, and bound to him by the ties of gratitude,\nhabit, and belief. Such a man Madame Beck knew, and could in some\nmeasure influence. \"My pupil,\" said Père Silas, \"if he remains in\nEurope, runs risk of apostacy, for he has become entangled with a\nheretic.\" Madame Beck made also her private comment, and preferred in\nher own breast her secret reason for desiring expatriation. The thing\nshe could not obtain, she desired not another to win: rather would she\ndestroy it. As to Madame Walravens, she wanted her money and her land,\nand knew Paul, if he liked, could make the best and faithfullest\nsteward: so the three self-seekers banded and beset the one unselfish.\nThey reasoned, they appealed, they implored; on his mercy they cast\nthemselves, into his hands they confidingly thrust their interests.\nThey asked but two or three years of devotion--after that, he should\nlive for himself: one of the number, perhaps, wished that in the\nmeantime he might die.\n\nNo living being ever humbly laid his advantage at M. Emanuel's feet, or\nconfidingly put it into his hands, that he spurned the trust or\nrepulsed the repository. What might be his private pain or inward\nreluctance to leave Europe--what his calculations for his own\nfuture--none asked, or knew, or reported. All this was a blank to me.\nHis conferences with his confessor I might guess; the part duty and\nreligion were made to play in the persuasions used, I might conjecture.\nHe was gone, and had made no sign. There my knowledge closed.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWith my head bent, and my forehead resting on my hands, I sat amidst\ngrouped tree-stems and branching brushwood. Whatever talk passed\namongst my neighbours, I might hear, if I would; I was near enough; but\nfor some time, there was scarce motive to attend. They gossiped about\nthe dresses, the music, the illuminations, the fine night. I listened\nto hear them say, \"It is calm weather for _his_ voyage; the _Antigua_\"\n(his ship) \"will sail prosperously.\" No such remark fell; neither the\n_Antigua_, nor her course, nor her passenger were named.\n\nPerhaps the light chat scarcely interested old Madame Walravens more\nthan it did me; she appeared restless, turning her head now to this\nside, now that, looking through the trees, and among the crowd, as if\nexpectant of an arrival and impatient of delay. \"Où sont-ils? Pourquoi\nne viennent-ils?\" I heard her mutter more than once; and at last, as if\ndetermined to have an answer to her question--which hitherto none\nseemed to mind, she spoke aloud this phrase--a phrase brief enough,\nsimple enough, but it sent a shock through me--\"Messieurs et mesdames,\"\nsaid she, \"où donc est Justine Marie?\"\n\n\"Justine Marie!\" What was this? Justine Marie--the dead nun--where was\nshe? Why, in her grave, Madame Walravens--what can you want with her?\nYou shall go to her, but she shall not come to you.\n\nThus _I_ should have answered, had the response lain with me, but\nnobody seemed to be of my mind; nobody seemed surprised, startled, or\nat a loss. The quietest commonplace answer met the strange, the\ndead-disturbing, the Witch-of-Endor query of the hunchback.\n\n\"Justine Marie,\" said one, \"is coming; she is in the kiosk; she will be\nhere presently.\"\n\nOut of this question and reply sprang a change in the chat--chat it\nstill remained, easy, desultory, familiar gossip. Hint, allusion,\ncomment, went round the circle, but all so broken, so dependent on\nreferences to persons not named, or circumstances not defined, that\nlisten as intently as I would--and I _did_ listen _now_ with a fated\ninterest--I could make out no more than that some scheme was on foot,\nin which this ghostly Justine Marie--dead or alive--was concerned. This\nfamily-junta seemed grasping at her somehow, for some reason; there\nseemed question of a marriage, of a fortune--for whom I could not quite\nmake out-perhaps for Victor Kint, perhaps for Josef Emanuel--both were\nbachelors. Once I thought the hints and jests rained upon a young\nfair-haired foreigner of the party, whom they called Heinrich Mühler.\nAmidst all the badinage, Madame Walravens still obtruded from time to\ntime, hoarse, cross-grained speeches; her impatience being diverted\nonly by an implacable surveillance of Désirée, who could not stir but\nthe old woman menaced her with her staff.\n\n\"La voilà!\" suddenly cried one of the gentlemen, \"voilà Justine Marie\nqui arrive!\"\n\nThis moment was for me peculiar. I called up to memory the pictured nun\non the panel; present to my mind was the sad love-story; I saw in\nthought the vision of the garret, the apparition of the alley, the\nstrange birth of the berceau; I underwent a presentiment of discovery,\na strong conviction of coming disclosure. Ah! when imagination once\nruns riot where do we stop? What winter tree so bare and\nbranchless--what way-side, hedge-munching animal so humble, that Fancy,\na passing cloud, and a struggling moonbeam, will not clothe it in\nspirituality, and make of it a phantom?\n\nWith solemn force pressed on my heart, the expectation of mystery\nbreaking up: hitherto I had seen this spectre only through a glass\ndarkly; now was I to behold it face to face. I leaned forward; I looked.\n\n\"She comes!\" cried Josef Emanuel.\n\nThe circle opened as if opening to admit a new and welcome member. At\nthis instant a torch chanced to be carried past; its blaze aided the\npale moon in doing justice to the crisis, in lighting to perfection the\ndénouement pressing on. Surely those near me must have felt some little\nof the anxiety I felt, in degree so unmeted. Of that group the coolest\nmust have \"held his breath for a time!\" As for me, my life stood still.\n\nIt is over. The moment and the nun are come. The crisis and the\nrevelation are passed by.\n\nThe flambeau glares still within a yard, held up in a park-keeper's\nhand; its long eager tongue of flame almost licks the figure of the\nExpected--there--where she stands full in my sight. What is she like?\nWhat does she wear? How does she look? Who is she?\n\nThere are many masks in the park to-night, and as the hour wears late,\nso strange a feeling of revelry and mystery begins to spread abroad,\nthat scarce would you discredit me, reader, were I to say that she is\nlike the nun of the attic, that she wears black skirts and white\nhead-clothes, that she looks the resurrection of the flesh, and that\nshe is a risen ghost.\n\nAll falsities--all figments! We will not deal in this gear. Let us be\nhonest, and cut, as heretofore, from the homely web of truth.\n\n_Homely_, though, is an ill-chosen word. What I see is not precisely\nhomely. A girl of Villette stands there--a girl fresh from her\npensionnat. She is very comely, with the beauty indigenous to this\ncountry. She looks well-nourished, fair, and fat of flesh. Her cheeks\nare round, her eyes good; her hair is abundant. She is handsomely\ndressed. She is not alone; her escort consists of three persons--two\nbeing elderly; these she addresses as \"Mon Oncle\" and \"Ma Tante.\" She\nlaughs, she chats; good-humoured, buxom, and blooming, she looks, at\nall points, the bourgeoise belle.\n\n\"So much for Justine Marie;\" so much for ghosts and mystery: not that\nthis last was solved--this girl certainly is not my nun: what I saw in\nthe garret and garden must have been taller by a span.\n\nWe have looked at the city belle; we have cursorily glanced at the\nrespectable old uncle and aunt. Have we a stray glance to give to the\nthird member of this company? Can we spare him a moment's notice? We\nought to distinguish him so far, reader; he has claims on us; we do not\nnow meet him for the first time. I clasped my hands very hard, and I\ndrew my breath very deep: I held in the cry, I devoured the\nejaculation, I forbade the start, I spoke and I stirred no more than a\nstone; but I knew what I looked on; through the dimness left in my eyes\nby many nights' weeping, I knew him. They said he was to sail by the\n_Antigua_. Madame Beck said so. She lied, or she had uttered what was\nonce truth, and failed to contradict it when it became false. The\n_Antigua_ was gone, and there stood Paul Emanuel.\n\nWas I glad? A huge load left me. Was it a fact to warrant joy? I know\nnot. Ask first what were the circumstances attendant on this respite?\nHow far did this delay concern _me?_ Were there not those whom it might\ntouch more nearly?\n\nAfter all, who may this young girl, this Justine Marie, be? Not a\nstranger, reader; she is known to me by sight; she visits at the Rue\nFossette: she is often of Madame Beck's Sunday parties. She is a\nrelation of both the Becks and Walravens; she derives her baptismal\nname from the sainted nun who would have been her aunt had she lived;\nher patronymic is Sauveur; she is an heiress and an orphan, and M.\nEmanuel is her guardian; some say her godfather.\n\nThe family junta wish this heiress to be married to one of their\nband--which is it? Vital question--which is it?\n\nI felt very glad now, that the drug administered in the sweet draught\nhad filled me with a possession which made bed and chamber intolerable.\nI always, through my whole life, liked to penetrate to the real truth;\nI like seeking the goddess in her temple, and handling the veil, and\ndaring the dread glance. O Titaness among deities! the covered outline\nof thine aspect sickens often through its uncertainty, but define to us\none trait, show us one lineament, clear in awful sincerity; we may gasp\nin untold terror, but with that gasp we drink in a breath of thy\ndivinity; our heart shakes, and its currents sway like rivers lifted by\nearthquake, but we have swallowed strength. To see and know the worst\nis to take from Fear her main advantage.\n\nThe Walravens' party, augmented in numbers, now became very gay. The\ngentlemen fetched refreshments from the kiosk, all sat down on the turf\nunder the trees; they drank healths and sentiments; they laughed, they\njested. M. Emanuel underwent some raillery, half good-humoured, half, I\nthought, malicious, especially on Madame Beck's part. I soon gathered\nthat his voyage had been temporarily deferred of his own will, without\nthe concurrence, even against the advice, of his friends; he had let\nthe _Antigua_ go, and had taken his berth in the _Paul et Virginie_,\nappointed to sail a fortnight later. It was his reason for this resolve\nwhich they teased him to assign, and which he would only vaguely\nindicate as \"the settlement of a little piece of business which he had\nset his heart upon.\" What _was_ this business? Nobody knew. Yes, there\nwas one who seemed partly, at least, in his confidence; a meaning look\npassed between him and Justine Marie. \"La petite va m'aider--n'est-ce\npas?\" said he. The answer was prompt enough, God knows?\n\n\"Mais oui, je vous aiderai de tout mon coeur. Vous ferez de moi tout ce\nque vous voudrez, mon parrain.\"\n\nAnd this dear \"parrain\" took her hand and lifted it to his grateful\nlips. Upon which demonstration, I saw the light-complexioned young\nTeuton, Heinrich Mühler, grow restless, as if he did not like it. He\neven grumbled a few words, whereat M. Emanuel actually laughed in his\nface, and with the ruthless triumph of the assured conqueror, he drew\nhis ward nearer to him.\n\nM. Emanuel was indeed very joyous that night. He seemed not one whit\nsubdued by the change of scene and action impending. He was the true\nlife of the party; a little despotic, perhaps, determined to be chief\nin mirth, as well as in labour, yet from moment to moment proving\nindisputably his right of leadership. His was the wittiest word, the\npleasantest anecdote, the frankest laugh. Restlessly active, after his\nmanner, he multiplied himself to wait on all; but oh! I saw which was\nhis favourite. I saw at whose feet he lay on the turf, I saw whom he\nfolded carefully from the night air, whom he tended, watched, and\ncherished as the apple of his eye.\n\nStill, hint and raillery flew thick, and still I gathered that while M.\nPaul should be absent, working for others, these others, not quite\nungrateful, would guard for him the treasure he left in Europe. Let him\nbring them an Indian fortune: they would give him in return a young\nbride and a rich inheritance. As for the saintly consecration, the vow\nof constancy, that was forgotten: the blooming and charming Present\nprevailed over the Past; and, at length, his nun was indeed buried.\n\nThus it must be. The revelation was indeed come. Presentiment had not\nbeen mistaken in her impulse: there is a kind of presentiment which\nnever _is_ mistaken; it was I who had for a moment miscalculated; not\nseeing the true bearing of the oracle, I had thought she muttered of\nvision when, in truth, her prediction touched reality.\n\nI might have paused longer upon what I saw; I might have deliberated\nere I drew inferences. Some, perhaps, would have held the premises\ndoubtful, the proofs insufficient; some slow sceptics would have\nincredulously examined ere they conclusively accepted the project of a\nmarriage between a poor and unselfish man of forty, and his wealthy\nward of eighteen; but far from me such shifts and palliatives, far from\nme such temporary evasion of the actual, such coward fleeing from the\ndread, the swift-footed, the all-overtaking Fact, such feeble suspense\nof submission to her the sole sovereign, such paltering and faltering\nresistance to the Power whose errand is to march conquering and to\nconquer, such traitor defection from the TRUTH.\n\nNo. I hastened to accept the whole plan. I extended my grasp and took\nit all in. I gathered it to me with a sort of rage of haste, and folded\nit round me, as the soldier struck on the field folds his colours about\nhis breast. I invoked Conviction to nail upon me the certainty,\nabhorred while embraced, to fix it with the strongest spikes her\nstrongest strokes could drive; and when the iron had entered well my\nsoul, I stood up, as I thought, renovated.\n\nIn my infatuation, I said, \"Truth, you are a good mistress to your\nfaithful servants! While a Lie pressed me, how I suffered! Even when\nthe Falsehood was still sweet, still flattering to the fancy, and warm\nto the feelings, it wasted me with hourly torment. The persuasion that\naffection was won could not be divorced from the dread that, by another\nturn of the wheel, it might be lost. Truth stripped away Falsehood, and\nFlattery, and Expectancy, and here I stand--free!\"\n\nNothing remained now but to take my freedom to my chamber, to carry it\nwith me to my bed and see what I could make of it. The play was not\nyet, indeed, quite played out. I might have waited and watched longer\nthat love-scene under the trees, that sylvan courtship. Had there been\nnothing of love in the demonstration, my Fancy in this hour was so\ngenerous, so creative, she could have modelled for it the most salient\nlineaments, and given it the deepest life and highest colour of\npassion. But I _would_ not look; I had fixed my resolve, but I would\nnot violate my nature. And then--something tore me so cruelly under my\nshawl, something so dug into my side, a vulture so strong in beak and\ntalon, I must be alone to grapple with it. I think I never felt\njealousy till now. This was not like enduring the endearments of Dr.\nJohn and Paulina, against which while I sealed my eyes and my ears,\nwhile I withdrew thence my thoughts, my sense of harmony still\nacknowledged in it a charm. This was an outrage. The love born of\nbeauty was not mine; I had nothing in common with it: I could not dare\nto meddle with it, but another love, venturing diffidently into life\nafter long acquaintance, furnace-tried by pain, stamped by constancy,\nconsolidated by affection's pure and durable alloy, submitted by\nintellect to intellect's own tests, and finally wrought up, by his own\nprocess, to his own unflawed completeness, this Love that laughed at\nPassion, his fast frenzies and his hot and hurried extinction, in\n_this_ Love I had a vested interest; and whatever tended either to its\nculture or its destruction, I could not view impassibly.\n\nI turned from the group of trees and the \"merrie companie\" in its\nshade. Midnight was long past; the concert was over, the crowds were\nthinning. I followed the ebb. Leaving the radiant park and well-lit\nHaute-Ville (still well lit, this it seems was to be a \"nuit blanche\"\nin Villette), I sought the dim lower quarter.\n\nDim I should not say, for the beauty of moonlight--forgotten in the\npark--here once more flowed in upon perception. High she rode, and calm\nand stainlessly she shone. The music and the mirth of the fête, the\nfire and bright hues of those lamps had out-done and out-shone her for\nan hour, but now, again, her glory and her silence triumphed. The rival\nlamps were dying: she held her course like a white fate. Drum, trumpet,\nbugle, had uttered their clangour, and were forgotten; with pencil-ray\nshe wrote on heaven and on earth records for archives everlasting. She\nand those stars seemed to me at once the types and witnesses of truth\nall regnant. The night-sky lit her reign: like its slow-wheeling\nprogress, advanced her victory--that onward movement which has been,\nand is, and will be from eternity to eternity.\n\nThese oil-twinkling streets are very still: I like them for their\nlowliness and peace. Homeward-bound burghers pass me now and then, but\nthese companies are pedestrians, make little noise, and are soon gone.\nSo well do I love Villette under her present aspect, not willingly\nwould I re-enter under a roof, but that I am bent on pursuing my\nstrange adventure to a successful close, and quietly regaining my bed\nin the great dormitory, before Madame Beck comes home.\n\nOnly one street lies between me and the Rue Fossette; as I enter it,\nfor the first time, the sound of a carriage tears up the deep peace of\nthis quarter. It comes this way--comes very fast. How loud sounds its\nrattle on the paved path! The street is narrow, and I keep carefully to\nthe causeway. The carriage thunders past, but what do I see, or fancy I\nsee, as it rushes by? Surely something white fluttered from that\nwindow--surely a hand waved a handkerchief. Was that signal meant for\nme? Am I known? Who could recognise me? That is not M. de\nBassompierre's carriage, nor Mrs. Bretton's; and besides, neither the\nHôtel Crécy nor the château of La Terrasse lies in that direction.\nWell, I have no time for conjecture; I must hurry home.\n\nGaining the Rue Fossette, reaching the pensionnat, all there was still;\nno fiacre had yet arrived with Madame and Désirée. I had left the great\ndoor ajar; should I find it thus? Perhaps the wind or some other\naccident may have thrown it to with sufficient force to start the\nspring-bolt? In that case, hopeless became admission; my adventure must\nissue in catastrophe. I lightly pushed the heavy leaf; would it yield?\n\nYes. As soundless, as unresisting, as if some propitious genius had\nwaited on a sesame-charm, in the vestibule within. Entering with bated\nbreath, quietly making all fast, shoelessly mounting the staircase, I\nsought the dormitory, and reached my couch.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAy! I reached it, and once more drew a free inspiration. The next\nmoment, I almost shrieked--almost, but not quite, thank Heaven!\n\nThroughout the dormitory, throughout the house, there reigned at this\nhour the stillness of death. All slept, and in such hush, it seemed\nthat none dreamed. Stretched on the nineteen beds lay nineteen forms,\nat full-length and motionless. On mine--the twentieth couch--nothing\n_ought_ to have lain: I had left it void, and void should have found\nit. What, then; do I see between the half-drawn curtains? What dark,\nusurping shape, supine, long, and strange? Is it a robber who has made\nhis way through the open street-door, and lies there in wait? It looks\nvery black, I think it looks--not human. Can it be a wandering dog that\nhas come in from the street and crept and nestled hither? Will it\nspring, will it leap out if I approach? Approach I must. Courage! One\nstep!--\n\nMy head reeled, for by the faint night-lamp, I saw stretched on my bed\nthe old phantom--the NUN.\n\nA cry at this moment might have ruined me. Be the spectacle what it\nmight, I could afford neither consternation, scream, nor swoon.\nBesides, I was not overcome. Tempered by late incidents, my nerves\ndisdained hysteria. Warm from illuminations, and music, and thronging\nthousands, thoroughly lashed up by a new scourge, I defied spectra. In\na moment, without exclamation, I had rushed on the haunted couch;\nnothing leaped out, or sprung, or stirred; all the movement was mine,\nso was all the life, the reality, the substance, the force; as my\ninstinct felt. I tore her up--the incubus! I held her on high--the\ngoblin! I shook her loose--the mystery! And down she fell--down all\naround me--down in shreds and fragments--and I trode upon her.\n\nHere again--behold the branchless tree, the unstabled Rosinante; the\nfilm of cloud, the flicker of moonshine. The long nun proved a long\nbolster dressed in a long black stole, and artfully invested with a\nwhite veil. The garments in very truth, strange as it may seem, were\ngenuine nun's garments, and by some hand they had been disposed with a\nview to illusion. Whence came these vestments? Who contrived this\nartifice? These questions still remained. To the head-bandage was\npinned a slip of paper: it bore in pencil these mocking words--\n\n\"The nun of the attic bequeaths to Lucy Snowe her wardrobe. She will be\nseen in the Rue Fossette no more.\"\n\nAnd what and who was she that had haunted me? She, I had actually seen\nthree times. Not a woman of my acquaintance had the stature of that\nghost. She was not of a female height. Not to any man I knew could the\nmachination, for a moment, be attributed.\n\nStill mystified beyond expression, but as thoroughly, as suddenly,\nrelieved from all sense of the spectral and unearthly; scorning also to\nwear out my brain with the fret of a trivial though insoluble riddle, I\njust bundled together stole, veil, and bandages, thrust them beneath my\npillow, lay down, listened till I heard the wheels of Madame's\nhome-returning fiacre, then turned, and worn out by many nights'\nvigils, conquered, too, perhaps, by the now reacting narcotic, I deeply\nslept.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XL.\n\nTHE HAPPY PAIR.\n\n\nThe day succeeding this remarkable Midsummer night, proved no common\nday. I do not mean that it brought signs in heaven above, or portents\non the earth beneath; nor do I allude to meteorological phenomena, to\nstorm, flood, or whirlwind. On the contrary: the sun rose jocund, with\na July face. Morning decked her beauty with rubies, and so filled her\nlap with roses, that they fell from her in showers, making her path\nblush: the Hours woke fresh as nymphs, and emptying on the early hills\ntheir dew-vials, they stepped out dismantled of vapour: shadowless,\nazure, and glorious, they led the sun's steeds on a burning and\nunclouded course.\n\nIn short, it was as fine a day as the finest summer could boast; but I\ndoubt whether I was not the sole inhabitant of the Rue Fossette, who\ncared or remembered to note this pleasant fact. Another thought busied\nall other heads; a thought, indeed, which had its share in my\nmeditations; but this master consideration, not possessing for me so\nentire a novelty, so overwhelming a suddenness, especially so dense a\nmystery, as it offered to the majority of my co-speculators thereon,\nleft me somewhat more open than the rest to any collateral observation\nor impression.\n\nStill, while walking in the garden, feeling the sunshine, and marking\nthe blooming and growing plants, I pondered the same subject the whole\nhouse discussed.\n\nWhat subject?\n\nMerely this. When matins came to be said, there was a place vacant in\nthe first rank of boarders. When breakfast was served, there remained a\ncoffee-cup unclaimed. When the housemaid made the beds, she found in\none, a bolster laid lengthwise, clad in a cap and night-gown; and when\nGinevra Fanshawe's music-mistress came early, as usual, to give the\nmorning lesson, that accomplished and promising young person, her\npupil, failed utterly to be forthcoming.\n\nHigh and low was Miss Fanshawe sought; through length and breadth was\nthe house ransacked; vainly; not a trace, not an indication, not so\nmuch as a scrap of a billet rewarded the search; the nymph was\nvanished, engulfed in the past night, like a shooting star swallowed up\nby darkness.\n\nDeep was the dismay of surveillante teachers, deeper the horror of the\ndefaulting directress. Never had I seen Madame Beck so pale or so\nappalled. Here was a blow struck at her tender part, her weak side;\nhere was damage done to her interest. How, too, had the untoward event\nhappened? By what outlet had the fugitive taken wing? Not a casement\nwas found unfastened, not a pane of glass broken; all the doors were\nbolted secure. Never to this day has Madame Beck obtained satisfaction\non this point, nor indeed has anybody else concerned, save and\nexcepting one, Lucy Snowe, who could not forget how, to facilitate a\ncertain enterprise, a certain great door had been drawn softly to its\nlintel, closed, indeed, but neither bolted nor secure. The thundering\ncarriage-and-pair encountered were now likewise recalled, as well as\nthat puzzling signal, the waved handkerchief.\n\nFrom these premises, and one or two others, inaccessible to any but\nmyself, I could draw but one inference. It was a case of elopement.\nMorally certain on this head, and seeing Madame Beck's profound\nembarrassment, I at last communicated my conviction. Having alluded to\nM. de Hamal's suit, I found, as I expected, that Madame Beck was\nperfectly au fait to that affair. She had long since discussed it with\nMrs. Cholmondeley, and laid her own responsibility in the business on\nthat lady's shoulders. To Mrs. Cholmondeley and M. de Bassompierre she\nnow had recourse.\n\nWe found that the Hôtel Crécy was already alive to what had happened.\nGinevra had written to her cousin Paulina, vaguely signifying hymeneal\nintentions; communications had been received from the family of de\nHamal; M. de Bassompierre was on the track of the fugitives. He\novertook them too late.\n\nIn the course of the week, the post brought me a note. I may as well\ntranscribe it; it contains explanation on more than one point:--\n\n'DEAR OLD TIM \"(short for Timon),--\" I am off you see--gone like a\nshot. Alfred and I intended to be married in this way almost from the\nfirst; we never meant to be spliced in the humdrum way of other people;\nAlfred has too much spirit for that, and so have I--Dieu merci! Do you\nknow, Alfred, who used to call you 'the dragon,' has seen so much of\nyou during the last few months, that he begins to feel quite friendly\ntowards you. He hopes you won't miss him now that he has gone; he begs\nto apologize for any little trouble he may have given you. He is afraid\nhe rather inconvenienced you once when he came upon you in the grenier,\njust as you were reading a letter seemingly of the most special\ninterest; but he could not resist the temptation to give you a start,\nyou appeared so wonderfully taken up with your correspondent. En\nrevanche, he says you once frightened him by rushing in for a dress or\na shawl, or some other chiffon, at the moment when he had struck a\nlight, and was going to take a quiet whiff of his cigar, while waiting\nfor me.\n\n\"Do you begin to comprehend by this time that M. le Comte de Hamal was\nthe nun of the attic, and that he came to see your humble servant? I\nwill tell you how he managed it. You know he has the entrée of the\nAthénée, where two or three of his nephews, the sons of his eldest\nsister, Madame de Melcy, are students. You know the court of the\nAthénée is on the other side of the high wall bounding your walk, the\nallée défendue. Alfred can climb as well as he can dance or fence: his\namusement was to make the escalade of our pensionnat by mounting, first\nthe wall; then--by the aid of that high tree overspreading the grand\nberceau, and resting some of its boughs on the roof of the lower\nbuildings of our premises--he managed to scale the first classe and the\ngrand salle. One night, by the way, he fell out of this tree, tore down\nsome of the branches, nearly broke his own neck, and after all, in\nrunning away, got a terrible fright, and was nearly caught by two\npeople, Madame Beck and M. Emanuel, he thinks, walking in the alley.\nFrom the grande salle the ascent is not difficult to the highest block\nof building, finishing in the great garret. The skylight, you know, is,\nday and night, left half open for air; by the skylight he entered.\nNearly a year ago I chanced to tell him our legend of the nun; that\nsuggested his romantic idea of the spectral disguise, which I think you\nmust allow he has very cleverly carried out.\n\n\"But for the nun's black gown and white veil, he would have been caught\nagain and again both by you and that tiger-Jesuit, M. Paul. He thinks\nyou both capital ghost-seers, and very brave. What I wonder at is,\nrather your secretiveness than your courage. How could you endure the\nvisitations of that long spectre, time after time, without crying out,\ntelling everybody, and rousing the whole house and neighbourhood?\n\n\"Oh, and how did you like the nun as a bed-fellow? _I_ dressed her up:\ndidn't I do it well? Did you shriek when you saw her: I should have\ngone mad; but then you have such nerves!--real iron and bend-leather! I\nbelieve you feel nothing. You haven't the same sensitiveness that a\nperson of my constitution has. You seem to me insensible both to pain\nand fear and grief. You are a real old Diogenes.\n\n\"Well, dear grandmother! and are you not mightily angry at my moonlight\nflitting and run away match? I assure you it is excellent fun, and I\ndid it partly to spite that minx, Paulina, and that bear, Dr. John: to\nshow them that, with all their airs, I could get married as well as\nthey. M. de Bassompierre was at first in a strange fume with Alfred; he\nthreatened a prosecution for 'détournement de mineur,' and I know not\nwhat; he was so abominably in earnest, that I found myself forced to do\na little bit of the melodramatic--go down on my knees, sob, cry, drench\nthree pocket-handkerchiefs. Of course, 'mon oncle' soon gave in;\nindeed, where was the use of making a fuss? I am married, and that's\nall about it. He still says our marriage is not legal, because I am not\nof age, forsooth! As if that made any difference! I am just as much\nmarried as if I were a hundred. However, we are to be married again,\nand I am to have a trousseau, and Mrs. Cholmondeley is going to\nsuperintend it; and there are some hopes that M. de Bassompierre will\ngive me a decent portion, which will be very convenient, as dear Alfred\nhas nothing but his nobility, native and hereditary, and his pay. I\nonly wish uncle would do things unconditionally, in a generous,\ngentleman-like fashion; he is so disagreeable as to make the dowry\ndepend on Alfred's giving his written promise that he will never touch\ncards or dice from the day it is paid down. They accuse my angel of a\ntendency to play: I don't know anything about that, but I _do_ know he\nis a dear, adorable creature.\n\n\"I cannot sufficiently extol the genius with which de Hamal managed our\nflight. How clever in him to select the night of the fête, when Madame\n(for he knows her habits), as he said, would infallibly be absent at\nthe concert in the park. I suppose _you_ must have gone with her. I\nwatched you rise and leave the dormitory about eleven o'clock. How you\nreturned alone, and on foot, I cannot conjecture. That surely was _you_\nwe met in the narrow old Rue St. Jean? Did you see me wave my\nhandkerchief from the carriage window?\n\n\"Adieu! Rejoice in my good luck: congratulate me on my supreme\nhappiness, and believe me, dear cynic and misanthrope, yours, in the\nbest of health and spirits,\n\nGINEVRA LAURA DE HAMAL, née FANSHAWE.\n\n\"P.S.--Remember, I am a countess now. Papa, mamma, and the girls at\nhome, will be delighted to hear that. 'My daughter the Countess!' 'My\nsister the Countess!' Bravo! Sounds rather better than Mrs. John\nBretton, hein?\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIn winding up Mistress Fanshawe's memoirs, the reader will no doubt\nexpect to hear that she came finally to bitter expiation of her\nyouthful levities. Of course, a large share of suffering lies in\nreserve for her future.\n\nA few words will embody my farther knowledge respecting her.\n\nI saw her towards the close of her honeymoon. She called on Madame\nBeck, and sent for me into the salon. She rushed into my arms laughing.\nShe looked very blooming and beautiful: her curls were longer, her\ncheeks rosier than ever: her white bonnet and her Flanders veil, her\norange-flowers and her bride's dress, became her mightily.\n\n\"I have got my portion!\" she cried at once; (Ginevra ever stuck to the\nsubstantial; I always thought there was a good trading element in her\ncomposition, much as she scorned the \"bourgeoise;\") \"and uncle de\nBassompierre is quite reconciled. I don't mind his calling Alfred a\n'nincompoop'--that's only his coarse Scotch breeding; and I believe\nPaulina envies me, and Dr. John is wild with jealousy--fit to blow his\nbrains out--and I'm so happy! I really think I've hardly anything left\nto wish for--unless it be a carriage and an hotel, and, oh! I--must\nintroduce you to 'mon mari.' Alfred, come here!\"\n\nAnd Alfred appeared from the inner salon, where he was talking to\nMadame Beck, receiving the blended felicitations and reprimands of that\nlady. I was presented under my various names: the Dragon, Diogenes, and\nTimon. The young Colonel was very polite. He made me a prettily-turned,\nneatly-worded apology, about the ghost-visits, &c., concluding with\nsaying that \"the best excuse for all his iniquities stood there!\"\npointing to his bride.\n\nAnd then the bride sent him back to Madame Beck, and she took me to\nherself, and proceeded literally to suffocate me with her unrestrained\nspirits, her girlish, giddy, wild nonsense. She showed her ring\nexultingly; she called herself Madame la Comtesse de Hamal, and asked\nhow it sounded, a score of times. I said very little. I gave her only\nthe crust and rind of my nature. No matter she expected of me nothing\nbetter--she knew me too well to look for compliments--my dry gibes\npleased her well enough and the more impassible and prosaic my mien,\nthe more merrily she laughed.\n\nSoon after his marriage, M. de Hamal was persuaded to leave the army as\nthe surest way of weaning him from certain unprofitable associates and\nhabits; a post of attaché was procured for him, and he and his young\nwife went abroad. I thought she would forget me now, but she did not.\nFor many years, she kept up a capricious, fitful sort of\ncorrespondence. During the first year or two, it was only of herself\nand Alfred she wrote; then, Alfred faded in the background; herself and\na certain, new comer prevailed; one Alfred Fanshawe de Bassompierre de\nHamal began to reign in his father's stead. There were great boastings\nabout this personage, extravagant amplifications upon miracles of\nprecocity, mixed with vehement objurgations against the phlegmatic\nincredulity with which I received them. I didn't know \"what it was to\nbe a mother;\" \"unfeeling thing that I was, the sensibilities of the\nmaternal heart were Greek and Hebrew to me,\" and so on. In due course\nof nature this young gentleman took his degrees in teething, measles,\nhooping-cough: that was a terrible time for me--the mamma's letters\nbecame a perfect shout of affliction; never woman was so put upon by\ncalamity: never human being stood in such need of sympathy. I was\nfrightened at first, and wrote back pathetically; but I soon found out\nthere was more cry than wool in the business, and relapsed into my\nnatural cruel insensibility. As to the youthful sufferer, he weathered\neach storm like a hero. Five times was that youth \"in articulo mortis,\"\nand five times did he miraculously revive.\n\nIn the course of years there arose ominous murmurings against Alfred\nthe First; M. de Bassompierre had to be appealed to, debts had to be\npaid, some of them of that dismal and dingy order called \"debts of\nhonour;\" ignoble plaints and difficulties became frequent. Under every\ncloud, no matter what its nature, Ginevra, as of old, called out\nlustily for sympathy and aid. She had no notion of meeting any distress\nsingle-handed. In some shape, from some quarter or other, she was\npretty sure to obtain her will, and so she got on--fighting the battle\nof life by proxy, and, on the whole, suffering as little as any human\nbeing I have ever known.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLI.\n\nFAUBOURG CLOTILDE.\n\n\nMust I, ere I close, render some account of that Freedom and Renovation\nwhich I won on the fête-night? Must I tell how I and the two stalwart\ncompanions I brought home from the illuminated park bore the test of\nintimate acquaintance?\n\nI tried them the very next day. They had boasted their strength loudly\nwhen they reclaimed me from love and its bondage, but upon my demanding\ndeeds, not words, some evidence of better comfort, some experience of a\nrelieved life--Freedom excused himself, as for the present impoverished\nand disabled to assist; and Renovation never spoke; he had died in the\nnight suddenly.\n\nI had nothing left for it then but to trust secretly that conjecture\nmight have hurried me too fast and too far, to sustain the oppressive\nhour by reminders of the distorting and discolouring magic of jealousy.\nAfter a short and vain struggle, I found myself brought back captive to\nthe old rack of suspense, tied down and strained anew.\n\nShall I yet see him before he goes? Will he bear me in mind? Does he\npurpose to come? Will this day--will the next hour bring him? or must I\nagain assay that corroding pain of long attent--that rude agony of\nrupture at the close, that mute, mortal wrench, which, in at once\nuprooting hope and doubt, shakes life; while the hand that does the\nviolence cannot be caressed to pity, because absence interposes her\nbarrier!\n\nIt was the Feast of the Assumption; no school was held. The boarders\nand teachers, after attending mass in the morning, were gone a long\nwalk into the country to take their goûter, or afternoon meal, at some\nfarm-house. I did not go with them, for now but two days remained ere\nthe _Paul et Virginie_ must sail, and I was clinging to my last chance,\nas the living waif of a wreck clings to his last raft or cable.\n\nThere was some joiners' work to do in the first classe, some bench or\ndesk to repair; holidays were often turned to account for the\nperformance of these operations, which could not be executed when the\nrooms were filled with pupils. As I sat solitary, purposing to adjourn\nto the garden and leave the coast clear, but too listless to fulfil my\nown intent, I heard the workmen coming.\n\nForeign artisans and servants do everything by couples: I believe it\nwould take two Labassecourien carpenters to drive a nail. While tying\non my bonnet, which had hitherto hung by its ribbons from my idle hand,\nI vaguely and momentarily wondered to hear the step of but one\n\"ouvrier.\" I noted, too--as captives in dungeons find sometimes dreary\nleisure to note the merest trifles--that this man wore shoes, and not\nsabots: I concluded that it must be the master-carpenter, coming to\ninspect before he sent his journeymen. I threw round me my scarf. He\nadvanced; he opened the door; my back was towards it; I felt a little\nthrill--a curious sensation, too quick and transient to be analyzed. I\nturned, I stood in the supposed master-artisan's presence: looking\ntowards the door-way, I saw it filled with a figure, and my eyes\nprinted upon my brain the picture of M. Paul.\n\nHundreds of the prayers with which we weary Heaven bring to the\nsuppliant no fulfilment. Once haply in life, one golden gift falls\nprone in the lap--one boon full and bright, perfect from Fruition's\nmint.\n\nM. Emanuel wore the dress in which he probably purposed to travel--a\nsurtout, guarded with velvet; I thought him prepared for instant\ndeparture, and yet I had understood that two days were yet to run\nbefore the ship sailed. He looked well and cheerful. He looked kind and\nbenign: he came in with eagerness; he was close to me in one second; he\nwas all amity. It might be his bridegroom mood which thus brightened\nhim. Whatever the cause, I could not meet his sunshine with cloud. If\nthis were my last moment with him, I would not waste it in forced,\nunnatural distance. I loved him well--too well not to smite out of my\npath even Jealousy herself, when she would have obstructed a kind\nfarewell. A cordial word from his lips, or a gentle look from his eyes,\nwould do me good, for all the span of life that remained to me; it\nwould be comfort in the last strait of loneliness; I would take it--I\nwould taste the elixir, and pride should not spill the cup.\n\nThe interview would be short, of course: he would say to me just what\nhe had said to each of the assembled pupils; he would take and hold my\nhand two minutes; he would touch my cheek with his lips for the first,\nlast, only time--and then--no more. Then, indeed, the final parting,\nthen the wide separation, the great gulf I could not pass to go to\nhim--across which, haply, he would not glance, to remember me.\n\nHe took my hand in one of his, with the other he put back my bonnet; he\nlooked into my face, his luminous smile went out, his lips expressed\nsomething almost like the wordless language of a mother who finds a\nchild greatly and unexpectedly changed, broken with illness, or worn\nout by want. A check supervened.\n\n\"Paul, Paul!\" said a woman's hurried voice behind, \"Paul, come into the\nsalon; I have yet a great many things to say to you--conversation for\nthe whole day--and so has Victor; and Josef is here. Come Paul, come to\nyour friends.\"\n\nMadame Beck, brought to the spot by vigilance or an inscrutable\ninstinct, pressed so near, she almost thrust herself between me and M.\nEmanuel.\n\n\"Come, Paul!\" she reiterated, her eye grazing me with its hard ray like\na steel stylet. She pushed against her kinsman. I thought he receded; I\nthought he would go. Pierced deeper than I could endure, made now to\nfeel what defied suppression, I cried--\n\n\"My heart will break!\"\n\nWhat I felt seemed literal heart-break; but the seal of another\nfountain yielded under the strain: one breath from M. Paul, the\nwhisper, \"Trust me!\" lifted a load, opened an outlet. With many a deep\nsob, with thrilling, with icy shiver, with strong trembling, and yet\nwith relief--I wept.\n\n\"Leave her to me; it is a crisis: I will give her a cordial, and it\nwill pass,\" said the calm Madame Beck.\n\nTo be left to her and her cordial seemed to me something like being\nleft to the poisoner and her bowl. When M. Paul answered deeply,\nharshly, and briefly--\"Laissez-moi!\" in the grim sound I felt a music\nstrange, strong, but life-giving.\n\n\"Laissez-moi!\" he repeated, his nostrils opening, and his facial\nmuscles all quivering as he spoke.\n\n\"But this will never do,\" said Madame, with sternness. More sternly\nrejoined her kinsman--\n\n\"Sortez d'ici!\"\n\n\"I will send for Père Silas: on the spot I will send for him,\" she\nthreatened pertinaciously.\n\n\"Femme!\" cried the Professor, not now in his deep tones, but in his\nhighest and most excited key, \"Femme! sortez à l'instant!\"\n\nHe was roused, and I loved him in his wrath with a passion beyond what\nI had yet felt.\n\n\"What you do is wrong,\" pursued Madame; \"it is an act characteristic of\nmen of your unreliable, imaginative temperament; a step impulsive,\ninjudicious, inconsistent--a proceeding vexatious, and not estimable in\nthe view of persons of steadier and more resolute character.\"\n\n\"You know not what I have of steady and resolute in me,\" said he, \"but\nyou shall see; the event shall teach you. Modeste,\" he continued less\nfiercely, \"be gentle, be pitying, be a woman; look at this poor face,\nand relent. You know I am your friend, and the friend of your friends;\nin spite of your taunts, you well and deeply know I may be trusted. Of\nsacrificing myself I made no difficulty but my heart is pained by what\nI see; it _must_ have and give solace. _Leave me!_\"\n\nThis time, in the \"_leave me_\" there was an intonation so bitter and so\nimperative, I wondered that even Madame Beck herself could for one\nmoment delay obedience; but she stood firm; she gazed upon him\ndauntless; she met his eye, forbidding and fixed as stone. She was\nopening her lips to retort; I saw over all M. Paul's face a quick\nrising light and fire; I can hardly tell how he managed the movement;\nit did not seem violent; it kept the form of courtesy; he gave his\nhand; it scarce touched her I thought; she ran, she whirled from the\nroom; she was gone, and the door shut, in one second.\n\nThe flash of passion was all over very soon. He smiled as he told me to\nwipe my eyes; he waited quietly till I was calm, dropping from time to\ntime a stilling, solacing word. Ere long I sat beside him once more\nmyself--re-assured, not desperate, nor yet desolate; not friendless,\nnot hopeless, not sick of life, and seeking death.\n\n\"It made you very sad then to lose your friend?\" said he.\n\n\"It kills me to be forgotten, Monsieur,\" I said. \"All these weary days\nI have not heard from you one word, and I was crushed with the\npossibility, growing to certainty, that you would depart without saying\nfarewell!\"\n\n\"Must I tell you what I told Modeste Beck--that you do not know me?\nMust I show and teach you my character? You _will_ have proof that I\ncan be a firm friend? Without clear proof this hand will not lie still\nin mine, it will not trust my shoulder as a safe stay? Good. The proof\nis ready. I come to justify myself.\"\n\n\"Say anything, teach anything, prove anything, Monsieur; I can listen\nnow.\"\n\n\"Then, in the first place, you must go out with me a good distance into\nthe town. I came on purpose to fetch you.\"\n\nWithout questioning his meaning, or sounding his plan, or offering the\nsemblance of an objection, I re-tied my bonnet: I was ready.\n\nThe route he took was by the boulevards: he several times made me sit\ndown on the seats stationed under the lime-trees; he did not ask if I\nwas tired, but looked, and drew his own conclusions.\n\n\"All these weary days,\" said he, repeating my words, with a gentle,\nkindly mimicry of my voice and foreign accent, not new from his lips,\nand of which the playful banter never wounded, not even when coupled,\nas it often was, with the assertion, that however I might _write_ his\nlanguage, I _spoke_ and always should speak it imperfectly and\nhesitatingly. \"'All these weary days' I have not for one hour forgotten\nyou. Faithful women err in this, that they think themselves the sole\nfaithful of God's creatures. On a very fervent and living truth to\nmyself, I, too, till lately scarce dared count, from any quarter;\nbut----look at me.\",\n\nI lifted my happy eyes: they _were_ happy now, or they would have been\nno interpreters of my heart.\n\n\"Well,\" said he, after some seconds' scrutiny, \"there is no denying\nthat signature: Constancy wrote it: her pen is of iron. Was the record\npainful?\"\n\n\"Severely painful,\" I said, with truth. \"Withdraw her hand, Monsieur; I\ncan bear its inscribing force no more.\"\n\n\"Elle est toute pâle,\" said he, speaking to himself; \"cette figure-là\nme fait mal.\"\n\n\"Ah! I am not pleasant to look at----?\"\n\nI could not help saying this; the words came unbidden: I never remember\nthe time when I had not a haunting dread of what might be the degree of\nmy outward deficiency; this dread pressed me at the moment with special\nforce.\n\nA great softness passed upon his countenance; his violet eyes grew\nsuffused and glistening under their deep Spanish lashes: he started up;\n\"Let us walk on.\"\n\n\"Do I displease your eyes _much_?\" I took courage to urge: the point\nhad its vital import for me.\n\nHe stopped, and gave me a short, strong answer; an answer which\nsilenced, subdued, yet profoundly satisfied. Ever after that I knew\nwhat I was for _him_; and what I might be for the rest of the world, I\nceased painfully to care. Was it weak to lay so much stress on an\nopinion about appearance? I fear it might be; I fear it was; but in\nthat case I must avow no light share of weakness. I must own great fear\nof displeasing--a strong wish moderately to please M. Paul.\n\nWhither we rambled, I scarce knew. Our walk was long, yet seemed short;\nthe path was pleasant, the day lovely. M. Emanuel talked of his\nvoyage--he thought of staying away three years. On his return from\nGuadaloupe, he looked forward to release from liabilities and a clear\ncourse; and what did I purpose doing in the interval of his absence? he\nasked. I had talked once, he reminded me, of trying to be independent\nand keeping a little school of my own: had I dropped the idea?\n\n\"Indeed, I had not: I was doing my best to save what would enable me to\nput it in practice.\"\n\n\"He did not like leaving me in the Rue Fossette; he feared I should\nmiss him there too much--I should feel desolate--I should grow sad--?\"\n\nThis was certain; but I promised to do my best to endure.\n\n\"Still,\" said he, speaking low, \"there is another objection to your\npresent residence. I should wish to write to you sometimes: it would\nnot be well to have any uncertainty about the safe transmission of\nletters; and in the Rue Fossette--in short, our Catholic discipline in\ncertain matters--though justifiable and expedient--might possibly,\nunder peculiar circumstances, become liable to misapplication--perhaps\nabuse.\"\n\n\"But if you write,\" said I, \"I _must_ have your letters; and I _will_\nhave them: ten directors, twenty directresses, shall not keep them from\nme. I am a Protestant: I will not bear that kind of discipline:\nMonsieur, I _will not_.\"\n\n\"Doucement--doucement,\" rejoined he; \"we will contrive a plan; we have\nour resources: soyez tranquille.\"\n\nSo speaking, he paused.\n\nWe were now returning from the long walk. We had reached the middle of\na clean Faubourg, where the houses were small, but looked pleasant. It\nwas before the white door-step of a very neat abode that M. Paul had\nhalted.\n\n\"I call here,\" said he.\n\nHe did not knock, but taking from his pocket a key, he opened and\nentered at once. Ushering me in, he shut the door behind us. No servant\nappeared. The vestibule was small, like the house, but freshly and\ntastefully painted; its vista closed in a French window with vines\ntrained about the panes, tendrils, and green leaves kissing the glass.\nSilence reigned in this dwelling.\n\nOpening an inner door, M. Paul disclosed a parlour, or salon--very\ntiny, but I thought, very pretty. Its delicate walls were tinged like a\nblush; its floor was waxed; a square of brilliant carpet covered its\ncentre; its small round table shone like the mirror over its hearth;\nthere was a little couch, a little chiffonnière, the half-open,\ncrimson-silk door of which, showed porcelain on the shelves; there was\na French clock, a lamp; there were ornaments in biscuit china; the\nrecess of the single ample window was filled with a green stand,\nbearing three green flower-pots, each filled with a fine plant glowing\nin bloom; in one corner appeared a guéridon with a marble top, and upon\nit a work-box, and a glass filled with violets in water. The lattice of\nthis room was open; the outer air breathing through, gave freshness,\nthe sweet violets lent fragrance.\n\n\"Pretty, pretty place!\" said I. M. Paul smiled to see me so pleased.\n\n\"Must we sit down here and wait?\" I asked in a whisper, half awed by\nthe deep pervading hush.\n\n\"We will first peep into one or two other nooks of this nutshell,\" he\nreplied.\n\n\"Dare you take the freedom of going all over the house?\" I inquired.\n\n\"Yes, I dare,\" said he, quietly.\n\nHe led the way. I was shown a little kitchen with a little stove and\noven, with few but bright brasses, two chairs and a table. A small\ncupboard held a diminutive but commodious set of earthenware.\n\n\"There is a coffee service of china in the salon,\" said M. Paul, as I\nlooked at the six green and white dinner-plates; the four dishes, the\ncups and jugs to match.\n\nConducted up the narrow but clean staircase, I was permitted a glimpse\nof two pretty cabinets of sleeping-rooms; finally, I was once more led\nbelow, and we halted with a certain ceremony before a larger door than\nhad yet been opened.\n\nProducing a second key, M. Emanuel adjusted it to the lock of this\ndoor. He opened, put me in before him.\n\n\"Voici!\" he cried.\n\nI found myself in a good-sized apartment, scrupulously clean, though\nbare, compared with those I had hitherto seen. The well-scoured boards\nwere carpetless; it contained two rows of green benches and desks, with\nan alley down the centre, terminating in an estrade, a teacher's chair\nand table; behind them a tableau, On the walls hung two maps; in the\nwindows flowered a few hardy plants; in short, here was a miniature\nclasse--complete, neat, pleasant.\n\n\"It is a school then?\" said I. \"Who keeps it? I never heard of an\nestablishment in this faubourg.\"\n\n\"Will you have the goodness to accept of a few prospectuses for\ndistribution in behalf of a friend of mine?\" asked he, taking from his\nsurtout-pocket some quires of these documents, and putting them into my\nhand. I looked, I read--printed in fair characters:--\n\n\"Externat de demoiselles. Numéro 7, Faubourg Clotilde, Directrice,\nMademoiselle Lucy Snowe.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAnd what did I say to M. Paul Emanuel?\n\nCertain junctures of our lives must always be difficult of recall to\nmemory. Certain points, crises, certain feelings, joys, griefs, and\namazements, when reviewed, must strike us as things wildered and\nwhirling, dim as a wheel fast spun.\n\nI can no more remember the thoughts or the words of the ten minutes\nsucceeding this disclosure, than I can retrace the experience of my\nearliest year of life: and yet the first thing distinct to me is the\nconsciousness that I was speaking very fast, repeating over and over\nagain:--\n\n\"Did you do this, M. Paul? Is this your house? Did you furnish it? Did\nyou get these papers printed? Do you mean me? Am I the directress? Is\nthere another Lucy Snowe? Tell me: say something.\"\n\nBut he would not speak. His pleased silence, his laughing down-look,\nhis attitude, are visible to me now.\n\n\"How is it? I must know all--_all_,\" I cried.\n\nThe packet of papers fell on the floor. He had extended his hand, and I\nhad fastened thereon, oblivious of all else.\n\n\"Ah! you said I had forgotten you all these weary days,\" said he. \"Poor\nold Emanuel! These are the thanks he gets for trudging about three\nmortal weeks from house-painter to upholsterer, from cabinet-maker to\ncharwoman. Lucy and Lucy's cot, the sole thoughts in his head!\"\n\nI hardly knew what to do. I first caressed the soft velvet on his cuff,\nand then. I stroked the hand it surrounded. It was his foresight, his\ngoodness, his silent, strong, effective goodness, that overpowered me\nby their proved reality. It was the assurance of his sleepless interest\nwhich broke on me like a light from heaven; it was his--I will dare to\nsay it--his fond, tender look, which now shook me indescribably. In the\nmidst of all I forced myself to look at the practical.\n\n\"The trouble!\" I cried, \"and the cost! Had you money, M. Paul?\"\n\n\"Plenty of money!\" said he heartily. \"The disposal of my large teaching\nconnection put me in possession of a handsome sum with part of it I\ndetermined to give myself the richest treat that I _have_ known or\n_shall_ know. I like this. I have reckoned on this hour day and night\nlately. I would not come near you, because I would not forestall it.\nReserve is neither my virtue nor my vice. If I had put myself into your\npower, and you had begun with your questions of look and lip--Where\nhave you been, M. Paul? What have you been doing? What is your\nmystery?--my solitary first and last secret would presently have\nunravelled itself in your lap. Now,\" he pursued, \"you shall live here\nand have a school; you shall employ yourself while I am away; you shall\nthink of me sometimes; you shall mind your health and happiness for my\nsake, and when I come back--\"\n\nThere he left a blank.\n\nI promised to do all he told me. I promised to work hard and willingly.\n\"I will be your faithful steward,\" I said; \"I trust at your coming the\naccount will be ready. Monsieur, monsieur, you are _too_ good!\"\n\nIn such inadequate language my feelings struggled for expression: they\ncould not get it; speech, brittle and unmalleable, and cold as ice,\ndissolved or shivered in the effort. He watched me, still; he gently\nraised his hand to stroke my hair; it touched my lips in passing; I\npressed it close, I paid it tribute. He was my king; royal for me had\nbeen that hand's bounty; to offer homage was both a joy and a duty.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe afternoon hours were over, and the stiller time of evening shaded\nthe quiet faubourg. M. Paul claimed my hospitality; occupied and afoot\nsince morning, he needed refreshment; he said I should offer him\nchocolate in my pretty gold and white china service. He went out and\nordered what was needful from the restaurant; he placed the small\nguéridon and two chairs in the balcony outside the French window under\nthe screening vines. With what shy joy i accepted my part as hostess,\narranged the salver, served the benefactor-guest.\n\nThis balcony was in the rear of the house, the gardens of the faubourg\nwere round us, fields extended beyond. The air was still, mild, and\nfresh. Above the poplars, the laurels, the cypresses, and the roses,\nlooked up a moon so lovely and so halcyon, the heart trembled under her\nsmile; a star shone subject beside her, with the unemulous ray of pure\nlove. In a large garden near us, a jet rose from a well, and a pale\nstatue leaned over the play of waters.\n\nM. Paul talked to me. His voice was so modulated that it mixed\nharmonious with the silver whisper, the gush, the musical sigh, in\nwhich light breeze, fountain and foliage intoned their lulling vesper:\n\nHappy hour--stay one moment! droop those plumes, rest those wings;\nincline to mine that brow of Heaven! White Angel! let thy light linger;\nleave its reflection on succeeding clouds; bequeath its cheer to that\ntime which needs a ray in retrospect!\n\nOur meal was simple: the chocolate, the rolls, the plate of fresh\nsummer fruit, cherries and strawberries bedded in green leaves formed\nthe whole: but it was what we both liked better than a feast, and I\ntook a delight inexpressible in tending M. Paul. I asked him whether\nhis friends, Père Silas and Madame Beck, knew what he had done--whether\nthey had seen my house?\n\n\"Mon amie,\" said he, \"none knows what I have done save you and myself:\nthe pleasure is consecrated to us two, unshared and unprofaned. To\nspeak truth, there has been to me in this matter a refinement of\nenjoyment I would not make vulgar by communication. Besides\" (smiling)\n\"I wanted to prove to Miss Lucy that I _could_ keep a secret. How often\nhas she taunted me with lack of dignified reserve and needful caution!\nHow many times has she saucily insinuated that all my affairs are the\nsecret of Polichinelle!\"\n\nThis was true enough: I had not spared him on this point, nor perhaps\non any other that was assailable. Magnificent-minded, grand-hearted,\ndear, faulty little man! You deserved candour, and from me always had\nit.\n\nContinuing my queries, I asked to whom the house belonged, who was my\nlandlord, the amount of my rent. He instantly gave me these particulars\nin writing; he had foreseen and prepared all things.\n\nThe house was not M. Paul's--that I guessed: he was hardly the man to\nbecome a proprietor; I more than suspected in him a lamentable absence\nof the saving faculty; he could get, but not keep; he needed a\ntreasurer. The tenement, then, belonged to a citizen in the\nBasse-Ville--a man of substance, M. Paul said; he startled me by\nadding: \"a friend of yours, Miss Lucy, a person who has a most\nrespectful regard for you.\" And, to my pleasant surprise, I found the\nlandlord was none other than M. Miret, the short-tempered and\nkind-hearted bookseller, who had so kindly found me a seat that\neventful night in the park. It seems M. Miret was, in his station,\nrich, as well as much respected, and possessed several houses in this\nfaubourg; the rent was moderate, scarce half of what it would have been\nfor a house of equal size nearer the centre of Villette.\n\n\"And then,\" observed M. Paul, \"should fortune not favour you, though I\nthink she will, I have the satisfaction to think you are in good hands;\nM. Miret will not be extortionate: the first year's rent you have\nalready in your savings; afterwards Miss Lucy must trust God, and\nherself. But now, what will you do for pupils?\"\n\n\"I must distribute my prospectuses.\"\n\n\"Right! By way of losing no time, I gave one to M. Miret yesterday.\nShould you object to beginning with three petite bourgeoises, the\nDemoiselles Miret? They are at your service.\"\n\n\"Monsieur, you forget nothing; you are wonderful. Object? It would\nbecome me indeed to object! I suppose I hardly expect at the outset to\nnumber aristocrats in my little day-school; I care not if they never\ncome. I shall be proud to receive M. Miret's daughters.\"\n\n\"Besides these,\" pursued he, \"another pupil offers, who will come daily\nto take lessons in English; and as she is rich, she will pay\nhandsomely. I mean my god-daughter and ward, Justine Marie Sauveur.\"\n\nWhat is in a name?--what in three words? Till this moment I had\nlistened with living joy--I had answered with gleeful quickness; a name\nfroze me; three words struck me mute. The effect could not be hidden,\nand indeed I scarce tried to hide it.\n\n\"What now?\" said M. Paul.\n\n\"Nothing.\"\n\n\"Nothing! Your countenance changes: your colour and your very eyes\nfade. Nothing! You must be ill; you have some suffering; tell me what.\"\n\nI had nothing to tell.\n\nHe drew his chair nearer. He did not grow vexed, though I continued\nsilent and icy. He tried to win a word; he entreated with perseverance,\nhe waited with patience.\n\n\"Justine Marie is a good girl,\" said he, \"docile and amiable; not\nquick--but you will like her.\"\n\n\"I think not. I think she must not come here.\"\n\nSuch was my speech.\n\n\"Do you wish to puzzle me? Do you know her? But, in truth, there _is_\nsomething. Again you are pale as that statue. Rely on Paul Carlos; tell\nhim the grief.\"\n\nHis chair touched mine; his hand, quietly advanced, turned me towards\nhim.\n\n\"Do you know Marie Justine?\" said he again.\n\nThe name re-pronounced by his lips overcame me unaccountably. It did\nnot prostrate--no, it stirred me up, running with haste and heat\nthrough my veins--recalling an hour of quick pain, many days and nights\nof heart-sickness. Near me as he now sat, strongly and closely as he\nhad long twined his life in mine--far as had progressed, and near as\nwas achieved our minds' and affections' assimilation--the very\nsuggestion of interference, of heart-separation, could be heard only\nwith a fermenting excitement, an impetuous throe, a disdainful resolve,\nan ire, a resistance of which no human eye or cheek could hide the\nflame, nor any truth-accustomed human tongue curb the cry.\n\n\"I want to tell you something,\" I said: \"I want to tell you all.\"\n\n\"Speak, Lucy; come near; speak. Who prizes you, if I do not? Who is\nyour friend, if not Emanuel? Speak!\"\n\nI spoke. All escaped from my lips. I lacked not words now; fast I\nnarrated; fluent I told my tale; it streamed on my tongue. I went back\nto the night in the park; I mentioned the medicated draught--why it was\ngiven--its goading effect--how it had torn rest from under my head,\nshaken me from my couch, carried me abroad with the lure of a vivid yet\nsolemn fancy--a summer-night solitude on turf, under trees, near a\ndeep, cool lakelet. I told the scene realized; the crowd, the masques,\nthe music, the lamps, the splendours, the guns booming afar, the bells\nsounding on high. All I had encountered I detailed, all I had\nrecognised, heard, and seen; how I had beheld and watched himself: how\nI listened, how much heard, what conjectured; the whole history, in\nbrief, summoned to his confidence, rushed thither, truthful, literal,\nardent, bitter.\n\nStill as I narrated, instead of checking, he incited me to proceed he\nspurred me by the gesture, the smile, the half-word. Before I had half\ndone, he held both my hands, he consulted my eyes with a most piercing\nglance: there was something in his face which tended neither to calm\nnor to put me down; he forgot his own doctrine, he forsook his own\nsystem of repression when I most challenged its exercise. I think I\ndeserved strong reproof; but when have we our deserts? I merited\nseverity; he looked indulgence. To my very self I seemed imperious and\nunreasonable, for I forbade Justine Marie my door and roof; he smiled,\nbetraying delight. Warm, jealous, and haughty, I knew not till now that\nmy nature had such a mood: he gathered me near his heart. I was full of\nfaults; he took them and me all home. For the moment of utmost mutiny,\nhe reserved the one deep spell of peace. These words caressed my ear:--\n\n\"Lucy, take my love. One day share my life. Be my dearest, first on\nearth.\"\n\nWe walked back to the Rue Fossette by moonlight--such moonlight as fell\non Eden--shining through the shades of the Great Garden, and haply\ngilding a path glorious for a step divine--a Presence nameless. Once in\ntheir lives some men and women go back to these first fresh days of our\ngreat Sire and Mother--taste that grand morning's dew--bathe in its\nsunrise.\n\nIn the course of the walk I was told how Justine Marie Sauveur had\nalways been regarded with the affection proper to a daughter--how, with\nM. Paul's consent, she had been affianced for months to one Heinrich\nMühler, a wealthy young German merchant, and was to be married in the\ncourse of a year. Some of M. Emanuel's relations and connections would,\nindeed, it seems, have liked him to marry her, with a view to securing\nher fortune in the family; but to himself the scheme was repugnant, and\nthe idea totally inadmissible.\n\nWe reached Madame Beck's door. Jean Baptiste's clock tolled nine. At\nthis hour, in this house, eighteen months since, had this man at my\nside bent before me, looked into my face and eyes, and arbitered my\ndestiny. This very evening he had again stooped, gazed, and decreed.\nHow different the look--how far otherwise the fate!\n\nHe deemed me born under his star: he seemed to have spread over me its\nbeam like a banner. Once--unknown, and unloved, I held him harsh and\nstrange; the low stature, the wiry make, the angles, the darkness, the\nmanner, displeased me. Now, penetrated with his influence, and living\nby his affection, having his worth by intellect, and his goodness by\nheart--I preferred him before all humanity.\n\nWe parted: he gave me his pledge, and then his farewell. We parted: the\nnext day--he sailed.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLII.\n\nFINIS.\n\n\nMan cannot prophesy. Love is no oracle. Fear sometimes imagines a vain\nthing. Those years of absence! How had I sickened over their\nanticipation! The woe they must bring seemed certain as death. I knew\nthe nature of their course: I never had doubt how it would harrow as it\nwent. The juggernaut on his car towered there a grim load. Seeing him\ndraw nigh, burying his broad wheels in the oppressed soil--I, the\nprostrate votary--felt beforehand the annihilating craunch.\n\nStrange to say--strange, yet true, and owning many parallels in life's\nexperience--that anticipatory craunch proved all--yes--nearly _all_ the\ntorture. The great Juggernaut, in his great chariot, drew on lofty,\nloud, and sullen. He passed quietly, like a shadow sweeping the sky, at\nnoon. Nothing but a chilling dimness was seen or felt. I looked up.\nChariot and demon charioteer were gone by; the votary still lived.\n\nM. Emanuel was away three years. Reader, they were the three happiest\nyears of my life. Do you scout the paradox? Listen. I commenced my\nschool; I worked--I worked hard. I deemed myself the steward of his\nproperty, and determined, God willing, to render a good account. Pupils\ncame--burghers at first--a higher class ere long. About the middle of\nthe second year an unexpected chance threw into my hands an additional\nhundred pounds: one day I received from England a letter containing\nthat sum. It came from Mr. Marchmont, the cousin and heir of my dear\nand dead mistress. He was just recovering from a dangerous illness; the\nmoney was a peace-offering to his conscience, reproaching him in the\nmatter of, I know not what, papers or memoranda found after his\nkinswoman's death--naming or recommending Lucy Snowe. Mrs. Barrett had\ngiven him my address. How far his conscience had been sinned against, I\nnever inquired. I asked no questions, but took the cash and made it\nuseful.\n\nWith this hundred pounds I ventured to take the house adjoining mine. I\nwould not leave that which M. Paul had chosen, in which he had left,\nand where he expected again to find me. My externat became a\npensionnat; that also prospered.\n\nThe secret of my success did not lie so much in myself, in any\nendowment, any power of mine, as in a new state of circumstances, a\nwonderfully changed life, a relieved heart. The spring which moved my\nenergies lay far away beyond seas, in an Indian isle. At parting, I had\nbeen left a legacy; such a thought for the present, such a hope for the\nfuture, such a motive for a persevering, a laborious, an enterprising,\na patient and a brave course--I _could_ not flag. Few things shook me\nnow; few things had importance to vex, intimidate, or depress me: most\nthings pleased--mere trifles had a charm.\n\nDo not think that this genial flame sustained itself, or lived wholly\non a bequeathed hope or a parting promise. A generous provider supplied\nbounteous fuel. I was spared all chill, all stint; I was not suffered\nto fear penury; I was not tried with suspense. By every vessel he\nwrote; he wrote as he gave and as he loved, in full-handed,\nfull-hearted plenitude. He wrote because he liked to write; he did not\nabridge, because he cared not to abridge. He sat down, he took pen and\npaper, because he loved Lucy and had much to say to her; because he was\nfaithful and thoughtful, because he was tender and true. There was no\nsham and no cheat, and no hollow unreal in him. Apology never dropped\nher slippery oil on his lips--never proffered, by his pen, her coward\nfeints and paltry nullities: he would give neither a stone, nor an\nexcuse--neither a scorpion; nor a disappointment; his letters were real\nfood that nourished, living water that refreshed.\n\nAnd was I grateful? God knows! I believe that scarce a living being so\nremembered, so sustained, dealt with in kind so constant, honourable\nand noble, could be otherwise than grateful to the death.\n\nAdherent to his own religion (in him was not the stuff of which is made\nthe facile apostate), he freely left me my pure faith. He did not tease\nnor tempt. He said:--\n\n\"Remain a Protestant. My little English Puritan, I love Protestantism\nin you. I own its severe charm. There is something in its ritual I\ncannot receive myself, but it is the sole creed for 'Lucy.'\"\n\nAll Rome could not put into him bigotry, nor the Propaganda itself make\nhim a real Jesuit. He was born honest, and not false--artless, and not\ncunning--a freeman, and not a slave. His tenderness had rendered him\nductile in a priest's hands, his affection, his devotedness, his\nsincere pious enthusiasm blinded his kind eyes sometimes, made him\nabandon justice to himself to do the work of craft, and serve the ends\nof selfishness; but these are faults so rare to find, so costly to\ntheir owner to indulge, we scarce know whether they will not one day be\nreckoned amongst the jewels.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAnd now the three years are past: M. Emanuel's return is fixed. It is\nAutumn; he is to be with me ere the mists of November come. My school\nflourishes, my house is ready: I have made him a little library, filled\nits shelves with the books he left in my care: I have cultivated out of\nlove for him (I was naturally no florist) the plants he preferred, and\nsome of them are yet in bloom. I thought I loved him when he went away;\nI love him now in another degree: he is more my own.\n\nThe sun passes the equinox; the days shorten, the leaves grow sere;\nbut---he is coming.\n\nFrosts appear at night; November has sent his fogs in advance; the wind\ntakes its autumn moan; but--he is coming.\n\nThe skies hang full and dark--a wrack sails from the west; the clouds\ncast themselves into strange forms--arches and broad radiations; there\nrise resplendent mornings--glorious, royal, purple as monarch in his\nstate; the heavens are one flame; so wild are they, they rival battle\nat its thickest--so bloody, they shame Victory in her pride. I know\nsome signs of the sky; I have noted them ever since childhood. God\nwatch that sail! Oh! guard it!\n\nThe wind shifts to the west. Peace, peace, Banshee--\"keening\" at every\nwindow! It will rise--it will swell--it shrieks out long: wander as I\nmay through the house this night, I cannot lull the blast. The\nadvancing hours make it strong: by midnight, all sleepless watchers\nhear and fear a wild south-west storm. That storm roared frenzied, for\nseven days. It did not cease till the Atlantic was strewn with wrecks:\nit did not lull till the deeps had gorged their full of sustenance. Not\ntill the destroying angel of tempest had achieved his perfect work,\nwould he fold the wings whose waft was thunder--the tremor of whose\nplumes was storm.\n\nPeace, be still! Oh! a thousand weepers, praying in agony on waiting\nshores, listened for that voice, but it was not uttered--not uttered\ntill; when the hush came, some could not feel it: till, when the sun\nreturned, his light was night to some!\n\nHere pause: pause at once. There is enough said. Trouble no quiet, kind\nheart; leave sunny imaginations hope. Let it be theirs to conceive the\ndelight of joy born again fresh out of great terror, the rapture of\nrescue from peril, the wondrous reprieve from dread, the fruition of\nreturn. Let them picture union and a happy succeeding life.\n\nMadame Beck prospered all the days of her life; so did Père Silas;\nMadame Walravens fulfilled her ninetieth year before she died. Farewell.\n\nTHE END."